“No, it’s fine,” she says quickly. “Totally crazy shit.”
I give her a look, but she’s gazing at Paul. Then she flips her hair over one shoulder, and I have this vicious flashback of Maddie and Cory that nearly knocks me over.
“We were just going to the bathroom,” I tell Paul. “My little sister had to go, so I’m taking her.”
I grab Ayla’s shoulders and smile like the selfless elder sibling I am.
“You guys are super cute,” Paul says, smiling at me but winking at Ayla. God. “We should hang out, yeah? I’m here all weekend.”
I pause, wondering if he just asked me to hang out, or me and Ayla. Not that it’s possible he wants to hang out with a seventh grader, but the way they’re still smiling at each other, who even knows what he’s thinking?
“Awesome,” I say. “Text me!”
And then I shove Ayla away so hard she yelps.
“What the hell?” she asks, stumbling out of my grip. “Could you be more embarrassing?”
“That guy is in college,” I say. “And stop swearing all the time!”
“Oh my God,” she spits. “Who cares? What is your problem, even?”
We reach the end of the incredibly long line at the girls’ room—everyone is trying to beat the halftime crush, apparently—and I finally stop and get a good look at Ayla’s face.
She looks genuinely, sincerely confused.
“You were flirting with him,” I say slowly, wondering how she doesn’t get why I’m mad.
“No, I wasn’t,” she says. I open my mouth to argue, but she cuts in. “And even if I was, who cares? Like you said, he’s old. I’m not going to do anything with him.”
I blink at her a few times. When I was Ayla’s age, all I thought about was doing things with boys. Hell, I was two years younger than her when I got into that closet with Tom Mueller.
But I haven’t even noticed Ayla getting older or looking at boys. There are the boy-band posters, of course, but she doesn’t flirt. She’s a kid.
“Okay,” I say at last. “I’m sorry, you’re right.”
Ayla’s eyebrows shoot up and she laughs. “For real? I’m right? Someone take a picture! What a time to be alive!”
“Hey, shut up, I’m trying to be nice.”
She studies me for a minute. “Why didn’t you talk to him longer? It seemed like he was trying to get back together with you.”
I shake my head. “We’re just old friends.” She doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t say anything else. The line inches forward, and I know I should let it go, but after a minute I say, “You should wait until you’re older to, you know. Be all flirty and stuff.”
“Okay, Mom.”
“Whatever, you know Mom would say that.”
“And you know that you and Mom are the pretty ones, so it’s easy for you to give lectures on boys and whatever.”
Ayla turns away, her mood suddenly shifting again. Now she’s—mad? Upset?
“You’re pretty, too, Ay,” I tell her.
She’s standing perfectly still, her arms wrapped around her waist.
“Ayla, come on. What did I do now?”
“You don’t even know if I already have a boyfriend,” she says quietly. “You think just because everyone likes you, that no one else even has a life.”
“That’s crazy. Of course I don’t think that. I just think you might want to wait for the boyfriend thing until you’re older, is all.”
The line keeps creeping forward, and we’ve finally reached the side of the building. I move over so I’m leaning against the wall, forcing Ayla to face me. She humphs and tries to turn away again, but I reach out to hold one of her arms.
“Wait, do you have a boyfriend?”
She hugs herself even tighter and doesn’t answer, which seems like a pretty clear no to me. “You didn’t wait,” she says softly.
“No,” I admit. I didn’t know she’d noticed, but I guess all those lectures from Mom about how I should be less boy crazy haven’t exactly been done in private.
“Not everyone is, like, a guy magnet.” Her voice is tight with the tears she’s not crying yet, and I don’t know whether to hold my breath so I don’t laugh or bite my lip so I don’t cry, too. It’s overwhelming, getting slammed with all these feelings at the same time.
“Ayla, seriously. You’re gorgeous. You look just like Mom, way more than I do. And being a ‘guy magnet’ isn’t that great all the time. Actually, a lot of the time. And look at all the cool stuff you’re doing—you’re so involved, you know? It’s amazing. You’re amazing. I’m just saying that that’s the most important thing, okay?”
The line moves again, and we step inside the door. Fluorescent lights glare down on us, and across the room a wall of mirrors feels like it’s staring. We’re visible again.
“See?” I tell my sister, putting an arm around her shoulders and turning toward our reflection. “We’re both pretty.”
She scowls at first, and I give her a little shake.
“Plus, not for nothing, but being pretty and guys liking you are totally not the same thing.”
“They are with you and Mom,” she mutters.
“Maybe,” I say. “Sort of. I don’t know, but I do know that there are tons of girls at school with really nice boyfriends, and they’re all just okay-looking.”
“Are their boyfriends cute?”
I laugh. “The point is that looks aren’t that crucial, kid.”
She stares at me in the mirror, her mouth twisting in thought. “But everyone thinks you’re pretty, so you can say that,” she insists.
“Damn, you’re stubborn.”
The last woman ahead of us disappears and a stall opens up, so I push Ayla toward it.
Turning back to the mirror, I twist my long curls a little bit and think about what she said. I know I’m right—I know looks aren’t everything. I guess I’m lucky, getting to look a way that people think is pretty. That even I think is pretty, usually.
But it hasn’t really gotten me anywhere. It’s not like I’m a supermodel or the most popular girl at school or anything. It maybe gets me into trouble, like what happened with Cory.
What if it was like Maddie said—that I needed to know that Cory still liked me that way, because if he didn’t, then what?
Maybe being seen as pretty has gotten me into a lot more trouble than I’ve realized. Maddie wants Cory because she likes him, she feels a way about him—he’s really her first solid boyfriend and I’m missing it.
But maybe I’m missing more than that. Maybe I’m missing the thing where I like a boy, too. And not just for the attention. For him.
I turn away from the mirror and wait for my turn. But I can feel my own reflection in the corner of my eye. Like it’s waiting for something, too.
15
I WALK AYLA back to the bleachers, but I can’t make myself climb up. Glancing quickly, I see that Ryan isn’t next to Maddie anymore, so she’s right on the aisle, and I just can’t. So I wave to my parents and say to Ayla, “Tell them I’m going to talk to some people for a minute.”
“Like Paul?” she says with a smile.
“Sure,” I lie.
After a few minutes of pretending I don’t know where I’m going, I wander all the way to the edge of the dark soccer field and sit on the empty bleachers there. To my left are the deep shadows near the back door, where I could see Ryan and the mystery boy kissing last week. And if I stay very still, no one can see me unless they really try.
No one else is creeping around, it seems, not even Ryan. Maybe he went home, or found a new halftime make-out spot. Probably it’s insane that I’m even trying to catch him again, not that I’ve admitted I’m doing that. My official story is that I want to find him and talk.
Or you’re hiding.
The voice is almost nice tonight, almost like a friend.
Because you don’t have any real friends anymore.
Maybe not.
I focus on the noise
of the game behind me, the announcer’s muffled voice and the steady chanting of the cheerleaders. I look up at the black sky, which almost has stars tonight. None of the ominous clouds we had last week. It’s even a little bit chilly, enough that I’m glad I have on a light sweater. Not that I felt like wearing anything more revealing, anyway.
I think about Paul’s hug and wonder, again, why it felt so bad. I guess the thing with Cory was just . . . upsetting. It must have thrown me off more than I realized.
Or maybe it scared you, the voice offers.
I pull my feet up onto the bench, sitting sideways so I can stare at the dark hulk of the school at the top of the hill and wrap my arms around my knees.
It did sort of scare me. All week I’ve been hoping to talk to Cory, to fix everything—on the one hand, I know I should just be apologizing to Maddie, over and over, and not worry about anything else. But on the other, I feel like I’m not sure what to apologize for. Because, I mean . . . what was Cory doing, exactly? Did he think I wanted to hook up?
Or was he just doing what he wanted, whether or not . . .
Yeah, right. The voice is laughing at me. Like anyone has to force you to do anything.
I dig my chin into my knees and tighten every muscle, trying to block all the feelings I might start having. I can’t start sobbing out here in the dark, it’s too pathetic.
You know—
The voice starts again, but I jump up and start walking, fast, toward the main road, away from the football field. I reach the sidewalk and keep going, so quickly that the wind whips my hair back and I almost feel free.
I’m not far from the Dairy Queen, so without thinking I head in that direction. It feels good to have somewhere to go, even if I don’t really have a reason to go there. At least it’ll probably be empty right now. The game crowd won’t be showing up for another half hour at least.
When I can see the glow of the tall sign a few blocks away, I pull out my phone to text Mom. Getting a ride home with a friend, I tell her. Maybe it’ll end up being true. If not, well, I’ve walked home from here before.
Then I realize I might not know who’s working tonight—and it might be Hadley, the super-uptight manager. Joel would be good, but I stopped paying attention to his schedule a while ago. I walk more slowly, watching as the windows of the restaurant come into view, and sigh with relief when I see Steph standing behind the counter.
The door ding-dings and I step into the cold, brightly lit store with a real smile on my face.
“Rosie!” Steph says. “What are you doing here?”
I shrug. “Game was boring.”
“Oh, crap, I forgot about the game . . .” Steph looks past me with a worried expression. “It’s going to get so crowded.”
“Isn’t someone else coming to help with closing? Joel or Hadley?”
Her eyes get big and almost guilty when she says, “No. They said I could close.”
It takes me a minute to figure out why she seems nervous—she must think I’ll be hurt, that they trust her to close, but never let me do it. Instead I laugh out loud as I walk over to the counter and lean against it, across from her.
“Well, you picked a terrible night to get promoted,” I say.
Her eyes stay wide for another second, but then she laughs, too. “Oh my God, please tell me it’s cold outside?”
I wave my hand like, sort of. “It’s chilly, but you’ll still probably get some sweaty football players.”
Steph lets out a moan and leans her head down on the counter. That’s when I notice there’s a huge book open in front of her, with a notebook next to that.
“Oh, come on,” I say. “Are you upset that you’ll be slammed or that you won’t be able to do more homework on a Friday night?”
She looks up at me from between her fingers and narrows her eyes. “It’s for my internship. Which might start paying me, which would be amazing, since it would get me away from sweaty football players and sticky kids and stupid chocolate sprinkles everywhere . . .” She moans again and then stands up straight, slamming the book shut. I see something about art history before she whisks it into her backpack.
“What internship?” I ask. “You’re leaving me all alone with the sticky kids?”
“At the art museum. They have this program for high school students, but no one from Midcity ever gets in. Mr. Kline has been helping me, and it’s really cool—I can maybe go to Italy next year and getting into a good art school will basically be automatic, and—”
She stops suddenly and reaches back, tightening her mousy-brown ponytail. Her round cheeks are flushed and the wholesome smattering of freckles across them disappear in the pink. She looks like an adorable farm girl, like maybe she milked the cows that made all the ice cream in here.
But she also looks really serious about this plan. So maybe I don’t know much about Steph Barnes at all.
“That sounds incredible,” I finally say. “I’m jealous. I can’t even make a kitten sculpture.”
She opens her mouth like she’s about to say one thing, but hears me a second later and changes her mind. “Wait, kitten sculpture? What?”
I wave my hand again, dismissively. “I’m in Intro. For arts credits or whatever. Mr. Kline told us to pick something we thought we could stick with, just to get the feel of the clay?”
She smiles. “Yes, he’s a big clay-feeler. God, that sounds so nice.”
“Ha, I bet you totally miss hanging out with the wannabe-goth freshmen, drawing bowlfuls of fake pears.”
“‘You don’t draw the pears!’” she says, throwing her arms up just like Mr. Kline does. I catch on and together we practically yell his favorite line together: “‘You draw the light!’”
We both laugh and she seems to relax about a thousand percent. I feel a lot better, too, which I guess is why I hop up onto the counter and swing my legs over.
“What are you doing? No free samples!” Steph squeals.
With a snort I brush past her to the back room. I find an extra shirt in a box on the desk. Before Steph can argue, I’ve swapped my sweater for the horrible uniform and come back out, sweeping my hair into a ponytail.
“I’m helping,” I say. “The game’s gotta be over by now or really soon.”
She starts to speak again, but I just point at her book bag.
“If you go into the office now, you might get a little more studying done before the hordes descend and crush your dreams of Italy.”
She snaps her mouth shut and grabs the bag.
“You’re a saint,” she tells me.
“Yeah, or the opposite of that.” We both smirk as if I’m actually joking.
Just before she disappears into the back, she stops. “Wait, did you clock in? Are you—I don’t know if you’re allowed to clock in, are you?”
“Yeah, no, this is completely not legit,” I say, realizing I might really be breaking some kind of law even as I’m saying it. “But who cares? I don’t really need the twenty bucks or whatever it would end up being, anyway.”
“Well, I’ll split my hours with you. And testify at your trial, you know, when you get arrested.”
“See, that’s saintly. But seriously, don’t worry about it. I totally owe you after bailing last weekend.”
She looks at me with something that sort of resembles surprise mixed with respect, but I don’t have time to quite figure it out before she nods and disappears into the back.
And then there’s just enough time to drink half a Diet Coke before the people start coming. At first it’s just a few fans, their pink cheeks and warm orders—a lot of hot fudge toppings and one random coffee—a clear indication that the temperature is dropping fast.
But then there are kids from school, and more kids from school, and soon I have to yell back to Steph that I can’t handle the orders alone.
All four picnic tables outside are covered in Midcity students, and I’m starting to regret my decision to help out—especially if it means hosing those things down when w
e finally close—when the door ding-dings again and in walk Cory and Maddie.
They’re with a ton of other juniors, Gabe and Olivia and Annabelle and even Ryan, toward the back, but all I can see is the happy couple. Cory has his arm around her shoulders, and she’s wearing his letter jacket.
Oh, God, I’m going to throw up. She’s wearing his letter jacket.
Steph literally shoves my arm, and I stumble to the side, over behind the hard-serve flavors. “Hey, guys, what can I get you?” she trills, smiling right at Maddie.
I haven’t even regained my balance when Ryan and Gabe circle around to me, acting all innocent about their obvious interference running.
And here I thought no one cared how I feel about this whole situation. Or, okay, I guess they might be protecting Maddie. Either way, at least I don’t have to look at Cory’s smug face.
“We both want Blizzards,” Ryan says loudly. “Butterfinger.”
I nod and get to work, grateful for an assignment that forces me to turn my back on the room. Whose idea was it to come here? It couldn’t have been Maddie’s, right? She’s barely seen me at work; maybe she forgot I even have this job. Or maybe Cory suggested it and she agreed so . . . she could show off? That isn’t something I thought Maddie would do, but the world is full of goddamn surprises. Especially lately.
After an eternity, Steph and I get everyone’s orders made. Olivia, of course, just wants water, but to my shock, Annabelle looks almost friendly when I hand over her dipped cone. And then they’re all out the door, shoving some sophomores away from a table and taking it over. I can still hear them, sort of, but they’re just a blur of color on the dark side of the windows.
When the counter is suddenly deafeningly vacant, I sigh.
“Thanks for that,” I tell Steph.
“No worries. I figured it might be awkward.”
She goes to wash her hands, so I wait until she turns the water off to take a deep breath and ask, “What did you hear, exactly? About . . .” I angle my head toward the door, trying to be subtle in case anyone’s watching us from out there.
She opens her mouth and shuts it again, which I’m beginning to realize is just how she forms a sentence before she speaks. Another open-close, then finally, “Not much, really. Mostly it was just from—ugh, I’m sorry, I don’t want to get him in trouble. But I was talking to Ryan, and he said you and Maddie had, like, a thing.”
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