“Oh, you know.” I shrug. “Lots of nothing. Confined to the house and all.” I kissed John. I kissed John. I kissed John. I’m surprised she can’t read the words scrawled on my forehead. I went home with John because you ditched me, and we kissed, and you never even asked about it, so I’m not telling you. Also, we’re in a fight.
Melissa nods, waits for more. When the silence gets awkward, I pretend to check my phone.
“That’s it?” she asks. “No evil Connie hijinks? No updates from the angry vegan feminists? No news at all?”
I shrug. “Nah.” The effort of sounding breezy starts sweat trickling under my arms. I want her to stop asking questions so I can stop feeling guilty for lying. “What’s up with you?”
“Oh, um, where do I start? Um, I sort of had something I wanted to . . . I don’t know, so this weekend was kind of craz—ack, I mean, it was incredibly busy, and I know I was sort of crappy at the after-party. I am sorry about that, but it’s just . . .”
“Whatever.” I don’t want to hear Melissa’s half-hearted excuses. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Yeah, no, but what happened was—crap!”
I flinch as Melissa runs a red light.
“It’s fine,” she says before I can complain. “It was way too late to stop. Nobody was coming the other way. It was fine. Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything.” I turn back to my phone and whistle to prove my innocence.
“Oh my goodness, shut up!” Melissa groans.
We laugh, and it’s almost enough to break me, make me put my phone down and tell Melissa exactly what’s happening, how many times John has texted me and how much I’ve stressed over the wording and punctuation of each response.
“So I was going to tell you . . .” Melissa says, at the same time that I blurt, “Oh, so guess what?”
We laugh again. I am not great at fighting with Melissa.
But before I can spill, we pull up to the park. People are already milling around the tree, and Melissa returns Karey’s wave while almost causing a traffic accident with her parallel parking.
“Um, you were saying?” I ask. But Melissa’s already yanking the keys out and slamming the door behind her.
“Quidditch!” she shouts, pumping a fist into the air and striding toward the half-set-up hoops, and anything I was going to say or hear seems totally forgotten.
Footsteps pound behind us. I turn around, and my stomach trips over itself. John jogs up to me, huge grin spread across his face.
It’s his grin’s fault that I can’t stop looking at his mouth. Cut it out, mouth. Cut it out, grin.
“Hey. Hi, Ellen.” He does not stop grinning. I do not stop glaring at his grin, and at his use of my name. It’s not a very angry glare, though. For some reason, I just can’t work up any real venom.
This is all his fault.
“So just so you know,” John says, “you’re going to need to start mapping out some escape routes, because this whole ‘grounded’ thing isn’t working for me.”
I don’t have an answer to this. Blood rushes hot in my face and stomach. Melissa looks from me to John, from John to me. She raises one eyebrow in a perfect arch.
“I . . . uh . . .”
John’s grin turns into a lopsided smirk. “Yeah, I tend to have that effect on women.”
Both of Melissa’s eyebrows climb up her forehead. She says nothing, but her face transmits her thoughts loud and clear:
When exactly did this happen?
I refuse to feel guilty. I refuse to feel stupid. A giggle comes out of my mouth, a high-pitched and uncontrollable response to the awkwardness. John’s smile gets wider and his chest puffs out, like the laugh is an award I gave just to him.
“Ellen,” Melissa says, “I left my sunscreen in the car. Walk with me?” Get over here right now and explain yourself.
“I applied already,” I say as breezily as I can manage. What can I say? I’m petty.
John starts toward the pitch, and I match his steps. Part of me is so pleased to leave Melissa behind me, her mouth hanging open, but only the part that doesn’t feel nauseous.
Melissa catches up fast, makes a beeline for Karey without looking at me. John nudges my shoulder and smiles a smile of pure ignorance, no idea of the tension he’s caused.
Karey gives us two speeches about the Midsummer Flight’s Dream tournament a couple weeks from now. The first speech is a pep talk, which I take with a heavy dose of salt. (Are we really the best team? Do we really want this more than anyone else?) The second speech is logistics, most of which I ignore. Karey’s found willing Austin players to give us floor space to sleep, and she needs a headcount by Monday. She tells us to finalize our plans, take our vacation days, reserve our seats in cars.
John stands nearby while Karey talks. He’s a little bit behind me, and he keeps moving closer until I can feel heat and electricity in the inch between his side and mine. He props an elbow up on my shoulder, leaning his head on his hand, and I try to pretend like this is a normal thing, normal physical contact between teammates, happening in a normal context that includes zero make-outs.
Across the huddle, Melissa’s eyes bore holes into me.
* * *
• • •
“Let me give you a ride home?” John asks at the end of practice.
I keep examining my skinned knee, pouring water to wash away the clotted blood and dirt and grass stains. Head down, I spot Melissa’s bright orange cleats just a few steps away. One of them taps the grass as the leg attached to it jiggles up and down. I move my eyes up just enough to assess the crossed arms.
I do not want to be trapped in a car with Melissa right now.
“Sure,” I say to John, “a ride would be awesome.” I wipe water off my knee and take John’s outstretched hand. He pulls me up. I like that he pulls me up. I like that he offers rides.
I look for Melissa, but she’s already turned her back on me, talking to Roshni with way more hand waving than is necessary. Fine. I know she heard us.
I follow John to his car, even though I see Chris and Elizabeth and Lindsay watching, squinting, working out the significance. I can’t tell if their watching bugs me. I can’t tell if I should have said no.
“What happened to your van?” I ask, ducking into the inconspicuous and undented silver car.
“Mom’s using it to cart the soccer team around,” John says. “Little brother,” he adds when I look confused.
“Oh, so it really is a mom-van.”