by Anne Dayton
“All this time I thought I was going to lose you, and now,” Tom whispers, “I don’t have to lose you at all.”
Somewhere in the dark recesses of my brain, I wonder why he’s the only one who is happy for me, but then he pulls me close again, and I wrap my arms around his strong shoulders like I’ll never let go, and it doesn’t seem to matter.
33
“What do you think of this one?” I tap on the window of a red Volkswagen Bug. I don’t have the slightest idea why Zoe thought I would be helpful shopping for a car, but I’m trying to be useful.
“Ed says Beetles are a pain to repair.” She walks farther down the row and stops at a red Toyota Camry. It’s got to be at least ten years old, and it has that light tan interior they loved so much in the nineties. She squints at the paper taped to the driver’s side window. “The mileage on this one isn’t too bad.”
“It’s . . . nice.”
This place is huge. They’ve got row after row of used cars, lined up as far as the eye can see. Colorful flags whip in the breeze above us, and canned pop music plays out of loudspeakers scattered around the perimeter. Three different salesmen emerged like sharks from a small dumpy office at the back when we pulled up, but we finally convinced them to let us browse on our own for a bit.
“It looks dependable. And, uh, safe.” I have no idea what I’m talking about. I assumed we’d come here and pick the coolest-looking car, but Zoe’s being weirdly methodical, poring over crash test ratings and gas mileage figures.
She walks around and studies the back of the car. “You don’t think it’s too soccer mom?”
I run my fingers over the gold-colored trim. “It goes with your hair.”
Zoe rolls her eyes and moves down the row, stopping in front of a white Ford Focus. She checks the price tag.
I guess it makes sense that she’s being smart about this. I can’t count the number of hours Zoe’s slaved away at El Bueno Burrito to save up for this car. And I’m excited for her, I really am, it’s just that all of this makes her seem so . . . I don’t know. Grown-up. While I’ve been busy painting cheerleading banners and writing stupid stories, she’s worked toward something big and tangible, she’s saved up for and researched cars. She’ll walk out of this lot with a loan and insurance and all kinds of other things that feel way too adult for me to conceive of.
“Zoe?” She sizes up a black hatchback and turns to me, smiling. “Why didn’t Dean come with you today?” I sidle between a massive Ford pickup and a smaller black Chevy and walk over to her. “Or Ed? Doesn’t he know a lot about cars?”
“Ed told me all kinds of stuff about what to look for,” Zoe says, squinting at the paper on the car window. “But he wanted me to do this on my own. And Dean had a . . . Dean had to help his dad.” She bites her lip and runs her finger down the column of figures on the paper. “Besides, how often do we get to do stuff like this, just the two of us?”
“Buy cars?”
“Hang out.” Zoe steps away from the car and slings her arm around my shoulder. “You know . . . talk . . . about everything.” Her smile is determined and familiar—and suddenly I get a sinking feeling in my stomach.
She unzips her bag and roots around inside, then looks up at the long row of cars and shakes her head. “Let’s sit. I want to show you something.”
“Sit?” I look around.
“Come on.” She lifts the door handle of the black hatchback and swings the door open, then slides into the driver’s seat.
I study her face through the grayish glass. She’s so earnest, so hopeful.
“I figured out some options for you.”
I sigh and climb into the front seat on the other side. “Options?” I slide the seat back as she unfolds a crumpled stack of papers.
“I looked into colleges that have later application deadlines, and I found that several of the public schools in Southern California are still taking applications for certain majors. So Northridge, Fullerton, Dominguez Hills . . .” She hands me a printout of application information. “They’re all within a short drive of USC, and with your grades I bet you wouldn’t have to pay.”
“I don’t want to go to those schools.” I try to catch her eye, but she keeps going.
She scans the printout. “I pulled up the classifieds for the Los Angeles Times, and there are tons of jobs available so you could work for a while.” She shoves another paper into my hands. “But here’s what I think is your best option. I found all this stuff about how to spend your ‘gap year.’ That’s a real term, and lots of people do it. There are all these sites to help you do something good for the world before you go to college.”
“Zoe.”
She stops talking, her eyes wide as she tosses the rest of the papers into my lap.
“I . . .” I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to process what she’s saying. “Thank you.” I tuck the papers into my purse. “I appreciate it.”
She bites her lip. “I just, you know, I want you to be happy. And since Dreamy said . . . well, I wanted to make it right somehow.”
I study my bitten-to-the-nub fingernails, then sit on my hands. “It isn’t Dreamy’s fault.”
A Beyoncé song plays out over the lot, deadened by thick layers of glass. It sounds so incongruous I almost want to laugh.
“I don’t want you to get stuck here.” Her eyes well up with tears for a minute, but she manages to blink them back. “Not for us or for Tom or for anybody. You need a fresh start. . . . We all do.”
“I don’t know what I’m going to end up doing next year,” I say quietly. “I don’t know if you can really help me there. But maybe you could pray that God would help me figure it out.”
“I already do. Every night, every time I think about it.” Zoe’s cheeks burn red, making her faint freckles stand out. “I’ve been at it all year.”
I lean over and give her a hug, her soft hair tickling my face. I press my eyes shut and smell a faint whiff of patchouli and some kind of cooking spices—cardamom, maybe, or coriander—and it smells like heaven. “Zoe Fairchild, how am I ever going to survive without you?” My voice breaks off at the end. I squeeze my eyes shut and say a silent prayer of thanks.
34
“Oh hey.” The annual Valentine’s Day dance is this Friday and Ashley’s been keeping the squad late to work on decorations, but I’m cutting out early today. Still, the school is mostly deserted, so I wasn’t exactly expecting to see Asha hanging around the parking lot. She’s wearing a big, loose top, but she’s so tiny that her belly sticks way out, making her look further along than she is. I glance around the school parking lot, then back at her. “Do you need a ride or something? I don’t mind dropping you.”
“Gosh, thanks.” Asha’s voice is laced with sarcasm, taking me off guard. “But my brother’s taking me home.” She pushes a strand of dark hair behind her ear.
Am I missing something here? What did I do wrong? “Listen, I know what Jandel’s been up to. When Ben and I were talking about it, I said—”
“You were talking to Ben? I doubt that.”
I take a step back. “Asha?” I tilt my head. “Is everything okay?”
She rolls her eyes and glares at the gates at the end of the parking lot, refusing to acknowledge me. I wait a few minutes, and the silence grows awkward. I don’t know what’s going on here, but I can’t actually make her talk to me or accept a ride—pregnant or not.
“Well . . . I’ll see you around then.” I clear my throat, but she doesn’t seem to hear me, so I start walking for my car. Maybe I should call Ben to make sure everything’s okay with her.
“I really liked you, you know.”
I freeze but don’t turn around, my heart beating faster.
“When we first moved here, I heard a lot of rumors about you, but I never believed them. And when you and Ben started talking, I was actually happy about it.”
I turn around and look up at her, standing on the front steps of the gym.
“Y
ou seemed really cool. Maybe it was because I knew you went to church. But now . . .” She brushes a lock of hair away from her face. “Maybe you’re just like all the hypocrites.”
I shake my head slowly. “Asha, if this is about the way the youth group moms—”
“They ‘suggested’ I might be happier in the young parents group instead of the youth group.” She glares at me. “Did you know that?”
“They—what?” I hitch my bag higher on my shoulder. “They kicked you out of youth group?”
“Technically, I’m still allowed to come.” She rolls her eyes. “But Jandel thinks the support from other moms might be good for me. Whatever.” She plays with her brilliant gold necklace, the small sapphires in it sparkling. “I wasn’t talking about them anyway. I was talking about the way you treated my brother.”
“What?”
“He really liked you, but now he’s moping around the house, half-dead.” She puts a hand on her stomach.
“Things got . . . complicated, and I wasn’t sure what to say to him.”
“Look, obviously I’m not in a position to be telling people how to behave.” She slides her hand to the other side of her belly. “But Ben is a good guy, and he at least deserves an explanation.”
I shield my eyes from the afternoon sun and stare at her. I could stand here and try to justify what I’ve done, weasel my way out of things again, but she’s right. All year I’ve been avoiding my problems, hoping they’ll magically solve themselves. Ben has kind of gotten caught in the cross fire. Maybe it’s time to take some responsibility for my actions.
I drop my hand. “Where’d you say he is?”
***
When I step into the auditorium, a few of the kids from Mr. Dumas’s art class are putting the final touches on some kind of castle backdrop. The art kids often help the drama class with their scenery, and it looks like there must be some Shakespeare in our future. I scan the stage and pick out his familiar black hair easily.
“Ben.”
At the sound of my voice, he stiffens. A few long seconds pass while he stays crouched over, his paintbrush stuck in the can. Maybe I should have texted him first. He turns to me, his face a mix of emotions I can’t quite read.
“Are you . . .”
The other art students on the stage seem to sense the awkwardness and immediately begin packing up their paint supplies.
He nods. “Yeah, I’m done here.” He dusts off his hands, mumbles good-bye to a few people, then hops off the stage with an easy lunge.
“Maybe we should grab a seat.” I gesture at the empty auditorium and start heading toward the back, where no one has even bothered to turn the lights on.
He follows wordlessly behind me, and I stop a few rows from the back exits, then shuffle down to the middle of the row. I flip down the seat and slide low, trying to steel my nerves. What’s one more person yelling at me? I’m kind of getting good at taking my lumps at this point. Plus, after I apologize to Ben, I’ll have officially begun to make amends for the royal mess I’ve made of this year. That’s progress, I guess.
Ben sits next to me and swings his legs over the row in front of us and waits. He’s definitely not going to make this easy on me, and I don’t blame him.
“I’m sorry I’ve been horrible to you lately. I’ve been having a rough couple of months.”
He nods, keeping his eyes on the stage. The remaining art students wave good-bye to each other and disappear in different directions, leaving us alone. “I think I heard about that.” Ben’s voice is quiet. “Something about college. My friend told me, but I said it couldn’t be true.”
He glances at me, and I nod to confirm the rumor. I guess it was stupid to think he wouldn’t have heard. Even though I didn’t tell many people, these things have a way of traveling. I’m sure it’s all over school by now.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. All the schools seemed like somebody else’s dream.” In the front of the theater, someone peeks in the door, looks around, then goes back out again. “But I know you’ve had a bad year too. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you think . . . anything. I like hanging out with you, but I didn’t mean to use you or anything.”
He sighs and waits for a moment. “It’s okay.”
“That day in the van . . .” How can I put this into words? I’m really not sorry he kissed me. “Tom and I go back a long time. We’ve been together in some form or another for two years now.” Ben is so different, so unexpected, but Tom and I have history, and our attraction to each other is impossible to resist. “You asked me to choose, and it wasn’t easy, but ultimately, I made my decision.”
Maybe if we had more time together things might be different, but Ben’s going off to college and I’m sticking around and Tom is . . . well, he’s here. He knows about my messy family, and he’s used to my faults.
“I see.” He clenches his jaw and twists his watch on his wrist. “That’s a shame. I really thought we made a lot of sense together.” A silence passes between us. “My friends said I was crazy, that you never dated guys like me, but I don’t know. It felt possible somehow.”
I put a hand on his knee. “We had a connection. Definitely.” I smile. “But it’s not right, at least right now. And I don’t know if it ever will be.”
We both stare at the stage, and I realize the play must be some kind of romance in honor of Valentine’s Day. Did Shakespeare write any romances that don’t end badly?
“Here.” Ben pulls a small package wrapped in brown paper out of his bag. I take it from his hand. “I was going to give this to you anyway. I’m not normally into this made-up holiday, but this year . . .”
“Ben, I don’t know if—”
“Don’t worry. I understand.” He holds up his hands. “But either way, this should be yours.”
I search his face for some indication of what this means, but something in his eyes forces me to turn away. I slide my finger under the edge of the paper.
“Wait.” He grabs my hand tightly. “Open it after I leave.” He stands up and begins sliding down the aisle. “I need to get going anyway. Asha’s waiting for me.”
I watch him go, walking down the long narrow aisle, his head held high. When the drama room door shuts, I slip my finger under the flap, pulling the Scotch tape up. I unwrap it quickly, careful not to tear the paper, and pull out a simple black picture frame. I hold it up and suck in my breath.
It’s me. A black-and-white picture. My face is silhouetted against a dark gray sky, and I’m staring off toward the horizon, not really smiling, but not really not. In the bottom left corner, you can see the base of the cliffs and churning gray water in the distance. It must be the one he took at Mavericks.
There’s something almost arresting about the shot. The bright white flash of the setting sun in one corner catches my attention, then my eye travels down, tracing the stark contrast of the dark cliffs. But the more I look at it, the more I realize the real beauty of the picture isn’t the absolutes. It’s what’s going on in the middle, in the dozens of different shades of gray that make up the real subject of the photo: the silvery light on the tip of my nose, the darker shadows under my eyes, and the varied and layered patterns of the hazy clouds in the sky. When I study the shading, I can see that underneath the halfhearted smile, there’s something in my face that looks . . . lost. I’m not really watching the tiny specks of white below at all. I’m looking for something and not finding it.
35
The door to the classroom opens, and Mrs. Benassi scurries into the room, holding a dozen long-stemmed red roses.
“I don’t mean to interrupt, but it’s for a noble cause.”
“Yes?” Ms. Sanchez stops reading midsonnet and peeks over the top of her wire-rimmed glasses.
Mrs. Benassi’s skirt rustles as she makes her way through the maze of desks toward me, grinning. “For you, Riley.”
Several people in the class whistle as she hands me the flowers. I bend forward and inha
le the sweet perfume of the roses. The scent is light and lovely, intoxicating.
“Now you be nice to your young man,” she says, winking. “By the time you get to my age, they’ve all stopped trying, but this guy, he’s a keeper,” she says under her breath. She nods deferentially at Ms. Sanchez, then turns and waddles back toward the door in her orthotic shoes.
Everyone is looking at me. I can feel it. Lots of girls have flowers on their desks—it’s Valentine’s Day, after all—but no one else had their flowers delivered in class. I try to be inconspicuous as I peek at the card:
Happy Valentine’s Day.
Love, Tom
“Are we ready to move on?” Ms. Sanchez asks, clearing her throat, her short hair gelled into place. “Riley, since you seem to know so much about the Shakespearean art of wooing, perhaps you could continue with the hundred and sixteenth sonnet?” She eyes me over her glasses while people around me snicker. Ms. Sanchez isn’t bad, really. She just takes AP English way too seriously.
“Sure.” I look down at my book and try to focus on the words, their dark shapes contrasting sharply against the stark white pages, but my stomach is jumpy and I can’t seem to make my mind stay on anything today.
“From the top please.” She waits, a smirk on her face.
“Right.” I bite my lip and look down. This is the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me. “Sonnet one-sixteen.” I clear my throat. “ ‘Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments.’ ” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ms. Sanchez nodding.
Tom and I have had our ups and downs, yes, but he still loves me. That’s obvious. And that’s all that matters.
36
I open Ana’s door, see her tear-stained face, and grab her in a tight hug. I hold her and rock for a moment, whispering shushing noises because I don’t know what to say. Ana found out this morning that Maria is slipping away.