We drive as the guitars continue, and I think maybe I haven’t been this happy in a long time, this content. We drive all the way back to the shop, moving through downtown Kansas City as the sky goes from pink to purple to black.
Oliver looks over at me sharply, and then, without warning, he yanks the steering wheel, and we pull over in front of a closed bank.
“Why did you pull over?” I ask, worried that we were about to run out of gas or lose a tire or something.
“This requires a lot of attention,” he says seriously, turning up the music.
Pride bursts in my chest. “You like Amber Run, huh?” I demand, my heart racing. I’ve never known anything like this before, this utter excitement at knowing that there’s someone else in the world who loves the same bands that I do.
We sit there for the entire rest of the album, both of us staring out the front window as cars drive by. From where we sit, I can see the glowing sign of Spirits down the road, a red beacon in the winter night, like a buoy on the ocean. I smile and close my eyes, listening until the last song ends.
Without a word, Oliver pulls back onto the road. The album starts over again, and we move in the direction of my neighborhood. When we slow again in front of my house, Oliver reaches forward to take the CD from the player, but I reach out and put a hand on his arm to stop him. “Borrow it.”
Oliver hesitates, his eyes sliding down to where I’m touching him. I pull my hand back and his eyes find mine across the expanse between us. “You sure?”
I nod. “I trust you. Return it when you want.”
He doesn’t say anything as I turn, climb out of his truck, and slam the door shut behind me.
AMY
I KNOW I’VE run out of options. I don’t like giving up, and I don’t like surrendering, admitting when I can’t handle something on my own. As far as I’m concerned, I can handle everything on my own. I’ve been doing it for as long as I can remember.
But when I get my calculus exam back on Friday, and see that I got a C, I know I have to get some help or it’s all over for me, my pride be damned.
That’s how I end up standing outside the tutoring center on Saturday afternoon, trying to make myself go inside. I glance over my shoulder at Spirits, and I can’t help but feel like everything’s all wrong now that I’m on the other side of the street. This side doesn’t feel right anymore. It feels like switching lives with someone.
“Why are you just standing out here?”
I whip around. I shouldn’t be surprised to find Petra standing in front of me, holding the door of the tutoring center open with one arm and leaning out onto the sidewalk.
I’m not about to tell her that the reason I’m standing out here is because I’m way too nervous to go in. “I need calculus help,” I finally tell her.
Petra’s eyes narrow. “Are you serious?”
I turn to leave. I’m not going to stand here and be berated by Petra because she thinks she’s better than me.
“Wait,” Petra says. “I know you got a C on the calc exam.”
I turn back to her, feeling anger vibrate in my jaw like a dentist’s drill. “How do you know about that?”
She shrugs. “Someone in StuCo saw your paper and sort of told everyone else. Everyone … everyone was sort of making fun of you at the meeting.”
I feel sick to my stomach. It’s no secret that no one at school likes me. To everyone, I’m a brownnoser and a teacher’s pet and whatever else they have to throw at me. But I had no idea that people were keeping tabs on my academics. I figured that was just Petra.
“I don’t participate,” Petra says, and there’s something so genuine in her expression, maybe it’s pity, that I think I believe her, even though Petra hasn’t exactly been known for her kindness toward me in the past.
“Whatever.”
“Amy,” she says when I turn away again. “Look, I’ll tutor you one-on-one, okay?”
I look back over my shoulder at her, still standing there, her hair blowing in the wind, her skin gleaming in the sun, and her eyes just a little desperate.
“Amy, come on. I have an A-plus in calc. Are you going to turn that down?”
I hate it when she’s right.
“Meet me at my house tonight. I’m done here at five, okay?” She pats her pockets like she’s looking for something, but I wave her off.
“I know where you live, Petra. I’ll be there at six.” I know I should be grateful that Petra is doing me a huge favor, but all I feel is shame.
AMY
ONLY A FEW neighborhoods separate Petra’s house from mine, but it might as well be an ocean. I don’t really give in to envy, but I never fail to notice that her entryway is bigger than my bedroom and my sisters’ bedroom put together.
Petra closes the door behind me and then gestures toward the dining room, which is bigger than our living room. She has a notebook and her calculus book sitting on the corner of the table, lined up perfectly against the edge.
“Do you like cream puffs?” she asks as I sling my backpack onto one of the chairs. They’re probably antique or something, and I’m suddenly very nervous about potentially damaging one of them. I move my bag to the floor, making sure that it isn’t resting against the table leg.
“Um,” I say in response.
Petra appears through the kitchen doorway with a tray of cream puffs in her hand like she’s about to begin feeding her guests at a grand party. I take a cream puff because I’m starving.
“Thanks,” I say, taking a napkin from the fancy holder in the center of the table and placing my cream puff (homemade, I suspect) and napkin on the tablecloth.
“Okay,” she says, sitting up straight in her chair. “Let’s go over your calc test.”
An hour later, I have a headache, and Petra is rubbing her eyes like she’s a toddler who needs a nap. Half the cream puffs are gone, and I haven’t missed the fact that Petra hasn’t eaten a single one.
“Okay, do you want to move on to the next section or—”
The front door flies open, and next thing I know, there’s a preteen in a leotard tearing through the house, rushing through the dining room and into the kitchen before I even have a second to process what’s going on.
“Petra?” a woman by the front door calls out.
I know Petra’s mother from field trips that she chaperoned and after-school activities that she showed up to in her minivan. She’s just as tall and beautiful as Petra, but in the same way that Petra’s mouth is always slightly down-turned, her mother always has a smile on her face.
“We’re in here!” Petra calls out to her mother at the same time that Petra’s little sister comes back into the dining room, munching on what looks like Hot Fries.
“Who are you?” she asks around the food in her mouth.
Petra rolls her eyes. “It’s Amy, you dork. You don’t remember Amy?”
The girl shrugs and walks back into the kitchen just as Petra’s mother comes into the dining room. “Amy,” she says. “It’s so nice to see you again. How have you been?”
I smile up at her because it isn’t her fault her daughter is trying to steal my future right out from under me. “I’m good. Petra’s just helping me with some calculus homework.”