by Erin Downing
“I’ve never done this before, but…” Ethan looked down and took a quick sip of his chai. Emily waited for him to continue. “Do you think you’d want to go out sometime?”
Emily grinned, trying to reign in her excitement. Better not to seem too desperate. “Definitely. I’d love that. Why don’t you give me your number?” Emily hadn’t ever asked a guy for his number before, but decided it was a cool way to play it. It made her seem much less eager, and put her in charge of how this would go down.
“Oh—okay.” Ethan seemed a little taken off guard. But he scribbled his number on a paper napkin and shoved it across the counter. “Promise you’ll call?”
“I promise.” Emily grinned and put on a flirty smile. “I guess if I don’t, you’ll get the hint.” She laughed. Visions of her and Ethan walking arm in arm into her prom danced wildly through her head. She knew she was getting ahead of herself, but just couldn’t help it.
Ethan smiled back. “I guess I will. Well, see you, Emily.” Then he turned and retreated into the fluorescent lights of the mall. Emily was staring off after him, transfixed, when Charlie emerged from the back room.
He let out a long, low whistle, squinting to see Emily’s Prince Charming as he pushed through the mall exit. “Nice one. Your team or mine?”
“Definitely mine.” Emily broke her stare. She turned toward Charlie just as he grabbed a napkin (the napkin) off the counter and hastily wiped up the melting pile of whipped cream that had toppled off Ethan’s chai latte a few minutes before. She grabbed his arm to stop him, but it was too late.
When Emily opened the napkin, searching desperately for ten clear digits, the phone number Ethan had just given her had melted into a big, creamy blue blob. Ethan would be getting the hint—just not the one Emily had intended.
Two
Like a good suburban teen, Emily spent Saturday mornings mowing the precisely rectangular lawn of her parents’ split-level house. She got paid five dollars, but she probably would have done it for free. She liked the alone time.
It was the first truly warm spring day, and Emily was enjoying herself. She loved to crank up her iPod and sing along to Jack Johnson or Mason Jennings (her favorite local Minnesota artist) as she marched back and forth across the patch of grass. She could shut out the sounds of her boring suburban neighborhood and pretend she was somewhere—anywhere—else.
She had never quite belonged in Minnesota. It’s not that there was anything wrong with her home state, exactly—she had just always known, deep down, that she would flee to a land far, far away as soon as she had the opportunity. She couldn’t wait to escape.
Emily had set her sights on NYU in middle school after getting hooked on reruns of Felicity, and had studied like crazy to get her SAT scores high enough to ensure that she would get in and get a scholarship. Sure enough, she had gotten a thick, manila package several months ago, welcoming her as a partially-subsidized member of NYU’s class of 2011. She had another three months of living in her parents’ suburban prison before she fled the confines of the Midwest for the fabulousness of New York.
She was counting the hours (2,168 when she last checked) until she and her dad would set off in their Grand Caravan down I-94 en route to New York. Until then, she was bored bored bored. She and every other senior she knew had a major case of senior slide, and Emily had spent the past two months trying desperately to entertain herself into survival.
“Gooood morning, mi amore!” Charlie sauntered up Emily’s driveway, sliding his aviator sunglasses into place over his eyes. Emily waved, flipping the switch on the mower to off and bluntly kicking the back to release the chunks of grass that were stuck behind the front left wheel.
“Can’t I get one morning away from you?” Emily and Charlie had finished their shift at the Leaf Lounge less than twelve hours before and were both scheduled to be back at work that afternoon.
“You know you missed me, love.” Charlie grinned and gave his cousin a squeeze. “What’d you make me for breakfast?”
“Make your own damn breakfast, you lazy piece of sh—shingle.” Sidney, Charlie’s best friend, jumped out the passenger side of Charlie’s blue 1986 Volvo. “Hey, Em. Hope you don’t mind me crashing here this afternoon.” Sid slammed the car door closed, cursing loudly when the window slid open. She glared at Charlie. “Your parents are loaded, you lazy moron. Get a new freakin’ car.”
Charlie’s car functioned, but just barely. When a door was closed on the Volvo, another one opened. And not in the metaphorical sense. Literally, closing one door on the car caused a chain reaction of another door popping open, or a window sliding down. The car was falling apart, but Charlie loved it, in part because it always got Sid so worked up. She had a raging temper and no patience, which kept Charlie amused.
“Rich parents do not a rich kid make.” Charlie winked over the top rim of his glasses. “She’s so crabby these days,” he stage-whispered to Emily. “I don’t even know why I bring her out in public. It’s embarrassing.”
Sid grimaced and pulled her guitar out of the Volvo’s trunk. “You know what’s embarrassing?” She settled in on Emily’s lawn to tune her guitar. Sid was an amazing songwriter and singer and brought her guitar everywhere. Charlie said it was like they had a live soundtrack to accompany them wherever they went—he liked to call it Charlie: The Musical. After a beat, Sid continued. “Those aviators are one hundred percent 2005. I don’t read Vogue, and even I know that,” she snapped. “Catch up on your fashion, Charlie. That’s embarrassing.”
Charlie and Sidney were an interesting pair, to say the least. They always came as a team, and they always bickered. They were like an old married couple: They clearly loved each other, but constantly teased each other.
Unlike Emily, who was a senior at Humphrey High School in the middle of a converted cow field, Sid and Charlie both went to South High. South was a public school that looked like an Ivy League college smushed together with Julliard. Thanks to favorable zoning laws, South drew all the rich, downtown kids with arty, liberal parents and four years of college tuition socked away in savings bonds.
Charlie was the perfect poster child for South. Always groomed, always the lead in the school plays (though never the musicals—Charlie’s singing would easily have made the telecast for the worst American Idol auditions), always quick with a witty one-liner and clever comment. And his parents—Emily’s aunt and uncle—were rich beyond belief. But they had worked for their money, and believed that Charlie needed to learn to manage money himself.
Thus, he was forced to take a job at the Leaf Lounge.
Charlie hated working. But he hated going without even more. Charlie spent every penny he had on clothes, dinners out, and iTunes downloads, knowing his parents would have his back when he got to college.
Emily’s parents had gone the opposite route. Her mom, Elizabeth—Charlie’s mom’s sister—became a high school English teacher after college and married the history teacher in the classroom next to hers.
And so it was that Emily was born into a modest life of literature and long walks rather than wine tastings (Charlie) or summers in Italian villas (also Charlie). Not to mention parents who thought it would be the epitome of cool to give their child a name one syllable away from the writer Emily Brontë.
Emily pulled the mower into the back corner of the garage and pushed her damp bangs off her forehead. Charlie and Sid were still bickering, but both had settled comfortably into plastic lounge chairs they positioned around Emily’s little sister’s Dora the Explorer plastic pool in the backyard.
“Lemonade would make my life perfect, Em.” Charlie touched his fingers to his lips and made a kissing motion. “Che delicioso! My spa away from home.”
“You know your way around—mi casa es su casa” Emily pulled her long black hair into a low knot at the nape of her neck and shoved a stick into the chunk of hair to keep it in place. “You’re the one who decided to come way out to no-man’s-land today. You know I hate hanging out at
my place. So if we add things up, you owe me for letting you come over in the first place. I’ll take my lemonade with ice, thanks.”
Most weekends, Emily got a lift into the city to chill at Charlie’s family’s loft downtown. Then in the evenings, they’d relax at Jitters, a cozy downtown coffee shop, to listen to live music, or go to the local bowling alley, Urban Bowl. Nights usually ended at Burrito Jack’s for chili con queso and chips.
But lately Charlie had decided that Emily’s family’s suburban life was quaint, and declared that it was a hoot to hang out at her house—even though his family—s loft had direct skywalk access to a bar with darts and foosball. Really, there was no comparison.
Emily could think of nothing more boring than spending one extra minute at her house, but Charlie was the one with his own car … so he usually decided where they would hang out. Charlie almost always got his way. It’s just the way their relationship worked. And he was currently on a “bland suburbs=rockin’ good time” kick.
“While you’re inside, grab me a Pop-Tart, will you?” Sid batted her long eyelashes at Charlie, who looked like he had no intention of going anywhere. She hummed and plucked a string on her guitar, singing, “Pop-Tarts, Pop-Tarts. Strawberry Pop-Tarts.”
“You’re already up, Em,” Charlie whined. “Why don’t you just run along and grab us some snacks and drinks?” Emily’s cousin was persistent, and equally lazy. Though Emily had no interest in waiting on him, she knew Charlie wouldn’t stop begging for the next hour.
Just as she was about to head inside to grab a pitcher of lemonade to shut him up, she spotted Max, her neighbor and best friend since forever, trekking across the cul-de-sac. She lifted her arm to wave.
“Perfect timing, my friend,” Charlie shouted in Max’s direction. “I was just about to run inside to get us some lemonade—could you be a love and detour past the kitchen to grab something tasty to drink? Since you’re already up, obviously. An object in motion likes to stay in motion, right?” He glanced around, seeking approval. “Inertia.”
Emily rolled her eyes in Max’s direction. He laughed, familiar with Charlie’s requests. The four of them had been hanging out a lot in the past few months. Charlie and Sid had always been friends, as had Max and Emily. But it was only after going out as a group the previous New Year’s Eve that they all started hanging out regularly as a foursome. They complemented one another well.
“You got it,” Max responded. “Can I bring you a cooling eye mask or a personal masseuse to go with that, King Charlie?”
“Strawberry Pop-Tart, please!” Sid called as Max pushed open Emily’s front door. “Thank you, Max. You’re a lurve.”
Max and Emily had been friends since the day a five-year-old Emily had run around the neighborhood wearing only Scooby Doo underwear and baby powder, shouting, “I’m Snow White! I“m Snow White!” Her family had just moved to the block, and Emily’s parents were less than impressed with her self-introduction to the neighborhood. People had learned a little more about Emily that day than anyone cared to remember.
After baby Emily’s afternoon adventure, her parents had felt it necessary to make a more modest introduction to each of their neighbors later that evening. So they had strolled around the hood, Emily dressed in a green gingham dress, and shaken hands with all the parents. Emily coyly stuck her tongue out at each kid who hid behind his or her parents’ knees.
Most of the neighborhood kids had been well trained and knew they ought not reciprocate the gesture. Only Max had been bold enough to stick his tongue out in return and blow a raspberry in her direction. It was this little joint rebellion that bonded them as instant friends.
“Voilà!” Max had returned from the kitchen with a Pop-Tart and a glass of lemonade on a plate that he had covered with an upside down mixing bowl. He presented the plate to Charlie, fancy restaurantstyle. “Bon appétit!”
“That’s what I call service,” Charlie remarked, pulling the bowl off his plate and nodding his approval. “I like.”
Max snorted. “And for the ladies—” He presented two plastic SpongeBob cups filled with lemonade that he held clumsily with two fingers of his other hand, and produced a second package of Pop-Tarts from his back pocket.
“What about you?” Emily asked as Max sat down on the ground with his feet resting in the inflatable pool. “You just schlepped all this stuff out here for my charming cousin and didn’t get yourself anything?”
“Not thirsty,” Max said simply, closing his eyes and tilting his face up toward the sun. “I’m trying the grapefruit diet for a day, so I’m already nice and hydrated.” Emily laughed and rolled her eyes. Max was always doing weird things like “trying the grapefruit diet for a day” or entering the John Beargrease Sled Dog Marathon.
On the outside, Max was a completely normal suburban guy—a cute, medium-tall teen with slightly too-long brown hair and Abercrombie style. But his friends knew he was an aspiring journalist, and that he always chased potential—and often bizarre—story ideas wholeheartedly. Emily could only imagine the grapefruit diet had something to do with a story pitch he was working on.
Charlie studied his Pop-Tart package and held it out at arm’s length toward Sidney. “Sid—trade?”
She studied him suspiciously. “Why?”
“Mine’s crushed.”
“Please tell me you’re kidding.” Sid stared at Charlie in disbelief. “Who the he—heck crowned you prom king?”
One could always count on Sid to say it like it is. Charlie liked to push people’s buttons, but Sid always let him know when he’d taken it one step too far.
“Speaking of prom,” Charlie said, artfully changing the subject, “Marisa Sanchez is freaking.”
“Who’s Marisa Sanchez?” Max asked, only half interested. “And we care about prom why?”
Charlie gasped dramatically. “Marisa Sanchez is only the most sure-to-win prom queen candidate in the history of South High. But I heard a rumor”—he paused for effect—“that she was busted with a bottle of Jack at Lainie Callen’s Roller Derby party last week and got kicked off the prom committee.”
Sid giggled. Sid never giggled. Though she was short and petite and perky-looking (you could almost go so far as to say she resembled a cheerleader—gasp), Sid was much more pit bull than poodle. Giggling just did not fit her image. “This is especially funny since Marisa Sanchez is the girl that busted me for smoking a Marlboro outside the gym doors instead of rah-rahing at last fall’s homecoming pep rally.” Sid sighed contentedly and strummed a melancholy chord on her guitar. “Karma, bi—bella, karma.”
“Sidney, Sidney …” Charlie jokingly tsk-tsked at Sid and took a long sip of lemonade. “Your vow to stop swearing is not going so well.” Sid was as skilled at swearing as she was at singing, but had decided two months earlier to abandon her potty mouth. Charlie thought it was hilarious, particularly when Sid started to swear, then switched her words at the last minute.
Sid rolled her eyes. “Did I swear?” She narrowed her eyes at Charlie. “No, I did not. In fact I called Marisa Sanchez, prom queen extraordinaire, bella … beautiful. I am a sweetheart.”
“Speaking of prom—again,” Emily said, attempting to head off another bickering session between Charlie and Sid, “I have a date.”
Her three friends turned. The looks on their faces suggested disbelief.
“What?” she said, smiling mischievously. “You don’t believe me?”
“We’re with you constantly,” Charlie said in response. “When would you have had time to get yourself a date that we wouldn’t know about?”
“Let me clarify. I have a date, if I can find him again.”
“You do or you don’t have a date?” Max looked confused and a little ill. The grapefruit seemed to be messing with him.
“I met the guy last night at the mall. His name is Ethan.”
“Cut!” Charlie yelled, clinking the ice cubes in his empty lemonade glass over his head like a maraca. “I was there, remember? You
don’t even have his number, if I’m not mistaken. My apologies for that.”
Charlie had already apologized a million times for his goof the night before. After Emily had run out the mall doors after Ethan and searched the parking lot until she was sure he was nowhere to be found, she and Charlie couldn’t help but laugh a little.
Emily lifted her hand. “Clarification. I had his number. But you’re correct—I no longer have his number. Which means we have some plotting to do.”
“Is this another Emily plan?” Max asked, leaning his head back into the grass. He waved his fingers in the air and chanted, “Go, Tigers! Yay!” He was referring to Emily’s sophomore-year plot to try out for the cheerleading squad, even though she hated cheerleading. She just thought it would be funny. “Because honestly, your plans sort of scare me.” Like he was one to talk.
“Ding, ding, ding!” Emily replied, clapping. “I have a plan.”
She continued, “Here’s what I know about this guy. One: He is going to prom because he was shopping for his tux. And PS, he’s going with his sister’s friend, not a girlfriend, and he was definitely flirting with me—so this isn’t some delusional one-way street. Two: His name is Ethan. Three: He doesn’t go to Humphrey.” She paused, flicking a leaf that had floated over her foot in the wading pool. “So … we go where we know he will be! Let’s find a way to get into all the other proms in the city and find this guy.”
“Oh my God. It reminds me of Wedding Crashers,” Charlie said, grinning. He had a major celebrity crush on Owen Wilson. Which wasn’t surprising, considering the fact that Charlie was completely narcissistic and actually looked a little bit like Owen Wilson. It was like he had a crush on himself. “We are going to be Prom Crashers!” He looked thrilled.
“So does this mean you’re in?” Emily asked hopefully.
Charlie nodded. “Absolutely.”
Emily looked at the other two expectantly.
“What?” Sid asked. “You have Charlie. Why do you need me?”