Shuffle, Repeat (7 page)

I trail him into the kitchen, where Cash is opening a bottle of wine and Mom is chopping arugula. They smile when we enter. I hope Oliver is going to do the polite nice-to-meet-you thing and make a fast getaway, but instead, he freezes, pointing to something on the counter. “Is that what I think it is?”

I peer around him to see that it is—
fantastic
—a dirty hunk of old mushroom. This day couldn't be more humiliating.

Except that yes…yes it could, because Cash lifts the mushroom and holds it toward Oliver. “Want to smell?” To my vast horror, Oliver obligingly ambles right over to
sniff
the object held between the fingers of my mom's not-boyfriend.

Oh.

God.

I open my mouth to protest or to apologize or maybe to start opera singing, because that might at least distract everyone from the fungal horror show before us, but then Oliver looks at me with a face of pure delight. “June, you have to smell this truffle.”

Truffle.

I know it's something culinary and fancy, but that's about all I know. I'm pretty sure I've never tasted (or smelled) one before. Since everyone is waiting for me to do something, I walk over and take a whiff. The scent is earthy and rich and not altogether unpleasant. “Nice,” I say, even though everything about this is decidedly the opposite of nice.

“Abruzzo's gave it to me,” Cash tells us.

“The restaurant?” Oliver asks.

“Yep. I built them a new hostess stand and fixed their outer deck.”

Suddenly, it's all making sense. Cash lives the same bartering lifestyle as my mom. Oliver must think we are absolute
gypsies.

“That is the coolest thing ever,” he says, and I try not to imagine how he's going to relay this whole experience later to Ainsley or Theo. “You guys are so…”

Bizarre.

Bohemian.

Weird.

“…authentic,” Oliver concludes. “I love it.”

He sounds like he means it.

Cash glances at my mom and they have some sort of unspoken conversation through their eyebrows, because then he's inviting Oliver for dinner.

“It's risotto,” my mother chimes in.

“With shaved truffle,” adds Cash.

“I'd love to,” Oliver says.

I look back and forth between them all. Apparently I'm the only one who's freaking out.

Against all odds, dinner is a huge success. The truffle risotto is to die for, and so is the apple-rhubarb pie we have for dessert (baked, of course, by Mom's friend Quinny after some complicated trade involving Mom, Quinny, and their friend Morgan). Oliver and I talk about our SATs and where we might go to college (me: maybe New York; him: no idea) and Mom explains to Cash that she and Oliver's mother were roommates a long time ago. I tell them about my volunteer work with the nature center, and Mom shares funny stories about the lengths some of her students will go to try to get out of their assignments. It's all very easy, and I can't help contrasting how the evening would have gone if our guest had been Itch instead of Oliver.

If Itch had been here, we would have taken plates into the family room. We would have eaten dinner in silence while watching a movie. After, we would have made an excuse to go up to my room or for a drive so that we could be alone. Then, when we were alone, we still wouldn't talk.

After dessert, Mom and Cash go upstairs to discuss the trim in the guest bedroom. The minute they're gone, Oliver waggles his eyebrows at me. “Discuss the trim, my ass,” he says, and I whap him. “You know he wants to drop the ‘not' from his ‘not-boyfriend' status, right?”

“Yeah. That's what it looks like.”

“Is that cool with you?” Oliver asks as I walk him to the entryway.

“What do you mean?”

“Your mom dating someone. Are you okay with that?”

I suppose it makes sense that he's curious. Oliver's parents have been together since forever, since college, since some wild party where both of our moms flirted with Oliver's dad—Bryant—and he ended up asking for the future Mrs. Flagg's phone number. The way Mom tells the story, there was no fighting it. Marley and Bryant belonged together. They made sense together.

“What about you and Dad?” I asked Mom once.

“He came later,” she said. “And the only thing that ever made sense between us was you.”

“I'm fine with it,” I tell Oliver, watching him push his long arms through the sleeves of his coat.

“Good,” he says, “because I think they're a thing.”

Part of me is startled that he would check in with me. “You know you just asked about my feelings.”

“Friends do that,” he says. “See you Monday.”

Friends?

On Monday, I hop into my seat, slam the passenger door, and immediately turn to Oliver. “Are we friends?”

He stares at me. “Where is this coming from?”

It's coming from him buddying up to my mom and her not-boyfriend. It's coming from him acting like he gives a crap about me. It's coming from me giving a crap back.

“Answer the question.”

“Ye-e-e-e-s.” His expression falls somewhere between amusement and confusion. “We're friends.”

“Cool.” I fasten my seat belt.

Oliver shakes his head and pulls out of my driveway. “You're weird.”

“Here's the thing. I don't have straight, popular”—I pause, editing the word “hot” from my litany—“jock dude friends. I don't care about high school traditions and I don't hang with cheerleaders, and now my senior year is really different from how I thought it would be, especially the part where you and I…”

“Are friends.”

“Right. That.” I tuck a leg underneath me to get comfortable on the big seat. “As it turns out, you're reasonable to hang out with. You're nice to my mom. Your girlfriend even seems okay.”

“Sounds like friendship.”

“You're kind of like an extra gay boyfriend, except you're straight.”

Oliver frowns. “Or I can be your straight guy friend…since that's what I actually am.”

“It's just that it so rarely works.”

“Why?”

“Because it's almost never even. Someone always wants to make out with someone else. The only way it really happens is if one of the two people is shockingly unattractive, which means that the shockingly unattractive one is attracted to the attractive one, but the attractive one is so far beyond the shockingly unattractive one's league that everyone knows it'll never go there.” I suddenly realize the implication of what I've just said. Luckily, Oliver saves me.

“You, June Rafferty, are in zero danger of being shockingly unattractive.”

He says it in an offhanded way, but it stops me in my tracks. And then, because I don't know what else to do, I return the compliment. “Back at you,” I tell him in what must be the world's most obvious statement ever.

“So we're outliers?”

“Yes, we're outliers,” I say. “And here's the thing—”

“I thought you already said the thing.”

I mock glare at him. “Here's
another
thing. I can objectively ascertain that you're an attractive dude and…” As if on autopilot, Oliver preens and flexes his muscles. “Don't do that.”

“Sorry.”

“Your hair and your eyes and the muscles and everything. I mean, I get it. I get the Oliver Flagg thing.”

Oliver looks surprised. “There's an Oliver Flagg
thing
?”

“Hush. I'm on a roll here. So you're attractive and we can both admit that, but since I am not personally attracted to you, it makes this friendship thing between us something that is manageable. More than manageable. It's
desirable,
because you can fulfill a role that no one else in my life does. You can give me the straight male honest take on things.” Oliver waits until I flutter my fingers at him. “Okay, now it's your turn.”

He makes a very solemn face. “You should know that there is one thing I will not do and one place I cannot go.”

“What?” I'm a little worried about what he might say.

“If you ever—and I mean
ever
—ask me if you look fat in a particular article of clothing, it's a deal breaker.”

I laugh and he smiles along with me. “Agreed. I promise to never ask you that. We need to draw the line somewhere.”

“How about this,” says Oliver. “How about we draw the boundary at truth in general. If you have a stupid fight with Itch or if you spill pizza on your shirt or get spinach stuck in your teeth or have toilet paper stuck to your shoe, I will absolutely tell you.”

“How come I'm such a hot mess in this scenario?”

He holds up a finger. “Still my turn.”

“Sorry.”

“If I ever edge too far into douchey locker room territory, you will tell me.”

“You mean if you act like Theo?”

Oliver smiles. “Yeah. If I act like Theo.”

“All honesty, all the time. I like it.” I thrust a hand toward him. “Let's shake on it. I mean, when we come to a safe stop at an intersection, of course.”

Oliver shakes his head. “Too corporate. Let's fist-bump.”

“Hitting awfully close to locker room territory already,” I tell him, but I hold out a fist and he gives it a gentle tap with his own.

“Friends with honesty,” he says.

“Friends with honesty,” I answer, wondering how our social circles are going to react to this strange new arrangement.

He slides me a sideways glance. “Tell me more about this Oliver Flagg
thing.
”

“Shut up.”

But as we head into the parking lot, I realize there's a thought jostling to move to the top of my brain—a thought that I keep trying to flick back into the subconscious shadows. When I pull my jacket tighter and exit the car, I have to acknowledge it, because it's right
there,
trying to escape to the surface.

It's a piece of the conversation we just had. A piece that keeps repeating over and over in the playlist of my mind.

It's the part when Oliver told me in no uncertain terms that he does not, in fact, find me shockingly unattractive.

I know, I know.

High praise, indeed.

“Frankly, I'm shocked,” Shaun tells me as we push our way through the main lobby.

“Stop it. It's not
that
shocking.”

“ ‘Inane,' you've called them.” He holds open one of the doors for me to walk through. “ ‘Ludicrous.' ‘Gratuitous.' ”

“All right, all right. So I haven't always been awash in compliments. Cut me some slack.”

“ ‘A parade of hormonal insecurity swathed in violence and unnecessary ceremony.' ” Shaun says it with air quotes and all.

“A girl's allowed to change her mind,” I tell him. “Especially about something as insubstantial as football. Will you be my date on Friday?”

Shaun makes a big show of considering it, but of course he says yes. “Only because Kirk's not around.”

“How's that going, anyway?” We round the corner of the school and head toward the parking lot. “Have you talked to him?”

“Only every day,” Shaun says. “I don't screw around when I'm in love.”

After that, I go quiet.

I have a new tactic to allay the agony of Oliver's horrendous music: conversation. I've discovered that if we talk on the way to school, he turns the music down low, so I can barely hear the atrocity (two songs to my one that is currently on the playlist).

“You're actually nervous?” I ask in response to his comment. “I thought you people lived for Friday nights.”

“We
people
do,” he says, emphasizing to let me know what he thinks of my painting all athletes with the same brush.

But let's be honest: the brush fits.

“It's still a lot of pressure,” Oliver explains. “If you fumble or something, there are literally hundreds of people watching.”

“Yeah, but if you score a home run—”

“Touchdown.”

“—then everyone cheers.”

“That part isn't so bad.” Oliver changes topic. “Do you know our moms are going out tomorrow?”

“Yeah. There's a new restaurant they want to try.”

“Do you think they talk about us?”

That makes me laugh. “God, what else would they
have
to talk about?”

“Well, I'm sure your mother is a font of fascinating debate. My mom on the other hand…I don't know. Meat loaf recipes? The original Kinkade my dad bought her?”

“Your dad bought her a mixer?”

“That's a
Kitchen
Aid. Kinkade is an artist.”

“Oh.” It's a little embarrassing. After all, my mother is an artist, too. I should know these things. Also, Oliver has this big smile on his face because he's oh so amused at my lack of knowledge about the Fancy Ways of life.

Oliver sees my look. He reaches over and pats my leg. “Don't worry. You're cooler for
not
knowing Kinkade. Strip malls carry his work in bulk. Your mom's art is authentic. No mass productions, no marketing campaigns. I like her stuff.”

“What do you know about my mom's work?”

“You do realize we've known each other since birth, right?”

“I guess. I just…” I stop and think about it. I suppose I do know quite a bit about Oliver's family. His mom, Marley, is my mom's best friend. His father, Bryant, is a developer of many gated communities, including fancy-schmancy Flaggstone Lakes, where they all live. His older brother, Owen, is now in college in North Carolina.

“What?” Oliver asks.

“I'm surprised you like my mom's art,” I tell him. “Especially given your terrible taste in music.”

Shaun wends his hatchback through throngs of students wielding giant foam fingers and parents carrying hand-painted signs. We find a parking space and he turns to me with a face that is all kinds of serious. “You love me, right?”

“Definitely.”

“Here's the thing. I'm different at football games than I am with you and Darbs and Lily.”

“I know, I know. You're a rainbow.”

“
Such
a rainbow.” Shaun pulls off his hat to reveal a giant mop of red-and-blue hair.

I gawk at him. It's supremely hideous. “Please tell me that's a wig.”

“It's a wig. Isn't it fantastic?”

It takes me a second to find the words. “It definitely shows school spirit.”

“Exactly,” says Shaun. “On Friday nights, I have school spirit.”

I look down at my own outfit: black tunic over leggings, high-top Chucks. Decidedly not spirited. “I can live with that.”

At the gate, a twenty-something security guard rifles through my messenger bag. “What are you looking for?” I ask him.

“Drugs. Booze.”

“I don't have either of those.”

“Cool.” He waves me through.

Shaun and I have to walk along the track to get to the bleachers. It's much louder and more crowded than I ever would have guessed. The marching band is already in their section, playing what I assume is a fight song. Ainsley and the other cheerleaders are out in front, waving and kicking and bouncing. We thread our way through packs of young kids eating hot dogs and parents carrying vinyl seat cushions and students vibrating with pep and anticipation. Everything smells like popcorn.

I let Shaun lead me to a seat in the center of the bleachers. “Wow, so this is what the world looks like from here,” I say to him, and he elbows me in the ribs.

“Okay, turn to me,” he orders. I do and his eyes rove over my face for several seconds. He looks very intent. “I'm seeing hearts.”

“What?” If Shaun is turning straight or something, we are going to have to retool how our friendship works.

“I'm seeing balloons. I'm seeing a delicate bird stretching its wings to leap from a nest.”

“I'm seeing a crazy person. What are you talking about?”

“The work of art that I'm going to paint on your face.” Shaun whips out a pack of fat, oily crayons. “You're here, so
be
here already.”

I open my mouth to say no—or more likely,
hell
no—but then I pause. Something about the trumpets and the cheerleaders' skirts and the stale popcorn in the air makes me reconsider. Below, Oliver is about to put himself out there in front of all the world to see his triumph or his defeat. Would it kill me to show a little support?

“No hearts,” I tell Shaun. “No balloons, and definitely no delicate birds.” I point to my right cheek.
“Go.”
I point to my left cheek.
“Robins.”

A smile blossoms across Shaun's face. “That's my girl. Blue or red?”

“Surprise me.”

It's somewhere in the middle of the third quarter and we're tied with Lake Erie High. I've been able to figure out which one is Oliver (mostly because he told me he'd have a number 2 emblazoned across his back) and have watched him do all sorts of running and catching. Two out of our four touchdowns were made by him, to much screaming and adulation from our side of the field. The marching band show at intermission (“halftime,” Shaun corrected me) was loud and precise and clap-worthy, and it's been surprisingly interesting to watch the cheerleaders hop and scream and fling each other into the air. I'm wearing Shaun's letterman jacket (varsity tennis), because it's gotten chilly, and even that makes it feel like I'm at a weird, fun costume party.

There's no way around it: I'm having a great time.

Since I still don't really understand what's happening on the field, it doesn't occur to me to wait until the end of a play to admit this all to Shaun. I tug on his sweatshirt and he tilts toward me, his eyes still on the game. Everyone in the bleachers is chanting and stomping and clapping, so I bring my mouth up to Shaun's ear. “This is fun!” I yell, and pull back to see his reaction.

Except he's not turning to give me one of his wide, happy smiles. Instead, he's gasping and his hand is at his chest, squeezed in a fist.

In that moment, I realize that all around us, in every row, all the students and parents and little kids have also retreated into shocked silence. I whip my gaze to the field and zero in on the center, where one of the players lies in a crumpled heap while people run toward him from every direction.

Oliver.

That's when I gasp into the silent air, seconds later than everyone else. That's when both my hands fly to my mouth and I lurch to my feet. I'm not sure what my plan is—to run down there or call 911 or something—but before I can do it, there's a death grip on my left elbow. Shaun pulls me back to the seat and tucks an arm around my waist. “Easy,” he murmurs, and makes a fast, subtle gesture with one knuckle.

I follow his gaze to where Ainsley stands amid a protective circle of cheerleaders. She's tense, her arms wrapped around herself, watching the people clustered around Oliver. One of Ainsley's friends rubs small circles on her back.

“Right,” I say to Shaun.

“Right,” he says.

And then the awfulness is over, because Oliver is lifting his head; he's slowly sitting; he's shaking off assistance; he's pulling himself upright and waving to our side of the field, where the bleachers erupt into a stomping, screaming explosion of celebration. I feel like crying but I don't, because below, Ainsley already is doing that. Instead, I smile and I clap and I let my tears flow out of her eyes.

That's where they belong.

“I didn't realize,” says Shaun as we stand around by the south entrance of the field, waiting for Oliver and Ainsley.

“What are you talking about?”

Shaun gazes at me, then leans over and kisses the top of my head. “Never mind.”

The party is at a farm out near Dexter. Ainsley said it's the property of Theo's cousin, but then I heard Zoe tell someone the land belongs to the family of Cal Turman, who graduated last year, so who knows? Getting here was the first time I've ever ridden in the backseat of the behemoth, the floor of which is just as littered with discarded water bottles and trash as anyone would think. Right after the game, Ainsley was really worried about Oliver driving after his injury, but she appears to have been reassured, since now she and her posse are pounding beers beside a raging fire in the middle of nowhere.

Shaun and I sit on a wide stump together, sharing a beer from the keg and watching several dozen of our fellow students flirt and drink and slip off into the shadows to make out.

“Do you always come to these?” I ask Shaun.

“Bonfires are only for the first game of the season,” he tells me. “I came last year, but it was on a different farm.”

We sit in silence for a little while, both of us taking only tiny sips from the cup. Shaun knows he'll have to drive home after Oliver returns us to school, and I don't want to pee in a cornfield. Hence the moderation.

Shaun gives me a gentle bump with his arm. “Hey, are you okay?”

“Yeah. You?”

He heaves a deep sigh. “I miss Kirk.”

Shaun drops his head onto my shoulder and I stroke his thick black hair. “I know,” I tell him, even though I don't. When Itch was gone over the summer, I missed him being around, but I didn't miss
him,
if that makes any sense. It seems devastating to have your heart so completely undone for a single person. If they screw up, if they don't feel the same, if their life is too busy or too complicated or too far away to fit you into it, something inside you breaks. Even when it heals, there are scars.

There are always scars.

No thank you.

Someone shows up with a portable speaker and pop music fills the smoky night air. There's a sudden cheerleader stampede toward the patch of open dirt substituting as a dance floor.

I check out Oliver and Theo, who stand off to the side, watching the girls gyrate and twirl. Theo points to first one and then another, making comments I can't hear. Oliver smiles.

I can only imagine.

I nudge Shaun's head off my shoulder to ask if he thinks we can find an earlier ride home with someone, but I never ask the question, because he's beaming at me with this big, sappy grin.

“What?”

“Tell me you won't miss this.” He waves a hand in the general direction of the party. “This is what we'll look back on when we're old and boring and sedentary.”

I am about to say something about perception and hindsight when we hear my name yelled from the dance zone. It's Ainsley. She's pointing straight at me.

“I don't suppose I have a choice in this matter, do I?” I ask Shaun.

“Nope.” He shoves me up from our stump. “Life is easier when you acquiesce.”

Ainsley calls my name again. I shrug off Shaun's letter jacket and drop it onto his lap before pasting on a big smile and heading toward the dancers with as much buoyancy as I can muster. When I reach Ainsley, she holds out a hand toward me. “Phone.”

“There's no reception,” I tell her, and she cracks up.

“No, silly. Next song up on your phone is what we dance to.”