The Secrets of Attraction (23 page)

“Omigod, she's really into it,” Wren said, laughing.

Tanner cupped his hand around his mouth and yelled. “Di-ar-a! Woo!”

We watched until the song was over and the red light dimmed. Everyone climbed down from the bar. Jazz bounded over to us, the pom-pom on the top of the hat wiggling as she made her way through the crowd. “Did you see me?”

“Jazzabelle is out to play,” Madison said, tugging on the hat strings. Jazz's eyes widened.

“Hey, this girl wants to meet you.” She grabbed Tanner's hand and pulled him along. His face twisted with confusion but he laughed as they sliced their way through the chaos.

“Guess that is his lucky hat,” I said.

“Jess,” someone said, putting a hand on my shoulder. My parents. I'd almost forgotten they were there.

“We're heading out. Need any help loading up?” Dad asked.

“Nah, we're cool.”

Mom clung to his arm, a big grin on her face as she took in the atmosphere. Her eyes landed on Madison's shirt, then she looked between the two of us and smiled.

“Are you the Madison who designed the logo?”

Madison lowered her eyes and laughed. “Guilty.”

“Love it, and Jesse's hair, too.”

Did she
have
to mention the hair?

“Thanks.”

“Make sure you settle things with Deck. He was looking for you. See you at home.” They waved as they made their way to the front and out of the bar.

“Dude, maybe we should go break down, before Diara starts dancing on the bar again. I don't feel like having anyone question her about her ID. Know what I mean?” Grayson said.

Once the Suburban was loaded, we went back inside to Declan's office.

“There you are,” Deck said, taking out bright orange earplugs as he pushed away from the desk on his rolling chair. “Once that techno shit starts playing I have to put these in. Gotta do what brings 'em in, though.”

It was the first time he'd said anything that reminded me that he was my parents' age. “Yeah.”

“Yellow Number Five.” He stood up and handed me the cash. I flipped through the bills—tens and twenties—and counted two hundred.

“There's too much here,” I said, handing him back two twenties. He held up his hand.

“We did great tonight, consider it a bonus. Are you guys up for a date in May?”

“Hell yeah,” I said.

“Cool, I'll put you down—second week. Hey, did you ever see this?”

He waved us over to the wall of pictures. Gray and I stood before it, scanning the photos.

“Recognize anyone?”

“That's Dad,” I said, pointing to their band picture. The five of them stood in various poses, leaning against a brick wall. My father was shirtless under a denim jacket and tight black pants. I'd seen pics from his band days, but not this one. He was so thin, and looked bored, but in a determined way—if I didn't know him I would have assumed he was pretty badass.

“Is that, wait—” Gray pointed at a picture of Declan with his arm around a girl. She had long hair and was leaning back, laughing.

“Whoa.” I laughed and inspected the picture again. I knew my mother had hung out with Backtalk, she and my dad talked about it from time to time, but I'd never seen pics of her. Especially with Declan.

“You know she used to sing backup when she was bored.”

“My mother. Sing?”

“Yeah, she had a sweet voice, too. Never wanted to do more than that. She was too practical.” Declan stared at the picture in a way that made me wonder how close they actually had been. No. Fucking. Way.

“Well, um, we're heading out.”

“See you in May.”

In the hallway, I handed Gray his share of the take. He paused a moment and counted it.

“It's all there,” I said.

“Oh, yeah dude, I know. Never been paid to play. Feels kind of sweet.”

In all the excitement, the nerves, the desire to get it right, I'd forgotten about that feeling. He was right. It did feel pretty sweet to get paid for something that I loved to do.

“It does. Doesn't it?”

We unloaded at my house first, then hit the Starlite diner, which was so crowded they didn't have a spot for six. We had to split up into two booths across from each other. Me and T on one side, Jazz and Madison on the other in a booth for four, while Wren and Gray sat in the booth for two near the window. Even though they sat across from each other, they were one unit, legs entwined, hands clasped across the table, as they read through the menu. There was familiarity there. Closeness. Comfort. I felt my wrist, a phantom buzz from the missing infinity band.

Madison already had her menu closed. When our eyes met, she looked away. God, I would have given anything to relive that moment onstage at Whiskey Business. The way it felt to have her look at me like that, like she couldn't look away. Here in the diner with the bright lights and the clanking of dishes and laughter, I felt too exposed to just stare at her. How could it have felt like we shared a secret in a crowded room, but here we couldn't hold eye contact for longer than a few seconds? She fiddled with the paper ring around her silverware.

After we placed our order, Jazz put her arms on the table and her head down. She looked content in Tanner's hat.

“So how much did you have to drink, Diara?” Madison asked.

Jazz sat up. “Only two itty-bitty beaker . . . no, wait, test-tube thingies of some really sweet-tasting blue stuff. I'm still a little
bzzzzzzzzd
, but I'll be fine after I eat. The girl in the tiara . . . the one getting married . . . just handed them out from this little rack. I was talking to her about Logan, and she told me to just relax, there were other fish in the sea.”

“Wait, what about Logan?” Wren asked.

Jazz waved her hand. “I. Don't. Want. To. Talk. About. It.”

“Diara has spoken, bitches,” Tanner said. Jazz convulsed with laughter.

“Ugh, don't make me laugh.”

The waitress came back with our order. Two plates of disco fries and rye toast with jam. Madison had a hot chocolate with a mountain of whipped cream.

“Check out this shoddy barista work. Amateurs.” She took a spoonful of whipped cream from the top. I laughed.

Tanner grabbed his plate of disco fries and dug in. Jazz wrinkled her nose.

“Those look like a stomachache waiting to happen.”

“Nah, these are the best. What's with the rye toast and tea? Are we dropping you off at the nursing home after this?”

Jazz laughed. “Training, Tanner. That plate of grease would probably take me about twenty laps around the park to burn off.”

“Food of the gods, Jasmine. Live a little.” He held out a forkful of fries dripping with gravy and cheese to her.

“You know my real name.”

“Yep, like the rice.”

Jazz snorted, putting her hand up to her mouth. Tanner waved the fork at her again.

“Suits you better than Diara. Going once . . .”

She took the fork out of his hand and nibbled at the tip of a fry before scarfing the rest of it.

“Mmmm . . . this is . . . No way.”

“See, told you.”

Madison arched an eyebrow at their exchange, then looked at me.

“Stranger things,” she said.

I touched my fingertips to hers, across the table. She didn't snatch them away. Her eyes met mine again. She had smudged dark eyeliner on that made her eyes look so damn blue it was like they were lit from within. I kept waiting for her to glance away, but she didn't.

“What happened with Zach?” I asked.

“You saw that?”

“Well, no. He was there and now he's not.”

“We broke up,” she said, sliding her fingertips over mine. We weren't exactly holding hands, but it was something. Her touch made every cell in my body buzz.
Don't smile
.
Don't smile
. My mouth betrayed me. She pursed her lips to the side, fighting a smile, and looked away.

“I'm going to make it up to you . . . the birthday thing,” I said.

“You don't have to,” she said.

“Yes. Yes I do.”

She tapped her fingers on mine. “I'd like that.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

“MADISON, THESE PHOTOS ARE PERFECT.” PIPER
stood over our proposed Sadie Hawkins layout, a rare grin across her face. “I love this one, it's such a standout.”

She pointed at the photo of the balloons, the one with the word
choice
. I'd edited it so the word stood out, and the way the shot was angled, the balloons looked otherworldly in the background. I'd put in a mix of photos in the layout, some student candid shots, the band, and some more esoteric shots. I also snuck in the one of me, Wren, and Jazz, hoping Piper would be okay with it. She wasn't one of those “Let's make the yearbook photos about the yearbook staff” people.

“Thanks, I think so too.”

“I thought these pages would be a throwaway, but it's one of my favorite layouts in the book so far. This picture might be a bit much,” she said, pointing at the one I'd been worried about. “But maybe I'll let it slide.”

She moved on down to the next group of staffers. Wren was busy on her laptop, working on some copy for the page on the fall fund-raising walk.

“Hey, I forgot to send you something.” I attached the picture of her and Grayson from the dance to an email and hit send. I'd cropped Jesse out of her photo but kept the original intact. Every so often I pulled it up and studied it, imagining what he'd been witnessing when the photo was taken. I was dying to ask him about it, but the other night at the diner didn't really seem like the proper place. I'd noticed he wasn't wearing that infinity bracelet he used to wear . . . maybe that had something to do with it? My stomach still turned to jelly whenever I thought of our fingertips touching.

Wren gasped. “Mads, I love this picture. I didn't even realize you took it! I'm making it the wallpaper on my phone.” Jazz peeked over at Wren's laptop and smiled.

“Yes, too bad I didn't have a camera the other night. You can see a lot through a camera . . . like things people don't want to tell you.” Jazz glanced away when I said this, busying herself with more typing.

Wren and I had dished our versions of Saturday night via text all weekend and every day since, but Jazz had remained quiet throughout. And really, out of the three of us, she hands-down had to have the most different version of the night. The most she'd said was that she didn't want to talk about it. We were close to wearing her down, though.

“It can't be that bad,” Wren whispered, leaning in.

Jazz chewed her bottom lip and moved closer to us, sliding her laptop along to create a barrier, under the guise of doing work. She ducked behind it and spoke.

“Nothing happened, okay? That's the embarrassing thing.”

“Why did Logan just leave?” Wren asked.

“And were you really cool with it? That's what he told me outside,” I said.

She pressed her lips together, maybe trying to keep the story in still, but finally relaxed. “Yes, I was cool with it. Everything was fine when he first got there. We held hands, talked—well, as much as you can talk over the music. He wasn't really into the band and then his friends wanted to leave. They were going to a party at a brownstone that these girls at the bar invited them to.”

“He said he asked you to go. Did he?” I wished I could go back to that moment I'd watched Logan leaving and stick out my foot to trip him.

“Yes, he said I could get a ride home with them, but I wanted to stay with you guys. When he left it was like a whole different night. I tried to make it up front, but the crowd was too much, and those girls from the bachelorette party kind of took me in.”

“You should have texted me, I would have found you,” Wren said.

“I don't know, it was fun being someone different, like, maybe I could be Diara Jones for a night. Diara did blue shots and danced on the bar and completely forgot about Logan. You know, he's cute, we talk, and I really like him as a running bud, but there's no . . . magic.” When she said
magic
she brought her hands together and then slowly apart, wiggling her fingers a bit, in what I imagined was supposed to be represent sparkly, magical love glitter.

“You watched
Sleepless in Seattle
again, didn't you?”

She laughed. “No. Haven't been romcom-ing it lately. I'm sick of pining for some meet-cute that probably won't happen but I don't know, isn't that how it should be, at least a little bit? That
something
you can't quite put your finger on? I feel like we're both just kind of forcing it, because he's a boy and I'm a girl and that's what we're
supposed
to do. No one has written the script about good friends, have they?”