Just Like the Movies (7 page)

“A good romantic comedy?” she'd suggested while packing Mac's lunch. “Maybe something with Gerard Butler?”

My mom has a thing for Gerard Butler—it's actually more of an obsession than a thing. She talks to him when he's on-screen. Like, literally. Things like, “Oh Gerard, why can't you live on the East Coast?” As though that's what is keeping a famous movie star and my mother apart—geography.

There's a beep in my ear, then my mom's breathy voice.

“Hey Lil, it's Mom. Listen, I'm really sorry for the short notice . . .”

I already know what's coming, even before she says it.

“. . . but Jim called and he got some last-minute tickets to see a Journey cover band that's supposed to be really good. I didn't get a chance to get movies or cook, but I've left some money on the counter. Mac is still going to Nathan's after soccer, so you can take advantage of an empty house—order pizza, hang out, whatever. Love you, call me if you need anything.”

When I press end, I realize I've balled my free hand into a tight fist and my face feels hot and sort of prickly.

I'm pissed.
Really
pissed. My body just realized it before my brain did.

It's been forever since Mom and I really spent time together. I love Mac, but he's always around and he's younger, which ensures the majority of Mom's attention is directed at him. Having a night alone with her, where I could talk about things—school, grades, my insurmountable crush on a motocross racer—was more valuable than I'd realized.

That is, until I lost it.

Tears prick the corners of my eyes, and I furiously blink them back. No, I will
not
let myself get worked up about this.

No longer motivated to rush home, I decide to drive through downtown. It's one of my favorite places to be—the
windows of the old row houses glow with a warmth you can practically feel. People saunter without rushing toward a particular destination. Restaurants throw open their doors and create dining rooms on the sidewalk. I love seeing the life and the vibrancy.

I'm sitting at a stoplight when I glance over to the left and do a double take. Through the window of a popular pizza joint, I see Joe Lombardi. I'm starting to wonder if seeing him is kismet or something—like the universe is trying to tell me something. Then I notice who is sitting next to him:

Mindy Kellogg. Blond and tan. Thin and perfect. And, frankly, dumb as a box of rocks.

He is laughing at something she's saying, and she reaches over to touch his arm. I feel a shudder of jealousy bolt through my body.

The truth? I can't compete with that. I'll
never
be able to compete with that.

Still, I can't get myself to look away until, moments later, the driver of the SUV behind me lays on his horn. Everyone in the restaurant turns to look, and I slam on the accelerator, speeding through the intersection like I'm being chased.

Despite my desire to run home and drown myself in Ben & Jerry's, I stop to throw some pennies in the fountain at the center of town. We've always called it the Square, even though it's actually a circular area of brick walkways
and perfectly manicured grass surrounding a large stone fountain. I think of some potential wishes. Should I go for something outlandish? Realistic?

I decide on happiness as a vague but somewhat lofty goal and, with gusto, launch the handful of coins at the surface of the water. They all plop in, save one that skitters along the stone edge before falling into the abyss of a crack in the brickwork.

With my luck, that will be the one that was lucky.

The scrolling lights of the revival movie theater catch my eye. I've always loved the old-school charm of the building, which was a bank or something before they converted it. The guy who owned it was a big-time movie-industry person who grew up here. The revival theater was his contribution to the town—his legacy. He left enough money to keep it going and promptly died of some kind of overdose. That's Hollywood for you.

I'LL NEVER LET YOU GO, JACK! is scrolling across the ticker-style sign. ONE NIGHT ONLY, it says, THE MOVIE THAT MADE ALL OUR HEARTS GO ON—
TITANIC
! STARRING LEONARDO DICAPRIO, KATE WINSLET . . .

I'm a sucker for
Titanic
, and it would definitely be a distraction. It takes me about two seconds to decide that a movie is the perfect place to lose myself for a while. Taking a deep breath, I head straight for the theater doors.

When we get to the theater, I notice the afternoon has gotten a little chilly—colder than I expected. Tommy sees me shiver and he wraps an arm around me, squeezing my shoulders as we move toward the front of the building. I look up into his eyes, and he smiles down at me.

God, I love this guy.

“Crap.” Tommy pats his jeans' pockets. “I left my wallet in the car.”

There is a line forming at the ticket booth. I don't want to miss out on getting tickets.

“I can go get it,” I offer. “I'll stay warmer if I move around.”

“I can think of half a dozen ways to keep you warm,” Tommy says, his voice low. I grin but playfully swat at him.

“Only a half dozen? Maybe you're losing your touch.”

He winks, then tosses me the keys and moves toward the back of the line.

When I get to General Qi, I grope around the space between the front seats until I feel the smooth leather of his wallet. I start to close the door when I notice Tommy's phone in one of the cup holders. Guess he will probably want that too. I lock the car and go to pocket the phone, but something stops me. I stare at the black screen and a voice in my head says,
You can just look at a text or two. It's no big deal.

Something inside tells me not to do it, says it's a bad idea. But whatever that something is, it's easy for me to ignore.

I slide my finger across the screen and it brightens. I shake my head; I need to remind Tommy
again
to put a password on his phone. Still, I smile stupidly at the picture that's flashed up on the screen. It's one he snapped a few months ago. It was still cold enough for my winter coat, and my face is half-buried in the fur-lined hood. I'm smiling widely—a lot like I am right now. I guess Tommy just brings that out of me: complete and total joy.

Which makes me feel even worse about snooping . . .

But it definitely doesn't stop me.

I let my finger move down to his e-mail icon and then over to the picture of a speech bubble—his text messages. I look up and around as if I'm afraid he's watching. Then I tap the bubble.

There are names I recognize—me, of course; his mom; his sister; the guys in the band. I start to scroll. There's one from Lindsey Marks—they were working on a project for civics. I keep running my finger down the list, an immense sense of relief flooding my chest.

And then that relief evaporates.

There's a text from Jess Myers. Before Tommy and I got together, he and Jess had a thing. It was short, but I know she never got over him.

I take a deep breath and look back down at Jess's name.

Don't freak out, Marijke.

Don't assume the worst.

Right now, I can only see her last text to him.

I swallow hard. If I read the whole chain of texts, will I lose it in the parking lot and go all crazy-Marijke on his ass?

Yes. I know that is exactly what's going to happen. And I click on the text anyway.

The screen scrolls through an endless chain of messages. From what I can see, they've been going on for months. The list stops rolling at the last few texts, and I peer down at the words.

I suck in a breath. The two Marijkes are back—the reasonable one who's telling me to take a deep breath and calm down. And the other Marijke, the out-of-control version of me who's demanding I confront Tommy.

Why wouldn't he tell me that his ex has been texting him about getting back together? Why in the
world
would he be texting her back?

Screw this.

I clench my hand around the phone, then shove it into my pocket before stomping toward the front of the theater.

I guess you don't have to guess which Marijke I'm listening to.

I buy popcorn, a soda, and Sour Patch Kids. I know, I know—dinner of champions. Between all the pasta, pizza, and junk I've been eating lately, I'm lucky I haven't turned into a carbohydrate.

When I enter the theater, the lights are already dimmed; still, it's easy to navigate to my favorite seat—third row from the back, all the way on the left. A few minutes later, just as Bill Paxton begins speaking, the theater door flies open, flooding the entrance with a splash of light from the lobby. Most of the theatergoers glance up at the woman who has sort of stumbled in. As she mounts the stairs and gets closer to where I'm sitting, I can hear her sniffling loudly.

When she plops down in the chair directly in front of me, the dam bursts. Out come squeaky sobs that I think
she's trying to hold back but can't. I want to be annoyed. Somehow, though, I feel sorry for her.

“Excuse me,” I whisper, tapping her shoulder. “Do you need a tissue?”

She turns to face me. Lip trembling, she nods her head.

“Thank you.”

And then our eyes meet, and I jerk back in my seat.

I can't believe it—the person sobbing in the chair in front of me, the person seemingly desperate and alone, is none other than Marijke Monti.

“Thanks,” she mumbles, taking the tissues.

I try to focus on the screen, not on Marijke's constant sniffling. Old, wooly-haired Rose is beginning to tell the story of her teenage romance, but it's impossible to concentrate when there's an emotional breakdown occurring just two feet in front of me. At one point, Marijke blows her nose so loudly that a woman turns around and glares at her.

“How are you crying already?” she hisses. “Nothing's even
happened
yet.”

Marijke manages to pull herself together, but it's only temporary. She makes it just long enough to see Jack's first glimpse of young Rose on the balcony before the dam breaks again; she pops up out of her seat with a strangled yelp, then frantically feels around for her purse. Seconds later, she half-runs, half-stumbles down the stairs and out the double doors.

Well, good. Maybe now I can actually
enjoy
the most tragic love story ever.

But for some irritating reason, I can't stop glancing over at the door and thinking about Marijke. Her devastation was just so—so
obvious.
The way her shoulders were hunched over—it was as if something had deflated inside her body. Something important. Like her heart.

I exhale a little too loudly, then get up and head down the stairs. Marijke Monti may be Molesworth High School elite, but she's still human. The least I can do is make sure she's not going to go drown herself in the coin-filled fountain.

When I make it outside the theater, it's starting to rain, but not much. It's the kind of weather a depressed person would sit in, letting the wetness permeate her clothes and mingle with her tears. Which is probably why Marijke is sitting out there right now, on a bench in front of the fountain. I can tell by the way her body is sort of shuddering that she's still crying.

I approach slowly, as if she were an animal I could spook if I made any sudden moves.

“Marijke?”

She looks up, her eyes confused. When she recognizes me—at least, I
think
she recognizes me—she sort of shatters, breaking into a new round of tears and letting her head drop into her hands.

“I'm sorry. I'm having a t-terrible night,” she chokes out. When she looks up at me again, she peers at me for a second before asking the inevitable.