Leah on the Offbeat
Page 46
“Yup.”
“Wow.”
We exchange grins.
“Taylor, don’t ever change,” I say.
Then Garrett appears at my side. “There you are! I’ve been looking for you, Burke.”
Right. My date.
“Want to dance? I’m ready to dance.”
“Right now?”
“Yes, right now.” He takes my hand. “Come on, I love this song.”
“Um. Really?” The deejay’s playing some wordless techno song that sounds exactly like robots having sex.
“I mean, the lyrics are genius.”
I peek at his face, and all at once, I realize: he’s nervous. I don’t know if that’s really clicked for me until now. But he’s smiling too widely and scratching the back of his neck, and a part of me just wants to hug the poor kid. Or hand him a beer. He just needs to relax.
I let him take my hand and tug me to the dance floor, right up front, near the emcee. “YO YO YO. ARE THERE ANY SENIORS IN THA HOUUUUUUUUUUSE?” Suddenly, there’s a microphone in my face.
“Yes,” I say flatly.
“Say it louder for my peeps in the back! ONE MORE TIME. ARE THERE ANY SENIORS IN THE HOUSE?!”
“Yes, we’ve established that there are seniors in the house,” I say into the mic. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Abby giggling.
“Come on. We’re dancing.” Garrett tugs me closer, his hands finding my waist.
“Are we really slow dancing to this random techno song?”
“Yes.”
I shake my head and roll my eyes a little, but my hands settle onto his shoulders. And then we sway. There’s barely anyone dancing—people are mostly just hovering around the dance floor—and it’s hard to shake the feeling that everyone’s watching me. I think self-consciousness is in my bones.
But then the song changes to Nicki Minaj, which seems to flip the switch. People storm the dance floor. I disentangle from Garrett and end up pressed up between Simon and Bram. And—okay—other than the musicals, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Simon dance. But he’s pure Muppet. He’s basically bobbing up and down and shuffling his feet—and as stiff as he is, Bram’s even worse. I grin up at both of them, and Simon takes my hands and twirls me. I feel almost breathless.
I guess all the teen movies were right: prom is slightly, slightly magical. There’s just something about being crammed onto a dance floor with all your friends, surrounded by twinkle lights and dressed up like movie stars. Simon grins down at me and bumps his hip against mine. Then he grabs Abby’s hands and they spin together in circles. Bram and Garrett are attempting some kind of shoulder swerve, and I’m pretty sure Martin Addison’s reeling in the Nutcracker like a fish.
“ARE THERE ANY SEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEENIORS IN THE HOWOWOWOWOWSE?”
“YES, WE’RE SENIORS!” Abby yells. Then she catches me looking and shoots me a bashful grin.
The song changes again, the beat thumping softly, and everyone crowds in a little closer. Simon grabs my hand and lifts it, and suddenly, I’m stretching both arms skyward, smiling with my eyes closed. And it’s exactly the feeling I get when I’m drumming. I’m caught up in the music—just totally lost to it. I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt so weightless.
Until it smacks me like a cannonball: all of this is ending.
Holy shit. We’re graduating. We have—what—five weeks of normalcy, and then the whole world resets. Intellectually, I’ve always known things would be different after graduation. That’s just life.
But I guess it’s finally hitting me—the magnitude of this change. I don’t think I’ve looked it in the eye until this moment.
“I miss you,” I say to Simon.
“WHAT?”
“I MISS YOU!”
I mean. Fuck everything. I already miss them. I miss Simon and Bram and Nick and Garrett and Nora and Anna and even Morgan. It already hurts.
“GOD, I MISS YOU, TOO,” Simon yells, smiling—and just when I think he doesn’t get it at all, he flings his arms around me tightly and leans close to my ear. “You know I’m going to lose my mind without you, right?”
“Me too,” I say softly, leaning into his chest.
33
BUT HERE’S THE WEIRD THING: I’ve barely seen Nick all night. And normally, I wouldn’t think twice about it, but this isn’t regular Nick—this is Sad Drunk Nick. So, I have to assume he’s either vomiting in the butterfly house or passed out next to the vulture enclosure.
Or he’s fine. He’s probably fine. Even though he’s not replying to any of my texts. Maybe he’s fine, and he just hates me. In his position, I’d hate me. Maybe Abby said something to him. Or maybe my stupid Abby crush is written plainly all over my face.
I try to shake the thought from my mind, but I can’t help peering around the edges of the space. For the record, finding a particular boy in a dimly lit, crowded pavilion is pretty near fucking impossible. The kid is wearing a black tuxedo in a sea of black tuxedos. For a moment, Martin Addison’s wardrobe choices make a twisted kind of sense.
Except then Nick whirls in out of nowhere, flushed and beaming. “Hey!” I start to say—but he cuts me off with a quick, tight hug and a wet smacking kiss on the cheek.
“Um. Are you—”
He pokes me in the nose. “Leah Burke, you’re about to have your mind blown.”
Okay, so now I’m slightly terrified.
Nick crosses the dance floor with actual swagger. This is something I’ve never before witnessed in my years of friendship with Nick Eisner. He reaches the deejay table and leans forward to say something, and then the deejay nods, and they bump fists.
“Are you watching this?” Simon asks, leaning in close.
“You mean Nick?”
Simon nods. “What do you think he’s scheming?”
“No idea.” But as soon as I say it, I catch a glimpse of Abby, her blue skirt flaring as she spins around with Nora. “Unless . . .”
Simon follows my gaze. “Oh God. Do you think he’s planning some big gesture to win her back?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.” I press my lips together. “Or it could be a revenge thing.”
“Like Nick taking revenge on Abby?” Simon laughs incredulously.
“Maybe something to embarrass her.”
Simon shakes his head. “Nick wouldn’t do that.”
“I don’t know. He’s acting really weird.”
“Yeah, but this is Nick,” Simon insists, though I catch a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. “He wouldn’t.”
For a moment, we just look at each other.
“I think we should talk to him,” I say finally.
“Yeah. Okay.” Simon nods. “Let’s just . . . see what he’s thinking.”
Simon grabs my hand, and we weave through the crowd on the dance floor. Nick is in a crowd of soccer guys at the very edge of the pavilion, his arms flung around Garrett’s and Bram’s shoulders. Which is reassuring, I think. If Bram’s involved—even if Garrett’s involved—there’s no way Nick is planning anything cruel. I mean, unless Bram and Garrett don’t know about the plan.
God, how do I even word this? Hey, Nick. I think you’re amazing and I totally adore you, and I just wanted to quickly confirm that you’re not a giant living, breathing human phallus.
Simon squeezes my hand and tugs me forward, inhaling sharply. “Hey, guys,” he says in his patented I’m-Simon-Spier-and-I’m-so-casual-I’m-hardly-even-squeaking voice. “Uh, Nick, can we talk to you for a sec?”
“Yeah, what’s up?” Nick smiles expectantly. But when I look over his shoulder, I see a dozen other soccer guys, also smiling expectantly.
“In private,” I add.
“Uh-oh, Eisner.” A random soccer bro ruffles Nick’s hair. “She looks pissed.”
I roll my eyes—but Nick extracts himself from the guys and follows Simon and me onto the porch. I feel instantly calmer—even though the porch is attached to the pavilion, and the music’s still loud, and there are still people everywhere. But it’s nice that the porch is totally uncovered, except for a few strings of twinkle lights. There’s a railing all around it, and beyond that, a clear, tree-lined lake. I hang my arms over the railing’s edge and take a deep breath.
“Wow.”
We exchange grins.
“Taylor, don’t ever change,” I say.
Then Garrett appears at my side. “There you are! I’ve been looking for you, Burke.”
Right. My date.
“Want to dance? I’m ready to dance.”
“Right now?”
“Yes, right now.” He takes my hand. “Come on, I love this song.”
“Um. Really?” The deejay’s playing some wordless techno song that sounds exactly like robots having sex.
“I mean, the lyrics are genius.”
I peek at his face, and all at once, I realize: he’s nervous. I don’t know if that’s really clicked for me until now. But he’s smiling too widely and scratching the back of his neck, and a part of me just wants to hug the poor kid. Or hand him a beer. He just needs to relax.
I let him take my hand and tug me to the dance floor, right up front, near the emcee. “YO YO YO. ARE THERE ANY SENIORS IN THA HOUUUUUUUUUUSE?” Suddenly, there’s a microphone in my face.
“Yes,” I say flatly.
“Say it louder for my peeps in the back! ONE MORE TIME. ARE THERE ANY SENIORS IN THE HOUSE?!”
“Yes, we’ve established that there are seniors in the house,” I say into the mic. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Abby giggling.
“Come on. We’re dancing.” Garrett tugs me closer, his hands finding my waist.
“Are we really slow dancing to this random techno song?”
“Yes.”
I shake my head and roll my eyes a little, but my hands settle onto his shoulders. And then we sway. There’s barely anyone dancing—people are mostly just hovering around the dance floor—and it’s hard to shake the feeling that everyone’s watching me. I think self-consciousness is in my bones.
But then the song changes to Nicki Minaj, which seems to flip the switch. People storm the dance floor. I disentangle from Garrett and end up pressed up between Simon and Bram. And—okay—other than the musicals, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Simon dance. But he’s pure Muppet. He’s basically bobbing up and down and shuffling his feet—and as stiff as he is, Bram’s even worse. I grin up at both of them, and Simon takes my hands and twirls me. I feel almost breathless.
I guess all the teen movies were right: prom is slightly, slightly magical. There’s just something about being crammed onto a dance floor with all your friends, surrounded by twinkle lights and dressed up like movie stars. Simon grins down at me and bumps his hip against mine. Then he grabs Abby’s hands and they spin together in circles. Bram and Garrett are attempting some kind of shoulder swerve, and I’m pretty sure Martin Addison’s reeling in the Nutcracker like a fish.
“ARE THERE ANY SEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEENIORS IN THE HOWOWOWOWOWSE?”
“YES, WE’RE SENIORS!” Abby yells. Then she catches me looking and shoots me a bashful grin.
The song changes again, the beat thumping softly, and everyone crowds in a little closer. Simon grabs my hand and lifts it, and suddenly, I’m stretching both arms skyward, smiling with my eyes closed. And it’s exactly the feeling I get when I’m drumming. I’m caught up in the music—just totally lost to it. I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt so weightless.
Until it smacks me like a cannonball: all of this is ending.
Holy shit. We’re graduating. We have—what—five weeks of normalcy, and then the whole world resets. Intellectually, I’ve always known things would be different after graduation. That’s just life.
But I guess it’s finally hitting me—the magnitude of this change. I don’t think I’ve looked it in the eye until this moment.
“I miss you,” I say to Simon.
“WHAT?”
“I MISS YOU!”
I mean. Fuck everything. I already miss them. I miss Simon and Bram and Nick and Garrett and Nora and Anna and even Morgan. It already hurts.
“GOD, I MISS YOU, TOO,” Simon yells, smiling—and just when I think he doesn’t get it at all, he flings his arms around me tightly and leans close to my ear. “You know I’m going to lose my mind without you, right?”
“Me too,” I say softly, leaning into his chest.
33
BUT HERE’S THE WEIRD THING: I’ve barely seen Nick all night. And normally, I wouldn’t think twice about it, but this isn’t regular Nick—this is Sad Drunk Nick. So, I have to assume he’s either vomiting in the butterfly house or passed out next to the vulture enclosure.
Or he’s fine. He’s probably fine. Even though he’s not replying to any of my texts. Maybe he’s fine, and he just hates me. In his position, I’d hate me. Maybe Abby said something to him. Or maybe my stupid Abby crush is written plainly all over my face.
I try to shake the thought from my mind, but I can’t help peering around the edges of the space. For the record, finding a particular boy in a dimly lit, crowded pavilion is pretty near fucking impossible. The kid is wearing a black tuxedo in a sea of black tuxedos. For a moment, Martin Addison’s wardrobe choices make a twisted kind of sense.
Except then Nick whirls in out of nowhere, flushed and beaming. “Hey!” I start to say—but he cuts me off with a quick, tight hug and a wet smacking kiss on the cheek.
“Um. Are you—”
He pokes me in the nose. “Leah Burke, you’re about to have your mind blown.”
Okay, so now I’m slightly terrified.
Nick crosses the dance floor with actual swagger. This is something I’ve never before witnessed in my years of friendship with Nick Eisner. He reaches the deejay table and leans forward to say something, and then the deejay nods, and they bump fists.
“Are you watching this?” Simon asks, leaning in close.
“You mean Nick?”
Simon nods. “What do you think he’s scheming?”
“No idea.” But as soon as I say it, I catch a glimpse of Abby, her blue skirt flaring as she spins around with Nora. “Unless . . .”
Simon follows my gaze. “Oh God. Do you think he’s planning some big gesture to win her back?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.” I press my lips together. “Or it could be a revenge thing.”
“Like Nick taking revenge on Abby?” Simon laughs incredulously.
“Maybe something to embarrass her.”
Simon shakes his head. “Nick wouldn’t do that.”
“I don’t know. He’s acting really weird.”
“Yeah, but this is Nick,” Simon insists, though I catch a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. “He wouldn’t.”
For a moment, we just look at each other.
“I think we should talk to him,” I say finally.
“Yeah. Okay.” Simon nods. “Let’s just . . . see what he’s thinking.”
Simon grabs my hand, and we weave through the crowd on the dance floor. Nick is in a crowd of soccer guys at the very edge of the pavilion, his arms flung around Garrett’s and Bram’s shoulders. Which is reassuring, I think. If Bram’s involved—even if Garrett’s involved—there’s no way Nick is planning anything cruel. I mean, unless Bram and Garrett don’t know about the plan.
God, how do I even word this? Hey, Nick. I think you’re amazing and I totally adore you, and I just wanted to quickly confirm that you’re not a giant living, breathing human phallus.
Simon squeezes my hand and tugs me forward, inhaling sharply. “Hey, guys,” he says in his patented I’m-Simon-Spier-and-I’m-so-casual-I’m-hardly-even-squeaking voice. “Uh, Nick, can we talk to you for a sec?”
“Yeah, what’s up?” Nick smiles expectantly. But when I look over his shoulder, I see a dozen other soccer guys, also smiling expectantly.
“In private,” I add.
“Uh-oh, Eisner.” A random soccer bro ruffles Nick’s hair. “She looks pissed.”
I roll my eyes—but Nick extracts himself from the guys and follows Simon and me onto the porch. I feel instantly calmer—even though the porch is attached to the pavilion, and the music’s still loud, and there are still people everywhere. But it’s nice that the porch is totally uncovered, except for a few strings of twinkle lights. There’s a railing all around it, and beyond that, a clear, tree-lined lake. I hang my arms over the railing’s edge and take a deep breath.
