Leah on the Offbeat
Page 34
“Sure. Unless you like nerdy gay wonderland better.”
He groans. “You’re no help.”
“I mean, how far is Philly from New York?”
“Like an hour and a half by train,” he says immediately. Clearly, he’s researched this. “A little shorter if I take the Acela.”
“That’s not that bad, Simon.”
“I know. But.” He frowns. “It’s still long distance.”
“And you don’t want to be in a long-distance relationship.”
“I mean, I don’t mind it, in theory. I just don’t know if they ever work.”
“Tons of people make them work.”
“Yeah, but look at Nick and Abby.” He gestures vaguely toward the bathroom. “That’s a freaking mess.”
My heart almost stops. People need to warn me if they’re going to mention her out of nowhere like that. Especially if they’re going to talk about her and Nick being a freaking mess.
But Jesus Christ. I need to stop. I stab my waffle with my fork and shove it into my mouth. This is absurd. Literally absurd. As if Abby Suso, real-life Disney princess, is going to run straight into my arms. Even if she did, I couldn’t do that to Nick. Not that she would. I mean, she’s not even really bi.
But she’s questioning things. I make her question things.
“Are you . . . okay?” Simon asks, peering nervously through his glasses.
“What?” I whip my head up. “I’m fine. Why? Are you okay?”
“Okay, you’re acting super weird.”
“No, I’m not.”
He raises his eyebrows. We stare each other down.
“You’re acting weird,” I mutter, looking away finally.
“I know.” He covers his face. “I just need to think about this.”
“I think you should talk to Bram. When are you seeing him?”
“Not until the game tomorrow.”
“The soccer game?”
Simon nods.
“Then talk to him right afterward.”
He sighs. “I don’t know.”
“Simon. You’ll feel better, I swear.”
That’s right, Simon. Be totally open and tell him everything that’s bothering you. Okay? You should definitely take my advice, because I’m just so fucking good at all this sharing and caring stuff myself. Feelings. I rule at them.
“Okay, I’ll do it. But you have to come with me to the game and psych me up for it.”
“You guys are coming to the game?” Nick says, reappearing at the end of the booth. “Sweet.”
“Um.” I glance at Simon. “I guess so.”
“Yes. Good. That’s good.” Simon nods quickly. Then he stuffs a bunch of waffle into his mouth, cheeks puffing out like a hamster.
23
SATURDAY’S GAME IS IN THE soccer field behind the auxiliary gym. I spot Simon as soon as I get there, brooding in the stands.
I scoot up next to him. “How are you feeling?”
“I don’t want to tell him,” he blurts.
Okay, I seriously don’t get couples. I’m sorry, but all this moping over an hour on the Acela? It’s not ideal, I get that, but Simon’s acting like it’s apocalyptical.
He sighs. “It’s just. I’m kind of freaking out. This is literally why Nick and Abby broke up, you know?”
“This is different.”
“But how? How is it different?” He looks at me, almost beseechingly.
“It’s so different.” My thoughts are spinning in all directions. I need to cool my jets and focus. “It’s not even close to the same situation, Simon. Nick’s going to be in Boston.”
“It just sucks,” Simon says, staring straight ahead. I follow his gaze, taking in the freshly mowed fields and soccer goals and boys. So many boys. There are literally hundreds of boys at this school, and even more at the University of Georgia. It would be so easy to fall for one of them.
Easier—and much safer—than falling for Abby Suso.
“Is Nick okay?” I ask after a moment.
“Yeah, I guess,” Simon says. And then he grabs my hand and squeezes it. And it’s weird how perfect it feels, holding hands with Simon. Not a hint of romance. It just feels like home. “Now he’s saying he wants to keep things normal,” Simon says. “Like, he doesn’t want us to change the plans for prom or anything.”
“Oh God. Prom,” I say. It’s in a week. Literally one week from today. “I forgot about that.”
“I know.”
“They’re not . . . still going together?”
Simon shakes his head. “They’re both still going to dinner and the dance, but now they’re going stag.”
“Going stag. Do people still say that?”
He laughs. “I don’t know.”
I turn to watch the field in time to see Nick kick the shit out of the ball, so forcefully I almost wince. His face is bright red, eyes burning with an intensity I’ve never seen before. The coach nods from the sidelines, clapping slowly.
I turn to Simon, eyebrows raised. “Are we sure he’s okay?”
“This is not good,” Simon murmurs. But a minute later, the corners of his lips tug upward. His Bram face. And sure enough, Bram’s on the field, grinning up at Simon as he runs.
“EYE ON THE BALL, GREENFELD,” the coach yells. “AND LAUGHLIN. FOCUS. GODDAMMIT.” I look up to see Garrett waving at me frantically with both arms.
“Hello, Garrett,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. Simon laughs. I have to admit, I like the feeling of being pursued, even if it’s only Garrett. It just feels nice. And maybe nice is kind of refreshing. Abby Suso makes me feel all kinds of things, but nice isn’t one of them.
Stop. Thinking. About. Abby. Jesus Christ.
“This is just so weird.” Simon sighs.
And it is.
I mean, here’s a surprise: I have an actual date to prom, and Abby Suso’s going alone.
I don’t know if I should text her.
I mean, it’s not like we’re fighting. And it doesn’t have to be weird. It was just a kiss. And I’m sure it only happened because she was tipsy. I should just send her something friendly and casual, because we’re casual friends who send casual texts. It’s just that every time I try to type something, my brain shuts down completely. I can’t even type “hello” to this girl without bursting into flames.
I’m pretty sure this is the kind of crush you can die from.
I try to distract myself by stalking my own Tumblr, scrolling through my posts in reverse order. The further back I go, the shittier my drawings get—proportions all wrong, messed-up shading. I guess I should be glad I’ve improved, but I feel weirdly embarrassed about the older work. I wish I had the kind of talent that emerged fully formed. I don’t like people seeing me in progress. It’s like stepping off a stage and finding out your underwear was showing. Not that my metaphorical underwear is particularly well hidden now. I still see flaws in my work, everywhere I look. It’s exhausting and mortifying and almost unbearable.
Except.
Okay.
I have yet another message from an anon, asking if I take commissions. i like your art so much, im so in love with it, it says.
So in love, they’d pay me for it. They’re asking to pay me for it. I think of the drum kit I don’t have. The car we couldn’t afford to fix. I think of my two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar prom dress.
I think of Abby.
But I can’t take commissions, because what if I draw the thing, and it’s a steaming pile of shit? What if they ask for their money back? Or what if I post my commission rates and people just fall over laughing? What if no one ever contacts me? Maybe this anon is actually just trolling me. Maybe it’s like the dudes in teen movies who pretend to ask the nerdy girl to prom.
My mouth goes dry. It’s hard to explain. Maybe I should delete my whole Tumblr account. Except.
I don’t know.
I’m curious.
Which doesn’t mean I’m doing this. It doesn’t mean anything at all.
24
I STEP OFF THE BUS on Monday, and Garrett pops out of the stairwell like a jack-in-the-box. “Burke!”
He groans. “You’re no help.”
“I mean, how far is Philly from New York?”
“Like an hour and a half by train,” he says immediately. Clearly, he’s researched this. “A little shorter if I take the Acela.”
“That’s not that bad, Simon.”
“I know. But.” He frowns. “It’s still long distance.”
“And you don’t want to be in a long-distance relationship.”
“I mean, I don’t mind it, in theory. I just don’t know if they ever work.”
“Tons of people make them work.”
“Yeah, but look at Nick and Abby.” He gestures vaguely toward the bathroom. “That’s a freaking mess.”
My heart almost stops. People need to warn me if they’re going to mention her out of nowhere like that. Especially if they’re going to talk about her and Nick being a freaking mess.
But Jesus Christ. I need to stop. I stab my waffle with my fork and shove it into my mouth. This is absurd. Literally absurd. As if Abby Suso, real-life Disney princess, is going to run straight into my arms. Even if she did, I couldn’t do that to Nick. Not that she would. I mean, she’s not even really bi.
But she’s questioning things. I make her question things.
“Are you . . . okay?” Simon asks, peering nervously through his glasses.
“What?” I whip my head up. “I’m fine. Why? Are you okay?”
“Okay, you’re acting super weird.”
“No, I’m not.”
He raises his eyebrows. We stare each other down.
“You’re acting weird,” I mutter, looking away finally.
“I know.” He covers his face. “I just need to think about this.”
“I think you should talk to Bram. When are you seeing him?”
“Not until the game tomorrow.”
“The soccer game?”
Simon nods.
“Then talk to him right afterward.”
He sighs. “I don’t know.”
“Simon. You’ll feel better, I swear.”
That’s right, Simon. Be totally open and tell him everything that’s bothering you. Okay? You should definitely take my advice, because I’m just so fucking good at all this sharing and caring stuff myself. Feelings. I rule at them.
“Okay, I’ll do it. But you have to come with me to the game and psych me up for it.”
“You guys are coming to the game?” Nick says, reappearing at the end of the booth. “Sweet.”
“Um.” I glance at Simon. “I guess so.”
“Yes. Good. That’s good.” Simon nods quickly. Then he stuffs a bunch of waffle into his mouth, cheeks puffing out like a hamster.
23
SATURDAY’S GAME IS IN THE soccer field behind the auxiliary gym. I spot Simon as soon as I get there, brooding in the stands.
I scoot up next to him. “How are you feeling?”
“I don’t want to tell him,” he blurts.
Okay, I seriously don’t get couples. I’m sorry, but all this moping over an hour on the Acela? It’s not ideal, I get that, but Simon’s acting like it’s apocalyptical.
He sighs. “It’s just. I’m kind of freaking out. This is literally why Nick and Abby broke up, you know?”
“This is different.”
“But how? How is it different?” He looks at me, almost beseechingly.
“It’s so different.” My thoughts are spinning in all directions. I need to cool my jets and focus. “It’s not even close to the same situation, Simon. Nick’s going to be in Boston.”
“It just sucks,” Simon says, staring straight ahead. I follow his gaze, taking in the freshly mowed fields and soccer goals and boys. So many boys. There are literally hundreds of boys at this school, and even more at the University of Georgia. It would be so easy to fall for one of them.
Easier—and much safer—than falling for Abby Suso.
“Is Nick okay?” I ask after a moment.
“Yeah, I guess,” Simon says. And then he grabs my hand and squeezes it. And it’s weird how perfect it feels, holding hands with Simon. Not a hint of romance. It just feels like home. “Now he’s saying he wants to keep things normal,” Simon says. “Like, he doesn’t want us to change the plans for prom or anything.”
“Oh God. Prom,” I say. It’s in a week. Literally one week from today. “I forgot about that.”
“I know.”
“They’re not . . . still going together?”
Simon shakes his head. “They’re both still going to dinner and the dance, but now they’re going stag.”
“Going stag. Do people still say that?”
He laughs. “I don’t know.”
I turn to watch the field in time to see Nick kick the shit out of the ball, so forcefully I almost wince. His face is bright red, eyes burning with an intensity I’ve never seen before. The coach nods from the sidelines, clapping slowly.
I turn to Simon, eyebrows raised. “Are we sure he’s okay?”
“This is not good,” Simon murmurs. But a minute later, the corners of his lips tug upward. His Bram face. And sure enough, Bram’s on the field, grinning up at Simon as he runs.
“EYE ON THE BALL, GREENFELD,” the coach yells. “AND LAUGHLIN. FOCUS. GODDAMMIT.” I look up to see Garrett waving at me frantically with both arms.
“Hello, Garrett,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. Simon laughs. I have to admit, I like the feeling of being pursued, even if it’s only Garrett. It just feels nice. And maybe nice is kind of refreshing. Abby Suso makes me feel all kinds of things, but nice isn’t one of them.
Stop. Thinking. About. Abby. Jesus Christ.
“This is just so weird.” Simon sighs.
And it is.
I mean, here’s a surprise: I have an actual date to prom, and Abby Suso’s going alone.
I don’t know if I should text her.
I mean, it’s not like we’re fighting. And it doesn’t have to be weird. It was just a kiss. And I’m sure it only happened because she was tipsy. I should just send her something friendly and casual, because we’re casual friends who send casual texts. It’s just that every time I try to type something, my brain shuts down completely. I can’t even type “hello” to this girl without bursting into flames.
I’m pretty sure this is the kind of crush you can die from.
I try to distract myself by stalking my own Tumblr, scrolling through my posts in reverse order. The further back I go, the shittier my drawings get—proportions all wrong, messed-up shading. I guess I should be glad I’ve improved, but I feel weirdly embarrassed about the older work. I wish I had the kind of talent that emerged fully formed. I don’t like people seeing me in progress. It’s like stepping off a stage and finding out your underwear was showing. Not that my metaphorical underwear is particularly well hidden now. I still see flaws in my work, everywhere I look. It’s exhausting and mortifying and almost unbearable.
Except.
Okay.
I have yet another message from an anon, asking if I take commissions. i like your art so much, im so in love with it, it says.
So in love, they’d pay me for it. They’re asking to pay me for it. I think of the drum kit I don’t have. The car we couldn’t afford to fix. I think of my two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar prom dress.
I think of Abby.
But I can’t take commissions, because what if I draw the thing, and it’s a steaming pile of shit? What if they ask for their money back? Or what if I post my commission rates and people just fall over laughing? What if no one ever contacts me? Maybe this anon is actually just trolling me. Maybe it’s like the dudes in teen movies who pretend to ask the nerdy girl to prom.
My mouth goes dry. It’s hard to explain. Maybe I should delete my whole Tumblr account. Except.
I don’t know.
I’m curious.
Which doesn’t mean I’m doing this. It doesn’t mean anything at all.
24
I STEP OFF THE BUS on Monday, and Garrett pops out of the stairwell like a jack-in-the-box. “Burke!”
