Analee, in Real Life

by Janelle Milanes

  Ten minutes into the party, I was sitting on one end of Gabrielle’s couch, and Lily and Colton were making out on the other end. I remember seeing Chloe and Seb pressed up against the wall, his hands cupping her ass. Everyone was making out or talking or playing beer pong on Gabrielle’s table.

  So I wandered into the kitchen, where Gabrielle and a friend were tossing back shots of Jäger.

  “You want one, Annalise?” she asked. I realized she was talking to me, even though her eyes kept bouncing around the room.

  “Okay,” I said, because there was nothing else for me to do there. I didn’t bother to correct Gabrielle on my name. She was close enough.

  I downed the Jäger in one bitter gulp, and it threw me into a coughing fit. It tasted like black licorice and cough syrup.

  Gabrielle and her friend giggled.

  “Want another?” she asked, clicking her fingernails against the green bottle.

  I really didn’t. I also didn’t want to be there in the first place, but if I left, it would only prove Lily right.

  “Okay,” I said, sliding the shot glass over to her.

  4. Inexperience

  Once there was a young, foolish girl who had never tasted alcohol before and thought it would be wise to take four shots of Jäger in the span of five minutes. Even Gabrielle, who was struggling to stand, told me to slow down.

  “I don’t feel anything yet,” I said between the third and fourth shots. “When do I feel something?”

  I expected the booze to hit me all at once, but it snuck up on me. Walking into Gabrielle’s living room felt like balancing on a tightrope. I couldn’t find Lily. I bumped into a massive armchair on my way to the bathroom. When I sat on the toilet, I calmly observed the way the room tilted back and forth like in a fun house.

  The only good thing about getting drunk was that I didn’t think about Mom. I thought about how to walk in a straight line, how to find Gabrielle’s room, how good it would feel to close my eyes, just until everything stopped tilting.

  5. Colton

  I think I must have fallen asleep, but I’m not sure how long I was out. When I opened my eyes, I saw a figure sitting on the edge of the bed, facing me. It sounds terrifying, but I was too exhausted to feel scared.

  “Who is it?” I mumbled, my cheek still pressed against Gabrielle’s down pillow.

  “It’s me.” I recognized his voice. Husky, like he had a perpetually sore throat.

  “Where’s Lily?” I tried to sit up and couldn’t. Oh my God, my head. Had someone pounded on it with a mallet while I’d been sleeping? I felt like a human Whac-A-Mole.

  “Out there,” he said. My eyes adjusted a bit to the darkness, and I could make out Colton’s arm waving toward the door. He smelled like he had bathed in sour beer. It leached out of his pores, contaminated his breath.

  “Analee,” he said. I didn’t answer. I felt his hand massaging the top of my head, and all I remember was thinking, Is this normal? And then thinking, I don’t even know what normal is. That’s why I’m here.

  He crouched down in front of my face, wobbling unsteadily and gripping my shoulder for balance. That’s when it all went down.

  Soon after the Incident at Gabrielle’s party, Lily stopped speaking to me. She didn’t ask me what happened; she didn’t yell at me; she didn’t do a thing except forget our entire friendship. I’m not sure what Colton told her. Sometimes I’m not even sure it really happened. Maybe alcohol gives me a unique hallucinatory side effect. Or maybe I’m remembering things wrong, and I’m the one who kissed Colton first.

  But that doesn’t seem likely. I’ve never felt the slightest attraction to Colton. His moody, tortured artist shtick, while attractive to most hot-blooded teenage girls, leaves me cold. It’s so manufactured. Colton can listen to the Cure as much as he wants, but he’s still a rich, white trust fund kid. From what I remember of our kiss, it wasn’t exactly something I’d been yearning for. It was like Seb’s kiss at the pizzeria—one-sided, aggressive, violating.

  When I see Seb at my locker the next morning, holding out my latte, I’m reminded of our kiss, and I suddenly want to throw the latte in his face.

  “No, thank you,” I say coldly.

  He crooks an eyebrow at me. “Why not?”

  “Because I’m not in the mood for a latte. You didn’t even ask me if I wanted one.”

  “You always want one.”

  “Maybe I want a different flavor,” I say. “You could ask me sometime. Maybe I want to try caramel or hazelnut or lemon or something.”

  “I don’t think they serve lemon lattes,” he says, barely trying to hide a smile.

  “That was just an example.”

  “Okay,” he says. He yanks his arm back. “I apologize. Next time I’ll ask you what flavor you want.”

  I don’t know why I’m mad at him, but I am. And when he looks at me like that, like I’m trying to be funny, it makes it worse.

  “I’ll drink it today since you bought it already,” I mumble, taking it from his hand.

  “How generous of you.”

  I take a long, slow sip, then say, “I’m not Chloe, you know.”

  “I’m aware.”

  “Just because she loved vanilla lattes doesn’t mean I have to.”

  “So this is about Chloe?” he asks, sipping his own coffee.

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Well, I obviously did something to piss you off. Or Chloe did. I’m still not sure how to translate your answer.”

  I open my locker, let my gaze rest on the stack of books inside. I don’t want to look at Seb when I say this.

  “Last night,” I say. “At Bruno’s. I didn’t like the way you kissed me.”

  He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds. Then, “What do you mean?”

  “I can’t explain it,” I reply. “I just felt . . . used.”

  My eyes blur with tears. I close them, will them to dry up. I know Seb will make fun of me for being weird and prudish about a stupid kiss.

  “Hey.” He rests his hand between my shoulder blades. “I’m sorry, Analee. I thought you’d be okay with the kiss, but that’s my bad. I should have asked you first.”

  “It’s stupid.” Once I’m sure my eyes are dry, I turn back to him.

  “No, it’s not.”

  “We made an agreement to use each other. I can’t feel mad when you actually go through with it.”

  “You’re allowed to feel however you want,” Seb says. He takes my books under his arm and shuts my locker. “Look, next time I’ll ask you. Or, if you want, we don’t have to kiss at all.”

  “I’m not saying that,” I reply hurriedly.

  He stops and looks at me. “So, what are you saying?”

  “Look, I know this is a business transaction of sorts, but I don’t want it to feel like one when I’m being kissed. I know it’s torture for you—”

  “Torture?” Seb says. “Why do you think that?”

  “Because it’s obvious!” I throw my hand up, forgetting I’m holding the latte, and a few drops splash out of the cup.

  “Analee,” he says. “Get your head out of your ass.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I happen to like kissing you.”

  “Liar.”

  “There you go again.” He shakes his head. “If I didn’t mean it, I wouldn’t say it. Besides, I figured you didn’t want to kiss me.”

  The idea of any girl not wanting to kiss Seb Matias is so absurd that I burst out laughing. “Why?”

  “Maybe because you acted like I had the plague when I was over at your house?”

  I stand there, openmouthed. “You didn’t touch me after yoga!”

  “Neither did you!”

  We stare at each other, and this time I don’t look away. The student body continues to move around us. Someone nudges my shoulder as they walk past, but I barely register the movement. I’m breathing far too heavily for someone who’s standing still, but Seb’s chest rises and falls in sync wi
th mine. It’s like partner yoga all over again. All I can think about is what Seb said. Is it possible he was telling the truth? Did he want me to kiss him like I wanted him to kiss me? Above us the bell rings, and I’m snapped out of whatever it was that just happened. We have one minute to get to class.

  “Come on.” Seb manages to grab my hand despite balancing my books and his coffee in the other.

  He hands me my books when we’re outside the classroom, then hesitates. “See you at lunch?”

  I nod. Then, before I can overthink it, I rise onto my tiptoes and kiss him, quickly, on the lips.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  HARLOW’S LATEST DIY WEDDING PROJECT is a trial run of table centerpieces. Roses, hydrangeas, orchids, wildflowers, and baby’s breath are all stuffed into reusable glass containers. Harlow will diligently paint over mason jars and wine bottles, but God forbid she put flowers in a vase, or use any item the way it was originally intended.

  “Don’t you think you’re getting a little carried away?” Dad asks when Harlow starts arranging flowers at the kitchen table. Discarded stems and leaves litter its surface.

  “Not at all,” she replies smoothly. Her hair is knotted into a crooked, messy bun. She looks more than a little demented with a pair of scissors in her hand. “Do you prefer the mason jars or the wine bottles?”

  Dad steps back, tilting his head and twisting his lips. “I’m not sure.”

  “What about you, Analee?” Harlow asks.

  The truth is, I really don’t care. I actively hate anything having to do with this wedding, including every reminder that I will have to speak in front of fifty people.

  “The wine bottles?” I throw out. This seems to please her.

  “You’re working yourself too hard, querida,” Dad says, massaging the back of Harlow’s neck.

  “This wedding is right around the corner, Raf,” Harlow says. “Did you talk to your parents yet?”

  “About what?”

  “About the venue?”

  Dad pauses to play with a rose petal, which means no.

  Harlow groans. “Raf, the longer you wait, the worse it’ll be.”

  “It’s a difficult conversation.”

  “And a necessary one, don’t you think?”

  “You don’t know my parents,” Dad says. “They have to be eased into these things.”

  Harlow continues to snip away at her flowers. “Your parents escaped a Communist regime when they were teenagers. I think they can handle a beach wedding.”

  Dad widens his eyes at me in a silent plea for help. I shrug. He can dig himself out of this one. My grandparents will never consider a marriage valid unless it takes place within the stained glass windows of a church.

  “Do you want me there?” Harlow asks. The scissors dangle from her fingertips as she eyes my dad. “When you talk to them? Maybe we should do it together.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Dad says. He takes a step backward.

  “Oh,” Harlow replies. She resumes working on the centerpieces with renewed intensity. Snip-snip, snip-snip.

  “They might take the news better if it comes from me,” Dad says. “That way they can’t blame you.”

  “I’m sure they’ll find a way,” Harlow mutters.

  Snip. Snip. Snip.

  Whoa. This might be the first time in history that Harlow has ever muttered a passive-aggressive comment under her breath. Usually she’s all about releasing emotions in a gentle, constructive way. Even Dad looks taken aback.

  They both go silent, and I feel obligated to say something, even though I have nothing to contribute to this particular conversation.

  “Do you need help with that?” I ask Harlow, pointing to the quickly dwindling centerpiece.

  She stops snipping and puts the scissors down. “No, thank you, Analee. I think I’m finished for the night.”

  Then she goes upstairs and leaves me and Dad alone in the kitchen. Dad sticks his hands into his pockets, surveying the discarded plant remains, before heaving a long sigh and grabbing a trash bag from under the sink.

  “I don’t know why we can’t stick some flowers into a vase and be done with it,” he says as he swipes the plant bits into the bag.

  Those were my thoughts exactly, but I’m surprised to hear them come out of his mouth. He never criticizes Harlow’s choices in front of me.

  “I guess she wants it to be unique,” I reply, though why I’m coming to Harlow’s defense, I have no idea.

  He doesn’t say anything in response. I listen to the rustle of the bag and the slap of his shoes against the kitchen tiles.

  Then he says quietly, “It was a lot simpler when your mom and I got married.”

  I almost stop breathing. Dad hasn’t brought Mom up so casually since Harlow entered our lives. I’m not sure whether I should ask questions or if my interruption will scare him away from the topic.

  “You got married in a church, had the reception at your parents’ house, y ya,” Dad says. “That was it.”

  I don’t speak. I grab a few leaves Dad missed and toss them into the trash.

  “Do you know what your grandparents are going to say when I tell them we’re getting married on the beach?” Dad asks me.

  I can predict that it will involve a lot of Spanish curse words. Abuela will clutch her rosary, and Abuelo will rant about how everyone’s going to hell.

  “Padre perdónalos, no saben lo hacen!” I cry in Abuela’s raspy, high-pitched timbre.

  Dad laughs. It’s nice to make him laugh like that, in a way that Harlow and Avery wouldn’t exactly understand. It’s like he and I still share something that’s only ours.

  “That’s good,” he says. “Can you do Abuelo?”

  Abuelo speaks in a kind of singsong bark. I mimic him in a flurry of curse words, shaking my fist toward the sky. I feel like a desperate clown, but it works. Dad is cracking up, almost wheezing with laughter. I try to keep up my Abuelo impression but end up losing momentum.

  Dad sits down next to me at the table while he collects himself. I forgot that hanging out with my dad could actually be nice, when he’s not worshipping at Harlow’s altar or being a fascist about my dating life.

  He takes a deep breath, chuckling periodically. “Thank you. I needed that.”

  “Glad to be of service.”

  “You’re funny, you know that?”

  “I’m not funny.”

  “You are. You were a clown when you were younger. You had this comedy routine where you pretended to juggle tangerines and then hit yourself in the face.”

  “Sounds very sophisticated,” I remark as Dad studies me. It makes me self-conscious. “What?” I ask.

  “Nothing. You just . . . you seem happier lately.”

  I give a halfhearted shrug. Since Mom died, I’ve accepted the fact that happiness is futile. Maybe I’m happier, but I’m not sure I can ever be happy.

  “Is it because of Seb?” Dad asks.

  “Daaaad,” I say. “No.”

  “That’s such a crazy assumption to make about your boyfriend?” he asks.

  I can’t help but smile slightly at the word. Sometimes sixth-grade Analee takes over, and the thought of Seb as my boyfriend—even when it’s a complete lie—gives me tweeny feelings.

  “You’re still following the rules, right?” Dad asks. His face grows serious. It’s like he momentarily forgot that he is supposed to be wearing the Dad mask.

  “Yup.”

  He nods. “I like Seb. He’s a good kid.”

  “He is.”

  “But he’s still a teenage boy. And teenage boys will always make stupid decisions.”

  “Most of them,” I say. “But that doesn’t mean I will.”

  Just as Seb hands me my latte the next day, there’s an announcement over the intercom for all students to report to the gym.

  The two of us head over together as I quickly try to down my latte. It’s salted caramel today and it’s tasty, but sickeningly sweet if I drink it
too fast.

  “What do you think this is about?” I ask Seb. We follow the mass of students cramming through the gym’s double doors.

  He squeezes past a small redheaded freshman girl, who practically swoons at his touch. “Maybe a surprise assembly to congratulate the soccer team?”

  “Oh my God.”

  “What?”

  “You’re so full of yourself.”

  He pinches my waist, and I hate the sound that unwillingly comes out of my mouth. This vapid squeal.

  “They’ve done it before,” he says. “The cheerleaders hand out flowers, and the band plays ‘Eye of the Tiger.’ ”

  “Of course they do.”

  But when the gym floor clears up and everyone takes a seat on the bleachers, there are no band members, no cheerleaders. Only our principal, Mr. Ortiz, standing somberly in the middle of the floor, spinning the microphone around in his fingers.

  “Analee! Seb!” Elliott calls out from the bleachers on the left. “There’s room here!”

  It’s a free-for-all in here, but most people sit where you would expect. Chloe, Matt, Lily, and Colton are sitting on the opposite side of the bleachers. Seb and I awkwardly climb over the people in the first few rows to reach Elliott.

  “So, what do you think is going on?” Elliott asks after we plop down beside him.

  “I think we’re obviously all here to worship at the altar of Seb,” I say, which elicits another pinch from Seb. I slap his hand away.

  When I look more closely at Mr. Ortiz, though, I can tell there’s something wrong. Mr. Ortiz is one of those rare principals who’s beloved by the student body. He’s always smiling, and he knows every single person’s name in this school. Even mine. I heard that he studies our school’s yearbook once a week so that he can say a personalized hello to anyone he passes in the hallway.

  But today Mr. Ortiz is not smiling. He stands there, waiting for the noise to die down, and after a trickle of seniors walk into the gym and sit down, it finally does. He clears his throat, and the microphone shrieks with feedback.

  “I’m afraid I have some sad news today,” he says. There’s no faster way to get students’ attention. A hush falls over the gym. Some people lean forward eagerly, as if they’re watching a movie.