Leah on the Offbeat
Page 11
We put in our drink order, and Wells jumps right into the forced small talk. “So, your mom tells me you’re in a band.”
“Yup.”
“Nice. I used to play the clarinet.” He nods eagerly. “Good times, good times.”
I don’t even know how to respond to that. Like, I’m in an actual band, Wells. I’m not saying we’re the Beatles, but we’re not exactly honking our way through “Hot Cross Buns” in the school auditorium.
“Wells is a huge music fan,” Mom says, patting his arm. I cringe every time she touches him. “What’s the name of that singer you like?” Mom asks him. “The one from American Idol?”
“Oh, you mean Daughtry?”
Daughtry. I’m not even surprised. But wow—Mom should know better. If she wants me to respect this guy, she should have kept that detail under wraps.
“Have you heard of Oh Wonder?” I ask, even though I know he hasn’t. It is physically, chemically impossible for a person who likes Daughtry to have heard of Oh Wonder. But I want to see if he’ll admit it. Maybe I’m a dick, but this is how I test people. I never judge someone for not knowing a band. I only judge the ones who try to fake it.
“No, I haven’t. Is that a band or a singer?” He pulls out his phone. “I’ll write that down. Oh Wonder—two words?”
So he’s honest. I guess that’s something.
“They’re a band.”
“Are they anything like Stevie Wonder?”
I bite back a laugh. “Not really.” I glance up at Mom and catch her smiling.
Confession: I think Stevie Wonder rules. That’s probably not cool to admit, but whatever. Apparently, my parents used to play me “Signed, Sealed, Delivered (I’m Yours)” on their old-timey CD player, even before I was born. I think my mom read somewhere that I’d be able to hear it in utero. And I guess it worked, because I used to sing it around the house and in the grocery store. And even now, that song makes me calm in a way I can’t explain. My mom said they picked it because it was the one song she and my dad agreed they’d be willing to listen to over and over, every day, for the rest of their lives.
The rest of their lives. Look how quickly that blew up in their faces. Just thinking about it hurts in a way I can’t quite pinpoint.
We split a massive pile of designer tortilla chips with spinach and queso, and everything’s sort of okay for a minute. Mom and Wells are talking about work, so I pull out my phone. I’ve missed a few texts.
From Anna: Ugh, so Morgan’s REALLY upset.
From Garrett: You should totally wear this today. Laughing-crying emoji. He’s attached a picture of a girl wearing what appears to be a helmet cut out of a soccer ball. With holes on the sides. And pigtails. Through the holes.
Obviously happening, I reply.
Then I turn back to Anna’s text. I guess I’m kind of at a loss. Like, I don’t want to be a negligent friend, but I don’t know how to help Morgan if I can’t even talk to her. I think I hate the concept of needing space. What it really means is that the person’s mad at you, or hates you, or doesn’t give a shit about you. They just don’t want to admit it. Like my dad. That’s just how he put it. He needed space from my mom. And now here we are, almost seven years later, at a steakhouse with fucking Wells.
Show her the video where the dog’s owner dresses like Gumby, I write finally.
GENIUS, Anna replies.
“Sweetie, put your phone away, please. We’re in a restaurant.”
“Seriously?” I point my chin toward Wells. “He’s literally on his phone right now.”
Mom narrows her eyes. “He’s confirming his tee time.”
“Oh, right. So it’s like a golf emergency.”
“Leah.”
“I mean, clearly, it’s so urgent, or he wouldn’t be—gasp—on his phone in a restaurant.”
“Don’t be an asshole,” she hisses, leaning toward me. “It’s his birthday.”
I shrug and press my lips together like I don’t give any shits at all, but there’s this tug in my chest. Because birthdays are sort of sacred, and maybe I really am an asshole. I’d been thinking of Wells as the interloper, busting in on my Mom brunch with his tiny ears and his Daughtry love. But maybe I’m the one crashing the party.
Wells ends the call, turns to Mom, and starts babbling about handicaps on the birdie par or some other golfy bullshit. I let my eyes drift shut.
I mean, parents sometimes date people. I know this. Moms are technically human beings, and human beings are allowed to have romantic lives. But I have this feeling, suddenly, that I’m on a too-fast treadmill—like things are moving so quickly, I might slide off the back end. I never imagined I could be bumped out of my own family. I feel knocked down.
I feel demoted.
And the thought makes me so tired, I can barely sit upright. Like, even the thought of walking to the car feels like prepping for a marathon. And it’s barely past noon. All I want is to collapse on my bed. Possibly with music. Definitely not with real pants on.
I can’t go to the game. Not feeling the way I feel right now. I can’t deal with Garrett and his try-hard, dudebro act. Like, we all know you’re secretly a dreamy-eyed piano kid, so stop pretending to be a douchebag. And stop messing with my head. Either flirt with me or don’t. Either be cute or not.
I don’t know. I don’t have the energy for Garrett. That probably makes me a jerk, and I should clearly text him an excuse, but I don’t even know what I’d say. Sorry to miss the game, Garrett. Turns out, you’re confusing and annoying and I kind of can’t deal with your face. I just can’t. Not today.
Mom asks me, hours later, if I need a ride to the game.
I say no.
Then I ignore six texts in a row, all from Garrett.
8
I DESTROY THINGS IN MY dreams.
I scream and argue until everyone hates me, then I wake up in tears from how real it feels. Sunday morning is like that. I sit up in bed, feeling battered and alone. And the first thing I see are those six missed texts from Garrett.
Hey, you up there somewhere? I don’t see you!
Yo, are you in the parking lot or something
Where are you?
Ok Greenfeld and I are heading to WaHo with Spier and everyone. You should come!
Oh man, I don’t know how I missed you today. I feel bad.
Oh well, I hope you enjoyed the game anyway. Next time, stick around okay lol. Are you going to the play tomorrow?
Holy shit. I’m the worst.
Garrett thinks I was there. At the game, in the bleachers, probably wearing a homemade soccer ball helmet. As opposed to moping around my bedroom, ignoring his texts.
I am such a dick. Like, I’m an actual flaccid penis of a person.
And now I want to lock myself in my room all over again, but I can’t miss the last performance of the play. I’m not that big of an asshole. I don’t even mind the idea of hanging out with Garrett, in theory. But I don’t want to face him. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s apologies. I don’t like getting them. I really don’t like making them.
I think it’s unavoidable.
I dress myself carefully, like I’m going into battle. I feel stronger when I look cute. I zip into my universe dress—the greatest thrift store find of my entire life. It’s cotton, blue and black, sprinkled with stars and galaxies across my chest. My boobs are literally out of this world. Then I muss up my hair so it’s just a little wavy and spend twenty minutes giving myself flawless winged eyeliner. It makes my eyes look super green in a way that almost catches me off guard.
Mom needs the car, so she drops me off at school. I’m early. Early is good. I pick a seat near the front, but I can’t stop turning toward the entrance—and every time the auditorium door opens, my heart jumps into my throat. I have this feeling that as soon as Garrett sees me, he’ll know I was lying. And then he and the guys will be pissed, and it will be this whole big thing, and our whole friend group will implode. Because of me.
There’s a tap on my shoulder, and I almost fall out of my seat.
But it’s just Anna. “Can we sit here?”
“Yup.”
“Nice. I used to play the clarinet.” He nods eagerly. “Good times, good times.”
I don’t even know how to respond to that. Like, I’m in an actual band, Wells. I’m not saying we’re the Beatles, but we’re not exactly honking our way through “Hot Cross Buns” in the school auditorium.
“Wells is a huge music fan,” Mom says, patting his arm. I cringe every time she touches him. “What’s the name of that singer you like?” Mom asks him. “The one from American Idol?”
“Oh, you mean Daughtry?”
Daughtry. I’m not even surprised. But wow—Mom should know better. If she wants me to respect this guy, she should have kept that detail under wraps.
“Have you heard of Oh Wonder?” I ask, even though I know he hasn’t. It is physically, chemically impossible for a person who likes Daughtry to have heard of Oh Wonder. But I want to see if he’ll admit it. Maybe I’m a dick, but this is how I test people. I never judge someone for not knowing a band. I only judge the ones who try to fake it.
“No, I haven’t. Is that a band or a singer?” He pulls out his phone. “I’ll write that down. Oh Wonder—two words?”
So he’s honest. I guess that’s something.
“They’re a band.”
“Are they anything like Stevie Wonder?”
I bite back a laugh. “Not really.” I glance up at Mom and catch her smiling.
Confession: I think Stevie Wonder rules. That’s probably not cool to admit, but whatever. Apparently, my parents used to play me “Signed, Sealed, Delivered (I’m Yours)” on their old-timey CD player, even before I was born. I think my mom read somewhere that I’d be able to hear it in utero. And I guess it worked, because I used to sing it around the house and in the grocery store. And even now, that song makes me calm in a way I can’t explain. My mom said they picked it because it was the one song she and my dad agreed they’d be willing to listen to over and over, every day, for the rest of their lives.
The rest of their lives. Look how quickly that blew up in their faces. Just thinking about it hurts in a way I can’t quite pinpoint.
We split a massive pile of designer tortilla chips with spinach and queso, and everything’s sort of okay for a minute. Mom and Wells are talking about work, so I pull out my phone. I’ve missed a few texts.
From Anna: Ugh, so Morgan’s REALLY upset.
From Garrett: You should totally wear this today. Laughing-crying emoji. He’s attached a picture of a girl wearing what appears to be a helmet cut out of a soccer ball. With holes on the sides. And pigtails. Through the holes.
Obviously happening, I reply.
Then I turn back to Anna’s text. I guess I’m kind of at a loss. Like, I don’t want to be a negligent friend, but I don’t know how to help Morgan if I can’t even talk to her. I think I hate the concept of needing space. What it really means is that the person’s mad at you, or hates you, or doesn’t give a shit about you. They just don’t want to admit it. Like my dad. That’s just how he put it. He needed space from my mom. And now here we are, almost seven years later, at a steakhouse with fucking Wells.
Show her the video where the dog’s owner dresses like Gumby, I write finally.
GENIUS, Anna replies.
“Sweetie, put your phone away, please. We’re in a restaurant.”
“Seriously?” I point my chin toward Wells. “He’s literally on his phone right now.”
Mom narrows her eyes. “He’s confirming his tee time.”
“Oh, right. So it’s like a golf emergency.”
“Leah.”
“I mean, clearly, it’s so urgent, or he wouldn’t be—gasp—on his phone in a restaurant.”
“Don’t be an asshole,” she hisses, leaning toward me. “It’s his birthday.”
I shrug and press my lips together like I don’t give any shits at all, but there’s this tug in my chest. Because birthdays are sort of sacred, and maybe I really am an asshole. I’d been thinking of Wells as the interloper, busting in on my Mom brunch with his tiny ears and his Daughtry love. But maybe I’m the one crashing the party.
Wells ends the call, turns to Mom, and starts babbling about handicaps on the birdie par or some other golfy bullshit. I let my eyes drift shut.
I mean, parents sometimes date people. I know this. Moms are technically human beings, and human beings are allowed to have romantic lives. But I have this feeling, suddenly, that I’m on a too-fast treadmill—like things are moving so quickly, I might slide off the back end. I never imagined I could be bumped out of my own family. I feel knocked down.
I feel demoted.
And the thought makes me so tired, I can barely sit upright. Like, even the thought of walking to the car feels like prepping for a marathon. And it’s barely past noon. All I want is to collapse on my bed. Possibly with music. Definitely not with real pants on.
I can’t go to the game. Not feeling the way I feel right now. I can’t deal with Garrett and his try-hard, dudebro act. Like, we all know you’re secretly a dreamy-eyed piano kid, so stop pretending to be a douchebag. And stop messing with my head. Either flirt with me or don’t. Either be cute or not.
I don’t know. I don’t have the energy for Garrett. That probably makes me a jerk, and I should clearly text him an excuse, but I don’t even know what I’d say. Sorry to miss the game, Garrett. Turns out, you’re confusing and annoying and I kind of can’t deal with your face. I just can’t. Not today.
Mom asks me, hours later, if I need a ride to the game.
I say no.
Then I ignore six texts in a row, all from Garrett.
8
I DESTROY THINGS IN MY dreams.
I scream and argue until everyone hates me, then I wake up in tears from how real it feels. Sunday morning is like that. I sit up in bed, feeling battered and alone. And the first thing I see are those six missed texts from Garrett.
Hey, you up there somewhere? I don’t see you!
Yo, are you in the parking lot or something
Where are you?
Ok Greenfeld and I are heading to WaHo with Spier and everyone. You should come!
Oh man, I don’t know how I missed you today. I feel bad.
Oh well, I hope you enjoyed the game anyway. Next time, stick around okay lol. Are you going to the play tomorrow?
Holy shit. I’m the worst.
Garrett thinks I was there. At the game, in the bleachers, probably wearing a homemade soccer ball helmet. As opposed to moping around my bedroom, ignoring his texts.
I am such a dick. Like, I’m an actual flaccid penis of a person.
And now I want to lock myself in my room all over again, but I can’t miss the last performance of the play. I’m not that big of an asshole. I don’t even mind the idea of hanging out with Garrett, in theory. But I don’t want to face him. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s apologies. I don’t like getting them. I really don’t like making them.
I think it’s unavoidable.
I dress myself carefully, like I’m going into battle. I feel stronger when I look cute. I zip into my universe dress—the greatest thrift store find of my entire life. It’s cotton, blue and black, sprinkled with stars and galaxies across my chest. My boobs are literally out of this world. Then I muss up my hair so it’s just a little wavy and spend twenty minutes giving myself flawless winged eyeliner. It makes my eyes look super green in a way that almost catches me off guard.
Mom needs the car, so she drops me off at school. I’m early. Early is good. I pick a seat near the front, but I can’t stop turning toward the entrance—and every time the auditorium door opens, my heart jumps into my throat. I have this feeling that as soon as Garrett sees me, he’ll know I was lying. And then he and the guys will be pissed, and it will be this whole big thing, and our whole friend group will implode. Because of me.
There’s a tap on my shoulder, and I almost fall out of my seat.
But it’s just Anna. “Can we sit here?”
