by G. F. Miller
“Okay. Good catch-up.”
She pulls her purse strap over her shoulder and waves once. “See ya.”
She climbs down the bleachers, each step reverberating through the aluminum seats. I feel her descent rumbling through my body.
I hate that I granted her wish.
* * *
I spend the rest of the day in a constant state of jittery anxiety. The double failure of Vindhya’s and Holly’s wishes drags on me like trying to drive with the parking brake on. I dread running into any other Cindies who might be less than perfectly happy. At one point I straight-up duck into the bathroom to avoid Carmen. Besides that, the inevitable next glimpse looms over me like the blade of a guillotine. Every friendly wave and innocent shoulder bump during passing periods could trigger it. Every tick of the clock over the classroom door brings it closer.
You’ll just ignore it, I remind myself. It’ll be fine.
Through it all, I wear a flawless mask of confident poise. Because that’s what the fairy godmother does.
I don’t see Noah at lunch. Which is good, actually. It’s important for me to mingle, to keep up appearances, even though socializing is a special kind of torture today. Scarlett must, of course, give me the news roundup from the weekend, including a recap of Vindhya’s tumble from grace, the fact that she was a no-show at the dance, and the subsequent social media fallout.
Gwen shows me Surya’s latest social media post—it’s the two of them decked out as Wolverine and Storm for the homecoming dance, and the caption says That was fun, and now we’re done. She assures me it was mutual. I leave her to spend quality time with her phone, relieved that she isn’t in a relationship crisis that might bring on a glimpse.
Carmen waves me toward her table. It’ll be fine, I tell myself. She’s living the dream. But a sophomore with crispy, toxic-waste-yellow hair approaches with a tearful plea for advice. I dismiss Carmen with a sorry look and a tiny sigh of relief before giving the sophomore a gentle lecture on overprocessing along with Tuan’s business card.
I look up to see Sean incoming, pausing every few seconds to acknowledge a wave or a shout-out but moving inexorably toward me. I have a moment of preschool-level indecision—should I run away, hide, or get a hug? A small part of me wants to ask him if he’s truly happy, but I can’t handle even the possibility of another truth bomb today.
And then he’s right in front of me, and it’s too late to make a run for it. He leads with “Charity, I’m freaking out about your hair right now. Thank God you got rid of the school-spirit purple. You looked like you were possessed by the minions of JLHS hell.”
I snort. “But how do you really feel?”
He gestures broadly, and my eyes follow the sweep of his arm. Six different girls have White Wolves Purple hair today. Sean slips into his priestly advice tone. “Your sins affect the masses. With great power comes great responsibility.”
“Thank you for that ancient wisdom from the Marvel vaults, Father Sean.”
He threads his arm through mine. “Don’t be petty. Especially when I’m right. It is gorgeous today, though. Viridian.”
When I chose this color from my collection at eleven last night (because Sean’s not wrong about White Wolves Purple), I was too tired to analyze why I was drawn to it. Turns out I accidentally dyed my hair to match a certain Trekkie’s eyes. I add self-disgust to the emotional baggage of the day, laugh a “thanks,” and move on to the JV athletes’ table.
By the time I shut myself into the blessed solitude of my car after Poms practice, I feel like one of those Easter eggs with the insides blown out—completely hollow and like the slightest tap could shatter me. And now I have to go home to an empty house, which at least means a respite from worrying about glimpsing something but, on the other hand, really sucks. I miss having a Cindy. Nothing takes my mind off my own problems like working on someone else’s.
So this is what withdrawal feels like. I pull out of the parking lot feeling directionless.
There’s no one for me to take care of. And no one to take care of me. No one to help unwind the tangle of regrets and anxieties I’ve gotten myself into. No one to distract me or make me laugh or feed me comfort food. I miss my mom. I miss my sister. Or, rather, I miss the idea of them.
My phone buzzes an incoming text. I check it at the next red light. It’s Noah: SOS. The Brat is on a hormonal rampage. I’m barricaded in the closet. Shields at 40%. Warp core breach imminent.
I breathe a silent chuckle and text back: What is this warp core you speak of?
Noah: REQUIRE IMMEDIATE EXTRACTION. Condition Green.
Me: Hold tight. I’m coming.
16 I Win. But Not Really.
I can hear Nat screaming through the door. How awkward is it to ring the bell mid–domestic altercation? I hesitate on the front step, not sure of the proper protocol for this situation. Suddenly, unbidden, the door opens.
In the space of time it takes Noah to slip out and close the door behind him, I hear Nat wail, “NO ONE WANTS ME TO BE HAPPY! YOU ALL HATE ME!”
Noah grabs my hand and whisper-yells, “Go, go, go!” He runs toward the car, doubled over like we’re taking fire, pulling me along. Then he stage-shoves me through the passenger door, so that I have to climb across the seats with him right behind. He urges, “Hurry. She’s been speedballing strawberry milk and Pop Rocks. This place could blow any second.”
It takes a good amount of contortionism to get my knees out from under me and my butt in the seat—my Fit is pretty tiny, and I’m silently laughing. No sooner have I accomplished it than Noah commands, “Warp eight, Mr. Sulu.”
The left side of my mouth ticks up, but I flick his ear anyway. “Cindy foul. Holly does not want to be called ‘Mr. Sulu.’ ”
He rubs the flick away with his palm. “FYI, you’re not Holly.”
It takes me half a second too long to find the right amount of snark for my reply.
“I’m aware. But I’m a girl, and I’m here.” I click my seat belt and put the car in motion, not sure where we’re going. “This is your big chance to practice not being a goober.”
Noah grumbles like that’s a tough request while he fastens his seat belt.
The truth is, I feel 1,000 percent better. It’s amazing how much being needed brightens my day. I guess it’s a fairy godmother thing. I suddenly realize that I barely ate all day, and I’m starving. I make a right turn out of the neighborhood.
“I’m hungry. Are you hungry?”
Noah blows his lips out. “I’m a seventeen-year-old guy. I spend every waking moment eating and thinking about sex.”
“And they say guys can’t multitask.”
“Yeah. That’s a myth.”
I take the on-ramp for the freeway. Noah shifts in his seat like he just realized I’m a kidnapper. I shoot him side-eye. “What?”
“Where are we going?”
“There’s a really cute diner in Highgrove with good burgers.”
“There’s like twenty places in town with good burgers.”
“Yeah. But I can’t be seen with you.”
He slumps in his seat. “Do you have any idea how demoralizing that is?”
I shrug. “It’s nothing personal. We did pinkie swear on it. Remember?”
“Whatever.”
Seriously? He’s going to whatever me over a totally logical confidentiality clause in our business relationship? Well, what-freaking-ever. I purse my lips and crank up my techno jams. We drive without talking for several miles while Noah presumably thinks about food and sex and how much he hates me, and I stubbornly refuse to admit culpability.
But as the standoff stretches on, the hollowness creeps back in, until I feel too empty to hold on to my irritation. Eventually I turn down the stereo and try to break the ice with “I don’t want to fight with you. But if we’re seen together, it could mess up things with Holly.”
He turns his viridian-and-gingerbread eyes on me. “Why do you do that? Why do you push people away?�
��
“I don’t! Like I said, I just—” I glance at him, and he looks like what I say next matters. Kind of a lot. I stop midsentence. Inexplicably, I find myself admitting, “I don’t really do friendships.”
“Yeah, right. You have more friends than anybody. You’re the top of the JLHS food chain.”
“No one at school actually knows me.” Why are these things coming out of my mouth? To Noah of all people?
“What about me?”
I shake my head, eyes on the road.
“Okay. Then let me know you. Tell me something true.”
I don’t answer right away. My stomach growls. My knee shakes with nervous energy. The thing is, I want to tell him things. The self-disclosure train is hard to stop once you get it rolling. The words insist on spilling out of my mouth. “My sister went to Thailand, and a couple weeks ago she told me she’s not coming back.”
“Why?”
I find myself telling him all about Hope and her elephants. I wrap it up with “So, anyway, I guess I should have said I don’t do relationships. Even the sister thing isn’t working out for me.”
“I wish my sister would ship herself to Thailand for a while.” He’s trying to keep it light. But when I don’t laugh, he says, “Come on. You’re not why she left.”
Eyes firmly forward, I counter, “I wasn’t enough to make her come back.”
He’s quiet for a bit, and when he speaks again, his voice is softer. “I’m sorry about your sister. You must miss her a lot.”
Someone caring makes it worse. I feel the emotions I thought I’d exorcised rising back up. Which is why I don’t want to keep talking about this. Time for a conversational lane change. I say firmly, “Anyway, now we need to talk about Operation Win Back Holly.”
“Okay?”
I take the Highgrove exit and end up stuck behind a truck full of onions. One of the joys of living in California—stinky produce abounds. The fumes slowly waft through the air vents. I stick to business. “Okay. I did some recon this morning.”
He sits up a little straighter.
“Her HEA is all messed up, but she’s not quite ready to admit it yet.”
“HEA?”
“Happily Ever After, of course.”
“Right.”
“The most straightforward scenario is that Kade ends things, and you swoop in to pick up the pieces of her broken heart.”
“Why would Kade end things?”
“You don’t have to worry about that part. I’ll take care of it.” I feel dirty just saying it.
“So you would do your brainwashing thing on Kade and get him to dump Holly.”
So. Hurtful. I grit my teeth and wrinkle my nose. Because of the onion fumes. “You want the girl or not?”
He clenches his fists on his knees. “I don’t want Holly to suffer. And I don’t want to be the rebound.”
Would it be so onerous to do one single thing the easy way? I press a finger to the spot between my eyebrows. “I was afraid you’d say that. You realize Kade is one of JLHS’s most eligible guys, right? He’s the freaking homecoming king now on top of everything else. And he didn’t get booed offstage. How am I supposed to make Holly want—”
“I believe in you.” He shoots me a grin.
“You suck.”
I run scenarios for a few blocks. Everything that ends with Holly picking Noah over Kade is so far-fetched it can be classified as science fiction. Or possibly space soap opera. I wish I had a glimpse to show me what to swing for. No. No, I don’t. I’m off glimpses. They can’t be trusted. I sigh. “I guess a meet-cute can’t hurt.”
“A what?”
“It’s where two people meet in a really cute way. Exactly what it sounds like.”
“Except Holly and I already know each other.”
“And it’s time to get reacquainted.”
Noah makes a disgruntled noise in his throat. “Sounds manipulative.”
Do his repeated accusations grate at my already shredded self-esteem? Yes. Am I so frustrated that I want to pull over and beat him senseless? Of course. Does some part of me detest the whole idea of a Noah-Holly meet-cute? Maybe. What? No.
Fine. There is a tiny part of me that might actually miss the obscure Star Trek references and awkward encounters with Noah’s goofy family once I grant his wish and cut ties. But I can handle it. Just like with all the others. It’s what I do.
Anyway, none of that is why my left eye leaks one drop of moisture. It’s the stinking onion truck. The tiny fact-checker in my brain points out that unpeeled onions don’t irritate tear ducts. Tiny Fact-Checker, you’re a killjoy and a liar. It’s 100 percent the onion truck.
I finally pull around it and hit the gas like Danica Patrick.
I dash the eye sweat away. “Do you want my help or not?”
“Isn’t there a way for me to get Holly back without being an a-hole?” It’s a plea for help. The kind that melts me every time.
I capitulate with a sigh. “Noah. It’s not assholic to put yourself out there. She spends pretty much every waking moment with Kade. If she’s going to choose you, she needs some material for comparison. She needs to know there’s a choice to be made.”
“Man, I don’t know if you’re making sense or if I’m just caught in your tractor beam.”
I raise my flicking fingers in warning, and he holds his hands up in silent surrender. I say, “I’m making sense. Trust me. Tomorrow morning at seven fifteen, you need to be at SmoothieQue. Holly goes there every morning to get Kade a protein shake.” I pull into the parking lot at Big Doug’s Diner. “And you need to be wearing your new clothes. And please, I’m begging you, use conditioner in your hair.”
“And what am I supposed to do there?” He sounds defeated.
“Buy her smoothie.”
“Kade’s smoothie. You want me to buy Kade Goldenboy Kassab a smoothie?”
I ignore him. “And talk to her. Smile. Make her laugh. Be chivalrous. Hold the door.”
“I’m gonna spit in the smoothie.”
I kill the engine and turn to look at Noah. Really look at him for the first time in this conversation. His face is a cocktail of irritation, incredulity, and consternation. But behind his glasses, I see flecks of hope in his viridian-blue-brown eyes. I almost reach toward him but catch myself in time to turn it into tapping off the music. “You’re about to take the poor sap’s girlfriend away, Noah. Let him have the smoothie.”
* * *
Big Doug’s is a classic diner—one row of booths against a wall of windows, one checkered-floor aisle, and one long bar with bolted-down stools. Everything is black and white and teal and red. On the back wall there’s just enough room for a vintage jukebox. Given that it’s Monday, the place is pretty much deserted.
It takes our waiter way too long to show up, and when he does, he sloshes our waters as he’s trying to set them on the table. His name tag says GREG. He has dirty-blond hair and a ketchup stain across his shirt. He sniffles repeatedly, which makes me feel not great about him touching my food.
Greg grabs a towel off his shoulder and mops at the spilled water on the table. He pauses halfway through, looking hard at Noah. “Do I know you?”
I roll my eyes and huff out a serenity-prayer exhale. I’m too hungry for the waiter to waste time on cliché pickup lines.
Noah goes, “Huh?”
Greg sniffles and gestures toward Noah with the dripping towel. “I do know you! You were the guy with the Gorn costume at Comic-Con!”
Noah’s face splits into a huge, self-satisfied grin. “You were there?”
“Oh yeah. That was epic, man. I was William Adama.”
“Ah, you’re a Battlestar Galactica man.” Noah holds out his hand. Greg wipes his palm on his apron and shakes Noah’s hand heartily.
I clear my throat, hoping to remind them that (a) I’m here, and (b) I want food.
Greg’s eyes flicker to me momentarily. He sniffles and then leans in toward Noah conspiratorially, whispering, �
�Are you sure this one’s not a skinjob? She’s a little too hot.”
I don’t know what that means, but if he were my Cindy, I’d for sure flick ol’ Greg in the ear right now. Noah laughs, all dorky good humor. I’m working up a nudge to get Greg moving, when Noah says, “Hey, man, can we get some menus?”
Greg straightens up. “Oh yeah. I’ll be right back.”
As soon as he walks away, I grumble hangrily, “What was that, some kind of brotherhood-of-dorks bonding moment? I thought you were strictly a Star Trek guy.”
Noah folds his straw wrapper into careful tiny triangles. “Star Trek’s in the marrow. But Battlestar Galactica has some really first-rate world-building as well.”
The only reasonable response to a comment like that is a dead-eyed stare. “This Magic Moment” comes on the jukebox.
Noah finishes folding his straw paper into a tiny five-point star and taps along on the Formica tabletop. My stomach growls. How long does it take to pick up two menus and return with them?
I drop my head against the back of the red vinyl booth. “I’m famished.”
Noah looks unconvinced. “You say that. And then you’re probably going to order, like, a side salad and a cup of ice or something.”
“Or something. I just danced my ass off for ninety minutes. I could eat you under the table.”
He raises his eyebrows in challenge. “I could eat a double cheeseburger and large fries right now.”
I straighten up. “I see your burger and fries and raise you a hot wings.”
He leans in. “Chocolate. Milk. Shake.”
“It’s on.”
* * *
The eating contest ends with both of us groaning in regret. There are two french fries left on Noah’s plate and an inch of melted sludge at the bottom of his glass.
“I concede the contest,” he moans. “W to the girl with the green hair.”
I clutch my stomach with one hand and raise V-for-victory fingers with the other.