Just Like the Movies (11 page)

After school, I make it home in record time. I want to haul ass and get on the computer before Mac gets home from school and demands to use it, allegedly for homework but actually for gaming. Mom isn't supposed to get home until six, so I'm a little surprised to pull up at three thirty and see her car in the driveway. Cautiously, I let myself into the house.

“Mom?” I call out uncertainly.

“Up here,” is her muffled reply.

I follow the sound of her voice, scaling the stairs to her bedroom and pausing in the doorway. She's in bed. I can see she's got on her fuzzy pink bathrobe and her hair is a strange combination of frizzy and flat.

“Are you okay?” I ask, alarmed. “Are you sick? You look awful.”

“Way to kick a girl when she's down,” Mom sniffs, grabbing another tissue. That's when I notice the red eyes and forlorn expression. I'm pretty sure I can guess the cause, but I go ahead and ask anyway.

“What happened?”

She chokes a little on another bout of tears, then manages to say, “Jim dumped me.”

Sighing, I sit on the edge of the bed, fingering the lacy edge of her comforter. I say what I know she wants to hear.

“I'm sorry.”

“Yeah.” She sniffles again. “I really thought he might be
The One
, you know? A nice guy, good with kids, the whole package. But of course, once again I'm reminded of why the male species sucks ass.”

I laugh at that and she manages a smile.

“What did he say?” I ask.

She deepens her voice into an impression of Contractor Jim.

“I just see myself starting a life and a family with someone younger,” she drawls. “And baby, you already got a few too many miles on them tires.”

I gasp. “Tell me he didn't actually say that!”

She nods miserably.

“Well, then he's a dick, Mom. And it's better that you find it out now before things could have gotten more serious. God, who says stuff like that anyway? How old is
he
?”

“Thirty-eight.”

“Right. Like he has any room to talk—he's three years older than you!”

“Yeah, a little less, I think. He's a Gemini. I should have
seen it coming—those Geminis always have dual personalities. It's impossible to tell what they're thinking.”

At one point, my mom thought it would be a great idea to start learning about astrology. She probably hasn't studied it in, oh, about eight years, but she'll still talk about it as if she's been giving readings in a tent with her crystal ball nearby.

“I'm sorry, Mom,” I say again, trying to sound genuine and patting her hand. I move to stand. “Do you need anything?”

She shakes her head. “No, nothing for me. If you can keep an eye out for Mac, though, that'd be great. I just want to make sure he gets in and does his homework before getting on that godforsaken DS.”

“Sure.”

I'd expect nothing less. Mom needed time to mope alone with her broken heart. Still, the slow burn of bitterness crawls up my chest and into my throat like vomit. I hurry out of the room before I say something I'll regret. Something like, “How about you get over yourself and act like a mom?” or “Maybe it's a good thing Jim dumped you—now you can stay home and parent for once.”

When I make it back downstairs, I slide into the computer chair and wiggle the mouse to wake up the monitor. Above me, I can hear Mom moving around. The creak of her mattress. Footsteps padding across the floor toward the
bathroom. I sigh and pull up Google Chrome. I need to focus on
Say Anything
and Marijke's scene tonight.

I'd be lying if I said it hadn't occurred to me that, by helping Marijke, I might really be trying to help my mom. I mean, not that what I'm
doing
will help her, but Marijke's about as pressed on Tommy as my mom gets on her Man of the Week.

I shake my head. Doing this—the movie thing—was my idea and I'm going to see it through. And after seeing Mom, broken and bed-bound by her heartache, I know I don't want that for Marijke. I actually do want her to be happy.

I guess she's kind of becoming my friend. Which is totally weird.

And, of course, there's the Joe factor. Marijke's detention tactic was pretty slick. Especially since I didn't know about it—it made it all the more real, the more special, when he and I talked and studied and smiled. I will never, ever forget the way he reached out and touched my hair. I think it took me another minute or two to start breathing again.

So I pull up iTunes and download “In Your Eyes,” then I transfer it over to my iPod. I fiddle with the speaker dock, plugging the cords into the iPod, then playing with the volume.

Now it's time for the most important test.

I take the dock outside to the picnic table and turn the volume all the way up, wincing at the almost painful sound.
Man, I really hope the neighbors aren't home. I hurry back into the house and listen closely. From the living room, I can hear the lyrics loud and clear. As Peter Gabriel sings about wanting to run away and driving off in his car, I can decipher every word.

Perfect. That means that this strategy is as foolproof as possible. As long as Tommy's home, he'll hear the music. Assuming, of course, that Marijke can manage to have the courage to pull this off. I'll be the first one to admit it—doing something like this will take an awful lot of nerve.

“Lily!”

Crap. I forgot about Mom.

I move to the bottom of the stairs to see her standing at the top with one hand on her hip.

“Lily, what in the world are you doing? Why are you blasting music outside?”

“Uh . . . school project,” I call up to her before heading toward the back door. The last thing I'm going to do is tell my mom about our movie master plan. Next thing I know, she'd be showing up at Jim's house with a boom box.

Before I go down to the track to practice, I swing into the band room. It only takes a few seconds to find Tommy—he's in one of the soundproof booths, singing into a microphone and strumming on his acoustic guitar. He doesn't see me, so I stand there for a minute, just watching him.

God, he is just so beautiful. His skin is tan and yummy like some kind of caramel dessert. His eyes are icy blue, and yet they completely scorch me when I look at him.

Speaking of those eyes, he glances up midcroon and sees me, then grins. I move to open the door as he pulls off the large headphones he's wearing.

“Hey sexy,” he says, pulling my hand until my body is pressed up against him.

“How was the chemistry test?” I ask, kissing his cheek. He smiles at me.

“I think I did really well. I mean, of course, this is my second time taking it after completely bombing the first one, but I'm feeling pretty good about it.”

“That's great.” I reach over and let my fingers strum lightly along the strings on the neck of his guitar. “So, listen, do you have plans tonight?”

He shrugs. “I have to go by Jimmy's to pick up an amp. Other than that, I should be home. Why?”

“I—uh—I'm just curious,” I shake my head, trying my best to look casual.

Tommy slides his hand up down my back and lets it rest on my hip. “Why? You thinking about coming over to visit? Sneaking into my bedroom and surprising me in the middle of the night? I won't say no, I promise.”

I can feel my cheeks coloring. “I'm sure you wouldn't.”

“Hey, we could get started right now, if you want. That's the beauty of a soundproof room, babe. You can't hear out and they can't hear in.” Now he smooths his other hand over the thigh of my jeans. “It's the perfect place if you wanna get rowdy.”

He winks and I squirm away from him.

“Right—um, have you forgotten the huge glass window in front of us?”

He grins again and pulls me into his lap, nuzzling my neck. I let myself relax into him a bit, feeling the warmth of his body against mine. Then I sigh.

“I've got to go stretch,” I say, disentangling myself from his arms. “I'm gonna get a ride home with Beth, okay?”

“Sure, baby. I'll text you later,” he says, sliding the headphones back on.

As I walk out the door, I glance back and see him singing and playing again. This time his eyes are closed and my heart turns into something overflowing. It squeezes around itself. Watching him do something he loves so much reminds me of why I love him. His commitment to his music is something I can't deny or ignore. And maybe he'll see
my
commitment to
him
through music too.

Only mine is a means to an end—and that end is going to happen tonight.

In his backyard.

With an iPod dock over my head.

And my heart on full display.

I'm halfway across the student parking lot when I see Courtney Mills walking toward me. I can feel a lump in my throat, but I force myself to swallow hard.

Courtney and I used to be friends—
best
friends. All through middle and high school, we did everything together. Student government, honors society, all of that stuff. She never ran track with me, but we still spent a ton of time together—at least until Tommy entered the picture.

Once Tommy and I were a couple, Courtney and I just didn't see each other as much. Then the texts stopped. After
a while, I dug myself out of my new relationship long enough to notice that I'd been replaced by Meagan, the new SGA vice president. She and Courtney were always attached at the hip. When I tried to talk to either of them, they seemed like a package deal.

“Hey Marijke,” Courtney is saying, smiling at me. I glance past her, but there's no Meagan tailing her. I smile back.

“Hey Court. How's it going?”

“Oh, you know,” she waves a hand. “Always busy—prom and graduation to plan for. All that stuff. Congrats, by the way. About heading to states.”

I just nod, watching her face. I remember when we went ice skating for the first time and she fell against the rink wall. You can still make out the tiniest scar underneath her nose.

“How's Tommy?” she asks, eyebrows raised. I blink a few times.

“I, uh, oh, he's great. Thanks.”

“Well good.”

The silence is awkward between us—especially because back when we were little you couldn't get the two of us to shut up when we were together. I miss that, I realize all of a sudden.

“Listen, Court, I was wondering—”

“Hey Courtney, let's go. Nadia is waiting for us to start the meeting.”

Meagan comes up behind Courtney and I feel my heart sort of sink. In another life—my old life—I'd be the one going to the meeting with Courtney and she would have been the one scheming with me about all these movies. Not with Lily, a girl I've basically just met. A girl I barely know at all.

“Later, Marijke,” Courtney says, giving me a little smile. “Good luck with states.”

“Later,” I echo.

I watch them walk away, arm in arm, and I try to remember what I have to be grateful for. My friendship with Courtney is my past. I need to focus on my future—my track friends, my running, and my boyfriend.

Most of all, my hopefully foolproof plan to capture his heart tonight for good.

“So, let me get this straight . . .”

We're standing in the foyer of Marijke's house and she's staring at the speaker dock looking doubtful.

“I drive to Tommy's,” she's saying, “park down the street, sneak into his backyard, turn this thing on, and—what? Just stand with it over my head, waiting for him to hear me?”

I shrug. “Yeah. That's about it. Why, were you expecting fireworks?”

“No, not necessarily. I just think that when guys put themselves out there like that, it's totally romantic. When a girl does it, she just looks like a stalker.”

I frown. “Who cares what it looks like? Who is going to see you besides Tommy?”

“Well, you are, for starters. I already told you, I'm not doing this without you as my wingman.”