manicpixiedreamgirl (23 page)

“Still!” Robby goes. “That’s something, right? Isn’t that a big deal?”

“It is,” I say. “Yeah. But it’s not my usual stuff like you’ve read. It’s about … basically, it’s about Becky.”

“Oh …”

“I mean, it’s fiction,” I hurry to clarify. “It’s entirely made up. But if you or Justin—or Sydney, I guess—if any of you read it, you’d know who I was talking about.” I choose not to mention that Sydney
did
read it.

“Damn, dude. You really are jacked up over this chick. I mean, I always knew you liked her or whatever, but you’re like …”

“Yeah, I’m
like
. Not gonna argue that. So when you ask me about whether or not I was ever going to say anything to Becky, the answer is yes. I think I might do it tonight. Get it over with.”

Robby’s eyes widen as I push myself off the table and cross my arms. “I’m going to read it to her,” I say.

“Wow, Ty,” Robby says. “I just got a complete and total stiffy. You romantic little thing, you.” He starts laughing.

I glare at him. “What?”

Robby holds up his hands. “No, no! It’s what you’re good at. I bet no one else ever wrote a story about her that got published in a magazine, right?”

“Probably not …”

“Try it,” Robby says. “She’ll probably throw you down right then and there.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not getting my hopes up.”

“Whatever,” Robby says. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

“I have absolutely no clue. So you think I should, then?”

“Ty, man, you don’t need my freaking permission.”

“No, I know, but do you?”

“I dunno, I mean … I want you to be happy. Or at least not miserable.” Robby looks out across the park, his expression shifting to become similar to the one he had at the top of the mountain two summers ago. “Thing is? When you talk about her, when you’re even thinking about her, I gotta say, you’re not much fun to be around.”

My head jerks back. “Huh?”

“It’s true. Ask Justin. Well, if he was conscious.”

“Wait, are you saying—”

“But on the other hand,” Robby interrupts, “after you’ve seen her? After you’ve hung out with her for a bit? Dude, you’re a party. No joke. After you hang out with her, you’re even more fun than
me
, if you can believe that.”

I laugh, but not because I’m amused. This is news to me. I feel like I’m looking into a mirror, for the first time seeing myself the way my friends see me.

“I thought you guys didn’t like her,” I say.

“I don’t like how you treat Syd because of her,” Robby says. “Syd’s a cool chick. Hell, I’d ask her out if she wasn’t
your ex. And Becky … you know, not for nothing, but I’ve heard things about her.…”

“Yeah, you’re not the only one.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

“Oh, hell no. No, man, it bugs the crap out of me. But she’s my friend.”

Robby nods. “Okay. Long as you’re not going over there blind.”

“Eyes wide shut, brother.”

Robby stares at me a moment longer before pulling my keys out from his pocket. He regards me suspiciously. “You sure you’re okay to drive?”

“Want me to walk a line or something?”

“Recite the alphabet backward.”

“Dude, I couldn’t do that if I had a week to prep. I never understood that test.”

He flings me the keys. “Yeah, me either.” He jerks suddenly, as if he’s going to jump me; I twitch into a defensive position. Robby grins.

“All right,” he says. “Your reflexes are still there, anyway. How long’s it been since you took the last drink?”

“It’s past midnight. So two hours or so.”

“That’ll do,” Robby says. “You didn’t have that much anyway. Most of it was Captain Hammered, there.”

Robby giggles a little, then sighs. “I guess I’d better wake up the bum,” he says, moving to stand over Justin. “Or I guess I could leave him here all night.”

“That’ll learn him,” I say, yawning and stretching. My
heartbeat kicks up a notch as I realize it’s time. Time to go spill my guts and see what happens.

“You sure you’re okay about Sydney?” Robby asks.

“Pretty sure.”

“Cool.” He leans down and picks Justin up in a fireman carry, as if Justin weighs as much as a throw pillow.

I walk with him to the parking lot. Robby dumps Justin into the backseat of his car and pulls out his keys. “You know it’s a dick move to go over there and go all Romeo after breaking up with Syd, right?”

“You just told me to do it.”

“I didn’t mean ten minutes after dumping Syd.”

“She broke up with me.”

“Semantics, Ty. Come on.”

“Hey, you ever stop to wonder why if I’m such a dick, she didn’t break up with me before this?” I ask, a little harsher than I mean to. And once I start, I can’t stop. “Everyone knows I like Becky—Sydney knew it this whole time, you guys knew it, the whole world knew it—okay, fine, whatever. But Syd stuck around, Rob! Why am I the asshole now?”

“She loves you, man.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t love her, okay?”

“That’s why you’re the asshole.”

I stare at the blacktop. Robby flips his keys in his hand. In Robby’s car, Justin groans.

“I’m going to go to Becky’s house and get this over with,” I say at last. “I’m gonna read this story to her and tell her how I feel.
She
will then promptly laugh, or scream,
or kick me in the nuts and tell me to leave. Best-case scenario, she says some bullshit like ‘You’re like a brother to me.’ Fine. But it’ll be out, and it’ll be over, and everyone can just move on. Sydney, me, you guys—god, my freaking
sister
. And then I’ll be sad, and listen to sad music, and write a sad story, and just be, you know,
sad
. Because apparently that’s what I’ve been this whole time. One sad sack, right?”

I fall back against my car and cross my arms.

Robby belches. “Okay. Got that outta yer system, Nancy?”

“… Yes.”

“Good. Go do your thing. Lemme know how it goes.”

I glance up. “That’s it?”

“It’s your story. Give it a big finish.” Robby isolates his car key on the ring. “I’ll see ya later, writer man.”

He climbs into the car and drives out of the parking lot. I watch him go, not sure if I’m still pissed or what.

Guess it doesn’t matter.

I get into my car and leave the park behind.

I stop at a 7-Eleven to pick up a pint of Chocolate Fudge Brownie for Becky, and head for her house. Upon pulling up to the sidewalk, my usual space, it occurs to me I don’t want to ring the bell or knock on the door; it’s past one, and her dad’s Jag is in the driveway, and I don’t want to risk waking him up. Especially if he has a
houseguest
.

Becky solves the problem by opening the front door just as I’m shutting off my lights. She stands there waiting for
me, wearing sneakers, jeans, and a fitted black T-shirt outlining the concave curve of her waist. Her hair, which she’s let grow the last few months, is pinned back off her face. She gives me a weak wave as I approach.

I have the
LQR
in my hand, and I suddenly don’t want to reveal it to her, so I fold it once, remembering how I almost smacked Sydney for doing the same thing, and stuff it into my back pocket while still in shadow so Becky can’t see me do it. I walk up to her.

“How’s it going?” I say, giving her a hug.

After her hug last summer, the way was paved for Becky
and me to make more physical contact. It wasn’t a lot by
your usual standards; nothing like what Matthew and
Ross got, for instance. But I was allowed to hug her now,
and that was awesome.

Sydney and I started to drift apart at that point, too. Quite suddenly we weren’t necessarily talking every night on the phone, or going out twice, three times a week. I was ambivalent about the shift, and still too gutless and self-involved to actually call it off. But then, I suppose, so was she.

I made the decision at the start of junior year to go ahead and leap headlong into the drama department as a techie. Ross and Matthew had both graduated, which probably helped.

Becky’s star continued to rise as she was cast as the lead actress in the fall play, a comedy called
Sylvia
, in which she
played a dog. I know how that probably sounds, but it was actually pretty cool; she had lines like a normal person, but they were all “dog thoughts.” I thought she was hysterical.

Apparently, so did everyone else working on the show, because they kept laughing during the rehearsal process. But still, I couldn’t help but see that most everyone ignored her
except
for when she was onstage or involved in something directly related to the show, like taking notes after rehearsal or talking to the costume and makeup people. No one was cruel or anything, and they all seemed happy enough to say hello to her and work with her onstage. But beyond that, I saw no other friends besides me. Or boyfriends.

We grew closer as friends during that show. But only as friends. Which hurt in many ways; I sometimes thought about just coming out with it, telling her how I felt and what I wanted, but I couldn’t. What I wanted amounted to little more than a kiss. To just feel her lips one time. And not on my forehead.

Maybe she’s a terrible kisser
, I’d try to tell myself. Maybe if I kissed her once, I’d somehow get over her. God knew I liked kissing Sydney well enough. When I saw her, that is.

After closing night of
Sylvia
, I ventured to ask Becky if her parents had made it to the show.

“No,” she said, like it didn’t bother her in the least.

Which made me wonder if she’d even told them, so I asked her that, too.

“Ty,” she answered, “have you been in my kitchen?”

“Sure.”

“Ever see a magnet or photos or anything on the fridge? A shopping list, a menu from Hungry Howie’s, anything?”

“No.” It was true; their kitchen was immaculate. Un-lived-in.

“I put a poster for the show up there two weeks ago,” she said. “A
poster
, Ty. It’s still there. Last week I circled my name in the cast list with a black Sharpie. Okay?”

I nodded quickly. I got the message. And my rage at Mr. and Mrs. Webb swelled. Here was this cute, intelligent, talented kid, and they just didn’t give a shit? You go to your kid’s events. That’s common knowledge. You just do. You do, unless you’re too wrapped up in your insurance business, or in how much you hate your wife or husband.

I wanted to gently offer this common sense into their minds. With, say, a baseball bat.

“So, are you going to the cast party?” I asked Becky.

“Nah,” she said. “Maybe next time.”

I was relieved. I didn’t need a repeat of certain previous parties.

“Well then, you want to go get a bite to eat or something?” I asked.

“Not tonight,” she said. “Maybe tomorrow?”

Damn
, I’d thought, and fought hard not to dwell on what she might be doing until then. “Okay, yeah,” I said. “Tomorrow’s cool.”

“Cool. Great job tonight, Sparky.”

“You too, Mustardseed.”

She gave me a hug. “I ever tell you how much I love when you call me that?”

The defeat I felt at not going out with her that night disappeared. “No, actually,” I said, grinning like a fool.

“Well, I do,” Becky said. She released me. “I’ll call you.”

“Cool. Drive safe.”

“Oh, you know me,” she said, rolling her eyes. She waved and began making her way down the hall. No one else hugged her or congratulated her on the performance.

I watched her go toward the double doors that led outside—and blinked rapidly when I realized she was being followed by this guy Scott, one of the actors. Not closely, but maybe ten feet behind.

When Becky got to the doors, she opened one, then glanced over her shoulder. Scott picked up his pace just a tiny bit. Becky, seeing this, went on through the door. Scott got to it before it latched closed and went after her.

I could have screamed. Instead, I spent as long as possible in the auditorium doing my idiot check, and when I was done, I kept my head down on the way to my car in case they were still out in the parking lot.

On Sunday, Becky called, and we went out to a Mexican food place and talked about TV shows, movies, and Not Scott.