Things were so much easier before middle school. Crushes were things whispered between friends, not lived out in real time. They were like happy little secrets that lived in our hearts and slipped away when we got bored with them.
“I need to get to class,” Renee says quietly. Only then she notices that her coat is still on the floor. Her shoulders slump forward, and I know that defeated pose. It’s what she used to look like at her skating competitions when she’d given it her all but she knew it wasn’t enough to win.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, and I take charge. I may be the worst with words, but I can make things better with my actions. “Just move over a bit and I’ll get everything put together.”
“You don’t have to,” she says, but her words are rough with the tears that are on their way.
“I do,” I say, not looking her in the eye. Instead, I reopen her locker and put away her jacket and then take the books she was trying to figure out how to carry along with her backpack while on crutches. “Come on, you’re going to be late for English and you know how Mr. Gerstein gets angry when he has to restart the attendance record.”
I start walking and hope she’s going to follow.
“Your class is in the opposite direction,” she says from behind me. “You’ll be late.”
“I know, but I deserve to be yelled at. And since you aren’t going to be the one to do it, I’ll just have to take it from Mrs. Shaw.”
Renee doesn’t respond, but I can hear her crutches behind me.
I have so many things to fix, but first on the list is Renee. Then I can deal with the question of Eric. And maybe even the question of Matthew.
Sometimes I feel like I’d do anything to be back in elementary school. Even if it meant missing out on the concert.
* * *
For the rest of the morning, I carry Renee’s books from class to class. I tell my teachers that I was assigned as her helper, which gets me out of my classes a few minutes earlier to get Renee to her classes. I didn’t tell them that it was self-assigned, but whatever. I have bigger problems.
Namely: Renee is still not talking to me. I respect it, and I won’t push her if she’s not ready, but it’s killing me. And there’s only so much small talk I can make without bringing up our fight, the concert, or Eric and Matthew. There just isn’t that much going on in my life beyond that.
Finally, at lunch, I take action. Instead of carrying Renee’s tray and bag to our usual table by the windows, I keep walking until we’re all the way in the far corner of the room. Most kids don’t like to sit here because it’s a little dark and gloomy, but I need dark and gloomy right now. Or rather, I need cover.
“Um …” Renee looks around nervously when she finally catches up to me. “This is ominous.”
I wish her words held humor but they don’t. They’re almost frustrated.
“I wanted to be able to talk.” I don’t make eye contact, but instead slide her food off the tray, setting it up the way she likes it, like it’s a real meal at a café instead of a fast-food joint. Those are her words, not mine. I’m perfectly fine with this being a fast-food joint.
“Given how long it takes me to walk anywhere,” Renee says, carefully easing herself down onto the chair, “it’s either eating or talking, and for once, I choose eating.”
“Then you eat and I’ll talk,” I say, plopping down beside her.
“But—”
“Eat,” I demand, and she does.
I grab a few fries and shove them into my mouth for inspiration. The truth is, I have no idea how to make this better.
“I wanted to say I’m sorry,” I start. “I was awful on Wednesday. I wish I could explain it, but I can’t. It’s like some crazy monster took over all my thoughts and feelings and kept winding them tighter and tighter inside me.”
She raises her eyebrows, and I shrug. “Yup, that sounds even crazier. I guess so much feels like it’s been building up to this concert, but now nothing is working out. My parents have to choose that one weekend to go away, and the concert almost gets canceled, and I thought that Eric would finally see me for once, and nothing …”
I lose steam, unable to meet Renee’s gaze. Because I still haven’t said what I need to say. “But none of that is really important,” I admit, finally lifting my head. “When you got hurt, I was terrified. And not for the concert, but because I was scared for you. It’s just that instead of saying that, all this other junk came streaming out. And I’m so, so sorry.”
Around us, people are packing up their lunches. Part of me wants to grab a few more fries, but another part of me is too nervous to eat.
What if Renee doesn’t forgive me? What if she forgives me but doesn’t want to be my best friend anymore?
What would I do without Renee?
“It’s okay,” she says quietly. “I was scared, too. Everything was happening at once, and I guess I just needed you to let me be the scared one while you were the brave one. And instead—”
“I was the crazy one and Eric was the brave one.”
She stares at me for a long moment before she nods. “I meant what I said before, though. I’m not trying to take Eric away from you. Or take his attention away. Or—”
“I know.” Suddenly famished, I stuff another handful of fries in my mouth. “I’m a total dolt.” Those words are muffled by all the fries in my mouth. We only have a few minutes left, and while eating is still really key, so is finishing what I have to say. “You’re my best friend. That’s the most important thing.”
She smiles, the first time it’s reached her eyes today.
“Well, that and getting the showcase,” she teases.
I stick my tongue out at her.
“Kidding. Kidding,” she laughs.
But I wonder: Is it bad that I really do still want to win the showcase?
* * *
After school, the four of us carolers meet in the library.
“So, bad news and good news,” Eric starts once I’ve put Renee’s stuff on the table and she’s hopped over on her crutches.
I don’t dare hope that the good news will cancel out the bad news.
“Now that we can’t carol on the street, we’re kind of stuck,” Matthew starts. “We thought about trying to convince our parents that we should rehearse at home, but that didn’t seem like a great idea. Plus, I think it’s been really working for us to have an audience.” Even though this is so far all bad news, Matthew is still smiling, which is … odd. Unless he doesn’t want to do the concert? I wonder what he thinks about last night. Whether it seemed dorky to him once he got home and talked with his real friends, or if he actually had as much fun as I did. “So I talked to my grandparents. They live in an assisted-living facility downtown called Auburn. I told them about how it’s going to be difficult for Renee to stand and sing for caroling, particularly in the cold, and they said they’re always looking for folks to come and sing there.”
He glances over at Eric, who nods.
“They also said …” He stumbles over his words, which is odd because Matthew never misspeaks. But suddenly it seems he doesn’t know where to look. “They said that they’d like us to stick to more of the old-fashioned songs. Like more of the Bing Crosby kind of hits rather than the modern stuff.”
I stare at the tabletop. Books and planners lie scattered in the middle, and I’m afraid to look up. Afraid to look at Eric (Is he mad?), afraid to look at Matthew (Does he think I’m weird?), and afraid to look at Renee (Is she going to go for this?). What if Renee doesn’t want to do any of this anymore? What if—
“It doesn’t really change our song list that much, but maybe we could shift our theme a bit. I don’t know what to really call it, but after talking with my grandparents, I started thinking about what our audience would want to hear, not just what we want to sing. And”—Matthew glances over at me, his rich brown eyes holding mine—“maybe our theme could be an old-fashioned holiday? Like more of the songs that used to be on the radio, the on
es that bring back memories.”
I shift my eyes to Renee, who seems just as surprised as I am. She opens and closes her mouth a few times before giving a nervous giggle. “I think it’s a great idea. I could talk to my grandparents about what songs they remember.”
“Does that mean you’re in?” Matthew smiles, and suddenly I feel ashamed of how I misjudged Matthew in the past.
Renee nods. “I have to ask my mom of course, since now it’ll be harder for me to take the bus places.”
“Charlie?” Everyone is staring at me and it feels a little awkward. Okay, it feels really awkward. On the one hand, I’m so relieved that we’re still a group. But on the other hand, is this going to be enough to win us the showcase?
“Sounds great,” I say, trying for excitement.
“Great!” Eric’s voice is just as fake chipper. “They said we could go tomorrow, and I know Matthew has a basketball game but that’s in the early afternoon. If everyone can do around 5 p.m., I think it could work.”
We all nod—awkward, awkward, awkward—and then stare at the middle of the table.
“So, should we try to make a new list?” I ask, and everyone groans, but I already have my phone out. “Here’s what I’m thinking …”
We spend an hour poring over a song list, trying to keep as many of the songs we’d practiced as possible, but throwing in some new ones, too. Now we’ll just have to wait until tomorrow to see how it all works out.
Saturday afternoon, my dad insists on driving me to Auburn Senior Living Estates to make sure the building’s management is really okay with us singing there. I’m not sure what kind of ruse Dad thought we were pulling: Were we trying to foist holiday songs on a bunch of unsuspecting seniors?
Except, as much as I should be thinking about our song list and whether we’re prepared for this concert, all I can think about is watching videos with Matthew and how much fun it was.
“We’re here,” Dad says, opening the door. I startle out of my reverie to notice that we’ve already parked and he’s turned the car off.
I need to get my head in the game.
The Auburn Senior Living Estates is an odd name, because there are no estates here. It’s a collection of low buildings. Any thoughts I had about an expansive property with trees covered with snow and Christmas lights come to a screeching halt as I see the parking lot. And the grocery store. Though there is a cute little stationery store that I’m going to need to check out one day.
“This is so interesting,” Dad says as we enter the building. “I’ve always wanted to come inside and I’ve never done it. But it makes so much sense.”
“It’s an apartment building,” I remind him. “I’m not sure what’s so shocking.”
“No.” Dad shakes his head, turning to glance around the building’s lobby. “A library, brilliant.”
The thing about Dad is that he’s obsessed with urban planning. Every time we drive to a new city, we get the rundown on how the city was built, what mistakes were made, what challenges they faced. When we took a trip to Boston last summer, Dad made us all go on an extensive city tour. Which, apart from a few cool facts, was epically boring.
In Dad’s dream, one of us studies urban planning in college, mostly so he can live vicariously through us. Because as much as he loves to learn about it, he isn’t changing careers from being an accountant. Mom has made that very clear: He can buy as many audio courses and books as he wants, but until it’s time to retire, he isn’t leaving his job. Just like Mom isn’t going to stop being an optometrist just because she’s obsessed with marine life.
So while I’m vaguely interested in what might be fascinating Dad, I’m a little worried it’ll just lead into some boring lecture about architecture.
“This building is what’s called a NORC. It’s a naturally occurring retirement community,” Dad explains excitedly. “The folks who’ve lived here have been here for decades, and as they got older, the city decided that it made much more sense to bring services into the building rather than have all these people needing to leave their homes. So there was the grocery store we saw. Inside here, there’s a small post office, a library, and a medical facility. And they plan social events, too, so that the adults here don’t wind up stuck inside their apartments. It’s really genius, but there aren’t many places where they’ve popped up. I should talk with Matthew’s grandparents about their experience here. I’m sure they were involved as the building changed over.”
I make a quick scan around the lobby. I shrug. “It looks like a regular old folks’ home.”
Dad turns to face me, his eyebrows pulling together. “This isn’t really an old folks’ home, Charlie. Many people raised their children in this building, and thanks to donors and the city, they’re able to stay in their homes instead of being moved to a new place, which might be nice, but has none of the familiarity of home.”
Thankfully, I spot Renee coming through the doors, so I’m able to escape my dad and his ode to all things city planning.
Things still feel spotty with her, so I don’t give her a hug but offer to take her bag instead.
“I’m fine,” she says.
“I’ve got it,” her mom says, coming up behind her.
“Mom, I’m fine.” Usually, Renee and her mom are so close, they’re almost like a mother-daughter pair on TV. But something is not right at the moment. And to add to it, I can tell that her mom is definitely not happy with me.
“I know you’re fine,” Mrs. Levine tells Renee in a fake whisper. “But the doctor said to be careful. And I don’t want you to injure something else.”
Renee’s jaw clenches. I get it; her mom didn’t want her coming to rehearse. Now I’m grateful that my dad is coming toward us.
“Hi, Elyse,” he says to Renee’s mom. “Renee, I heard about your fall. I’m so sorry.”
“I’m fine,” Renee says again, looking down. She’s shifting her head back and forth in tiny movements, which I recognize as the first sign that her hair is bothering her.
“I’m planning on staying here and speaking to some folks about this building,” Dad says, still caught in the glory of the NORC. “You’re welcome to hang out with me if you’ll be waiting, Elyse. There’s some fascinating things. Or I could just bring Renee home after the kids are done singing.”
Elyse blanches and her eyes dart to Renee’s head. “If you’re sure you’re okay here, hon,” she says, “it would probably be helpful if I went grocery shopping and picked up the dry cleaning. But that’s only if you’re okay getting a ride back with Charlie and her dad.”
“Perfect.” The sharpness in Renee’s one-word answer makes it clear that she’s moments away from losing it. So before she has a chance to say a word, I grab her bag from the floor and start walking along the foyer.
“Come on, this is a great spot to wait for Matthew and Eric,” I say. I dip into the front pocket of her bag and pull out an elastic.
“Thank you,” Renee mutters as she takes a seat beside me. She slouches off her coat and it’s only then I notice the faint sheen of perspiration on her face. “Do you think your dad did that on purpose because he knew I was moments from killing my mom?”
I glance up at my dad, who is coming toward us. He winks at me and gives me a quick half smile. He totally knew. Oh, Dad. When we get home, I’m definitely asking him more about NORCs and what he discovered.
* * *
It’s surprisingly easy to get set up once Matthew and Eric arrive. Mr. Carlson, a friend of Matthew’s grandparents, meets us in the atrium, and it’s funny to watch how serious we all get, shaking hands, thanking him for the opportunity. My dad and Eric’s dad both stay with us while Matthew’s mom visits her parents upstairs.
“So how should we do this?” I whisper to Matthew.
“Oh, we have it all arranged,” Mr. Carlson says as he points us to the other side of the atrium. There are at least two dozen people sitting in chairs arranged in a semicircle around an open space.
“Are they here for us?” I whisper, but no one answers. I think we’re all stunned into silence.
“We don’t really need a stage area,” Renee says. “It’s not really a performance. Before I hurt myself, we were just standing downtown and caroling and people could walk by and—” She takes a sharp breath in. “And, you know … leave.”
“It’s just that we don’t have that many songs,” Eric is quick to add. “We kind of depend on people only staying for a little bit and then moving on.”
I want to join in, but I’m entirely focused on how sweaty my palms have become.
“They’ll leave when they’re ready,” Mr. Carlson says, moving us along to our performance space. “They’re not expecting a show. But we don’t tend to create events where people have to stand. It’s just not fair to most of them.”
I immediately feel guilty that I’d wanted them moving and walking. Of course they don’t have the same mobility as the shoppers on Simpson.
Matthew and I hang back as the rest of the group moves forward. “What are we going to do?” I mutter, and he shakes his head slightly. “We only have six songs that we’ve practiced, and one of them is from Frozen.”
“Keep singing the same songs over and over again?”
We’re now steps away from the rest of the group, and my stomach is doing something that reminds me of those old movies with planes flying in circles. The atrium is big and filled with light, and I’m not entirely sure how our voices will sound in this cavernous room. But it’ll be good practice. That is, if they don’t get totally bored by us within a few minutes.
Mr. Carlson introduces us, and that only makes me more nervous. He makes us sound professional, like an actual group.
What if the audience feels like this is a waste of time?
I glance over at my dad and he gives me an encouraging smile.
For a long moment, us four carolers all kind of stand in the middle of the open space, unsure what to do.
“Do you guys sing? Because I can’t hear anything but I’m not sure if it’s just my hearing aid.” The woman who’s talking appears older than most in the room, though not because of the color of her hair. Which is blue. Not like a bluish tint. Like almost exactly the color that I’ve wanted to put in my hair since last year. My mom insists I have to wait until high school.
Carols and Crushes Page 8