You and Me and Him

by Kris Dinnison

  Chapter 18

  Nash hasn’t contacted me, so when I get on the bus the next morning, I assume he’s still angry. My eyes dart to our usual spot. The fall sunlight is slanting in the dirty bus windows, bathing Nash in a diffused glow. He’s left room for me to sit next to him, but I stop in the aisle, not sure if I should take the empty seat.

  Nash smiles and pats it, inviting me back to my former status quo without a word.

  “Hi.” I slide into the familiar seat.

  “Miss me?” Nash says, squeezing my knee.

  “Yeah. Um, why the warm fuzzies after so much cold shoulder?”

  “I know. I went off the map. Sorry. It’s just—You know me. I get a little—”

  “Touchy? Insecure? Unstable?”

  Nash drops his head. “Again. I know. But enough about me.” He pats my knee again. “How was your dinner with Tom last night?”

  I’m not letting him off the hook that easily. It takes a while, but I wait him out.

  Nash only tolerates silence if he’s the one in control of it. After a minute he sighs. “So, here’s the thing: I was really . . . I like him so much, and you guys are getting along so well, and you and Kayla are acting like friends again. I think I could survive Kayla stealing Tom, but I don’t want her getting her hooks into you again. She almost destroyed you last time. I can’t lose you, Mags. I couldn’t bear that.” Nash puts his hands on his knees. His knuckles go white for a minute, then relax. He takes a deep breath. “Anyway, I’m sorry. I know you’re smarter than that now. I know we’re solid.” He doesn’t look at me, but I can see the last couple days have been as rough on him as on me. Maybe rougher. I’m really all Nash has.

  I grab his pinkie with mine, and we do this weird little pinkie handshake we’ve been doing since fourth grade. Our teacher had us pair up for math that year, and when we got it all sorted, she had us do the pinkie shake and tell our math buddy, “You are my pinkie partner for life!” It was dorky, but Nash and I like dorky, so we’re still doing it seven years later.

  “Don’t worry, Nash,” I say. “You are soooo not replaceable, my friend. I admit I’m curious about Kayla’s recent overtures, but I’m being cautious. I don’t intend to let her crush me this time.”

  “Good,” says Nash. “Because I don’t intend to pick up the little Maggie-shaped pieces again. And if Kayla knows what’s good for her, she’ll back off Tom too. She needs to go back to one of her usual Neanderthals.”

  I feel a tug to tell Nash what Tom told me last night, that Nash and Tom are not going to live happily ever after, but the bus doesn’t seem quite the right setting to share information that will break his heart. I dig into my bag and pull out a breakfast bar.

  “You have no idea how happy I am to see that.” He bites into it and chews slowly.

  “I have a couple more in my bag, but they’re probably a little squished.”

  “Yes, please!” Nash says. I hand them over. Nash looks at me. “Wait, why do you have more than one? Have you been handing these out like they’re normal cookies?”

  “Never!” I say with mock horror. “These are a Nash Taylor exclusive. Nobody gets these but you.” I lean in and whisper, “But I know you’ve been sharing them with Tom.”

  Nash covers his mouth and looks up at me through his long dark lashes. “Sorry. Are you mad?”

  “Don’t be an idiot. Of course not!”

  Nash nods, relaxing again. “So, what have you been doing?” You gotta love a guy who jumps from a multiday tiff back into normal peacetime relations with barely a breath in between.

  “Oh, the usual: school, work, missing you.”

  Nash sinks down in his seat and motions for me to do the same. “What are we going to do about Tom?” he whispers.

  “What do you see as the main challenge?” I ask, half hoping Nash’s crush will pass before I have to break the bad news.

  “Twofold,” he says. “First: If the usual pattern ensues and he doesn’t want to date me, can we bear to remain friends with him? And second: Either way, how do we keep him out of the clutches of Kayla and her minions?”

  “Hmmm.” I organize my thoughts. “So you really do think Kayla is a threat?”

  “Oh, Mags, please!” Nash says. “She’s been stalking the guy since noon on the first day of school. And if we leave him battered and bloody, there will be a feeding frenzy. Poor Tom won’t know what hit him.”

  “Well, we can’t have that,” I say. “He’s kind of the innocent bystander here. He comes to this school, the odd couple latches on before he even gets in the door—”

  “I prefer ‘unique.’”

  “Fine, the ‘unique’ couple become his constant companions, without, I might add, giving him any say in the matter.” Nash nods in agreement, his face thoughtful.

  “Anyway, the poor guy gets caught up in the very confusing politics of our particular brand of friendship through no fault of his own.”

  “Not entirely true,” Nash interrupts again. “If he weren’t so appealing in every single way, this never would have happened.”

  I roll my eyes, but the bus ride is getting short. “Yes, okay. We can blame him for his general hotness and likability. But Cedar Ridge’s overly enthusiastic reaction to that: not his fault.”

  “True. And I don’t think it’s right to befriend him and then abandon him the minute he doesn’t do our bidding. He’s still getting his Cedar Ridge bearings. He’s vulnerable. We can’t leave him to fend for himself. Not if there are unsavory elements that might lure him into social circles unworthy of his brilliance. I think we have to put our own feelings aside in this case.”

  “So?” I’m letting Nash take the lead on this one.

  “So, we continue to protect young Tom from the influences that might destroy him.”

  “Agreed,” I say.

  “And who knows? It might only take a few more days before he comes to his senses about our future together.” Nash is smiling now, but my gut clenches as I realize his hope is still alive. I can’t crush his dreams on the school bus. That wouldn’t be fair.

  Nash sees my face and holds up his hand. “Don’t burst my bubble, Mags. I need a little something to hang on to right now.”

  When we get off the bus, we flank Tom like we did the first day. Nash links elbows with him and laughs a little at his surprised look.

  “I thought you guys were . . .” Tom doesn’t finish the sentence, so Nash does it for him.

  “Arguing? Brawling? Cat-fighting?”

  “Well . . .” Tom says. “Yeah, kinda.”

  “We were,” Nash says. “But we’re over it now.” He smiles at me.

  “Oh, okay. Great,” Tom says, still a little confused by the sudden shift from hostile to happy. Then he frowns. “Wait, is this the part where you tell me you can’t hang out with me anymore because it almost ruined your friendship?”

  “No, no, no,” Nash reassures him. “Nothing like that.”

  “Oh. Good. ’Cause I hate that part.” Tom looks at me, back at Nash, then links his other elbow with mine. We walk up the steps like that but have to disband in order to get through the doors. “See you at lunch!” Tom calls as he walks to his locker.

  Nash sighs, watching him go. “Why does he have to be so . . . everything?”

  “Be brave, Petit Chou.” I put my hand on his shoulder.

  “Wait, what does that mean, again?”

  “Little cabbage,” I say.

  “Eww. I thought the French were poetic and romantic? What’s romantic about a cabbage?” He gives a little shudder. “Whatever. See you later.”

  “Gator,” I say. Nash gives me a backwards wave as he makes his way down the crowded hall. I let out the breath I’ve been holding for days.

  Chapter 19

  Kayla’s house is one of the sprawling hundred-year-old lakeside mansions built by the Cedar Ridge founding fathers. I’m sure she wouldn’t call it a mansion, but the shoe fits. Walking up the driveway on Saturday morning, I have flashback
s of the last time we worked on a project together, the science fair volcano. We used vinegar and baking soda and a little red food dye for the lava. A maid or nanny helped us put together the two-foot-tall mountain because her parents were out of town. I remember feeling kind of creeped out at the idea of being in that big house with no parents around.

  Kayla opens the door almost as soon as I knock, like she was waiting on the other side. She smiles and says hi, but keeps playing with the pearl ring she always wears, spinning it around on her finger. We walk through the echoing foyer, past several immaculate, tastefully decorated rooms and into the kitchen.

  “You want anything?” Kayla asks. The kitchen is different from how I remember it. It used to be kind of a country kitchen, with a big farm sink and hardwood counters. Now everything’s modern and clean. Stainless steel and white tile. I look at the double oven and the professional mixer and imagine getting to bake in this space. But the room has an unused look. I wonder for a minute if they still have a maid.

  “Maggie?” Kayla asks again. She turns around and sees me checking out the kitchen. “It’s all for show,” she says. “We never cook. I don’t really know how, and Mom and Dad stay at our condo in Seattle a lot. The microwave gets quite a bit of use.” She points at the small microwave in the corner of the kitchen. “Soda? Do you still like root beer?”

  “Wow, good memory. No, thanks. Maybe just some water?” I say. “And I brought caramel brownies. I thought I remembered you liked brownies?” I pull the Tupperware out of my bag and open it on the counter. The smell of chocolate and salted caramel wafts out of the container.

  “Yeah, when I was twelve.” Kayla leans over and smells the brownies. “Oh my god! Um, yeah, I still like them, but I can’t . . . I don’t eat them anymore. Thanks.”

  “Suit yourself.” I grab one and put the lid back on the Tupperware. It would be fun to whip up some new cookie recipes in a kitchen this nice. “So you don’t cook at all?”

  “Nope,” she says, handing me a glass of cold, filtered water. “I mostly eat take-out.” She opens a drawer, pulls out a three-ring binder, and starts flipping through it. It’s full of local restaurant menus slipped into clear plastic sleeves. “My favorite is Nacho Momma’s. Their fish tacos are amazing! But I order sushi a lot too. Rock’n’Roll has the best tuna rolls, I think.” I nod, as she keeps flipping through the menus. “Oh my gosh! I just remembered the first time we tried sushi! Remember? My mom took us?”

  “You ordered eel because it was one of the only things they cooked.” I laugh.

  “I was ten. I didn’t want to eat raw fish.”

  “The tiny fish eggs got stuck in my teeth and kept popping all night.”

  “The gift that keeps on giving!” We crack up for a minute, but when the laughter dies down, the silence is awkward.

  “Are your parents home now?” I ask.

  “Seattle for the weekend.” She slips the binder back in the drawer. “They have big cases going to trial on Monday. But they stay there even when there isn’t something going on at work. I can’t remember the last time they stayed here during the week.”

  “Wow. So no nanny anymore?”

  Kayla laughs. “Not since I was about thirteen.”

  “Don’t you get a little freaked out living in this big place all alone?”

  Kayla starts twisting her ring with renewed energy. “Not freaked out, really. Not about the house, anyway.” She rubs her fingernail across an invisible spot on the counter.

  “That’s cool,” I say. “It must be nice to be able to do your own thing. I could do with a little less parental scrutiny myself.”

  “Careful what you wish for.” Kayla’s voice takes on a hard edge. But then she shakes herself and the moment is past. “Okay, let’s get to work. We can go to my room. I have art supplies and stuff up there.”

  Kayla’s bedroom is huge and bright, with large windows overlooking the lake and the mountains beyond. I feel a pang of jealousy that she gets to see this view whenever she looks out her window. It’s perfect, like something out of a Martha Stewart magazine. I’m actually relieved to see a pile of shoes next to the doorway and discarded clothes making a path to the full-length mirror near the desk. The only thing that looks familiar is the huge mound of stuffed animals covering most of the bed. Some of them have seen better days. I recognize a plush dolphin Kayla got at the Seattle Aquarium on our fourth grade field trip. I also spot the stuffed orangutan I bought her for her birthday in fifth grade.

  Last time I was here, Kayla’s room was painted white and decorated with framed pictures of flowers picked out by her mother. Now three of the walls are painted this warm yellowish-orange that sort of glows in the midmorning light. But the fourth wall is wallpapered floor to ceiling with photos. Most of them are people I recognize from school, but I see a couple photos of her parents. It’s like a giant photo collage shrine to all the people in her life. Across the top in big loopy letters cut out of construction paper it says “Friends Forever.” This kind of thing typically rates high on my cheese-o-meter, but the wall is pretty impressive and unexpectedly sincere.

  “This is really cool,” I say, perusing the wall. “Did you do all this yourself?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It must have taken you a while.”

  “It did. But I like having people around me,” she says. “And this way I’m never really alone, you know?” With all these friends, I wonder again why Kayla is making such an effort with me.

  “Seems like you’re always surrounded by people.”

  “Yeah, well, lots of people doesn’t necessarily mean lots of friends,” she says.

  I notice some photos of a dog, a dachshund. Or at least I think they’re all the same dog—it’s hard to tell with wiener dogs. Kayla’s wanted one since grade school. “You finally got a dog?” I ask.

  “I wish.” Kayla clears a space on the bed. A waterfall of stuffed animals spills off the edge as she pushes them to one side. “I want one, but my parents don’t think I’m ready for the responsibility. Plus a dog, in particular a dachshund, ‘wouldn’t really go with the décor.’”

  “So, you’re here alone all the time, you want a dog, and your parents won’t let you get one because it won’t match the couch?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Bummer.” I’m still looking at the photos. I know most of these kids. A lot of the pictures were taken at parties. I don’t go to parties, or more accurately I don’t really get invited to parties. But there are telltale signs. Kayla and her friends with red plastic cups in someone’s basement. Kayla and her friends with red plastic cups at someone’s lake cabin, in someone’s kitchen, in someone’s hot tub. “So do you ever have parties here?” I ask.

  Kayla laughs. “No way! My parents are never here, but they’re pretty anal about the house. They would know if I had a party; they would not be pleased.” She laughs again. “Maybe I should, now that I think of it. That might get their attention.” She goes quiet, apparently pondering the possible fallout of surprising her parents with a raging party in their absence.

  The photos get older, and Kayla younger, as I scan down the wall. In the lower right-hand corner of the mural, I see a photo of Kayla and me standing next to our science fair volcano. I am covered with red splatters from a particularly enthusiastic eruption, and Kayla is holding the green ribbon we received for participating.

  Kayla sees me examining the photo. “We had fun, didn’t we?”

  “Yep.” I straighten up and turn my back on the picture. “That was a good project. I think we should have won.”

  Kayla’s eyes are on the photo, but they have an unfocused look, like she’s not really seeing it. “Not just the volcano. All of it.” She sighs. “You always made me laugh.”

  “Yeah, I make a lot of people laugh.”

  “No, not that way. I did stuff with you I never did with anyone else. That secret book club we had? And the time we dyed your hair with Kool-Aid? What color was that, anyway?”
>
  “Purplesaurus Rex. Not my best idea.”

  Kayla laughs. “No, probably not. But it was entertaining. Even the weird stuff was fun.”

  I don’t know what to say, so I take another look at the wall. “Yeah. Good times. And ancient history.” I glance at her clock. “Speaking of which, we have work to do.”

  Kayla shakes herself and claps her hands together. “Okay, the Lincoln assassination: a creative interpretation. What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking puppet show.”

  Chapter 20

  I check my phone as I leave Kayla’s. There’s a text from Tom.

  Hike? it says.

  It’s one of those spectacular, sunny fall days. A hike sounds perfect. A hike is what I need. He sent the text over an hour ago, but I text back anyway.

  Where?

  Lakeshore trail. I’m already there.

  I drive from Kayla’s house to the short, flat interpretive trail that follows along the shoreline. I set a good pace the first quarter mile or so, the part of the trail that runs between the lake and waterfront houses like Kayla’s. But it isn’t long before the houses stop, and the forest takes over.

  The sunlight filters through the branches. It’s chilly in the shade of the trees despite the clear blue of the sky outside. A flock of Canadian geese makes a noisy landing on the still runway of the water’s surface. I breathe in the pine and cedar. Then I round a corner and stop short.

  Tom is there, sitting on a bench looking out over the lake. Seeing him like this, in an unguarded moment, makes me want to leave him undisturbed. His arms are both thrown over the back of the bench, his legs extended and splayed. The slight breeze tosses his hair.

  I linger long enough to feel like a bit of a creepster and decide I should announce myself. I clear my throat, but he doesn’t hear over the lapping of the lake and the sounds of the geese, so I do it again, louder. Still no luck.

  “Hey,” I say. My voice carries enough to startle him.

  His face breaks into a smile. “Maggie! You made it!” He pats the bench next to him and slides over a bit to make room. “I was going to do the whole trail, but I sat down here and haven’t moved since.”