One of the Guys (28 page)

I look around the circle. At all the Winston girls staring at me. Lemon. Shauna. Emma. I've never felt so vulnerable. I wipe my sweaty palms on my skirt.

“I'm in love with my best friend,” I continue. “He's my next door neighbor. This boy I've known since forever. But he doesn't know it—at least I don't think he does—and I'm afraid telling him will ruin our friendship.”

“Another boy problem.” Mrs. Kemper sighs and rubs her temples.

“Like maybe he doesn't see me the same way,” I continue, ignoring Mrs. Kemper. It feels good to unload. “Maybe he's mad because I'm leaving Vermont for college, and I didn't tell him. I changed our plans! I feel like a total jerk for that.”

“You chose a college?” Mrs. Kemper brightens. “That's wonderful, Tonya.”

“Thanks.” I shift my weight. “That's not really the issue I'm having, though…”

Mrs. Kemper claps her hands. “Okay,” she grumbles. “I think we can cut group short for today.” She holds up the white envelope. “If anyone knows anything about these brochures, anything at all, let me know. I will get to the bottom of it.” She picks a stray hair from her navy blazer. “Have a good afternoon, ladies.”

Emma follows me through the parking lot, bundled up, her honey hair full of static. “You should tell him.”

“I can't. No way.” I shiver, the wind bitter and mean. Anxious for warmth, I hurry toward my car. I can't wait to get home and hide in my room for a while. As I pull out my keys, Emma calls out, “Hey, Toni.”

“Yeah?” I unlock my car, distracted.

“I'm not ready to give up on our business yet,” she says. “That sounds crazy, right?”

I look at her. Her cheeks are bright red, her lips glossy and pink. “It's too risky to continue,” I say, brushing a hair from my eye. “You heard Mrs. Kemper. Running a business on school ground is a serious offense. We need to back off. Shut it down. We're lucky no one's turned us in yet. We could be suspended or expelled or—”

“This can't be the end of it!” Emma suddenly squeals. “It can't just end like that!”

She looks panicked. Her eyes wide again. Like I just took away her car or something. Calmly, I say, “It's over, Emma. It has to be.”

She flaps her arms. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.” As I open the car door, she grabs my elbow, stopping me.

“We'll still hang out though, right?” she asks.

I give her a look. “Why wouldn't we?”

She sniffs, pulling at her pale pink mittens. “Sometimes I wonder if you'd be my friend if it weren't for the business.”

I laugh and slug her on the shoulder with my good hand. “You're stuck with me forever, Swan.”

Her nose crinkles. “Swan?”

“Could be a nickname for you,” I suggest, shrugging. “You're elegant, but fierce when you need to be. Plus, you know, it ties in with your last name. Do you hate it?”

Emma thinks it over. “
Swan
. I kind of like it.”

I pat her shoulder again. “We could always change it. No harm in that. Later, Swan.”

Inside the car, I crank the heat and sit there a few minutes, rubbing my hands together. I watch Emma trot to her vehicle. It doesn't feel right, ending the business so abruptly. Just like that. Without any warning or goodbye. What we need is a send-off. I climb out of the car and run toward her, shouting her name. She stops and looks at me.

“You know. We should have a proper goodbye.” I'm out of breath. And shape, apparently. “For the business. How does a farewell party sound? My mom and Brian have left me in charge of the house.”

Emma smiles and then shrieks and hugs me so tight I can't breathe. I think I might turn blue.

“That a yes?” I laugh. She releases me and punches my shoulder. Ouch. The girl can hit.

Later I sit drawing on my driveway, waiting for Micah's car to appear around the corner. A dust of snow remains on the grass, but the streets and sidewalks are clear. I pull the hood of my coat over my ears. The sun set twenty minutes ago. The streetlight and the moon shine down as I try to sketch a yellow bird onto the semi-wet pavement.

Finally, the Honda appears around the bend. I drop the chalk and stand, shoving my hands into my pockets. I watch him park. I watch him get out. I watch him shut the door. I watch him scratch his chin. I watch him look up at my bedroom window.

He looks down and squints into the darkness and says, “Toni?”

I wave. Like an idiot. And now he's coming over. Oh, man.
He's coming over here
.

He wears a pair of khaki pants and a white polo shirt beneath his jacket. His work uniform. His breath is a puff in the cold, and I want to catch that breath. Put it in my pocket. Save it. Man, that's so weird. Love makes me so weird.

“Hey. You okay?” he asks.

“Great. Why? Are
you
okay?” I bounce on my heels like I have to pee. I try to stop, but I can't hold still around him.

“Feeling better. Thanks to you,” he says. “Those pies are incredible.”

“Brian made them.” It occurs to me that we're alone again. We're alone a lot. And yet we can't seem to untangle this mess.

He nods, shuffling his feet. “Another ski injury?”

I get lost in his eyes for a moment as I say, “Huh?”

He gestures to my forehead. Mortified, I cover the Hello Kitty bandage with my hand.

“That's nothing.” I blush. “A feline incident.”

“Stupid Tom Brady,” he says.

I flex my fingers. I look at his words on my cast.
My sincerest apologies
. I think I'm in love with his handwriting, too. Again. Weird.

“Hey, um, are you available next weekend?” he asks after a few moments of silence.
Is he asking me on a date?
“It's supposed to be unseasonably warm. Champ may make an appearance.”

“Next weekend?” I pretend to think because I don't want to admit that my calendar is wide open these days. “I could do that. Of course. Can't wait. Sounds awesome. Yeah. Totally. Hooray.”
Hooray?
I'm so lame. “Speaking of plans, I'm having a party tomorrow night. You'll come, right?”

“A party? Here?” He makes a face. “Following in Ollie's footsteps now?”

“It's just this farewell thing for the business,” I say, scratching at my cast. “We have to, um, shut down. Officially.”

“Figured that was about to happen.” He pushes his shoulders forward.

I feel guilty. Maybe if I had handled everything better, he could've made more money. “I'm sorry, Micah. I wanted to help you…”

He waves his hand. His adorable hand. “It's okay,” he says. “I qualify for financial aid. And my grandparents can help a little. I'll still have to work a lot, but it'll happen.”

I brighten. “UVM?”

“Reliable Loch.” He scratches his stubble. “Never changes his plans.”

“You can change them if you want to.” I take a step forward. The space between us shrinks. The light above the Garrys' garage turns on. His parents must be waiting up for him.

“That's the thing,” Micah says, lowering his voice. “I don't want to change them. I like where I'm headed.”

I look away, flushed, and think about next year. The distance. The differences. I imagine getting what I want right now. This second. Micah saying he loves me. Maybe he does feel the same way, but he doesn't want to say it. Maybe he doesn't want to hear me say it.

I can't read his expression. He wipes his buzz-cut and steps back, widening the gap between us. “Anyway. Your party,” he says. “I'll see if I can make it.”

“I hope you can.” I force a smile.

“Later, McRib.” And then he gives a casual farewell nod. As he walks away, I open my mouth to speak, to grab his attention, but nothing comes out. Before I know it he's inside. I could go over there, knock on the door. I could text him, call, but I'm paralyzed.

McRib. I'm just McRib to him.

twenty-eight

I
SHOULD
BE THE RESPONSIBLE
teenager Brian's so certain doesn't exist, but if he assumes I'll do something bad while he and my mom are enjoying their cabin getaway, I might as well fulfill his wish. Brian loves to be right. So it's like I'm giving him a present.

When the doorbell rings, I slide down the banister and land in the foyer with a giant thud. I open the door, and Emma holds up two matching black dresses with fringe on them.

“Let the rebellion commence,” she says with a smile.

After I shower, shave my legs, pluck my eyebrows, and dry my hair, Emma applies my makeup. She chats about Ollie as she coats my lips with sour-tasting gloss. The two have yet to become an official couple, but they've gone on several dates. A movie here, a dinner there. No kiss.
Yet
, Emma emphasizes. I'm happy for them. Really. Someone should be experiencing romantic success around here.

When she's done, I'm afraid to look in the mirror. The spaghetti straps of the dress dig into my shoulders. Each time I adjust them, Emma slaps my hand away. Tom Brady sits at the foot of the bed, playfully swatting at the ends of the fringe each time I walk by. If I never wear this outfit again, at least it doubles as a giant cat toy.

Emma surveys her work. “I'm so good at this, it's ridiculous.”

I look in the mirror hanging on the back of my bedroom door, surprised to see a reflection of, well, myself. Mascara, shiny lips, faint blush. The girl is me, though. I don't feel foreign to myself tonight.

“Thank you.” I'm trying to stay upbeat, happy, but my last encounter with Micah lurks behind my every thought and feeling.
McRib
. Never have I hated that nickname more.

Emma tosses her makeup tools into a heart-shaped bag. “So I have news. And it's not boy-related.”

“Good.” I sigh. “I need a boy break.”

“I got into Harvard.”

I spin around. “Are you serious?”

Emma nods, keeping her cool as she combs her hair and smooths the fringe on her matching dress. She starts to apply fake eyelashes as if she didn't just announce the best news in the world. I can't help it. I bounce up and down, squealing, screaming, “WHY AREN'T YOU FREAKING OUT WITH ME RIGHT NOW?”

“I'm trying to be more like you,” Emma says. “Calm. Cool. Collected.”

But I keep bouncing. The walls shake, and a few soda cans topple off my desk. Tom Brady gets so irritated he hops off the bed and runs from the room.

“WELL STOP IT!” I shriek. “FREAK OUT WITH ME!”

Emma laughs and joins in. It's a good thing Brian isn't here to listen to our high-pitched yelling. After a few minutes of jumping around my room like maniacs, we stop to catch our breath.

“Tonight is now the Emma-Got-Into-HarvardSo-Let's-Freaking-Celebrate Party,” I say, bowing to my genius friend.

Emma pulls the final pieces of our outfits from her bag. Two pink glittering bow ties.

“I know I sound like a broken record,” she says, strapping the bow tie to her neck. I do the same. “But you should tell him.”