Leah on the Offbeat
Page 36
“Seriously, are you okay?” I ask finally.
“What? Yeah.”
“You need to talk to Bram.”
“I know.”
“Like now. Today.”
He nods, slowly, jaw clenched. “This is stupid. I should just turn in my deposit for NYU, right?”
“Simon, I can’t make this decision for you.” I shake my head. Then I grab his hand and tug it. “All right. Come on.”
“You want me to come in?” His brow furrows.
“Yup.”
“Um. Yeah.” Simon nods quickly. “Wow, I don’t think I’ve actually been inside your house in years.”
“I’m aware,” I say, feeling stupidly self-conscious. It’s not a secret that I’m not rich. And Simon’s not going to judge me for having a small house, or clutter, or crappy secondhand IKEA furniture. But I’m just weird about having people over. It’s like I can’t help but be acutely aware of the stains on the carpet and my mismatched bedding. Or even just the fact that my whole room is the size of Simon’s closet.
We walk in through the garage, and he follows me down the hall. “I can’t even remember what your room looks like,” he says.
“It’s really small. Just warning you.”
Then I open the door and step into my room. Simon lingers in the doorway. “This is amazing,” he says softly.
I look at him to see if he’s kidding.
“Did you draw all of these?” He walks toward the wall, peering closely at one of my sketches.
“Some of them. Some are from the internet.”
My walls are covered with art—pencil sketches and carefully inked character portraits and chibis and yaoi. If I fall in love with something on DeviantArt, I print it. Or sometimes Morgan and Anna print them and give them to me. And I guess lately, more and more of them are mine. My Harry and Draco sketches, Haruka and Michiru, my original characters. And the picture I drew of Abby and me at Morgan’s house. I hope to God Simon doesn’t notice that.
“This room is so you,” he says, smiling.
“I guess.”
He flops backward onto my bed. That’s the thing about Simon. He feels totally at home wherever he goes. I stretch out beside him, and we both stare at my ceiling fan.
Then Simon covers his face and sighs.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey.”
“I know you’re worried.”
He sniffs and turns his head to look at me. There’s a tear streaking down his cheek, sliding out from under his glasses. He wipes it away with the heel of his hand. “I just don’t like good-byes.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want to leave him or you or Abby or any of you guys.” His voice catches. “I don’t know anyone in Philly. I don’t know how people do this.”
I feel my throat start to tighten.
“I think I’m even going to miss Taylor.”
“Okay, now you’ve lost me.”
He laughs and sniffs again. “Come on. You know you’ll miss her. How are we going to know if her metabolism is still rocking?”
“Probably from her daily Instagram updates.”
“Okay, that’s true.”
“And that’s a conservative estimate.”
“I know.” He scoots toward me, so close our heads are touching. Then he sighs quietly into my ear, ruffling my hair with his breath. I don’t think I’ve ever loved him more. We just lie there like that, watching the fan move in circles.
I should tell him.
Right now. I don’t think there’s ever been a moment in history that was more perfect for coming out.
But I don’t.
It’s the weirdest thing. I’m lying in a room with my gay best friend, who’s 100 percent likely to be completely fucking cool about this. Literally risk-free.
But it’s like the words won’t come.
26
AND THEN THERE’S THE ISSUE of Nick. Despite his Waffle House meltdown, he’s totally normal on Monday and Tuesday—so normal, it’s almost concerning. But on Wednesday afternoon, he skids straight off the edge.
I’m heading toward the buses when I hear—unmistakably—Nick’s voice over the intercom. “Simon Spier and Leah Burke, please report to the atrium immediately.”
I stop in my tracks, staring at the loudspeaker.
“I repeat: Simon and Leah, report to the atrium immediately.”
I have no clue what he’s playing at, but I head up there anyway. I catch Simon in the stairwell. “What’s this about?” he asks.
I shake my head slowly. “No idea.”
I follow Simon upstairs and into the atrium. It’s teeming with people—laughing, jostling, and streaming out to the parking lot. But Nick isn’t anywhere. I mean, I guess he must be somewhere. To be honest, he’s probably suspended by now, because we definitely aren’t allowed to use the intercom.
“Do you think he’s pranking us?” asks Simon.
“I mean.” I tilt my head. “If he is, I don’t get it.”
But moments later, he bursts out of the front office, looking wild-eyed and disheveled. “Hey, you’re here. Cool, cool.”
Simon peers at his face. “Are you okay?”
“What? Totally!” He nods quickly. “Totally.”
For a moment, no one speaks.
“So, what’s going on?” I ask finally.
Nick’s eyes scan the room. And then he pauses. “Are you guys free right now?”
“I am.” Simon nods.
“Okay, good. Because I need you”—he points at me—“and you”—he points at Simon—“and me to go to my house and eat shitty food and play video games. Just like old times. No Abby, no Bram, no Garrett.”
“Okay, Garrett and I aren’t—”
He cuts me off. “Just us. The original trio.”
“Just us,” Simon echoes. “Okay, let me text Nora. If you can give me a ride, I’ll leave her the car.”
“Excellent,” says Nick, clamping a hand on each of our shoulders. Simon’s eyes flick toward me nervously.
None of us speaks as we drift through the parking lot. The sky is dark and gloomy, with gray clouds hanging low. I swallow a prickle of dread as I slide into the passenger seat. It’s only a short drive to Nick’s house, and Simon fills the space with frantic chatter—about Nora and Cal, about tuxedo rentals. Nick doesn’t say a word. He pulls straight into his garage and takes the spot where his mom usually parks. “They’re both on call all night,” he informs us. “And there’s beer.”
So, it’s that kind of night.
Nick grabs a six-pack and his acoustic guitar and heads down to the basement. I curl into one of the video game chairs, and Simon sprawls out on the couch. But Nick bypasses everything comfortable, opting instead for the floor, where he crosses his legs and starts tuning his guitar. Then he takes a sip of beer and does a few experimental strums, his shoulders finally relaxing.
“Um, Nick?” Simon says after a moment. “Why are we here?”
“You mean evolutionarily or existentially?”
Simon’s brow furrows. “I mean why are we in your basement?”
“Because we’re friends, and that’s what friends do. We hang out in basements.” He strums a chord and takes a long swig of beer. “Also, everyone else suuuuuucks.” He actually sings that last word instead of saying it.
Then he sets the beer down, repositions his guitar, and starts playing a melody so intricate, my eyes can’t keep up with his hands.
Simon slides off the couch and settles in next to Nick on the floor. “Okay, this sounds really great.”
“It sounds like shit,” Nick says, fingers still tearing across the frets. But he grins.
Simon pauses. “Seriously, are you okay?”
“Nope.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Nope.”
“Okay,” Simon says. He looks up at me desperately.
I lean forward in my chair. “Nick, you’re freaking us out.”
“What? Yeah.”
“You need to talk to Bram.”
“I know.”
“Like now. Today.”
He nods, slowly, jaw clenched. “This is stupid. I should just turn in my deposit for NYU, right?”
“Simon, I can’t make this decision for you.” I shake my head. Then I grab his hand and tug it. “All right. Come on.”
“You want me to come in?” His brow furrows.
“Yup.”
“Um. Yeah.” Simon nods quickly. “Wow, I don’t think I’ve actually been inside your house in years.”
“I’m aware,” I say, feeling stupidly self-conscious. It’s not a secret that I’m not rich. And Simon’s not going to judge me for having a small house, or clutter, or crappy secondhand IKEA furniture. But I’m just weird about having people over. It’s like I can’t help but be acutely aware of the stains on the carpet and my mismatched bedding. Or even just the fact that my whole room is the size of Simon’s closet.
We walk in through the garage, and he follows me down the hall. “I can’t even remember what your room looks like,” he says.
“It’s really small. Just warning you.”
Then I open the door and step into my room. Simon lingers in the doorway. “This is amazing,” he says softly.
I look at him to see if he’s kidding.
“Did you draw all of these?” He walks toward the wall, peering closely at one of my sketches.
“Some of them. Some are from the internet.”
My walls are covered with art—pencil sketches and carefully inked character portraits and chibis and yaoi. If I fall in love with something on DeviantArt, I print it. Or sometimes Morgan and Anna print them and give them to me. And I guess lately, more and more of them are mine. My Harry and Draco sketches, Haruka and Michiru, my original characters. And the picture I drew of Abby and me at Morgan’s house. I hope to God Simon doesn’t notice that.
“This room is so you,” he says, smiling.
“I guess.”
He flops backward onto my bed. That’s the thing about Simon. He feels totally at home wherever he goes. I stretch out beside him, and we both stare at my ceiling fan.
Then Simon covers his face and sighs.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey.”
“I know you’re worried.”
He sniffs and turns his head to look at me. There’s a tear streaking down his cheek, sliding out from under his glasses. He wipes it away with the heel of his hand. “I just don’t like good-byes.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want to leave him or you or Abby or any of you guys.” His voice catches. “I don’t know anyone in Philly. I don’t know how people do this.”
I feel my throat start to tighten.
“I think I’m even going to miss Taylor.”
“Okay, now you’ve lost me.”
He laughs and sniffs again. “Come on. You know you’ll miss her. How are we going to know if her metabolism is still rocking?”
“Probably from her daily Instagram updates.”
“Okay, that’s true.”
“And that’s a conservative estimate.”
“I know.” He scoots toward me, so close our heads are touching. Then he sighs quietly into my ear, ruffling my hair with his breath. I don’t think I’ve ever loved him more. We just lie there like that, watching the fan move in circles.
I should tell him.
Right now. I don’t think there’s ever been a moment in history that was more perfect for coming out.
But I don’t.
It’s the weirdest thing. I’m lying in a room with my gay best friend, who’s 100 percent likely to be completely fucking cool about this. Literally risk-free.
But it’s like the words won’t come.
26
AND THEN THERE’S THE ISSUE of Nick. Despite his Waffle House meltdown, he’s totally normal on Monday and Tuesday—so normal, it’s almost concerning. But on Wednesday afternoon, he skids straight off the edge.
I’m heading toward the buses when I hear—unmistakably—Nick’s voice over the intercom. “Simon Spier and Leah Burke, please report to the atrium immediately.”
I stop in my tracks, staring at the loudspeaker.
“I repeat: Simon and Leah, report to the atrium immediately.”
I have no clue what he’s playing at, but I head up there anyway. I catch Simon in the stairwell. “What’s this about?” he asks.
I shake my head slowly. “No idea.”
I follow Simon upstairs and into the atrium. It’s teeming with people—laughing, jostling, and streaming out to the parking lot. But Nick isn’t anywhere. I mean, I guess he must be somewhere. To be honest, he’s probably suspended by now, because we definitely aren’t allowed to use the intercom.
“Do you think he’s pranking us?” asks Simon.
“I mean.” I tilt my head. “If he is, I don’t get it.”
But moments later, he bursts out of the front office, looking wild-eyed and disheveled. “Hey, you’re here. Cool, cool.”
Simon peers at his face. “Are you okay?”
“What? Totally!” He nods quickly. “Totally.”
For a moment, no one speaks.
“So, what’s going on?” I ask finally.
Nick’s eyes scan the room. And then he pauses. “Are you guys free right now?”
“I am.” Simon nods.
“Okay, good. Because I need you”—he points at me—“and you”—he points at Simon—“and me to go to my house and eat shitty food and play video games. Just like old times. No Abby, no Bram, no Garrett.”
“Okay, Garrett and I aren’t—”
He cuts me off. “Just us. The original trio.”
“Just us,” Simon echoes. “Okay, let me text Nora. If you can give me a ride, I’ll leave her the car.”
“Excellent,” says Nick, clamping a hand on each of our shoulders. Simon’s eyes flick toward me nervously.
None of us speaks as we drift through the parking lot. The sky is dark and gloomy, with gray clouds hanging low. I swallow a prickle of dread as I slide into the passenger seat. It’s only a short drive to Nick’s house, and Simon fills the space with frantic chatter—about Nora and Cal, about tuxedo rentals. Nick doesn’t say a word. He pulls straight into his garage and takes the spot where his mom usually parks. “They’re both on call all night,” he informs us. “And there’s beer.”
So, it’s that kind of night.
Nick grabs a six-pack and his acoustic guitar and heads down to the basement. I curl into one of the video game chairs, and Simon sprawls out on the couch. But Nick bypasses everything comfortable, opting instead for the floor, where he crosses his legs and starts tuning his guitar. Then he takes a sip of beer and does a few experimental strums, his shoulders finally relaxing.
“Um, Nick?” Simon says after a moment. “Why are we here?”
“You mean evolutionarily or existentially?”
Simon’s brow furrows. “I mean why are we in your basement?”
“Because we’re friends, and that’s what friends do. We hang out in basements.” He strums a chord and takes a long swig of beer. “Also, everyone else suuuuuucks.” He actually sings that last word instead of saying it.
Then he sets the beer down, repositions his guitar, and starts playing a melody so intricate, my eyes can’t keep up with his hands.
Simon slides off the couch and settles in next to Nick on the floor. “Okay, this sounds really great.”
“It sounds like shit,” Nick says, fingers still tearing across the frets. But he grins.
Simon pauses. “Seriously, are you okay?”
“Nope.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Nope.”
“Okay,” Simon says. He looks up at me desperately.
I lean forward in my chair. “Nick, you’re freaking us out.”
