“Not really,” Layla said. “I stole the idea from a TV show.” But when Sloane laughed, I could tell Layla was proud of herself.
I just sat there, not completely left out, thanks to Valeria, who asked me a few questions, and Layla, who sort of gestured at me to agree with her about certain things, but definitely on the outside. And that was what I’d been afraid of—Layla spreading her wings and leaving me grounded.
I was happy for her, I really was. But I felt a little like I was disappearing.
* * *
—
The stars were out when I pushed my way onto the roof, and the sky was as dark as it could get in a city as full of light as ours. I wrapped my arms around my torso, though it wasn’t cold at all.
I’d gone up alone to see the fireworks, which soared from Coney Island every Friday in summer. I made an excuse about having to call my mom and then headed up the back stairwell on my own. I did have two missed calls from my mother, but I had no intention of calling her back. It was just nice to be out in the fresh air; to be alone instead of lonely; to be physically above it all.
I was taking a picture of the skyline when a text notification slid onto my screen.
Daddio: Having lotsa SOBER fun?
I smiled a little and sent him a quick one back.
Not really? I’ll tell you about it later.
Not really SOBER??
No. No. Jeez. Relax. I haven’t had a sip of alcohol. Not really having fun.
PHEW. I mean, I’m sorry the party sucks I guess. But Jesus, Baby Girl. Don’t give your father a heart attack.
I rolled my eyes, and because I felt a little guilty texting him and not returning her calls, I shot a text to my mom.
I’ll be home by 11.
Why didn’t you pick up when I called?
It’s loud.
Call me.
“Ughhhhh,” I said aloud. I started typing another text to my mom, Aren’t you with Daddy? He knows where I am AND what I’m doing, when I realized she probably wasn’t. She’d been working late a lot lately, and they’d been barely speaking even when they both were at home. I was trying my best not to think about it.
Before I could hit send, though, I got a message from Layla.
Where’d you go?
Roof. You coming up?
Just then, someone bumped into my arm and my phone slipped out of my hand.
“No! Shit!” I shouted, fumbling for the phone. A large brown hand snatched it up, when it was, I swear, centimeters from the ground.
“Holy…,” I said, staring at the magically quick hands.
“You’re welcome,” said a voice that was, without a doubt, baritone—maybe even bass (the one vocal range I did know). It made me think of thunder, and all the Shakespeare plays that start, ominously, with storms.
When I took my phone and looked up, I saw that the voice belonged to a beautiful black boy in a spotless white T-shirt. There was a small bronze key hanging around his neck from a navy blue shoestring, and because my brain is the worst, it was at that exact moment that I remembered how Layla said some people would love me coming to the party as close to naked as possible.
I blushed. Hard. Then, to try and recover, I cleared my throat and shot back, “I didn’t say thank you.”
The beautiful boy smirked. His teeth were as white as his shirt; as white and shining in his dark face as the stars were in the night sky.
He crossed his arms. “Guess I’m sorry, then? For saving your phone from what was sure to be a screen-shattering fall.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “Um. You bumped into me. If anything, you should have saved my phone.”
He laughed then, and I grinned and looked away from him.
“My bad then, Shorty. Glad I could be of service.” He reached out his hand. “I’m Dom,” he said.
“Not a shorty,” I replied.
“Damn, sis, can you give me a break?”
Then I laughed. “Yeah, sorry.” I grasped his hand. “Just not having the best night.”
“You are mad short, though,” he said, grinning again while our hands were still touching. I pulled away and swatted at him. He took a step back and I just ended up grazing the soft fabric of his shirt, dangerously close to his collarbone. (I’ve always had a thing for collarbones.)
A voice I’d recognize anywhere interrupted us. “Cleo Imani Baker!”
“Jase!” I shouted, turning to hug him. Jase Lin and I had dated most of ninth grade. We ended it on mostly good terms on the last day of school, but I hadn’t seen him all summer.
His thick bangs were hanging over his narrow brown eyes and he was wearing the tiniest bit of eyeliner. The neck of his black T-shirt was stretched out, so I could see how golden the skin of his chest was from playing soccer, presumably shirtless, since June. I was very well acquainted with his collarbone.
“I see you’ve met my dude, Dom,” he said, clapping Dom on the shoulder. “He went to soccer camp with me and Mason.”
Mason, Jase’s best friend, stepped out onto the roof next, with roughly half of the kids who’d been in Valeria’s apartment. It was suddenly very crowded and very loud.
“Yeah, she and I are old friends,” Dom said. He turned to look at Jase and Mason, and I noticed a swirling design cut into the close-cropped hair on the back of his head. “I saved Shorty’s—I mean Cleo’s—phone from near-certain demise.”
“Oh God,” I muttered.
“So by now you know,” Mason said, “that Cleo used to be Jase’s girl.”
“Really?” Dom said, sounding more interested than I thought he should.
I made a pukey noise. “Um, excuse me. I’m a lot more than that, Mase.”
“Right, right, right,” Mason said, thinking. He threw his arm around my shoulder. “Dom, this is Cleo Baker. Old-ass books and music lover; horrendous soccer player and all-around unathletic human; the shortest person I know.” He paused like he was searching for some positive thing to say about me and was having a hard time coming up with anything. I slapped his arm, and as he flinched, he added, “Oh, and English-tutor-extraordinaire!” probably because I was the only reason Mason was still on the soccer team. Before I had the chance to say you’re welcome, he turned to Dom and said, “And, you know. She used to be Jase’s girl.”
Both Jase and Dom cracked up, and I punched Mason so hard in the shoulder he genuinely winced. “I hope you find cooler people than these losers to hang out with, Dom,” I said.