Sometimes It Happens (12 page)

“My ten-year-old cousin thinks the Jonas Brothers are over.”

“All right, smart ass,” I say. “What should I be listening to?” I bend down to scratch my newly formed mosquito bite.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes, I’m serious.”

“You could be listening to Paramore, or The Beatles, or Sting.”

“Sting? Isn’t he, like, old?”

Noah blinks his blue eyes at me, then shakes his head and buries it in his hands. He peeks at me between two fingers. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Of course.” I roll my eyes and take a step forward. A little girl comes walking back from the order window holding a huge cone with two scoops of butter pecan, one of which promptly falls onto the concrete. She reaches down and picks it up, plops it back on her cone, and keeps walking.

“Wow,” I say. “Did you see that? That girl just—”

“Oh my God,” Noah says. “You’re not kidding. You’re not kidding at all! You don’t know who Sting is.” He’s staring at me like I’m the eighth Wonder of the World or something.

“I know who Sting is,” I say. Which isn’t really true. I mean, obviously I’ve heard of Sting, he’s a rock star. I’m just not completely familiar with his music. “He’s the one with the wraparound sunglasses.” I shuffle a few more steps forward in line, proud of myself.

“The wraparound . . . oh my God, are you . . . are you
talking about
Bono
?” Noah’s looking at me like his head might explode.

“No,” I scoff, even though now I realize I totally am. And Bono’s in U2. That much I know. U2 has some very good Sebastian-was-making-out-with-someone-else-and-now-I’m-lying-here-depressed-and-feeling-sorry-for-myself music.

“Oh, geez.” Noah feigns that I’ve shot an arrow into his chest and falls to the ground. “You’re killing me, Hannah, you’re killllllinnngg mmmee.” A few kids around us turn and look, and then giggle.

“Get up,” I say, but I’m laughing.

“Only if you promise to let me introduce you to some real music.”

“Fine,” I say. “But only if you promise to tell me what you were doing on your laptop.” I say it in a teasing voice, but he stands up immediately, the smile dropping off of his face.

“It’s nothing,” he says.

“Well, it’s not
nothing
, obviously, since I saw something on there, and then you freaked out and slammed the computer shut.”

“I didn’t freak out.”

“Okay,” I say, shrugging. I know I should drop it. I mean, whatever he’s doing on his computer is his business. I don’t really have any right to know. Although, he
has
kind of been all up in my business. I mean, not only did he accost me at the Laundromat, he kind of bullied me into getting a job at his work. Not to mention showing up at my house today and
being all, “Oh we have to go get ice cream, tell me about the pink Jeep. Oh please, oh please.”

Well. It didn’t exactly go like that. It was more like he was trying to be nice, and of course I volunteered the stuff about the pink Jeep. He didn’t even really ask about that. And he did bring up the idea of ice cream, which is my favorite thing in the world. But still.

So I decide to drop it, and a few minutes later, we get to the front of the line. We order our ice cream (he makes me get vanilla with crunch coat, and I make him get a peanut butter cup flurry with cream-cheese ice cream), and I’m not sure if it’s just that I haven’t had crunch coat in a while or that it’s ice-cream stand ice cream as opposed to the stuff out of the carton I’m used to eating, but it’s really, really good. Like maybe the best ice cream I’ve ever had.

Later, when he brings me home, he asks if he can come in.

I say okay, mostly because I don’t want to be alone, even though I know he’s just asking because he promised Ava that he would watch out for me. Despite the fact that we just had ice cream, I make fruit slushies in the blender out of strawberries and fresh orange juice that I picked up at the farmer’s market on the corner (I’m confined to buying groceries at places that are within walking distance, so it’s been a lot of produce, Costco, and diner food), and we sit out on the deck in the dark.

“What’s that?” he asks when I bring the pitcher of slushies out.

“Slushies,” I say. “I told you I was making them, remember?” I wanted to put tequila in them, but Noah said that would just be numbing my feelings and that I needed to learn to deal with the pain. Which sounded a little bit like bullshit to me, but I decided to humor him. And also to never tell him about my mom’s Ambien.

“No,
that
,” he says.

“What?”

“This,” he says, picking up my journal, which I must have left out on the deck. I wrote in it last night, staying up late and letting the words pour out of me, about how I felt about Sebastian, about missing Ava, everything. I would have written in it today when I was having my mini-meltdown, except I was too lazy to go into the backyard and get it.

“Nothing,” I say, trying to stay calm as I reach over and pluck it out of his hand. “It’s just a notebook.”

“It looks like a journal,” he says. He reaches over and pours some slushie into his glass and then takes a sip.

“Well, it’s not.” I plop down next to him on the couch.

“Okay.” He leans back against the squashy deck furniture and looks at me like he could care less. Suddenly, for some reason, I feel offended. I mean, it’s so obviously a journal. You’d think he’d at least be a little bit interested in reading it. Aren’t guys just dying to read journals and diaries?
Does he think my secrets are lame? I have many scandalous secrets, thank you very much.

“That’s it?” I pick up the notebook and shake it in his face. “This is obviously not just a notebook, it’s obviously a journal.” It’s pale green with a sparkly gold butterfly emblazoned on the front of a hard, metal cover. I mean, all it’s really missing is the word “journal” stamped across the front.

“I know it is.” He shrugs and takes another drink of his strawberry slushie.

“So aren’t you going to push me, make me admit it?”

“Nope.”

“No?” I stare at him incredulously. “Aren’t you curious about what’s in there?”

“Look, Hannah, if you don’t want to tell me that you have a journal, if you’re
embarrassed
by something you shouldn’t be embarrassed about, that’s something you need to work out with yourself.” He shrugs again, then drains the rest of his slushie. “Good slush,” he says. “Can I have another one?”

But I’m angry now. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? That I need to work it out with myself?”

“It just means,” he says, “that if you’re worried about what I’m going to think of you because you keep a journal, then that’s something you need to deal with.” He shrugs. “You got any snacks?”

“No, I don’t have any snacks,” I say. Which is, of course, a lie—I absolutely have snacks. Like, Costco-box sizes full of them. Cheez-Its, Oreos, those delish Keebler cookies that are
shaped like elves. I even have a huge pre-packaged veggie tray with tons of gourmet dips to go with it. Not to mention pretzels, chips, and ice cream. But no way is Noah getting any of it. Not with that kind of attitude. “And I don’t
keep
a journal. I just write in it once in a while.”

“You don’t have snacks?”

“No.”

“But weren’t you just telling me about how much you’ve been eating snacks lately?”

“Are you calling me fat?”

Noah looks at me. “Are you seriously asking me that?”

“Yes.”

“You’re asking me if I’m calling you fat? You know I’m not calling you fat.” He looks at me. “Hannah, is this because I don’t care about what’s in your journal?”

“No!”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it isn’t,” I say. “It’s not about you caring what’s in my journal, I don’t even
want
you to care about what’s in my journal.” This is sort of true, sort of a lie. I don’t necessarily want him to care or know what’s in my journal, but seriously, why isn’t he the least bit interested? Like, maybe I’ve written tons of stuff in there about all the hot, sweaty sex that Sebastian and I were having. I haven’t, of course, since we weren’t having any hot, sweaty sex. But I did write some
stuff down about all the Everything But that we were doing. Does Noah think I’m completely and totally lame? So lame that I don’t even have an interesting journal?

“Is this because you think that I think that your journal is lame?” Noah asks.

My jaw drops. “No.”

“Look, I don’t think your journal is lame, I just figure that if you can’t admit it’s a journal, then that’s your business.” His stomach grumbles loudly. “You hear that?” he asks. “I really need snacks.”

“I can
admit
it’s a journal,” I say. “If you can admit what it was I saw today on your computer. “ I raise my eyebrows at him. “But if you can’t, well then, I guess that’s something you’re going to have to work out with yourself, Noah.”

He looks at me, and for a second, I think he’s going to make some stupid joke and drop the whole thing. But he must change his mind because finally he just nods and says, “Okay, fine. But if we’re going to talk about that, then I’m definitely going to need snacks.”

I stand up and head to the kitchen.

When I get back to the deck, I’m armed with a tray of potato chips, dip, tortilla chips, salsa, and a whole Keebler cookie sampler.

“Wow,” Noah says. “You don’t mess around.”

“Not when it comes to snacks,” I say. We move over to the patio table, and I set all the food down, then reach
over and flip the switch on the sparkly deck lights that are wrapped around the railing.

“Now tell me,” I say.

“What?”

“You got your snacks. Now tell me what it was you were working on.”

“Already?”

“Yes, already,” I say. “You said you would, now do it.”

“Fine,” he says, shrugging. He takes a tortilla chip and dips it into the salsa. “It’s a screenplay.”

He just says it, like it’s not a big deal. Which it is and isn’t at the same time. I mean, from the way he was acting, you would have thought he was running some kind of prostitution ring off his laptop or something. On the other hand, writing a screenplay is a pretty major and cool thing to do. So why is he all of a sudden acting like it’s no big deal?

And then I get it. He wants me to ask him about it, to be all “Ohmigod that’s so cool what’s it about ohmigod.” Kind of like how I wanted him to be interested in my journal. Well, two can play this game.

“Oh,” I shrug. “That’s cool, you should have just told me.” I pick a cookie up off the tray and take a bite. “I’m going to get a super sugar crash after this,” I say. “Especially since we just had ice cream. And slushies.” Wow. I really have to stop eating.

“Don’t you want to know what it’s about?” Noah asks

“I guess,” I say, then give a half-shrug.

“You know what?” he says. “Never mind. I should really get going.” It’s so abrupt that for a second I think he’s joking.

So I say, “Okay, I’ll walk you to the door.” But when he stands up, I realize he’s serious. “Wait, you’re serious?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I gotta go.”

“Okay,” I say, deciding to drop the charade. “Out with it.”

“Out with what?”

“What’s the deal with you and the screenplay?”

For a second, I think he’s going to tell me I’m crazy, that there’s no deal with the screenplay and he really does just have to go. But instead, he sits back down. “There’s no deal. It’s just that no one knows I’m writing it.”

“Why not?” I ask. “Is it, like, . . . Is it, ah, erotica or something?”

The side of his mouth twists up into a half-smile. “No,” he says. “It’s not erotica. It’s just that I don’t want everyone asking me about it. You know how as soon as you tell someone you’re doing something, they want to ask you tons of questions about it?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“Well, I don’t want to deal with that. Plus, it’s like—Okay, I know it sounds dumb, but it’s serious for me, you know?”

“You mean, you want people to take it seriously, but most people are still going to act like it’s just some dumb thing you’re doing and ask you about it in the way people
do when they don’t think you’re ever going to finish what you started?”

“Exactly.” He pops a cookie into his mouth. “Damn, these things are good.”

“Keebler,” I say.

“Don’t ever underestimate the power of the elves.”

“I think it’s great you’re writing a screenplay,” I say. “What’s it about?”

“Relationships,” he says. “Well, one relationship. You know, drama, first love, that kind of thing.”

“Sounds right up my alley,” I say. “Is there a sophomore in it? Maybe one who does it better?”

“No,” he says with a straight face. “In my screenplay the seniors do it better. Always.”

“That’s good,” I say, nodding my approval. “And you’re lucky that you have something you’re excited about, something you’re interested in. I have no idea what I’m interested in.” I take another chip. “Except maybe trying to figure out how much junk food I can eat before I burst.”

“You’ll figure it out.”

“I hope so.”

“You do?” He sounds surprised.

“Yeah,” I say. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“Not Ava.”

“Yeah, well, Ava . . . she’s a special case. Ava doesn’t have to worry about that stuff, because she can do anything.”

“Yeah,” he says. He leans back in his seat, then puts his
feet up on the table and pushes his chair back, balancing himself. “Ava’s one of those people who’s totally unpredictable. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was a lawyer who made partner by twenty-five, or one of those women who end up marrying a rich doctor and staying home with the kids.”

“You want to be a doctor?” I say, confused. But then I get it. He wasn’t talking about Ava marrying
him.
He was talking about Ava like they weren’t going to end up together. And suddenly, I’m aware of the fact that it’s late, I’m home alone with a boy, and that the boy is my best friend’s boyfriend.