The Infinite Moment of Us (10 page)

slapped Charlie’s cheek. “Dude, you still with me?”

“Huh?”

“Something’s up with you, buddy. I noticed it this morn-

ing at the ceremony, too.” He slung his arm around Charlie,

rising up slightly in his puffy high-tops to do so. “Tell your old pal about it. Go on.”

Charlie wrenched his attention from Wren. He moved

so that Ammon’s arm fell off him, but he looked at Ammon,

blinked, and said, “I’m going to ask out Wren Gray.”

“Pardon?”

“On a date. I’m going to ask her if she wants to do

something.”

“To do something,” Ammon repeated. “Like what?

Bowling?”

“Anything, as long as it’s with me.”

“With you.”

“With me. Yes.”

Ammon opened his mouth to speak, then closed it.

“What?” Charlie said.

“I said everything’s changing. I fully own up to that, and

I fully hold that it’s still mainly true.
Mainly
.” He puffed his cheeks with air, then exhaled. “But, Charlie, some laws stay

laws even when all the others fall away. Like . . . gravity.

Like the movement of the planets. I mean, the sun still

revolves around the earth, right?”

Charlie raised his eyebrows. “Does it?”

“It does. Yes.”

Charlie had to laugh. “The earth revolves around the

sun, Ammon.”

“Whatever. You know what I’m saying.”

“That Wren’s out of my league?”

“No. No way. I’m saying she’s out of everyone’s league,

because she’s not in a league. She’s, like, in a league of her own.”

Charlie nodded. He would agree with that.

Ammon looked pained. “I’m just keeping it real, bro.”

“No worries,” Charlie said. He cocked his head at P.G.’s

house. “I’m going in.”

Ammon’s voice went up a pitch. “In there? Where al

the people are?”

“Yep. I’m going to ask Wren out.” He clapped Ammon

on the back. “Just keeping it real, bro.”

When Charlie first spotted Wren, she’d been in one of

the front rooms, standing by an antique sideboard. By the

time he angled his way through the crowd of milling, happy

seniors, and people from other grades, too—people from

other schools, too, from the looks of it—she was gone.

He went into the dining room, glanced around, and

scratched the back of his neck. He checked the living

room, the TV room, and a room he assumed was a library,

based on the shelves and shelves of books. P.G.’s house was

huge. The party was huge. Wren could be anywhere.

He came to a room that he didn’t know what to call, or

what purpose it served. No shelves, no tables, not much in

the way of furniture at all. Just a tiled floor, a ceiling fan, and two overstuffed armchairs. Huh. No people in this odd

side room, either, so Charlie turned to go.

“Hey, wait, can you give me a hand?” a guy called.

Charlie turned back with a start. P.G. Barbee, the guy

who lived in this huge, crazy house, was kneeling by a large

oak liquor cabinet. Broken glass glittered around him. He

dropped a large shard into a dustpan full of other large

fragments, then gestured at a broom propped against the

liquor cabinet and the wall. He flexed his fingers impa-

tiently. “You think you could . . . ?”

“Right. Sorry.” Charlie stepped carefully over the glass,

grabbed the broom, and thrust it at P.G.

“Some ass-hat dropped a bottle of my dad’s bourbon,”

P.G. said. He didn’t take the broom but shifted his weight

to his heels. “Would you just sweep the glass in? There’s

tons of tiny pieces, like glass dust. Shit. But, hey, keep your eye out for the stopper. It’s got this, like, horse guy on it.

What do you call those horse guys? You know, those guys

who ride racehorses?”

“A jockey?” Charlie answered, trying to keep his tone

neutral. Was P.G. making fun of him in some complicated

way? The Barbees had lawn jockeys in their front yard. Did

P.G. call the lawn jockeys “horse guys”?

“Yeah. That.” P.G. grinned. “Man, I’ve wanted that

jockey since I was—shit. Ten? Twelve? It’s taken my dad

this long to finish the damn bottle, and hell if I’m going to

throw it away now.”

P.G.’s dad hadn’t finished the bottle, not if someone

broke it. Charlie wondered if P.G.’s father would be pissed.

He wondered if P.G.’s father was even here, or his mother,

for that matter. Charlie had seen plenty of caterers but no

other grown-ups.

He didn’t ask. He swept glass into the dustpan. With his

third reach of the broom, he pulled out a cork stopper with

a metal base with a tiny statue of a racehorse and a jockey

fixed to it. He grabbed it and offered it to P.G.

“Here,” he said.

“Sweet!” P.G. exclaimed. He grinned at Charlie, and

Charlie grinned back before realizing it.

“See how he’s leaning way over the horse?” P.G. said.

“Means he’s almost to the finish line.”

“Cool,” Charlie said.

P.G. propped one knee beneath him, evening out his

weight. “Thanks, man. You’re Charlie, right? Charlie

Parker?”

Charlie nodded.

“I’m P.G. This is my place.”

“Yep,” Charlie said. “Uh, great party.”

“Thanks. Hey, that Starrla chick you’re always with. Is

she your girl?”

Charlie was more than surprised. “Is she . . . ?” He raised

his eyebrows, then pulled them together. He couldn’t find

words.

“She’s smokin’—I’ll give you that,” P.G. said.

“She’s not my girl, no,” Charlie finally said. He grew

suspicious. Was P.G. interested in her? He shouldn’t be. If

he was, it was for the wrong reasons. “Why?”

“Relax, man. I’m asking for a friend. For my girlfriend’s

friend.” P.G. considered. “
Maybe
my girlfriend. On the way to being my girlfriend, at least, I hope.”

Charlie was baffled. P.G. was asking about Starrla on

behalf of his maybe-girlfriend’s friend? Who was P.G.’s

maybe-girlfriend, and who was her friend?

“Who is this guy?” he asked, because Starrla wasn’t his

girl, but he would still look out for her if he could.

“Huh? What guy?”

“The guy who’s . . . after Starrla. Interested in her.

Whatever.”

“Huh? You lost me, dude. What are you talking about?”

“What are
you
talking about?”

P.G. regarded him. “Tessa Haviland. That’s who I’m

talking about, not some guy. Tessa’s awesome. Her best

friend’s Wren Gray. Awesome girl, too. She was asking

about you.”

Charlie couldn’t process this. “She . . . Wren Gray . . .

in the motorcycle shirt . . .”

P.G. chuckled. “You know who she is, then. And, yeah,

amazing body. I agree.”

What? Charlie hadn’t said anything about Wren’s body.

He didn’t like P.G. discussing it, either, amazing though it

was.

“She’s interested in you, man. If you’re interested

back—and I’m getting the feeling you are—well, she’s

with Tessa in the sunroom.”

Charlie rubbed his temple, his fingers going to the scar

along the side of his right eyebrow. He dropped his arm

when he realized what he was doing.

“Go back through the living room and hang a right,” P.G.

said. He lifted the dustpan. “I’ll be there in a sec.”

Charlie propped the broom against the wall. Dazed,

he headed out of the liquor-cabinet room. He tried to

remember where the dining room was.

“Thanks for your help, man,” P.G. called. “And thanks

for finding the horse guy!”

Wren wasn’t in the sunroom. Neither was Tessa. Maybe

because, even with P.G.’s directions, it took Charlie far too

long to find it—and when he did, he wasn’t even sure it

was the sunroom. The rooms in this house needed labels.

He finally found Wren and Tessa by wide French doors

overlooking an outdoor pool. Wren spotted Charlie, and

her eyes widened. She smiled.

He worked his way through the crowd to get to her.

“. . . sure I do,” Tessa was saying. “Anyway, you’re too

sensitive. Anyway—Charlie!” Her laser beam gaze brought

Charlie to a dead stop. “Wren! It’s Charlie!” She grabbed

his arm and pulled him toward them, wobbling a little.

“The real live Charlie Parker, from El Elegante! Remem-

ber?”

Wren’s cheeks turned red. “Oh my God. Tessa?”

“El Elegante?” Charlie said. “Uh, what’s El Elegante?”

Tessa tugged on her skirt. “Frick. I. Am.
So
hot. Jesus Christ. Is it burning up in here, or is it me?”

“It’s you,” Wren said. To Charlie, she said, “Ignore her.

She’s had too much champagne.”

“I have,” Tessa agreed. She fanned herself. “El Elegante is

a Mexican restaurant. Wren and I ate lunch there yesterday

with P.G.” She glanced around the room. “Where’d that

boy go? P.G.! Where are you, P.G.?”

“He’s coming,” Charlie said. “Someone broke some-

thing. He was—we were—cleaning it up.”

“Awww, you helped him,” Tessa said. “That was nice.”

She whispered, very loudly, “Holy pickles, Wren, he’s

totally
cute. Not as cute as P.G., but yes. Totally cute.”

She gave Wren a thumb’s-up, and Wren whacked her.

“Owwie,” Tessa said, stumbling a little but grinning.

“And, Charlie, guess what?”

“
Tessa
—”

“When we were at El Elegante, guess who Wren kept

going on and on about? Want me to tell you?”

“No,” Wren said. “Oh my God.” She took Charlie’s arm.

“Will you come with me? Please?”

Charlie let Wren pull him away, but he heard Tessa raise

her voice and say, “She was going on and on about you! And

how wonderful she thinks you are! And cute! And wonder-

ful! Right, Wren?”

Wren walked faster. Charlie wanted to comfort her, to

tell her everything was fine. No big deal. But
cute
and
wonderful
were helicoptering madly in his brain, and a fizzy feeling pushed against his ribs. He realized he was grinning, and he clamped down to make his grin go away.

It came back.

They passed P.G. as they pushed through the French

doors.

“Hey, hey,” P.G. said to Charlie. “You don’t waste time,

do you?”

“Do
not
let Tessa drive,” Wren told him. “I’ll take her home, okay? But she’s drunk, and . . .” She shook her head.

“Can you go to her? And take care of her?”

“On my way,” P.G. said, slipping past them.

Wren led Charlie a little farther, not toward the pool

but toward a courtyard sort of space. Japanese lanterns

hung from the trees, and strings of Christmas lights made

the lush ivy twinkle in the dusk as if lit by a thousand fire-

flies. It gave the backyard a magical feeling.

Or maybe that was Wren.

A cluster of stoner-druggie kids sat about ten feet away,

sprawled over one another and laughing.

“Your shirt! It’s breathing!” one of them sputtered,

ratcheting up their laughter another notch.

Charlie didn’t care about them. He cared about Wren.

She let go of him, and he missed her touch. She turned

her back to him and stared up at the sky. Night had fallen,

and the first stars had winked their way into existence,

twinkling against a palette of inky purples, deep reds, and

one last slice of pearly, light-infused blue. It was a blue that reminded Charlie of the ocean, or of pictures of the ocean.

He’d never been. He wondered what Wren saw.

He stepped forward. Their shoulders barely touched.

“Tessa . . .” Wren began. She kept her eyes on the sky.

“She’s great. I love her. She’s my best friend.”

“Okay,” Charlie said.

“But she’s so big. She’s just so big.” She hugged her arms

around herself. “Her personality, I mean.”

Charlie didn’t know Tessa well, but he could see that.

“And El Elegante. Yes, it’s a restaurant. But Tessa—oh,

I don’t know. I am so sorry. Could she not tell how much

she was embarrassing me?”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Charlie said, adding silently,
And absolutely nothing to feel embarrassed about.

Nothing.

She dropped her gaze and toed the ground. The stoners

were loud, and their conversation filled the silence. Bats.

They’d moved from breathing shirts to something about

bats.

“—not the way, man. Totally won’t work,” a guy with

greasy hair said.

“No,” stated a girl with a squeaky voice. “If you let the

bat sit long enough—”

“But you can’t cure something by just letting it sit there,”

said a second girl. “Not even a bat.”

“To properly cure a bat, the first thing you have to do is

eviscerate it,” pronounced a pale, lanky boy wearing a Bob

Marley T-shirt and, for some reason, a lei.

“The first thing you have to do is kill it,” the greasy-

haired boy said.

“Ugh,” Wren whispered. Her eyes, wide and alarmed,

met Charlie’s.

The lanky boy continued with his lecture, and Wren

started a slow, backward retreat from the group. At any

moment, she would turn and go back into the house.

Bright lights and crowded rooms. Tessa. A different set of

conversations, none of which Charlie was interested in.

“I know a park nearby,” he blurted. He gestured toward

the street. “I’ve got my car. We could go there and talk, if

you want.”