• • • • • •
ME
Question
ANDREW
What’s up?
ME
Ok so if a guy quotes movies at you, would you say that’s flirting?
ANDREW
. . .
ANDREW
I’m confused
ANDREW
Is this about the Hitchcock puns?
ME
Never mind
* * *
• • • • • •
We watch Casablanca that night because I am the world’s biggest overanalyzer, and I need to decode it for clues.
Hannah can never just watch a movie—she says they’re boring, which I ignore for the good of our friendship—so she’s having Andrew and me simultaneously help her with an art project, painting colorful patterns onto leaves she collected from her backyard last fall. She says she’s going to hang them on her wall once we’re done, but if the ones I paint mysteriously fall beneath her bed, I won’t be offended.
I still haven’t told Andrew about James Dean. Not that there’s anything to tell. But still, admitting I have a crush to Andrew makes the stakes feel higher. If Andrew knows, it’ll be more embarrassing when this goes absolutely nowhere.
But Hannah is not the subtlest.
“Okay, so this movie is clearly romantic,” she says. “All the kissing and the sad music. If I were into a girl I would reference this movie to get in her pants.”
“Yeah, Collins.” Andrew looks up from his leaf. “I’m surprised you picked this one.”
“It’s a best picture winner!” I say. “Arguably one of the best movies of all time.”
“Yeah, but Gladiator won best picture. We could have watched that. You’re just not usually the kissing type.”
“I am too the kissing type! I like kissing. I kiss people!” Okay, so maybe not exactly the truth, but I would definitely kiss James Dean if I could.
Andrew is bright red. “I didn’t mean . . . in real life. I meant the movies you watch.”
Hannah is laughing at us so hard she knocks over a jar of yellow paint and it spills onto her rug. “Oh my god, why does this keep happening?” We all jump up and look for some towels to clean it up, and luckily some of the weirdness dissipates, the tension broken. “We have to stop spilling paint,” Hannah says. “I swear this never happens unless you fools are around.”
“We’re bad luck,” I say, thinking of my ruined sweater. Except—James Dean didn’t seem to mind the stain at all. My cheeks flush at the memory of his eyes on me.
In the movie on Hannah’s laptop, Rick puts Ilsa on the plane to escape the Nazis, sending the woman he loves away with her husband in order to save her life. We’ll always have Paris, Rick tells her as they say goodbye. They might not be together in the end, but they’ll always have their memories.
Except that’s not the quote James Dean used. If he liked me, he would have said something about Paris, not something about friendship. I think he’s probably just into movies, not into me.
“Hey, guys, next year when we’re all flying to different places,” Andrew says, “at least we’ll always have Paris.”
“We’ll always have Prescott,” I say.
“Let’s go with Paris,” Hannah says, dabbing at the rug with a bath towel. “I’d much rather have that.”
EIGHT
ON WEDNESDAY, Chase tries again with Danielle. We’re walking to chemistry together when he comes up behind us and swings his arm casually over her shoulder. She smiles until she turns and sees who it is, and then her smile twists into a snarl.
“Hey, Dani,” he says.
She ducks out from under his arm. “Don’t call me that.”
“Come on.” His grin is easy, like he’s used to getting what he wants.
“What do you want?” she asks instead.
“Just want to talk,” he says. “Just a conversation. We’re friends now, right?”
“We’re not the kind of friends who have conversations,” she says.
“Collins,” he says to me, like I can help him in some way.
And then Jason Ryder makes it worse, lumbering down the hall like he owns it. He breaks out into a wide grin when he sees us, sees Danielle and Chase standing together. He pats Chase roughly on the back.
“Hey, look,” he says. “It’s Slutty and the Beast, back together.”
“Dude,” says Chase.
“Aw, Jason,” Danielle says, her voice sweet. “It’s cute when you try to make jokes. You’ll get it right someday.” She pulls her bag higher on her shoulder and turns to me. “We’re late.” Then she sets off down the hall. I scamper after her.
“The part that makes me maddest,” she hisses when we’re out of earshot, “is how Chase and I were both equals in this bullshit. We had sex with each other. Together. But for some reason, I’m a slut. I’m a slut because I’ve had sex one time with one person.” She walks faster, not looking at me.
“You’re not a slut,” I say, because I feel like I need to say something.
“Well, obviously,” she snaps, turning her head to me. “That’s the whole fucking point.”
Andrew’s parents are having a date night in Burlington, so he’s decided to have a guys’ night—something with tacos, because guys seem to have an inexplicable obsession with them. It’s too risky to have a party, so tacos are a safe compromise. Cheese and ground beef aren’t illegal, even if they horrify our vegan parents to their core.
“I’m not coming,” I tell him when he invites me, but we both know I’ll end up there anyway. Still, I tell Andrew I’ll help him shop for supplies, so we find ourselves at Costco, piling gargantuan ingredients into our cart—whale-sized tubs of guacamole and sour cream and a jar of hot sauce that would outlast the apocalypse. The bag of shredded cheese we buy is legitimately bigger than I am. Andrew stands it up next to me to take a picture.