Look Both Ways (21 page)

Zoe pauses for a breath, and I take the opportunity to ask, “Are we going to tell people?”

“Tell them what?”

“That we’re, um…” I make a vague gesture with my hand, because I have no idea what we are. Girlfriends? It seems way too soon to use that word. Friends with benefits?

“Hooking up?” Zoe offers. “What, you think we should buy doughnuts for everyone?”

“I mean, obviously we don’t need to tell
everyone.
But what about Livvy and those guys?”

I’m not even sure how I want her to answer, but when she says, “Let’s not tell them yet,” relief washes through me. Everyone already thinks I’m using her to boost my social status, that she’s using me to get in good with my mom. They wouldn’t understand that what’s happening between us is much purer and simpler.

“Okay,” I say. “I’m good with that.”

“It’s nobody’s business but ours, right?” she says, and I wonder if she’s thinking about her conversation with Jessa in the bathroom, too.

“Right,” I say. “Do you want to sing for a little bit, maybe?”

Zoe laughs. “I didn’t bring you down here to
work.
”

“Making music with you doesn’t feel like work to me.”

“No, not to me, either. But we can sing anytime, and there are
lots
of other things we could be doing right now.” Zoe toys with the strap of my tank top.

“I like it when you sing to me,” I say. “You have such a pretty voice.” I hope it sounds like I’m flirting, not making an excuse. But I need to know that not
everything’s
going to be different between us after last night. Regardless of how much I like the kissing, I want it to be an added bonus, not a sideways shift.

Zoe presses her cheek against mine, and for a second I think she’s going to ignore what I said. But instead, she starts singing very softly right next to my ear, sending tiny shivers dancing up and down my spine.

“Never know how much I love you, never know how much I care,

When you put your arms around me, I get a fever that’s so hard to bear,

You give me fever…”

She grabs one of my hands from where it’s resting on her waist and twines our fingers together, and she rests her other hand on my shoulder like we’re at the prom. As she sings, she starts to sway, and I follow her lead as she dances us away from the door and into the center of the room. There’s no space to do anything but turn in tiny circles between the piano bench and the wall, so that’s what we do, wrapped in the warm, sultry embrace of her voice. It’s sweet and romantic and beautiful, and I close my eyes and breathe her in.

This is exactly what I want right now. If I’m honest with myself, this is
all
I want right now. This is a memory I can hold on to while I’m doing repetitive, menial tasks in the scene shop tomorrow, one that won’t wear out quickly no matter how much I worry it between my fingers.

I know Zoe’s probably humoring her naive, innocent, new sort-of-girlfriend. But I try not to think about it, and for a few perfect minutes, I am completely happy.

The entire week after Pandemonium is glorious. All day long, as I sort fake greenery and paint flats and glue endless sequins onto Styrofoam balls, my phone buzzes against my hip over and over:

Can’t wait to kiss you later

Missed a cue bc I was thinking about how cute you are

Learning a love song & pretending you’re listening

It’s really, really hard to keep the goofy smiles off my face.

I thought I wasn’t going to get any acting experience at Allerdale, but pretending there’s nothing going on between Zoe and me is harder than playing Ophelia while Marcus lobs eggs at me. Sitting next to her at dinner every night as we twine our feet together under the table and “accidentally” brush each other’s thighs and elbows is exquisite torture. One night Zoe drops her fork on purpose and bites my knee while she’s under the table retrieving it, and I squeal so loudly I have to pretend I saw a mouse. The two of us constantly burst into giddy laughter over nothing, and people start rolling their eyes over how many “inside jokes” we have.

We’re probably being insufferable, but I don’t even care. This kind of behavior has always driven me crazy in other people, but it doesn’t seem nearly so bad now that I’m the one doing it.

Love or Hate becomes a thrilling, nerve-racking physical game that Zoe now initiates almost every night. Instead of discussing how we feel about performance art or ghost stories or moments from our childhoods, her hands and mouth wander across my body in the dark. Every time she touches me in a new way—her lips on my bare stomach, her nails on the backs of my thighs—she whispers, “Love or hate?” I whisper back, “Love,” every single time, as if it’ll drown out the anxiety that bubbles up inside me. Zoe knows doing this stuff with a girl is new to me, and she doesn’t complain when I gently push her hands away before they can sneak too far up my shirt. But when she finally snuggles against me and drifts off, I always lie awake for hours, wondering if I’m doing this right. Honestly, I think I’d be satisfied if we never went any farther than we did after Pandemonium, but I know she doesn’t feel that way. Every night, I try to silence the little voice in my head that accuses me of not giving her enough. I tell myself it’s okay to need time. I tell myself I’ll probably be ready for more tomorrow.

On the one-week anniversary of Pandemonium, I’m lying next to Zoe in bed, combing my fingers through her hair and recounting my
Señor Hidalgo
rehearsal, which involved two hours of performing “slam poetry.” She laughs like she usually does, but she seems distracted, and when I pause to remember some particularly abysmal rhyme, she cuts me off. “Do you want to come out to dinner with Carlos and me tomorrow night?”

I freeze, silky blond strands tangled around my fingers. “What?”

“He’s getting in around seven. Did you forget?”

“I mean, you haven’t mentioned it all week, so I thought…” I trail off because my chest feels too tight to squeeze any more words out. Inside my head I say,
I thought you’d canceled the trip. I thought I was enough for you.

“I should’ve reminded you,” she says. “It’s okay if you’re not free, but I really hope you are. I want him to meet you right away. He’s going to
love
you.” She kisses the tip of my nose.

I pull back. “Does he
know
about me?”

“Of course,” she says. “I talk about you constantly. You know that.”

“I mean, does he know about
us
? About…the stuff we’ve been doing this week?”

“Yeah, I told him. We promised to be honest with each other. He’s okay with it, I think.”

“Really?” If I were Carlos, I wouldn’t be okay with it. I’ve been with her for only eight days, and I already feel incapable of sharing her with anyone else.

“I don’t know. I think it’s different because you’re a girl. I think he’s relieved I haven’t found another guy, honestly. So? Will you come? I really want you to.”

I want her to work to convince me, so I say, “Won’t you want time alone with him?”

“We’ll have plenty of time alone. I don’t have rehearsal on Friday, so we’re driving up to the Catskills and going camping. We’re coming back early Saturday morning.”

I really want her to stop saying “we” and meaning her and someone who’s not me. “Are we allowed to leave campus like that?” I ask.

“I don’t see why not. If we don’t have a crew call or a rehearsal, nobody cares where we are. It’s not like they’re doing bed checks or anything.”

I have the day off on Friday, too, and it strikes me that if Carlos weren’t coming, Zoe and I could’ve had an entire day alone together. I’ve never been camping before; she could’ve taken me. The idea of sleeping on the ground has never really appealed to me, but I’d be totally willing to sleep on the ground in Zoe’s arms.

“Sorry. I thought I’d told you this already,” Zoe says. “It’ll be nice to have the room all to yourself, though, right? To have some privacy for once?”

She’s trying too hard, and it’s obvious she’s aware of how weird this situation is. She probably just doesn’t want to acknowledge that I’m upset, since that would validate my feelings.

“I’ll come to dinner tomorrow,” I say. Knowing Zoe and Carlos are alone together would probably be even worse than watching them interact.

“Good. I’m so glad. I think you’re really going to like each other.”

I fake a yawn and roll away from her, and she doesn’t make any effort to keep me awake like she usually does.

The next day’s crew call feels endless. I spend the entire time sorting washers by size and giving myself an ulcer thinking about the evening ahead. Russell asks if I want to hang out later, and I seriously consider saying yes and ditching Zoe and Carlos. But that’s the cowardly way out, and I know Zoe will respect me more if she thinks I’m mature enough to handle this open relationship thing. I ask Russell if we can hang out over the weekend instead.

When I get back to the room to change for dinner, Zoe’s perched on her bed in a short turquoise dress. “Hey!” she says, chirpier than usual. “He’s, like, ten minutes away. Will you be ready by then?” She gets up and gives me a quick kiss on the cheek, but when I put my hands on her waist, she pulls away and starts messing with her already-perfect eye shadow in front of the mirror. Maybe making out with me feels more like cheating now that Carlos isn’t across the country.

“Sure,” I say. I rummage through my closet and try to find an appropriate meeting-your-girlfriend’s-boyfriend outfit. Should I wear something sexy, so she’ll feel torn about who she’d rather go home with? Something conservative, to make things easier for her? I give up and choose a random dress printed with flying birds.

When Zoe’s phone rings, she starts bouncing up and down on her toes. “Are you here?” she squeals. “Where are you?”

I hear the tinny murmur of his voice through the speaker, and then Zoe says, “Okay, perfect. We’ll meet you downstairs in a minute.” She hangs up and looks at me, her face all lit up from the inside. “Come on!” She reaches out to take my hand, but it doesn’t feel personal. It just feels like she wants to hold on to something. I let her lace her fingers with mine anyway.

Carlos is coming around the corner of the building when we get outside, and Zoe lets go of me and runs to him. He’s a little shorter than I expected, but he’s solidly built, and when she does a flying leap into his arms, he catches her like she weighs nothing. Her legs twine around his waist, and her skirt rides up so much, I can see her underwear, but she doesn’t seem to care. I don’t want to watch them kiss, but I can’t look away, either.

It feels like forever before Zoe hops down and beckons me over. “Carlos, this is Brooklyn,” she says, like that’s all the introduction I need.

Carlos’s face is open and kind, and he takes off his mirrored sunglasses to look me in the eyes when he shakes my hand. “It’s so good to meet you, Brooklyn,” he says. “I’ve heard wonderful things about you.”

I wish he’d stop acting friendly and considerate so it would be easier to hate him. “You, too,” I say.

I’m hoping Zoe will make a joke that’ll get everything out in the open and make us all feel less weird, but instead she says, “My two favorite people in the same place. This is the best.”

“You ladies ready for dinner?” Carlos asks, and Zoe nods and takes his hand. She reaches for mine with the other one, but I start fixing my ponytail and pretend not to notice. I’m not going to walk on her other side like we’re her parents, swinging their boisterous, euphoric little kid between them.

Zoe chooses the same bistro where we had dinner with my mom; this place is apparently a magnet for awkward situations. At least I now know not to order the polenta. I have more than enough time to peruse the menu, actually; Carlos wants to tell Zoe what’s going on with all their mutual friends back in Boulder, people whose names I’ve never heard. Considering that the two of them talk every day, I can’t imagine where all this news is coming from. When they finally wrap up the gossip session, Carlos turns to me. “Tell me all about you,” he says. “Are you in
Birdie
with Zo?”

“No,” I say. “I’m not good enough for the main stage.” I know I’m being annoyingly self-deprecating, but I want Zoe to jump in and tell Carlos how great I am.

She takes the bait. “Brooklyn’s basically a professional pianist. She can play
anything
by ear. She knows, like, the entire thing of every musical. It’s ridiculous.”

I look down at my menu and smile. “Not
every
musical.”

“Pretty much every musical. I bet you never look at the music when you play for your family.”

“Almost never,” I concede, and it comes out sounding both modest and confident, like the way Zoe said “Juilliard” on the day we met. I’m pretty pleased with myself.

“Your mom is that famous voice teacher, right?” Carlos asks. “What’s her name?”

“Lana Blake Shepard,” Zoe supplies.