by Dahlia Adler
“Your mom looks like she’s thirty.”
“No wonder she likes you.”
I continue snooping around, looking at pictures of Jasmine and her friends—Laila is easy to pick out—and family, brushing my fingers over her enormous collection of graphic novels, and riffling through her closet. “I cannot believe you have this much here given how much clothing you brought to the beach.”
“What can I say? Halabi women like to shop! But we also give a lot to charity,” she says, crossing her arms a little defensively.
“I don’t doubt it.” If there’s one thing both Sylvia and Jasmine radiate, it’s having a warm heart. “But wow, this is … impressive.”
“SYs don’t mess around. Wait until you see dinner.”
She is not kidding. Sylvia calls us in a few minutes later, and my eyes widen when I realize how much there is. “Did your mom think all of your friends were coming?” I whisper to Jasmine.
“Oh, no. She went light for just the three of us.”
Jasmine has got to be kidding. After we have wine and round, golden challah studded with seeds, enough food emerges from the kitchen to put the seafood boil to shame. As promised, there’s an incredible lentil soup, and by the time I finish, I’m already half full. But the hits keep coming, and I find I can’t say no—not to the football-shaped kibbeh stuffed with meat and pine nuts, nor to the mini pizza-looking things called lahmajun whose slightly sour taste Jasmine explains to me is the infamous tamarind, nor to the roast chicken spiced with cinnamon.
“I appreciate a girl with a healthy appetite,” Sylvia says with a smile, and I blush. I don’t usually eat that much, but the food is so good and Jasmine keeps encouraging me to “just taste” the stuffed onions and “have one bite” of the flaky bastel. I’d expected the food to be spicy, but it isn’t at all, not in the hot sense. It’s flavorful—more than anything else I’ve ever had in my life.
My mother would hate it.
“I told her you were a great cook,” Jasmine says with no small amount of pride.
“She did.” I take a gulp of water from my glass and notice Sylvia has barely eaten. Jasmine mentioned that too—her mother loves to cook far more than she loves to eat. I selfishly hope that means we’ll be going back with leftovers.
Sylvia pats Jasmine’s hand affectionately, and a wave of missing my mom comes over me. But it’s quickly replaced by the realization that this is Jasmine’s normal. I’m looking at the life she’s coming back to after the summer—the food, the Friday night dinners, the vanity covered in perfume bottles. She won’t be returning to New York with her dad, and none of us will be staying at the beach.
Suddenly, I’m not hungry anymore.
“So, you know I like to cook,” Sylvia says to me. “Tell me, Larissa. What do you do for fun?”
“She’s a writer,” Jasmine says before I can get a word out, definitely knowing I wouldn’t have said a word about it if she didn’t force it. “She’s been writing a book this summer.”
My blush before was nothing compared to the heat level in my cheeks now. “It’s nothing. It’s for fun.”
“Doesn’t everything always start for fun?” Sylvia says with a shrug. “You know, my sister Rachel is a writer. A journalist. But she’s been asked to consider turning her work into a book. If you ever want to talk to someone about publishing, I’m sure she’d be happy to speak with you.”
It’s the first time I’ve let “writer” be attached to my name, and it makes me itchy in a way that isn’t as bad as it sounds to have someone take it seriously. I can’t imagine talking to a professional about it, ever, but I say “maybe, thank you” through a mouthful of rice.
“Rachel’s really cool,” Jasmine tells me. “She does a ton of reporting on the Middle East and she’s been everywhere. She wins awards and stuff.”
“Where is she now?” I ask.
“Officially, she lives in DC, but barely. She’s probably traveling somewhere like Morocco or Jordan.” Jasmine says it a little dreamily, and it’s obvious Rachel is kind of her idol.
It must be obvious to Sylvia too, because she says, “It’s interesting how cool you find it when Rachel travels, considering you used to have a meltdown every time your father did when you were little. I used to beg him not to go because I couldn’t take another one, but of course, that never stopped him.”
Immediately, Jasmine stiffens. We’ve talked about how our moms do that thing where they find ways to mention our dads just to criticize them. But while I don’t care—I know my dad’s a dick and I have nothing to do with him—Declan is very much in Jasmine’s life.
I don’t know whether Sylvia realizes she’s pissed off her daughter or senses that might’ve been a little much in front of company, but she gives an embarrassed cough, takes a sip of water, and asks what my father does.
I feel bad for both of them—for all of us, really. “Pays child support on time,” I say, and there’s a stunned silence before Sylvia bursts out in laughter. That even makes Jasmine grin.
“What more can we expect from them, really?” Sylvia says dryly, and we all laugh again.
It’s a weird night.
In the best way.
We talk until the tall white candles Sylvia lit to bring in the Sabbath have melted to nothing and only traces of honey and pistachio crumbs remain on the dessert tray. Then we sip tea with real mint leaves in it while Sylvia shows me old photos of Jasmine, and I laugh at her extensive princess phase until there are actual tears in my eyes. By the time we go to bed, it’s nearly midnight, and I feel like I’m glowing from the inside out from the warmth of it all.
There’s a guest room, but there’s no discussion of me sleeping in it; Jasmine has as big a bed here as she does in the Outer Banks. We change into pajamas and brush our teeth and slide in together like I belong with her here as much as I do there.
I imagine these sheets still smelling like me when she comes back, even though they won’t.
“Hey, thank you,” I say softly, curling up in the mound of pillows on my side of the bed.
“For what?” Her voice is thick with sleep, her eyes already closed.
“For bringing me here to meet your mom. For Shabbat dinner.” I inhale her sweet shampoo, the light trace of perfume that’s been pressed into her skin from Sylvia’s throughout the night. “For not laughing at me about the whole writing thing?”
“Why would I laugh at you?” she murmurs, halfway to dreamland. I feel fingers brush mine, intertwining, holding tight. “You’re gonna do amazing things, Tinkerbell.”
A few moments later, her soft snoring fills the air, and I let it lull me to sleep, her hand warm in mine.
Chapter Nineteen
NOW
The dance isn’t much better than the limo ride, but it’s easier to blend in with the crowd and get some space from the other girls. Chase is having a great time—that much is clear—and it’s a little infectious. I do my best to let go of the digs and champagne headache and enjoy the night like I’m supposed to. When Chase kisses me, I kiss back. When he grinds against me on the dance floor, I press right back against him, feeling how badly he wants me. I smile for pictures, smile when people comment on how adorable his asking me to the dance was, smile when recent graduates come over to say hi and compliment him on his season, smile when Dee Harker, who was on the JV squad with me when I was a freshman and she was a sophomore, says, “I guess it’s true that patience is a virtue!” and nods in his direction.
Even people who’ve graduated can’t see me as anything more than The Girl Who’s Always Loved Chase Harding.
Onstage there’s a tap at the mic and a screech of feedback. My stomach sinks. The time has come to announce Homecoming King and Queen. Even through all my dreams of standing alongside Chase in our crowns, I’ve never really believed that Homecoming Queen is a title I could win—not as long as Shannon’s around. And that’s fine; it’s only a cheap plastic crown. But it was a fun dream … or it was until I realized it mi
ght be more than that. Judging by the amount of attention we’re getting tonight, I might actually have a shot.
I don’t think anyone has ever wanted a crown less.
They announce the court for the guys, and we cheer as Lucas, Chase, and a bunch of other guys jog to the stage. Immediately, the crowd starts chanting “Harding! Harding! Harding!” and Vice Principal Kanner smiles wryly and says, “Well, I guess your Homecoming King won’t come as any surprise—Chase Harding!”
I don’t know how to whistle, but I try, and I clap along with everyone as my boyfriend bends to accept his crown. It looks perfect on him, like it was always meant to sit on his head and bring out the sparkle in his eyes.
How would I look in the matching crown?
Would it look like it was made for me too?
I don’t have to wait long to find out whether I’ll be joining him. The more boring job of crowning one of the guys in near-identical tuxes is done, and it’s time for the queens. They announce Shantay Reynolds and Christina Morse and, bam, there it is—“Larissa Bogdan!”
And, quieter but still audible, Shannon and Jasmine’s whispered “Chase’s girlfriend!” and peals of laughter that follow me all the way to the stage.
I’m seething as the rest of the names are called, including Shannon’s, and I watch her sweetly preen like she didn’t just mock her best friend as a pretender ten seconds earlier. For the first time in our lives, I want to beat her, want to yank this dream of hers she’s acting like she never had all the way out from under her.
And then, I do.
“Your Homecoming Queen is … Larissa Bogdan!”
The room bursts into applause when my name is announced as the winner, and sure, maybe it’s because I’m Chase’s girlfriend, but I don’t give a damn. I smile so brightly at the sound that I’m sure Jasmine can see it from wherever she is, and Shannon can’t avoid it from her vantage point on the stage. I don’t want them to miss a single clap as the crown is placed on my head, and I certainly don’t want them to miss Chase sweeping me into a dramatic movie kiss as the entire room explodes.
“Congratulations, my queen,” he murmurs with a smile. “As if there was any doubt.”
“I believe it’s time for us to dance, my king.”
We head down to the dance floor and it feels like I should be wearing something dramatic and floor-sweeping rather than a sparkly full-skirted cocktail dress that barely clears my knees, but the way Chase looks at me when the spotlight finds us in the crowded gym makes it clear he thinks I look plenty regal. I try to focus all my attention on him, and while I succeed in ignoring the people snapping pics of us to post with crown emojis, I can’t help searching for Jasmine in the crowd.
I want her to see this, how real it is, how real we are.
But when I find her, she’s making vomiting motions at Kiki, who mercifully refuses to laugh.
Suddenly, I can’t see Chase or the spotlight or anything else other than red.
How fucking dare she? What is her absolute need to make sure I’m miserable at all times? She chose to drop out of touch with me and send me back to my life without so much as a note that whoops, by the way, she’d be moving here and I’d have to see her every fucking day. What am I supposed to do with that? What am I supposed to do with this?
The minute the dance ends, I tell Chase I’ll be right back. I have never appreciated more that he is not a follow-up–question kind of guy. He gives me a quick kiss and turns to his buddies, and I grab Jasmine by the wrist and yank her out into the hallway without giving a single damn who might be watching.
“What the hell, Lar—”
“No,” I cut her off. “That is not your question. That is my question. What the hell happened to you, and why do you hate me?”
“God, Larissa, could you be any more dramatic?”
“Cut the shit, Jasmine. You’ve spent the entire last month acting like I barely exist, like last summer never happened. It happened. We spent every damn day together. Every damn night together. Did it all really mean so little to you?”
I expect a smartass answer, but she draws herself up to her full height, towering over me in her glittering stilettos. She’s shaking, anger radiating off her skin. “You don’t get to ask me that.” Her voice drips with venom. “You don’t get to tell me I’m the one who doesn’t give a shit when you’re the one practically married to someone else.”
“God, I’m not—”
She throws up her arms, bangles jangling. “Yeah, you are, and that’s fine. You have a life and so do I and neither of us has to explain or apologize.”
“I’m not asking for an explanation or apology! I want you back! Where did you go?”
“I am right. Fucking. Here,” she spits. “How do you not get that? I am here. In my senior year. Away from my friends, my life, my mom. Why do you think that is, Larissa?”
“How am I supposed to know when you won’t tell me anything? When you didn’t even tell me about your parents changing up custody? You knew you were coming to my school and you didn’t even tell me!”
She looks like she wants to tear every meticulously styled strand of her thick black hair out of her head. “My parents didn’t change up custody; I did. And I told you why. I fucking sang in front of everyone. In front of Shannon. In front of your boyfriend. I made a complete ass of myself, like I’ve been doing every single minute just by being here, and I still have to watch you with him tonight, and then you have the nerve to ask me—”
“You sang?” None of the rest of her words are clicking, and I have to close my eyes to shut them out. To flash back to the night her cruelty almost broke me. “You came all the way here to remind me to keep our summer a secret? You really didn’t have to worry about that, Jasmine. Message received. I haven’t told a soul, and you’ve made it plenty clear that it didn’t mean a damn thing to you.”
She blinks slowly. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“None of this is a joke to me,” I snap. “Apparently you don’t feel the same way. Well, congratulations on making me feel like shit that night, same as you’ve been doing since you got here.”
She buries her face in her hands, and I hear a muffled “fuck” through her fingers.
For the first time since before we got in the limo, I feel my anger slip a little, my guard dropping. Gently, I pry her hands away. “What am I missing here, Jas?”
“Everything,” she says with a short laugh. “God, Larissa. Everything.”
“Well, can you please fill me in? Because you’re confusing me. As usual. Pardon me for not knowing how to interpret things.” I scratch at the top of my dress, which suddenly feels itchy and way too tight.
“Okay, well, apparently I’m about to clear shit right up.” She exhales sharply and folds her arms over her chest, which I think is a defensive move until I realize she’s hugging herself. “The lyrics, Tinkerbell. Or rather, the lyric. You didn’t hear it.”
The lyric.
I was so focused on the song choice, on blocking out what I thought she was trying to say, that I missed the lyrics entirely. In a flash I know exactly which one she means.
Because I’m the one who introduced her to the magic of Demi Lovato when she finally let me take over the music in the Jeep.
I’m the one who taught her that very lyric.
I can picture it like it was ten minutes ago, the wind whipping our salt-sticky hair through the open windows on our drive back from the ferry as “Cool for the Summer” wound down through the speakers.
THEN
“She changed the lyrics of the song for her 2018 tour during Pride month to ‘Go tell your mother.’” I drop a random fun fact I learned from Demi Lovato stans on Instagram.
“Huh,” says Jasmine, tapping a finger on the wheel. “That’s … definitely different.”
“It is,” I agree. “Just one word—‘go’ instead of ‘don’t’—and it made her fans so damn happy, I literally saw pictures of rainbow shrines.”
“Well, m
akes sense. I mean, it’s Pride month. ‘Tell your mom about it’ is certainly prouder than, like, ‘hide your secret shame girl.’”
I snort. “‘Secret shame girl’ sounds like the title of really terrible porn.”
“You sound like the title of really terrible porn,” Jasmine retorts.
Like that, the conversation is over.
And the next night, in front of a bonfire, everything changes.
NOW
One look at Jasmine’s face, wide open with heartbreak, and I know exactly which version she sang.
“I didn’t sing that to you because I wanted you to forget the summer,” she says softly, confirming. “I sang it to you because I wanted you to remember how good it was. And I know it was a stupid night to do it, but it felt like my last chance before I lost you for good. When I finally got the nerve to look at you, it was clear I’d already lost you before I even got here.” Her gaze meets mine, and it looks like it takes all the effort in the world on her part. The least I can do is hold it.
“I moved in with my dad because I could not get you out of my fucking head. I thought about going back to school and pretending our summer was just a summer, and I couldn’t do it. I thought that maybe if I came here, we’d have a chance to be something real, but I didn’t know how to tell you I was coming. And before I could even see you, you had a boyfriend, and I was stuck here. Watching you live this perfect life that was already full without me. I’ve been trying to carve something out and save what’s left of my dignity and my senior year, but I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you and I just need to go crawling back to my mom. My heart can’t take you breaking it anymore.”
Her gaze drops, but she doesn’t walk away. “I’m sorry I’ve been an asshole all night. For longer than tonight, I guess. I really didn’t handle it well that coming to Stratford wasn’t what I hoped it would be.”
“Because you hoped…” God, I feel slow. And yet my pulse is racing. “Jasmine. Why didn’t you say anything? You had a billion chances!”