“Nah, I can already tell you’re perfect.”
I swallow and the whiskey spreads like fire through my chest.
SEVEN
FRIDAY NIGHT AND we’re sprawled out on the couch in Andrew’s basement watching Saving Private Ryan. I’ve told him about the video store and the job, but not about Dean, because it’s way too embarrassing.
We have bags of McDonald’s takeout dumped on the coffee table in front of us (a secret from the vegans) and I’m trying to focus my energy on the delicious fat clogging my arteries instead of on the color of Dean’s eyes, but it’s harder than it should be. I’ve never felt this way about any of the guys at school. Maybe it’s just because Dean is new and different and interesting, and I didn’t watch him pick his nose in kindergarten.
Andrew reaches over and steals a fry out of the bag in my lap.
“I don’t know how you can eat at a time like this,” I say, handing him the bag. I haven’t touched the fries since the invasion of Normandy, and now they’re cold and soggy. It’s late now—maybe past midnight—and the darkness of the basement is making the movie even more intense.
Andrew’s phone beeps and he jumps, picking it up to read the text.
“Anyone interesting?” I ask, and he shrugs.
“Cecilia.”
“Still Cecilia? It’s been like a whole week.”
He grabs a handful of fries and brings his fist up to his mouth. Andrew is always grabbing handfuls of things and it drives me crazy.
“I’ve dated girls for more than a week,” he says, licking the salt off his fingers. “I think you have this idea that I’m a lot shittier than I really am.” He says it with a smile, his voice easy, so I know he’s not mad.
“So you and Cecilia are dating, then?”
“Okay, so dating isn’t the right word.”
I roll my eyes and then we both get distracted by the TV, because there’s a huge explosion and the sounds of soldiers dying. Before I can help it, I wonder if James Dean likes Saving Private Ryan, if he’s seen it before or if he only watches abstract film school movies. Do they even call them movies in film school? I need to learn before next year.
“Do you . . . think about her a lot?” I ask, and then I feel my cheeks get hot, because it’s a weird question. “Like, do you find your mind wandering to Cecilia at random times?”
“Not really,” he says. “Only at night. Or in the shower.” He grins.
“That’s not . . . never mind,” I say. And then I can’t let it go. “I mean, does she give you that stomach flip? Like when you drive over a big hill?”
He picks up the remote and pauses the movie.
“I know the stomach flip. Believe me.” He reaches a hand up to fiddle with his hair, the floppy part on his forehead. He’s got his glasses on so he can see the movie, and he takes them off, tapping them against his palm. “Are you . . . have you . . . um . . . do you like someone?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “No.” For some reason, I feel like I have to deny it. “I guess I’m just wondering what you get out of it. Is it just sex?”
Now he looks really uncomfortable. His face is probably even redder than mine, and I don’t know why I said anything.
He scratches his chin. There’s stubble growing in there, just barely. “No,” he says. “It’s not sex . . . just sex.”
“Was Sophie different?”
Andrew dated Sophie Piznarski for six months our freshman year, back before Party Andrew existed. I hung out with them sometimes, just the three of us, me sitting awkwardly on one end of the couch playing games on my phone while they cuddled together on the other.
“Sophie was a long time ago,” he says. “It’s different now. I’m different.”
“No kidding,” I say.
“It’s just easier this way.”
“Cecilia’s easy?”
“That’s not what I’m saying. I mean, I’m easy. I like things to be relaxed and . . . I don’t know. Feelings suck. No feelings, no stress.”
“C’mon, if you’re not feeling anything, what’s the point?”
“I feel lots of things,” he says, and I can sense that he’s getting agitated. “You have no fucking idea.” The curse word takes me by surprise. He was all jokes and smiles a few seconds ago, but I must have struck a nerve. His hands are in his hair, scrunching and pulling, and he probably doesn’t notice he’s doing it. I reach a hand up and rest it on his, trying to stop him.
“All right, I believe you.”
He pulls his hand away. It’s as if all the parts of Andrew have been mixed up and he’s trying to set them right again, get them back in their proper places.
“Sorry, Collins.” He takes a deep breath and then smiles, back to normal. “Don’t mind my weird shit.”
“Hey,” I say. “I’ll listen to your weird shit whenever, okay? I’m here for your weird shit anytime you need me.”
He puts his glasses back on, adjusting them until they’re straight. “Thanks.”
“You’re allowed to have feelings, you know.”
“Thanks for the tip, doc,” he says.
“I mean it. I’m your best friend. You can talk to me about real stuff.”
“A little confident, don’t you think?” he says, grinning. “Just proclaiming yourself my best friend.”
“Oh, shut up,” I say. “I think I’m allowed to proclaim myself whatever I want after eighteen years with you.”
“Actually, I’ve been getting really close with Jason Ryder lately,” he says, a mischievous smile on his face. “He might be taking your spot. He told a hilarious joke recently about women and sandwiches, and I think it might make him best-friend material. He’s—”
I shove him before he can finish and he falls off the couch.
It’s my first day of work after school on Tuesday, and when it comes I’m a nervous wreck. Every class seems to be about five seconds long, like I’ve spent the whole day stuck in hyperspace. Andrew, Hannah, and I have ceramics together last period, which is usually my favorite class, but today I can’t stop checking the time. We’re sitting at a big wooden table lined in paper, trying to paint our mugs with colored glaze. Mine looks less like a mug and more like a monster from the deep.
“Excited for today?” Hannah asks me from across the table. She dips her brush into the blue and paints a perfect swirl.