He breaks into a grin when he sees me. “I was eyeing the apple pie bite myself. Can I get you that muffin? It is your birthday, after all.”
“I’m going to order some stuff for the table. Help me out?” I ask.
We take turns picking out an assortment of baked goods, and as the barista is getting them ready on a tray, Brian turns to me. “So, Benjamin, huh?”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing. Just that he’s a good guy.”
I shrug. “Sure. He’s a good friend.”
And Brian doesn’t try to hide his smile. “Friend. Okay. Cool.”
And I smile, looking down at my feet, biting my lip again. “Yeah. Cool.”
Then the barista hands over the tray of goodies and we head back to the table. Brian walks. I can’t help it; I float.
“Anyone hungry?” I ask.
“Fooooood!” Khalil shouts, and he digs in, and so does everyone else. We eat a bunch and talk about silly things between bites: drama from school (the latest is that Casey Stiles is dropping out), college and how we’re not even ready to think about it (but it’s all the teachers talk about), the hot new substitute teacher at school, Mr. Brown (the boys are unanimously unimpressed), TV shows everyone should have seen by now (like Breaking Bad, which John hasn’t watched!).
Kira is incredulous over that last discovery. “How can you not have watched that show yet?”
“It’s been out for years,” Maddy says.
Benjamin is wide-eyed. “Even I’ve seen it, and I’m not normally a TV guy. But Bryan Cranston is incredible—and the show is also surprisingly great commentary on the need for universal health care.”
“It’s on my list, guys!” John insists.
We’re laughing and being loud and for once in my life I feel like I’m not on the outside looking in. And then before I know it, Amelia is carrying a muffin to our table and we pretend there’s a candle in it as they all sing “Happy Birthday” to me and I blow the fake flame out.
It’s the first year where I don’t waste my wish on being skinny; I wish for more happy moments like this.
I’m rewarded seconds later when everyone pulls out their gifts for me. I get a generous gift card from Amelia’s friends, who are maybe now a little bit my friends. From Benjamin, I get a travel mug that says I GLITTERALLY CAN’T, which makes us all laugh. From Amelia, I get a beautiful jade-colored scarf I saw while shopping with her at Macy’s. I’m beaming.
Brian mentions that there’s an arcade across the street, and suddenly we’re all excitedly talking about how we should go, yes, let’s do it! Trying to get a group of ten across a busy street proves to be difficult. We act like jerks and run across without waiting for the walk signal or even bothering to go into the crosswalk, which makes some cars beep at us. If I were watching, I’d think These kids are obnoxious, but since I’m part of the fun, I’m laughing and being rowdy and thinking that yeah, I get it now.
We play games for a while, till I nearly run out of money; I prove to the group that I’m secretly really good at playing pool, and it turns out that Brian is obsessed with old-school arcade games. I feel like I laugh the whole night, and I’m sad when I realize it’s nearly midnight and we decide we should all get home.
As we say our goodbyes, I make sure to hug Amelia tight. “Thank you for helping to make my birthday special,” I whisper.
“I’m sorry it started out so terribly,” she whispers back.
I shake my head. “Doesn’t matter. It ended perfectly.”
She touches my arm. “You deserved it. Do you want to come back to my house and stay the night so you don’t have to go home?”
For a moment, I consider it, but I decide against it. It will be better for me to go home and deal with my mom’s anger now rather than later. “No, that’s all right. But thank you.” I see Kira lingering by her car and I nod in that direction. “Looks like someone might be waiting for you, though.”
Amelia grins, then hugs me again. “Happy birthday, Charlie. Text me, okay?” She hurries over to Kira and gets into her car.
I’ve started to head toward my own car when I hear a voice.
“Hey,” it says.
I turn, see it’s Brian, and break into a big smile. “Hey back.”
“You got a second, birthday girl?” he asks. I nod and he motions for me to follow. We walk toward his car. “That was my kind of party.”
“Weird and in a coffee shop?” I don’t know why I say that, because it actually wasn’t weird at all. I loved it. But I’m worried he didn’t, that he’s being sarcastic.
“No, not weird at all. I knew you and I would make it to Jake’s sometime. And I had a lot of fun,” Brian says, holding my gaze. “I liked that we were all just hanging out. I like your friends.”
“They’re barely my friends.”
He gives me a look. “They seem like they’re your friends. And why wouldn’t they be? You’re fun to be around! They gave you gifts and everything.” He motions toward the gift bag I’m holding.
“Yeah,” I say, glancing down at it. “It’s amazing.”
“It’s too bad that jerk friend of yours, Brian, didn’t remember to take his gift out of the car and give it to you alongside everyone else.” He ducks into his car and surfaces with a perfectly wrapped rectangle, then hands it to me. “For you.”
“Brian, you didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to. I’m sorry I didn’t give it to you earlier,” he says, a bit shyly. “And you don’t have to open it now. I know some people feel weird being watched when they open their gifts.”
I answer him by sticking the gift bag on my wrist so both hands are free, then carefully removing the bow and wrapping paper from his present to reveal an exquisite leather-bound journal. I can’t help it; I gasp a little.
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper.
“Yeah?” he asks, and by the way his voice goes up, I can tell he’s pleased. “A good writer deserves a good notebook.”
I look up at him, feeling a little like I could cry. “This is the most thoughtful gift anyone’s ever given me, Brian.”
“I’m glad you like it,” he says.
“I love it,” I say. “Thank you.”
“I just wanted your birthday to be special.”
I look at him. At that crooked smile that makes my knees feel a little weak. At the way his dark hair falls a little bit into his eyes. At his perfect nose. At those soft, kissable lips.
And he looks back at me, so intensely, like maybe…there’s something. My heart is thumping; I can feel it beating in my ears. And there’s a moment. Just one.
Then I break the silence.
“So…I should go,” I say. Before I do something stupid. Like try to kiss him.
“Oh, yeah,” Brian says. “Happy birthday.” But he says it with meaning, like if I can infer something from the words happy birthday, I should.
“You too. I mean, thanks.” I laugh as I’m walking away. “Drive safe! And no texting!”
And I rush to my car and I’m still laughing and I can’t help but think that this has been my best birthday ever.
When I get home, I find Mom drunk, her friends and Fernando gone, the house a mess.
She’s livid when I walk through the door, and she demands to know where I’ve been. Before I can explain—Hi, Mom, I’ve just had the most magnificent birthday of my life, and I think, maybe, I might have some friends, and I think, possibly, somehow, a boy might actually like me—she’s sobbing and saying I don’t appreciate her and that I ruined my birthday and I never do anything she wants me to do.
Amid her yelling, I help her to her room, get her into some pajamas, offer her some water, and put her to bed.
I clean the house a little so she’ll be less angry tomorrow morning. Then I go to my room, where I can’t stop thinking about Brian.
And I can’t stop looking at the gorgeous leather-bound journal he picked out, just for me. I run my fingers over the smooth cover; I wrap an
d unwrap the leather strap; I flip through the ivory pages; I hug it to my chest. I try to imagine him at the store, poring over the journals, looking through them all until he finds one he thinks I’ll like. It’s the sweetest image I can conjure, and I fall asleep with a smile on my face.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I wake up to a text from Brian.
Morning, kid.
The events of last night flood back to me and I swear my heart does a little flip.
Good morning. Thank you again for the thoughtful gift, I write back.
I stare at my phone until those three little gray dots show up.
You’re welcome. It will be perfect for when you write the next Great American Novel. Or Hunger Games. Whichever.
If I write anything, it will be the next To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before, I write back.
When it takes Brian a minute to reply, I feel shaky. But he writes Obviously.
And a second, separate message says: Have you ever seen the movie Ladybird?
No, I write. Should I have?
Yes. They just added it to Netflix. It’s so good.
Then: Do you want to come over later and watch?
My breath catches in my throat. I literally pinch myself. Yes, I’m awake. But somehow I’m living some romanticized version of my life. Because Brian is asking me to hang out and watch a movie. And this is how my life goes now, apparently.
I reply with a casual Sure! before I can freak myself out and say no, or before I overthink it and write what I actually feel in my heart, which is YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
He texts me back with his address and says we should meet up at seven, making it official:
Brian and I are watching a movie later.
I almost text Amelia, but something stops me. It will be my first time hanging out with a boy, alone—something Amelia did for the first time in the fifth grade. And for some reason, I feel embarrassed to admit that, even though she already knows my truth. I’m worried she might accidentally say something a little insensitive. Something like “It’s about time” or “Welcome to the club!” without meaning it, not really. And all that’ll do is reinforce how alone I usually feel, how inexperienced I am, how embarrassed I feel that I’m sixteen—ugh, seventeen now—and I’ve never been kissed.
So maybe it makes me a bad friend, but I don’t text Amelia to let her know what I’ll be doing later. Instead, I text her to thank her for a great birthday, and when she asks me to hang out today, I deflect and say my mom’s mad at me (which she is, and will be) and try to convince myself lying to my best friend is totally normal.
I shower and get dressed. Not in the outfit I’ll wear to visit with Brian later, but the outfit I’m going to sit in to think about visiting with Brian later, because a girl needs to plan.
I bring all my gifts from last night with me out into the kitchen and pour myself a bowl of cereal. As I eat, I marvel over the fact that last night was real and it actually happened. I even have the pictures on my phone to prove it!
My rustling must wake my mom, because I hear the door to her room open. I expect her to come into the kitchen and be really angry with me. I mean. You don’t ditch your own party and make your mom look bad in front of her guests and live to tell the tale. I’m already planning all the ways I’ll argue with her about how I can’t be grounded tonight of all nights because something important is happening. I won’t tell her what; I’ll make something up. I’m working on a school project or something.
And I’ll listen to her lecture me about how it’s impolite to leave a party someone has thrown for you and how disappointed she is in me. I’ll try not to emote (except to try to look like I regret sneaking out of the party last night). I’ll tell her I had a really miserable time after I left and I should’ve stayed. I’ll grovel and apologize a million times over and maybe everything will be fine.
Only, I don’t end up needing to do any of these things because she walks into the kitchen and says a quiet hello to me like nothing happened. Then she starts making breakfast for herself. Like, actual breakfast, and not a shake.
“Would you like something to eat?” she asks as she cracks some eggs into a sizzling pan.
I hesitate before replying. “I already ate, but thank you.”
“Suit yourself,” she says, adding a little adobo and scrambling it up. “Did you have a nice birthday?”
I consider my answer carefully. “It was really nice.”
She uses her spatula to point at the gifts on the table. “You made out well.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I did.”
“Good.” Mom scrapes her eggs out of the pan and onto a plate and a silence hangs in the air.
“Mom, about last night—”
She holds up her hand. “Let’s just forget it.”
I blink. “Really?”
“I’m tired.” Mom plops at the kitchen table and I study her face. She does look exhausted.
“Oh?”
She nods. “Yeah, and I don’t need you lecturing me about how I got out of control. I’m well aware, thanks to a string of angry texts from Fernando. I don’t even remember getting into a fight with him, and now I’ve got to deal with that, so just save it, Charlie. Seriously.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything.”
Mom gives me a look. “Right. I black out at your party and you have nothing to say?”
And suddenly it makes sense. My mom may not even realize that I wasn’t at my own birthday party.
“Nope.”
Her shoulders slump a little, relaxing. “Oh, okay. Well, I guess I overdid it. I was just so stressed out about everything. I mean, I spent so long picking out my dress and getting all the food just right and keeping everyone happy. I just wanted everything to be perfect, you know?”
“Right. Perfect. For me.”
“Of course for you. I’ve been whirling around like a tornado for weeks trying to get everything ready for this party for you. I didn’t even get a thank-you.” She sighs, taking a bite of her eggs.
The audacity.
“Sorry,” I say, not meaning it. “But thank you.”
She waves her hand dismissively. “At least everyone seemed to enjoy themselves. The girls loved what I’ve done to the house. And Lynn said she nearly had a heart attack when she saw me! So aside from everything with Fernando, I’m happy. He’ll forgive me. I hope.” She looks over at me. “It was a good party, right?”
I nod. “Yeah, it was.”
“Best birthday ever?”
Memories from last night flood back to me—Jake’s, the arcade, Brian—and I smile. “Yes, actually. Best birthday ever.”
Chapter Thirty
I pass the time between Not Being at Brian’s and Being at Brian’s by doing the following: thinking about every single interaction I’ve ever had with Brian; arguing with myself over whether he’s invited me to watch a movie because he likes me or it’s just because we’re friends; and thinking about what I should wear (I settle on a deep-purple top with a scoop neckline tucked into a black skater skirt), say (I have a long list of topics I can touch on if there’s an awkward silence, like Hey, what are your thoughts on climate change?), and do (still haven’t figured that one out yet).
Somehow, eventually, it’s time for me to leave and go to his house. I get there early. I wait in my car. Then, at exactly 7 p.m., I knock on the front door.
In the time it takes from when I knocked to when the door opens, I think about bolting approximately seventy times.
But then a woman is standing there, grinning at me.
“Well, hello!” Her voice is sweet and she basically looks like Brian if Brian were a girl. She’s shorter than he is, but she has the same black hair and black eyes and sharp cheekbones.
“Hi!” I say back, trying to match her enthusiasm.
“You’re Charlie, right?”
“I am. You must be Brian’s mom?”
“One of!” She lets out a little laugh. “I’m Susan. Come in,
come in.” Susan opens the door wider so I can get inside. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
“All good things, I hope,” I say.
“Oh, yes. Very much so.” Susan is practically beaming at me. “Can I get you anything to drink? Eat? Anything at all?”
“Mom, chill,” Brian says as he walks into the foyer. I notice his cheeks look a little pink, probably from embarrassment. It’s adorable.
“I just want to make your friend feel welcome,” Susan says.
“And she’s doing a great job,” I say. “Thank you.”
“But let’s quit while we’re ahead and go outside, okay?” Brian motions toward the back door of the house, which I start to walk toward. He follows me and calls over his shoulder, “Thanks, Mom!”
We step into his backyard. The sun is just starting to set on this beautiful day in April and the breeze feels good on my skin. Outside, we have a moment to breathe, just the two of us, and it’s then that I can finally take in the sight of Brian: he’s wearing a fitted black button-up and a nice pair of dark denim jeans over some crisp Converse shoes. I bite my lip and my insides feel like they’re trembling with glee; this is totally a date!
“Now, did you actually want something to eat or drink?” Brian asks. “I’m happy to get you anything you want. It’s just that if you had said yes to my mom, she’d have started talking and talking and talking, and before you know it, she’s pulling out my baby photos and that’s it. It’s over. There’s no coming back from that.”
I laugh. “I highly doubt it would’ve gone like that.”
“You don’t know my mom.”
“Is she like that with everyone?”
“No. She’s been a little jealous that Ma has already met you and she hasn’t stopped talking about it.” Then his cheeks go pink again. And then my cheeks go pink.
I find myself wondering how often I’ve come up during conversation. Enough for Susan and Maura to have discussed me, enough for Susan to wish she’d met me. I’m pleased.
Fat Chance, Charlie Vega Page 19