by Syms, Carly
I'm staring up at the dark night sky, trying to pick out airplanes from the stars, when the patio door slides open.
I already know who's there.
"That was a quick exit," Russ says. "You sure you didn't run cross country, too?"
I smile and fiddle with the edge of the chair cushion. "It was hot in there. I needed some air." I pause. "Say it already."
"What? Say what?"
"Don't play dumb, Russ, I know you're just dying to say you told me so."
"I told you so?" he repeats with a cocky grin. "I'd never want to say that to you."
"Ha, ha. So clever you are."
"I like to think so." He takes a few steps closer to me. "Nice house."
"I guess."
"When you live where I do, this is like a mansion."
I frown and look over at him, realizing I have no idea where he lives, or who he lives with, or really anything about him other than the facts that he thinks he's hilarious, is a halfway decent actor and likes to save homeless dogs.
"You go to Ashland," I point out. "You can't live that far away."
"I go to Ashland because my dad lives in North Scottsdale," he says. "But mostly I live with my mom in her tiny house south of Phoenix. It's all she could afford after the divorce."
I'm quiet for a minute, not sure what to say, but I guess this explains why he's comfortable driving his clunker through a sea of new BMWs and Jaguars every day.
"Yeah, I guess this must be pretty different for you."
He nods. "It's not like I'm not used to it."
I shrug. "I guess so."
We fall into silence, but for the first time since I've known Russ, I'm not sure I like it. Too many things are rattling around in my head. I don't like how easy our conversations are, don't like how I catch myself looking for him throughout the day even when he hasn't been on my mind.
It's all wrong, wrong, wrong.
I'm about to get up and go inside when Russ turns to me.
"I'm gonna go grab another drink," he says, shaking the empty red plastic cup in his hand. "Need anything?"
I smile tensely at him. "I'm good. But thanks."
He nods and disappears back into the house, but before I can breathe out a sigh of relief at being alone, Stella wanders out and takes his place.
"Hey," she says. Her eyes are puffy, the tip of her nose resembles that of Rudolph's and she's breathing a little funny, all classic signs that we've just had a wave of fresh Stella tears.
"You alright?" I ask, scooting over so she can sit down next to me.
Stella blows out some air. "Yeah. It's nothing I didn't already know. I don't want to be with someone who can't figure out that he wants to be with me. Maybe it worked that way for you and Blaine, but it's not right for me."
"I'm glad you're okay."
"That Russ guy isn't so bad."
My mind immediately flashes to an image of Stella and Russ sitting together at on the patio at Rollo's just after sunset.
Hmmm.
"He's okay," I say, trying to keep my voice steady and even.
Russ comes back outside then with a full cup in his hand, and I watch as Stella immediately blushes at the sight of him.
Great.
It shouldn't bother me. I don't even know if it does bother me.
But part of me is glad to know that Stella likes Russ. Volleyball or no volleyball, she's my best friend, and Russ is in my life right now, at least up until the closing night of the play, and it's nice to think my two different worlds might be able to collide -- and in a good way.
I try to shake off the icky feeling that's been weighing me down since Stella's comment about my high school sweetheart and put on my happy face, joining in on Stella and Russ' cheerful conversation about whether it'd be more tolerable to get eaten alive by a great white shark or get stuck in between the doors of a moving elevator.
Hey, I've never claimed my friends are normal.
Over the next half hour, several more people filter out onto the patio, including some Russ invited from the play, and soon, we're all engaged in a giant game of Would You Rather, everyone trying to come up with the grossest, most bizarre ways to die.
I'm about to ask whether the group would prefer death by a million hornet stings or to be trampled by a herd of elephants when the patio door slides open one more time. I absently glance up in the middle of explaining my scenario, and immediately lose my train of thought.
Blaine comes stumbling out onto the back porch, a half-empty beer bottle in one hand, and a toilet bowl brush in the other.
I stare at him, my mouth falling open as he lumbers toward me, his eyelids half-closed and his lips forming some sort of drooly, slobbery pucker.
Oh, gross.
"What are you doing? Put that thing down," I tell him, taking two steps back for every one he takes toward me.
"What, this old thing?" he asks with a grin, twirling the brush between his fingers. I pray that it's at least clean. He only spins it twice before his drunk hands can't keep up with the motion and it clatters to the patio. "Oops. That was my scepter," he says, and I'm impressed he can still coherently say that word. "I guess your wish is my command, m'lady."
My upper lip involuntarily curls back and my eyes land on Russ, who's trying to hide his smirk, and that only makes me angrier.
"Blaine," I hiss. "Knock it off."
"C'mere and give me a kiss, Emmmma," he slurs.
"Yeah, I'm good."
"Why're you hiding outside?"
"I'm not hiding," I tell him. "We're playing a game."
"I thought you went home." He sways slightly and I reach out to grab onto him and hold him steady. Great. I always wanted to babysit an eighteen-year-old football star.
"You drove me here," I say, wanting to point out how ridiculous it is that I have to remind him about this. My boyfriend isn't exactly the epitome of responsible. "I can't leave without you. But give me your keys."
He flops his arm around to wave me off. "I got it."
"No," I say firmly. "You don't. Give them to me."
"Emma, back aaawff. I'm fine."
"You're not," I insist, and I try to dart around him to snatch the keys that I know are dangling from the back pocket of his pants.
But even completely smashed, Blaine's still going to earn a college scholarship for his ability to juke out defenders on a football field, and his athletic instincts come in handy now, and he's able to slide just out of arm's reach at the last second.
"Missed me," he teases, and instead of finding it cute, I realize I'm fighting the urge to smack him across his smug face.
"Dude, give her the keys."
Blaine and I both look up in surprise, but I'm not sure why I'm shocked to see Russ stepping forward, holding out his hand to my stupid, drunk boyfriend.
"Bro, I don't even know you."
"No, but we all know you don't need to be driving in your condition."
Blaine and Russ stare at each other, and it's deadly quiet out here except for the occasional hum of a cricket in the yard. It feels like one of those old who's-gonna-blink-first standoffs, and I'm pretty sure I know exactly who's going to win this round.
Russ doesn't make a move; he's silent and still as he stands here with his hand extended to Blaine. And while Blaine doesn't break eye contact, he's a lot more fidgety than Russ. After what feels like hours of holding my breath but is probably more like seconds, Blaine lets out a loud groan, plucks the keys from his pocket and forcefully slams them into Russ' hand.
"Whatever," he grunts. "Let's get out of here, Emma."
Russ silently passes the keys to me.
I'm not ready to go home, and I hate the way everyone is staring at me. I look from Blaine to Russ to Stella and back to Blaine before letting out a defeated sigh. Blaine is wobbling around in circles, humming what sounds suspiciously like the National Anthem under his breath.
"We better leave," I mutter to no one in particular, but Russ and Stella must hear me beca
use they both nod.
"Probably a good idea," Russ says quietly. "I'll see you Monday, okay? Get home safe."
He's stiffer around me now than he usually is. Stella still closes the small gap between us and gives me a quick hug.
"Sure you gotta go?" she whispers.
"I don't want to, but I have to get him out of here."
She nods. "I know. Text me when you're home."
"I will," I say, then I walk over to Blaine, latch onto his arm and yank him toward the patio door without a word.
It's not the first time I've seen my boyfriend get drunk, and I know it won't be the last.
He hasn't done anything out of the ordinary tonight -- although I'll admit, it's the first time he's wandered up to me with a toilet bowl brush in his hand. But a couple of weeks ago, it was a pooper scooper he found at Kyle Brandon's house, and the time before that, it was a pineapple slicer at Mandy Lane's. And, of course, there's the flattened palm tree at Andrea Harris'.
It's always been funny, always been charming, always been Blaine.
And it's always been enough for me.
It's weird now, though, walking to the car with him grumping along at my side, not knowing what to say to him, and not walking along arm-in-arm, laughing about what a silly, stupid, adorable drunk he is.
It's like it's all changed, and I'm not sure when and I'm not sure why.
And I don't know if it's a good thing or if it's bad.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
"You're what? That's crazy."
"It's what I have to do."
"Emma, stop. You're not making any sense. It's one of the biggest games of the year. What are you talking about, you don't think you can go?"
Stella stares at me like I've just sprouted a fourth head and a sixth ear right before her eyes and she has no idea what's happening. We're sitting at our usual lunch table in the cafeteria, but neither of us are eating.
I shrug. "I can't go."
"How can you say that?" Her voice grows shrill with every word that comes out of her mouth. "I just don't get this. It's so not like you. And what's Blaine going to think?"
"He's gonna think whatever he wants to," I tell her. "I hope he thinks it's great I've found something I enjoy so much. But I would've hoped you'd say that, too, and I guess you're not going to, huh?"
She grows quiet for a second. "I don't understand it."
"That doesn't mean you don't support it. Or me. It doesn't mean you don't support me."
"Emma, you're my best friend, I love you and you know it, but this is so not like you."
"But I'm doing it. So maybe it's exactly like me, Stell."
I can't keep a sigh from slipping out from between my lips and slam my locker shut. This is turning out to be a giant waste of time.
It's been a few days since the party at Richie's and I'm no closer to figuring out what the heck is going on in my life than I was that night.
I'd delivered Blaine straight to his bed so he could sleep off the beer and tequila, and when he called the next morning, he claimed he had no recollection of waving a toilet brush around or being rude to Russ. He also refuses to apologize to anyone because he doesn't remember doing anything wrong.
And even if he had, he says no one should take him seriously when he's drinking, so why should he have to apologize for doing things he doesn't really mean?
If you ask me, that means he should probably stop drinking, but it's an argument I can't even get Blaine to start listening to.
It's exhausting and confusing and I'm not sure I know what to do with him.
There's only one thing I'm absolutely sure of lately: I'm having a really good time running around on stage as Miss Halpern.
Stepping into someone else's shoes even for just a few hours a week is kind of...well, liberating, I guess. A welcome break from my own life.
"I don't know," I say, suddenly feeling exhausted. "I guess I don't know what to say. I thought you'd understand why I'd choose to work on the play. It's part of my life now, the same way volleyball used to be."
Stella doesn't look convinced. "You juggled volleyball and football just fine. You've been playing volleyball your whole life and you didn't even miss a middle school football game, Emma." She shakes her head. "Why is this different?"
"Because it is!" I struggle to keep myself from lashing out at her in the middle of the hallway. "Volleyball practice was always over before kick-off, anyway. And Opening Night is two weeks away and we kind of still suck."
"I don't get it. I mean, eighth period is cancelled today so we can have a pep rally, but you guys can't change up one stupid rehearsal?"
I shrug. "Priorities."
Stella's lips form a tight, thin line. "I guess so," she agrees. "I'm just starting to wonder what happened to yours."
***
Stella had been right about one thing earlier this afternoon. Even though I don't know it at the time -- which is crazy all by itself because I always used to know these things -- eighth period really is cancelled so we can head out to the football field to celebrate the team and get pumped up for tomorrow night's big game against Walton High School.
It's not the only time we've had a big enough game -- undefeated rival versus undefeated rival -- to hold a pep rally, but it's definitely the first one of the year.
I sneak glances at my phone all through seventh period, sure Russ is going to text me to let me know we're going to use the surprise free time to sneak in some extra rehearsals, but nothing shows up, and I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do next.
Yeah, I can head out to the pep rally...but who am I going to go with? I'm pretty sure Stella's not an option -- and I'm not even convinced I want her to be right now. Blaine's going to be in uniform on the field while the band and cheerleaders rally around him, so he's out, too. And Richie will obviously be there, too.
I wrinkle my nose, running through my mental book of friends I can head to the field with, but I come up with nothing.
Seriously?
No one?
My stomach twists as I think about how this could even be possible. I'm Emma Thompson, for God's sake, and I can't think of a single person to hang out with?
It's the first time in my life I've ever remembered feeling this unpopular and lonely, and honestly? It's making me kind of nauseous.
I take a swig from my water bottle, hoping it'll calm the out-of-control nerves flapping around in my belly, and decide I'm not going to sit inside and do homework or anything while the rest of the school hangs out on the field for the next forty minutes.
And besides, I'm sure I'll find some people I know once I get out there and walk around a little.
It'll be fine.
So with slow, heavy footsteps, I wander out of the school building and across the campus to the field. It's already brimming with people by the time I get here. The band is hanging out around the fifty-yard line, but the team hasn't run out onto the field yet.
I usually hang out on the field with Stella and the rest of the volleyball team during pep rallies right before we head into the gym for practice, but that's obviously out, and I don't feel like weaving my way through this maze of sweaty, smelly bodies, looking for someone to stand with. My eyes land on the bleachers which aren't nearly as full of people as the field is.
With a resigned sigh -- I distinctly remember making fun of the small groups who'd gather in clusters in the bleachers for these things as the people who shouldn't bother coming out at all -- I make my way over to the rows of metal seating and drop down inconspicuously at the end.
I sort of wish I had a hood or something I could tug over my face because this is all kinds of embarrassing.
I'm busying myself with my phone in my lap, trying to avoid making eye contact with anyone who might see me and wonder what the heck Emma Thompson is doing on the bleachers alone during a pep rally, when the crash of a cymbal startles me out of my own world.
The cymbal is the start of the marching band's performance and soon
it's too loud out here to hear myself think. I watch in silence as the band gives way to the cheerleaders running onto the field from the tunnel, shaking their pom-poms and yelling who-knows-what. The football team isn't far behind, and I watch to catch sight of Blaine or the number on the back of his jersey.
But everyone is moving too quickly and there are too many people already gathered on the field for me to spot him. I shrug and return my attention to my phone, knowing the coach is about to make a speech that's not really of much interest to me.
And then something hits my back and I jump and whirl around.
"What the --?"
"Howdy."
Russ is grinning from the row of bleachers behind me.
I smile and feel my shoulders sag with relief. I've never been so happy to see someone whose name I actually know.
"Hey you!"
His eyebrows flicker up ever so slightly. "Someone's happy to see me."
"You have no idea."
"Didn't expect to find you up here. Figured you'd been down on the field with the rest of your kind."
"Not today."
"I hope it's not because of what happened the other night," he tells me, looking like he feels the exact opposite of what he's saying.
I shake my head. "No," I lie. "I just need a break, that's all."
"You're still coming to practice tonight?"
"Of course," I say, surprised he's even asking.
He smiles. "Good."
"You know, I never pegged you for the pep rally type."
"Emma, that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."
"Yeah, well, even you deserve a compliment every now and then," I fire back, and the left corner of his mouth twitches up, but he doesn't respond, so I glance back out over the field.
The coach is finished with his riveting speech and I scan the crowd for any sign of Blaine for the second time. Finally, my eyes land on his mop of blonde hair and it's not lost on me that just the sight of him isn't enough to make me smile giddily anymore.
He's mixed in with a sea of other football players and students, milling around on the field before Coach Pepp kicks them off for the start of practice, and I watch as Blaine walks right up to a familiar-looking blonde girl dressed in a tank top and way-too-short skirt. I can't remember where I've seen her before, but I watch as her face lights up when she sees him, and I watch as he leans in to give her a hug. I absently chew on my bottom lip as my eyes grow narrower and narrower, like honing in on them through tiny slits will somehow let me hear what they're talking about from two hundred feet away.