Being Friends With Boys (7 page)

“That’s a good name for a song,” I say, automatic.

He peers down at me with this look on his face that makes me feel . . . I don’t know. Valued. Or more like . . . treasured. Or something. But then he turns and faces the street, squares his shoulders, and starts us down again, arm in arm.

“Tell me how it would go, this song,” he says.

“I wasn’t being serious. I just—”

“Stepmom didn’t want us; Daddy was too weak!”
he explodes, loud and drawly and low, like some country singer in a bar. Or someone at bad karaoke.

I giggle.

“Come on, songwritin’ girl. What comes next?”

“She kicked us out of Dodge,”
I try.
“She threw us to the streets.”

He nods. We are bouncing now, to the rhythm of this crazy made-up song.

“And outside there were wolves, my friend,”
he booms.
“Witches and goblins to run from . . .”

Immediately, I know what comes next:
“But tucked safe in our pockets . . .”

Together we holler, both our tunes going off in different directions,
“were our Hansel and Gretel crumbs!”

We’re laughing at ourselves, but also because right then we see a house we recognize and a street we know to turn left down. This gives us immense confidence, both in ourselves and in the song. So Trip hollers out the rest of the chorus and the next verse, with me butting in every now and then to adjust a line. We actually get the chorus pretty good—
“I’m winding a trail through the woods while you sleep”—
and sing it over and over, like some kind of talisman. I catch myself being a little curious if the people in these houses think we’re
together
: me and him skipping and
singing in the middle of the road, but just then we pass a house surrounded by tons of security lights. Behind it we can see the edge of the park we passed to get in this neighborhood.

“Look at that,” he says, panting a little.

“Wow,” I gasp. “It really worked.”

He crazy-grins at me. “Come on.” Grabbing my hand, he runs through the unfenced yard. Another motion-detecting light springs on, but we quickly break into the safety of the park— neutral territory—both of us breathing hard.

“We did it.”

“Of course we did.” He winks.

It’s ten after eleven—only twenty minutes until my curfew, which Dad still refuses to extend to midnight. Trip and I move fast and don’t talk.

“We’ll make it,” he tells me, finally getting to the car.

“I know.” But I don’t, exactly. I won’t get in
that
much trouble, but I would like to be allowed to do this again.

The music from Trip’s stereo fills the quiet, until at 11:31 we slide up to the curb in front of my house.

“What did I tell you?” He is obnoxiously—and endearingly— victorious.

“I wasn’t worried in the slightest,” I scoff.

“You were.”

“Was not. I knew right where we were. All part of my evil
plan to get you to help me with my songs, even though you’re not in the ba—” I clamp my lips shut.

“Ah, yes. Well.” He clears his throat and looks away from me, toward the house. “Next time you can just ask.”

I put my hand on his arm. “I only meant—”

“It’s cool.” He opens his door, gets out. I climb out too, to meet him at the front of his car and give him a
thanks and I’m sorry
hug.

“This really was fun,” I say into his chest.

His arms tighten around me. “It was.”

The Hansel and Gretel song floats back into my head. Around me his hug stays and stays. Warm and strong and safe and happy. Comfortable, and right, with a glimmer of . . . what? I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter. Mainly I’m glad, in spite of the changes, that Trip isn’t evaporating like Lish did. It makes me want to hold on to this even more—the importance of tonight.

Finally he breaks the hug, backing up a little. “Good luck tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Could be a disaster. We’ll see.”

“It’ll be great. Just make sure to tell me all about how bad they are. Deal?” His fingers point into a gun.

I point mine back. “Deal. And, hey, thanks for tonight. It was really terrific.”

“It was, wasn’t it?” His face is full of—something. But then it’s not. “Well, good night, Charlotte.”

“Good night, Trip.”

And though it’s chilly, and I need to go in, for some reason I don’t want tonight to be over. So I stand there in the yard, watching as he gets into the car, then pulls slowly from the curb and away down my street. I keep standing there another minute, until the warm-strong feeling of his hug dissipates from my shoulders. And only then do I go inside, humming,
tucked safe in my pockets were my Hansel and Gretel crumbs
.

In the morning, the good feeling of my evening with Trip is replaced by overwhelming anxiety about auditions. Oliver’s nervousness when I finally get to his house isn’t reassuring, either.

“Do you think we should have snacks or something?” he says as soon as he opens the door.

“Don’t we usually?” I say, pushing past. “At least chips or something? Some cheese?” I drop my bag on the chaise by the front door and move into the kitchen, to his refrigerator, start pulling out half-empty containers of prepared foods that his mom gets from Alon’s and Whole Foods. There’s almost a whole platter of some kind of artichoke-covered toasts that will do fine, I think, and a thing of macaroni salad. In the freezer are some Trader Joe’s samosas I can heat up. But I also know, from experience, that we could just have a jar of peanut butter with a spoon in it.

“They all respond?” Oliver wants to know. He’s pushing his hair back over and over. Am I supposed to notice his outfit or not? Because he does look cool in that sweater-vest and holey T-shirt, but maybe he doesn’t want to seem like he’s trying.

“Every one.” I take out plates and serving spoons.

“Cool.”

I move him out of the way to get the paper cups from an upper cabinet.

“It’ll be fine,” I say, though my hands are sweaty. “Gimme that bottle of Slice.”

Just as he opens the refrigerator again, there are footsteps outside and we both look up. It’s like someone’s caught us at something.

“You greet them,” I tell him, after he doesn’t move.

“Right.”

Watching him go, the feeling of
new
people washes through me. Getting up and going over to Oliver’s on a weekend is so automatic, I didn’t consider my outfit much today. And now I wish I had. At least a little. Because this isn’t going to be the normal gang. This is us trying to convince other people to be with us, and it’s stupid I didn’t think about it before. Now all I can do is smooth down my hair, tug the tails of my rumply button-down into some variation of straightness.

But it’s just Abe coming in.

“’Sup,” he says to me, taking one of the samosas before they go into the oven.

I can relax, a little. “What’s up?”

He shrugs. “Whatever, man. Last night a DJ saved my life.”

“Okay.” I half laugh, half roll my eyes. You never know when Abe is serious or joking, or even what he really means. Except for when he is seriously serious, and then he’s so intense it’s almost frightening. But that doesn’t happen very often.

Oliver rakes his hands up and down on his skinny, dark-jeaned thighs, looking things over in the kitchen.

“Where were you and Whitney last night, man?” Abe asks him, reaching for another samosa and shoving it in his mouth.

Oliver shrugs, awkward. “Had to cancel for some thing with my dad.”

“Gotcha.”

Abe and I swap glances. You can tell what Oliver’s not saying is that, because he forgot his dad’s event, Whitney had a huge fit and so tonight he’s going to have to make it up to her by doing it in some park somewhere, probably seeing a chick film after that. But rather than acknowledge any of this, I slide the tray of samosas into the oven, reach behind Oliver for a bowl for the macaroni salad. Abe coughs and pours himself a soda.

“I think we’re good with the food,” I say.

“Awesome.” But Oliver’s hardly registering. He gestures
toward the staircase and Abe and I follow him into his teenage-boy lair: the rec room downstairs.

They turn on the PS3 and get into the war game they’ve been working on for a while. Abe lives two doors down from Oliver, and because of this—and because he doesn’t have his own practice room—he leaves his drums set up at Oliver’s and basically has an open-door policy here at the Drake house. If this were Tekken I’d be able to jump in and take the loser’s place, but when Abe gets shot down I know to keep my mouth shut: this is a serious game, and they can be driven almost to tears over it. I watch, and remind them where bonus packs and hidden snipers are, but my anxiousness about the new guys makes me keep getting up to see if there’s anyone at the door. Good thing I’m checking, because it’s only during a small pause while the game loads between levels that I even hear the doorbell.

“Got it,” I tell them, though they haven’t budged.

At the door are three guys, apparently all having arrived in the same old Saturn that’s parked crookedly in front of Oliver’s house.

“Howdy,” the mohawked redhead says, lifting a black bass case covered with band and bumper stickers.

“Uh—hi. I’m Charlotte.” I open the door wider. They’re down the stairs before I can call Oliver and Abe up.

In the rec room, the boys all shake hands, like their dads would. The mohawk redhead kid is Eli. The other two are Sam
and Sam, which is convenient, but also weirdly annoying. Immediately upon dropping their own cases, the two Sams sink into the futon to watch the game, which Abe starts up again. Eli plugs in his bass. None of them really talk. I want to ask questions, but since Oliver’s focused on the game too, I’m not going to say anything. I wish we’d set up the food down here, though. Maybe I could bring it down without looking too June Cleaver about it.

“There’s food,” Oliver finally says, once Eli is set up and tuned.

Eli nods, but then waits politely for Oliver to take the lead back up the stairs. Neither of the Sams moves from the couch.

I follow Eli and Oliver to the main floor. I’m trying to pay attention to everything I see and feel, to tell Trip about it in the notebook later, but mostly I just wish he were here to see it himself. He would have a thing or two to say about this Eli guy, at least. I pour myself a glass of Slice just to have something to do.

The doorbell rings again, and it’s this giant relief. Eli is peering deep into Oliver’s refrigerator, looking for more than what I’ve already set out. I go to the door without saying anything.

“Am I at the right place?” the boy at the door wants to know, holding up a small slip of paper covered with tiny, antlike handwriting. He is the absolute perfect kind of cute: meaning, cute in a secret way—the way only odd girls like me notice. Glasses. Hooked nose. Close-cut black hair. Sunny hazel eyes. Bonyish wrists. Against my will, my nervous habit kicks in—my jaw
going around its hinges in a circle a few times before I clamp my teeth together to stop it.

“I’m sorry.” He straightens his glasses, looks at me. The slip of paper trembles just slightly between his fingers. “I’m Fabian. There’s an audition? For a synth?”

He shifts a heavy-looking backpack into my view, and there’s a portable amp in his hand. Behind him I see his car—small, white, hybrid-looking.

“I’m, um, Charlotte.” I open the door wider. “Oliver’s inside.”
I’m not his girlfriend, if you were wondering
, I stop myself from adding.

“Nice to meet you, Charlotte,” Fabian says, coming in. But just past the threshold, he pauses. “Is this a shoes-on or shoes-off house?”

He is so incredibly sincere. My jaw stretches itself to pop: once, twice. I force myself to quit it.

“Um. Either?” Mrs. Drake has never said anything about a rule. “Whatever makes you the most comfortable, I guess.”

He looks up through his mod spectacles. “On, then,” he says.

Fortunately my face is hidden as I shut the door behind him. He’s stopped in the foyer, waiting for me to show him the way in, but now I’m kind of stuck behind him. We shuffle left, then right, both laugh a little. Which is when Eli comes around the
corner, a plate heaped with five different new things, and goes, “Hey, man, you here too? Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I am, and no we haven’t,” Fabian says. He is shy and friendly in a way that is just
perfect.

I stretch a hand toward the kitchen. “We have food, if you want.”

“Thanks.” He nods, not budging.

“Or you can just go down.” I motion to the rec room.

Fabian finally moves. I follow him down the stairs, shaking my head and reminding myself that I’m supposed to be
running
things today.

“All right, man!” one of the Sams says, seeing Fabian coming down the thickly carpeted stairs. “I didn’t know
you
were gonna be here.”