Going Vintage (24 page)

“I’ve sworn off modern technology. I got a little burned after, um, you know.”

Oliver curses under his breath. “That’s right. Sorry.”

“How does the song go? Can you sing it to me?”

“What, right now?”

“Or during our next pep club meeting. You choose.”

I expect him to say no, or get embarrassed, to maybe say a line or two of lyrics. But instead his voice comes out pure and strong through my crackling connection. The song talks about an awkward car ride, and I laugh, and the rest is sort of sad, about a guy who’s trying to be enough for a girl. I wonder
what he means about that. Is he talking about himself, or was it just that first line that led to the connection?

He stops after a verse. “Here, found it on my computer. Listen.”

It’s a fast song, not a love song, more bittersweet. The words pour over me and into me. It feels like he’s trying to tell me something with the lyrics, but it’s also a song with a distinct mood. Maybe that’s why he thought of me?

It’s only three minutes, but by the end I’ve driven myself crazy with questions. He clears his throat. “Anyway, that’s the song.”

“Your voice … That was amazing.”

“Hardly.”

Now, instead of his voice, it’s silence, but not a bad silence. More like we’re both absorbing something before moving on. I don’t know what Oliver is thinking or feeling, but I still have goose bumps. A song made
him
think of
me
. And he wasn’t saying something nice like that just so I’d make out with him. He might not want to make out with me at all, ever, which would probably be good, but then again, maybe not.

“So, um … now I feel stupid,” he says. “Didn’t you say you had homework?”

I push aside the cheese. Oliver trumps the cheese. “Nope. Do you have a singing merit badge?”

“Three.”

“Sing some more.”

“Good night, folks.”

“Okay, talk more. For a second.”

But we don’t talk a second. We end up talking three hours. Don’t even ask me what about. Everything? Nothing? Our favorite fruits and TV shows and bad middle school experiences and how Oliver reads the news every day and I have no clue what’s happening in the world. Oliver talks about all the pressure he feels with college looming before him, and I confess that I’m not even sure I’ll go to college, don’t know where I’d go and what I’d do once I made it in. He’s jealous of my breeziness; I envy his ambition.

His voice is soft and gravelly toward the end, when my mom pokes her head in my room and tells me I should get to bed. I untwist the cord of my old phone, thinking my grandma probably did that gesture too, when she was young and talking to her steady. It’s weird how fast I can get to know a person when the conversation is so focused on … getting to know a person. I could probably be best friends with anyone at school if we had a few hours to open up like this.

“Hey, Oliver? I better go.”

“Right. Of course.” He clears his throat. “So, I’ll see you Wednesday? Pep club?”

“Yep. I’m all yours.” I stumble. “I mean, to work on the float, all yours. Not all yours, all yours.”

Oliver laughs, deep and warm. I wish I could record it and keep it under my pillow to play in the middle of the night when I have bad dreams. It’s that rich. “Sweet dreams, Mallory.”

I don’t need the recording. My dreams are all about Oliver. Oliver at my house playing board games, Oliver in his clunker car, Oliver leaning against my locker. Oliver under a tree, giving me a kiss.

That’s when I wake up and the sweetness sours, because it’s the first time I’ve let my mind, even my subconscious, go to that place with Oliver. The place we can never go, for reasons that are so obvious but somehow become less clear every time we talk.

Chapter 17

Other merit badges Oliver Kimball could earn:

1. Charm
.

2. Wit
.

3. Delicious laugh
.

4. Asking the right question at the right time
.

5. Grace.
Manly
grace
.

6. More Charm. We’re talking Charm School. We’re talking earning ten charm O.W.L.s at Hogwarts
.

On Wednesday morning, Jeremy is waiting for me outside first period. When he sees me, he jumps like a startled bunny,
even though I’ve never seen a startled bunny, and maybe they don’t jump when they’re scared, only hop when they’re happy? Regardless, Jeremy rushes over to me, starts to reach for my arm, then realizes that my body is now out of bounds, and awkwardly sticks his hand on top of his head, like that was his intent all along.

“Hey. I wanted to talk to you about something. School-related. Real quick.”

I step back, away from the doorway, farther into the hallway so our classmates don’t have to pass us directly. I don’t act annoyed or hurried. I’m not earnest or sweet. I am the Switzerland of conversationalists. Neutral and cold—with a deep appreciation for chocolate. “Sure, Jeremy. What is it?”

Jeremy steps back, that’s how awesome my impartiality is. I’ve hit him with the force of my nothingness. “Look. I know it’s been a crazy couple of weeks. And I know you asked to not be my partner anymore, and you did an alternative assignment, but I feel bad …”

He feels bad?
Bad
is not a bad-enough word for how he should feel. “About what?”

“How things worked out. So I already did the assignment—entire virtual factory, all ready to turn in. And I’m offering … if you want to tell Mr. Hanover that you’re my partner again, I’m okay with that. We’d be even, with all the work you’ve, uh, helped me with in the past.”

“Okay.” I draw out the word, cocking my head to the side. “So what’s in it for you?”

“Making you happy?” He rocks back from his toes to his
heels. He can’t stay still. He never can, but especially when he’s uncomfortable. I know this about him, I probably know things about him that he’s not even aware of himself. “The thing is, if you don’t want me”—he rocks forward. Back—“fine. Well, not fine, but I’ll live.”

“You’ll
live
?” Nuh-uh. There is one victim in this situation, and it is not you, Amazing Asian. “Jeremy, this is your doing.”

“I know!” Jeremy yells. His body stops jittering, but his voice shakes. “You think I don’t know? You never mess up, you never make anyone upset, you’re perfect and fearless.”

“No, I’m not! See? You don’t even know me.”

“Then let me!” He spits when he shouts. “I’m trying to fix things. You’re not letting me.”

Moving away from the door hasn’t stopped us from making a scene. But the bell is about to ring, there are only a few people around, and honestly, at this point, I don’t care. About anyone. About any of this.

There’s nothing that Jeremy can say that will
fix
anything. Our story isn’t a new one. He fell for another girl. If I went back to him, that other girl wouldn’t just stop existing, even if, technically, she never really did. If there was something substantive there to begin with, a relationship worth salvaging, maybe … maybe I could work on forgetting the exact wording of those e-mails.

“Mallory,” Jeremy whispers. “Please.”

“I already did my paper,” I say quietly.

“I don’t care about the paper. I only care about you.”

I bite back the words, because I am Switzerland. Switzerland, remember? But my thoughts cross the national boundaries into Germany or whatever country touches Switzerland, and they’re out. “Then why are you taking Jenny to the dance?”

He looks stricken. “I’m not. Why is everyone saying that? I would rather not go than go with anyone but you.” This time Jeremy does reach out and cross that invisible barrier, and now that he’s in that zone, I don’t know how to push him away. I let him touch me as five long seconds tick by. He even rubs my skin with his thumb and, yeah, I tingle. You can’t just turn off tingles.

His eyes are the same eyes that they always were, and he’s looking at me the same way he always did, but I see
him
differently now, and tingles or not, this isn’t good.

“So, what are you saying?”

“That I want to take you to homecoming.”

I close my eyes. Last year, Jeremy lined the hallway leading to my bedroom with rose petals and Sour Patch candy. Sweet and sour. And he had a plate of Chinese food—sweet and sour pork—with a fortune cookie asking me to the dance. And it was one of the best days of my life.

This year, we can still go to the dance. We’ll be hesitant at first, he will respect my space, and then we’ll share a kiss that will remind each other what we have. What we had.

Or I could go by myself. All awkward and alone, watching the other couples feel awkward together. I could tuck away this chapter in my life and open myself up to the possibility of someone else. That new something might not be any better.

But it might.

And, right now, that
might
feels more honest than the sure thing.

“I can’t.”

“Sure. Sure.” His body slumps forward, so different from his confident, strong posture. He looks like he’s going to cry. Real cry, not I-want-to-show-you-how-sensitive-I-am-so-we-can-hook-up cry. “I’m so sorry. About all of it.”

There’s the apology. There’s my victory. But there is nothing sweet about his words.
Sorry
doesn’t make things better. It doesn’t mean I forgive him.

“Can we go out to lunch at least?” he asks. “So we can talk?”

“I think we’ve talked enough. But thank you for the offer.” I don’t say which offer—the assignment, the dance, the reconciliation. “See you in class.”

And then I am the Alps, chilly and unfeeling. I am not just going to melt and take him in, go back to us.

Us
is over.

Us
never really was.

Chapter 18

Tidbits about the Industrial Revolution:

1. Society used to be divided between poor and nobility, but this period saw the beginnings of the working middle class
.

2. Steam was power back then. Being full of hot air was a good thing
.

3. The nastiest storage unit in existence doesn’t compare to the working conditions in many factories
.

4. The word “Luddite”, which I always thought was a person who hated computers, actually refers to a group of people who opposed the period’s
industrial changes so much that they destroyed looms and, like, factory machines
.

5. Are you as bored as I am?

I’m supposed to meet at Oliver’s to work on the float, but I have to do that stupid assignment and I don’t want to be around anyone. I don’t call, because I don’t want him to try to change my mind. I’ll help Oliver extra hard tomorrow. He’ll understand.

I hole up with my library books, and by ten at night, I have nothing. I don’t even know what my thesis should be—I don’t even remember what a thesis
is
. I answer the phone when it rings, not because I want to talk to anyone, but because I need an excuse to stop staring at a blank sheet of paper.

“Yeah?”

“Mallory? Where were you today?”

Oliver. Oliver is probably the only person I want to talk to now, because he won’t make me talk about anything I don’t want to, which is close to everything. “Oh, sorry. I have this paper to write—”

“What, and you couldn’t call?”

“Wow, what happened to your formal salutations?”

“Because I’m mad, if you didn’t pick up on that. You flaked and I’m doing all the work on the club that
you
wanted to start.”

“I know, and I appreciate all that you’re doing.” I pause, my heart prickling at his tone. Does this kid really care about pep club
that
much? “I was totally wrong and I’m sorry. I should have come or called. Did anyone else come?”

“Oh yeah,” he grumbles. “We had plenty of people show.”

“So, that’s good.”

“Look, I have to go. I’ll do this float myself. It’s not hard.”

“No, I want to help. I just have to turn this in tomorrow.”

“No, it’s fine. Do your assignment.”

He emphasizes
assignment
like I’m not really doing an assignment, like I’m sitting here painting my toenails and singing along with music and laughing at all those fools working on the float. What the crap? Oliver is the most easygoing guy on earth. Yes, it was flaky of me to miss the float thing, but:

1. I am flaky.

2. I don’t think his reaction quite matches the crime.