Authors: Gail Nall
Nothing about tonight is going the way I planned. Especially when Trevor lays a hand on Amanda’s arm. It lasts only a second, because she pulls away, but it’s enough. Enough to tell me that he’s not trying to make me jealous.
“Get a room, right?” Johnny elbows me in the ribs and guffaws,
his alcohol-tinged breath attacking my nose.
“Yeah . . . right.” I go back to my sundae. Why do I keep torturing myself? If I’m being truly honest, all those times I ended it, I was never actually over him. I was just sick of the fighting and tired of working so hard to keep his attention.
Amanda angles her body to try to include Rosalita in their conversation. Trevor looks up and I shoot him my sexiest smile. He sort of nods in response and starts talking to Amanda again.
And something hits me.
I look desperate. Pining after him like this, flirting and getting nothing back. That’s desperation, plain and simple. Casey Fitzgerald is
not
desperate. Even if I feel like I am, I don’t want anyone to think that way about me.
The only solution is to make myself stop thinking about him. As of this very second. Not the way I’d declare I was over him every time I broke it off—I wasn’t ever really, and I never tried to be. It was like a character I tried on for a few months, then I’d take off the costume and let things go back to normal. But maybe I need a new normal.
Then it won’t matter anymore if he’s into Amanda or anyone else, and I can focus on more important things, like finding something to replace theater. I can dedicate myself 100 percent to my future, and it won’t feel like my heart is being ripped out of me every time I see him flirt with her. If she keeps putting him off, he’ll eventually get tired of it and move on, and our friendship can go back to normal.
A whole lot of problems could be solved if I can just turn my heart off.
“Casey?” Oliver is staring at me with worried gray eyes. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I just have a lot on my mind.”
“You going to spill it or what?”
Um, intrusive much? I opt for playing dumb. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“There’s obviously something going on. You’ve been staring at them all night. And you watch him like a hawk at rehearsal.”
Like a hawk? As in, waiting to swoop down on my prey? “So what if there is? Or was?”
“If something’s bothering you, it’s better to talk about it than keep it in.”
“And you want me to tell
you
?”
He shrugs. “I’m here. I’m the Weird New Guy. Or, what was it? Silent Hollywood Guy?”
Oh my God. He is never going to let me live that one down.
“So why not? I’ve heard you guys have a history.” He scoops up a spoonful of dripping ice cream and waits for my answer.
I can think of a million reasons why not. And all of them have to do with whatever it was that passed between us at the barn yesterday. In other words, things I should not be thinking about him.
Then again, maybe I’m just too used to Harrison being my only real guy friend. And pretty much sticking his fingers in his ears and singing
la la la la
anytime I bring up Trevor. So maybe Oliver’s just trying to be a friend.
And I really would like to talk to someone about it.
So I glance over at Johnny, who’s busy trying to balance his spoon on his nose, and then spill my guts to Oliver in a low voice so no one else will here. Minus the more embarrassing parts, like the popcorn incident, but including some of the deeper stuff, like how we’ve never really been official because we’re both too focused on succeeding as actors. When I finish, I take a huge breath. He was right—it did feel good to let it all out. Except now I can also feel Johnny Grimaldi’s eyes on me, which is just plain weird. I’m really hoping he didn’t hear any of what I said.
Oliver holds up his hands. “Okay, wait. You’ve dumped this guy more than once?”
“Well, not technically. It’s not dumping unless you’re officially a couple.” I lower my voice again, hoping to cut Johnny Grimaldi out of the conversation.
He shakes his head. “Okay, fine, you ditched him, then. How many times?”
“Four times, but for good reasons, not just because I’m bored or something. We always get back together. But not anymore, because I’m over him now.” So not cool. Making me tell him everything and then putting me on the defensive. I wonder if he would’ve acted the same way before yesterday. “I thought you were supposed to be helping me, not making me feel bad.”
He ignores that last part. “Right, because you’re over him.”
“Definitely.”
“So what are the ‘good reasons’?”
I fidget with my spoon, stirring the dregs of ice cream left in the
bowl. “He’s . . . let’s just say he’s not so great at keeping his eyes to himself. Or on me. He uses what we are as an excuse to flirt with other girls. I suppose I should be okay with that because I’ve never asked for anything more, but I never have been okay with it. And we’d fight a lot, about that and other stuff. Then I’d get tired of it and end things. It’s like we’re magnets, though. A few months go by and we’re back together.”
“Huh.” He leans closer to me, close enough that I can see the tiny spot of hot fudge on his lip. I bet if I kissed him right now, it would taste chocolatey.
My spoon hits the side of my dish when I realize I’m basically staring at his lips and fantasizing about kissing him. I made my decision—I’m focusing on putting my life back together. No distractions. No Trevor, and
definitely
no Oliver.
“You have a, um . . .” I point to his lip. It’s like a role reversal of him pointing out the hay in my hair.
He rubs at his face with his hand. “Why?”
“Why what?” I keep staring at his mouth, hoping the hot fudge will magically reappear.
“Why’d you keep going back to him if he treated you like that?”
His words jolt me back into focus. “What kind of question is that? He comes back to me, I’ll have you know. And it’s entirely my decision. Don’t make me sound like some kind of helpless victim.”
He holds up his hands. “That’s not how I meant it, at all. I’m just curious about why you’d choose to jump back into something that miserable.”
I cross my arms. “It wasn’t
miserable
. Not all of it.” I know I flush a little when I think of the not-even-remotely-miserable parts. “Besides, I’ve known him forever. He’s always been in my life, even before we got together. He’s . . . comfortable.”
“Comfortable,” Oliver repeats, with that raised eyebrow. “You make him sound like a pair of old sweatpants.”
“You don’t get it.” Only someone who’s never had his entire life turned upside down would scoff at the familiar.
“Maybe I do,” he says quietly. Then he moves in a little closer, his face just inches from mine, as if we weren’t already talking so low that no one else could hear. “I get it. But comfort is overrated. Maybe you should try something new.”
My breath catches. And, for the first time in history, I’m at a complete loss for words.
“Hey, yo, what’d you think about that monster at the end?” Johnny Grimaldi asks out of nowhere.
Oliver goes red, as if he’s only now figured out exactly what he said. I look away and busy myself with picking minuscule crumbs left from prior customers off the table.
“Sorry, what?” Oliver finally says to Johnny.
“You know, the big one that ate those little kids? Before it smashed the whole city?” He moves his muscled arms back and forth, half drunkenly mimicking a monster smashing a city flat. “Wham! Blam!”
Oliver’s lips curve into that lopsided smile. Then he bursts into laughter. At least until Johnny sends his half-empty ice cream dish
sailing across the table.
I push myself backward as far as I can go, trying to avoid the hurtling dish.
Oliver doesn’t react fast enough, and ends up with ice cream dripping down his looks-vintage-but-maybe-it’s-new-and-made-to-look-vintage Beatles shirt. Does he even own any shirts that aren’t band-related? I wonder if he’ll wear a Pixies T-shirt under his tux to prom.
“Aw, man, this one’s my favorite.” He reaches for a napkin and swipes at the fabric. Ice cream still drips from the side of the table, making the effort useless.
He reminds me of a puppy chasing its tail. And then I start laughing. And can’t stop. Johnny Grimaldi pounds me on the back. It kind of hurts.
“Stop, stop!” I swat at Johnny’s arm. “I’m okay, really.”
“Good. ’Cause I don’t know no Heimlich,” Johnny says, completely serious.
Oliver’s finally given up on his shirt. Ringo still has ice cream smeared across his face, and a glob of it drops off the shirt onto his jeans. Without thinking, I grab the closest napkin and wipe it off before it can sink into the fabric.
“Um, thanks,” Oliver says as I toss the napkin onto the table.
“What’s going on down there? Casey?” Amanda asks, a little late.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Johnny’s just sharing his ice cream with everyone else. And I almost choked to death. It’s all good.” And I’m cleaning ice cream off Oliver’s leg. No big deal.
Amanda tucks her hair behind her ear. “All right.”
“Are you okay, Casey?” Trevor’s frowning, all his attention on me. Now, of course. Now that I’ve made up my mind that I don’t want him anymore.
“I’m fine.”
He gives me a quick grin, and I realize he’s no longer sitting elbow to elbow with Amanda. She’s somehow gotten Rosalita to scoot down to create more space, and Trevor isn’t filling it up. Maybe he finally got the message.
“Three times you patched things up. Really?” Oliver says to me, that eyebrow raised again.
“Yes, really. It’s not like I could just turn off the feelings.” Until now, anyway.
“Are you talking about the movie again? ’Cause that monster killed them right away. And if you’re dead, you can’t fucking feel, you know,” Johnny Grimaldi says.
I tap Amanda on the shoulder a couple of minutes before Physics starts on Monday. “So I don’t think Trevor and I are really going to work out. I’ve decided that it’s okay if you want to be with him.” I almost choke when I say that last bit.
“Okay.” Amanda tilts her head as she looks back at me, like she’s trying to read my mind. “Number one, I don’t believe you. Number two, why? Number three, I’m not getting together with Trevor. In fact, I was kind of blunt with him on Friday. I think he finally gets it.”
I smile at her, which I hope doesn’t convey that I’m secretly relieved. “I’m turning my attention to more important stuff. Plus, the whole desperation thing really isn’t me.” I don’t add that it’s super obvious that he wants her, and not me. That hurts a little too much to admit. But I do like feeling as if I’m back in control of this whole situation. I feel powerful. Things might not go back to the way they were, but maybe they can get to something just as good.
Amanda frowns a little, as if she still doesn’t believe me.
“Really, I’m sure about this.” If I say it enough, it’ll become true. I know it will.
Amanda twists her delicate gold necklace. “I hate that the thing on Friday was so . . . weird.”
I wave a hand at her. “No big deal. You tried.”
“If it means anything, I’m glad for you. Because . . . Case, I tried to say this before, but I don’t think you wanted to hear it.”
My heart crawls its way up into my throat as I try to remember what she might’ve tried to tell me. Did they hook up again? Or was this going on
before
I found out? “What?”
Amanda nibbles on her lip, eyes searching my face as if she’s not really sure she wants to tell me.
“For God’s sake, Amanda, just say it. Class is about to start, and I don’t think we can both get away with faking sick.” I brace myself for some horrible truth.
She twists her hands around the back of her desk chair. “Remember how I said I didn’t want you to get used again?”
The word immediately sets me on edge.
Used
. Like I had no say in whatever my relationship was with Trevor, never mind that I was the one who decided when we split up and he was always the one who wanted to get back together. “Mmmhmm” is all I can manage to get out.
Ms. Jordan checks the clock on the wall, ticking down the last minute until class starts. I try not to look like the most impatient person in the world as I wait for Amanda to elaborate. She doesn’t.
“And?” I ask.
Amanda almost squirms, she looks so uncomfortable. “That’s it. I feel like he always just kept you around as backup. He has no attention span when it comes to girls, and I think I’m just the newest one.” Her pink-painted nails grip the back of her chair. I get the feeling she wants to say something else, but she doesn’t.
“Right. Okay.” Because I don’t know what else to say. Honestly, she isn’t telling me anything I don’t already know, but it still hurts. I need to build a fortress around my bleeding heart, or else I might just lose it completely, right here at my desk in Physics, with some freshman outside the door singing “Defying Gravity” as she runs to class.
The word
used
keeps playing through my head as class starts. I drown it out by singing one of the Violent Femmes songs in my mind—one that I listened to with Oliver. On the third repeat of the chorus, which is all I know anyway, my phone buzzes in my purse. I quietly pull it out to see a text from Amanda.
Also, u shld know that Johnny Grimaldi is into u.
I about fall off my chair.
What??????
I type back.
Was obvs on Fri & Steve-o told me. Don’t think T knows.
I shudder. Then I wonder if it’s true, or if she’s just making something up to help me deal with what she just said.
When Ms. Jordan turns her back, Amanda flips around and makes over-the-top kissy faces at me. I have to practically smash my hand against my mouth to keep from laughing. One thing Amanda’s great at? Getting my mind off my problems. Although if she’s telling the truth about Johnny Grimaldi . . . that’s a whole new problem.
Ms. Jordan launches into questions about our homework, and my phone buzzes again.
JG loves u.
I poke Amanda in the back.
It’s luuuuuuuuuuuuuuvvvvvvvvvv.
I poke her harder.
He wants to smooch u. Mwah!
Now that’s not a pretty sight.
“Miss Reynolds?”
Amanda’s head jerks up from whatever awfulness she’s texting me.
“Did you solve for velocity in number 3A?”
“Um . . . well, maybe, it’s . . .” Amanda trails off. Okay, this isn’t like her at all. She’s usually completely prepared. I wonder if she’s even looked at these equations. At least I usually make an effort at them, or I did before I got distracted by horseback riding and pottery, anyway.
“Miss Reynolds, musical rehearsal is not the be-all and end-all of your time here. From now on, I expect you to keep up with your work, or I’ll have to inform Ms. Sharp of the problem,” Ms. Jordan says.
Unlike me, Amanda’s learning all her lines from scratch, and she must be spending a lot of time on it. Part of me wants to tell her,
Don’t you wish I’d gotten the lead instead?
But the other part? Knows how crazy selfish it is to think that. What I
should
do is offer to help her, because no matter how I feel about the situation, I don’t want her to get up there onstage and fail. Once Ms. Jordan has moved on to questioning someone else, I shoot Amanda a text offering to run lines with
her again. She writes back with just a smiley face.
After Physics, I walk with Amanda toward Choral Ensemble. Halfway down the hall, we run into Trevor, who’s headed toward the same class. He and Amanda don’t even look at each other. Instead, he falls into step next to me and asks if we’re supposed to have our parts for the
Guys and Dolls
medley memorized yet.
Like I told Oliver, feelings don’t just go away. Trying to talk normally to Trevor is too hard, now that I’ve given him up. When Johnny joins us and won’t stop staring at me, I mumble something about my locker and walk away as fast as possible, silently sending Amanda apology vibes for leaving her alone with them.
I am officially on hiatus from boys and all their drama. Except Harrison, who’s jogging up to me now and is blissfully drama-free.
“Casey, hey!” Harrison says, out of breath. “I hate running. So, when are we doing the pilot thing?” He pulls a pair of aviator sunglasses from his pocket, and puts them on after taking off his regular glasses. Never mind that we’re headed to class and that they’re way too big for his face.
I try not to laugh. “All right, Top Gun. I called the airport and registered us for their intro class tomorrow night. But there’s one little, teeny-tiny issue.”
“What’s that?” Harrison nods, all super cool, at some of the stage crew guys.
“Oh, well, it’s . . . um . . . a hundred dollars for the lesson.” I say that last part really fast.
“So, fifty each? That’s not bad.”
“No, apiece. I have thirty-five left from my allowance, but I’d have to borrow the rest from you. How can you even see with those things on?”
“Are you seriously asking me for sixty-five dollars?” Harrison peers at me from over the top of the aviators.
“Yes. Don’t those make it super dark in here? How can you tell where you’re going?”
“You’re really something else, Casey. And I can see just fine, by the way.”
“Does that mean you’ll lend me the money? You know I’ll pay you back.”
“Sure you will.” Harrison trips over someone’s backpack.
“Told you,” I say.
He pulls the sunglasses to the top of his head and puts his regular glasses back on. It’s not his best look. “Why should I give you sixty-five dollars?”
“Because you owe me for standing me up and leaving me alone to make a fool of myself in front of Trevor Friday night.”
Harrison sighs. “Fine. I’ll pay.”
“Can you drive too? It’s about thirty miles away.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Not if you actually want to get there. I mean, we could ride bikes like a couple of losers and be all sweaty and gross—”
“Right, fine. So we just have to get through today and tomorrow, and then it’s flight time!” He pulls the aviators down over his glasses. And runs smack into the wall.
“How many times have they run this song?” Oliver says during rehearsal that afternoon. We’ve been sitting at the end of the row, with Harrison, like normal people who haven’t shared a Moment. Or, more than one Moment, really. Like friends. Meanwhile, half the cast is onstage, singing “The Lonely Goatherd” for the three billionth time. Oliver’s got his forehead resting on the top of the seat in front of him, as if watching yet another run-through of this scene is far, far too much for him to take.
“I think this is number four.” Seriously, if Ms. Sharp calls this scene again, the rest of us might as well go home. Harrison fell asleep two scenes ago. I already had to elbow him once to keep him from snoring. Tim the lighting designer left at four thirty. And I can feel Hannah’s barely contained impatience even back here. Even model-actress Gabby is slouched in her seat a row behind us, her eyes glazed over. I wonder how she feels about Trevor shifting all his attention to Amanda.
“It’s killing me, this song,” Oliver says to the seat.
“Do you think Johnny Grimaldi is . . . into me?” I ask out of nowhere. The whole idea creeps me out, and it’s been bothering me since Amanda first mentioned it, and especially now that Trevor isn’t taking up so much space in my head. It’s something I would’ve asked Harrison, if he’d been awake. Not that he would’ve had an answer for me. And while it’s weird asking Oliver, I figure it’s okay, considering we discussed my so-called relationship with Trevor at the ice cream shop.
Oliver sits up. “I don’t know. Maybe.” I could swear he frowns just a little. I kind of hope it’s because he’s jealous, even if I am going boy-free. Or maybe he frowns because he has the same opinion of Johnny as I do. He reaches down and pulls at a piece of loose rubber on his worn shoes, like he doesn’t want to meet my eyes.
I make a face. “I really, really hope not.”
Harrison snores again, and I give him another elbow to the ribs. It doesn’t even wake him up—just makes him shift away from me.
I lean back in my seat and draw my legs up. “If Amanda would just remember to hold that note until Kelly and Danielle finish their little dance, Ms. Sharp would be happy. She just doesn’t say it because she wants Amanda to figure it out on her own.”
“And then we could end this hell and go home?” Oliver asks.
“Maybe, but I bet she also wants Cole to stop flubbing that line. And Kari to finally end on the right mark.”
“You really do love this, don’t you?” he asks as he watches the stage.
“What, theater?” I chew on my lip and say, “Not really. Not anymore.”
He turns to me and says, “I don’t believe you. Theater’s in your blood. You can’t fall out of love with it that fast.”
It’s almost as if he took the words right out of the hidden part my soul. That thing I’ve been dreading—what if I never find something to replace acting? My dad’s a lighting designer, my grandmother was an actor. What if it
is
in my blood, and I’m stuck with it forever? A life in the chorus, or as an understudy, or—worse—someone who
auditions over and over and over and never gets cast because she went to the wrong college and has somehow deluded herself into thinking she’s actually talented.
I finally shake my head. “I can, and I have. Harrison and I have big plans for tomorrow.”
“Hmm” is all he says. He stops peering into my deepest fears and rests his chin on his hands on top of the seat in front of him. I do the same, and try not to think too hard about what he just said.
After a moment, he elbows my elbow. “I meant to say thank you, by the way.”
“For what?” He hasn’t moved his elbow and it’s still touching mine. I never thought elbows could be sexy, but I’m kind of thinking they might be, especially when they’re attached to dark-haired boys with funny smiles.
“You’re the first person here who talked to me. I mean, really talked to me, beyond ‘Dude, can you get that Hacky Sack?’ and ‘Where’s room 215?’”
“I’ll be honest and say I thought you were weird for not speaking.”
He laughs at that, earning us Ms. Sharp’s best annoyed face. Then he runs his hand across his hair. “I hated it here before I met you,” he whispers.
I don’t know what to say, so I just smile. It feels like a weirdly intimate thing for him to admit, and I don’t know how to interpret it. Especially when I remember what he said at the Ice Cream Palace, about trying something new.