by Anne Dayton
The tension in the air relaxes, but as Michael comes into view, I can’t figure out why I don’t feel any better.
7
“There, that’s our ferry.” Tom points at a big white boat coming into dock behind the Ferry Building in San Francisco.
I should have said no when he showed up tonight. I was going to try to get started on my college applications, but Tom said he’d planned a surprise to take my mind off things, and like a fool, I went along with it. Maybe I didn’t want to say no.
“Here we go.” We walk over to the loading dock, hand our tickets to the attendant, and climb aboard. Tom heads straight up to the top deck, and I follow him.
I point at the different landmasses across the Bay from us. “Which island is Tiburon?” One of those is Oakland. I know that much.
Tom joins me at the railing. “Tiburon’s not technically an island. You can drive there, but I thought a ferry would be so much more”—he smiles at me and my stupid stomach warms—“fun.”
The air is cool, and the wind blowing through my hair feels incredible, liberating. Behind us, San Francisco is lit up like a Christmas tree, twinkling against the clear, black night, and all the noise of high school fades away: the application deadlines, Michael’s problems, Mom and Dad. I grab the railing and look up at the couple of stars shining through the lights of the city.
“How’s Michael doing?” Tom asks.
I tense up but quickly remember he’s not plotting with Ms. Moore or anything. Tom’s asking because he genuinely cared about Michael when we were together and did more to help him than the rest of us put together. Tom’s mom is a doctor at UCSF who specializes in autism, and she’s the one who got Michael into the program two summers ago.
“He’s okay.” I sigh and stuff my hands into my coat. “We’re worried he’s regressing some.”
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, and I know he means it. No lecture, no hollow prescription to “fix it,” just honest empathy. “I’m sure it’s hard to think of leaving him next year. Do you think that’s part of the reason you’re having trouble choosing a college?”
I pull my jacket tighter around me and stare at the tall shipping cranes across the bay. “No.” They almost look like stilted monsters from this angle. “Yes? I don’t know.” I steal a peek at him and notice he’s hanging on my every word. My heart expands. “I’ve always felt that Half Moon Bay was too small to hold me for long. And I spent my entire childhood dreaming of that magical day when Lovchuck would hand me that rolled up piece of paper, my one-way ticket out of here.”
In the distance a foghorn blares, and we both turn in its direction to listen to its moody timbre. I lose myself in it for a minute, and Tom patiently waits for me to go on, giving me all the time in the world.
“But now that it’s time to go, my feet won’t budge. I stare at my applications and have no idea how to answer the questions.” A smaller boat zips alongside the ferry, threatening to overtake our slow, steady progress. “The questions are like, ‘Why is Yale the right school for you?’ Well, how should I know? You’re the ones that run the place.”
We both stare out at the long stretch of the bay, rolling up and down over the big waves. The small boat pulls ahead and eventually disappears into the night.
“Don’t even get me started on the ones that ask what I plan to do after college.” I give Tom a sly grin. “For those I write, ‘Not applicable. Do not have degree yet.’ ”
Tom laughs from deep inside, and after a few minutes, his chuckling sets me off too. “At least you’ve still got your humor. Just try to remember you don’t have to decide everything today. You could easily apply to a bunch of schools and let fate decide where you go.” He nudges me playfully. “You’re cool and all, but you won’t get into every single college you apply to.”
I punch him softly on the shoulder, and he fakes like he’s mortally wounded. “You’re no help.” But I think even he knows this is the biggest lie I’ve ever told. He’s a much bigger help than I want to admit to anyone, even to myself. I know the Miracle Girls are trying to be there for me, but for some reason it’s so much easier to open up to Tom. We’ve shared so much, and he doesn’t think I’m . . . perfect. He doesn’t believe in the legend of Riley McGee.
“Have you thought about sticking around here?” Tom wanders back to a long bench, takes a seat, and pats the spot next to him. I sit down too but curl my right leg up to put some space between us. “You could easily get into Stanford or Berkeley.”
This is not a date, Riley McGee. You are just friends with Tom Garrison.
“Then you could stick close to the area and be near the ones you love.”
He means Michael. But when I look into Tom’s face, his eyes sparkling against the dark night, suddenly I’m not sure how much is really there and how much just seems to be there because I want it to be.
“Why are you doing this?” I gesture around at the scenery, the boat ride, everything. “What is this about?”
“Rye.” He slides over, and I drop my leg down so he can sit closer. “I wanted to see you. Is there any reason we can’t hang out from time to time?”
“No.” Our official breakup happened on the phone with a dorm party blaring in the background on his end. I kept my tone light and casual long enough to get through it and then hung up and cried myself to sleep. The overwhelming grief of it took me by surprise. All those guys, all those years—I never cared about any of them. Tom was something different, something I couldn’t explain even to myself.
“Are you okay?” He puts a hand on my arm.
“You don’t have to do this or anything. I mean, I’m really thankful for your advice about college and stuff, but I get it, you know?” I blow into my hands, then realize they aren’t cold. “It doesn’t mean we’re dating or anything.” On the right we pass a big, hilly island covered in green trees.
He takes a huge breath and bites the right side of his lip, something he used to do when we were officially a we. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life,” Tom says, sliding his hand up my arm and around my shoulder. I don’t shrug it off. “But the biggest was letting you walk away.”
I stare out at the choppy water, trying to figure out how much to believe.
“I know I didn’t do well with the long-distance thing, and I guess, tonight, I wanted to say that I’m sorry.” He runs a hand through his hair, and I notice it’s longer than it used to be. It’s still short, but it’s no longer cropped close to his head, and the new style looks good on him. “I know I’ll never be able to win you back, but we could just be friends.” He leans in so his face is only a few inches from mine. “That would be awesome.” I can smell his sweet, woody aftershave. “I miss having you in my life.”
A small kernel of hope takes root. Maybe he doesn’t know how much the breakup hurt me, how long it took—well, is taking me—to recover.
8
Cecily Vandekamp and her gang of juniors are swaying to the rhythm of the music together. I elbow Christine, who pretends to gag.
“I could sing of your love forever. . . . I could sing of your love forever. . . .”
What is this? The third time through? I keep my lips moving, but my eyes can’t help finding the wall clock. It’s already twenty minutes past eight o’ clock, which is when youth group is supposed to let out. I peek around the room. Asha Nayar is swaying too, but for some reason it doesn’t look fake when she does it. I spot Ben in the back, sitting with some of the other senior guys. We lock eyes, and I give him a small wave. He nods back, and for some reason I have to force myself to turn away.
Dave Brecht—Ana’s ex-boyfriend—and Tommy Chu lead worship on their own now that Tyler has graduated, and they seem to be really into this song. Suddenly Cecily raises her hands in the air, and Maddie immediately follows her lead.
“I could sing of your love forever. . . . I could sing of your love forever. . . .”
I love praise and worship time as much as the next guy, but my short sto
ry for writing class Tuesday still needs so much work. Plus . . . I hate to admit it, but in the back of my mind is Tom. I told him I’d call tonight, but he has an early class in the morning, and if I don’t get out of here soon, I’ll never catch him in time.
“We’ve been singing this song forever. . . .” I turn at the sound of Christine’s reworked lyrics, and she gives me a smirk. “We’ve been singing this song forever. . . .”
The song finally winds down, and Dave strums the final note instead of continuing. Christine silently mouths, “Thank you, Jesus,” and I almost snort.
The lights come up, and Tommy Chu thumps the bass drum with the pedal a few times. A loud Christian rock song starts blaring over the speakers, and I turn back and check on Michael. He’s bent over the soundboard, sliding buttons up and down, biting his lip. Working the sound is probably the only reason he actually comes to youth group.
People begin to mill around, and Zoe immediately launches into a long, involved story about her boyfriend, Dean, and the ninja movie he’s writing, directing, and eventually filming for his application to USC’s film school. And though it’s kind of awful of me, I can’t help but wonder how long I have to linger before I can slip out without making them suspicious.
“I think he wants Riley to be the star.”
From somewhere far off I hear my name.
“Would you do it?”
“Um, sure.” I stand up slowly and grab my purse off the floor, pretending I’m looking for something in it.
“Where’s he going to film it?” Ana asks, and my heart sinks, but I try to ignore it.
Better attitude. Please, Lord, give me a better attitude and help me focus on being a good friend . . . even if Tom and I haven’t talked in two days and our nondate last weekend was kind of awesome.
Zoe tells us he wants to film down at some docks or something. I shift from one foot to the other and can almost taste my freedom.
“Ditching us for Tom again?” Playful tone or not, there’s an edge to Christine’s voice.
My stupid face breaks into a smile against my will. “I want to call him before he goes to sleep. . . .”
“You guys sure hang out a lot for two people who aren’t dating.” Christine doesn’t even bother to pretend she’s joking. Instead, her face shows serious concern. “How does he explain how he totally forgot you existed when he went away to college?”
“That’s not fair.” I turn to the other girls for support, but Ana has an eyebrow raised and Zoe’s face is pinched. “Remember I broke up with him. And he admits he didn’t handle the long-distance thing well.”
Zoe puts a hand on my arm and tilts her head to the side. “Just be careful, okay?”
“Tom’s kind of like your Kryptonite, Riley. Somehow you lose all your magic powers around him,” Ana says.
My nostrils flare. “Guys, I don’t have magic powers. And this time things are going to be different.” I take a few steps toward the soundboard to get Michael.
Christine crosses her arms over her chest and seems resolved to say no more.
I slowly begin to walk away, avoiding their piercing looks. “I really do have to go, so . . .” Christine shakes her head as I walk toward the sound table at the back of the room. “Michael, I’m leaving.”
He nods but keeps his attention focused on the complicated series of knobs in front of him.
“I’m serious. Come now,” I call as I walk toward the door. He bobs his head but doesn’t move. He has an Aspie ritual he goes through every time he turns the sound equipment off, but hopefully he’ll hurry today. “I’ll be in the car.”
I let out a big breath and thread my way across the parking lot. Ugh. Maddie and Cecily are sitting on the bumper of Maddie’s BMW, which is parked next to my van. I give them a fake smile, which they both return, and hop into the front seat of the RealMobile. I shut the door and slump down in the seat to wait.
Through the thick glass, their voices pierce the silence inside the car. I turn the key a little, click on the radio, and search for music to block them out. Michael has exactly one song to get out here before I go back inside and drag him out.
“There she goes,” Cecily says, nodding at a figure across the parking lot. “How long do you think it’s gonna be before Asha starts showing?”
I freeze. How could they know about that? I turn quickly and see Asha and Ben ducking into a car on the other side of the lot. I peer at the girls next to me out of the corner of my eye, but their backs are to me. Can they honestly believe no one can hear them?
“She’s so gross. I always said so.” Maddie’s tone seems to seek approval from Cecily. “Can you imagine getting down and dirty with Dan Rice?” She shudders. “Anyone gross enough to do that seriously deserves to get knocked up. It’s, like, God’s punishment for being slutty.”
My nostrils flare, and my heart begins to pound. Punishment? I mean, sure, getting pregnant was a mistake, but God’s not punishing the poor girl. Is he? That isn’t how it works, right? A moment later, Ben backs his car out of the parking space and drives away.
“I almost died when my mom showed me the e-mail from Pastor Jandel. He seemed really angry.”
I feel my fingers curl around the car’s door handle.
“ ‘Dear Prayer Warriors, I’m afraid I have been informed of a horrible situation. We have an unwed mother in the youth group. As we are trying to figure out how to deal with the girl, I hope the prayer circle will pray for our church,’ ” Cecily says, doing her best imitation of our assistant pastor’s voice.
Did Mom get that e-mail? She’s probably too busy to notice even if she did. And what did he mean deal with the girl? He didn’t have to call it a horrible situation to everyone.
Maddie snorts and pulls her hair up into a high ponytail, slipping an elastic band around it. I should go out there and shut them up, remind them that everyone in earshot can hear them making fun of poor Asha.
“My mom totally freaked out. She was like, ‘Do you know who he’s talking about?’ And I was like, ‘Duh. Dan Rice told everyone.’ Asha Nayar. Mom e-mailed everyone in the church to, you know, ‘pray’ about it.” Cecily laughs.
Okay, that’s it. I open my door, and both girls startle and shut their traps.
“Riley.” Cecily smiles conspiratorially at me. “Did you hear what’s going on?”
Just then Michael darts across the parking lot, and Cecily and Maddie fall silent. I hold my head up high and ignore them. I’ve never been so glad to see my brother.
9
“This is my favorite one.” I point to an amazing oil painting of Tyler at the mic, his eyes pinched tight in concentration, belting out a song with all his might. “You’ve always been amazing at art, but this stuff is different somehow. It’s really great.”
Before this summer, I never realized there was a kitchen in the painting studio in Christine’s backyard, but after her baby brother, Ellis, arrived, Christine moved her stuff out here to get some space. Sharing a bedroom with her stepsister was one thing; sharing a house with a screaming baby was another. We’ve spent a lot of time in the studio in the past few months. It’s across the lawn from the main house and far enough away to not hear any of the family noise. It feels very grown-up, like Christine has her own apartment or something.
“Which”—Zoe turns around and waves the University of Southern California brochure in the air—“is yet another reason why this school is so perfect for us. USC’s got a great art school.”
Zoe’s on one of her missions. She showed up this afternoon with a ton of colorful brochures and pamphlets for USC. It looks gorgeous in photos, just like any other school. Ivy-covered halls? Check. State-of-the-art facilities? Check. Preppy, wholesome-looking students? Check. Blazing fall foliage? Well, they’ve got palm trees in LA, but it’s the same idea.
The popcorn is starting to pop in the microwave, filling the tiny apartment with a rich, buttery smell.
Christine’s back is toward me. She’s focusing on boiling no
odles for mac and cheese. I’m feeling lazy, so I’m sprawled out on the lumpy flowered couch Christine loves so much and flipping through a brochure.
“The most important thing is that we all stay together, right?” Zoe calls over her shoulder. I’d be happy to make it through senior year, but I nod anyway. Ana leans down in front of the cabinet under the sink and digs around inside. She pulls out a few paper napkins as the timer on the microwave dings.
“We’re all really different, so that’s going to be kind of hard.” Zoe opens the microwave door and lifts the bag out gingerly. “But that’s okay because USC has something for everyone. They have a great art department”—she looks at Christine, who perks up as she lifts the pot of pasta off the narrow stove—“but they also have state-of-the-art science labs.” She glances at Ana, who nods and drops the napkins on the coffee table in front of me. “It’s not cheap, but it’s not crazy expensive either. Since I’m in-state, I could probably get financial aid and stuff. And, Riley, you could . . . Well, you could do whatever you want. It would be perfect, because at USC you don’t have to decide on a major till sophomore year.” She shrugs. “And you’d be pretty close to home so you wouldn’t have to miss Michael too much.”
Christine sniffs the air. “Do you guys smell that?” She lifts her nose slightly. “Does it smell like a girl chasing her boyfriend off to college?”
Zoe fakes like she’s going to throw a handful of popcorn at Christine, who is dying laughing.
“Fine. Dean does want to go to film school there. But that doesn’t mean this plan isn’t amazing.” Zoe pours the popcorn into a bowl while Christine sprinkles cheesy powder over the noodles. “Look, they have all these majors.”
Zoe sets the bag of popcorn on the low coffee table and plops down on the couch beside me. She gestures for me to flip to the back of the brochure. The serious set of Zoe’s face scares me. Does she really think after all these years Ana’s going to give up Princeton for us? That Christine will give up New York?