Fan Art (11 page)

“You know . . .” She changes the topic. “By the time you were born, he’d filled out across the shoulders. His face changed too—lost that boyish look you have.”

So I wasn’t going to be a beanpole all my life?
Good to know.

But then she switches back to their love life or, well,
lack of one after yours truly. “What was I supposed to do with a baby in a third-floor walk-up? In San Jose?”

I know the rest of the story. She moved back home to live with her mom and work for this amazing architecture firm. My grandfather had just passed away, and my grandmother needed a little more noise around the house. And a baby fixes that. We still live in the same house, a Cape Cod nowhere near Cape Cod. And my grandmother turned into a snowbird, bought a mobile home, and married a retired truck driver named Stan. They come visit every summer when life on the road gets a little too quiet.

“Jamie, you look so darn grown-up,” Mom says, and pats my knee.

“Aw, Mom,” I tell her. “Don’t get all nostalgic on me. You need to get some footage of me and my ladies in waiting.”

She dabs at the corner of her eye with her sleeve.

After I’ve put on my Chucks and done my hair to a polished, messy perfection, I pose for pictures with the twins in the living room. The doorbell rings.

“I get,” Elisabeth says, and with boost and a little help with the deadbolt, she does.

Mason steps inside, wearing a white jacket over black pants and looking a little like he just dropped from heaven.

I go to open my mouth to say something but find it’s already hanging open.

He looks down at Elisabeth and the corner of his lips twitch up into a smile. By the time he sees Ann Marie’s getup, it’s an all-out grin.

“They dressed up for prom,” Mom explains, as if Mason isn’t already well versed in the oddities of life with two-year-olds.

“Very fancy,” Mason tells the girls. He smiles again as they twirl around to show him their capes. He looks amazing—his black glasses all Buddy-Holly-retro-cool with the white jacket and blue bow tie. His smile is bright and imperfect, but perfect in its own way. He takes Elisabeth’s tiny hands in his and together they spin in a circle.

He pauses when Ann Marie clamors to join in, but I’m the one who feels dizzy, like my heart isn’t pumping enough oxygen to my brain.
Or maybe this is what falling in love feels like?
I shake the thought away because I’ll never make it through the night with that idea running laps around my mind.
He looks nice
, I tell myself, because that is a thought I can deal with.
Like Darren Criss.

Minutes tick by, and I become aware that I haven’t said a word—not even hello.

Mason stops spinning and comes into focus again. “Looks good,” he says, and nods at my tux. “The sneakers are so you, Jamie.”

“Yeah,” I manage. “You too. But not sneakers, I mean, the flower corn—cornflower, um, tie.” I’m babbling. And
I can’t stop. Infatuation has hijacked my vocal chords. “Blue, but not.”

“Totally,” Mason agrees, as if something I said made sense.

“The color thing. And real shoes,” I continue, trying—and failing—to speak in full sentences.

Mom saves me by asking to take our picture outside on the steps. Mason throws an arm over my shoulder just as Mom says, “Cheese.” I grin like an idiot as her phone makes its little shutter sound. She takes another picture, and I find myself hanging on to Mason for a moment too long. He smells like Speed Stick, shampoo, and all I’ve ever wanted.

“Let me take one,” Mason says, sliding out from under my arm. “You and your mom.”

“Oh, no,” Mom protests, patting at her frizzy hair.

“You look great,” Mason assures her, and snaps a photo.

I drive to Michael’s house, where the limo driver will meet us. The plan is to pick up the girls in style, stopping just long enough for parents to snap a few photos, then go to dinner downtown before prom. The limo pulls up in front of Eden’s house, and I get out. Being more than three feet from Mason, I feel my head clear as if I just took the right allergy medication.
Thank God. I might be able to form a sentence.

Before I reach the door, it opens. Eden sticks her head out. Her strawberry-blonde hair is piled up on her head with falling-out-on-purpose ringlets on either side of her face. She beckons with one finger.

I step closer.

“I know kissing me would be like kissing a dead skunk, so I won’t ask you to do that.”

“Um,” I say. Not what I expected. But then again, maybe I should stop expecting things from Eden. “Thanks.”

“But, puh-leeze,” she begs in a mock whisper. “Put your arm around me when my parents take pictures.”

“Sure,” I agree.

“My dad’s on the verge of a meltdown,” she says quietly. And, not giving me a chance to ask for clarification, she shouts, “Jamie’s here!”

The O’Shea clan—minus the time bomb in question—comes outside. I nod hello to Nick and he does the same. He looks less like a Neanderthal in a black suit. I am introduced to Eden’s grandparents, Nana and Poppa, as Eden’s new beau. Nick chuckles at this.

The three older O’Sheas all have phones or cameras. But no shotguns. Eden’s mother positions Eden and me on the steps, then in the yard. I obey like a trained seal, then worry that I’m not convincing anyone of anything. So I wrap an arm around Eden and whisper, “Skunk stew or skunk sausage?”

And Eden bursts out laughing—making the photos look like we were the gayest straight couple on planet hetero.

But when a shadow the size of a Mac truck falls over us, our grins retreat.

“Only to the school-sponsored after-party,” her father bellows at me. “And home by zero one-hundred.”

A twisted, clown-in-a-horror-movie smile crosses Nick’s face.

“Yes, sir,” I say, even though I’m picturing Cinderella’s coach turning back into a pumpkin. I make a mental note to ask Eden what time zero one hundred is.

“Oh, thank you, Daddy!” Eden says, and flings her arms around him as if he just granted her a wish.

Each stop is step and repeat. The limo pulls up at Bahti’s house, then Holland’s, then Lia’s. Each time, we wait for parents to take pictures of the couple. Lia’s parents insist on taking photos of all of us. They seem happy to see Eden, even if Lia doesn’t hide her surprise/disgust well. Eden and I ham it up, pretending that nothing is wrong. Mason raises his eyebrows at us, which makes me blush through my freckles.

Finally we arrive at the restaurant. I’m starving and help myself to the breadbasket while scanning the menu for something not too expensive. I pass over the burger—it seems too casual for prom—and choose a chicken dish.
Eden says she’s going to get the same thing.

“Order whatever you want,” I whisper to her.

“I was in the mood for skunk sausage, and I don’t see it on the menu,” Eden says with a straight face. But it doesn’t last long.

“I think it’s a special,” I say. “With apricot couscous and asparagus spears.”

Eden buries her giggles in her napkin.

I laugh at my own joke but stop when I catch Mason watching us flirt. He looks ready to kick me one in the shin.

I mouth,
What’s wrong?

He shakes his head, his curls taking a moment to catch up with the motion.

For a nanosecond I think he might be jealous, but then I remember. Prom was my idea, and he’s here because of me—babbling, incoherent, I-have-a-best-friend-crush-on-him me. I smile sympathetically and offer, “I know it’s not McCall.”

“It’s all right,” he says.

My heart pings in my chest, and I suddenly want to make him the happiest person on earth. So I pick up my water glass, and around the table everyone does the same.

“To friends!” I say.

Glasses clink and droplets of condensation sizzle in the candle flames.

“To friends,” Mason echoes, his eyes on mine.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

NINETEEN

Three hours later, the bass is
thumping its way through a hip-hop song and I have long lost Eden to her crowd of squealing, giggling friends. Challis and the art-geek girls stole her away with compliments on her dress and whispers of gossip.

The words of the song are muffled by the persistent beat, and I can’t help but move to it, even though I’m dancing with no one in particular. I look up to see Bahti do a 180 in Mason’s arms—her little backside keeping the beat against his fly. Facing me, she raises her arms up, taking handfuls of thick hair with them. Then she lets go and her hair falls, brushing Mason’s face as her hair tumbles to her shoulders. She leans back against his chest and turns her head so it’s nestled under his chin as their hips grind to the bass.

I try not to stare.

Bahti reaches back, puts her hands on Mason’s hips,
and slides them down along the satin stripes on his pants.

I can’t help it.

All the parties in Kellen’s backyard, the keggers in Brodie’s basement, and I’ve never seen Mason pay so much attention to a girl. Not like this, anyway.

The thump of the music echoes in my ribs. Where my heart used to be.

He’s looking down at her. And she’s smiling her million-watt smile back at him. I see it now. How perfect they are for each other. My straight-A best friend and the third runner-up for valedictorian—somehow prettier now that she’s wearing makeup and a form-fitting, thigh-skimming dress. It’s like they’ve been waiting for the drama of high school to end so their real lives could begin.

But, wait.
What the—?

Bahti reaches for me. Her fingers are in mine, pulling me in to make a sandwich. The bass still thumping, the three of us move as one—the sound tugging at our hips and knees. Mason and I bounce lower and lower, Bahti a narrow pillar between us. His knees brush mine and he flashes me a grin, then—for a moment—it’s like we are dancing together. Just us. The disco ball trailing little squares of light over his shoulders and the music freeing up our hearts and letting them beat for each other.

Until the song fades and another begins.

“Phew,” Bahti says, and piles her hair on top of her head. “I need something cool to drink.”

“Me too,” Mason agrees. They head toward the tables, and I let them go, pretending to be absorbed in the new song while I regain my composure.

“There you are, dahling!” Eden says when she finds me.

“Ah, my love,” I respond in my own fake British accent. “I thought you left me for Lord von Skunk.”

“Leave you?” She cozies up to me and we start to dance. “Never.”

“Not even for the fair Lady Carmine?” I ask.

Eden’s mouth drops open.

And I know I’m onto something.

But Lia, of all people, cuts in by tapping me on the shoulder. “May I have this dance?” she asks, in an equally silly British accent that sounds, well, practiced.

Eden and I stop dancing, our arms falling limp at our sides.

I look at Eden.

And she looks at me, surprised, and maybe a little hopeful.

Until Lia glowers at me.

I feel my eyebrows wrinkle. I sort of shake my head, but neither girl seems to notice. If anyone in this room needs three minutes to talk, it’s them. Not me.

Lia puts her hands on my shoulders. I look at her dress—it reminds me of a princess costume in my sisters’ dress-up box—and wonder if I could get away without
touching it. But she puts her hands on my shoulders like we’re dancing, so I feel like a dork with mine by my sides. Carefully, I hold her by the waist and resist the urge to squirm away.

“So, how’s prom going, Jamie?”

“Good,” I say.

“When Michael and I invited you to share a limo, it never occurred to me that you’d bring
her
.”

“I know you used to be friends.” I shrug and pull a dumb guy move. “So why not?”

“Why not?” Lia squeaks.

I wait.

“For your information, we aren’t friends anymore.”

“Too bad,” I say. And in defense of my prom date choice, I continue. “Because Eden’s really nice. Funny, too.”

Lia rolls her eyes and sighs as if I’m stupid.

“What? There’s nothing wrong with Eden,” I say to push her buttons.

“Um,” Lia says. “I don’t know if you know this, but she’s a total lesbo.”

“Yeah,” I snap, “I know. And the word is
lesbian
.”

Her mouth pops open as she inhales sharply. “The comic. The smutty comic in
Gum
—” Lia’s eyes scan my face. “I get it now. You’re both bearding it,” she says as if the words taste like bile.

Her words slap my cheek, but my urge to fight gives
way to my lizard brain. I choose flight and let go of her waist faster than if her dress were on fire. Then I nearly run to the men’s restroom, my heart pounding like a snare drum. But the room reeks like wretched-up spaghetti, and my stomach heaves at the stench. I spin around, push the door open, and head back out into the hall—holding my stomach and gasping for air.

I go through another door and find myself in a little lounge, sort of like a waiting room at the doctor’s office. I sink into a chair and lean my head back so I can breathe better. I take a few deep breaths—calming yoga ones—with my eyes closed.

The door swishes open.

“Um, Jamie?” a voice asks.

I open my eyes to see Challis peering down at me.

“It doesn’t matter to me,” she says. “But do you know you’re in the ladies’ room?”

“The what?”

“The lay-dees’ room,” she says slowly, gesturing with a sweep of her arm.

I follow with my eyes as it sweeps around the lounge: mirror, loveseat, chair, table with a box of Kleenex.

Is this what the ladies’ room looks like?
I wonder. I haven’t seen one since I was five and had to go in with my mom. I have no choice but to believe Challis, even though there isn’t a toilet or sink in sight. “Sorry,” I mumble, and stand up.

I’m reaching for the door handle when she says, “Jamie, you look really nice tonight.”

I stop. Turn and look at her. I mean, really look.