Ben shoves his hands in his pockets. “Nah. I’m just gonna grab a coffee to go. See you guys later.” He turns back. “Oh by the way, nice selfie, Greene.”
Once Ben’s out of earshot I turn back to Dylan. “That would never have happened last year.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Dylan says. “That seems like forever ago, huh?”
I nod. “So the video—you’re really doing it.”
“Yeah. You should hear the song. It’s called ‘Remember When.’ I wrote it in the winter. I think . . . I think you’d like it.”
The waitress puts our plates in front of us. Dylan stares down at his plate. Two eggs, two sausages and toast and fruit, but it’s sort of glommed together in the center of the plate.
“Wow, has the food here always looked this terrible or have I just forgotten?”
“Always. But it tastes so good.” I want to say Like our theory. Back when Dylan and I were getting together, we had a theory: food that looks good tastes bad. And vice versa. We would text each other pictures of terrible-looking food.
I want to remind him, but before I can decide if it’s too weird, he says, “Like our food alerts.”
“You remember those?” I stab a slice of bacon with my fork.
He raises his eyebrows. “It was just last year. I’m not that old.” He rearranges the food and then turns his plate to me. He’s made a face. “Meet Bob.” He jabs his fork into his eggs and makes a squealing sound. “My eye, my eye.”
I laugh.
“You still take pics of that kind of stuff?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Not really.”
“I kinda noticed on your Insta. It’s pretty . . . professional.”
“Yeah. You can call it boring; Ben did.”
“Except today. That was a funny post, friend.” He pulls out his phone. “You’ve got a lot of likes.” Twenty likes, for me, is a lot.
But all I can think about is the word “friend.”
“I can’t believe I posted that. I never post selfies and then the one I do? Scary.”
He shrugs. “It’s real. And funny. And people love Star Wars.”
“So much for my curated feed.”
He gives me a look. “Is that what you were doing before?”
“Yeah. You know, so people know that I’m a photographer. And in case the Tisch people were looking. I have to care what they think of me.”
“Since when? You always do your own thing, you’re confident in what you do and it works out like it’s all supposed to work out. Like it did. You got into Tisch. Though I have to say, I can’t imagine you got in because of your Instagram.” He takes a bite of his toast.
“What do you mean?”
He shrugs. “Flowers? Stuff arranged just so on a white table? It’s very . . . safe.”
I don’t say anything. Is he right? Is my Instagram—something I worked so hard to make perfect—what actually influenced Tisch not to admit me?
“Hey.”
I look up.
“Why the long face?”
“I didn’t get into Tisch.”
Dylan lets out a low whistle. “That sucks.”
“Yeah. That’s why I was in New York. I got waitlisted. And I didn’t apply anywhere else. So now I’m trying to switch things up. Do things differently.” I take a bite of toast, but it’s dry in my mouth. I can feel tears welling up.
“Hey.” He touches my arm. “You should just be yourself. That post today? It was funny. And ridiculous. Like you. That was the Pippa I knew and—” He takes his hand off my arm and picks up his coffee to take a sip. “Anyway, I think that’s the kind of stuff that’ll make Tisch love you.”
“Maybe,” I say, though I’m not convinced. And totally overwhelmed. I check the time on my phone. “Shoot, I should go.”
We get up and walk to the cash. Dylan pulls out his wallet. “You’re in luck. I’m not actually feeling very Dutch today. Besides, I feel bad for you—picking garbage.”
“So you’re taking pity on your ex-girlfriend?”
“Ex has such a negative connotation. We’re friends, right, buddy?” He knocks shoulders with me, then hands his bank card over to the cashier.
Buddies. Friends. Is that what we are? Is that what we’re destined to be?
*
“I can’t figure out if I want to wear something sexy or if I think that I should be wearing something sexy,” Dace says as we sift through the racks of pyjamas at Target. “Like, do I want to look good, or do I want to be comfy? How do I want to be remembered?”
“Good question,” I say, running a flannel unicorn onesie between my fingers.
“Or pointless? Like, who we are here, at Spalding High, won’t even matter in two months. No one I meet in Europe is going to know if I was popular or a loser, if I ran every club or skipped school. If I had to go away to get help . . .”
“That’s a good thing.”
“Yeah. It is a good thing. But it made me realize that I seem to really care what people think about me.”
“No you don’t. At all. That’s what’s so great about you.”
Dace gives me a look. “Excuse me? I care so much what people think. Not like you. You never care.”
“What are you talking about? Dylan said the same thing but all I care is what people think. My whole year has been about trying to be the perfect Tisch candidate. And sucking at it.”
She throws an arm around my shoulder. “We’re a couple of wannabes.”
“My point is—oh, what is my point? Dace, I don’t have any identity without photography. You saw that at meditation. Even Anisha was like, You’re the photography chick. And then because it was uncomfortable to try to do anything without a camera, I ruined that. I don’t know who I am without a camera. And I’m always thinking, you would have no problem changing who you are, or what you do. You’re always reinventing yourself. Your look, your attitude.”
Dace shows me the screen of her phone. “JFTR, you have 204 followers since that Star Wars pic. And don’t you see, Pippa? You know who you are. What you love. Me? I can’t figure it out. Oh, I think I’m going to be a model but I can’t be one so now I’m just trying out everything, trying to figure it out.”
My phone dings. I look at the screen.
“What’s wrong?” Dace says.
“Ben just asked us if we want to be extras in the music video. Dylan’s music video. They’re shooting it at White Water World tomorrow morning.”
Dace’s jaw drops dramatically. “Yes! This calls for a stop in the swimsuit department.”
A second later my phone dings again. Dylan. Must be about the video. But it’s not. Two eggs, two sausages. That’s what’s on my screen. He’s texting me pictures of his breakfast?
Dylan: File our breakfast under Places Named for Things They Have Nothing to Do With. Orange Turtle. No such thing as an orange turtle. Not a single orange turtle in this joint.
“Helloooo,” Dace says sticking her hand between my face and my screen.
I show her the screen. “Is this weird he’s not mentioning the video?”
“Call him on it,” Dace says simply.
My fingers won’t type. But what do I say?
“No.” Dace shakes her head. “Actually call him.”
A second later, he answers.
“Ben asked Dace and me to be in your video.”
“Excellent. You’re cool with skipping school?”
Crap. School. “I was wondering why didn’t you ask me to be in your video?”
“He’s making all the calls. But I thought that makes it no pressure for you. So that if you said yes, then I could ask you what I was really hoping you’d do. Your part in the video.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s this scene, and in it, I need to kiss a girl.”
“You need to?”
“Well, I want to. For the video. It’s, like, the story of the song.”
“OK.”
“And I want . . . well, I was hoping, that girl could be you.”
My palms feel sweaty and I grip the phone tighter. “So we’re going to kiss.”
“If you say yes.”
I take a deep breath. Turning down the opportunity to kiss Dylan again, even if it’s just for a video? Not an option. “One condition. Being ‘the girl’ in a video? It’s not really my thing. I’m the girl behind the camera. You know? So I’ll do it, I’ll be in the scene, but I want to shoot the video. Stills. A behind the scenes look at the video, to document it all.”
“That’d be awesome. Of course. Whatever you want. Thank you.”
“OK. Um, OK. See you tomorrow.”
I hang up, shove my phone in my pocket and lean against the racks of clothes. What did I just agree to?
“Finally,” Dace says, her arms laden with Lycra suits. “Everything cool?”
I nod. “So we’re skipping school, huh?” I exhale. “This is a new one for me.”
“Now we just have to get you to wear a swimsuit that’s not black.”
FRIDAY, MAY 5
I groan dramatically (all part of the plan) as Mom and I are eating cereal at the kitchen table the next morning. “I forgot to tell you that the dentist booked me for a cleaning at 10 a.m. this morning,” I say between spoonfuls of Cheerios.
“Really? Shoot. I’m working at 9, so I can’t drive you.”
“They charge if you don’t give 24 hours’ notice to cancel,” I say, then add, “at least, that’s what the message said.”
“Anything important in class this morning?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head.
“You OK to take the bus there and back?”
“Sure. I can read. I don’t mind.”
“Well, all right. Remind them while you’re there to book your next appointment for when you’re home from college on Christmas break.”
My stomach clenches. “OK. Can you call the school to let them know?”
“Sure. I’ll call when I get in to work.”
Upstairs, I shove my new bathing suit in my bag, along with a small towel, then take a minute to apply my makeup. It’s been a while since I wore any. The waterproof mascara does give me longer, thicker lashes. With the new lipgloss Dace gave me I sort of look like a girl who belongs in a music video.
Now to get out of the house without Mom seeing—not because I’m not allowed to wear makeup, but because she’ll know something’s up if she notices. Mom’s in her room. “Bye!” I shout and dash through the front door. Ten minutes later, Dace pulls up beside me, as planned, while I’m walking along Elm. She grins as I climb in the car, then whistles.
“Mascara?” she says.
“It’s no big deal.”
“I hope it’s waterproof,” she says.
The water park isn’t technically in Spalding. It’s in this stretch of no-man’s land between Spalding and the next town over. Years and years ago, the water park used to be part of a hotel, but the owners let the hotel get so rundown that they had to shut it down, but no one ever demolished it, so it’s just this desolate, decrepit-looking building, with lots of dusty windows. Past the hotel are the gates to the water park, where a security guard stands with a clipboard.
“Closed for a private function,” he says.
Dace nods. “We’re here for the video.”
She points to our names on his list, he checks us off, then opens the gate. “Head to the wave pool,” he says.
The empty amusement park hardly looks like the setting for a music video. The concession stands are empty, the games boarded up. And without anyone around, the place looks desolate. There’s a five-minutes-after-the-apocalypse vibe to the place. Past the information booth we follow an arrow to the wave pool. And there’s Ben, with a megaphone, and a bunch of people milling about.
“OK, so all the extras are there, obviously,” Ben says, pointing to a group of girls and guys a little older than us, all wearing their bathing suits, some of them with hoodies, others wrapped in towels.
Dace moves toward the group and I follow her, but Ben grabs my arm. “Not you. I hear you’ve got a bigger role in this thing,” he teases.
I hold up my camera. “I’m shooting it.” But my face is hot.
“Uh huh. Just head over there, OK?” Ben points to the band, who are setting up their gear in front of the lifeguard station, at the head of the wave pool, under the sign that says DEEP END. I spot Dylan just as he looks up, meeting my eye. He raises an arm and smiles, then walks toward me.
“You ready?” He says. Am I ready? It’s not so much that people will see this video, even though I suppose it will live on YouTube forever, or as long as YouTube’s around, but it’s that I’ll know that I was in a video. It’s just not who I am. Am I making too big a deal about something that’s just supposed to be fun? I nod cautiously, and Dylan continues.
“So one thing I didn’t mention on the phone: you know the reason I want you to be in the video is because you’re the kind of girl who would never be in a video, right?”
“You know just what to say.”
Ben whistles way too loudly on the bullhorn and begins instructing us on what to do and where to go. He’s got a handheld camera in one hand, the bullhorn in the other. There’s another guy he points out named Jake, who’s got a waterproof camera and is going to shoot from underneath the water. Everyone’s moving into position and since I’m not in the video until the last 20 seconds of the song, I grab my camera and begin moving around the pool, snapping from various angles. The band goes through the first half of the song a few times, and as I’m shooting, the lyrics start to sink in. About a guy and a girl and the relationship they used to have. Then Ben calls to me. “Pippa, we need you now.”
I walk over to my stuff and tuck my camera under my towel, then take off my T-shirt and shorts, revealing my polka dot bathing suit. Dace catches my eye and gives me an encouraging nod. I know that maybe no one will ever really see this video, but I also know it’s important to Dylan and the band and Ben and even everyone else who’s here, in on this project.
I can do this. I climb into the water with everyone else, and Ben explains that he’ll give me the cue to go under. “Jake will be under the water, but just ignore him. You won’t have a lot of time, obviously, because you have to hold your breath.” Then he turns to Dylan. “Remember, we can only shoot you jumping into the pool once. Because once you’re wet, you’re wet and we don’t have time for you to dry off, dry your clothes and reshoot. So don’t mess up, all right?”
“Gotcha.” Dylan walks back over to the band. I slip into the pool, and go under the water, getting my hair wet. Then I swim into position.
A second later, everyone’s back in their places and the band is playing again, and then Dylan’s playing his guitar, and then he takes the guitar off, leaves it on the pool deck and then looks at me. Right at me. Then he’s jumping off the edge, into the pool. Ben points to me and I head underwater, thinking about how I’m going to hold my breath without looking like a blowfish. Why didn’t I practice this ahead of time?
At first I can’t see anything underwater but the bubbles from Dylan jumping in. But then the bubbles float to the surface and Dylan’s there, swimming toward me. He grabs me by the waist and pulls me close. The water is stinging my eyes but I don’t even blink because I don’t want to miss a second of this. Or kiss his nose by mistake. But before I can really overthink it, his lips are on mine. And then a second later, we’re swimming up, in synch, and breaking the surface. I sputter for breath, and so does he. The music is still playing and I look around and everyone is still splashing around like nothing’s happened. I look back at Dylan and he looks at me and grins as the music fades out.
“All right all right,” Ben yells. “We’ve got it. That’s a wrap.”
Dylan and I swim to the edge. He pulls himself out of the water first, then helps me out. “Thanks for that,” he says, his dimple showing, and I look into his eyes, wondering if he might kiss me again, for real. But someone’s grabbing my elbow.
“Hey, your phone is going crazy,” Dace whispers and hands me my phone to me.
I stare at my screen. Two missed calls—both from Mom. Plus a text: Call me.
She knows. I grab my towel and move to a quieter part of the pool deck, Dace by my side.
“I know you didn’t go to the dentist,” Mom says when she answers, without saying hi. “So before you make up another lie, come straight home.”
“OK,” I say quietly then hang up. “Did you hear that?”
“Eek. Yeah.”
“What am I going to tell her I was doing?”
Dace looks over at me. “The truth? What do you have to lose?”
*
Mom’s sitting at the kitchen table, sorting through papers when I come in. She looks up, unsmiling.
“Do you want to go first or do you want me to?” she says.
“I’m not sure it totally makes a difference?” I say, preparing for the worst. “But, um, sure, you?”
“OK. So here’s what my day was like. I was at work thinking about how soon you’ll be gone and on your own and how little time left we have together, where I can just be your mom and take you to the dentist, so I convinced Terry to cover my shift and I went to the dentist to meet you. But you weren’t there. And the receptionist was surprised to see me, because neither of us were scheduled for an appointment. So then I thought, you must have got the day wrong, but no, you weren’t scheduled for an appointment at all this week, or next week or even the week after. And then I still had this thought like maybe you had just heard the voicemail wrong. But she never left you a message. And I called you, and you didn’t answer. Do you know how worried I was? And I realized I was being duped by my own daughter. Do you know how stupid I felt? Why did you lie to me? Is that the kind of relationship we have?”
Golden Hour Page 8