“No one’s getting to me,” I say. “I’m getting to me. I want to do better than I did today.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” Karey smiles. “That, I can help you with.”
“So we’re going for a run tomorrow, right?” Melissa asks as we climb back into the car.
“I have to check with Connie. I promised her a lot of work. But I’ll try. I want to.” It’s true, I really do want to work out. If that’s not proof that quidditch is magical, I don’t know what is.
12
Dad sees me hobbling through the living room in the evening and claps me on the shoulder. “Sore muscles?” he asks.
“How did you know?”
“Oh, I used to date a girl who played soccer,” Dad teases. “She made the same face when she had to go up and down the dorm stairs.” He and my mom were college sweethearts, dorm room neighbors, joined at the hip from freshman year, according to the stories Aunt Mal tells. “You know, it’s great that you’re getting out there and active. College is a good time for that sort of thing. You might even want to play intramural soccer.” Dad’s eyes get a little misty.
“Oh, I guess so.” The suggestion feels weird, but I can’t put my finger on why. It’s not like there’s any reason I couldn’t try out soccer. But . . . I like quidditch.
Dad laughs. “You don’t have to,” he says. “There are a million things to do in college. You’re going to have the time of your life.” He’s blinking and staring at the ceiling now. “The whole world’s ahead of you . . . I miss that sometimes.”
I officially feel weird about this conversation. Am I the only person in the world who doesn’t get the hype about college? It’s just school, farther away, with none of my friends. But I nod and let Dad clap my shoulder again before I slip back toward my room.
“Make sure you’re eating enough protein,” he says. “And electrolytes!”
I hole up in my room for the rest of the evening, decidedly unathletic.
* * *
• • •
Melissa calls right in the middle of what I’ve sworn to myself is my last scan of the S.P.I.F. posts before I go to bed. I’m learning a lot about refereeing quidditch, actually, and it sounds terrifying.
It’s just past midnight, too late for the responsible babysitter to be calling, so I know to answer with “What’s wrong?”
Melissa’s wordless sigh of dashed hope and frustrated rage will be transcribed here as: “Ugggggghhhhh!”
If Melissa were a different type of person (like, for example, if Melissa were me), my first thought might have been family stuff or even existential angst. But because Melissa is Melissa, and because I saw all the pouty faces Chris was shooting from the back seat on our ride home, I guess, “Boys are jerkfaces?”
“The biggest jerkfaces.” Melissa sighs again. “I broke up with him.”
“Whoa, what?” I expected complaints, speculations, possibilities, doubts. But then I expected Melissa to talk herself down, for now at least. I didn’t expect her to scrap the whole relationship in one day.
“I know. He really didn’t like that. He tried biking over here to get me to change my mind.”
“Oh no . . .” Even if Melissa were the type to change her mind about a breakup (which she isn’t), poor Chris apparently didn’t know that making a scene would be a giant turnoff for her, not a romantic gesture. “What did you do?”
“I just told him that he wasn’t being respectful. He asked some silly questions and I told him that no, I wasn’t cheating on him, and no, my parents didn’t make me dump him because they secretly hate him.”
“Oh shit, he thought that?” Melissa’s parents are huge fans of Chris because his parents raised him to have a five-year plan and a bank account and no aspirations to become a rock star. Also, Melissa doesn’t cheat. She’s dumped a lot of people, but her problem is always a lack, not an abundance, of interest.
“I think he was just freaking out.” Another, smaller sigh.
“Okay, so what happened to ‘tell him not to worry’? I could have gotten him more prepared if you’d let me know.” I’m surprised by how guilty I feel. Chris asked me for a heads-up.
“Please don’t start on me,” Melissa whines through the phone. “Yes, it was a quick decision. Yes, I feel bad. But it’s just . . . sometimes things just don’t work out. Sometimes people break up with people. For lots of reasons.”
“Yeah, of course.” I pause. “Wait, so what’s your reason??”
“Ugggghhhhhh!”
“What? Did something happen?” Something must have happened. Something huge and game-changing. Something to explain why she didn’t tell me.
I usually know about Melissa’s breakups long before they happen, since we do preparation Masterpiece Theater with Melissa playing herself and me playing the tearful spurned beau (and sometimes Xiumiao reluctantly playing the tired-of-your-hetero-bullshit audience). Unless there’s some surprise blowout fight—like the time she found out that Jared Pimentor was telling his Model UN friends that they’d had sex, or the time Xing made out with one of the other guys on the football team and tried to keep it a secret—I’m normally in the loop.
I don’t like feeling out of the loop.
“What happened is that I didn’t want to be dating him anymore,” Melissa grumbles. “Can we just . . . I don’t even want to think about it right now.”
“But . . .” Chill, I have to remind myself, fighting the urge to whine and demand an explanation (what ever happened to the best friend code?). This isn’t about me right now. “Okay. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine; don’t worry,” Melissa says. “But you should see if you can come over. I don’t work tomorrow, and we could watch Brave or something.”
If Melissa’s suggesting Brave, she must be feeling worse than she’s letting on. Disney princess sleepovers are the ultimate comfort activity. Maybe she’s too distraught to explain herself right now, but the invitation to come over is a clear sign that she still needs me to be around to listen when she’s ready.
“I have to check, but I’ll be there if I can get an exception to the grounding.”
“So . . . I’ll head over to get you now?” Melissa asks.
We both laugh. “Give it five minutes,” I say. “I’ll text you if they say no.”