When It Happens

Table of Contents

 

 

HE KEEPS LOOKING AT ME....

By Music Theory, I’m drifting happily along in a pink bubble.

“What’s up with Tobey?” Laila says.

“What do you mean?”

“He’s been staring at you since he walked in the door. Don’t you notice anything?”

I look over at Tobey. He quickly looks away.

“Drool much?” Laila says.

“I was only seeing if he was looking at me!”

“Protest much?”

“Okay, people!” Mr. Hornby says, clapping his hands together. He sits down at the piano and begins to play. We’re supposed to hum along. While we hum, I look at Tobey. He’s really tall, like maybe six-one, which you can tell from the way he’s folded up in his chair. His hair is dark and his skin is pale. I’m drawn to those eyes again. They’re big and deep blue. Almost a violet color. And he has these really long eyelashes.

Tobey catches me looking at him. When he sees me, his eyes get even bigger.

It’s really weird, but for a few seconds we’re both just staring at each other. Why is it that when I look at him now, it’s like I’m seeing him for the first time?

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SPEAK
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Registered Offices: Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

First published in the United States of America by Viking,
a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2006
Published by Speak, an imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2008

Copyright © Susane Colasanti, 2006

All rights reserved

THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE VIKING EDITION AS FOLLOWS:
Colasanti, Susane.
When it happens / Susane Colasanti.
p cm.

Summary: High school seniors Sara and Tobey attempt to figure out
what is important in life as they try to balance their preparations
for their futures with their enjoyment of the present.
[1. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 2. High schools—Fiction.
3. Self-actualization—Fiction. 4. Schools—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.C6699Whe 2006 [Fic]—dc22 2005026405

eISBN : 978-0-142-41155-1

.S.A.
Set in Fairfield and Gill Sans

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product
of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume
any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

FOR DERRICK, who proves that soul mates really do exist.

The creative visualization used to manifest this book was inspired by . . .

The Visionaries

Anne Rivers Gunton, who saw my destination from way down the road; Regina Hayes, who knew the best path to travel; Jill Davis, who noticed there was a journey in the first place

The Yin

Laila Dadvand, for always knowing our fate; Allison Granberry, who will never ever settle; Sara Dhom, summer camp goddess extraordinaire; Nancy Bennett, the most awesome science teacher in this solar system; Michelle Shaw, my soul sister in the search for true love; Eileen Harvey, the sweetest Gram that ever was

The Yang

Jim Downs, for your unwavering support, all those walks, and believing in trust; Tim Stockert, a fabulous source of positive light; Joe Torello, who understands about five-dollar bills at Serendipity; George Pasles, the definition of eccentric creativity; Mike Ippoliti, kindred organization freak spirit; Shawn Lindaberry, for making Tobey the ideal boy that he is

The Saviors

Chad Parker, for saving those original pages when they morphed into rectangles; Andrew Hertzmark, boy-behavior analyst expert; Sharon Gannon and David Life, continuing to redefine New Year’s Eve; David Ippolito, who helped me feel whole again, and for those magic changes on The Hill; Shakti Gawain, meditation guru; Universal Energy, for always showing me the way

The Sound

This would have been a different story without these musicians, who always took me where I needed to go: James Taylor, R.E.M., John Mayer, Eminem, Simon & Garfunkel, Sting, Coldplay, John Lennon, Led Zeppelin, Dave Matthews Band, Fleetwood Mac, and, of course, The Cure.

CHAPTER I

last days of summer

august 28, 7:23 p.m.

“So.”

“Yeah?” I say. But I already know what she’s going to say. She’s asked me the same exact question every day this summer. And the answer is always no.

Maggie’s like, “Did he call?”

“You need to get over yourself,” I say, “because it’s not happening.”

The prospect of starting senior year next week without a real boyfriend is the worst. Not some math dork or physics geek I end up liking just because he’s there. I mean a boyfriend who’s everything I want. The whole package.

“Sara,” Maggie says. “Do you realize what this means?”

I decide to ignore her. Maggie has this idealistic image of romance that I don’t think exists in real life. I mean, I’ve been trying to believe it does all summer. But Dave never called.

“This can only mean that he’s planning something huge,” Maggie says.

“Colossal,” Laila says.

“So huge it’s gonna blow your mind,” Maggie says.

Dave’s this new guy who transferred to our school from Colorado at the end of last year. This gorgeous Greek-god type on the basketball team. Ever since he sat next to me at the junior meeting—out of all the prettier, more popular girls he could have sat next to— I’ve been waiting for him to make a move. We talked a few times after that, but nothing major happened. So when he asked for my number on the last day of school, of course I wrote it in his yearbook, thinking he was going to call me like the next day. But then . . . nothing. Maggie keeps insisting that he likes me, but if he’s so interested, why didn’t he call?

I hate that a boy is making me feel this way. And I hate that I’m letting it happen.

I go, “Next topic!”

Maggie turns to Laila. “How long do you think it’ll take him to ask her out?”

“He’ll do it the first day,” Laila says. “Second, tops.”

“Can we get back to the game?” I say. “Can’t Fight This Feeling” plays through the Putt-Putt Mini Golf speaker system.

Laila goes, “Fine. Favorite scary-movie scene.”

“Oooh!” Maggie says. “That’s a good one!”

“I try,” Laila says.

I smack my hot-pink golf ball way too hard.

“I know mine,” Maggie says. “It’s from that one Freddy movie where he’s under the girl’s bed? And he slices through it and . . . like she falls underground or something. I forget how it went. But I woke up with scratches all down my neck.”

“Hey!” Laila says. “I remember that! Wasn’t that, like, in eighth grade?”

“I think so.”

“Wild,” I say.

My golf ball bounces off a plastic pink flamingo and, confused, rolls back to me.

Even though we’re all best friends, we basically only know each other about eighty-five percent. That’s why we made up the Game of Favorites. Once we got past our standard favorites, we moved on to asking the most random questions. Where you find out the meat-and-potatoes stuff you usually never get to know about another person.

I would go next, except the only scary-movie scene I can think of is the one where Dave dies of laughter over my even considering the remote possibility that he might like me. So I tap Laila’s golf club with mine and say, “I pass. Your turn.”

Laila has to think about this one. Her golf ball glides past the flamingo and stops right next to the hole. She plays mini golf perfectly. Just like she does everything else perfectly. She even had the perfect summer, interning at Overlook Hospital. She’s going to be a pediatrician. Every single person in her family is a doctor. Except her brother. But that would be because he’s eight.

“Okay,” Laila says. “Remember how we rented
An American Werewolf in London
last Halloween?”

“Yeah?”

“And remember when they realize they’re walking on the moors when they’re not supposed to?”

“Um . . .” I glance at Maggie. She makes a face like,
I have no idea what this girl is talking about
.

“So scary,” Laila says.

Maggie looks me over. “So how much weight did you lose?” she asks.

“Like five pounds.”

“And what did you eat again?” Laila says.

“Just . . . you know. Less.” All I wanted to do was fit into my jeans from tenth grade. And now I’m there.

“Don’t do that again.”

“Why not?”

“If you had any idea how much starving yourself damages your metabolism—”