by Anne Dayton
“I don’t know, Zo,” I say, but she doesn’t seem to hear me.
“I can totally picture it. We could live together, just the four of us, in an apartment like real adults. It’d be exactly like this, actually, and we could come back to visit on weekends and stuff.”
“I’m in.” Christine walks toward us with four spoons sticking out of the pot of macaroni and cheese. She puts it down on the table, and I reach for a spoon and shovel in a mouthful.
“You are?” Ana lifts an eyebrow as she flops down on the other side of me. The cushions bounce up and down for a second as she finds a comfortable position.
“Sure.” Christine grabs a handful of popcorn, then settles down on the bed.
“But what about New York?” I gesture at all the paintings of Tyler. “What about art school?”
“There are art schools on this coast too. I’ve been thinking about sticking closer to home. It’s not a big deal.” She grabs a brochure from Zoe and flips to a random page. “USC is a good school, and we could all stay together, so why not?”
Zoe claps her hands and bounces.
“But why?” I drop my spoon, and it clatters against the pot. “What happened?” I feel my heart start to beat faster. The flippant way she tosses aside her long-held dream scares me. I don’t have any inkling of what I’m going to do with my life or what my natural calling is, but I do know one thing: Christine is a born artist.
“I don’t know.” Christine tucks her legs up under her and runs her hand over the gray silk comforter. “No one has ever been there for me like you guys. What we have together is really, really rare. I’m not going to move halfway across the world from you. That doesn’t make any sense.”
“It’ll be perfect.” Zoe leans back and gives me a quick hug. “All of us together, like I always dreamed.” Zoe locks her eyes on me, and her face is full of hope. “What do you think, Riley?”
I try to buy myself time. “I want to be near you guys, of course.”
“I’ll apply if you’ll apply.” Ana slowly breaks into a nervous grin.
Ana’s face is making me nervous. Christine giving up New York is one thing, but this? Ana practically bleeds orange and black. “But you always dreamed of going to Princeton.”
“I don’t know. It’s just . . . I mean, what if we could pull it off? I never really thought there was a way to stay together.” Zoe hugs Ana, obviously about ready to pee her pants.
I try to keep my feelings from my face. My best friends in the world, the ones who taught me what it really means to be there for someone, the girls who’d do anything for me, want to go to college together, and for some reason, the idea completely stresses me out.
I trace a floral pattern on the couch with my finger and try to ignore the way they’re hanging on my every syllable. Maybe this is why I can’t talk to the girls.
I clear my throat. “Let me think about it, okay?”
“I knew it! I knew you’d never let us down.” Zoe launches herself across the couch at me and crushes me under the weight of her hug.
10
“Did you want to take a spin around the restaurant and make sure he isn’t already here?” The dyed blond hostess gives me a saccharine smile.
“You’re sure there was no reservation under Tom or Garrison?” I glance at the clock over her head.
“Nope. I have nothing under either of those names.” She smacks her gum and marks through something on her seating chart with a wax pencil.
“I’ll call him again. Traffic, I’m sure.” I nod at her and exit the dark seafood restaurant. My call goes straight to voice mail again, and I don’t bother to leave another message. I slump down on a long wooden bench in front of the restaurant to wait, squinting into the fading evening sunlight.
I arrived five minutes late to avoid this, but now it’s fifteen minutes after seven. I don’t want to be anal about it, but Mom didn’t want me going out tonight, and coming home late is only going to make her more frustrated. Tom was busy all weekend, so this was the only time we could get together.
The door to the restaurant opens, and I’m startled when I realize it’s Ben. He doesn’t see me and strolls down the sidewalk in the other direction, pressing his phone to his ear. Maybe it’s because I feel so alone or because he seems alone too, but suddenly I want to say hi to him.
I wander after him and wait until he hangs up his call. “Fancy meeting you here.”
He turns and drags the back of his hand roughly over his eyes. “Riley.” He shakes his head and seems to be trying to pull himself together.
“Are you all right?”
“No.” He laughs bitterly, then gestures at the restaurant. “Another dinner with the Nayars. In this very special episode, America’s favorite family faces the tough issue of teen pregnancy.”
“I’m sorry. I know what it’s like to have dinners like that.” My face blushes at such a stupid thing to say. “Well, not exactly like that.” Cars rush past on the street behind the restaurant, but none of them look like Tom’s car.
Ben grabs at the worn-out sports watch on his arm and rotates it slowly around his wrist.
“Do you”—I try to meet his eye, but he’s staring at the sidewalk—“want to vent or something?”
He lifts his head slowly and shrugs. “Do you know that lady, Mrs. Vandecamp?”
I nod. She was on all those church committees with Mom—the ones Mom used to attend before things with Michael got too overwhelming.
“She took my mom to tea and convinced her that Asha should give the baby up for adoption.” He undoes the Velcro strap of his watch and smoothes it down again. “And now my mom’s got my dad all convinced too.”
“What does Asha want to do?” I wander over to the long wooden bench and sit down. I motion with my head and Ben joins me, extending his feet in front of him, leaning back.
“She’s not sure yet, and I’m stuck in the middle, trying to keep everyone from killing each other.”
“Wow. I’m sorry,” I say, and Ben shrugs.
A comfortable silence spreads between us, and my thoughts drift. It’s funny how much we have in common. It’s kind of weird to admit it, but I find his story a relief. I’m surrounded by people whose lives are swimming right along, no problems to mention whatsoever. It’s kind of nice to know that at least one other student at Marina Vista is having the year from hell.
“What do you think of Pastor Jandel?” He loops his fingers behind his head and glances over at me.
“Huh?” I stare at his beat-up Vans with frayed shoelaces and caked-on dirt. Does Ben know about the awful e-mail Pastor Jandel sent around about Asha? “I don’t know. He’s only been with the church for a few years. Why?” I cross my legs under me and play with the small hole in the knee of my jeans, making it bigger.
“Just curious.” Ben stares vacantly at the parking lot. I wait a minute, but he doesn’t continue.
“Okay, truthfully, he kind of bugs me. He talks to my brother like this.” I conjure up a canned booming voice. “OH, HELLO THERE, MICHAEL. ARE YOU ENJOYING HIGH SCHOOL? YOU ARE? WELL, ISN’T THAT WONDERFUL.”
Ben plugs his ears and cracks up. “You sound just like him.”
“It’s totally insulting. Michael’s not deaf or slow.” I turn around and glance at the road, but there’s still no sign of Tom’s car. “His brain works at lightning speed. He could run intellectual circles around that guy.” I squint at Ben in the dying evening light.
He nods slowly and drops his eyes into his lap. “He’s taken this weird sudden interest in Asha.”
Should I tell him about the e-mail, or will that only make things worse?
“And he’s always over at the house, calling me son. Like, ‘Son, can you bring me a glass of water?’ ”
“Did you . . .” I steel my courage. “Did you see the e-mail he sent about Asha?”
Ben snaps his head at me, his face clouding. “The e-mail?”
“Yeah.” I say a quick prayer that this is the right th
ing to do. The Nayars have a right to know what was said about them, even if it casts our assistant pastor in a bad light. “He sent out this e-mail saying there was an unwed mother in the youth group and that he was going to deal with the problem.”
Ben leans forward, his jaw clenching. “He did what?”
“Well, he—”
“First of all, he does not even have the right to share that.” Ben begins to pace back and forth, his hands balled into fists. “Not with the church. Not with anybody. My parents went to him for counseling in confidence.”
I pinch my lips together. “It didn’t say Asha’s name.”
“It didn’t?” He stops short and glares in my direction.
I shake my head, almost afraid to speak. That’s what the e-mail said, right? I flash back to that night at youth group and the conversation I overheard between Cecily and Maddie. I was stressed. I remember that. The Miracle Girls were panicking over Tom, I was rushing home to try to talk to him, and Michael was refusing to leave.
Ben keeps muttering under his breath, a vein popping out in his neck. “ ‘Deal with the problem’? What’s that supposed to mean exactly?” He shoves his longish hair out of his face. “This is so messed up. Maybe I should pay him a visit right now. We can talk about it, just the two of us. I’m not afraid of him.”
“Ben, you’ve got to calm down. No one is going anywhere right now. You need to sit and talk with me. We’ll figure it out.”
He turns and points at me. “No, I’m glad you told me this. At least you’re being honest with me.”
What did Cecily say? Deal with the situation? I didn’t actually read the e-mail.
“Forget it. I’m just going to tell my parents.” Ben shakes his head. “It’s time they see this wolf in sheep’s clothing who’s been prowling around our house.”
“Wait.” I spring from my seat and put a hand on his arm. His face is flushed red, and his eyes are wild. I haven’t known Ben for long, but he doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to lose it like this.
He snatches his arm away from me and takes a few steps forward.“No, it’s fine. I’m going to let them deal with it.”
What if I’m wrong and his parents get involved? It will only make everything worse. My heart begins to beat wildly in my chest.
“Look, Jandel’s kind of a jerk and all that, but maybe he didn’t mean it like it came out.” I hear my words, but I’m not sure if even I believe them. Was it an innocent mistake? Or was there malice behind his e-mail? “You said he’s been over at your house trying to help, right?” Ben stops pacing and loosens his hands, letting them dangle by his sides. “And the people at church, all those ladies in the prayer circle, most of them are saints. You know, eighty-year-old grannies who knit caps for orphans and stuff. They wouldn’t have any idea who it was about—and even if they did, they would never judge Asha.” There, that was true at least. I can’t vouch for Jandel, but most of the people at church are awesome.
Ben’s shoulders relax.
“Never in a million years.” I push out of my brain the image of Mrs. Vandecamp and Cecily and Maddie. There are bad apples in every bunch.
“Maybe you’re right.” He gives his head a good shake.
We fall silent for a minute or two, and I can’t help but steal a glance at my phone. Tom is now a full thirty minutes late. I am officially being stood up, and I’m going to have to explain to Ben why I’m hanging around Captain Mac’s Seafood Restaurant on a Thursday night by myself.
“I should probably get back in there,” Ben says and motions at the wall behind us with his head.
“Of course.” Maybe he’s so distracted he won’t think to ask about it.
“Another good chat.” He holds out a fist, and I bump mine against his. A slow smile creeps up on his face. “You’re not how I thought you’d be, Riley McGee.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You seemed a little too . . . perfect, I guess.” He lets his hair fall in front of his face and peeks through it. “I don’t know. You’re always running around school smiling and stuff. I guess I thought you might be Supergirl.” Ben gives me a sly smile.
“Supergirl?’
“You know, Kara Zor-El, blond-haired, blue-eyed butt kicker? DC Comics? Superman’s cousin? Cape?”
I stare at him blankly.
“It would explain why you’re always in costume.”
“It’s a cheerleading uniform.”
“Right, sorry.” Ben smiles, and I notice a small dimple on his right cheek.
“My life is a lot messier than most people realize.” I stand up and grab my purse. I might as well start heading home. “But maybe everyone’s is.”
“I hope not, for their sakes.” A noisy family passes us and enters the restaurant, their voices echoing in the silence between us. “Are you waiting for someone?”
“Yeah.” I dig in my purse for my phone. Does Tom even deserve a call to let him know I’m going home? “A friend.”
“A friend.” Ben watches me carefully, so I shrug and try to act nonchalant.
Just then Tom’s reliable black Honda pulls into the parking lot, and he honks a few times at me and waves. I look away and don’t wave back, but it’s too late.
“Ah, I see.” Ben takes a few steps toward the door. “See you around, Riley McGee.” He pulls the handle and disappears into the dark restaurant. Before I can even process our conversation, Tom dashes across the parking lot to me.
“Hey there.” He reaches out to wrap his arms around me.
I reach my arm back and sock him hard in the shoulder. “You’re so dead. I can’t believe you showed up thirty minutes late.”
He holds his hands up in the air and laughs. “Wait, wait.” He motions at the parking lot. “My car overheated on the way down here.”
I glance at his Honda. When I first met him he had an old white truck, and if he still drove that, I might believe him.
“Do you think I’d miss hanging out with my favorite girl?”
He wraps his arms around me, and I feel better, almost good enough to forget the other question I have: Why was his phone off?
11
“Nice job, Riley.” Aiden, our cool college professor who bears a striking resemblance to Patrick Dempsey, makes a note at the top of his printout. I sit up straighter. For our third week of writing class, we were supposed to write a short story that really “dug deep,” and today we’re workshopping everyone’s stories. I wrote a story about a kid with Asperger’s. Telling Michael’s story was, well, it almost felt good in a way. It was nice to sort out the jumble of emotions I feel, let them air out on the page.
“I love the way the main character felt guilt about Matty’s condition. You’ve got a really great start here,” Aiden says. My heart sinks. Start? I slaved over this story. “Keep hammering away at it, and I think you could really make this into a story.”
Make this into a story? I stare down at my paper. Isn’t that what this is? It has a beginning, a middle, and an end, and I even put in themes like Ms. Moore is always going on and on about.
A few people make comments about my story, but for the most part the room is quiet. There’s a moment of awkward silence, then Aiden turns to Ana.
“Let’s move on then. Ana?” Aiden turns to the right to face Ana. A few people rustle papers and search for Ana’s story in their piles.
“Okay. I didn’t really know what to write about, so I—”
“Hey, no apologies.” Aiden cuts her off. “You cannot be embarrassed about your work and still call yourself a writer. As a rule, writers have huge egos. Better to start cultivating that now.” He gives her a goofy grin, and she laughs. “Besides, what you have here is great. Really, really good.” Aiden flips to the last page of her story, where even from here I can see the exclamation points and underlines he’s drawn all over the paper.
Ana wrote about her old housekeeper Maria’s quinceañera all those years ago in Mexico. She fictio
nalized it some and made it sound like a story, but what really comes through is how much she cares about Maria. Maria was like a second mom to her, but she moved back to Mexico at the end of Ana’s freshman year because her health was failing.
“Did anyone else notice how she used the diamond as a symbol?” Aiden asks. “She points out the crystalline stars here on page one”—Aiden flips back to the first stapled page of her story—“and there’s the twinkling of the grandmother’s eye, and the jewels in the tiara Maria’s wearing in the last scene.” He flips to the last page of the story and rips the paper a bit in his excitement. “It’s a great use of repeated imagery to build meaning. Nice work, Ana.”
A few more people talk about how awesome the story is, and with each comment I slide farther and farther into my chair. I tune them out and start to draw waves on the edge of my paper. I don’t get it. It’s obvious they like her story better, but why? What makes hers more interesting? And isn’t it all relative anyway?
Ana is taking furious notes, and I’m glad for her, I really am, but she already knows she wants to study medicine. We took this class so I could figure out what I want to do. She doesn’t need this like I do. If this isn’t it, where does that leave me?
12
“Rye.” I turn at the sound of Ashley’s voice. “Hold up.” I stop and wait as she jogs across the courtyard, her strawberry-blond hair streaming behind her. She’s wearing some funky boots and carrying a bag I swear I saw in Vogue last month. She always was more stylish than anyone else around here. “I wanted to tell you something.” Ashley stops in front of me and gasps to catch her breath.
I’m already running late for the Earth First meeting, and Ms. Moore likes us to start on time, but I can read her face well enough to know this is important. Ashley and I were best friends all through elementary school. We hit a rough patch a few years ago, but last year she helped the Miracle Girls get Ms. Moore reinstated at Marina Vista, and we’ve been hanging out some since then.