Leah on the Offbeat
Page 20
There’s this pit in my stomach. Neither of us speaks.
“You don’t even like the dress,” I say finally.
“Leah, I do like the dress.” She closes her eyes briefly. “And this is something I’d like to do for you. This doesn’t have to be complicated.”
“Are you serious?”
“You know, I’m curious, Leah. What was your plan for paying for a prom dress? Enlighten me.”
I don’t even know what to say. Obviously, I have no clue. I can’t afford a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar dress. I can’t afford a fifty-dollar dress. And maybe I could have found something secondhand, but those places never have bigger than size two. Which is just about big enough for one of my legs.
For one excruciating minute, no one speaks. Even Jenna and her friend next door have gone silent.
“I don’t care about the dress,” I say softly.
Mom rubs her forehead. “Leah.”
“I just want to go home.”
“Fine.”
All the way to the car, we’re silent, but my mind’s tumbling in every direction. This doesn’t have to be complicated. Right. Imagine if it weren’t. Imagine if I were Jenna—omg my arms look fat Jenna. Girls like Jenna step out of dressing rooms, and people gasp and applaud. I’m sure she carries her parents’ credit card—her parents, who are married and forty-five and not dating random dudes with plural names.
“Sweetie, I’m sorry.” Mom pulls into our driveway, setting the car in park. “I really like the dress. I had no idea you loved it so much.”
“I don’t.” It comes out shaky.
Mom pauses. “Okay.”
“I don’t even want to go to prom.”
“Leah.” Mom shakes her head. “You’ve got to stop doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“Burning everything to the ground whenever something goes wrong.”
For a minute, it hangs there. I don’t know what to say. I don’t do that. I don’t think I do that.
“You know what I want for you?” Mom says finally. She smiles, almost wistfully. “I want you to let things be imperfect.”
“Okay.” I frown. “But I do.”
“No you don’t. You know? You have a sucky time dress shopping, and you’re ready to call off prom. You wouldn’t try out for the play because you’re not the best actress in the universe.”
“I’m the worst actress in the universe.”
Mom laughs. “But you’re not! Not at all. You just want to be the best. And you have to let that go. Embrace the suck. Let your guts hang out a little.”
Yeah, that’s a fucking joke. Let your guts hang out. I don’t even get that. Why would anyone want to live like that? Like it isn’t bad enough I’m always one breath away from falling apart. I’m supposed to fall apart under a spotlight?
It’s too much. And I don’t want to embrace the suck. I want things to not suck. And I don’t think that’s too much to ask.
14
I SPEND THURSDAY FLOATING THROUGH classes in a fog. I barely say a word at lunch, and I don’t linger after the bell rings. I don’t look for Simon and Nick on Friday morning. I don’t lurk by the lockers. I just duck into the library, staking claim to a computer. Typing without thinking.
Simon finds me anyway. “Oh, hey! What are you working on?” He scoots a chair next to me.
“The Treaty of Vienna.”
“Amazing,” he says, and I can actually hear him grinning.
“Okay, why are you so cheery?” I turn to face him—and my mouth falls open. “Simon.”
His shirt. It’s crisp and bright purple, totally plain except for three white letters: NYU.
“This isn’t an April Fools’ thing, right? You got in?”
“I got in!”
“Simon!” I punch his arm. “Why didn’t you text me?”
“I wanted to surprise you.”
“Does Bram know?”
He beams, nodding.
“Oh my God, Simon. You guys are going to be in New York together.”
“I know!”
“You’re going to live in New York!”
“That’s so weird, right?” He rolls his chair closer. Then he exhales and laughs all at once, eyes bright behind his glasses.
“I mean, you’re literally going to be right in Manhattan. I can’t even process this.”
“I know.”
“Do you realize that living in New York is like one step away from being famous?” I say.
“Right.”
“I’m serious. You better not forget about me.”
“Um, I’m going to stalk you online a thousand times a day.”
“That seems like a good way to spend your time.”
He laughs. “Whatever. You know we’re going to visit you and Abby at Georgia, right?”
“Right.”
“I still can’t believe you guys are road tripping together. If you guys end up as roommates, I swear to God.”
I pause. “You swear to God what?”
“I don’t know. I swear to God I will smile approvingly.”
“Is that a threat?”
He smiles. “I just really like the idea of you guys being friends.”
Something tugs in my chest. I feel strangely offbeat.
I try to shake off the feeling. “So, are you still going on your college tour, or is that kind of moot now?”
The first period bell rings, and Simon stands, tugging the straps of his backpack. “No, I’m going. My mom wants me to visit the last few schools before I make my choice.” He shrugs. “But whatever. It’ll be fun. Okay, I need to find Abby and switch our phones back.”
“You switched phones?” I fall into step beside him. “Why?”
“She’s sending herself pictures. See?”
He holds up Abby’s phone, with its Rifle floral phone case—and sure enough, there’s a massive text thread of photos. Mostly Simon and Abby, but I’m in a few of them, too. To be honest, I didn’t know some of these pictures existed. Like one of Abby, Bram, and me, half asleep on Mr. Wise’s couch after the AP Lit exam last year. We’re all shoeless, in T-shirts and pajama pants. Basically, exams happened, and everyone promptly stopped giving a shit. I kind of like how I look in the picture, though. My hair’s loose and rumpled, and I’m literally yawning, but all three of us look soft-eyed and sleepy and happy.
“She’s going to make a collage for her future dorm room,” Simon says. “I should do that.” He taps into her pictures.
I fall into step beside him as he swipes through him. “I look so drunk in this one,” he says. And then, a moment later. “Nick needs to learn how to open his eyes in pictures.” I peer at the screen, and my stomach twists softly. It’s just a random couple selfie—not even a new one, because it’s clearly taken at play rehearsal. Classic Nick and Abby picture: Abby smiling sweetly with her head slightly tilted, and Nick looking like he just got punched.
“I’m kind of worried about Nick and Abby,” Simon says after a moment.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, they’re not . . . wow,” he says suddenly, holding up the phone. “Did you draw this?”
I freeze.
“It’s beautiful,” he adds, and my heart thuds in my chest.
Because—okay. Holy shit.
I can’t seem to form words. I just stare at the phone.
Abby still has the picture, a year and a half later. It’s in her album of favorites. I don’t know what that means. Or if it even means anything. My mind’s in a knot.
“When did you draw that?” Simon asks.
I feel my cheeks burn. “Last year.”
Junior year. I’d come home from Morgan’s sleepover, feeling too big for my skin. And no matter what I tried, I couldn’t shake the feeling. So, I pulled out my sketchpad and drew without a plan. Two girls on their stomachs, peering at a cell phone. All soft lines and curves and overlapping limbs. I colored us in with pencils—the brown of Abby’s skin, the pink of my cheeks, the dark red of my hair. I drew like I was in a trance. It felt like I’d pinned my heart to the page.
“You don’t even like the dress,” I say finally.
“Leah, I do like the dress.” She closes her eyes briefly. “And this is something I’d like to do for you. This doesn’t have to be complicated.”
“Are you serious?”
“You know, I’m curious, Leah. What was your plan for paying for a prom dress? Enlighten me.”
I don’t even know what to say. Obviously, I have no clue. I can’t afford a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar dress. I can’t afford a fifty-dollar dress. And maybe I could have found something secondhand, but those places never have bigger than size two. Which is just about big enough for one of my legs.
For one excruciating minute, no one speaks. Even Jenna and her friend next door have gone silent.
“I don’t care about the dress,” I say softly.
Mom rubs her forehead. “Leah.”
“I just want to go home.”
“Fine.”
All the way to the car, we’re silent, but my mind’s tumbling in every direction. This doesn’t have to be complicated. Right. Imagine if it weren’t. Imagine if I were Jenna—omg my arms look fat Jenna. Girls like Jenna step out of dressing rooms, and people gasp and applaud. I’m sure she carries her parents’ credit card—her parents, who are married and forty-five and not dating random dudes with plural names.
“Sweetie, I’m sorry.” Mom pulls into our driveway, setting the car in park. “I really like the dress. I had no idea you loved it so much.”
“I don’t.” It comes out shaky.
Mom pauses. “Okay.”
“I don’t even want to go to prom.”
“Leah.” Mom shakes her head. “You’ve got to stop doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“Burning everything to the ground whenever something goes wrong.”
For a minute, it hangs there. I don’t know what to say. I don’t do that. I don’t think I do that.
“You know what I want for you?” Mom says finally. She smiles, almost wistfully. “I want you to let things be imperfect.”
“Okay.” I frown. “But I do.”
“No you don’t. You know? You have a sucky time dress shopping, and you’re ready to call off prom. You wouldn’t try out for the play because you’re not the best actress in the universe.”
“I’m the worst actress in the universe.”
Mom laughs. “But you’re not! Not at all. You just want to be the best. And you have to let that go. Embrace the suck. Let your guts hang out a little.”
Yeah, that’s a fucking joke. Let your guts hang out. I don’t even get that. Why would anyone want to live like that? Like it isn’t bad enough I’m always one breath away from falling apart. I’m supposed to fall apart under a spotlight?
It’s too much. And I don’t want to embrace the suck. I want things to not suck. And I don’t think that’s too much to ask.
14
I SPEND THURSDAY FLOATING THROUGH classes in a fog. I barely say a word at lunch, and I don’t linger after the bell rings. I don’t look for Simon and Nick on Friday morning. I don’t lurk by the lockers. I just duck into the library, staking claim to a computer. Typing without thinking.
Simon finds me anyway. “Oh, hey! What are you working on?” He scoots a chair next to me.
“The Treaty of Vienna.”
“Amazing,” he says, and I can actually hear him grinning.
“Okay, why are you so cheery?” I turn to face him—and my mouth falls open. “Simon.”
His shirt. It’s crisp and bright purple, totally plain except for three white letters: NYU.
“This isn’t an April Fools’ thing, right? You got in?”
“I got in!”
“Simon!” I punch his arm. “Why didn’t you text me?”
“I wanted to surprise you.”
“Does Bram know?”
He beams, nodding.
“Oh my God, Simon. You guys are going to be in New York together.”
“I know!”
“You’re going to live in New York!”
“That’s so weird, right?” He rolls his chair closer. Then he exhales and laughs all at once, eyes bright behind his glasses.
“I mean, you’re literally going to be right in Manhattan. I can’t even process this.”
“I know.”
“Do you realize that living in New York is like one step away from being famous?” I say.
“Right.”
“I’m serious. You better not forget about me.”
“Um, I’m going to stalk you online a thousand times a day.”
“That seems like a good way to spend your time.”
He laughs. “Whatever. You know we’re going to visit you and Abby at Georgia, right?”
“Right.”
“I still can’t believe you guys are road tripping together. If you guys end up as roommates, I swear to God.”
I pause. “You swear to God what?”
“I don’t know. I swear to God I will smile approvingly.”
“Is that a threat?”
He smiles. “I just really like the idea of you guys being friends.”
Something tugs in my chest. I feel strangely offbeat.
I try to shake off the feeling. “So, are you still going on your college tour, or is that kind of moot now?”
The first period bell rings, and Simon stands, tugging the straps of his backpack. “No, I’m going. My mom wants me to visit the last few schools before I make my choice.” He shrugs. “But whatever. It’ll be fun. Okay, I need to find Abby and switch our phones back.”
“You switched phones?” I fall into step beside him. “Why?”
“She’s sending herself pictures. See?”
He holds up Abby’s phone, with its Rifle floral phone case—and sure enough, there’s a massive text thread of photos. Mostly Simon and Abby, but I’m in a few of them, too. To be honest, I didn’t know some of these pictures existed. Like one of Abby, Bram, and me, half asleep on Mr. Wise’s couch after the AP Lit exam last year. We’re all shoeless, in T-shirts and pajama pants. Basically, exams happened, and everyone promptly stopped giving a shit. I kind of like how I look in the picture, though. My hair’s loose and rumpled, and I’m literally yawning, but all three of us look soft-eyed and sleepy and happy.
“She’s going to make a collage for her future dorm room,” Simon says. “I should do that.” He taps into her pictures.
I fall into step beside him as he swipes through him. “I look so drunk in this one,” he says. And then, a moment later. “Nick needs to learn how to open his eyes in pictures.” I peer at the screen, and my stomach twists softly. It’s just a random couple selfie—not even a new one, because it’s clearly taken at play rehearsal. Classic Nick and Abby picture: Abby smiling sweetly with her head slightly tilted, and Nick looking like he just got punched.
“I’m kind of worried about Nick and Abby,” Simon says after a moment.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, they’re not . . . wow,” he says suddenly, holding up the phone. “Did you draw this?”
I freeze.
“It’s beautiful,” he adds, and my heart thuds in my chest.
Because—okay. Holy shit.
I can’t seem to form words. I just stare at the phone.
Abby still has the picture, a year and a half later. It’s in her album of favorites. I don’t know what that means. Or if it even means anything. My mind’s in a knot.
“When did you draw that?” Simon asks.
I feel my cheeks burn. “Last year.”
Junior year. I’d come home from Morgan’s sleepover, feeling too big for my skin. And no matter what I tried, I couldn’t shake the feeling. So, I pulled out my sketchpad and drew without a plan. Two girls on their stomachs, peering at a cell phone. All soft lines and curves and overlapping limbs. I colored us in with pencils—the brown of Abby’s skin, the pink of my cheeks, the dark red of my hair. I drew like I was in a trance. It felt like I’d pinned my heart to the page.
