Being Friends With Boys (13 page)

We make it back to my house at 11:28.

“Thanks, man,” I breathe.

“No, thank
you
. That was . . . enormous.”

“It was kinda, yeah.” I nod. “I mean, it was cool, working with you that way.”

The wide, no-teeth,
I see you for real
smile fills up his face. For a minute I say a little silent
fuck you
to Whitney and all the girls who glare at me when I hang out around Oliver. He never smiles at them this way, I know. Or, at least, maybe not as often.

When I shut the car door I wave at him, and he waves jauntily back. Walking up to my house, somebody might accuse me of bouncing or something, and that’d be okay. Because tonight I feel really, completely, deep-down, all-around happy and good.

The feeling continues on Saturday. Oliver plays the new songs for the guys, and they get them almost right away. Even Abe throws in some truly inspired drumming, and it’s just amazing to see
how quickly Fabian can follow—and then play with, and then add to—whatever it is Oliver’s doing. It makes my
Oh my god I dig you so much
feeling accelerate about fifty times.

While Oliver’s singing “Foreign Tongue,” I forget myself and start singing some harmonies, which are easier to find with Fabian playing along. Eli likes it so much we decide I’ll do it for real. When I sneak a glance at Fabian, we both break into grins.

After practice, Trip texts to see if I want to go catch a movie or something. Surprised but thrilled, I negotiate with Gretchen and even get the car. Trip and I decide to see the new zombie apocalypse one, mostly because there isn’t that much else playing. We laugh our heads off during most of the gory scenes (much to the annoyance of the people in front of us, who actually get up and move seats), and afterward we go to Java Monkey and crack ourselves up again, practically acting the entire movie out for each other.

When I drop him off, he reminds me about aikido starting this week, that his practices and my practices are going to dictate our lives. I suggest we plan to hang out every Saturday night, then, because this was so great. He smiles at this, and I do too. When we wrap each other in another good-night hug, I can’t remember why I ever thought anything might go wrong.

I
t’s Thursday when things get bizarre.

First of all, when Oliver and I get into his car to head to rehearsal after school, he goes, “Just so you know, Whitney and I are finished.”

“Wait, what?”

He jerks one shoulder up around his ear in response. So that’s why we were walking so fast after school—he didn’t want to chance running into her.

“When?”

“This morning.”

“Hang on. You broke up with Whitney this
morning
? Why?”

“Why are you freaking, Spider? You hated her. Everyone did.”

I hadn’t realized I was that unsubtle. “I didn’t hate her. I just—”

“You did and it’s cool. She’s an albatross, anyway. I just got sick of her shit.”

“Her usual shit, or extra shit? I mean, is it about the band?”

He lets out a long, irritated sigh. “Just
shit
, man. She’s not my girlfriend anymore, so I don’t see why we need to talk about her any further.”

This is one of the extremely irritating aspects of being friends with boys: their utter refusal, or perhaps inability, to divulge any kind of important information when it comes to matters like this. Whenever Lish broke up with someone (and when Clay finally dumped me last year)—we went over every single “he said” and “I said” and “then he,” not to mention analyzed every heartbroken (or angry) text that came after that. But boys, they’re just so maddeningly unresponsive. Oliver dumping Whitney before school is a perfect example. Even though I can’t stand Whitney, that is complete and total
ouch
. A girl would have thought for days about exactly how, when, and where to do it. And she would’ve been a little more considerate. But maybe Whitney did something in the parking lot that pissed Oliver off and he just snapped? Who knows, since we’re not allowed, apparently, to talk about it. Still, I can’t wait for rehearsal to start so I can text Trip the news.

That Oliver wants the subject to be dropped, however, doesn’t
seem to matter much to Whitney, because about twenty minutes into practice, Mrs. Drake comes to the top of the rec room stairs and tells Oliver he has a guest.

“I’m practicing,” he says in that pouty way he has with his mom.

“Yes, dear, I can see that. But if you could just—”

I love Mrs. Drake, because she is so perfect and polite all the time, but you still can tell when there’s something she dislikes. I picture Whitney at the door, makeup dripping down her cheeks. Oliver’s mom would definitely find that unpleasant.

Abe and I swap smirks behind Oliver’s back.

“What’s that about?” Eli wants to know as soon as Oliver’s gone.

Abe shrugs. “Ex-girlfriend hysteria.”

Eli shakes his head. “Bitches, dude. You can’t keep them around long or they go sour on you, you know? Oh—” He glances at me. “Sorry, Charlotte.”

But I think it’s funny. “No, I hear you. It’s all eggs and milk in here, and those have expiration dates, so.”

Abe barks out a surprised laugh.

“No you didn’t.” Eli’s jaw drops around an impressed smile.

I shift my eyes to Fabian, see if he’s laughing too. When he’s not, the pride and delight I just felt dissipates a little. Fitting in with Eli and the other guys is important, but not if it’s going to make Fabian think I’m gross.

“She’s probably pretty upset,” I switch. “I mean, he did it before school.”

“That’s the best time, dude.” Eli thumbs a string. “That way, they can’t be calling you every five minutes. Gives it a chance to sink in. Once you’ve gone through the whole day, it’s a sealed deal. She can’t do anything about it. You’re gone.”

“Well, Whitney’s a little more . . .”

“Difficult?” Abe offers. But then his face becomes totally inexpressive and he straightens up, as Oliver thumps back down the stairs.

“You okay?” I ask, automatic.

He rakes his fingers through his bangs a few times but that’s it. “‘Just Hang Up’” is all he says, counting off before his guitar is even back around his neck. I know the rest of the guys know that it’s a breakup song, but I’m not sure they get, as much as I do, how badly Oliver needs that song right now.

Whitney crashing practice isn’t even the most bizarre thing that happens, though. I’m gathering chip bags and stuff to take upstairs when Fabian, who has been taking an unusually long amount of time getting his equipment together, asks me from nowhere, “Charlotte, would you be interested in going to hear a band this weekend?”

It’s all I can do to not drop the glasses I’m carrying.

“Um, who is it?” Like that would matter. Like I wouldn’t go hear klezmer polka with him if he asked me.

“This band called Unkind. They’re from Chicago, I think. I don’t know who’s opening.”

Above us we hear the other guys coming back down the stairs.

“Um, sure,” I say fast.

“Great.” He smiles. I do too. And then, because I’m stupid and don’t know what to do with myself, I bolt upstairs to give myself a few minutes to completely hyperventilate. I stay there in the kitchen, going,
Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod
, and sucking these little breaths in between closed teeth, just to try to calm down enough to face him coolly and without squealing.

When it’s time to go, I’m a little calmer. At least I hope so. But then my heart accelerates again and I grind my teeth together to keep my jaw from doing that obnoxious popping thing when Fabian offers me a ride home.

“That’d be great, man,” Oliver says for me. “I gotta get a jump on studying.” To me he says, “You mind?”

“Uh.” I am so dumb. I mean, literally, dumb. I think I am even breathing out of my mouth. “Okay.”

The inside of Fabian’s car is shockingly clean. There’s barely anything on the floor mats, even, and it smells like a Febreze commercial.

“Your car is so clean,” I say. Idiot.

“That was part of the deal,” he tells me. “Which way?” His fingers point over the edge of his steering wheel, and I think,
I love his knuckles so much
.

“Oh. Sorry. Up to the stop sign and then right. It’s not very far, really.”

“You usually walk, right?”

“Yeah, or Oliver drives.”

He nods and looks over, smiles in just a little curve.

“Um, so . . . the deal?” I ask.

His eyebrows scrunch together.

“You said keeping everything clean was part of the deal? Past the gas station up here, take the first left.”

He’s confused for a second. “Oh, yes. For the car. My parents agreed to the hybrid only if I promised to not trash it up like my brother did his first car. They didn’t think I could do it. My dad sneaks out after dinner to look in the windows, see if I’ve slipped up. It’s become kind of a fun game between us, actually. For me, anyway.”

I am trying not to stare at him. At his face lighting up with impish playfulness.

“Um, you’re going to turn right up here. Not this street but the next one.”

“You’re a very good directions-giver.”

The back of my head, neck, turn golden under his compliment.

“It’s this one. On the left. The one with the green door.”

“Most people with white houses have red doors,” he remarks. “Have you noticed that?”

“Yeah, that’s actually why we don’t. It’s a folk thing, I think, to paint the door red. It says that your house is a place of refuge or something. Which is nice, right? But my stepmom, Hannah, she
hates
the red-door trend. She says that people just do it because they saw it in
Southern Living
.” I realize I’m talking too much, but I’m halfway through the story and can’t stop now. “She thinks most people don’t understand the meaning at all and would never give refuge to anyone they didn’t know—especially not anyone, god forbid,
foreign
or
homeless
—and so she doesn’t want to be associated with that at all. Also, she says, it’s not like we’re running an Elizabeth Arden spa. So, our front door is green.”

“Your stepmom sounds like a cool person.”

And this would maybe be unflattering, but I feel it in the most admiring way when it strikes me that Fabian sounds, a little, like Kermit the Frog. Also, I haven’t really thought of Hannah as cool before, but coming out of Fabian’s mouth, it seems right.

“She’s pretty cool, I guess. But I suggest you reserve judgment on my stepsisters until you actually meet them.”

Which makes me blush to say. Fabian meeting Gretchen and
Darby. Meeting my family. I have got to get out of this car now before I say anything even more stupid.

I clear my throat to make my voice not wobble. “So, this show?”

“Yeah.” Fabian reaches around, takes his iPhone out of his back pocket. “Tell me your number?”

“You actually have it, I think. From when I texted you? About the auditions?”

“Oh yeah, right.” This looks like it surprises him. In a happy way.

He fiddles around with the screen a little more.

“Are you the 9061 number?”

“That’s me.” I’ve taken out my phone too. “Which one are you?”

“2277.”

“Well, that’s easy to remember.”

Digits resaved in our respective devices, we smile at each other again.

“The show’s at, I think, eight. I can pick you up?”

“What night is it?”

“Oh, yes. Right.” He shakes his head a little, embarrassed by himself. It is wildly endearing, and kind of a relief, that I’m not the only one who’s flibberty. “Saturday. At the Masquerade. Have you been?”

“Isn’t that, like . . .” I feel like an incredible baby. “A bar?”

“But the shows are all ages on Saturdays. It’s cool. You’ll see.”

“Sounds like it.”

God. More stupid shit. I have to get out of this car now.

“Hey, thanks for the ride.”

“Can I get back to Ponce from here?”

“Oh, right.” I try to explain where he’ll be going, but it ends up being too many streets so I just take out a piece of paper and draw him a map.

“You’re good at maps, too.” He holds it up. “I’ll hang on to this.”

“Okay, well.” I practically stumble, getting out so fast, the idea of my stupid map staying in his car, being something maybe he’ll refer to so often he won’t need to anymore. I turn around and wave to him as he’s backing out, but I don’t think he sees.

As soon as I’m safely inside the house, I holler for Darby. She appears at the top of the stairs, mad at being interrupted, but also cautious, like she might be in trouble. “What?”