Leah on the Offbeat
Page 12
“We?”
“Morgan’s in the bathroom.”
Another conversation I’m not ready for. Oh, hey, Morgan! Sorry you didn’t get into your dream school. Hope it’s cool that I’m totally going there. Panic must be written all over my face, because Anna purses her lips. “You know she’s not mad at you, right?”
“Right.”
“I think she’s worried you’ll be awkward.”
“I haven’t even talked to her.”
“I know, I know. She’s just paranoid. It’s fine. I’m texting her where we are.” But before Anna can hit send, Morgan trails in behind a pack of giggling middle schoolers. She looks miserable. She looks like she just got dumped. She’s in sweatpants and glasses, her blue-streaked hair scraped back into a messy bun. Anna catches her eye and waves, and she cuts down the aisle and across a row of seats.
“Hey,” she says quietly.
“How are you doing?” My voice sounds so painfully gentle that I cringe.
“Fine. I’m fine.”
I nod, and Morgan shrugs, and Anna’s eyes shift back and forth between us.
“Sorry about UGA,” I say finally. “That really sucks.”
“Yeah.” She sounds defeated.
“Sorry,” I say again.
She sinks into her seat. “Whatever. I’m not mad at you or anything.”
I perch on the edge of the seat beside her.
She leans back, covering her face with her hands. “It’s just . . . ugh. It’s just so unfair.”
“Yeah . . .”
“Not you. You totally deserved to get in. You’re like a genius. But other people . . .”
I swallow. “I don’t know how they make their decisions.”
Morgan smiles humorlessly. “Well, I know how they make some of them.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m just saying. I’m ranked eleventh in the class. And some of the people who did get into Georgia . . . aren’t.” She shrugs. Beside me, Anna shifts uncomfortably.
I blink. “You think someone lied on their application?”
“I think I’m white,” Morgan replies.
The whole world seems to stop. The blood rushes to my cheeks.
“Are you talking about Abby?” I say quietly.
Morgan shrugs.
My mouth falls open. “I can’t believe you.”
“Well, sorry.” Her cheeks flush.
“That’s really fucking gross, Morgan.”
“Oh, so you’re sticking up for Abby now. Awesome.”
I lean forward, chest tight. “I’m not sticking up for anyone. You’re being racist.”
I can’t believe this—and coming from Morgan. Morgan, who read All American Boys three times and drove all the way to Decatur to get it signed. Morgan, who once shouted down a stranger in a grocery store for wearing a Trump hat.
“I’m being honest,” says Morgan.
“No, I’m pretty sure you’re being racist.”
“Who’s racist?” Garrett asks, sidling up. I glance up at him, and Bram’s there, too. Morgan sinks into her seat, like she’s trying to disappear.
I stare her down. “Well, according to Morgan, Abby only got into Georgia because she’s black.”
Bram winces.
Morgan’s face is blotchy red. “That’s not what I meant.” She grips the armrest, eyes flashing.
“Well, you said it.” I stand, abruptly, my jaw clenched and sore. I’m furious, down to my bones, in a way I can’t even articulate. I push past the boys and storm up the aisle. Random people tilt their heads toward me as I pass. They know I’m pissed. I always wear it on my face. I slide into an empty row near the back and squeeze my eyes shut.
“Hey,” Garrett says, plopping down next to me. Bram sits beside him.
“I’m so angry,” I say.
“Because of Morgan?” asks Garrett.
I shrug, lips pressed tightly.
Garrett and Bram exchange glances. “She thinks Abby took her spot at Georgia?” Garrett asks.
“I don’t know. But she thinks Abby only got in because she’s black, and that’s bullshit.”
“People think that a lot,” Bram says softly.
“That’s messed up,” Garrett says.
“Uh, yeah.”
“You know, I didn’t realize you and Suso were such good friends.”
I feel the heat rise in my cheeks. “We’re not. It doesn’t matter. Jesus. I’m just saying it’s racist.”
He props his hands up defensively. “Okay.”
“Okay,” I huff back at him.
Bram just watches us, not saying a word, which makes me even more self-conscious. I tug my dress down and stare at my knees. Maybe I could send a telepathic message backstage to the powers that be. Dear God and/or Cal Price: please start this show now. Dim the lights so I can disappear.
Garrett nudges me. “So, did you get my texts?”
And . . . fuck my life.
“Yeah. Oh. Yeah, I’m sorry. My phone just . . .” I trail off uselessly.
“No worries. Just wanted to hear what you thought of the game!”
God, I can’t. I’m sorry. I should tell him, but I can’t. I’m like an actual fuse. Overload me, and I shut down. I guess Garrett’s the hair dryer who pushes me over the limit.
I lie. “It was cool.”
“Yeah. Ha. If you forget about the first half.”
“Mmhmm.” I nod vaguely.
“Where’d you run off to afterward?” Bram pipes up. “We missed you.”
“Oh. Um. My mom needed the car, so . . .” I swallow.
“That sucks.”
“Yup.”
The houselights dim. Thank God thank God thank God.
The overture begins, and my whole body sighs.
9
HOURS LATER, I’M IN SIMON’S backseat, driving to Martin Addison’s house, of all places.
“Who let him host this?” I ask. I can’t help but growl a little when I talk about Martin. Abby, sitting next to me, shrugs and shakes her head.
“I don’t know,” says Simon. “He offered.”
“We should have had our own party,” Abby says.
“Can we just suck it up? Please? It’s the last cast party.” Simon’s voice skids on the word last. He’s never been good at endings.
“You okay?” Bram asks softly.
Simon pauses. “Yeah.”
The light turns green, and Simon makes a left. Martin lives at the end of a cul-de-sac in one of those leafy neighborhoods off Creekside Drive. I’ve only been there once. It was freshman year for a history project. Me, Martin, and Morgan. And we chose one another, too. What a joke.
No one talks for the rest of the ride. Bram fiddles with the music, and Abby stares out the window, lips tightly pursed. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen her look so upset. And I know she hates Martin, but I can’t help but wonder if it’s more than that. Maybe Morgan said something to her.
Martin’s whole street is lined with cars, and it’s almost dark when we get there. We pull in behind Garrett’s minivan, which is parked but still running. He drove here with Nick—they turn off the car and step out when they see us. And wow. It’s ridiculously cold out, especially in a cotton dress and a cardigan. I’ll just say my out-of-this-world boobs are extra out of this world tonight.
We end up walking in twosomes. Nick and Garrett, Abby and Bram, Simon and me. It’s weird that Abby and Nick aren’t walking together. I lean toward Simon, close enough that our arms touch. “Hey, is something up with Nick and Abby?”
Simon grimaces and shrugs. “Yeah. I don’t know. I talked to Nick for a minute earlier. I think they’re fighting.”
“About what?”
“Well, Nick got into Tufts yesterday.”
“Oh, wow.”
“I know, he’s psyched,” Simon says, “but then I guess he and Abby had the talk.”
“The talk?”
“The are-we-doing-long-distance-or-what talk.”
“Morgan’s in the bathroom.”
Another conversation I’m not ready for. Oh, hey, Morgan! Sorry you didn’t get into your dream school. Hope it’s cool that I’m totally going there. Panic must be written all over my face, because Anna purses her lips. “You know she’s not mad at you, right?”
“Right.”
“I think she’s worried you’ll be awkward.”
“I haven’t even talked to her.”
“I know, I know. She’s just paranoid. It’s fine. I’m texting her where we are.” But before Anna can hit send, Morgan trails in behind a pack of giggling middle schoolers. She looks miserable. She looks like she just got dumped. She’s in sweatpants and glasses, her blue-streaked hair scraped back into a messy bun. Anna catches her eye and waves, and she cuts down the aisle and across a row of seats.
“Hey,” she says quietly.
“How are you doing?” My voice sounds so painfully gentle that I cringe.
“Fine. I’m fine.”
I nod, and Morgan shrugs, and Anna’s eyes shift back and forth between us.
“Sorry about UGA,” I say finally. “That really sucks.”
“Yeah.” She sounds defeated.
“Sorry,” I say again.
She sinks into her seat. “Whatever. I’m not mad at you or anything.”
I perch on the edge of the seat beside her.
She leans back, covering her face with her hands. “It’s just . . . ugh. It’s just so unfair.”
“Yeah . . .”
“Not you. You totally deserved to get in. You’re like a genius. But other people . . .”
I swallow. “I don’t know how they make their decisions.”
Morgan smiles humorlessly. “Well, I know how they make some of them.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m just saying. I’m ranked eleventh in the class. And some of the people who did get into Georgia . . . aren’t.” She shrugs. Beside me, Anna shifts uncomfortably.
I blink. “You think someone lied on their application?”
“I think I’m white,” Morgan replies.
The whole world seems to stop. The blood rushes to my cheeks.
“Are you talking about Abby?” I say quietly.
Morgan shrugs.
My mouth falls open. “I can’t believe you.”
“Well, sorry.” Her cheeks flush.
“That’s really fucking gross, Morgan.”
“Oh, so you’re sticking up for Abby now. Awesome.”
I lean forward, chest tight. “I’m not sticking up for anyone. You’re being racist.”
I can’t believe this—and coming from Morgan. Morgan, who read All American Boys three times and drove all the way to Decatur to get it signed. Morgan, who once shouted down a stranger in a grocery store for wearing a Trump hat.
“I’m being honest,” says Morgan.
“No, I’m pretty sure you’re being racist.”
“Who’s racist?” Garrett asks, sidling up. I glance up at him, and Bram’s there, too. Morgan sinks into her seat, like she’s trying to disappear.
I stare her down. “Well, according to Morgan, Abby only got into Georgia because she’s black.”
Bram winces.
Morgan’s face is blotchy red. “That’s not what I meant.” She grips the armrest, eyes flashing.
“Well, you said it.” I stand, abruptly, my jaw clenched and sore. I’m furious, down to my bones, in a way I can’t even articulate. I push past the boys and storm up the aisle. Random people tilt their heads toward me as I pass. They know I’m pissed. I always wear it on my face. I slide into an empty row near the back and squeeze my eyes shut.
“Hey,” Garrett says, plopping down next to me. Bram sits beside him.
“I’m so angry,” I say.
“Because of Morgan?” asks Garrett.
I shrug, lips pressed tightly.
Garrett and Bram exchange glances. “She thinks Abby took her spot at Georgia?” Garrett asks.
“I don’t know. But she thinks Abby only got in because she’s black, and that’s bullshit.”
“People think that a lot,” Bram says softly.
“That’s messed up,” Garrett says.
“Uh, yeah.”
“You know, I didn’t realize you and Suso were such good friends.”
I feel the heat rise in my cheeks. “We’re not. It doesn’t matter. Jesus. I’m just saying it’s racist.”
He props his hands up defensively. “Okay.”
“Okay,” I huff back at him.
Bram just watches us, not saying a word, which makes me even more self-conscious. I tug my dress down and stare at my knees. Maybe I could send a telepathic message backstage to the powers that be. Dear God and/or Cal Price: please start this show now. Dim the lights so I can disappear.
Garrett nudges me. “So, did you get my texts?”
And . . . fuck my life.
“Yeah. Oh. Yeah, I’m sorry. My phone just . . .” I trail off uselessly.
“No worries. Just wanted to hear what you thought of the game!”
God, I can’t. I’m sorry. I should tell him, but I can’t. I’m like an actual fuse. Overload me, and I shut down. I guess Garrett’s the hair dryer who pushes me over the limit.
I lie. “It was cool.”
“Yeah. Ha. If you forget about the first half.”
“Mmhmm.” I nod vaguely.
“Where’d you run off to afterward?” Bram pipes up. “We missed you.”
“Oh. Um. My mom needed the car, so . . .” I swallow.
“That sucks.”
“Yup.”
The houselights dim. Thank God thank God thank God.
The overture begins, and my whole body sighs.
9
HOURS LATER, I’M IN SIMON’S backseat, driving to Martin Addison’s house, of all places.
“Who let him host this?” I ask. I can’t help but growl a little when I talk about Martin. Abby, sitting next to me, shrugs and shakes her head.
“I don’t know,” says Simon. “He offered.”
“We should have had our own party,” Abby says.
“Can we just suck it up? Please? It’s the last cast party.” Simon’s voice skids on the word last. He’s never been good at endings.
“You okay?” Bram asks softly.
Simon pauses. “Yeah.”
The light turns green, and Simon makes a left. Martin lives at the end of a cul-de-sac in one of those leafy neighborhoods off Creekside Drive. I’ve only been there once. It was freshman year for a history project. Me, Martin, and Morgan. And we chose one another, too. What a joke.
No one talks for the rest of the ride. Bram fiddles with the music, and Abby stares out the window, lips tightly pursed. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen her look so upset. And I know she hates Martin, but I can’t help but wonder if it’s more than that. Maybe Morgan said something to her.
Martin’s whole street is lined with cars, and it’s almost dark when we get there. We pull in behind Garrett’s minivan, which is parked but still running. He drove here with Nick—they turn off the car and step out when they see us. And wow. It’s ridiculously cold out, especially in a cotton dress and a cardigan. I’ll just say my out-of-this-world boobs are extra out of this world tonight.
We end up walking in twosomes. Nick and Garrett, Abby and Bram, Simon and me. It’s weird that Abby and Nick aren’t walking together. I lean toward Simon, close enough that our arms touch. “Hey, is something up with Nick and Abby?”
Simon grimaces and shrugs. “Yeah. I don’t know. I talked to Nick for a minute earlier. I think they’re fighting.”
“About what?”
“Well, Nick got into Tufts yesterday.”
“Oh, wow.”
“I know, he’s psyched,” Simon says, “but then I guess he and Abby had the talk.”
“The talk?”
“The are-we-doing-long-distance-or-what talk.”
