Leah on the Offbeat
Page 28
“That’s true.”
And okay. I’m being ridiculous. Abby and I have shared floor space this small dozens of times, at Simon’s house and Nick’s house and every group sleepover. Even the car ride here forced us closer together. We could probably have three feet of empty space between us if we wanted to.
And anyway, it’s just Abby.
But there’s something about it being a bed.
She watches my face, brow wrinkling. “Or I could take the couch.”
“No way. Caitlin’s your friend.”
“Well, she’s my cousin’s girlfriend’s friend’s sister.”
“Right.” I smile slightly. “Whatever. It’s fine.”
Of course it’s fine.
19
I WAKE UP TO THE patter of rain on Caitlin’s balcony. Abby’s already awake. She’s sitting cross-legged against the headboard, reading Harry Potter.
A wave of panic hits me. It’s hard to explain, but the thought of Abby watching me sleep makes me want to throw up. Not that she was watching me. I mean, she’s pretty absorbed in her book. But right now, my brain is dead set on reminding me how gross I look when I’m sleeping. My mouth was probably hanging open. I was probably snoring.
“Oh, you’re up!” Abby says, folding down the corner of the page.
I gape at her. “Did you just dog-ear Harry Potter?”
“Oh boy.” The edges of her lips curve up. “Should have known you were one of those people.”
“One of those people? As in, I’m not a monster?” I shake my head slowly. Like, you look at Abby, and she’s the picture of innocence: spiral curls, lavender pajama shorts. But no.
“Okay, this may blow your mind,” I say, “but have you ever heard of—”
“Bookmarks. Yes. I know.” She rolls her eyes. “Nick used to give me so much shit. I honestly think he bought me a hundred bookmarks while we were dating.”
“So where are these hundred bookmarks now?”
“Well, obviously, I had to get rid of them.”
“Because . . .”
“Because we broke up?” She shrugs. “I don’t know. Nick stuff makes me sad. Is that weird?”
“Why would that be weird?”
She smiles wistfully. “I broke up with him. I’m not allowed to be sad.”
“You can feel however you want.”
“No, I know. But it’s complicated.”
And suddenly, she looks like she’s going to burst into tears. Maybe Simon was right. Maybe Abby and Nick were never meant to break up.
“So, it’s raining,” Abby says.
“Yeah, I hear it.”
“Do you think they’ll cancel the tour?”
“I don’t know.”
“I mean, probably not, right? And maybe it will clear up by this afternoon.” She sighs, glancing at her phone. “Anyway, the boys are leaving Boston. I just heard from Simon. Apparently Nick just found out he got a scholarship to Tufts, and he really likes it there, so.”
“Where are they going next?”
“Wesleyan—they’re staying with Alice. And then tomorrow’s NYU.”
“That will be fun for Simon.”
“Yeah.” She stretches. “He’s so funny. He’s, like, so adamant that he doesn’t mind doing long distance with Bram, and it’s just a coincidence that he chose New York.”
“Yeah,” I say, and Abby smiles faintly.
I feel myself starting to calm down, heartbeat dialing back to normal. We make our way from the bed to the couch, and by noon, we’re dressed and jacked up on Froot Loops. The rain has slowed to a drizzle, so I guess it could be worse. Of course, Abby brought wellies—bright green with polka dots.
“Did you know it was going to rain?”
“No. I just like them with this outfit. Is that weird?”
“It’s pretty weird.”
She pokes me in the arm.
But she doesn’t look weird. She looks perfectly collegiate. I’ve always been so jealous of the way Abby layers clothes. She makes it look intentional. Case in point: today’s skinny jeans and a navy plaid shirt, under a fitted gray sweater, rolled up at the elbows. And the wellies. When I try to layer, I just look like I’m hiding something.
I tuck my hair behind my ears. “Should we head to the admissions office?”
“Yes!” She pulls an umbrella out of her suitcase. Of course she brought an umbrella.
It’s a quick drive to get there, and we sign in at a desk inside the admissions building. Then they direct us to an auditorium down the hall. We’re a few minutes early, but the seats are already filling up.
Literally everyone is here with at least one of their parents. Everyone except Abby and me.
“We should make up fake identities,” Abby whispers, settling in next to me in the back row.
“Why?”
“Because why not? We’re totally anonymous right now.”
“You do realize that these people are going to be our classmates in five months, right?”
She stares straight ahead, smiling. “So?”
“So, you’re ridiculous.”
She ignores me. “From now on, you have to call me Bubo Yass.”
I laugh. “What?”
She gives me this smug little grin. “It’s an anagram of my name.”
“That’s very Voldemorty of you.”
“Oh, I just read that part like a week ago! All right. And your new name is Hue Barkle.”
I look at her, stunned. “How did you do that so quickly?”
“I don’t know.”
“SAT Abby rides again.” I shake my head. “Thank God you dog-ear pages.”
“What?”
“Otherwise, you’d be too perfect. It’s gross.”
She scoffs. “Excuse me?”
“I’m just saying.” I count it off on my fingers. “Cheerleading, dance, drama club, yearbook, student council. Perfect SAT scores—”
“Perfect critical reading.”
“Oh, okay, so you bombed math and writing.”
“Well, no.”
I grin. “Like I said. Perfect.”
“Well, I have to be.” Abby shrugs.
“Why?”
“Why do you think? Because that’s my life. Because black girls have to work twice as hard. And even when we do—I mean, you heard what Morgan said.”
“Ugh. I’m sorry.” I rub my forehead. “Morgan’s just—”
“But it’s not just Morgan. Okay? What she said? That’s not like a fringe point of view. I get that all. The. Time.”
“That sucks.”
“Yeah, it does.” She tilts her head toward me. “I don’t know. It just feels like I can’t win sometimes.”
I open my mouth to reply, but I have no clue what to say. For a minute, Abby and I just look at each other. I can’t read her expression at all.
Finally, she smiles, almost wistfully. “It is what it is.”
“I guess.”
“Just don’t call me perfect again. Deal?” She wrinkles her nose at me.
“Deal.”
A man around my mom’s age steps up to give a welcome speech. Then he introduces the tour guides—three girls and a guy, all UGA seniors. They split us into two groups, and we trail behind them into the parking lot, where there are actual buses waiting to be boarded.
“I kind of wish this was a double-decker bus tour.”
“Or one of those duck tours.”
I look at her. “What the fuck is a duck tour?”
“Say that ten times fast,” says Abby.
“No way.” We settle into a seat.
“Okay, so duck tours are those boats that go on land and water.” Something about my expression makes her giggle. “No, seriously, Google it. This is a legit thing in DC.”
I start to respond, but then I realize one of the student tour guides—Fatima—is saying something important right now. “You’ll see it just to your left,” she says, “and it is part of the meal plan.”
And okay. I’m being ridiculous. Abby and I have shared floor space this small dozens of times, at Simon’s house and Nick’s house and every group sleepover. Even the car ride here forced us closer together. We could probably have three feet of empty space between us if we wanted to.
And anyway, it’s just Abby.
But there’s something about it being a bed.
She watches my face, brow wrinkling. “Or I could take the couch.”
“No way. Caitlin’s your friend.”
“Well, she’s my cousin’s girlfriend’s friend’s sister.”
“Right.” I smile slightly. “Whatever. It’s fine.”
Of course it’s fine.
19
I WAKE UP TO THE patter of rain on Caitlin’s balcony. Abby’s already awake. She’s sitting cross-legged against the headboard, reading Harry Potter.
A wave of panic hits me. It’s hard to explain, but the thought of Abby watching me sleep makes me want to throw up. Not that she was watching me. I mean, she’s pretty absorbed in her book. But right now, my brain is dead set on reminding me how gross I look when I’m sleeping. My mouth was probably hanging open. I was probably snoring.
“Oh, you’re up!” Abby says, folding down the corner of the page.
I gape at her. “Did you just dog-ear Harry Potter?”
“Oh boy.” The edges of her lips curve up. “Should have known you were one of those people.”
“One of those people? As in, I’m not a monster?” I shake my head slowly. Like, you look at Abby, and she’s the picture of innocence: spiral curls, lavender pajama shorts. But no.
“Okay, this may blow your mind,” I say, “but have you ever heard of—”
“Bookmarks. Yes. I know.” She rolls her eyes. “Nick used to give me so much shit. I honestly think he bought me a hundred bookmarks while we were dating.”
“So where are these hundred bookmarks now?”
“Well, obviously, I had to get rid of them.”
“Because . . .”
“Because we broke up?” She shrugs. “I don’t know. Nick stuff makes me sad. Is that weird?”
“Why would that be weird?”
She smiles wistfully. “I broke up with him. I’m not allowed to be sad.”
“You can feel however you want.”
“No, I know. But it’s complicated.”
And suddenly, she looks like she’s going to burst into tears. Maybe Simon was right. Maybe Abby and Nick were never meant to break up.
“So, it’s raining,” Abby says.
“Yeah, I hear it.”
“Do you think they’ll cancel the tour?”
“I don’t know.”
“I mean, probably not, right? And maybe it will clear up by this afternoon.” She sighs, glancing at her phone. “Anyway, the boys are leaving Boston. I just heard from Simon. Apparently Nick just found out he got a scholarship to Tufts, and he really likes it there, so.”
“Where are they going next?”
“Wesleyan—they’re staying with Alice. And then tomorrow’s NYU.”
“That will be fun for Simon.”
“Yeah.” She stretches. “He’s so funny. He’s, like, so adamant that he doesn’t mind doing long distance with Bram, and it’s just a coincidence that he chose New York.”
“Yeah,” I say, and Abby smiles faintly.
I feel myself starting to calm down, heartbeat dialing back to normal. We make our way from the bed to the couch, and by noon, we’re dressed and jacked up on Froot Loops. The rain has slowed to a drizzle, so I guess it could be worse. Of course, Abby brought wellies—bright green with polka dots.
“Did you know it was going to rain?”
“No. I just like them with this outfit. Is that weird?”
“It’s pretty weird.”
She pokes me in the arm.
But she doesn’t look weird. She looks perfectly collegiate. I’ve always been so jealous of the way Abby layers clothes. She makes it look intentional. Case in point: today’s skinny jeans and a navy plaid shirt, under a fitted gray sweater, rolled up at the elbows. And the wellies. When I try to layer, I just look like I’m hiding something.
I tuck my hair behind my ears. “Should we head to the admissions office?”
“Yes!” She pulls an umbrella out of her suitcase. Of course she brought an umbrella.
It’s a quick drive to get there, and we sign in at a desk inside the admissions building. Then they direct us to an auditorium down the hall. We’re a few minutes early, but the seats are already filling up.
Literally everyone is here with at least one of their parents. Everyone except Abby and me.
“We should make up fake identities,” Abby whispers, settling in next to me in the back row.
“Why?”
“Because why not? We’re totally anonymous right now.”
“You do realize that these people are going to be our classmates in five months, right?”
She stares straight ahead, smiling. “So?”
“So, you’re ridiculous.”
She ignores me. “From now on, you have to call me Bubo Yass.”
I laugh. “What?”
She gives me this smug little grin. “It’s an anagram of my name.”
“That’s very Voldemorty of you.”
“Oh, I just read that part like a week ago! All right. And your new name is Hue Barkle.”
I look at her, stunned. “How did you do that so quickly?”
“I don’t know.”
“SAT Abby rides again.” I shake my head. “Thank God you dog-ear pages.”
“What?”
“Otherwise, you’d be too perfect. It’s gross.”
She scoffs. “Excuse me?”
“I’m just saying.” I count it off on my fingers. “Cheerleading, dance, drama club, yearbook, student council. Perfect SAT scores—”
“Perfect critical reading.”
“Oh, okay, so you bombed math and writing.”
“Well, no.”
I grin. “Like I said. Perfect.”
“Well, I have to be.” Abby shrugs.
“Why?”
“Why do you think? Because that’s my life. Because black girls have to work twice as hard. And even when we do—I mean, you heard what Morgan said.”
“Ugh. I’m sorry.” I rub my forehead. “Morgan’s just—”
“But it’s not just Morgan. Okay? What she said? That’s not like a fringe point of view. I get that all. The. Time.”
“That sucks.”
“Yeah, it does.” She tilts her head toward me. “I don’t know. It just feels like I can’t win sometimes.”
I open my mouth to reply, but I have no clue what to say. For a minute, Abby and I just look at each other. I can’t read her expression at all.
Finally, she smiles, almost wistfully. “It is what it is.”
“I guess.”
“Just don’t call me perfect again. Deal?” She wrinkles her nose at me.
“Deal.”
A man around my mom’s age steps up to give a welcome speech. Then he introduces the tour guides—three girls and a guy, all UGA seniors. They split us into two groups, and we trail behind them into the parking lot, where there are actual buses waiting to be boarded.
“I kind of wish this was a double-decker bus tour.”
“Or one of those duck tours.”
I look at her. “What the fuck is a duck tour?”
“Say that ten times fast,” says Abby.
“No way.” We settle into a seat.
“Okay, so duck tours are those boats that go on land and water.” Something about my expression makes her giggle. “No, seriously, Google it. This is a legit thing in DC.”
I start to respond, but then I realize one of the student tour guides—Fatima—is saying something important right now. “You’ll see it just to your left,” she says, “and it is part of the meal plan.”
