And anyway, it’s just Abby.
But there’s something about it being a bed.
She watches my face, brow wrinkling. “Or I could take the couch.”
“No way. Caitlin’s your friend.”
“Well, she’s my cousin’s girlfriend’s friend’s sister.”
“Right.” I smile slightly. “Whatever. It’s fine.”
Of course it’s fine.
19
I WAKE UP TO THE patter of rain on Caitlin’s balcony. Abby’s already awake. She’s sitting cross-legged against the headboard, reading Harry Potter.
A wave of panic hits me. It’s hard to explain, but the thought of Abby watching me sleep makes me want to throw up. Not that she was watching me. I mean, she’s pretty absorbed in her book. But right now, my brain is dead set on reminding me how gross I look when I’m sleeping. My mouth was probably hanging open. I was probably snoring.
“Oh, you’re up!” Abby says, folding down the corner of the page.
I gape at her. “Did you just dog-ear Harry Potter?”
“Oh boy.” The edges of her lips curve up. “Should have known you were one of those people.”
“One of those people? As in, I’m not a monster?” I shake my head slowly. Like, you look at Abby, and she’s the picture of innocence: spiral curls, lavender pajama shorts. But no.
“Okay, this may blow your mind,” I say, “but have you ever heard of—”
“Bookmarks. Yes. I know.” She rolls her eyes. “Nick used to give me so much shit. I honestly think he bought me a hundred bookmarks while we were dating.”
“So where are these hundred bookmarks now?”
“Well, obviously, I had to get rid of them.”
“Because . . .”
“Because we broke up?” She shrugs. “I don’t know. Nick stuff makes me sad. Is that weird?”
“Why would that be weird?”
She smiles wistfully. “I broke up with him. I’m not allowed to be sad.”
“You can feel however you want.”
“No, I know. But it’s complicated.”
And suddenly, she looks like she’s going to burst into tears. Maybe Simon was right. Maybe Abby and Nick were never meant to break up.
“So, it’s raining,” Abby says.
“Yeah, I hear it.”
“Do you think they’ll cancel the tour?”
“I don’t know.”
“I mean, probably not, right? And maybe it will clear up by this afternoon.” She sighs, glancing at her phone. “Anyway, the boys are leaving Boston. I just heard from Simon. Apparently Nick just found out he got a scholarship to Tufts, and he really likes it there, so.”
“Where are they going next?”
“Wesleyan—they’re staying with Alice. And then tomorrow’s NYU.”
“That will be fun for Simon.”
“Yeah.” She stretches. “He’s so funny. He’s, like, so adamant that he doesn’t mind doing long distance with Bram, and it’s just a coincidence that he chose New York.”
“Yeah,” I say, and Abby smiles faintly.
I feel myself starting to calm down, heartbeat dialing back to normal. We make our way from the bed to the couch, and by noon, we’re dressed and jacked up on Froot Loops. The rain has slowed to a drizzle, so I guess it could be worse. Of course, Abby brought wellies—bright green with polka dots.
“Did you know it was going to rain?”
“No. I just like them with this outfit. Is that weird?”
“It’s pretty weird.”
She pokes me in the arm.
But she doesn’t look weird. She looks perfectly collegiate. I’ve always been so jealous of the way Abby layers clothes. She makes it look intentional. Case in point: today’s skinny jeans and a navy plaid shirt, under a fitted gray sweater, rolled up at the elbows. And the wellies. When I try to layer, I just look like I’m hiding something.
I tuck my hair behind my ears. “Should we head to the admissions office?”
“Yes!” She pulls an umbrella out of her suitcase. Of course she brought an umbrella.
It’s a quick drive to get there, and we sign in at a desk inside the admissions building. Then they direct us to an auditorium down the hall. We’re a few minutes early, but the seats are already filling up.
Literally everyone is here with at least one of their parents. Everyone except Abby and me.
“We should make up fake identities,” Abby whispers, settling in next to me in the back row.
“Why?”
“Because why not? We’re totally anonymous right now.”
“You do realize that these people are going to be our classmates in five months, right?”
She stares straight ahead, smiling. “So?”
“So, you’re ridiculous.”
She ignores me. “From now on, you have to call me Bubo Yass.”
I laugh. “What?”
She gives me this smug little grin. “It’s an anagram of my name.”
“That’s very Voldemorty of you.”
“Oh, I just read that part like a week ago! All right. And your new name is Hue Barkle.”
I look at her, stunned. “How did you do that so quickly?”
“I don’t know.”
“SAT Abby rides again.” I shake my head. “Thank God you dog-ear pages.”
“What?”
“Otherwise, you’d be too perfect. It’s gross.”
She scoffs. “Excuse me?”
“I’m just saying.” I count it off on my fingers. “Cheerleading, dance, drama club, yearbook, student council. Perfect SAT scores—”
“Perfect critical reading.”
“Oh, okay, so you bombed math and writing.”
“Well, no.”
I grin. “Like I said. Perfect.”
“Well, I have to be.” Abby shrugs.
“Why?”
“Why do you think? Because that’s my life. Because black girls have to work twice as hard. And even when we do—I mean, you heard what Morgan said.”
“Ugh. I’m sorry.” I rub my forehead. “Morgan’s just—”
“But it’s not just Morgan. Okay? What she said? That’s not like a fringe point of view. I get that all. The. Time.”
“That sucks.”
“Yeah, it does.” She tilts her head toward me. “I don’t know. It just feels like I can’t win sometimes.”
I open my mouth to reply, but I have no clue what to say. For a minute, Abby and I just look at each other. I can’t read her expression at all.
Finally, she smiles, almost wistfully. “It is what it is.”
“I guess.”
“Just don’t call me perfect again. Deal?” She wrinkles her nose at me.
“Deal.”
A man around my mom’s age steps up to give a welcome speech. Then he introduces the tour guides—three girls and a guy, all UGA seniors. They split us into two groups, and we trail behind them into the parking lot, where there are actual buses waiting to be boarded.
“I kind of wish this was a double-decker bus tour.”
“Or one of those duck tours.”
I look at her. “What the fuck is a duck tour?”
“Say that ten times fast,” says Abby.
“No way.” We settle into a seat.
“Okay, so duck tours are those boats that go on land and water.” Something about my expression makes her giggle. “No, seriously, Google it. This is a legit thing in DC.”
I start to respond, but then I realize one of the student tour guides—Fatima—is saying something important right now. “You’ll see it just to your left,” she says, “and it is part of the meal plan.”
Immediately, a dad jumps in with a slew of rapid-fire questions about his son’s dietary restrictions. Fatima is unfazed. “The dining halls can absolutely accommodate students with food allergies,” she begins.
“Well, my daughter is vegan,” a mom chimes in, glaring up at Fatima like she’s issuing a challenge.
&
nbsp; “Totally fine. There are lots of vegan options—”
The mom cuts her off. “I’d appreciate something a little more specific than ‘lots of vegan options.’” She makes air quotes as she says this. The vegan daughter in question shrinks into her seat, like she’s trying to disappear.
“Now you know why I didn’t want my parents here,” Abby mutters.
“No kidding.”
“I guarantee, right now my dad would be asking how they’re going to gender segregate the dorms.”
“Um . . . they’re not?” I say, lips tugging upward. “Because it’s college?”
“Yeah, he missed that memo.”
I mean, that’s the way to keep people from hooking up, Mr. Suso. Totally foolproof, except for the fact that gay people exist. How can Abby’s dad not realize that? Seriously, how can a person with a lesbian sister not even consider that as a possibility?
Not that it is a possibility. Not for Abby anyway. Because Abby’s as straight as a Popsicle stick.
Hours later, I’m in Caitlin’s bathroom, attempting eyeliner. I’ve already given up on my hair. My hair is an asshole.
“Shit.”
“You okay?” Abby asks, peeking in through the doorway.
“Eyeliner injury.”
“Been there.” She grimaces. “Hey, can I join you?”
“Sure.” I step sideways, making room. She sets a bottle of goopy white stuff next to the sink and starts wetting her hair. “What’s that?” I ask.
“Curl milk,” she says. Then she squirts some into her hand. “Keeps the curls popping.”
I really love your hair, I think.
“Good to know,” I say.
“What do you think you’re going to wear?” she asks, threading her hands through her hair.
“Um. This? And my combat boots? I didn’t bring extra clothes.”
“That works.”
“Did you?”
I see her smiling in the mirror.
“Look at you, all prepared.” I uncap my mascara.
She watches me for a moment. “Your eyes are so green.”
I flush. “It’s the lighting.”
“Mmhmm. They’re really pretty.”
There’s a hiccup in my stomach. I try to focus on my eyelashes. Which are nothing like Abby’s eyelashes. Abby’s eyelashes should have their own zip code.
She leaves, and then returns with a makeup bag. I wasn’t sure she even wore makeup. As far as I can tell, she doesn’t usually, at least not in school. But she knows what she’s doing—dusting and blending until her skin glows and her eyes are wide and soft.
“This will be fun, right?” she says, glancing at me.
“If you say so.”
She meets my eyes in the mirror and smiles before heading to the bedroom to change.
The party starts at eight thirty, but Abby won’t let us head down until after nine. “We really don’t want to be the first ones there,” she says.
We take selfies while we wait—and it takes approximately a thousand tries before we get one that satisfies Abby. That’s strangely reassuring. I always figured magical girls like Abby get their selfies right on the first try. She sends it to Simon, and he writes back immediately.
Wow.
With a period. And it’s weird how the period makes it feel like he really means it. I stare at my knees.
Abby nudges me, grinning. “Should we head down there?”
“Sure.”
We walk out to the elevators—and Abby grabs my hand, squeezing it quickly, before pressing the button for the fifth floor. It feels strange and surreal to be here, to be doing this. It’s like a tiny trip through time. This could be us next year, wandering into Tuesday-night parties off campus.
I’m not 100 percent sure how I feel about that.
Or how I feel about the fact that she’s still holding my hand. Why do straight girls do that? How do I interpret that?
She checks the room number one more time and then knocks on the door.
It swings open right away. “Abby!” says Caitlin. She’s holding a drink—something pink in a clear plastic cup. “Guys, come meet Abby and Leah! They’re friends with my brother.”
“Just so you know, I’ve literally never met Caitlin’s brother,” Abby murmurs, a breath away from my ear. I follow her into the apartment, heart pounding in my chest.
The layout is identical to Caitlin’s—same floor plan, same chrome appliances—but the décor is so different, it’s almost disorienting. The room is lit only by dim floor lamps and a jumble of hanging Christmas lights. There’s a giant red-and-purple batik tapestry draped across one wall and woven throw pillows on every surface. I’m pretty sure there’s no TV.
There are only eight or nine people here besides us, packed onto the couch and around the kitchen table. A guy with a beard plays guitar while two girls sing along in harmony. We meet Eva, who is stop-you-in-your-tracks gorgeous—tall, sort of androgynous, with light brown skin and closely cropped hair. Caitlin rests a hand on each of our shoulders and asks if we want drinks.
Abby says yes, and I guess that sort of bugs me. Sometimes I think I’m the only person in the world who doesn’t drink.
“Oh, Abby, I love your little boots!” Caitlin says, returning moments later with a plastic cup. We all settle in cross-legged on the floor.
Abby’s wearing the ankle boots she bought yesterday and a short patterned skirt, and the effect is disarming. She’s just so fucking wholesome. It almost pisses me off.
“Yo.” Abby pokes me. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?” Holy. Fuck. My cheeks are burning.
“Like you want to kill me.”
For a moment, I’m speechless. I’ve never been so grateful for my resting bitch face. Ever.
Eva sinks down beside me. “So, Caitlin says you’re a drummer.”
“Kind of.”
“Kind of?” Abby shoves me lightly. “She’s an amazing drummer. Like, amazing.”
“Huh,” Eva says, turning to the guitarist on the couch. “Tom, Caitlin’s friend is a drummer.”
“No way,” says the bearded guy.
“Way,” Eva says. Then they turn back to me. “So, I don’t know if Cait mentioned this, but they’re going to need a new drummer after I graduate. You’re going to be a freshman, right?”
I nod.
“Interesting,” says Eva.
Meanwhile, Tom and the harmonizing girls have wandered over. The girls introduce themselves as Victoria and Nodoka, and they hug me like it’s nothing. Like it’s a handshake. They hug Abby, too.
It’s as if someone unhooked my brain from my body. I’m here, but I’m not here. Smiling like it’s a reflex. Nodding without knowing why.
“No pressure though,” Nodoka says.
I look up with a start and realize everyone’s looking at me.
“I’m . . .”
“Have you ever used an e-kit before?” asks Eva. “Took some getting used to, but now I’m a convert.”
“Nick’s kit is electric, right?” Abby says.
I nod slowly.
“Well, if you’re up for it, we’d love to hear you play,” Tom says.
“Right now?”
“Sure.”
“Okay.” I feel dazed. Like, holy shit. I’m at a college party full of gorgeous people, and I think I’ve just been invited to try out for a band.
“Let me dig out my headphones,” says Eva.
Five minutes later, I’m perched on a drum stool in Eva’s bedroom while Abby tucks into the desk chair, arms wrapped around her knees. Meanwhile, Eva, Nodoka, Tom, and Victoria sprawl out on the bed. My heart thuds against my rib cage. I don’t know why I even bother drumming. I could just stick a microphone next to my chest.
I adjust Eva’s headphones over my ears and give a few experimental taps on the snare. Electronic kits always throw me for a second. Not to mention the fact that I’m being watched by a bunch of actual musicians in an actual colleg
e band.
And Abby.
I’m just so aware of her sometimes.
But this is drumming, and I know drumming. If I could kick ass in the school talent show two years in a row, I can kick ass now. It’s actually easier with headphones. They make me feel like my rhythms are a secret, like they live between my ears only. Even though I know that’s not true. The sound’s not deafening, like with an acoustic kit, but you can hear every thwack and tap on the pad. I just need to stop overthinking it.
I have to get in the zone. I have to find the pulse of the song and fall into it. I let my eyes drift shut as my sticks find the pads. I’ll pretend I’m just messing around in Nick’s basement. I don’t even have to play a real song. Just wherever my hands take me.
When I open my eyes, Tom’s nodding along, tapping the pads of his fingers together like guitar frets, the way Nick does. Nodoka’s eyes are closed. And I catch Eva mouthing to Victoria: wow.
I grin, cheeks burning. And Abby’s grinning, too.
I wouldn’t say Abby’s drunk, but she’s bright-eyed and smiley. She leans against me all the way back to Caitlin’s apartment.
“That was amazing,” she says. “Aren’t you glad we went?”
“Yeah,” I admit.
“You did great. I was like, damn. This girl is drumming for these college kids like it’s nothing.”
I laugh. “Okay.”
“You’re going to call them, right? You’re going to be their drummer, and I’m going to go to all your shows, and when you become famous, I’m going to tell everyone I know you.” She sinks down on the couch and tugs off her boots. “Do you think you’ll use a stage name?”
“I think we’re getting a little ahead of ourselves.”
I take my own boots off and tuck into the opposite corner of the couch. Funny how we’ve been here less than two days, but we’ve already claimed our couch territories. Me on the left, Abby on the right. An ocean of empty space in between us.
She leans back, sighing happily. “See, this is why I’m so glad to be single. Because I can just hang out with you and not have to run upstairs to call my boyfriend.” She stretches her foot out to tap it against mine. “I can just be in the moment. I love this.”