The Reece Malcolm List (23 page)

“We aren’t anything,” I say. “I wouldn’t do that while you and I are . . . I just— Probably it’s not fair to feel anything for him if I’m—”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks.

“It’s not
supposed
to mean anything!” It dawns on me what he thinks. “Do you still feel things for Lissa?”

Pause pause pause.

“It doesn’t feel very fair for you to yell at me about Sai, then,” I say.

“I’m not yelling.”

That much is true.

“I think you’re right, though,” he says. “Maybe we shouldn’t go out.”

“Fine,” I say.

“Fine.”

It seems like we’re going to hang up on each other, but neither of us does.

“I
was
over her,” Elijah says. “Then that whole thing happened . . . after my show.”

“I know what thing you’re talking about.” Like I’ve forgotten getting abandoned already. I’m pretty sure getting abandoned is one of the only constants in my life.

“You’re great,” he says.

“I know,” I say, because I’m still kind of mad at him. But also because it hits me maybe that’s not untrue.

Elijah laughs his hot laugh. I am totally not immune to it, even now. “At least you have a chance,” he says. “Liss and her issues . . .”

“Oh, right, I really have a chance. Are you forgetting Nicole?”

“I’m not,” he says. “I think
he
does sometimes.”

“Probably we’re both guided by stupid emotions,” I say, which makes him laugh even harder.

“Probably so. How was your rehearsal? You knock a few people out with your voice yet? I mean literally, too, one second they’re on their feet and the next on their asses.”

I giggle at the image. “I wish. It’s good to have a goal, though.”

“My mom’s yelling,” he says. “Garbage has to go out. But we’re cool? No drama?”

“No drama,” I say. Honestly, too.

Chapter Seventeen

Things I know about Reece Malcolm:

33. She actually seems to like that I’m kind of a geek about things (like cast recordings).

I really don’t feel like walking into school like things are okay the next morning. Obviously ending whatever Elijah and I had was the right thing to do—and I know that—but as awkward as everything and everyone already is, this can’t make things any better. It’s not something I can exactly talk about with Sai—obviously—and Travis is still on Project Ignore Devan. Justine’s never felt so much a part of my past and not my now. And Mira’s at my locker, and that can’t be a good sign.

“How are you?” she asks.

“I’m fine,” I say.

“They just have this thing they can’t get over,” Mira says. “It’s not about you.”

“Okay.” I’m not sure what else there is to say, especially to freaking
Mira
.

“It was a good sign that Elijah was going out with you. I thought they were finally over each other. But sometimes it’s hard to give up on someone you’ve felt that way about for forever.” Mira sighs and starts off down the hallway. “See you in class.”

I seriously have no idea why this is the topic that seems to have made Mira stop hating me, but mysterious as it is, I’ll take it. Plus it makes it way less scary at lunch to sit down at our table, even though today Lissa’s in the spot next to Elijah. After all, I wish Sai was in the spot next to me. But even after what happened—well, almost happened—last night, Sai is sitting next to Nicole, and his arm is around her shoulder. I haven’t admitted to myself until seeing them that I hoped he made the same call I did last night.

But I guess I’m not really that surprised he didn’t.

Rehearsal is short tonight because it’s Parents’ Night, the Nation is performing, and everyone in Nation is in
Merrily
. So we change out of our rehearsal clothes (well, the girls do; the boys always rehearse in whatever they’re already wearing, except for Travis) and into our performance clothes for the first time. Up until now, all the show choirs I’ve been in required guys to be in tuxes, girls in embarrassingly sequined dresses. Luckily New City continues its reign as better than my previous schools, because the guys are in black pants with black shirts, and we’re in swingy black dresses. I’m not saying I’d wear the dress for any reason other than the Nation, but it’s still a lesser fashion offense in the scheme of show choir couture.

“Your mom here?” Sai asks me as we’re waiting backstage in the auditorium for our cue. We haven’t talked much today so it’s a relief this immediately feels just like normal. Just like pre-lying-in-bed-next-to-each-other, at least.

“No,” I say with authority, even though it’s not like we ever discussed it. I just figure Reece Malcolm has way more important things to do. “I’m assuming your dad’s not?”

“Nope. My dad doesn’t even know I’m in Nation. He’s a cliché of a person.”

“Oh, are you supposed to be on the basketball team or something?”

“Something, yeah.”

Mr. Deans’s voice goes out over the PA system, so we get into our actual line (I’m side-by-side with Travis, which neither of us is thrilled about) and walk out. We open with an old Cure song Mr. Deans is obsessed with, “Friday I’m in Love,” which gets way more than the requisite parents-are-proud applause. I think that gears everyone up enough to do even better with “New Music” and then another old song, “Where Is My Mind,” by another old band, the Pixies.

I know how it sounds when parents are humoring us, and this is definitely not that. Actually entertaining people is ultimately what it’s all about, right?

“I’m gonna take off,” Sai says afterward, as we’re walking out of the auditorium and back to the hallway. “You need a ride?”

“I feel so annoying being the only one without a car,” I say instead of
yes
.

“I don’t mind.”

We take off down the hallway together, as parents pour out of the auditorium. I got over it a long time ago that my relatives hardly ever came to see me perform, but I can tell from the look on Sai’s face it’s something he’s still getting used to. I wish I knew what to say, but there’s nothing comforting about the fact that eventually you do accept that your family won’t be there.

“You were really good tonight,” I finally say. “I wish I’d been paired up with you instead of Travis.”

“You only think that ’cause he entered his ass phase,” Sai says, and then we both laugh over the fact that
ass phase
sounds a lot like
ass face
. “And Deans is really hung up on the complementary heights thing, which I don’t even get.”

“Me neither, but maybe if I were better at math?”

“Devan!”

The voice is immediately recognizable, but since it seems impossible, I ignore it. It’s more likely I’ve started hearing voices than that she’s actually
here
.

“Hey.” My mother catches up with us, clearly out of breath from dashing down the hallway. “Didn’t you hear me?”

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“It’s Parents’ Night,” she says, her face falling just a bit. “I’m sorry, maybe I should have asked when I got the email newsletter from your school—”

“No, I mean, it’s fine—it’s great,” I say, as Brad catches up with her. I notice neither of them is in their uniforms; Brad is in brown pants with a green sweater, and my mother is actually in a dress, and miraculously it’s blue and fitted and makes her look amazing. Oh my God, are they trying to look like grownups for my sake? “I just didn’t know you were coming. I’mreallygladyoudid.”

“I figured it went without saying.” She tugs at one of her sleeves. “And I’m assuming because you don’t look horrified that Kate didn’t lie and this looks all right?”

“It looks great,” I say. “You should totally dress up more often.”

“I wouldn’t hold my breath. Listen, we have to, you know, meet your teachers and everything, but we’ll bring food home and talk more then, yeah?”

“Sure.” I’m suddenly aware of the nametags they’re wearing, suddenly very aware that Sai is staring at the neatly-written-by-Brad Reece on my mother’s.

“Are you Reece Malcolm?” he asks her, his eyes wide like a little kid in line to meet Santa at the mall.

“The one and only,” she says, total monotone, before laughing. “Yeah.”

“Oh, man, that’s awesome.
Destruction
is like my third-favorite book of all time.”

That only makes her laugh harder. “That’s a flattering ranking.”

“Why didn’t you tell me your mom’s Reece Malcolm?” Sai nudges me. “Didn’t you notice I had all of her books in my room?”

“No,” I lie, as my mother mouths
in his room?
just at me but not exactly subtly.

“Are you writing a book now?” Sai asks.

“I don’t talk about what I write while I’m writing it,” she says. “I am, though.”

“She always is,” Brad says. “Her work ethic is impressive.”

This sounds dumb, but sometimes I forget there are probably lots of things about my mother Brad likes besides that she’s pretty, and famous in a strictly literary sense.

“We should get to class,” my mother says with a smirk.

“Will you sign my books if I bring them over?” Sai asks.

“I’ll sign anything you bring me,” she says. It kind of throws me, because I’ve never been able to use that tone when talking to a boy, not even Elijah, who I felt comfortable enough, you know, making out with. Reece Malcolm can just toss it out at a very cute boy (who, okay, is half her age, so maybe not as intimidating) in front of her boyfriend like she does it all the time. Maybe she does. “Devan, we’ll see you later. Sai, I’ll have a Sharpie ready.”

Brad waves at both of us before dashing off behind my mother. Normally I’d be immediately figuring out how weird my relationship with my mother seemed to anyone who saw us at the same time, but I feel that fading a little, and not only because maybe Sai’s situation is as off as mine in its own way.

“Man,” Sai says. “I seriously can’t believe you didn’t say anything.”

I shrug. Even if Reece Malcolm weren’t my long-lost mother, even if I had a completely normal childhood and felt close to her, would I bring it up?
Oh, by the way, my mother’s someone super important
?

“Yeah, guess it’s not like you ever say much.” His tone is casual but nothing means nothing. Right?

I hold open the door to the parking lot. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It
is
a big deal,” he says. “You’re lucky to have a mom like that.”

Am I?

At the house I finish my homework and sing through one of my solos before walking into my mother and Brad’s room to rummage around a bit, though I find nothing of note. Maybe it’s time to cool it with this whole investigation. Reece Malcolm was there tonight, had slapped on a nametag that proclaimed to people she was my mother, made appointments with my teachers like what they say about me matters (hopefully they’ll have good things to say). This house doesn’t feel so loaded with dangerous traps anymore—and neither does Reece Malcolm.

So I head to my room and go back to singing until I hear the garage door open. Always a good warning to end the belting out of show tunes.

“Devan!” my mother calls. “We have Thai and word from New City that you’re an overachiever!”

I walk down the stairs into the living room. “I am definitely not an overachiever.”

“You have quite high marks so far in all of your classes.” Brad sets out the takeout containers on the coffee table. I notice he and my mother have switched nametags. They’re such dorks. “Considering how much time your choirs and your musical take up, I’d say that’s fairly overachieving.”

“Oh, God, speaking of choir!” My mother grabs my arm. “I had no fucking idea. You are incredible.”

“It’s show choir,” I say. “All of us. You wouldn’t even know if I—”

“Devan, while I don’t possess your level of show choir insight, I’m not an idiot.” She takes off up the stairs. “I have to change out of this thing before I can eat.”

Brad and I get plates and silverware from the kitchen, and the three of us sit around the living room coffee table divvying up all of the appetizers and entrees. I keep trying to think of a way to thank them for going tonight, but finally it hits me I’m probably making it way more complicated than it has to be.

“So, um,” I say, “thanks for going tonight.”

“I think it was required,” my mother says, or at least I think that’s what she says, because she’s in the midst of shoving a spring roll into her mouth.

“Still.” I look down at my plate, hoping they’ll attribute my red face to the panang curry. “Dad didn’t always come to see me perform. So . . . it was nice you did.”

“Someone thought Brad was a student.” My mother laughs. “I told him not to shave today; it always makes him look twelve.”

“Oh, I’d say at least fifteen,” he says, laughing too. “How many twelve-year-olds do you know who have to shave?”

“To be honest, I don’t know
any
twelve-year-olds. It’s possible.” She throws a packet of chili sauce in my direction. “Seriously? You don’t need to thank us. We’re doing what we’re supposed to. And getting to see you perform more than made up for basically being back in high school all night.”

“Perhaps I’m wrong,” Brad says, “but isn’t Show Choir generally a bit more . . .”

“Lame? Embarrassing? Totally cheesy? Yes,” I say. “This one’s really good.”