Being Friends With Boys (16 page)

“Jesus, who even listens to Van Halen this century?” I gasp.

He shrugs in the cutest way. “My parents like to go to Atlantic City over the summer, what can I say?”

We’re laughing when we get to my house. I’m struck by how even more amazing he is, now that I’m getting to really know him and not just crushing during practice. I hope he is feeling the same way. But as soon as the engine’s off, my hands are sweating and I don’t know where to look. We’ve been having a great time, but now I’m not sure what’s going to happen.

“Thanks for asking me,” I start.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“I’d love to do it again sometime. I mean, if anyone good is playing.”

“Absolutely.”

I am caught up in his smile, until I catch myself staring.

“So . . . I guess I’ll see you?” I blurt. “On Monday? And, I mean, thanks for getting me home on time.”

“I can’t believe we only have a couple more weeks until the dance.”

I fake shudder. “Don’t remind me. I’m already nervous enough.”

“Don’t be,” he says. Which is a perfect time for him to lean in and . . .

But he doesn’t. So I put my hand on the door handle, which is when he puts his hand on my shoulder, gives it a squeeze.

“I had a good time with you, Charlotte.”

“Me too.”

In his eyes I see . . . something. I can’t tell what. But I can’t sit here waiting for him to kiss me—he’s not going to, right?—and I don’t think I’m quite up to lunging at him yet. So I force myself to just get out of the car.

“Thanks again.”

“Bye.” He waves.

I stand in the yard and watch as he pulls away, in case he turns to give a final wave—or, better, jumps out of the car to slam me on the ground with a kiss. But he simply drives down to the stop sign and turns out of sight. You don’t
have
to kiss on the first date. And even though he thinks it’s okay for bandmates to be together (hooray, hooray, hooray), we should still be cautious. I don’t know how I will tell Oliver about this, for example. Besides, not kissing on the first date is probably normal. My old boyfriend Clay was always so gropey; I had to shove him off me constantly. But the idea of Fabian waiting—of drawing things out—makes me glow in strange places, including my armpits.

And twenty minutes later? That glow goes even deeper, loops twice around my knees and back up over my head:
You r cool, Charlotte
, he texts.
Had fun 2night.

M
onday morning, Darby ransacks all three of our closets trying to find something for me to wear for school and rehearsal. She’s clearly not happy with the corduroys and (cute) hoodie I finally end up with.

“You’ve got to
show
him, Charlotte,” she huffs at me in the car. “Boys are pretty stupid. And if you don’t throw it out there, there’s going to be some other girl who does. Don’t come crying to me when he picks her and not you.”

Gretchen cackles and looks back at me in the rearview. “This,” she says, “from the dating champion with—how many, Darby? Two kisses to your name?”

Darby hits Gretchen on the shoulder.

“Ow, dammit.”

“Big talk from a girl who dates some jockstrap for seven months and then gets dumped,” Darby says.

“I dumped him.”

“Which time, heartbreaker?”

“How about we just say,” I interrupt, “that I’ll listen to all advice gratefully, but won’t necessarily do anything different.”

Darby pokes her finger at me, thin and sharp. “That’s exactly your problem, Char. You’re too ‘oh, whatever’ about things. That’s why you have to say something to him today. I swear—”

“Leave off,” Gretchen groans, as we finally park. “It’s not going to do her any good to fake it. Then he’ll just be disappointed when he finds out what she’s really like.”

“Thanks, Gretchen,” I mutter.

“No problem,” she breezes, not getting her own insult.

“Who are
you
going to be all yourself with now, then, Lady Know-It-All?” Darby bugs her sister, getting out of the car. With the attention briefly off me, I gather my bag, wave good-bye, and head off to catch Oliver and everybody before the bell. It doesn’t matter what Darby says—I know I’m not letting Fabian do all the work. I’m just letting him be him and me be me, and eventually we’ll be together and it will work out great.

I’m so lost in my Fabian-and-me fantasy that I barely register
the rest of the parking lot as I walk through, until I catch sight of Trip’s tall blond head, standing in a group about two car rows over. Trip, whose phone was off all day Sunday, and who I haven’t really talked to in forever. For a second it’s almost like he sees me and is maybe going to wave or smile or something, but then Chris Monroe punches him in the arm, and their friends laugh, and then Lily Jearnigen of all people snakes her arms around Trip’s waist and stands on tiptoe to kiss his ear.

I don’t know why it makes me mad. But it does, and I turn back toward the building, heading straight for my locker, forgetting Oliver and everyone else. I don’t care if Trip’s dating someone; I really don’t. I’m dating someone myself, maybe. But I can’t believe he got all touchy about me going out with Fabian, and then turned all stupid drooly over some tiny art fiend like Lily. And when did this happen? Is
she
why he’s been hanging so much with Chris and his posse? He could’ve just told me what was really going on, instead of tiptoeing around like I’d act like some jealous girlfriend. God.

When first period starts, I’m glad I don’t have the notebook with me—that he hogged it and never gave it back—because I’d definitely have a thing or two to say to him right now. He probably hasn’t even written in it, though. Probably been too busy watching Lily eat a candy necklace or whatever. If he can just fall in with this stupid gang of cartoon character wannabes, then
maybe I didn’t really know him like I thought I did. Maybe he isn’t any more special than any other guy.

But none of that really rings true, and it bums me out even more. All our talking on the phone, listening to music together— all the work we did on the songs, everything we’ve told each other in the notebook—me and him, we’re
friends
. Real friends. Friends more than Lish and I were, for sure. More than even me and Oliver. “Friend” sometimes doesn’t seem a big enough word, though I don’t know which other one to use.

Which means, for friendship’s sake, I have to tell him what I think. So after first period I hurry to our morning meeting point. I’m not sure he’ll be there, after our weird sort-of-fight on Friday, his phone off all weekend, and now this Lily thing, but it’s the first place to check, I guess. When he’s not there after about thirty seconds, I cut around and wait outside his French class. He may be trying to avoid me, but I’m not going to let him. Of course, on the way, it occurs to me that his girlfriend might be with him—or that he’s walking her to class now—but as I hesitate, considering what exactly to do, he lopes around the corner, alone.

“Hey,” he says, surprised. “Where were—”

“You can’t do this” comes out of me, straight.

It’s like he’s struck. “I can’t do what?”

“You can’t just go off and get a whole new group of friends, pretend you don’t even remember the rest of us. You can’t just leave—”

He backs up a little, scowls. “Who says you can tell me what I can and cannot
go off
and do? Last I checked, you were pretty busy with your own new friends.”

But I’m expecting that. “Most of them are
our
friends, smartass. And the new ones would be your friends too if you would come around ever.”

“Oh, you mean ‘come around,’ like on Saturday night?”

“I do mean on Saturday night. You would’ve liked them. It. The whole thing. Fabian had friends there. You could’ve brought Chris, even. I texted you. I tried to talk to you all weekend. It was really fun and I wanted you to—”

“Yeah, well, I had other things to do.”

“Oh.” I’m sharp and mean. “Like cut out paper dolls with Lily?”

He is glaring at me now. “Maybe. She’s really good at stuff like that.”

Here’s where I should be able to say, all sarcastic,
I
bet
she’s good with her hands
, or something like that, but I can’t. Because how he says it—how he’s so unapologetic, how it sounds like maybe he has already spent enough time with Lily to watch her do something as dumb as cutting out paper dolls—it kicks me in the stomach.

“I think you would really like Fabian if you gave him a chance,” I try instead. “I want us all to do something. And I need your help with these new—”

The blank-mask look on his face stops me. He stares off down the hall, finally says, “This is just how it is now. Okay?”

All I can see are the straining tendons in his neck, the tight line of his chin. I see him squeeze his eyes shut as the late bell blares out over us both.

The hall is quiet. “So that’s it?” I can’t move. Can barely hear my own voice.

He finally looks at me. “I’ve got to get to class.”

I watch him pull open the door, slip through the small space, and let it shut quietly behind him. I’m rooted there, dumbass of the world. I feel like I could just stay put, staring at the door until the bell rings again and he comes back out. I would try again. I wouldn’t be so mean.
You’re who made it okay
, I would try to explain.
Jilly being gone, and Lish, and everything. You’re the one who knows me.
I thought he knew it already, but maybe I need to tell him. Maybe that would make a difference.

But maybe too—and this is what snaps me into action, makes me shuffle off to algebra, because I don’t want to think it—maybe he does know how much he means to me. And maybe he’s doing this anyway.

I don’t register the rest of the school day, not even much of Dr. Campbell handing out another take-home test and Benji immediately writing me a note about getting together to work on it.
Practice this afternoon,
I see myself scrawl on the paper. He doesn’t answer back, and he doesn’t try to walk out with me either.

As I sit in my other classes and move myself from room to room, I write. Constant scribblings that won’t stop coming out. Usually I need something to trigger me, to get me going, but apparently not today. Today it’s constant. Lines and lines. And unlike all the other times I’ve written, nothing my pen scrawls down is a mystery. It is, instead, exactly how I feel.

When school’s finished, I want to go home, shut the door, and feel sorry for myself. All I can do is picture Trip and his bubbly, pink-haired glitter girl, feel his cold “This is just how it is now” pouring over me, and it’s just too much like Mom driving away, Jilly leaving me for college, Lish disappearing. I don’t want to go to rehearsal at Oliver’s. I don’t want Fabian to see me like this, and I don’t want to hear whatever new idea Eli has. I don’t want Abe to give me his I-see-you’re-upset-so-I-will-avoid-eye-contact-with-you routine, or for Oliver to try to cheer me up. I’d rather be completely alone.

But we have to practice. The dance is in two weeks. So I follow Oliver out to his car. He must get that something’s really wrong, because he talks nonstop. About Whitney, mostly: how she won’t back off and let go, how he’s thinking about changing his phone number but what a pain in the ass that would be. He’s trying to get me to laugh or say something caustic—maybe just
say anything—but all I can bring myself to do is mumble “damn” and “that sucks.” I’m not sure who’s more glad when we get to his house, him or me.

I try to make myself look at least kind of neutral, but I must not do a very good job, because Fabian asks if I feel okay the second he sees me.

And his noticing does make my insides warm up a little. I give him a small smile, say something about just being tired.

But I keep writing all my thoughts while the guys practice some of the songs I’m not in. Nothing forms into cohesive lines, but words are still coming out fast. Fragments of feeling. Scraps of lyrics. When it’s my turn to sing, I pull the mic close to my mouth, try to drown out every thought of Trip.

After practice, Fabian comes over and gives me a one-armed hug. “Taryn says to say hi,” he tells me. “She’s cuckoo about you.”

Mood I’m in, all I notice is that he doesn’t add,
And I am too
.

Our Saturday night feels pretty far away right now.

Later, I lie on my bed and listen to my Trip playlist for over an hour. I still can’t pull any of the writing nonsense into any one song or poem that makes much sense, so I’ve stopped. It’s infuriating enough to be writing about Trip at all, since he’s obviously not thinking about me one bit, but that all the stuff I’m feeling won’t materialize into anything I can use against him—it’s like he
wins
somehow. On top of that, neither Mom nor Jilly has called me back, and I feel like I really need to talk to somebody other than Darby or Dad. I know Oliver would listen and try to say something helpful, but it doesn’t seem like he really cares that Trip isn’t hanging around anymore. I think about calling Fabian, but sobbing about my best friend getting a girlfriend probably isn’t the kind of “you’ve got to show him” that Darby was talking about. So instead I lie there, the music washing over me, filling me with tears that I refuse to let fall.