P.S. I Like You (12 page)

Finally
, I thought, as I settled into my seat in Chemistry on Thursday. I couldn’t listen to Mr. Ortega for the normal five minutes I usually did before reading. I unfolded the note right away.

I hadn’t realized it was lab yesterday. It surprised me. Maybe I should start paying more attention in class. I blame you for the distraction. The problem is that you’re making me look forward to Chemistry or something. In what crazy world does anyone look forward to Chemistry? Can you stop being so amusing? I think that will help. Did you start on our first song? “Left Behind.” It’s hard to tell if someone is kidding or not in a letter. Are you actually a songwriter?

That last sentence made me pause. I wanted to be a songwriter. But I really wasn’t. I hadn’t even written a full song. I had partial lyrics, and incomplete melodies, but nothing finished. I shook off the thought and continued reading.

If so, I’m impressed. If not, maybe you should be. You seem passionate about music and you have a way with words. Sometimes I wish I were passionate about something real. Something I knew I could succeed in. Right now all my dreams are a little far-fetched. Oh no, Mr. Ortega wants us to complete a worksheet with our seat partner. Gotta go.

I smiled, and checked up to see Mr. Ortega writing some endless formula on the board. I immediately produced a fresh piece of paper and wrote:

You think songwriting is a realistic dream? That was a joke, right? Like you said, it’s hard to tell from a letter. But yes, I am passionate about it. Now, if only I could actually write a complete song, I might feel like I could call myself a songwriter. For now, I’m just a far-fetched dreamer like you. It might stay that way until I get out of my house. It’s impossible to write there.

What is this far-fetched dream of yours anyway? Something your home life prevents, like mine? How are things at home? Any improvement with your mom or dad? You said your dad left and you haven’t seen him in a while, but you have talked to him, right?

Ugh, now Mr. Ortega is asking US to complete the worksheets. Gotta go too.

Twenty-four hours was a long time to think about what answers my pen pal would give to my questions. I found myself worried about him the rest of the day and that night, wondering what his far-fetched dreams were that he didn’t feel he could believe in.

The next day, his reply read:

My dad calls me once a year around my birthday. I think he may have forgotten the exact date. It was hard the first couple years, now it’s kind of amusing. I make a bet with myself about how close to the real date he’ll actually get. His closest so far has been within two days. Not bad. This last year I was a jerk to him. I felt guilty and then I felt guilty for feeling guilty. If that makes any sense. I’ve written him off. Now he’s just someone that used to be in my life. He actually pays child support, which is big of him, right? Maybe that makes him feel better about himself. It felt nice for me when my mom let me buy a car with some of it. The unfortunate side effect of this choice is that now every time I drive, I’m reminded of him.

And that’s enough whining for one letter. You’ll stop writing me if all I ever do is complain. And then where will I be? Stuck listening to Mr. Ortega again? So
what about you? I think I need some more complaining on your end.

I frowned down at the letter, my heart hurting. His dad had forgotten exactly when his birthday was? What kind of father did that? The kind that would move five states away and never visit.

Something about the way my pen pal wrote made him easy to open up to. I found myself doing just that as I wrote back.

Complaining? My complaints seem minor now compared to what you have to deal with. And again, I have no sage words of wisdom to offer. Hang in there? Chin up. What are some other cheesy, not-helpful slogans?

My main complaint about my own life is that I have no time to myself, at all. My whole family seems to dictate every second of my day. When I go out, eat, think. I’m living a collective life. Everyone around me decides my fate and sometimes I feel like I’m just along for the ride.

I see what you mean about a maximum quota of whining per letter. I feel like I just reached mine. I need to end with something lighter. Today is Friday. That’s good, right? Although, by the time you read this it will be Monday and Mondays suck. So that’s not a happy letter-ender at all. How about the fact that there are
only three more weeks of school before Thanksgiving break, when we get a week off? Happy thought for you, or no? I can’t decide if I were you if I’d rather be at school or at home? I’m sorry, that was insensitive. I’m really not doing well here. Music. That’s the universal language, one I usually can’t mess up. Go listen to a band called Dead’s the New Alive. Track 9 off their new album. That will help. At least, for three minutes and forty-four seconds.

I folded the note, finding myself a little depressed as I stuck it in its place. Fridays were the worst. I had to wait all weekend before I’d get a reply. Was I really already looking forward to Monday? That was backward thinking. I should’ve been excited about the football game that night. The one my mom had said I could go to. David. Yes, I could get excited about seeing David. That would make Isabel happy. And maybe I’d get some more clues as to whether his name belonged on my
Suspects
list or not.

T
he night was my favorite kind of night—cool enough for a jacket, but warm enough for it to be a thin one. Now, if only we weren’t headed for a stadium full of screaming fans. Watching a football game wasn’t exactly my favorite activity.

Gabriel and Isabel were a couple steps ahead, arm in arm, talking too quietly for me to hear. I wondered if they were plotting the after-game activity where they expected David and me to fall madly in love.

Isabel noticed I had fallen behind and slowed down, hooking her free arm in mine. “This is going to be awesome,” she said as we reached the ticket booth.

“I guess,” I said. We paid and headed inside, climbing the steps to the stadium. Some of the kids were all decked out in paint and holding signs. I was glad Isabel hadn’t insisted we do that. When we reached the top, the noise that had somehow seemed muffled on the way up hit me like it was a living, breathing force.

“There’s the band,” Isabel said.

Gabriel looked at me, like I should have a response to that.

“Cool hats,” was the only thing I could think of.

It was five minutes to halftime when Gabriel said, “We should get food before David’s thing.”

“You guys go ahead. I’m good.” I loved Isabel and Gabriel, but I needed a break from the overdose of affection the two of them were displaying.

“Are you sure?” Isabel asked.

“Positive.”

They left for the food vendors. I sat back and looked for lyrics in the sights around me.
Lights in the blackness. Waiting for the score. Putting on a face. Flirt a little more.

That last line, unfortunately, had been inspired by Cade. I’d happened to see him chatting with some girl. When he noticed me looking over, he caught my eye and winked. Ugh. I stood, deciding I wanted a drink after all, and pivoted toward the aisle to catch up with Isabel. I nearly ran face first into a chest. Even over the noise of the crowd, this close to him, I could just make out the beat coming from Lucas’s earbuds.

He tugged on the cord, freeing them. “Sorry … Lily, right?”

His presence here shocked me silent. Although to be fair, his presence always seemed to do that. But what was he doing at a football game? I didn’t know a lot about him but I did know this wasn’t his scene.

I tried to answer, to think of something clever … or just something … to say, but my mind was blank. I managed to
shut my mouth, which had been open for at least one second too long.

“You okay?” Lucas asked. “Did I hit you?”

I shook my head no. His earbuds were dangling near his shoulders and I was so tempted to pick one up and put it to my ear and finally learn what music he was always listening to, but thankfully I stopped myself. I was already acting crazy enough.
Quick, brain, think of something clever to say
. My thoughts were flying around, uncatchable.

Lucas smiled, a perfect, gorgeous, disarming smile. All the tension that was holding my thoughts captive eased out of my body. I was going to talk. I was going to say something funny and clever. Finally. I took a deep breath and opened my mouth.

“Lucas.” Cade appeared at his side. “Can I interest you in a friendly wager?”

“What?” The irritation on Lucas’s face as he glanced at Cade made me like him even more.

“Trust me, this is better than anything going on over here.” He nodded his head toward the game, and for some reason that worked. Lucas followed him away, leaving me with only a small wave.

Cade had just led away my first real chance at talking to Lucas. Even more reason to hate him.

“Nachos?” Gabriel asked, holding up a tray of chips and gooey cheese. Where had he come from?

Isabel tugged on my arm, carrying a drink in her free hand. “You’re missing the show.”

Oh. Right. I sat back down, trying to make out David on the field. But the whole time I was fuming about Cade and Lucas.

After the game was over, Isabel, David, Gabriel, and I went to a park near Isabel’s house. Gabriel was pushing Isabel on a swing and David and I were sitting on a picnic table.

I picked up David’s marching band hat that he had set next to him. It had a long black feather on top. “What’s with the feather?”

“It makes us taller.” He was still wearing his full band uniform and it looked uncomfortable and sweaty. But cute.

“Really? I should probably wear one of these all the time then.” I placed it on my head.

“I think it really has to do with the history of marching bands,” David explained. “Marching bands used to be used in wars. The musicians wore certain uniforms so the opposing army could identify who not to shoot or something like that.”

“Nice. I’m glad you won’t get shot in a war.”

David smiled and shook his head. “Now it’s just tradition.”