The Secrets of Attraction (24 page)

Wren and I both shrugged.

“Anyhow, after I did those blue shots, I started feeling dizzy, and ran into Tanner and he walked with me outside for some air. It was cold, so I took his hat. Do you know that's his grandfather's hat? He was the one who got him into the bass?”

Wren grinned. “Holy crap, you are totally crushing on Tanner.”

Jazz bit back a smile, her eyes darting between us. “No, not really.”

“Jazzabelle, you're blushing.”

“He makes me laugh. It was like, one question about his hat and he kind of cracked open into this whole other person. I'm not saying it was magic or anything, but I wasn't analyzing every move wondering if it meant something. It felt nice. C'mon, you both know what I'm talking about. I saw you and Jesse holding hands, Mads, not sure why I'm under a microscope here.”

“We weren't holding hands,” I said. “Just . . . touching fingertips.”

“Whatever it was, you guys looked into it,” Wren said. “How cool would that be if we dated guys from the same band?”

“Decidedly not cool. What would happen if one of us broke up, then what? We couldn't hang out?” Jazz said.

“Ha! So you are thinking about it,” I said.

“No . . . no, not really. I'm not saying I want to start anything with Tanner, but it was a bit of jolt, to see him in a different way.

“And now I'm meeting my platonic but foxy run buddy to try to shave five seconds off my five-K,” she said. “Wish me luck.”

She packed up her laptop and gave us small wave as she went out to her locker. I stared at Wren.

“Tanner and Jazzy? You think?”

“That would be . . . interesting, but I'm more curious about what Jesse wants to do on your birthday. Did you find out yet?”

“No, he said not to worry, he's doing all the planning. What could that even be? Free chai for a year?”

Wren smiled.

“Do you know something?” I asked.

“Only that you really want to do more than touch fingertips with him.”

Since my mother was starting her RYT 200 intensive teacher training over the weekend, we skipped our Thursday yoga in order to celebrate my birthday early. I picked Arturo's, our go-to special-occasion-casual-but-elegant place. We ordered our usual cheese-smothered garlic bread and fried calamari with pepperoncini, which we dug into.

“Omigod, this is so good, but I bet I'll still be tasting this on Saturday. Hope I don't reek for Jesse.”

“Are you sure that's really the way you want to spend a good portion of your birthday—in a car?”

“Mom, for the tenth time, yes. I'm so ridiculously stoked for this.”

When Jesse told me he'd make it up to me for singling me out at Whiskey Business with “Happy Birthday,” I expected at most a movie, cake, a free chai at Mugshot. Instead he'd asked me if I wanted to go to Fallingwater, the house designed by Frank Lloyd Wright.

Mind = blown.

The downside was that it was five hours away.

The upside was that we were spending the night at his aunt's house.

The downside was the amount of phone calls it took to plan it all. My mother and his mother, my mother and his aunt, the three of them at one point talking so long I thought for sure we'd be in on a vacation share in LBI with them during the summer or spending national holidays together.

Of course, my mother had wanted to make sure that said aunt really existed and that Jesse and I wouldn't be spending the night in a motel. Then there were my calls to Wren and Jazz. What to wear? Was this too much? Should I really consider doing something so big with someone I'd only just started hanging out with? It was all slightly embarrassing, but completely worth it. For the first time in a long time, I was so flippin' excited for my birthday, but I wasn't sure what it had to do with more—seeing Frank Lloyd Wright's work up close and personal or spending all that time alone with Jesse. Both, I supposed.

After my pre-birthday dinner, we stopped by the bakery for a small vanilla buttercream cake and then went back to the house.

“So what first, presents or cake?” My mother set the cake down in the center of the dining room table.

“Presents? Today?”

“I guess we have an answer,” Paul said. He disappeared into the living room and came back with a large, flat package tied with a blue ribbon. My mother's grin stretched across her face as Paul handed me the present. I had to shove away from the table to make room for it. My heart raced as I untied the ribbon and ripped away the tissue paper.

It was an art portfolio.

I ran my hand across the soft, smooth leather. My initials,
MP
, were stamped into the front. I'd been keeping my things in a binder with page protectors; this was probably more extravagant than I needed at the moment, but it was perfect.

“Your mother and I picked it out, but if you really don't like it—”

“I love it,” I whispered, opening it up and imagining how I would fill it. Slipped into the second page were a few papers that were stapled together.

An application to Pratt's summer program.

My throat tightened, the initial unease I felt when I spoke about being handed this sort of money danced in my gut. I'd talked myself into accepting NJDI as my only option, that it was what I wanted, what I needed, that earning it was a noble thing. I still believed that, but this? The love I felt at that moment overwhelmed me, filled me up so much that my eyes itched with backed-up tears. They believed in me. They really wanted this for
me
.

My mother cleared her throat. “Mads, we know how you feel about this, but we really think, if this was your first choice, you should reconsider.”

“Think of it as sixteen years' worth of birthday presents; when you look at it that way, it's really not that mu—”

“I'll do it,” I said. “I'll apply, I'll go. I . . . Thank you.” I placed the portfolio to the side and sprung up to give Paul an awkward, seated hug. He laughed and patted my arm, then I went over to Mom.

“You won't regret it, sweetie, really, you'll see.” I threw my arms around her, pressed my cheek against hers. We rocked for a minute until she stepped back.

“And wait . . . there's more.”

“Really?”

“More” turned out to be a set of colored sketching pencils and a pair of boots I'd admired at the mall. I even allowed them to sing “Happy Birthday” to me, softly and without any additions like “a pinch to grow an inch” . . . or a countdown to how many birthdays I was celebrating. It all felt right somehow. The three of us there. A family . . . maybe with the seams showing, but still . . . together.

“Make a wish, Mads.”

The candlelight made the shadows dance around the room.

The other part about birthdays I hated was the wishing. It's like my mind would go on overload, ever since I was little—what did I want? What did I
really, really want
?

I could never think of anything specific and I was afraid of asking for the wrong thing—like a genie story gone bad, where if you hadn't worded your wish correctly it would come out in some different way and burn you.

Wax dripped onto the perfect white buttercream frosting, while different wishes vied for approval.

A perfect weekend with Jesse.

An exciting summer going to Pratt.

Me, Wren, and Jazz becoming yearbook editors.

There was one wish—a whisper, really—that I wanted more than anything. It came on suddenly and surprised me in the sheer fact that it was corny as hell, a made-for-TV movie of a wish.

For that reason, I was sure it was doomed to fail.

But when I closed my eyes to make my wish, it's all that came to mind.

I whispered those words in my thoughts as I blew out seventeen candles.

Let it always be like this night.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

THE LAST TIME I
'
D WOKEN UP WICKED EARLY ON A
Saturday was my first year in soccer. I can still remember my parents stumbling across the field with their cups of coffee, cheering me on as I tried my hardest to stay
away
from the ball. While there was more to my demise in sports than getting up early, it never meant anything good—this was different, though.

It was the Saturday to end all Saturdays.

The Saturday I'd spend with Madison Pryce.

After a quick pit stop at Mugshot to get provisions for our ride, I drove to Madison's. All a part of my grand non-birthday plan that I'd come up with the night after we played at Whiskey Business. I had wanted to surprise her, like
really
surprise her, but not in the “I hate to be the center of attention way” again. It had to be unexpected. Impressive enough to make her eyes light up the way they did when she spoke about art or going to design camp. That's when I thought of Fallingwater, how stoked she'd been about the Frank Lloyd Wright project she was working on the day she showed me the band logo.

Perfect except for the endless-drive thing that made it next to impossible for a day trip. Enter Aunt Julia, more persuading than I'd done in Debate 101, and finally a birthday overnighter that I knew (or at least hoped) would rock her world.

Madison was sitting on her front porch, duffel bag at her feet. The moment I saw her, my mind went into panic mode—what if this was an idiotic idea? What if we had nothing to talk about for the five-hour drive? There was no turning back now, and that thrilled me too. We were in this together. I put the car in park, grabbed her drink, and climbed up the steps.

“I only get up this early for Frank Lloyd Wright.” She stood up, and swatted the back of her pants as I climbed up to meet her.

“Am I allowed to say happy birthday?” I handed her a hot chocolate I'd picked up at Mugshot and hoisted her bag over my shoulder.

She brought the cup up to her face, peeking into the spout.

“Okay I lied, getting up early for your hot chocolate works too.” She closed her eyes and took a sip. “Mmmm.”

Ms. Pryce stepped out onto the porch, opening her arms wide to Madison. “Give me a hug, birthday girl.”

Madison opened her arms awkwardly, holding up the cup and raising her chin over her Mom's shoulder, laughing. When they parted, Ms. Pryce looked at me.

“You don't text and drive, do you?”

“No, ma'am.”

“Speeding?”

“Mom, come on.”

“Nope, the VW sort of sputters when it hits sixty-five, so no worries.”

Madison laughed.

“You have cash on you? Your phone is charged?”

“Yes and yes, Mom. And we'll make pit stops and eat when we're hungry. No worries. Thanks for letting me go. I don't know any yoga slang, but um, bliss out today at training.” Madison hugged her again.

“At least text me at some point today, okay? Or leave a voice mail, let me know you got there in one piece.”

“Will do.” Madison gave her a kiss on the cheek, then grabbed my arm.

“Let's go before she changes her mind,” she whispered.

I tossed her bag into the trunk, and opened the passenger-side door. I remembered what she said about Gray having a shitty ride and braced myself for her assessment of the Bug. It wasn't much, I knew that, but it got me from point A to point B without any trouble. I slid into the driver's seat and made sure I had the right address in the GPS.

“Omigod, you have an eight-ball stick shift? Cool.”

Whew.

“So I made us a playlist, easy listening's your jam, right?” I said.

She wrinkled her nose. “What?”

I started the car as Green Day exploded through the speakers.

“Just messing with you.”

Her smile fueled me.

Two and a half hours into the ride we had exhausted every hokey car game. Twenty Questions. I Spy. And a version of the license-plate game that hadn't started out as raunchy but quickly debased into third-grade humor. Madison had declared me the winner for
Astonishing Ass Wombat-3675
for using an unexpected adjective with a mammal native to Australia. We were already into Pennsylvania but still had about three hours to go. We were both about to tear the roof off.

“I bet we aren't even going to Fallingwater. You're kidnapping me, aren't you?”

“You're right. We're heading to California.”

“Northern or Southern?”

“Um, Northern.”

“San Francisco,” she said, as if it were a real decision we were making. “What would we do there?”

“Ride a cable car?”

“Oh god, no.”

“Ohhkay . . . then, what?”

She put her feet up on the dash, hugging her knees into her chest. “Is this okay? That my feet are up here?”

“You really have to ask?”

“Okay, then this is what we'd do—we'd get roasted peanuts and watch the hang-gliders on the bluffs, then we'd Rollerblade in Golden Gate Park.”