“Hmmm.” I can tell that Dad wants to hate it, but before long we’ve got an order for Chicago-style pizza submitted without the help of any paper menus.
“You’re probably doing some party or whatever already,” Dad says, “but, just so you know, I’m gonna . . . go out on Saturday night.”
I nod and try to look like I’m distracted with moving around all our refrigerator magnets. A bunch are still from Mom’s job and say things like, Watch her as she gets her groove back! and other super embarrassing go-get-’em-at-a-later-age slogans.
“That’s totally great,” I say in my very happiest voice.
“It’s not a big deal,” Dad says, and I just nod because the truer that is, the easier it’ll all be.
There’s no response from James.
And there’s no response yet again.
Well, it’s brief, but it’s way better than silence. And I know James isn’t someone who can fake excitement, even when super necessary, but I guess sometimes I wish she was.
It doesn’t seem nice to tell someone she maybe doesn’t actually seem fine, so I just send my usual emoji to her, the blue heart and the girl running. My phone buzzes just a moment later with the pink heart and the cheeseburger James has been sending ever since the Matty breakup and my foray back into the world of omnivorous eating. I know this doesn’t mean she’s instantly not heartbroken or super comfortable with me dating Quinn, but little rituals exist for a reason. My world might actually be changing in almost every way I can imagine, but because of James and four dopey emoji, everything feels safe and right.
CHAPTER FIVE
April of Senior Year
JAMES
It’s going to be a rejection.
“It’s going to be a rejection,” I whisper to myself, for extra comfort once it happens.
But then I click to see my status, and, amazingly, it now says ACCEPTED.
“Yes!” I exclaim with a fist pump, which makes me laugh at myself. It’s my standard move for any victory, small or large, in track.
“Is everything all right, James?” Mom asks me from the hallway.
I want to get up and close my door, but I can feel how bratty that would be. The last thing I want is to be seen as the immature one in the household, after everything that’s happened to my family.
“I got into Berkeley,” I say.
“James! I’m so proud of you.”
“I’m sure that it’s just because of my track stats,” I say. “And it doesn’t change UCLA.”
“Well, I’m proud of your track stats.” She steps nearer my doorway. “And UCLA was wrong. We were going to order Thai for dinner, which isn’t particularly celebratory. Still, should I order your usuals or do you want to mix things up?”
I shrug and keep my eyes on my computer. A new message has popped up, and I pray that it’s not Logan. He’s harder to ignore than I’d like him to be. “I’ll just eat something in my room. You don’t have to order me anything special.”
“James, you know, this is your home, too.”
I try my best not to react, even though I want to shake my head emphatically until I’m dizzy. “I know that you think that, or want it to be true, but it isn’t. You’ve only been here a few months—”
“We moved in six months ago.” An edge creeps into Mom’s tone.
“You moved into the other house sixteen years ago,” I say. “The house where I lived since I was two is my home. This is just . . . where you live now and where I have to sometimes stay.”
Mom sighs loudly enough that I glance up at her. “I hate that you feel that way, James.”
Like I don’t?
She stops hovering in my doorway, and I give full attention to whatever new message awaits me. It’s only a group text organized by Gretchen and Raina about some kind of prom committee, which I am not interested in enough to even browse the details. Even after spending nearly a full year at their lunch table, I haven’t gotten used to how organized and take-charge they are. I miss the days of lunch just being forty-five minutes off from worrying about everything.
Prom doesn’t matter anyway. Without Logan, I’m not going. I’m sure that’s fine; there are probably many successful, fulfilled people who didn’t attend their senior proms. Also, buying a dress when you’re tall can be a huge pain.
I text Dad about Berkeley, and he sends back five thumbs-up emoji. Even though, somehow, Kat and I have fallen away from texting at least every hour we’re awake or even every day—I know she’ll want to see this. So I crop out the Berkeley part and send along with a message.
I realize as I see the three dots on her end how relieved I am that her impending response is almost immediate.
Next year we’ll be at completely different schools in completely different states. It may be normal that our communication has already dipped. Just this hypothesis lifts a weight from my chest I hadn’t realized had been parked there.
I want to say yes, even though I know I’ll probably have to hear a thousand stories built more dramatic than is ultimately necessary or even true. It’s possible I hadn’t noticed that Kat was always like that until now—when life gave us some actual drama. After all, Mom had noticed, long ago. She hadn’t liked Kat even back when I had zero complaints about our friendship. Maybe nothing has really changed, but things just feel more heightened these days.
It’s stupid, I realize, but if I could say yes to Kat, maybe something broken could get fixed. But I can’t, because I’m not in my home on Fairview. And as far as Kat knows, that’s the only home I have. I didn’t mean to go this long without telling her, but now it’s almost as if it’s too long. How do you casually bring up the fact that your world ended six whole months ago?
Mom is back in my doorway as I update my college pro/con list now that Berkeley is a reality and not just the far-off possibility it seemed to be when UCLA didn’t work out. Now it’s just between Berkeley and Michigan. “I know you said not to, but, here.” She walks in and sets down a few takeout cartons on my desk. “Panang curry, brown rice, and spring rolls.”
“Thanks.” I watch as Kat texts back a crying emoji, then three more, then that famous GIF of some actor crying. It’s a bit much. “God, this whole year is screwed up.”
“Honey, I know you feel that way,” Mom says. It’s her understanding voice. “I promise, when you’re older, you’ll—”
“Please don’t finish that sentence.” I search her face, because even though the tone and the expression are familiar, she still feels like a stranger to me. A stranger who showed up in October. “I hope I never understand.”
I should have read the prom committee group text more closely, because I was absolutely not prepared to walk into school the next morning.
“Ohhh my god.” Kat giggles and hides her face against Quinn’s side. “This is a lot.”
There are giant posters flanking the main corridor right inside the main entrance. I remember that last year a couple of Logan’s friends had put up a poster campaigning to choose him as prom king. Jace and Nadia had mainly done it as a joke, but Logan wasn’t embarrassed, and even though I was a junior and not eligible—and the school loves selecting a couple—he won. Jenn Chou, whose boyfriend Joe was a junior like me, was prom queen. It hadn’t been a big deal. Logan wore his crown for a while after but then gave it to Joe, and that was that. Logan hadn’t actively campaigned ahead of time for such a non-honor. People just liked him, and that was enough.