The Reece Malcolm List (10 page)

It’s still pretty weird being asked that question.

“About what?” I ask, even though of course I know about what.

“About
Into the Woods
, duh. So did you? Can you go?”

“I, um, I thought you guys weren’t going.”

“Oh, please.” He rolls his eyes with such flourish it’s like he thinks I’m watching him from the back of a theatre. Actors! Sometimes we’re ridiculous.

“Did you talk to Mira or something?” he asks. “Mira!” Of course she happens to be walking by us, and I can’t get Travis to shut up. “Did you tell Devan we weren’t going on Saturday?”

Mira slams to a stop in front of us. “I didn’t tell Devan anything.”

“I didn’t say you did,” I tell her really quickly. “Travis just—”

“I have to get to class,” she says before taking off.

“Ig
nore
her,” Travis says. “Also I don’t have your number.”

I memorized it the night before so I wouldn’t look weird in case anyone asked. “It’s really okay if I come?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” He gives me his number, so now I have two programmed in my phone. “See you in Nation.”

At lunch I’m
terrified
scared of
nervous about Mira, but I still follow Travis from the sandwich line outside. (Honestly, Travis is hard to escape.) I sneak a glance at Mira as I sit down, and she meets my eyes. I feel like it’s a challenge, and I’m too much of a wimp to rise up to meet it—whatever that would be—so I look away and quietly eat my chicken and avocado sandwich. Lissa and Elijah show up, and Mira seems to forget about glaring at me at least temporarily, so I turn my attention to my monologues book again while they talk about some movie they saw last weekend.

Sai stops by a little bit later and squeezes in next to me. His thigh is pressed right against mine, which feels a little R-rated. I mean, in my head at least.

“What’s up for tomorrow?” he asks. “Who’s driving? I would but my car only seats two.”

“There’re six of us,” Travis says.

“Good work counting,” Mira says. “No wonder you get A’s in math.”

I guess I can take everything less personally if Mira seems to hate everyone at least once in a while.

“I, uh, don’t think we’re coming.” Lissa glances at Elijah, who sort of shrugs. “There’s an all-ages show at The Satellite we’re going to.”

Mira narrows her eyes. Now no one has escaped her death glare. “You didn’t tell me that.”

“I’m telling you now,” Lissa says in this really light tone, even though I
know
think Mira is completely serious. Her eyes are still narrowed, after all.

“If there’re only four of us, we can take my car,” Travis says, like nothing as high-stakes as a hostage situation is going on. “Devan and Sai, you have to give me your addresses.”

I’m trying to figure out a non-weird way to say I don’t know mine yet, when Sai just pipes up that he doesn’t know his yet. Also, yes, his leg is still next to mine.

“Me neither,” I say. “I only moved a week ago. It’s really close, though, only like five minutes away.”

“I’m not much farther,” Sai says. “But I’ll call you with the actual address later, okay, Kennedy?”

“Definitely,” Travis says, giving Sai his number. I try to imagine giving a (straight) boy my number with such ease. (I can’t. Even in my daydreams I get tongue-tied and can’t remember the digits or how to write or also my own name.) “So does anyone have a curfew besides Mira? Because we should go out after, not before.”

“I’m good,” Sai says, as I say, “I can check,” and Mira says, “My curfew’s not
that
early.”

I ask my mother for permission to go to the musical practically as soon as she picks me up, and I guess I’m not that surprised that it’s fine with her. Tonight we’re apparently going out with Kate for dinner, so the weekend is off to a good start.

At the house I wait what feels like an appropriate length of time before calling Travis. He answers on the first ring. “New Girl, hi, you’d better be calling to tell me you can come or I’ll be devastatingly heartbroken.”

“Not just normal heartbroken? No, I can come, it’s fine. And I live on Reklaw at Laurelwood.” I’m proud I thought to, you know, read some street signs. “The second house on the left.”

“I have no idea where that is but I’ll Google Map it,” he says. “So, New Girl, what do you think of school so far? All you ever wanted? Or are you a tough sell?”

“No, it’s . . . I know this makes me a nerd, but I think it’s kind of amazing. Like
Fame
but with normal kids, too.”

“You couldn’t be a nerd if you tried,” Travis says, which is one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said to me. “Everyone who’s into it loves it, too. And you’re so freaking
good
, if you were one of those bitches who acted like she was above all of it, I’d hate you forever.”

I think about asking Travis about Mira. Maybe there’s something I can do to make her not hate me. Maybe there’s a reason she does. Maybe this stupid thing that makes lunch totally tense can be fixed.

But I don’t ask. After all, I’m the new girl; Mira’s been here. I don’t want to risk loyalties having to come down on one side or the other because there’s no way I can win it. And, anyway, I should be grateful for what I have already.

“What are you doing tonight?” Travis asks. “We could hang out if you want.”

“I’m going out with my mother and her friend,” I say. Probably I should worry about it sounding at least vaguely nerdy, but hanging out with Reece Malcolm and Kate Logan definitely doesn’t qualify as nerdy. So even though Travis has no way of knowing that, it makes me feel decidedly less lame. “So another time?”

“Of course, Devvie. See you tomorrow.”

My mother leans into my room a few moments later. “Hey, can you help me with something? It’s kind of embarrassing.”

I have no idea what help I could offer Reece Malcolm on anything. “Um, sure.”

She leads me down the hallway to her and Brad’s room, which I haven’t been in yet, despite my commitment to figuring her out. The email had thrown me for a loop.

It’s just a little bigger than my room, with one wall painted a gorgeous eggplant color and the others kind of a parchment-y tan. Their bed is huge, and it has a beautiful dark wood headboard with all these cutouts, and above it hangs a giant painting that stretches wider than the bed, all splashes of bright colors that somehow works with this very classy room. But what catches my eye right away is the nightstand on the side of the bed—well, there’s one on each side, but only this one is packed with framed photos.

“I have to go with Brad to this event tomorrow.” My mother crosses the room to the closet and opens the door. “And I have no idea what I should wear.”

“What kind of event?” I ask, like I’m a big expert on any kind of event.

“A party for some TV show Brad used to write for.” She shrugs. “It’s their hundredth episode celebration, and I get the feeling from Brad calling earlier and dropping in
love, what exactly
are
you wearing tomorrow evening?
that I should probably steer clear of my usuals.”

I laugh at her amazing Brad impression. “Is Brad a TV writer or something? For what show?”

“Yeah, now for
The Gamers
,” she says.

It’s surprising to me because
The Gamers
is a show most people have heard of, and it’s weird my mother’s boyfriend is a part of something big like that. Actually, on second thought, I guess it isn’t weird at all.

“My best friend—back in Missouri, I mean—loves
The Gamers
.” Justine never misses an episode of the show, which is about hipstery people who work for a big video game company but are secretly bringing down evil corporations and stuff. Also—at least in the episodes I’ve seen—they seem to spend a lot of time relaying witty banter and making out with each other. “I don’t watch a lot of TV or I’m sure I would, too.”

“I only watch it now out of girlfriend duty,” she says. “But it’s not bad. Tell me what to wear.”

“It’s not like I know what people wear to events like that.”

“You always look nice,” she says. “Trust me, you’ll have a better idea than I would. Just advise, all right?”

I flip through her closet, though seriously almost everything in there is a T-shirt or a pair of jeans. When I get to the back—clearly the stuff she never wears that gets cast aside for her favorites—it’s almost as hopeless. A couple of pairs of black pants, a formal dress that’s probably from a wedding or something. I pull out anything that’s even a vague possibility: a sleeveless black shirt, a black cocktail dress, the pair of black pants that doesn’t look outdated and smooshed, and a dress shirt that’s kind of a man’s style but cut low in front.

“I hate dresses,” she says. “So that’s out. I don’t even know why I own it.”

“It’s nice, though,” I say.

“It’s yours, then. Keep it. The pants are fine, but I’m afraid if I wear the white shirt I’ll look like one of the waiters. Because it’s happened before.”

I laugh and consider for a few moments before speaking. “I have some stuff you could look at, if you want. Is that weird?”

“No, you’re going to save me from getting drink orders all night.” She dashes ahead of me down the hallway, so I take a spare second to glance at the framed photos, even though it’s dumb dumb dumb to think any of them will be of me.

In my room we settle on my deep green knit shirt, which actually looks even better on her because she has much better hair than I do. I feel so good about helping her out that I even mention it.

“Oh, please,” she says. “My hair guy is just really good. Should I make you an appointment? I would have offered but you look fine to me.”

“Would it be okay, seriously?” I imagine the one remaining piece of mousy me gone, even if it might make my chances of invisibility smaller. Less safety, but better hair and therefore style. It would be a tougher call if style didn’t always win out.

“Seriously,” she says. “I’ll call later.” She examines herself in the mirror. “Brad’s ex is going to be there. I should shut up about all of my ridiculous relationship drama but it’s as if I literally can’t. I’ve become a crazy person who is actually concerned her boyfriend’s ex will pick a more appropriate outfit for an event.”

“The shirt looks good,” I say, because it’s the only thing I can think that might help at all.

“You’re too kind.” She switches it out for her T-shirt. “Thanks for putting up with my unhinged rantings.”

I shrug and consider telling her the contents of my brain are pretty much always crazier than the things she says. But then my phone beeps with a text message.

I don’t know the number, which is weird, but my heart bangs like a percussion section when I read it, not just because of its contents, but because I can tell from reading it that it’s from Sai.
Got your number from Kennedy, was at school late, heard Deans saying auditions for musical next week.

“Everything all right?” my mother asks, still examining her reflection, even though she’s back in her kind of crappy normal clothes.

“Yeah, I, just, this guy, school, auditions.” My mouth is dry and I’ve forgotten enough of the English language to even know how to fix what’s wrong with my response.

“Auditions for what?” she asks.

“The fall musical,” I say. “It’s, like, a really big deal. For me, at least.”

She laughs. “I want to hear about the guy who’s terrifying to speak of when
really big deal
auditions aren’t.”

“He’s no one,” I say. “I mean, just a guy, this guy from school, it doesn’t matter, I don’t even like him.”

“Uh huh,” she says with a raised eyebrow. “Definitely sounds like it.”

“Shut up,” I say without thinking. And then we both laugh really hard, and I tell myself to get how amazing this moment is, my mother and me, at last, cracking up together, even if it’s sort of at my own expense.

“For now I will.” She turns from the mirror. “All right, I have to get through another chapter today, so I should attempt that before dinner. Thanks for the shirt.”

“You bought it for me,” I point out.

“Ah, technicalities. See you later, kid.”

On Saturday night, I’m still settling on accessories and perfecting my outfit for my first official night out with friends in L.A. when my mother knocks on my door. “Come in!”

She does, shutting the door behind her. “Two boys are here for you. One, I should mention, I’m leaving Brad for.
Damn
.”

Oh my God. Sai is here. In my freaking
house
.

Okay, fine, I definitely meant everything I said about there being no point in liking Sai. But I guess I’ve been lying to myself to think that means I
don’t
like him. I have no willpower against the hair, the voice, the chest, the weird nerd qualities lurking just beneath the surface. I mean, he
likes English lit
.

“I think he likes this girl at school,” I say for some extremely stupid reason, like my mother is serious about dumping Brad for Sai. “I mean—”

That makes her laugh. “Then hopefully I can restrain myself. Anyway, cash for tonight.” She hands me a wad of bills. “And would you call me if you’re going to be out late? That seems like the right thing to do, yeah?”