Going Vintage (21 page)

“I’m not going to—”

“Either way, we can say hi in the hallways and it’s going to get less weird, right?”

“I didn’t think this
was
weird.” Of course this is weird. But we’re not supposed to point that out. Brown lentil platter for you, Mr. Kimball.

“Because I like being around you.” He’s still looking out the
window, and I wonder if he’s focusing on one object when he says this and what that object is. “I probably shouldn’t, but I do. And I can’t say why. I mean, I can think of a bunch of reasons why.”

Like?
Like?

“But given … the obvious roadblock, I’m not sure how much we can get to know each other.” He rushes on. “As people, because you’re an interesting person and I value that in friendship. That’s seriously what I’m after, not that I’m
after
you and I’m not talking about, you know, ‘knowing’ each other. Like in a biblical way or anything, although you’re obviously pretty, I mean,
very
pretty and totally worth knowing
both
ways … Okay, shut it, Oliver. Shut it.”

I try my hardest to act cool, like when you’re on an airplane, and there’s turbulence, and you know everyone’s stomach is dropping, you know everyone is just a teensy bit freaked out that you’re all in a metal tube hurtling through the air, but seasoned travelers don’t grip their armrests or make that instinctive “oh” that happens when the plane drops. Cool people just keep flipping through their copy of
Us Weekly
like crashing to a fiery death is the last thing on their mind.

Oliver wants to get to know me. Oliver thinks I’m pretty. This is Oliver Kimball we’re talking about, a guy so far out of my social sphere he’s not even in my solar system. He’s, like, Pluto. No, Pluto isn’t a planet anymore, but it is still in the solar system … Wait. He’s far out, okay? And I’m not talking in a groovy kind of way.

“Say something,” he says, almost under his breath.

“Sorry. I like knowing you too.”

He finally tears his gaze away from the window, but he can’t quite meet my eyes. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I am hyperaware of everything in this little restaurant. The Bollywood movie playing on the TV in the corner. The Buddha statue smiling from the entrance. The squeak of the vinyl when I shift in the booth. The red on the top of Oliver’s ears. The goose bumps on my arms because I don’t know what this conversation is really about, how it started, or where it’s going. “But why did you act so indifferent to me before, when we first talked?”

“I don’t know. Seemed safe.”

“Safe?”

“You’re doing that question-echo thing again.”

Safe
. I get what he means. The safest thing for me to do would be to dig out my cell phone and call Jeremy. Despite his change in homecoming dates, I know he’d take me back. He likes safe too. BubbleYum was safe to share his feelings with because he had the buffer of a computer screen. And I was safe to share his kisses because I was there, and willing.

And part of what feels so exhilarating about talking to Oliver now is he is the
least
safe option. Not necessarily in a romantic context—in any context. Except for that Jeremy’s cousin asterisk, I don’t really know anything about him. I’d have to go back to all those bumps that happen when forming a new friendship or … not-friendship. I could get especially hurt from this because of what people would think, because he could tell Jeremy, because I’m doing things I’ve never done before, or at least not since I moved to Orange.

It’s a truth free fall when I erase that J-shaped question mark and let the words slip out. “If we’re going to be, you know, friends, then you should know what happened. Jeremy cheated on me. Sort of. He had this online girlfriend and I accidentally found all their e-mails, really serious and loving and … real e-mails.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “I used to think there was something wrong with him, you know, that he never got my jokes and we never talked. That maybe he was just closed off. But it was us. Or me. I was just a cardboard cutout girlfriend, the one who was geographically convenient.” I open my eyes and Oliver’s are so, so wide. “She’s flying out for homecoming, so I guess they worked out the geography problem.”

“So that’s why you wrote that tool thing on his Friend-space page.”

“Not my strongest moment.” I pause. “I thought you didn’t have Friendspace.”

“I don’t. Okay, fine.” A whisper of a smile touches the right side of his mouth. “I created a profile so I could look up your pages. There should be laws against the stuff people posted.”

“I’ll take your word for it. I’m completely off-line.” I hesitate a moment. I’ve already told Oliver something I haven’t told anyone but Ginnie and Paige. Why not go full throttle?

No. A girl can only let out so much crazy at a time. Besides, The List is more than a secret. It’s sacred, something not to be discussed with just anyone. I wouldn’t want my fragile resolve to be stepped on with one flippant remark. “Anyway, yeah. That’s what safe got me.”

“Mallory, I’m so sorry—”

“Oh, no. Please. Don’t do that.” I grip the sides of the booth. “I didn’t tell you that so you would feel bad. I just wanted you to understand.”

He punches his straw into his soda, jiggling the ice. “I don’t understand, not what he did, but I get where you’re coming from now. I’d probably throw my computer out the window.”

That would just be crazy. No, my sister is holding it hostage. Far more sane.

He scoops up rice with his fork. “I was going to say sorry, though, because I told Jeremy to come after our pep club meeting so you two could talk and get back together.”

“You said you didn’t!”

“I like to lie sometimes. You should know that about me.” He shrugs. “It’s fine as long as I’m not under Scout’s honor. But the good news is, the awkwardness is
completely
erased now.”

“Oh, yeah.” I laugh. “Nothing weird about hanging out with your cousin’s damaged ex.”

He scoots out of the booth and offers me his hand. “You’re not damaged. And I sure don’t feel bad hanging out now that I know how stupid Jeremy was. Now come on. I’m going to introduce you to gulab jamun.”

“Who is he?”

“He’s the rice-pudding dessert.”

I take his hand. We wander around the buffet tables. Neither of us gets more food, but we still browse, holding hands. My skin doesn’t tingle like it always did with Jeremy. This isn’t that kind of hand-holding; this is like when I was little and my mom would guide me across the street, although,
obviously I don’t think of Oliver as a parent, because, you know, gross.

It’s … There’s something achingly familiar about this contact.

I feel safe.

Chapter 15

Possible ways Mallory can live dangerously:

1. Drag racing. Except I don’t have a car. Or someone to race against. Or a place to race. Or any desire to put my life in mortal danger
.

2. Slash Jeremy’s tires. Still considering this one
.

3. Drugs. Drugs are abundant at our school, but I have this thing about obeying the law. Plus, marijuana was bigger later in the ’60s, so not authentic
.

4. Jump into the ocean naked. Too clichéd. Also, see above: obey law
.

5. Tell Oliver what I’m really feeling in this moment
.

Oliver drops me off a couple of miles away from my house, despite insisting that he take me home. The buffet was too perfect, and I don’t want to risk an entire car ride of me saying the wrong things. Plus, I need some time alone to digest our conversation. And that Indian food.

“So I’ll schedule a couple of days to decorate the float,” Oliver says. “How does your week look?”

“Remember? I don’t have things. I’m open.”

“Whatever. I bet you have more things than you think.”

Oliver jumps out of the car and wedges my bike out of the back. He taps the seat for me and leans over, smelling like a sunshine smoothie. Freak, I think he’s about to kiss me, but instead he gives my bell a quick ring.

No kiss. So there’s another one of my things. Apparently, I’m a moron.

This is what happens to hormones when you’re in a relationship and used to filling up the action tank all the time. I’m technologically famished and emotionally ravished, and I haven’t kissed anyone in nine days. It was a physical feast, and now I’m in a famine, and any old boy comes along and I think we’re going to make out. Like on Friday morning, Derik Doogleman held the library door open for me and I actually looked at his butt, and I never look at boys’ butts, especially Doogleman, who has greasy hair and supposedly glued his hands together in fourth grade.

I roll the bike out of smelling distance of Oliver and smile. “Thanks for the ride. It’s nice
knowing
you.”

Oliver groans. “Way to leave on a high note.”

He drives away, and finally I’m alone to think. Think about Oliver, think about Jeremy, but mostly think about myself and the gumbo of emotions bubbling in my stomach. I bike across the street to the entrance of the Villa Park subdivision, wondering what I’ll say to Oliver the next time we talk, when the first drop of rain plops on my arm. It’s not the steady drizzle we usually get. Once the rain starts falling, it’s fast and furious, flooding the gutters and soaking my clothes. Our house is tucked deep in the sprawling master-planned community, still a ten-minute climb. Normally, I would call my mom to pick me up, but I don’t have a freaking cell phone.

I don’t know how people ever
lived
like this.

It’s a long fifteen minutes trudging through the rain. When I finally get home, all I want to do is take a hot bath before finishing up my history report and going to bed early. My weekend suddenly feels so open without the pull of texts and Friendspace and scouring the Internet for cute clothes and other assorted cyberstalking activities. Open, and a little lonely.

But the oddest sight is waiting for me in the dining room. My family is sitting. At the table. And there is food on top. Is this … is this an early Sunday dinner?

Ginnie glares at me as she walks in with a yellow Jell-O mold, a frilly pink apron tied around her waist. “I told you dinner was at three.”

I am such a bad sister for forgetting this. Ginnie must have spent all day cooking. There’s a roasted chicken, some sort of veggie casserole, the Jell-O mold, ready-made rolls, and a three-bean salad. The spread could be on the cover of one of Grandma’s old cookbooks.

I’m still standing in the doorway, not wanting to drip inside the house. Mom retrieves a towel from the bathroom. I wrap myself in the warmth and wring out my hair. “I’m sorry. My phone—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ginnie grumbles. “We waited twenty minutes and now we’re starving. So sit down and eat.”

“Just let me change my clothes.”

She grunts. I hurry into my bedroom and throw on a T-shirt and too-short pajama bottoms. Ginnie is just lighting the dinner candles (dinner candles?) when I take my seat.

She extends each arm, grabbing Dad’s hand and mine. “We need to bless the food.”

Dad blanches. “Like, pray?”

Ginnie already has her eyes closed, but she pries one open. “Dad. The family that prays together stays together.”

Mom and Dad exchange a glance across the table and join hands. Ginnie looks at me. “Mallory?”

“Ginnie?”

“Say the prayer.”

We don’t pray. Not together. Not ever. There are the Ruminations I do with Grandma, and sometimes I try praying when I’m in my bed at night and sorting out my thoughts. I need to talk to someone, so I turn to God. But daily prayers, habitual
prayers like blessing the food—no. I’m not sure where to start. “Dear God. Thank you for this food. Thank you for … the hands that prepared it. Thank you for this family …” I peek one eye open. Everyone’s head is bowed. Everyone is holding hands. This … this is nice. Why don’t we do this more? Not just praying, but the together thing. Being a family. Was Ginnie right? Did The List do this? “Thank you for the things that matter. Amen.”

Mom raises her head and blinks at me. “That was a beautiful prayer, Mallory. Thank you.”

No one reaches for the food. It’s like we’re waiting for a butler to come in and spoon-feed us. Ginnie finally lets out a giggle. “Mallory. Thank you so much for blessing my hands.” She holds them up. “They are now sacred.”

“Shut up.” I survey the food. I’m so full that it all looks gross. I start with a little bit of the lemon Jell-O. “You don’t mock prayers. That’s just what people say.”

“Where were you all day?” Dad asks me as he tears off a chicken leg. “And why were you outside?”

I poke my Jell-O with my fork. “I rode my bike. I had to get some decorations for our pep club float.”

Mom and Ginnie say the same thing together, but they’re actually asking different questions. “Pep club?”