by Amy Spalding
I see dots that she’s typing for quite a while, but then there’s no dots, and nothing from her. Is the news that bad?
And am I so horrible to talk to?
I look at the message for a while before hitting send.
Logan responds almost right away.
My phone buzzes again, but it’s not more from Logan, and it’s definitely not more from James. I feel like I only get conversations with James these days when I pick the right topics, and no one gave me a guide to what those topics even are.
Good night, K, Quinn texts. I send all the appropriate emoji (hearts, girls holding hands, girls kissing) in return. And then it’s easy to put my phone away and not let Quinn think I’m a tortured sad girl when, after all, with her, I’m not that girl. I’m light and easy and I’ll do nothing to make her not apply for Oberlin at all.
Quinn’s in front of the house when I walk outside the next morning. She’s holding coffee cups, and I can see how this is her extended apology or explanation or whatever she thinks it is that I need.
“This is the most dramatic thing I’ve ever done for a girl,” she says, which makes me laugh.
“Maybe don’t admit that to anyone,” I say. “Not anyone who’s used to big, sweeping gestures at least.”
She kisses me, tasting like hot cocoa and her chai lip balm. I love whenever the brim of her baseball cap knocks lightly against my forehead. It’s our prelude to kissing.
“I had to get up at six A.M. That’s pretty huge for me.”
I can feel how much she cares about me, but I can’t stop thinking about her lying. It was lying, wasn’t it? Did I make her feel like she had to lie? Were Luke’s words accurate?
I realize that maybe more than a tiny part of me thought that being with a girl would be so much easier than being with a boy. Now that seems so stupid! Quinn felt easy to me, but I guess the truth is that none of us are.
I get in to Oberlin, which I know would feel better if not for only a million factors. It’s just the latest in probably a never-ending list of things I can’t share with Mom. I’m not sure when I should tell Quinn, and how I should do it. And maybe it’s not fair and maybe I don’t actually have any proof, but a gross feeling in my stomach tells me James isn’t overly interested in any of this anyway.
So I text Luke and Logan. When both responses contain multiple exclamation points, it starts to hit me that this is real and actually happening. The school whose campus I sat on last year will be my school.
So I text James anyway. Whether or not she cares, it’s a big deal.
I smile at how much James sounds just like she used to. Responsive, full sentences, no detected boredom!
She doesn’t respond.
It might have come out wrong, but it’s like it didn’t even matter that I tried to make it right. College was this thing we’ve been working toward for so long, and I’m not sure James even cares that much about my dreams coming true.
I decide to text Quinn, even though I seriously have no idea how she might react. And . . . she doesn’t. There’s no response at all, even though as far as I know she doesn’t have plans tonight.
I hear the front door open, and I try not to rush Dad as he walks inside.
“What’s up?” he asks. I see the little furrow of worry between his eyebrows. I wonder if I’m always so transparent with every little concern in my head and heart. Is it all right there on my face, no matter how hard I’ve been trying to keep that stuff to myself?
“I got in.” I try to say it calmly, but it comes out fast and bright. It’s my first time saying it aloud, I realize.
“Oberlin?” Dad asks, and I nod. “Kid, that’s great. Really proud of you. OK if your old dad takes you out to celebrate?”
“You’re not that old,” I say, which makes him laugh. I’m pretty sure when Mom was still around that his laugh came easier.
Didn’t everything, though?
The doorbell rings, and I make Dad get it because we’re not expecting anyone and so an adult should deal with whoever stops by. Except suddenly Dad’s letting Quinn inside, and she’s holding out a plant.
“I wanted to get you flowers,” she says, “but Handy Market was out. So this is your congratulatory basil.”
“Oh my god, Quinn.” I throw my arms around her. “Like, I totally cannot handle how freaking cute you are.”
“I’m gonna . . .” Dad gestures toward the doorway, but I shake my head.
“We’ll go outside,” I say. “It’s super nice today. I mean, it’s totally global warming and actually really depressing, but it’s beautiful right now.”
Quinn follows me out, and we sit together on the front porch. I look down at our feet, my ballet flats and her Converse. I always liked feeling dainty next to Matty, but I like that Quinn and I are about the same size. I like how my fingers feel laced through hers. I like how I can kiss her without being on my tiptoes. None of it means anything, but we still somehow feel matched perfectly.
“If I don’t get in, this is still great,” she says.
I shrug.
“K, come on.” She nudges me with her elbow. “You should see how happy you look. I want this for you. Honestly, I want it more for you than I want it for me.”
“I want it for you,” I say, and sort of grab her elbow as it’s still touching me. Two girls holding elbows and basil. “OK?”
“Sure,” she says.
“I still think you’re perfect.”
Quinn sighs deeply.
“How are we arguing over this?” I ask. “Just accept you’re—”
“Oh my god.” Quinn sounds exhausted, but then she laughs. I could list a thousand reasons that I like her—like how her laugh always sounds open and not mocking, or how she does things like bring me a little juice box because I just happened to mention I occasionally miss drinking them, or of course the way her lips feel on mine and on the rest of me. I also like the realization that I can see in her eyes the things she’d list for me.
And so if all of that’s true—which it just wasn’t for Matty and me—I don’t know how it can still feel hard right now. It was always so easy with Matty.
“Hey, kid.” Dad leans out the front door. “Does Quinn want to go out with us?”
“Yes,” I say. “Thanks, Dad.”
“I actually have to check with my parents,” Quinn says.
“Well, check! I want to celebrate with my girlfriend.”
“I need some more information first,” she says, and glances back at Dad. “Where are we going, exactly?”
Dad laughs. Is it weird that one thing I love about Quinn is how much Dad loves her? “Wherever you girls want.”
Quinn’s parents say it’s OK, so Dad ends up taking us to the Smoke House, which is super old-fashioned with weird burgundy vinyl booths and wood paneling and old people everywhere. The steaks are so big that Quinn and I split one, and it feels absurd to me that we’re eating off one plate with our feet touching under the table and somewhere in the back of my brain I still can’t relax. Something’s maybe still off, and I can feel how something’s off with James, too, and even though my dad might just be the best dad ever, it’s never just simple there, either. Especially not now.
I’m tired of feeling a little bit sad, no matter how I try to make everything perfect.
CHAPTER SEVEN
February of Senior Year
JAMES
It’s funny that while I run all year—even when Burbank heat hovers in the triple digits—it doesn’t feel completely right until I’m circling the Magnolia Park track surrounded by my teammates.
It feels even more right when I’m in the lead.
This is my first year running track without Logan here. Well, there, at least. The boys’ team shares the track with us, but they get only half of the lanes and the half of the field we don’t use for drills. At first, he was a guy I caught glimpses of, not my boyfriend—not even on my radar in that way. In high school, I’ve been part of or at least peripheral to a c
ertain social circle, though the older I get the more I realize that’s about my friendship with Kat and nothing I could sustain on my own. But I didn’t realize that as a freshman, so at first I didn’t question that perfect Logan Sidana talked to me. Plenty of people talked to me, or at least to Kat when I was nearby.
It made Logan laugh to realize how clueless I’d been to all of it. I quicken my pace to drive the memory out of my head. His laugh was so silly that the first time I heard it, I thought he was doing a bit. But, no, he radiated this easy confidence that guaranteed a goofy laugh could never bring him down.
Shit. I need to run even faster if these Logan memories are going to clear out any time soon.
“Good work out there,” Hannah says to me while we’re stretching. “Almost like that wasn’t supposed to be an easy warm-up mile.”
I grin. “Sorry. I can’t really help it.”
“Are you planning on running next year?” she asks, and I nod. “Oh, thank god. People keep telling me track isn’t something worth doing in college.”
“I’m hoping track is one of the things that gets me into college in the first place,” I say. “Plenty of people have good grades. It’s something to set us apart. Sorry that people have been weird, though. I’m not planning on being a professional runner, but that doesn’t mean I want to just stop.”
“Seriously!” She turns her head from side to side, surveying the new team, and smiles. “It’s good being a senior.”
“Is it?” I ask without thinking. It’s just a coincidence that this is the year everything’s gone to hell, and not because I’ve reached a specific point in high school. But, no. It isn’t good being a senior. I had no idea how good I’d had it before.
“Yes,” she says, and elbows me. The only teammate I’ve really gotten close to in my three full years running was, obviously, Logan, and so even though I guess Hannah would come in second, I wouldn’t call her a friend. I respect her, though.
“I’m glad to be doing this again,” I say.
“Me too. Though I feel rusty and all . . .” She gestures to her feet. “Bound to earth? I’m not great at training all year.”
It’s true that Hannah rarely beats my numbers, but she’s almost always right behind me. Her modesty doesn’t annoy me, though.
“Let’s run some 8x300s, guys,” Coach Singer yells, once the distance runners have been sent off around the neighborhood. We take off at his whistle, and I focus on covering 300 meters as quickly as I can. We’ll have to run that much eight times, every three minutes, so the quicker you are, the more you can rest in between. I like the rest, but I like the challenge more. Starting the second day of practice, one of the fastest kids will get to wear Coach’s stopwatch and be in charge of the time. I prefer when that’s me.
“Isn’t it weird how all of the stuff we do here seems like a math problem?” Tobi Ortiz asks me during the brief window after finishing 8x300s and as Coach is explaining 10 Minutes of Hell to the freshmen. Tobi adjusts her bleached platinum-blond ponytail, because she’s one of those people who manages to look glamorous no matter what. “Run one minute! Rest three minutes! Run one minute! Rest two minutes!”
“This all seemed so terrifying three years ago,” Hannah says, and I nod.
“It was terrifying three years ago,” I say. It had been a big deal for me to show up, even though I ran for fun all the time. The idea of putting an official number on it scared the hell out of me. But then we circled the track as a group and almost right away I felt like I’d finally tightened some loose part of me.
I have texts from Kat when practice is over that she’s doing homework at the coffee shop, so I walk over to join her. She’s immersed in her calculus textbook with a nearly finished dirty chai and a purchased-elsewhere bag of chips, and I sit down across from her, still in my running gear.
“Am I stupid for still trying?” she asks me, not even looking up. “I’ve already been accepted at Oberlin, and I’m going no matter what.”
“Kat, are you actually able to not try?” I ask, and she cracks up. “Exactly.”
“Ugh, I know! I’m such a nerd. Maybe in college I can become, like, a super chill slacker. I would kill to be chill.”
“I’m pretty sure the killing negates the chilling,” I say, and she laughs harder. It’s so easy to make your best friend laugh, but I don’t mind—especially now. I’ll take easy laughs where I can get them.
“What are you doing tomorrow?” she asks. “I thought maybe we could go to the downtown library to find books for our humanities projects.”
“I definitely can, but we’d have to go after practice lets out,” I say.
“Ugh,” Kat says. “My least favorite time of year! T&F gets so much of you.”
“Don’t call it T&F,” I say, which makes her giggle.
“Are you going to Sofia’s party on Friday?” she asks, after eating handful after handful of Doritos.
“I hadn’t planned on it,” I say, which isn’t a lie because you can’t plan to do something you didn’t even know about. Sofia—and Mariana, too—were such a big part of high school before we switched tables this year. Why is Kat still included when it’s like, if I’m not seen, I’m forgotten?
“You should come! I’m sure Sofia will be super happy to see you. It’ll be—well, it’ll be like every single other party, but aren’t you the one who wants to soak in and savor senior year like a big weirdo?”
“Ha ha,” I say. “I don’t know. I have early morning stuff on Saturday, so I’ll probably sit it out. But text me if anything exciting happens.”
I realize it’s fully my choice to stay home on Friday, but when everyone’s photos and stories pop up on Instagram I still feel a tug of resentment that I’m not included. I wonder if people ask Kat about me when I’m not around the way they ask me about her. But I’m afraid I’m the one who blends into the background when she’s there, or when Logan was. Maybe I’m easy to forget.
After my run on Saturday morning, I head to Griffith Park for my volunteer day with Tree People. Technically, it’s a volunteer day for all of Magnolia Park, but I drove myself and manage to keep to myself even when I see a small crowd of kids—they look like freshmen and sophomores—wearing our blue and gold. Yes, of course I’m here to do something good for the environment, but I’m doing it for my own reasons.
There are signs featuring the leafy Tree People logo near the check-in area for people to take selfies with, but even though I was hoping I’d have an easy way to document the work I’m trying to do this year, a selfie isn’t what I had in mind. It reminds me too much of what Kat would do if she were here.
A woman who doesn’t look too much older than any of us—well, not including the freshmen—introduces herself as Darien, our team leader, and walks through what we’ll be doing this morning. I honestly expected to just plant trees, but Darien lets us know that at this point in the season, all the trees have already been planted. We’re here to take care of them.
“James?”
Before I can make myself look less visible, a girl from track wanders over to me. I push myself to say hello and look friendly though distant.
“You’re friends with Kat Rydell, right?” she asks me.
I guess I didn’t fully pull off distant. “Why?”
“Oh, she’s just really cool,” she says with a shrug.
“Yeah,” I say. “I am friends with her.”
“That’s awesome. Oh, we have a bunch of Vitamin-waters,” she tells me. “If you want to work with our team. It’ll be super fun.”
Since Darien told us we have to work in groups of three or four, I guess I have to agree to this. Last month, I cleaned up litter in Johnny Carson Park, which let me accomplish something while working on my own, headphones in, nonrunning playlist pounding in my ears. Then I felt guilty because I spent half a sunny day surrounded by greenery listening to Chance the Rapper’s latest mixtape, and it hardly felt like giving back. So the next weekend I stood at the midpoint of a 5K ru
n to hold out little cups of water to runners who needed them. Their runners’ high was contagious, though, and I left feeling great again and also eager to start signing up to run non–school affiliated races. Last weekend I ended up sitting alone while assembling purses full of supplies for a women’s shelter. It was quiet work and gave me plenty of time to think: about the women who needed these supplies, about how I didn’t know what on earth my future would hold now that my fifteen-year plan was trash, about how there must be something I could do to make my life feel the same as it used to.
It could be a good thing to not be left alone with my own thoughts right now.
We haul buckets of mulch from one side of the park to another, which is a fairly easy assignment. I had no idea that so many actions you could take to help were simple. But it turns out that something like carrying a bucket is one small part of helping the planet, and I feel almost guilty that none of this had ever occurred to me before.
Once the new mulch is in place, we have to scrape off the old mulch from the newly growing little trees. I assume we’ll use shovels, but instead it’s our hands, and before long there are lots of shrieks from anyone who makes contact with a bug. Somehow, I manage to contain myself, even though it’s a bit more nature than I expected to encounter.
“What are we supposed to do again?” the track sophomore—I’m fairly sure her name is Olivia—asks me, and even though I’m just as new to this as she is, I recite back Darien’s words about rebuilding the berm around the growing tree. Before today I didn’t know that a berm was basically a donut made of soil, but I find that I’m able to explain to Olivia how it’ll help bring water toward the tree’s roots. Being a senior is like this all the time. It’s hard for me to think of anything else besides my future I’m expected to figure out, but underclassmen look to seniors as wizened elders with so much to pass down. If I keep talking about berm and mulch, maybe no one will realize I might not actually know anything about life.
We work until Darien dismisses us just a little after noon, and I notice as I walk to the car that my sweatpants are covered in dust and soil. Is it possible to take off your pants to drive home and have no one notice? I’m not sure on that, so I choose trashing the driver’s seat over potential public pantslessness.