Being Friends With Boys (25 page)

“I think covers aren’t a bad idea,” I tell them. “If we can all agree on something good. I mean”—I turn to Oliver—“I can still write new material. But mixing it up a little—how could that not work?”

“Fine,” he says. “Just . . . who do we do?”

Eli stretches and yawns. “I say we do some research, bring some things on Saturday.” He points at me. “Including you.”

Suddenly I’m a deer in headlights. “Um . . . I can’t make it Saturday, guys.”

All their eyes are immediately on me, needing an explanation. Oliver forgetting, I guess, our conversation earlier in the week about me cutting back.

And I could tell them then—I could. I
should
tell them about Taryn and Sylvia, I know, because this is my band. But for whatever reason, there’s still this hesitation that pricks inside me.

“Dad’s putting the pressure on me, gradewise,” I lie, though
after report cards tomorrow it’s probably not going to be far from the truth.

“You can still send me new stuff, though, right?” Oliver says. “As soon as it’s written.”

I make myself look at him. “Mondays and Thursdays I’m still totally in, so of course. I just might not be able to work on the—”

“Settled, then.” Eli claps. “Mondays and Thursdays it is for you. You crank out new material, and us guys will drum up some covers Saturday. When the gigs start rolling in, we’ll be ready.”

And that’s that. Normality seems reestablished for everyone, which I guess is good. But lying to Oliver certainly isn’t normal to me, and I don’t like lying to Fabian, either. When he offers me a ride home, though, that’s a normal thing that is pretty nice, even if trying to talk normally about his boyfriend might be a challenge.

“Taryn told me you’re singing with them,” he says, straight-out, when we get in the car. Though it feels accusatory, I can see he’s glad for me.

“Yeah.” I shrug. “I mean, we’ll see how it goes.”

“Is that why you didn’t say anything?” He flicks his hand, indicating Oliver’s house behind us.

I fumble. “A lot of the time I don’t like to say things out loud until they’re an actuality. And this feels kind of like that.”

His face is understanding, which is a relief.

“If either band takes off, though, you’ll have to decide.”

I’m aware of his hands on the steering wheel—hands that won’t ever be on me.

“I mean,” he goes on, “you and Oliver are really close, right?”

“We are,” I concede.

“And I don’t know him as well as you do, but from what I do know, it seems it could hurt his feelings if you weren’t totally dedicated to this project.”

I didn’t think Oliver was so transparent to everyone else, and I almost say so. But I’ve honestly had enough of thinking about what Oliver needs for one afternoon.

“Maybe I don’t
want
to always just attach myself to Oliver. Maybe I want to do something different.” I realize I sound pouty and stupid, but the way Sylvia said “sidekick” is in my head again.

“Maybe you do,” he allows. “But then, why not be honest about it?”

He pulls up to the curb in front of my house, turns off the car.

“Being honest about what you want is part of getting what you want,” he goes on.

I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re a tough one, you know that?”

He reaches over to tousle my hair. “I just don’t see much value in time spent deceiving yourself. Not to mention anyone else.”

You mean how you deceived me?
pops in my mind. But I know that’s not fair.

“I’m glad you think it’s a good idea,” I tell him. “Me and Taryn and Sylvia.”

We agree to do the Masquerade again on Saturday night, and it’s all somehow okay again with him and me. While he drives away, I flash on the events of the day—Lish, Benji, lying to the guys, talking to Fabian—and a lingering sense sneaks in that while everything feels fixed, nothing is. Not really.

I
n homeroom the next morning, everything else disappears behind the immediate crisis of my report card: three C’s, one D, and two B’s means a total GPA of Absolute Flop. Even though I can smile about the B in 20th Cen., I know that Dad won’t be smiling about any of it. I’m not the greatest student ever, but usually I only have two C’s, not three, and I swore I would never get another D after the Algebra II incident last year. Dad is going to flip.

I’m so distracted, I almost don’t see Trip walking toward me in the hall between homeroom and first period. Though our homerooms are just a few doors away from each other, our paths
don’t cross around here anymore. It’s almost like he came this direction today on purpose. And, seeing him, my whole body feels how badly I could use one of his hugs right now. But probably he’s only taking a faster route to meet Lily, or Chris. I’m not going to even make eye contact with him, but then at the last second I can’t help it. And it’s like he’s waiting for me to. He lifts his own report card, and his eyebrows—just barely—go up in sympathy. I almost stop. I almost do. But then we both keep walking and the moment is over.

I obsess about it through first and second periods, thinking of all the things I’d say to him if I had the notebook right now. But there are other things I probably
wouldn’t
be telling him about—namely Benji and our date tonight. Though he’ll probably hear the rumors anyway.

This makes me more nervous to see Benji than I want to be, so I walk slow to 20th Cen., barely making it in before the bell. As I pass his desk to get to mine, Benji holds his fist up for me to bump.

For once I’m glad when Dr. Campbell lurches up to the overhead to start class.

Afterward, Benji and I walk out together, and I talk just loud enough so that the kids going past us can hear.

“Where should we meet tonight?”

“I’ll pick you up,” he says, fast and a little defensive. Which is odd.

“Do you need directions?”

“Have you moved?”

“No.”

This should be a joke or something, but we’ve both turned strangely formal.

“What time?” I ask.

“Seven?”

“Seven is good.” I smile, because tonight could be really fun. And also because it’s kind of funny how serious he’s being.

“Okay, then. Text me if, you know, you need more time or something.”

I want to tease him for that, as well. But I don’t. Instead I tell him I’m looking forward to it. He says that he is too.

Lish must still be pretty much choked with shock about me and Benji, though, because she hardly says anything at lunch while the other girls tell wilder and wilder stories they’ve heard about things Benji’s done to and with different girls. They talk on top of each other, and I try to ignore the overwhelming hot feeling I get, wondering what Benji might want to do to and with me tonight. And what—wave of warmth—I might want to do back. I try to focus instead on how, after this weekend, the whole meand-Oliver thing will surely be very old news. Maybe one date is all it’s going to take.

When Gretchen, Darby, and I roll out of the lot at the end of
the day, headed for the weekend, we drive past Lily’s car. Trip’s opening the door, about to get in the front seat. He looks up, straight at me. And this time he acts like I’m not even there.

I don’t want to think about Trip, though, so I fully submerge myself in Darby’s pre-date routine: bubble bath, painted nails, hair blowout, sparkly lip gloss, short dress with leggings, boots. As Darby works, she chatters all around me, but I’m hardly listening.

When Lish calls, though, I have to answer.

“We’re having dinner, but I don’t know where,” I tell her when she asks. “A movie. Regular date things.”

“Well, it was a shock.” She tries to say it in a British accent.

I’m not sure which part is a shock: me going out with Benji or me going out with anyone. Either way it’s irritating.

“Benji’s cool when you get to know him. He’s smart. And hilarious.”

“I think
Eli
’s pretty cool,” Lish says.

I can’t help snorting. “Eli just gets weirder the more you know him, believe me. And if you think Benji has a rep with girls, you should hear how Eli talks about them.”

“Except you, of course.”

“Except me.” I chuckle. But then I realize she wasn’t trying to be funny.

She sighs. “Well, let me know if you want to hang out tomorrow night.”

“Can’t,” I say quick. “Sorry. I’ve got plans with a guy in the band.”

“Oliver?” She perks up.

“No. God.” I want to hit her. “You can come with us if you want.”

Wait. What did I just say? I don’t want Lish hanging out with me and Fabian. And Taryn is sure to blab to Lish about our new band, which means Oliver—and the whole school—will know about it in ten seconds. Too late now, though.

“Where are you going?” Lish wants to know.

“The Masquerade.”

“Isn’t that, like, a bar?”

“Most of their shows are all ages.”

“Huh. Well, Miss Cool and Popular.”

It’s stupid that she says this, and especially stupid how jealous she sounds.

“People suddenly recognizing me in the hall, after years of near invisibility, does not make me popular.”

“You were never invisible before,” she says. “Only now you’re more visible to more important people.”

This whole conversation has been awful, but now it’s especially so.

“Look, I gotta go.”

Which is true, because Darby is glaring at me, powder brush in hand.

“Okay, well. Have fun tonight,” she sings. “Text me later, ’kay?”

“Okay.”

But I know, without a doubt, I won’t.

Dad gets home twenty minutes before Benji’s supposed to arrive, and immediately wants to see our report cards.

The three of us stand with him in the kitchen, waiting for his response, while he looks at them. Gretchen and Darby both get quick approval, but I have to shift uncomfortably while he stares at mine for a full minute. When his eyes come back up at me— and my perfumey sparkle gloss—they aren’t happy.

“You going out?” he wants to know.

I nod.

“All right,” he says, quiet. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

And that’s all. But it’s enough. It’s more than enough.

And then the doorbell rings and Benji’s there.

He stands in our living room, shakes hands with Dad, and tells me that I look nice. The expression on his face makes me believe I really do. And I have to admit, he looks pretty good himself.

“So, how’s it going with the
lesband
?” he asks once we’re together in the car.

A surprised guffaw comes out of me. “How’d you know Taryn and Sylvia are gay?”

He sideways glances at me. “Um, I have a pulse?”

You flirted with them plenty last weekend
, I want to sass. But that doesn’t seem like Benji-and-Charlotte-sitting-in-a-tree behavior.

“It’s definitely different,” I say. “I’m not used to singing with them yet, but it could be good.”

“I bet they’re glad to have you.”

His sincerity catches me off guard and makes me blush. “So, what’s this dinner place again?” I say to cover it up.

“You’ll see,” he says. “But it’s not far.”

I notice there’s some kind of bossa nova jazz coming out of his stereo, instead of the usual sound track.

“A little mood music?” I snark before I think.

His right shoulder raises in this shy way. “You know.”

Which is when I remember that Benji’s actually on a date too. The understanding renders me mostly silent for the rest of the ride. Because, until this minute, I didn’t honestly think of Benji as actual boyfriend material. And now it’s the only thing I can think.

But Benji doesn’t seem to notice. We find a parking place behind a small Decatur restaurant, and on the way up to the door
he puts his arm around me—loose, like he’s testing it out. His hand is a white-hot thing against my shoulder.

Inside, the restaurant is warm plank tables and a big chalkboard menu. The lighting is dim but cozy. Benji grabs a paper menu from a wire basket. We squint over it together. I can barely read a thing, but it’s clear all they’ve got here is hamburgers.

“You’re not vegetarian, are you?” he murmurs.

The urge to joke with him takes over. “Um, actually . . .” I bite my lip, feign disappointment.

He jumps. “We can totally go somewhere else.” He’s pulling me toward the door, uncool and awkward in a way I’ve never seen. “I mean, I couldn’t remember and I’m really sorry.”

Which makes me feel awful, but also surprised he couldn’t tell I was joking.

“I’m kidding. It’s okay, really.” I hook my arm around his, squeeze myself closer—to reassure him, but also because now I’m curious what being Girlfriend Girl with him might feel like.