“Mouth or nothing,” Simon says, like he has any right to decide.
“I’d use my own mouth if I could reach,” Chase says. “DIY.”
“All right, David Blowie,” Andrew says. “Keep the details to yourself.”
“Would you rather,” Edwin says, “get a sand job or blow yourself?”
“Depends who the sand job is from.” Chase grins. “I’d take a sand job from Danielle.”
“Agreed,” Andrew says, and I look at him, surprised. I didn’t know he saw Danielle that way.
“I’d cut off an arm for a sand job from Danielle,” Ryder says.
“Forget that,” Simon counters. “I’d cut off an arm to see Ava’s tits.”
“Seen ’em,” Ryder says. “Worth it.”
“Can you guys stop?” I interrupt. “You’re talking about my friends. You don’t think I’ll tell them all of this?”
“So?” Ryder shrugs. “We’re complimenting them.”
I’m about to throw the giant tub of guacamole at Ryder’s face, but luckily for him, there’s a knock at the door. Everyone stops talking.
“Who else is coming?” I get up to answer it, like it’s my house. It basically is.
“Oh, it’s probably Cecilia.” Andrew gets up too.
I stop walking. “Cecilia?”
“Yeah,” he says, like it’s normal for her to be showing up here.
“No girls at taco night!” Ryder calls out to us, and I whirl around to face him.
“What the hell do you think I am?”
“You don’t count.” He crunches into his taco and smiles, his teeth full of beans. I think again that this is why—this is why—I’m still a virgin. Why would I ever be attracted to any of them when I’ve heard these conversations? This is why James Dean matters so much; he’s a chance at a fresh start.
Andrew beats me to the door and opens it, and there she is: Cecilia Brooks. She’s as lovely as ever, wisps of blond hair curling around her face, apple cheeks pink and glowing. When she takes off her coat, she’s wearing a V-neck sweater, soft baby pink and tight around her chest, low-cut so that both our pairs of eyes—mine and Andrew’s—are drawn there, trying not to stare.
“Hi, Drew.” She gives him a quick hug, then turns to me and waves, keeping one arm securely on his shoulder as if he might float away if she lets him go. “Hey, Keely.”
“Hey,” I say, walking back into the kitchen. They follow behind me, and when I turn to glance back, her hand has slid down from his shoulder and is now wrapped around his waist.
The kitchen looks cleaner when we come back. The guys have wiped up the spilled taco fillings that were strewn about the counter and have thrown away their old napkins. They’re all sitting a little bit straighter.
“Hi, everyone!” Cecilia says.
“You want a taco?” Chase asks, getting up from his stool.
“I can make you one.” Andrew peels away from her and opens one of the kitchen cabinets to grab a plate.
“It’s okay,” she says. “I’m not hungry.” He puts the plate back.
“Here,” Edwin says, getting up from his stool. “You can take my seat. I was getting tired of sitting anyway.”
“Oh, thanks, Edwin,” she says, touching his shoulder lightly as she sits down.
There’s silence as we all look at one another, unsure of what to say. She’s like a disturbance in the airwaves, a ripple in the water. The room smells different—fresh and flowery. She must be wearing perfume strong enough to overpower the smell of beans.
“You look nice,” Andrew says. “I like your sweater.”
She looks down at it and then back up at all of us, a bright smile on her perfectly symmetrical face. “Thanks. It was on sale.”
“Nice,” Andrew says. “You look good in pink.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Chase bringing his hand up to cover a yawn, which makes me yawn in response. And there’s a small part of me—a part I’m not particularly proud of—that’s suddenly relieved I get to see what’s behind the curtain. Not just because I see the truth that Cecilia doesn’t, but because I get them without all the bullshit. I get the real Andrew—the one who is funny and lively and sometimes makes me snort milk out of my nose, but who at other times makes me so frustrated I want to shake him. The truth is a little scary. How can I ever trust a guy around his friends when I know so well how guys act around their friends?
But as I watch Andrew tap his fingers quietly on the surface of the counter, the ticking of the clock loud in the now silent room, I realize maybe a tiny bit of me is glad I don’t count.
NINE
IT SNOWS THROUGH the rest of March, and then finally it’s April, and everything melts under a warming sun. The store gets slightly busier as people come out of hibernation, and I settle easily into the work. Mr. Roth is hardly ever there, and so I spend most of my days with either Dean or this older guy Tim, who can spend an entire shift analyzing a single episode of Star Trek. Obviously I’ve tried to tell him Star Wars is better, but he won’t listen.
It’s Thursday evening and the store has been empty for nearly an hour. I’m up front organizing the rows of sticky pastries into a precarious pyramid formation I’ve been mentally referring to as “Sugar Mountain,” when Dean pops his head out from behind a row of DVD cases at the back of the store.
“So you said you like Hitchcock, right?”
“Yeah, why?” I call back to him, placing a croissant neatly on top of Sugar Mountain, a pile of flaky crumbs raining down onto the counter.
He emerges from behind the stacks and comes to join me at the front of the store, a DVD case clutched in his hands. “So what’s your take on horror, then? Are you just into old-school, suspenseful stuff? Or have you explored the genre a bit?” His eyes are sparkling in excitement, little crinkles at the corners. “How about monsters and zombies?” He raises his brows. “Gore?”
Dean places the movie down in front of me. It’s called Mayhem in the Monastery and features a terrified nun in the grasp of a giant bloody hand. The scream on her face is almost funny.
“This is horror?” I ask skeptically. “Not comedy?”
He grins for a second, then goes stone-faced. “This is terrifying. C’mon.” He snatches the case off the counter and, without waiting for me to follow, turns and heads to the back of the store.