by Amy Spalding
Diane somehow interrupts me with a look. I realize not only that everything had felt like it was spinning, but that—suddenly—it doesn’t.
“Would you like my advice?” she asks. “For whatever that’s worth?”
“Of course! I love advice!”
“When you don’t know the right thing to say, maybe it’s time to listen instead.”
“I, uh . . .” Dad gently pushes his way past us with a serving plate. “We’re ready to eat. I guess.”
“Oh, you guess?” A peal of laughter bursts from Diane, and she rubs my shoulder gently before sitting down at the table. I take my seat and try not to think about my phone in my room, or that Diane chose the spot Luke used to sit—which is obviously much better than if she’d taken Mom’s.
“You OK?” Dad asks, and I realize he’s looking at me. I’d hate for Diane to see him made itchy and awkward by his daughter’s girl problems, so I quickly nod.
“She’s going to be fine, right?” Diane asks, with a smile to me.
“Yes,” I say super emphatically. “Maybe, at least. Hopefully?”
“Hmm, so around ninety percent?” she asks, and I laugh.
“That sounds right.” I wonder what the chances are that my dad would meet someone who has smart advice and a cool radio voice and isn’t hateable at, like, any level. Definitely not ninety percent.
After we eat, they tell me they’ll handle dishes and I can go finish my homework. As I leave the room, I try not to look too excited that I’ll get to be near my phone again. Unfortunately, my only text is a question from James about our humanities homework, and then the next morning Quinn isn’t outside waiting for me. I’m trying to follow Diane’s advice because it seems grown-up and right, but giving Quinn a chance to tell me what she’s thinking feels like it’s taking forever.
“Hey.”
I look around my locker door and see Raina standing facing me. “Hi. What’s up?”
She grins. “I’m sure you know all about best friend duty, right? Well, I’m doing mine right now. Go talk to her. She’s sulking around and it’s extremely annoying.”
“I screwed up or something,” I say. “And I don’t want to make it worse.”
“Oh, god.” She grabs me by the wrist and marches me down the hallway.
Raina parks me in front of Ms. Kennington’s classroom, and I realize that Quinn’s walking up to it from the opposite direction. “Be nice, girls.”
I watch Quinn’s face for a reaction as Raina leaves, but it’s as blank as I’ve ever seen it.
“Hi,” I say, even though I’m supposed to be listening.
“Hi.”
I reach out for her hand. “I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings.”
“It’s not that . . . exactly.”
I can see the tenseness in her jaw, but instead of offering a hundred more apologies, I keep my mouth shut.
“I need you to see me for me,” she says. “Not for who you want me to be.”
“I know that you think that—” I say quickly, and then pretend I didn’t stop listening to her.
“Let’s not do this in front of my American lit class,” she says.
“OK.” We’re still holding hands, so I squeeze hers. Hard. I’m not really used to this. Matty was my first serious relationship, but we didn’t have issues to sort out or genuine talks about us. Everything was OK, until it wasn’t.
“See you in third period,” she says, and disappears into Ms. Lin’s classroom.
We sit together at lunch like usual, and I try to gauge, while eating fries and Sour Patch Kids, how things feel. I would not say normal because she’s still holding herself stiffly and I don’t think she’s mentioned to anyone else that she was accepted. What if she’s already decided she isn’t going? Of course, it’s her right, but considering Oberlin was at the top of her list before we were together, does that mean something?
“Ugh,” Gretchen says while flipping through our school paper. “It’s almost time for people to campaign for prom king and queen.”
It seems like everyone at the table, even James, whose boyfriend was prom king last year, makes a similar ugh sound. Not me, though, because suddenly all I can picture is how I, once upon a time, thought the year would go. Up until the first week of school, it was all but a given that Matty and I would take the titles and the crowns. Last year, they’d been cheap plastic, but in my daydreams the crowns sparkle like they’re encrusted with real diamonds.
“It’s so heteronormative they still do that,” Raina says.
“What’s heteronormative?” James asks from her spot behind me.
“I told you you should go on Tumblr more,” I say, and I realize it might be the first time we’ve spoken today. I probably should have texted back last night about humanities or not been late to class because I was trying to find ways to be nice to Quinn as we walked over together.
“It’s like when being straight is seen as the default option instead of just one option of many,” I explain.
“Like when people tease little girls about having boyfriends when they grow up,” Quinn says.
“Remember when my mom said you’d make a good wife someday because you’re such a good cook?” Raina asks Quinn, who laughs.
“You will make a good wife,” I say. “Just for, like, a lady who can’t cook.”
Quinn blushes really hard, and it’s the cutest thing I’ve maybe ever seen. The cutest non-otter-related thing, at least.
“You two are so goddamn cute,” Gretchen says. “I wish you could be prom king and queen.”
“Honestly, that should happen,” Raina says. “It shouldn’t be king and queen anymore. Just . . . a couple or whatever.”
“It’s not a requirement it’s a couple,” James says. “Last year it was . . .”
We all just let her trail off because it’s way too sad forcing James to talk about Logan. Even if maybe Logan being gone was her decision. Sometimes your own decisions are the saddest.
“Still,” Raina says. “Why can’t it be two people of any gender? The way we do it now is so outdated.”
Gretchen nods emphatically. “We should—”
“—start a petition,” she and Raina say together.
“I feel like almost everyone in the school would agree,” Gretchen says.
“It’s a really good idea,” Raina says. “You two would totally be prom couple if it was changed to that.”
“I doubt that,” Quinn says. “No one knows who I am.”
“People know who you are, dork,” I say, though I regret it right away, because are we back on firm enough ground for me to be making fun of her like it’s any other day? Prom could only help, though. I’m sure of it!
Raina already has a notebook open and is drafting up the petition, as Gretchen leans over her shoulder. Conversation between other people quiets, and the whole table directs their attention toward Raina’s notebook.
I know it’ll probably come to nothing, but I’m already picturing it, Quinn and me crowned in front of the entire junior and senior classes. Our crowns sparkle while we’re dancing to something amazingly cheesy. The night is ours.
I mean, you shouldn’t have to give up something because you fell in love with someone objectively better. You shouldn’t be seen as the most deserving of something only if you go out with a boy. Gretchen and Raina are right.
“We’ll start the petition,” Gretchen tells Quinn. “You two don’t have to do anything.”
“I agree with you morally,” Quinn says, “though I still don’t think anyone will care about me personally.”
“People care about Kat, though,” James says, though she doesn’t say it like that’s a positive thing. I would understand if being popular was still like how it seems in old movies, where it’s all jocks and cheerleaders bullying smart sensitive kids, but at least at Magnolia Park that’s totally not how it is anymore. And, anyway, I can’t control who likes me and who talks about me. That kind of stuff has a whole life of its own.
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“It’d be fun,” I say, “if it happened.”
“Lots of things would be fun if they happened,” Quinn says, and I laugh even though she sounds grumpy. The sides of her eyes look crinkly, and so I feel right. This will totally get us back on track.
Quinn comes over after school, though we stay outside on my porch because we both have a stupid amount of homework to get through. Also, maybe we feel weird about having sex right now, or at least I do. There’s this specific kind of intimacy with Quinn that I never had with Matty. When you have sex with a boy, there isn’t always a lot of discussion about what’s going to happen. With Matty and me, at least, we knew what we were going to do.
With Quinn, I talk a lot. We whisper under the sheets. We check in. I’ve discussed my body and her body and talked about what I liked with words I never thought I’d say aloud. Honestly, if I was ever with a boy again, I wouldn’t assume foregone conclusions; I’d talk more with him. But right now, I have no dreams of any boys, or of anyone else. I just want things to be perfect again with Quinn.
“Did you nail your essay?” I ask her. “That’s totally how I saw it going. You always win people over with the way you talk about things. People love you.”
She shrugs.
“You did! You freaking nailed it!” I lean my head on her shoulder. “I’m really proud of you, OK?”
“OK,” she says. She doesn’t stop working on her calculus assignment, so I get back to mine. It stays like that, quiet and productive, and somehow in sync. I get a text from James, but it feels like the wrong moment to pay attention to someone else, so I turn my phone upside down and get back to work.
“Did you see that Dave Bell got stuck to his locker with that weird scarf he’s been wearing lately?” I ask, looking up from my physics homework.
“No, but I’m not surprised. That scarf is clearly a danger.”
“Yeah, a fashion danger,” I say, which makes us both laugh. “It’s not like it’s cold out.”
“Maybe he has a delicate neck,” Quinn says. “So, the prom thing is weird. I’m sorry if they’re taking it too far.”
“I think it’s awesome, actually. The school is being super old-fashioned, and we could be the ones to fix it.”
She watches me for a few moments before leaning in and brushing her lips over mine.
“I love that you think that way,” she says, and I smile as the warmth of her words fans out over me. We get back to work again.
“K?”
I look up from my notebook. “Yeah?”
Quinn grins. “I did nail my essay.”
CHAPTER NINE
December of Senior Year
JAMES
“Don’t forget about tonight.”
I glare at Dad, even though he has a smoothie ready for me. Dad without Mom gets up much earlier and has what seems like half a day’s worth of accomplishments completed before I’m even out the door. I want to tell him that I know how he feels, that without Logan and without Mom, my life feels more open. I’d stuff anything into it so that on the surface it feels almost the same, if I could come up with anything other than a half of a beer and a few kisses with a boy I have no feelings for.
“You’re not eighteen yet,” Dad says. “We can treat this as casually as we want, but if you completely refuse to go to your mother’s, legally she could do something about it. Let’s just keep that from being a possibility, OK, kiddo?”
“I just don’t want to spend the night there,” I say. “I haven’t completely refused to go there. I ate stupid dinner with stupid Todd. I went over on Thanksgiving for half the day.”
Dad smiles. “I believe it was an hour and a half.”
“Close enough. I ate some of Todd’s terrible turkey.”
“I wish we could change tradition on that,” Dad says with a heavy sigh. “It’s not an easy bird to master, but on Thanksgiving anyone thinks they can just throw it in the oven with a little butter and it’ll turn out fine.”
“What do you wish it was?” I ask. “Thanksgiving steaks? Well, actually, that sounds great.”
He grins, but it quickly fades. “Go to school. I can’t have you turn into a truant.”
I expect to see a bunch of texts from Kat wondering why I wasn’t outside on time, but my guilt dissolves upon seeing my blank phone screen. Is it horrible to hope she’s been struck with a horrible illness? But, no, she’s sitting in humanities third period, without any immediate comments about not seeing me this morning. I wonder if, now that she’s dating Quinn, she’d even notice if I disappeared altogether.
After taking roll, Mr. Wellerstein announces something about group projects. Almost immediately, Gabriel turns around and smiles directly at me.
“Want to work together on this?”
“I, uh—”
“Sorry,” Kat says in her candy-sweet voice. “BFF rules. She has to work with me. You should work with Quinn.”
Quinn and Gabriel both give her looks. I’m not sure this was the easiest way I could have let Gabriel down once again.
“Thanks for getting me out of that,” I tell Kat when we’re at her house after school to work on the project. “That night’s still a little fuzzy, but I know I couldn’t have kissed him any more than seven times.”
She giggles so hard she snorts. “Precise as heck! Even after consuming a third of a cup of beer.”
“That was a lot for me.”
“Snacks!” she says. “Hang on.”
I wait while she dashes out of the room and returns with a whole pack of pepperoni sticks and a tub of cold marinara sauce. “. . . Wow.”
“It’s like eating pizza,” she says, even though it is, emphatically, not.
“Do you miss being a vegan at all?” I ask her. “Wasn’t that important to you . . . ethically? Not just because of Matty?”
She dunks a stick into the sauce. “I dunno. I still like some vegan stuff.”
“Right, but . . . your beliefs?”
She shrugs. “I still eat vegan sometimes. It didn’t feel like something I had to keep doing constantly. OK, let’s get this thing started.”
“Do you think we should start this on the micro level and zoom out, or macro and zoom in?” I ask Kat as I set up the PowerPoint.
“Either or, they both sound good. Let’s just do it one way and we can always switch it later,” she says. “Start micro. We can use a cool photo from a march downtown and be like, This Is What It Means to Be Los Angeles!”
“That’s a terrible title, but it’s overall not a bad idea,” I say.
I open a new tab on Kat’s computer to pull up Wikipedia, and a screen full of otter GIFs appears. “Whoa. What’s up with this?”
“OMG.” Kat seems to let each letter linger on her tongue, like melting chocolate. “It’s literally, like, the cutest, right? If you reload it, you get all new otters. Quinn did it when I was away from my computer, because she found out otters are my favorite animal. She’s like this coding genius, did you know?”
“I didn’t know.” I hope Quinn’s coding skills extend further than bursts of otters. “I mean, she’s pretty bad at math.”
Kat grimaces. “Don’t mention that in front of her. She’s so freaking stressed about it, but, like, you don’t have to be a math genius to create amazing websites.”
“You don’t?”
“Totally not,” Kat says, as if she’s now an expert on coding and websites. “She’s fine. More than fine.”
Kat’s phone buzzes, and she makes a groaning sound that sounds like blargh.
“Quinn?” I ask.
“My dad. He’s going out straight from work and wanted to make sure I could handle feeding myself.”
“So, it’s . . .” I try to choose the right word so as not to make things sound scarier than they probably already are to her. “Serious?”
That was probably not the right word.
“I think it is.” Kat makes a face. “He’s so happy. And I want to be, like, super happy about that and for hi
m, but I hate how it makes me feel and then I hate that I’m a person who hates how it makes me feel. And I just . . .”
Kat bursts into tears and I might just be the worst friend in the world.
“I’m sorry I brought it up.” I abandon my research and turn toward her. “We can talk about anything else.”
“It’s not you.” She throws her arms around me and sniffles onto my shoulder. Kat crying is always a full production. “Oh my god, James, it’s never you. I just miss my mom so much.”
“I do, too,” I say. Shit. “I mean—”
“Duh, you dork, you’re allowed to miss my mom,” Kat says, and I breathe a sigh of relief I was so generously misinterpreted. “My mom was freaking awesome.”
“I always remember how she’d give you those little fancy boxes of chocolate, and one time she brought one for me since I was staying with you guys for the weekend.”
“Do you know that she told me she did that because she knew you’d actually appreciate it?” Kat laughs while wiping her eyes. “She said Luke wasn’t allowed to have fancy chocolate because he didn’t savor it enough. He ate it just like a Hershey bar.”
“It sucks that she’s gone,” I say, and immediately shake my head. “God, I’m sorry. I feel like I’m saying the dumbest, most insensitive things right now.”
“Why are you so hard on yourself?” Kat asks. “You’re, like, the best friend in the world to me and I know you’re always thinking the right thing so why would I ever worry?”
“Not always.” I come up with beginnings of sentences, I know this is a little shocking or I hate to tell you this or even Everything’s gone so wrong and maybe there’s no way out of it but it’s so much. I can’t imagine telling Kat just about Mom, or just about having to say good-bye to Logan, without all of it spilling out. And it’s so much, maybe too much to throw at someone, even your best friend. It’ll come up over time, I’m sure, when it’s right, when I’m ready, when I’m not feeling so barely together.