Shuffle, Repeat (12 page)

There's my heart again.

“Besides,” says Oliver, “if I waited, I wouldn't have the entire walk back to do this.” He bends over and scoops up a handful of snow. It takes several seconds longer than it should for me to understand that he's packing a snowball.

“Don't even think about it.”

“Or what?”

“Or…I'll be forced to retaliate.”

Oliver gives me a look of wide-eyed terror. Or rather a look of
mock
wide-eyed terror. “I'm supposed to be scared of a person who thinks climbing into my car is a great and challenging task?”

“Your car is ridiculous.” I reach down to grab my own handful of snow.

“You don't think so when it's transporting you to school.”

“No, I think so then, too.” I'm having trouble being intimidating, because I'm smiling so hard. My face feels like it's been taken over by one of those little wooden hoops that Mom's friends use to stretch canvas when they're embroidering.

Maybe it's the reprieve from classes and schoolwork. Maybe it's that I've been cooped up with Mom and Cash for too long. Maybe it's Itch's departure. Whatever the reason, being with Oliver today is filling me with radiant joy—

—even when his snowball whaps me in the abdomen. I squawk and Oliver throws his hands up over his head. “Retreat! Retreat!” he yells, springing backward. I wind up to throw my ball but of course I miss him by miles, so I take off running after him instead. Or at least what counts as running when I'm wearing all this clothing and heavy boots.

Oliver bolts away (or what counts as bolting) and starts climbing one of the drifts that the plow has kicked up by the side of the road. It's taller than Oliver and he's only halfway to the top when I finally reach the drift. I grab him by the ankle and pull. He fumbles forward and falls, sliding back down to catch me. I squeal and flail as we roll into the drift, but he's holding me down by the shoulders and my heels are on a slippery patch, so I can't get any traction to push back.

“Truce,” he says firmly, his dark brown eyes on mine.

I stare back, and in that moment, there's a rip in the fabric of the universe. Everything I know—the laws of high school and hierarchies and history—they shimmer away into nothingness, and all I can register is that Oliver's body is settled over mine and his face is very, very close.

Abruptly, Oliver jerks himself to his feet. He reaches a hand down and I allow him to take mine, to pull me up. “Truce,” he repeats. This time, he doesn't look at me.

“Truce,” I tell him.

Oliver's mother, Marley, sets two mugs of hot cocoa on the table. When I thank her, she tells me, “Wait a second, honey,” then flutters away and back. She drops a large marshmallow into each cup. “They didn't have the small ones.”

Oliver bumps his mug gently into mine. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

After running and climbing and sliding and screaming our whole way to Oliver's house, we arrived sweaty and wet. Marley took one look and sent me off to change, then threw my clothes into the dryer. That's why I'm wearing Oliver's mother's yoga pants—more formfitting than I'm accustomed to—and her lavender thermal shirt embellished with white lace appliqués. My thumbs are poked through the holes at the edges of the sleeves, which I'm finding surprisingly comfortable. When I put it on, Marley winked at me. “It's like your thumbs are getting a daylong hug,” she said.

Now I'm seated at the Flagg family breakfast table across from the younger Flagg family son, who is wearing a dry pair of jeans and a plain white T-shirt. Unlike me, he was able to choose his outfit on his own.

Oliver's mom has the same white-blond hair as he does, but hers falls long and straight down her back. Her blue eyes are big and round, and so are her boobs. Her fingernails are perfectly manicured and painted a bright red. My mom is pretty in an earthy, no-makeup kinda way, but you can totally see how a horny college senior would pick Marley first.

It's the same way a horny high school senior would pick Ainsley first.

“How are you?” Marley asks me. “You've gotten so tall.” Oliver and I make eye contact and we both crack up, because she sounds exactly like my mom did when Oliver came over.

“Please don't mention changing her diaper,” Oliver tells his mother.

“What? What did I say?” Marley asks, but we're both laughing too hard to explain. “You kids. So silly.”

Oliver's father, Bryant, wanders in while we're still calming down. He greets me before swinging an arm around Marley's waist, pulling her in for a kiss. “Have you ever seen such a woman? Oliver, you should be so lucky.”

“Dad,” says Oliver.

“Stop it, Bryant.” But Marley doesn't sound like she means it.

“Here, if you want to be more traditional about it.” Bryant pulls her to the foyer archway and points to the mistletoe hanging overhead before sweeping her into an even lower, more prolonged kiss.

I wonder if it's generational, all this PDA.

When the moment of marital bliss is over, Bryant turns his attention back to Oliver. “I talked to Alex this morning.”

“Cool,” Oliver mumbles.

“He says he can push your application to the top of the pile.” Oliver nods and Bryant claps him on the shoulder. “Family connections, right?”

“Sure.” Oliver turns to me. “Let's go down to the basement. Bring your cocoa.”

“We have chips and salsa,” Marley calls after us as we head out.

Oliver's house is big and made out of bricks, and everything is new. There are no piles of unfinished projects lying around, no exposed beams. Every interior surface is painted a muted hue, and I've already seen two chandeliers and a built-in wine fridge. He leads me down a set of thickly carpeted stairs to something that I would never refer to as a basement. At the very least, it's a “lower level.” The large room features a Ping-Pong table, a wet bar, and a seriously big-ass TV.

Oliver rummages around behind the wet bar and comes up with the chips and salsa his mom mentioned. “I'm going to make an executive decision that we don't need a bowl.” He rips the bag open and sets it on the counter.

“I second. Hey, are your parents like that together all the time?”

“They act out for company.”

“Lucky you.”

“They do everything together. Finish each other's sentences, all that stuff that's cliché but really kind of amazing.”

“And rare.” I'm thinking of my own parents, separated since before my memories begin. I'm also thinking of Itch and me. “Most couples don't work like that.”

“True.” Oliver gestures to the barstools and I perch on one, reaching for a chip. I'm not sure what we're going to do for entertainment, but I know I couldn't take off even if I wanted to, because my clothes are still in the dryer.

“Do you want to watch TV?” Oliver asks.

“No.” It comes out sharper than I intended. Watching TV is what I do with Itch. Or rather what I
don't
do with Itch. I soften my tone. “I mean…it's not like I don't have a television at home.”

“Table tennis?”

“The mere fact that you call it table tennis instead of Ping-Pong kinda makes me think that you would clobber me.”

“I'll play left-handed,” says Oliver, and I groan. “Okay, what, then?”

I honestly don't know. This is new territory—this being alone outside a car—even for the already new territory that is my friendship with Oliver. I'm not sure how to navigate this version of us.

Not that we're an “us.”

We're definitely not.

Oliver waits and there's an awkward silence that is reminiscent of our very first carpool mornings. I don't know what to do when I'm hanging out with a guy who isn't Itch or Shaun. Or maybe just when I'm hanging out with a guy who
is
Oliver Flagg.

“I got it,” says Oliver. “Jump up.”

“Pardon?”

“Off.” He gestures to the high-backed barstool I'm perched on. I give him a perplexed look but do as he asks. He lifts the stool and turns it around so the back is against the bar, then does the same with the one next to it. He hops onto my stool and pats the other, to his right. “Here.”

“You prefer the view of the Ping-Pong table?”

“Trust me,” he says, and—because, oddly enough, I do—I clamber onto the stool beside him. “Now what?”

“Hold on.” He pulls out his cell phone and stabs at the screen. Before I can figure out what he's doing, some old-school Iggy Pop starts playing.
My
old-school Iggy.

Oliver sets the phone on the bar behind us and settles back on his stool, staring straight ahead. “Look.” He points straight in front of us.

“At the Ping-Pong table?”

“At the road.”

Oliver stretches out his hands to grip an imaginary steering wheel, and I get it. He's pretending we're in his car, listening to our playlist, driving to school. He understands what I'm feeling, that we're in uncharted friendship territory. Maybe he's even feeling the same way. He's trying to make me comfortable. It's really nice and also really…

“Cute,” I say.

“I try.”

We “drive” in silence, and I know I should be the one to start the conversation, since he came up with the idea and all. I go with what I think is a safe topic. “Did you apply early decision anywhere?”

“A couple places,” Oliver says. “State. Central.”

“Not U of M?” The second it's out of my mouth, I regret the question. University of Michigan is competitive. Even for me, it's not a definite slam dunk. Oliver mumbles something under his breath, and I tilt my head toward him. “What?”

“Yeah, U of M, too,” he says. “I just got the early acceptance letter.”

Again, he manages to surprise me.

“I only applied because it's Dad's alma mater and all,” he continues. “I didn't think they'd actually let me in, and I'm definitely not going there.”

“Why?” It seems like a no-brainer. Prestige plus football. If you're Oliver, what's not to love? “It's a great school.”

“All that pressure about being part of a legacy.” Oliver shakes his head. “I don't even know what I want to do yet. Starting somewhere close by makes so much more sense. I could try things out. Experiment. But my dad—” He sighs. “He says if I don't go to Michigan, I should expand my horizons. He's got this list—Carnegie Mellon, USC, Chapel Hill—and I guess I should do what he says, because of his whole self-made-man thing. If anyone knows how to win at life, it's him. But going far away when I don't have it figured out yet…” I must have made a sound because Oliver glances at me. “What?”

“All I
want
is to go far away.”

“Where?”

“New York. Maybe NYU or Columbia. I'm applying local in the next round, but only because Mom is making me.” I watch Oliver slide his hands to the left, steering our mimed car. “Where are we?”

“Just turned onto Plymouth. I had to wait at the corner for a phalanx of Harley riders.”

Once again, I am impressed and surprised by Oliver's vocabulary. “Hey, your dad was talking about the uncle at the bank?”

“Yeah, Uncle Alex. You may have seen his name in the main lobby's trophy case.” I shake my head and Oliver laughs. “Let me guess. You've never looked at those trophies, have you?”

“Not even once.”

“Star quarterback twenty years ago.” Oliver's smile vanishes. “Now he's a branch manager in Ypsilanti. Drinks a lot of beer. Two kids and a wife. I think he loves them, but he never looks happy. You can read it all over him, how he thinks he settled. I don't want that. I don't want to settle and I don't want to make someone
feel
like I settled for her. Dad's all over me about the bank internship. He wants me to wear a maroon tie during the interview because it's a ‘power color.' He's got it all figured out for me and he's probably right, because he's right about
everything,
but…” His voice trails off. “Sorry, that was weird.”

I don't think it was weird. I think it was
brave.

“You're a good listener or something,” Oliver says, mime-driving us toward our imaginary school.

Because it was a lot to say, because it
was
brave, I think carefully before I speak again. “In case you didn't know, you're pulling it off,” I tell him. “You seem like nothing bothers you and everyone's your friend and the world is your oyster, so you're totally pulling it off.”

“Thanks,” says Oliver. “I don't know if I believe you, but thanks.”

“Hey, I think being perceived as a rock of teenage solidity must be nice, especially considering my own personal angst is pretty much broadcast loud and freaking clear twenty-four/seven—”

“What are you talking about?”

“Life. College and whatever.”

“No, I mean about your own personal angst.” Oliver drops his hands and turns to face me.

“Careful,” I tell him. “You're going to run us into a ditch.”

“I parked by the side of the road.”

“In the snow?”

“There was a conveniently located parking lot.” He leans toward me. “June, for the record, you don't broadcast any of that. To all onlookers, you're stable. You're the most stable….You're like…a
castle
of stability.”

“You're a liar.” I know damn well I'm much more like a crowd of rowdy peasants rioting in the streets
outside
a castle.

“I'm not.” Oliver tilts his head, and now that we're this close and alone, I can again see the charcoal lines circling his brown irises, and the enlargement of his pupils as he peers at me, and the faintest scatter shot of freckles across his cheekbones. I know—I've known for years—that Oliver is gorgeous. I know because he's popular and all the girls want him, and because he has a fancy car and a letter jacket and muscles. But I never liked that kind of boy. I liked boys with messy hair, boys who played guitar or who refused to wear leather or who didn't believe in God. Boys who wouldn't
conform.
Oliver's particular brand of all-American never did anything for me.