Meant to Be (11 page)

Jason waves me over. At first I hesitate, but he’s gesturing so frantically he looks like he’s about to have a seizure. Finally, I trudge over to him.

“What are you—” I start, but he cuts me off.

“Sit,” he says, and points to a bench, like I’m a dog.

I know he’ll bug me until I agree, so I sigh and sit down where he indicates. I’m on the bench directly in front of him, so I have to look up a little to see his face.

“Happy now?” I ask.

Instead of responding, he launches into a perfect acoustic rendition of “Oh! Darling,” but unlike skater boy, Jason sings. Sings!

Now, I normally do not like it when people sing near me, much less
to
me. I don’t care if they’re good, bad, or mediocre. It’s all the same. Unless you’re signed to a major label with music I can find on iTunes, I don’t want to hear your live performance. It’s why I can’t watch
American Idol
. I keep worrying the contestants will mess up and be embarrassed, and then
I’ll
be embarrassed
for
them.

But Jason is fantastic, and I’m mesmerized. His voice cuts right through the London fog, and I’m glued to the bench, unable to take my eyes off him. He stares right back at me, eyes sparkling. He hits every note, even Paul McCartney’s trademark ooohs at various pitches.

“Believe me when I tell you (oooh!),” he sings, winding down, “I’ll never do you no ha-arm.” By the time he finishes the song, my jaw must
be hanging down to the ground. And while I’m busy trying to figure out what I should say—in this moment when I should be totally embarrassed but instead I’m totally enchanted—he casually whips the guitar over his head, hands it back to the skater boy (who is applauding), and heads toward the far border of the park. I scramble off the bench and head after him.

“Where did that come from?” I burst out. He is pretending (I think) to examine more graffiti.

“I told you, I’m a fan,” he says with a shrug, not looking at me.

“Sure, a fan, but I didn’t realize that meant you were a mini Paul McCartney.”

“Nah,” he says, brushing the compliment off. “I just mess around. My mom used to play me Beatles records and all that.”

I open my mouth to tell him about my parents, too, but something stops me. I don’t like talking about my dad. I hardly ever do, even with Phoebe.

“Well, that was really good,” I say, then pause before adding, “
You
were really good.”

He shrugs and glances at his watch. “Hey, we can still make it to the National Gallery if we hurry. What did you want to write the essay about, again?”

“This,” I say, willing him to look at me. “The graffiti. The ‘gallery’ of the park. It’s amazing. There’s art and culture here, you said so yourself.”

“You think?” He finally turns to me.

“Yeah, of course,” I say, walking toward the evolution-of-man illustration. “I’ve got my camera. We can take some pictures.”

“Awesome,” he says, his eyes lighting up. “Let’s do it.”

I reach into my tote and dig out my digital camera, checking the battery life. “How did you even find this place?”

“Oh, um, some guy—” he starts, but I’m already laughing.

“Of course,” I interrupt. “You always know ‘some guy.’ ”

“Yup, that’s right,” he says quickly. “I’m down with the shady characters.” He points at a tag he wants me to photograph. “Are you sure about this? I mean, you aren’t worried about your grade? I don’t think this is what Mrs. Tennison had in mind.”

“It’ll be fine,” I say, shockingly sure of myself despite the grade that hangs in the balance.

“Excellent progress,” he says. He blows on his fingers, then brushes them off on his shoulders. “Good work on my part. You’re making a lovely transition from Book Licker to Sexpot.”

We spend the next few hours picking out the most interesting pieces from the walls and boulders all around the open-air park. By the time we leave, we’ve taken nearly forty pictures and have pages of notes in Jason’s messy scrawl and my flat, loopy cursive; as we make our way back to the hotel, neither of us can believe it’s nearly dark. I’m shocked that I’ve spent practically twenty-four hours with Jason Lippincott, and I actually enjoyed myself. I think this means we might actually be friends. Turns out Jason is full of surprises.

As we climb the hill and start toward the main road, I realize I haven’t eaten in hours. Jason is busy on his phone, tapping out text messages with a furrowed brow. Either he’s having a
lot
of emergencies or he’s using his phone for decidedly un-school-related business.

I pull out my cell, wondering if there’s another message from Chris that I missed, or maybe even a missed call from one of the other guys I met at the party. When I flip it open, though, the screen shows no alerts. I sigh loudly, but Jason keeps tap-tap-tapping away at his own phone. The sound is unnerving.

“I’m starving,” I say. Either he doesn’t hear me or he pretends not to. I kick a crumpled can on the sidewalk in front of me and it clatters loudly off the curb and into the street. “Want to grab some food on the way home?”

“Um, yeah, sure,” he says, keeping his nose practically pressed to his phone.

“Great,” I say. I can’t believe I just asked Jason Lippincott to spend more time with me. I can’t believe he actually
agreed
. I turn toward a pub on the corner, about half a block from the hotel. I have a total weak spot for fried foods, and I’m on an unofficial hunt for the best fish-and-chips in London. I reach for the door to head inside when I realize that Jason has stopped on the curb.

“Actually, no,” he says, flipping his phone shut and putting it back into his bag. I wonder for a moment if he was texting the gorgeous-yet-punky pink-streaked girl from the party. I sneak another glance at my own phone. Still nothing. And now Jason is about to ditch me, too.

“No?” I ask, shoving the phone deep into my bag.

“I mean, not right now. I’m not hungry, and I think I really need some, you know, alone time. To decompress. I’m, like, really exhausted,” he mumbles, stifling a possibly staged yawn.

“Okay, well—” I start, but I’m interrupted when Sarah Finder and Evie trip out of the pub. They look fabulous in their sightseeing attire, which includes skinny jeans and fashionably oversized button-ups. Matching plaid scarves are wound around their necks, and twin hammered-silver earrings dangle from underneath their shiny, perfectly wavy tresses. How have they achieved beach hair in London in March? I glance down at my favorite jeans, holes worn in the knees by me, not by Abercrombie or Fitch. Why am I the only one on this trip who seems to have packed for a field trip instead of a fashion show?

“Jason!” Sarah exclaims with a hiccup, rushing toward us to give him a bear hug. “Oh my God, where have you been? I haven’t seen you since the Tate!”

The pair of them tower over me on their platform wedges, and I instinctively rise up on my toes so I don’t feel quite so miniature.

“Seen anything cool today?” Evie purrs, draping an arm around his shoulders.

“Nah, nothing special,” Jason replies, and I’m surprised by the little needles I feel poking at my spine when he says it. He’s not looking at me, either. It’s like suddenly I don’t exist.

“Ugh, us neither,” Sarah groans. “I don’t know
how
I’m gonna write that stupid reflection paper.”

“We’re in London.
Everything’s
special,” I mutter. Then I clamp my mouth shut. I definitely did
not
mean to say that out loud.

“Oh, Julia, I didn’t see you there,” Evie says, giggling. “Having fun in London?” She doesn’t even wait for my reply. Instead, she turns back to Jason.

“So where have you
been
?” She links an arm through his.

I wait for him to tell them about our afternoon at the skate park (and the mini concert), but several members of our class pour out of the pub and surround Jason. I find myself pushed nearly into the street by the throng. As they move back toward the pub door, Jason is swept along with them. I’m not quite sure what’s going on, but I’m pretty sure their plan does
not
include fish-and-chips.

So much for alone time. I’m guessing it was Sarah he was texting on our walk. She probably invited him to the pub party. He was no doubt planning to ditch me before we arrived.

No wonder I got that weird, nasty text from her earlier. Luckily for Sarah, I was too hungover to respond, but even post hangover, I’m not sure what I would have texted. I don’t need to be a part of Newton North drama, especially concerning Jason. Sarah is delusional, and she clearly has her sights set on him. And good for them, seriously.

She deserves Jason. And he deserves her.

I focus on the anger so I can’t focus on the gross feeling churning in my stomach again, killing my hunger. One second he serenades me, the next he pretends I don’t exist. Plus he ditches me after making such a big
deal about the “buddy system,” dragging me out to a party, and getting me in trouble with Mrs. Tennison.

So much for the new Jason. I can’t believe I thought we might actually become
friends
on this trip. He’s the same as he always was: a complete and total jerk.

Later that night, back in the hotel, I’m working on our essay. At first I set out to only do my half—five hundred words, no more, no less—but the more I typed, the less I wanted to deal with Jason at all. I’m nearly done with the whole thing now, and I’m not even annoyed. Jason clearly sees me as some kind of bummer or social ball and chain, and I’d prefer to limit our time together to our school-sponsored outings. No more house parties or detours to underground parks.

I take one more bite of my curry-chicken sandwich—which I picked up from a little grocer around the corner and have been working my way through as I’ve typed—and stretch my fingers. I’m about to get started on the conclusion when an email from my mom pops up with a bing.

Hi, hon! Just wanted to check in on your great London adventure. Have you fallen in love yet? Keep in touch. I’d love to hear all about your trip! I miss you lots and lots. Don’t worry, I’m TiVoing all our favorite shows so we can watch them when you get back. Let me know that you landed safely! Lots of love my darling dear. — Mom

Fallen in love? I know she means with the city, but I can’t help thinking about the romantic jumble of boys I’ve met in the last twenty-four hours. I hit reply to start typing, but then hesitate, my fingers hovering over the keys. I can’t really ask for Mom’s advice without bringing up the drinking. And the sneaking out. And the ten thousand other rules
I’ve broken in the day and a half I’ve been on the other side of the ocean. I wish I could ask her for some words of wisdom, but I don’t think there’s a mom-safe version of this story. Instead, I dash off a quick response, telling her about our trip to the Tate and filling her in on tomorrow’s adventure to the Tower of London. I end by telling her I miss her lots, which is true. My laptop makes its trademark “whoosh” sound as the email zips through cyberspace to my mom.

I click on the document to churn out the last two hundred or so words of my (or “our”) essay, but the cursor blinks at me. I can’t remember what I was planning to say. My brain feels like a cereal bowl with too much milk in it. I need a break. I grab my camera and start flipping through the pictures from the afternoon when I come across one taken by the skater-boy guitarist. Jason and I are posing in front of a tag of a red British-style phone booth. The Queen of England is painted inside, and the text coming out of the phone reads
London calling
. My arm is thrown over Jason’s shoulder. We look like a set in our matching black North Face fleeces, his pink polo peeking out of his unzipped collar. Jason’s Sox hat has somehow been knocked askew, his rusty hair sticking out from underneath it in all directions. I was feeling high off the hidden park, the mini concert, and the fun of discussing the graffiti with Jason. I’m wearing a giant goofy grin, and he’s laughing hard in the picture.

It’s only now, as I look at the image on the back of my digital camera, that I see why he was laughing.

He’s holding bunny ears over my head.

Seriously? Is he
five
?

I throw my camera at my bed, where it bounces twice before dropping off the edge of the mattress onto the floor. Instantly, I regret it; I realize the warranty probably doesn’t cover accidents provoked by Jason-inspired rage. I rush over to the side of the bed to pick it up. When I reach down, I see it has landed next to my phone, which is flashing with a new message.

Radio silence much? JL is SO NOT INTERESTED —SF

SF? I assume the text is from Sarah Finder again, like the nasty one I deleted earlier in my hangover-induced indifference. I guess she didn’t take Mrs. Tennison’s warnings about unapproved texting seriously—or else she thinks this constitutes a 911 situation.

It’s almost laughable. She thinks I like Jason Lippincott.

But quickly, the humor starts to fade. If
she
thinks I do, is it possible that
he
thinks I do? Is that why he was so eager to ditch me? Why he was being so awkward and mumbly? Does he think I’m some sad crush girl? I could seriously melt into a
puddle
of embarrassment. It’s one thing to
be
sad crush girl, but it’s even worse for someone to think you’re sad crush girl when you’re not.

And if
Sarah
thinks I’m sad crush girl, then soon so will everyone else.

And that could get back to Mark.

I debate texting back—something like
I’d sooner drill out my own eyes with an unsharpened pencil than date Jason
should do it—but I’m worried that giving her any ammunition will only make things worse. Instead, I decide there will be no more semi-playful wrestling on the floors of any museums. Clearly it’s giving people the wrong idea. Jason and I aren’t even
friends
. He’s the last person on earth I’d ever have a crush on. And I’m going to make sure that fact is obvious to Sarah and to everybody.