Analee, in Real Life

by Janelle Milanes

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  “WHAT DOES IT MEAN IF a guy is acting distant?” I ask Elliott during Seb’s soccer game on Monday.

  It’s been three days since Seb and I kissed in a movie theater. Two days since we sat next to each other on the couch and didn’t touch each other.

  I must be the worst kisser in the history of time. Seb lied to make me feel better about it. That’s the only explanation for why he has now seemingly rejected me.

  “Seb is acting distant?” Elliott asks.

  “Less affectionate,” I specify. I steal a glance around the bleachers. It seems like the entire student body is at the game today, including Chloe and Lily in the first row.

  “Has he been sick?” Elliott asks.

  “No.”

  “Tired? Stressed?”

  “Maybe? I don’t know.” It occurs to me that I could just ask Seb how he’s been feeling. In fact, I didn’t even ask him what was going on with his stepmom on Saturday. I was such a hornball that I lost all ability to act like a human being.

  “I’m sure it’s not you. There are dozens of reasons why Seb might be out of sorts. I would just talk to him about it.” Then he stands up and screams, “GET IT, TIGERS. GET IT!”

  We’re up by two so far, but the other team steals the ball. Elliott curses and sits back down.

  “Will you calm yourself?” I ask him. “There are three minutes left in the game.”

  Sometimes Elliott can be so rational and levelheaded, but then he’ll watch a soccer game and turn into this veiny red monster. I call it “the Elliott Effect.”

  “You know that soccer is very anxiety-inducing for me, Analee,” he replies.

  “Isn’t it supposed to be fun?”

  But then the other team scores a goal, and I rise to my feet along with Elliott to boo and shout. I become a mini-monster. If the Tigers win this game, our school makes it to state. If they lose, the entire season is over.

  I still can’t believe I care about this stuff.

  “We have this,” I tell Elliott with certainty. Out on the field Seb is nervous. If I didn’t know him the way I do now, I wouldn’t be able to tell. He’s shaking his arms out and pacing back and forth. It makes me jittery, watching him.

  Elliott grabs my hand, and a reverential silence falls over the bleachers. It reminds me of the few times I went to church when I was younger, and the priest would deliver his sermon. Only, here soccer is God and the boys on the field are doing his holy work. Elliott and I wait out the clock. The other team has possession of the ball. The striker kicks the ball and it goes flying across the field. . . . There is a collective gasp as everyone holds their breaths . . . and our goalie blocks the shot. The buzzer sounds, and we all jump up and cheer.

  “Yas, yas, yas!” Elliott repeats in my ear over and over. “Play-offs, bitches!”

  Moments later, as the stands begin emptying out, my phone buzzes with a text from Seb: Woohoo!

  Yay! I text back.

  We’re going to Bruno’s Pizza to celebrate. You’re coming.

  “Crap,” I say out loud.

  Elliott tries to peer at my phone. “What?”

  “Seb wants me to go with them to Bruno’s.”

  “With the soccer team?” He clutches his chest. “Oh my God.”

  “Oh my God” is right. I feel comfortable enough hanging out with Seb, alone, but we’ve never tried it in front of all his popular, athletic, ridiculously good-looking teammates. I already feel my tongue retreating into my throat.

  “Wait,” I say to Elliott as something occurs to me. “You should come.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Seriously. I don’t know the soccer guys very well, and—”

  “No, really, Analee. Stop talking. I’m there.”

  I still hate the thought of going, but having Elliott by my side feels like draping a security blanket over myself. A very loud, very excitable security blanket.

  By the time we get to Bruno’s, it’s packed full of people pressed against windows and spilling outside into the parking lot. Everyone is smiling and laughing and talking at screaming volume. I shrink against Elliott. My instinct is to turn around and go home. I can already see what’s to come: I’m going to have to squeeze against strangers, deal with stares and small talk, swallow down my self-hate all night. I’m mentally exhausted by the thought of all this.

  “Hey, there’s your boy!” Elliott points to the back, where Seb is seated at the head of a long table like he’s Henry VIII. Leaning next to the table, talking to him, is Chloe.

  Now I really have to go.

  I step backward, almost fall over Elliott.

  He catches me by the shoulders. “Whoa. You okay? I know. He makes my knees weak too.”

  “No. It’s just—”

  My heart won’t slow down; my palms won’t quit producing sweat.

  “Come on. Let’s go over to him,” Elliott says.

  Seb is still deeply engaged in conversation with Chloe, and their cozy interaction is driving me crazier than I’d like. If Seb and Chloe get back together at this very moment, how will I survive the embarrassment? Why did I even come here? My presence makes no difference to Seb now that he’s getting the attention he craves from Chloe. Did he forget that he invited me here?

  I’m frozen, stuck between my exit and Seb, when Elliott makes my mind up for me.

  He cups his hands over his mouth and hollers, “SEEEHB!” and his voice travels clear through the pizzeria and across the planet to Indonesia.

  Seb stops midsentence. He sees us and waves. Dumbly I wave back. I can’t bring myself to push through the crowd, so I’m relieved when he gets up from his chair and starts walking over. We’re still playing the game tonight. Maybe I won’t be humiliated.

  “He’s even more gorgeous up close,” Elliott whispers to me as Seb approaches. “I don’t know how you function.”

  Before I can open my mouth to say hi, Seb swoops me into his arms and shoves his tongue into my mouth. I’m not exaggerating. It slides right on in there. Elliott makes a whooping sound, and I try to reciprocate the kiss, but all of a sudden my mouth fails me. I know. This is what I claimed I wanted, isn’t it? Another make-out session with Seb?

  But not like this. This doesn’t feel like it did in the movie theater. It feels rushed, and forced, and . . . wrong. It feels the way it did with Colton.

  I pull away from Seb, frowning, but he doesn’t notice. His eyes are on Chloe, and Chloe’s eyes, along with everyone else’s, are fixed immovably on me.

  “Come on, guys. Sit down with us.” Seb pulls me by the hand, and Elliott follows. He doesn’t need to push through the crowd. The crowd parts for him, and he walks by in a parade of back slaps and congratulations. I keep my head bent, avoiding the inquisitive stares and focusing on matching Seb’s footsteps and slapping something I hope resembles a smile onto my face.

  “Here, Analee. Take my seat,” he says, pulling out his chair for me.

  “Oh, no. That’s okay.”

  “I insist.”

  I see what he’s doing. Seb wants to prove himself the ever-devoted boyfriend. I plop down in the seat, surrounded by fourteen soccer players whom I’ve never met. This is my nightmare. Around me everyone is already engaged in easy conversation. Lily and Chloe are talking, Elliott is interrogating Seb on his soccer training, and the rest of the team interacts like family members at the dinner table. I am most definitely the odd one out.

  Somewhere along the way I missed a lesson on how to strike up and maintain a conversation with another human being. My brain rattles through a variety of conversation starters. I could talk to one of Seb’s teammates. Congratulations, I could say. You played great. But then he would say, Thank you, and it would be up to me to say something next. Other people are able to spit out talking points without hesitation, but my mind empties out and I forget how to form words, let alone sentences.

  One of the players next to me, Bo, gets up to talk to a pretty girl who’s been eyeing him f
rom the other end of the pizzeria. I expect Seb to take the available seat, but I get a strong whiff of coconut shampoo and turn to find Chloe now sitting beside me, smiling. It’s a little bit like having Angelina Jolie suddenly join me for dinner. Chloe has that A-list appeal that mesmerizes you. Seb has it too, which is why they were such a breathtaking couple, and why I feel unworthy as her successor. I’ve never been this close to her before, close enough to see the light sprinkle of freckles on her nose and the long, dark lashes framing her honey-brown eyes.

  “Hey, Analee,” she says as if we’ve been friends for years.

  “Hey.” I try to smile, but it’s hard to smile when you feel miserably inadequate.

  “Seb’s told me a lot about you.”

  “Has he?” Oh my God, what the hell is Seb telling Chloe about me?

  She laughs, as if reading my thoughts. “Don’t worry. It’s nothing bad!”

  “Oh, okay.”

  “You looked so freaked out.”

  I give an awkward laugh that’s half a sigh of relief. “You never know.”

  “I think you’ve been really good for Seb, actually,” Chloe says. She presses her finger against Bo’s glass of soda and traces a smile into the condensation.

  “Really?” I ask. It feels strange to talk about Seb as if he had nothing to do with Chloe in the recent past.

  “Really,” she says. “He seems more . . . focused lately.”

  If she only knew that the one thing Seb is focused on is winning her back.

  “Well, he’s been . . . great,” I say. I decide to do Seb a favor and talk him up a bit. It’ll at least give me something to say. “He’s so thoughtful and, um . . . sweet.”

  Chloe wipes her fingers on her jeans and smiles at me again. “He can be.”

  “Chloe!” One of the soccer players, Jason, leans over the table and slaps her hand. “I miss you, boo!”

  “Aw, I miss you too, Jay!” Chloe grins. “How’s Tara?”

  “She’s good, she’s good.”

  “Tell her I said hi, okay?”

  She talks to a couple of other guys from the team the same way. Unintentionally flirtatious, oozing charm and sex appeal. I sit there like a lump. I can’t compete with her, and I honestly don’t want to. All I want to do is sit and watch the girl who can do everything I can’t.

  “Analee, don’t let these guys give you any trouble,” she says, giving the guys a wink. She’s the type of girl who can make a wink look sexy, not cheesy. I fall in the latter camp, which is why I would never even attempt one.

  While they go on talking, I excuse myself, pretending to go to the bathroom. Instead I get up and pull Seb away from Elliott and a few of the other soccer guys.

  “I think I’m going to take off,” I say.

  “What? Already?” Seb asks. “We didn’t even get to hang out.”

  “It’s just . . . it’s weird to sit there and talk to Chloe.”

  “Is she bothering you?”

  “No, she’s actually being really nice.” Annoyingly nice. It would be easier to deal with Chloe if she were a massive bitch. I think I’d prefer it.

  “Did she say anything about me?” Seb asks. Hope flickers across his features.

  “She said you seemed more focused.”

  “Focused,” he repeats. Ironically, he can barely focus on my words. His eyes constantly shift to Chloe.

  “Anyway,” I say. “I’m going to go.”

  “I can drive you home,” Seb offers, but he’s not even looking at me, and I can tell he’s boyfriending again, going through the motions of being a good boyfriend without any actual feeling behind them. Besides, I don’t want to pull him away from his teammates and fans. He should soak up the glory while I retreat into my cave. I can go home and quest with Harris or something.

  “It’s okay,” I tell him.

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  When I say good-bye to Elliott, he pouts. “Analee, no! You can’t leave yet!”

  “My dad’s expecting me,” I lie.

  “Boo. Well, text me that you got home okay.”

  I promise him I will, and then I creep along the wall, outside of the crowd, until I reach the exit doors. I step out, and even though the humid Florida air hits me like a brick wall, I finally feel like I can breathe again.

  Dad, Harlow, and Avery are sitting on the couch watching a movie when I get home. It’s rare that the three of them are doing the same thing at the same time in the same place. I pause in the doorway, watching them. They look like a family. Avery is sitting in between them, her head resting on Harlow’s shoulder. Dad has his arm stretched behind the couch. He pauses the movie when I walk in.

  “Hey, how was the game?” he asks. Harlow and Avery both lean over to look at me. I feel uncomfortable, like I’ve intruded on a private moment.

  “Good,” I reply. I glance up the stairs at my closed bedroom door. “We won.”

  “Congrats!” Harlow says.

  Avery leans her head over to look behind me. “Where’s Seb?”

  “Oh, he’s . . .” Making the moves on his ex-girlfriend. “Celebrating with the team.”

  “Do you want to come watch the movie with us?” Harlow asks. “We just started.”

  I start to say no—the word is my default—when Avery sits up and says, “Come on, Analee. Watch with us! And don’t even think about going on your computer.”

  “Aww, you hear that?” Dad asks. “Your little sister wants to watch a movie with you!”

  Usually his family-pushing makes me ill, but tonight it’s a nice change of pace to be wanted after sitting at a table where no one knew my name.

  “I’m changing into my pj’s first,” I concede, and Avery lets out a cheer.

  When I get to my room, I don’t touch my computer. If I open that laptop, I’ll be sucked inside all night. I throw on a T-shirt and my worn plaid shorts, then head downstairs to find that the movie’s been paused for me.

  “Come on, mija,” Dad says, patting the spot on the couch next to him.

  I sit on one side of him, with Avery on the other. He throws his remaining free arm around my shoulder and gives me a light squeeze. It’s one of the few times he’s touched me since Mom died. The only other time I can remember vividly is at Mom’s wake, while I stared down at a glossy wood casket and tried hard not to think about her body lying inside. Dad came up behind me and fixed his strong hands on my shoulders, like he could sense I was moments away from collapsing. That semi-hug, a rare moment of affection from him, meant everything to me. Mom was gone, but someone still had my back.

  And then Dad grew sadder and sadder, and we each cocooned ourselves in our separate sorrows. Dad, like me, pulls away when he’s hurt. It didn’t matter when Mom was alive, because she had more than enough affection for both of us.

  I let myself relax under the weight of Dad’s arm now. Things still aren’t the way they’re supposed to be—I will never view the four of us, disparate and thrown together in desperation—as family. I’ve come to terms with the fact that when Mom left us, so did any hope of having a true family. We were ropa vieja once, and now we’re mushroom stew. It’s a poor substitute for the real thing.

  Avery bursts out laughing at something in the movie. I realize I haven’t even been paying attention. She looks up at me and Dad, as if trying to verify that the movie is actually funny. It occurs to me that, maybe for Avery, she’s getting the family that she’s wanted. What feels forced and unnatural for me might be real for her.

  I smile back at her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  IN THE AFTERMATH OF LILY’S and my broken friendship, I spent days piecing together the series of events that led to the Incident. How I found myself at Gabrielle’s party that night, why I decided to get drunk in her kitchen, and what Colton told Lily after everything went down. Here are what I’ve determined are the factors that led to our permanent destruction:

  1. Pressure

  The week before Gabrielle’s party, Li
ly slept over my house. We were in that dreamy, half-awake state when you’ve decided to turn the lights off and there’s a movie playing softly in the background.

  Out of nowhere Lily said, “I think I want to go to the Sweetheart Dance.” Immediately I sat up in bed.

  “Ew, why?” is what popped out of my mouth.

  She paused, and when she spoke again, annoyance sharpened the edges of her voice. “Because I’ve never been to a dance before. It might be fun.”

  “Lily, it won’t be fun. I’ll tell you exactly what it’ll be. Someone’s iPhone will blast awful Top 40 music on Mr. Morrison’s speakers. It’ll be so loud that your eardrums will explode. Meanwhile, a bunch of idiots will be dry humping each other on the dance floor while guys smuggle beer bottles in their crotches.”

  “Or,” Lily says, “I might have a romantic slow dance with my boyfriend like a normal person.”

  It stung, hearing her say that. Mostly the term “normal person” did it. Up until that point, Lily and me bashing stupid crap like high school dances had been our normal.

  “Well, I’m not wasting my time,” I said.

  “I didn’t ask you to,” she replied.

  2. Mom

  October sixteenth is the most miserable day of the year. It’s the day Mom died, and it happened to be the day of Gabrielle’s party two years afterward. Lily convinced me to go with her and Colton. She said it would make me feel better, that it might get my mind off the anniversary of Mom’s death. As if anything could ever distract me from the fact that Mom’s gone. The closest I can get to forgetting is when I quest with Harris, because when I quest, I can make myself an entirely different person. Kiri’s mom didn’t die of ovarian cancer. Kiri doesn’t have to deal with awkward high school parties.

  If I had to be Analee on October sixteenth, I wanted to make myself as different as possible. I guess I wanted to prove to Lily that I could be just as normal as she was.

  3. Alcohol

  Right away I regretted going to the party. Lily wore this cute patterned minidress and lined her eyes with heavy kohl liner. I had opted for jeans, as usual. I didn’t know people got dressed up to go to a friend’s house. Lily insisted I looked fine, but “fine” sounded a lot like “shitty.”