Leah on the Offbeat
Page 31
“Or because they just broke up with their boyfriends.”
“Or that.” Abby winces. “But I thought you were straight. I swear to God.”
“So you kissed me? That makes no sense.”
“I mean, I thought we were two straight girls experimenting.”
My heart twists. “Well, we’re not.”
“I know.” She sniffs. “I’m so sorry. I just. I don’t want to be this straight girl using you. But then it’s like, maybe I’m not actually straight. I don’t know. I’ve had crushes before, but I’ve never . . .”
“Crushes on girls?”
Abby shrugs.
“So what, now you think you’re bi?”
“You make me think about it.”
My heart skids to a stop.
Abby covers her face with both hands. “I don’t know. It’s just.” She takes a deep breath. “You want to hear about my crushes? You want to know why I kept in touch with Caitlin?”
My heart sinks. “Not really.”
“Leah, it’s not—God. She’s straight, okay? I had a boyfriend, and she has a boyfriend, and she’s straight, and I’m fucking this up. I’m just.” She exhales. “I don’t like Caitlin, okay? I barely know her.”
“Whatever. She’s pretty.”
“So are you,” Abby whispers. I can’t help but sneak a glance at her. She’s hugging her knees, eyelashes thick with tears. “And I want to be friends. Or something. I don’t know. I just hate this.”
She swipes her fingers across her eyes, and my brain just unravels. I can’t deal with this girl. I can’t.
She makes me want to shove my hand into my chest and rip my own heart out.
Abby spends half the night trying to talk me out of sleeping on the couch. “I already feel like a jerk,” she says. “Seriously, take the bed.”
“Oh my God.” I drag a pillow and blanket out to the living room. “It’s fine, okay? Just stop.”
“I’m going to sleep in the chair.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s your choice.”
And I guess we’re both that stubborn, because the bed stays empty all night. I wake up to find Abby in Caitlin’s IKEA chair, head tilted slightly sideways, like she’s sleeping on a plane. For a moment, I just watch her. Maybe that makes me a creepy little vampire, but I can’t help it.
She’s hugging a pillow, her hands clasped against it, and it rises and falls with her chest. Her lips are softly parted. I have this sudden mental image of her as a kid, which gives me this tug in my gut that I can’t quite explain. It’s not attraction, because obviously I’m not attracted to kids. It’s more like wistfulness. Just this weird little wish that I could have known her then.
She wakes up pretty soon after that, and we pack our stuff in silence. I can barely breathe, I feel so tense and awkward. I have this feeling that my skin would crackle if you touched it. I don’t know how we’ll survive the trip home.
Caitlin comes over around ten to get her key and say good-bye, and when I look at her, all I can think about is what Abby said last night. You want to know why I kept in touch with Caitlin?
But I can’t be jealous of Caitlin. I’m not that big of an asshole. This girl gave me an apartment and a parking pass and possibly a new band.
“I’m so excited we’ll get to hang out next year,” she says, hugging us both.
My stomach flips a little. It still catches me off guard that this isn’t some random anomaly of a weekend. This is a preview of real life. These places, these people, this strange shot of freedom.
We arrive at Abby’s car, and Caitlin hugs us each again. “Stay in touch, okay?”
She helps us load our bags and leaves, and I’m alone with Abby all over again. I hover nervously near the trunk. “Do you want me to drive?”
“Oh, don’t worry about it.” But then she hesitates. “Unless you want to, I mean.”
“I don’t care.”
She looks at me.
“Abby, I really don’t care.”
She nods slowly. “Okay.” She smiles slightly. “I’ll drive. You relax.”
I settle into the passenger seat and cue up my playlist while Abby merges onto the highway. Definitely the moody playlist this time: Nick Drake and Driftwood Scarecrow and Sufjan Stevens. For almost twenty minutes, neither of us says a single word. Abby’s clearly in agony. She keeps opening and closing her mouth, eyes flicking toward me. I don’t think Abby Suso is capable of silence.
Sure enough, she breaks it before we’re even out of Watkinsville. “So, do you think you’ll try out for the band?”
“Probably not.”
“Really?” Her brow furrows. “Why not?”
“Because I’m a mediocre drummer.”
“Are you serious?”
I shrug. “I don’t even own a drum kit.”
“So you’ll get one.”
“I can’t afford one.”
Abby squeezes the steering wheel. “How much are they?”
“I don’t know. A couple hundred dollars.”
“Okay, so maybe you could get a job?” Immediately, she winces. “Ugh, that came out sounding really condescending. I don’t mean it like that.”
I shake my head. “It’s fine. But yeah, I don’t have a car, so . . .”
“But next year. We’ll be so close to downtown Athens, or maybe there will be stuff on campus. I’m going to try to work next year.”
“Maybe.” I turn toward the window.
“Or,” she says, and there’s this shift in her voice. “Maybe you could make money with your drawings?”
“Mmm. I don’t think so.”
“I’m serious. Have you ever thought about putting some of them on the internet? Just to see what happens?”
“Abby, I’m on the internet.”
“You have an art blog?”
“I’ll text you the link if you want.”
“I want.” She grins. “Leah, this is perfect.”
“Well, it’s all fandom stuff. I don’t make money off of it.”
She pauses for a moment. “But what about taking commissions?”
It’s funny—I’ve thought about it. Sometimes I even get private messages asking about it. But I’ve never taken the idea all that seriously. It’s just hard to imagine someone could look at my shitty drawings and decide to give me real money.
“Or”—Abby glances at me—“you could set up an online store. Maybe you could upload some designs, and then people could order prints and phone cases and stuff.”
“Mmhmm.”
“I actually think you could make decent money, you know? And then you could spend it on a drum kit. It would be perfect.”
“I’m not sure why you care.”
Her face falls. “Because I do.”
God. I’m such an asshole. I know I am. Abby’s literally just trying to help. And her ideas aren’t even that terrible. I mean, how cool would it be to make money from my art? To actually be able to buy shit for once. Maybe I could even help my mom out after I graduate. It’s not like I’m opposed to what Abby is saying. I just feel like being bitchy to her.
Fucked up, I know. But that’s where we are.
21
WHEN I GET HOME, THERE’S a Nordstrom bag on my bed. My yellow dress. I know before I even look inside. My stomach twists as soon as I see it.
I FaceTime Mom at work. “What the hell is this?”
“Wow. That’s not the reaction I was expecting.”
“We can’t afford this.” My cheeks feel warm. “I’m returning it.”
“Leah.”
“We’re not spending two hundred and fifty dollars on a—”
She cuts me off. “Okay, first of all, it wasn’t two hundred and fifty dollars. It was on sale.”
“I don’t believe you.”
She flips her palms up. “Well, it’s true. It was ten percent off, and then I got another fifteen percent for joining their email list.”
“Or that.” Abby winces. “But I thought you were straight. I swear to God.”
“So you kissed me? That makes no sense.”
“I mean, I thought we were two straight girls experimenting.”
My heart twists. “Well, we’re not.”
“I know.” She sniffs. “I’m so sorry. I just. I don’t want to be this straight girl using you. But then it’s like, maybe I’m not actually straight. I don’t know. I’ve had crushes before, but I’ve never . . .”
“Crushes on girls?”
Abby shrugs.
“So what, now you think you’re bi?”
“You make me think about it.”
My heart skids to a stop.
Abby covers her face with both hands. “I don’t know. It’s just.” She takes a deep breath. “You want to hear about my crushes? You want to know why I kept in touch with Caitlin?”
My heart sinks. “Not really.”
“Leah, it’s not—God. She’s straight, okay? I had a boyfriend, and she has a boyfriend, and she’s straight, and I’m fucking this up. I’m just.” She exhales. “I don’t like Caitlin, okay? I barely know her.”
“Whatever. She’s pretty.”
“So are you,” Abby whispers. I can’t help but sneak a glance at her. She’s hugging her knees, eyelashes thick with tears. “And I want to be friends. Or something. I don’t know. I just hate this.”
She swipes her fingers across her eyes, and my brain just unravels. I can’t deal with this girl. I can’t.
She makes me want to shove my hand into my chest and rip my own heart out.
Abby spends half the night trying to talk me out of sleeping on the couch. “I already feel like a jerk,” she says. “Seriously, take the bed.”
“Oh my God.” I drag a pillow and blanket out to the living room. “It’s fine, okay? Just stop.”
“I’m going to sleep in the chair.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s your choice.”
And I guess we’re both that stubborn, because the bed stays empty all night. I wake up to find Abby in Caitlin’s IKEA chair, head tilted slightly sideways, like she’s sleeping on a plane. For a moment, I just watch her. Maybe that makes me a creepy little vampire, but I can’t help it.
She’s hugging a pillow, her hands clasped against it, and it rises and falls with her chest. Her lips are softly parted. I have this sudden mental image of her as a kid, which gives me this tug in my gut that I can’t quite explain. It’s not attraction, because obviously I’m not attracted to kids. It’s more like wistfulness. Just this weird little wish that I could have known her then.
She wakes up pretty soon after that, and we pack our stuff in silence. I can barely breathe, I feel so tense and awkward. I have this feeling that my skin would crackle if you touched it. I don’t know how we’ll survive the trip home.
Caitlin comes over around ten to get her key and say good-bye, and when I look at her, all I can think about is what Abby said last night. You want to know why I kept in touch with Caitlin?
But I can’t be jealous of Caitlin. I’m not that big of an asshole. This girl gave me an apartment and a parking pass and possibly a new band.
“I’m so excited we’ll get to hang out next year,” she says, hugging us both.
My stomach flips a little. It still catches me off guard that this isn’t some random anomaly of a weekend. This is a preview of real life. These places, these people, this strange shot of freedom.
We arrive at Abby’s car, and Caitlin hugs us each again. “Stay in touch, okay?”
She helps us load our bags and leaves, and I’m alone with Abby all over again. I hover nervously near the trunk. “Do you want me to drive?”
“Oh, don’t worry about it.” But then she hesitates. “Unless you want to, I mean.”
“I don’t care.”
She looks at me.
“Abby, I really don’t care.”
She nods slowly. “Okay.” She smiles slightly. “I’ll drive. You relax.”
I settle into the passenger seat and cue up my playlist while Abby merges onto the highway. Definitely the moody playlist this time: Nick Drake and Driftwood Scarecrow and Sufjan Stevens. For almost twenty minutes, neither of us says a single word. Abby’s clearly in agony. She keeps opening and closing her mouth, eyes flicking toward me. I don’t think Abby Suso is capable of silence.
Sure enough, she breaks it before we’re even out of Watkinsville. “So, do you think you’ll try out for the band?”
“Probably not.”
“Really?” Her brow furrows. “Why not?”
“Because I’m a mediocre drummer.”
“Are you serious?”
I shrug. “I don’t even own a drum kit.”
“So you’ll get one.”
“I can’t afford one.”
Abby squeezes the steering wheel. “How much are they?”
“I don’t know. A couple hundred dollars.”
“Okay, so maybe you could get a job?” Immediately, she winces. “Ugh, that came out sounding really condescending. I don’t mean it like that.”
I shake my head. “It’s fine. But yeah, I don’t have a car, so . . .”
“But next year. We’ll be so close to downtown Athens, or maybe there will be stuff on campus. I’m going to try to work next year.”
“Maybe.” I turn toward the window.
“Or,” she says, and there’s this shift in her voice. “Maybe you could make money with your drawings?”
“Mmm. I don’t think so.”
“I’m serious. Have you ever thought about putting some of them on the internet? Just to see what happens?”
“Abby, I’m on the internet.”
“You have an art blog?”
“I’ll text you the link if you want.”
“I want.” She grins. “Leah, this is perfect.”
“Well, it’s all fandom stuff. I don’t make money off of it.”
She pauses for a moment. “But what about taking commissions?”
It’s funny—I’ve thought about it. Sometimes I even get private messages asking about it. But I’ve never taken the idea all that seriously. It’s just hard to imagine someone could look at my shitty drawings and decide to give me real money.
“Or”—Abby glances at me—“you could set up an online store. Maybe you could upload some designs, and then people could order prints and phone cases and stuff.”
“Mmhmm.”
“I actually think you could make decent money, you know? And then you could spend it on a drum kit. It would be perfect.”
“I’m not sure why you care.”
Her face falls. “Because I do.”
God. I’m such an asshole. I know I am. Abby’s literally just trying to help. And her ideas aren’t even that terrible. I mean, how cool would it be to make money from my art? To actually be able to buy shit for once. Maybe I could even help my mom out after I graduate. It’s not like I’m opposed to what Abby is saying. I just feel like being bitchy to her.
Fucked up, I know. But that’s where we are.
21
WHEN I GET HOME, THERE’S a Nordstrom bag on my bed. My yellow dress. I know before I even look inside. My stomach twists as soon as I see it.
I FaceTime Mom at work. “What the hell is this?”
“Wow. That’s not the reaction I was expecting.”
“We can’t afford this.” My cheeks feel warm. “I’m returning it.”
“Leah.”
“We’re not spending two hundred and fifty dollars on a—”
She cuts me off. “Okay, first of all, it wasn’t two hundred and fifty dollars. It was on sale.”
“I don’t believe you.”
She flips her palms up. “Well, it’s true. It was ten percent off, and then I got another fifteen percent for joining their email list.”
