The Trouble With Flirting (27 page)

They found each other . . . just in time to say good-bye. It sucks, but we’re all facing tough partings.

I hug Lawrence and make him promise not to leave without telling me. “Are you kidding me?” he says. “There will be tears. Many tears. Prepare yourself.”

It’s the beginning of an endless morning of emotional good-byes. People are running back and forth between the tables, exchanging emails, cell phone numbers, memories. The early morning sunlight streams through the windows, catching dust motes in every beam—it looks like movie lighting. It’s melodramatic. Clichéd. Magical. It
feels
like the last
morning of something.

Harry comes in with his roommates, gets himself a cup of coffee and a bowl of cereal, and joins me at the table where I’ve settled with Vanessa and Julia, who came in together a few minutes earlier, and Manny, who’s just arrived.

Alex and Isabella show up a little while later, and to everyone’s surprise they walk through the buffet line together. When they emerge, they exchange a glance and then join us at the table. Harry looks at Isabella, and she gives a slightly embarrassed shrug, which I think means that she and Alex hooked up at some point last night. But they still seem awkward and uncomfortable around each other—the conversation doesn’t exactly flow from either of them—so I think it was more of a nostalgic last fling than any kind of new beginning.

Marie never shows up at the dining hall. She’s either still asleep or gone.

Vanessa has to leave breakfast first, because she’s getting picked up by a relative who’s taking her to the airport. Her hugs are tight and enthusiastic and she orders every one of us to stay in touch and come visit her in New York. “Most people would kill to have a place to stay right in the city,” she points out. “You guys are nuts if you don’t take advantage of it. And I can show you around NYU and Columbia if you’re interested in either.”

Lawrence decides to walk out with her so they can have some time alone together while she’s packing, so I have to say good-bye to him too.

“You will video-chat with me at least once a week,” he says during our last hug. “Do you hear me? Repeat that so I know you heard me.”

I repeat it. Through my tears.

A little while later, I’m the one who has to leave. I stand up, setting off another round of hugs.

Julia and I agree that we’ll make a point of getting together a
lot
back home, now that we’ve reconnected, and I tell Alex I’m including him in that plan.

Isabella kisses me on the cheek. “Come to L.A.,” she says.

“Why?” I say with a grin. “What’s in L.A.?”

Harry doesn’t bother getting up. “Bye,” he says, glancing up briefly. “See you around, babe.”

“Yeah, okay. Later.” I head toward the dining-hall door.

He catches up with me as I’m crossing the threshold. “Hold on,” he says. “We should probably shake hands good-bye, don’t you think?”

“Don’t get all mushy on me, Cartwright.”

But the joke is over. We stand, facing each other, in the damp heat. The sun has gone behind some heavy clouds. The sky can’t make up its mind what it wants to be.

Neither of us says anything for a minute.

He breaks the silence. “How long is the drive from L.A. to Phoenix?”

“Six hours, maybe?”

“That’s not so bad.”

“I don’t have a car.”

“I do.”

“Then come,” I say. “Soon. And often. All the time.” I’m done worrying about our ugly little apartment. The only way I can bear to say good-bye right now is if I know I’ll see him again soon.

“You have to come visit me, too,” he says. “Just so you know what I’m talking about when I talk about my crazy family. And I want to show you around L.A. It’s crass and materialistic and fake—you’ll love it.”

“Yes,” I say. “You know how much I adore things—and people—that are crass and materialistic and fake.” I snake my fingers between his. “Okay, so you have, what, a three o’clock flight this afternoon? And then it’s like a couple of hours to L.A.?”

“Something like that.”

“And then you have to get home from the airport . . . and you should probably say hi to your parents, maybe have an early dinner with them, so they don’t feel hurt . . . so let’s say it’s seven, maybe eight p.m. before you can hit the road? You could be at my place by, like, two in the morning. If you drive fast and don’t stop.”

“Make it three. I’ll need to drink a lot of coffee to stay awake.”

“I’m joking,” I say.

“I’m not.”

“Then that’s a first.”

Harry rocks back on his heels. “You still don’t think I’m
capable of being sincere, do you?”

I start to answer, then give up on the idea of talking and just throw my arms around his neck and hold him tight like I’m drowning. Because I trust him and believe him. Completely. And I don’t want to joke around anymore.

“Come as soon as you can,” I whisper in his ear.

“As soon as I can,” he promises.

Amelia drives me to the airport, and when I get out of the car, she gets out too and embraces me and tells me that she’s loved having me there, that I’m a wonderful niece and a semidecent seamstress and she’ll miss me horribly. I’m stunned by her sudden warmth. She hasn’t shown me much over the course of the summer, but maybe the affection has been there all along, just hidden behind all the anxiety and judgment.

When I hear my name being called at the baggage carousel, I’m so exhausted that for a second I look around to see where Amelia is and wonder how she ended up in Phoenix, but then I realize it’s my mother. I’d never noticed before how similar their voices are. Their features, too—my mother’s a softer, sweeter, prettier version of her sister. A
better
version. I’m happy to be with her again, happy that she’s my mom and Amelia’s just my aunt, happy that she can say “I’ve missed you, Franny” and “I love you” without discomfort or uncertainty—and happy that I can say both things back to her and mean them.

Mom helps me bring my bags in, pours me a glass of iced tea, then sits me down at the kitchen table and orders me to keep her company while she bustles around making dinner—it’s early, but she’s making lasagna since that’s my favorite and it takes hours. She’s so happy I’m back she’s practically shimmering with joy.

“Your dad is coming by later to see you,” she tells me, as she chops an onion at the counter a foot away from where I’m sitting, her back vibrating slightly with each
snick-snick
of the knife. “And William said you should call as soon as you get home. But I want you for a little longer all to myself. If you call him, you’ll tell all your stories and then you won’t want to tell me.” She turns, knife in her hand, to look at me over her shoulder. “I’ve loved your texts and phone calls, but I know there’s a lot you didn’t get around to telling me. So tell.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” I take a sip of iced tea and lean back comfortably against the familiar curve of the wooden kitchen chair. “I wanted to tell you in person, like this. Because there was this guy—oh, and there was this other guy too.” I think for a moment. “But mostly? There was this guy.. . .”

T
he front office wasn’t as crazy as you’d expect on the first day of school, which seemed to confirm Coral Tree Prep’s reputation as “a well-oiled machine.”

That was a direct quote from the Private School Confidential website I had stumbled across when I first Googled Coral Tree—right after my parents told me and my three sisters we’d be transferring there in the fall. Since it was on the other side of the country from where we’d been living—from where I’d lived my entire life—I couldn’t exactly check it myself, and I was desperate for more information.

A well-oiled machine didn’t sound too bad. But I was less thrilled to read that Coral Tree was “basically a country club masquerading as a school.” The same anonymous writer added, “I’ve yet to see a student drive a car onto campus that’s not a Porsche or a BMW. And even an AP math student would lose count of the Louboutins on the girls here.” Yuck.

But while I was clicking around that site, I learned about another private school in L.A. that had a “condom tree”—kids allegedly tossed their used condoms up into its branches—so I guess my parents could have done worse than, you know,
Coral
Tree.

True to the school’s reputation, the administrator in the office was brisk and efficient and had quickly printed up and handed me and Juliana each a class list and a map of the school.

“You okay?” I asked Juliana, as she stared at the map like it was written in some foreign language. She started and looked up at me, slightly panicked. Juliana’s a year older than me, but she sometimes seems younger—mostly because she’s the opposite of cynical and I’m the opposite of the opposite of cynical.

Because we’re so close in age, people frequently ask if the two of us are twins. It’s lucky for me we’re not, because if we
were
, Juliana would be The Pretty One. She and I do look a lot alike, but there are infinitesimal differences—her eyes are just a touch wider apart, her hair a bit silkier, her lips fuller—and all these little changes add up to her being truly beautiful and my being reasonably cute. On a good day. When the light hits me right.

I put my head closer to hers and lowered my voice. “Did you
see
the girls in the hallway? How much makeup they’re all wearing? And their hair is perfect, like they spent hours on it. How is that possible?” Mine was in a ponytail. It wasn’t even all that clean because our fourteen-year-old sister, Layla, had hogged the bathroom that morning and I’d barely had time to brush my teeth, let alone take a shower.

“It’ll all be fine,” Juliana said faintly.

“Yeah,” I said, with no more conviction. “Anyway, I’d better run. My first class is on the other side of the building.” I squinted at the map. “I think.”

She squeezed my arm. “Good luck.”

“Find me at lunch, okay? I’ll be the one sitting by herself.”

“You’ll make friends, Elise,” she said. “I know you will.”

“Just
find
me.” I took a deep breath and plunged out of the office and into the hallway—and instantly hit someone with the door. “Sorry!” I said, cringing.

The girl I’d hit turned, rubbing her hip. She wore an incredibly short miniskirt, tight black boots that came up almost to her knees, and a spaghetti-strap tank top. It was an outfit more suited for a nightclub than a day of classes, but I had to admit she had the right body for it. Her blond hair was beautifully cut, highlighted, and styled, and the makeup she wore really played up her pretty blue eyes and perfect little nose. Which was scrunched up now in disdain as she surveyed me and bleated out a loud and annoyed “FAIL!”

The girl standing with her said, “Oh my God, are you okay?” in pretty much the tone you’d use if someone you cared about had just been hit by a speeding pickup truck right in front of you.

It hadn’t been
that
hard a bump, but I held my hands up apologetically. “Epic fail. I know. Sorry.”

The girl I’d hit raised an eyebrow. “At least you’re honest.”

“At least,” I agreed. “Hey, do you happen to know where room twenty-three is? I have English there in, like, two minutes and I don’t know my way around. I’m new here.”

The other girl said, “I’m in that class, too.” Her hair was brown instead of blond and her eyes hazel instead of blue, but the two girls’ long, choppy manes and skinny bodies had been
cast from the same basic mold. She was wearing a narrow, silky turquoise tank top over snug boot-cut jeans and a bunch of multicolored bangles on her slender wrist. “You can follow me. See you later, Chels.”

“Yeah—wait, hold on a sec.” Chels—or whatever her name was—pulled her friend toward her and whispered something in her ear. Her friend’s eyes darted toward me briefly, but long enough to make me glance down at my old straight-leg jeans and my
THIS IS WHAT A FEMINIST LOOKS LIKE
T-shirt and feel like I shouldn’t have worn either.

The two girls giggled and broke apart.

“I know, right?” the friend said. “See you,” she said to Chels and immediately headed down the hallway, calling brusquely over her shoulder, “Hurry up. It’s on the other side of the building and you
don’t
want to be late for Ms. Phillips’s class.”

“She scary?” I asked, scuttling to keep up.

“She just gets off on handing out EMDs.”

“EMDs?” I repeated.

“Early morning detentions. You have to come in at, like, seven in the morning and help clean up and stuff like that. Sucks. Most of the teachers here are pretty mellow if you’re a couple of minutes late, but not Phillips. She’s got major control issues.”

“What’s your name?” I asked, dodging a group of girls in cheerleader outfits.

“Gifford.”
Really? Gifford?
“And that was Chelsea you hit with the door. You really should be more careful.”

Too late for that advice—in my efforts to avoid bumping into a cheerleader, I had just whammed my shoulder on the edge of a locker. I yelped in pain. Gifford rolled her eyes and kept moving.

I caught up again. “I’m Elise,” I said, even though she hadn’t asked. “You guys in eleventh grade, too?”