“So why are you hiding in the bathroom?” she asks.
“Why do you care?” I shoot back.
“Quinn . . . ,” she starts, then takes a deep breath, like she’s about to launch into some big speech about our friendship. My heart soars with hope for a second, wondering if she’s going to say she’s sorry for everything that happened, that she shouldn’t have blown me off after Lyla got so mad at us. But then a look of doubt passes over her face, and I wonder if maybe she’s actually going to tell me why we can’t be friends anymore. And I can’t take hearing that, not right after what just happened with Abram.
“Stop,” I say. “I can’t . . .”
She nods. “You want to talk about it?”
I shake my head, even though I do want to talk about it. The real it, not some dumb bullshit about not getting into Stanford or missing out on an internship. “It’s a boy,” I blurt.
“Oh.” Aven nods in understanding, like she knows exactly what that’s like. “He broke your heart?”
I shake my head, not sure if you can count what’s going on with me and Abram as him breaking my heart. “I don’t know,” I say. “I just met him. And he seems . . . I mean, it seems like maybe he likes me.”
“So then what’s the problem?”
“The problem is that we’re all wrong for each other. And he lives here. And I hardly know him.”
Aven shrugs, like all this is totally normal. “The heart wants what it wants.”
“Yeah, well, what if the heart is really messed up and confused?”
“All hearts are messed up and confused.”
“So then how can I trust what’s real and what isn’t?”
She shakes her head. “You can’t.”
“You’re making no sense.” Seriously, she’s talking in riddles. I should have known better than to confide in her.
There’s a knock on the stall door. “Come on!” someone yells. “There are people waiting out here! Find somewhere else to do that lesbian shit.”
Aven sighs and then stands up. She turns to go, and just when I’ve written her off as not knowing anything about love or anything else, she turns back around. “Quinn,” she says seriously. “If you’ve found someone you really like, and he likes you back . . . well, that’s amazing. He must be pretty special if he’s making you react like this. And I know we’re not friends anymore, and you don’t know what’s going on in my life. But you need to trust me when I tell you this—if you think you have a chance with someone you really like, well, then you need to follow your heart. That, I know.”
She gives me a comforting little squeeze on my shoulder and then walks out of the stall.
Here is how the rest of the night goes (although there’s really no need for a recap—if I ever wanted to remember it, all I would have to do is look in the dictionary under “predictable”):
Celia gets drunk and pukes over the side of the boat. Paige holds her hair back.
I don’t see Abram again, which is actually kind of weird. I mean, we’re on a boat—it’s not like he could just disappear. Unless he jumped overboard and swam back to shore in an effort not to have to talk to me. (Ha-ha. Only half joking.)
When we get back to the hotel, Paige and I sneak Celia inside and down to their room, hoping no one sees us. Thankfully, no one does, except this really annoying girl named Juliana who shakes her head sadly at Celia, like oh, drunk again, when everyone knows Juliana’s one of the biggest partiers in our school. But whatever.
Celia pukes again on her way into the room, all over the carpet in the hallway. But I’m not in the mood to deal with it, so after I make sure she’s settled into her bed on her side so she doesn’t vomit and choke on it in the night, I make Paige deal with the mess before heading up to my room.
I’m dreading seeing Aven after what happened in the bathroom, or Lyla after what happened on the beach—but luckily, I have the room to myself. I put my headphones in and download one of those apps that’s supposed to hypnotize you into relaxing, but it doesn’t help.
I can’t stop thinking about Abram—the hurt look on his face tonight, the feel of his lips on mine, how he’s a perfect mix of predictable and surprising. I wonder how I can like him so much when there are tons of guys at my school who are more my type that I couldn’t care less about.
Maybe those guys at school aren’t really your type.
The thought is jarring. Of course they’re my type. They’re smart and interesting and almost all of them have gotten into good schools.
But maybe it matters more how you feel when you’re around someone than what their GPA is or if they go to community college.
But even if that’s true, it doesn’t have anything to do with me and Abram. He lives in Florida. And with any luck, I’m going away to Stanford next year. Everyone knows that long-distance relationships are doomed, especially when the guy is a superhot club promoter who’s meeting new girls every night.
Besides, after today, I’m sure Abram wants nothing to do with me.
And it’s this thought—knowing that he walked away from me tonight, that he didn’t even try to convince me to stay—that’s the final nail in the coffin of hope, the final roadblock that stops my heart in its tracks before it has a chance to take over.
FOURTEEN
WHEN I WAKE UP THE NEXT MORNING, THERE’S a split second where my body is awake but my brain isn’t quite there yet. It’s a moment of sweet relief before the events of yesterday come rushing back to me. My mouth is dry and my head is heavy, even though I didn’t drink last night. I glance at the clock. Eight a.m. Three hours until I have to be in downtown Siesta Key for my brunch interview with Biogene.
I glance around the room. Lyla’s bed is empty. Aven’s in bed, but she’s always been a really heavy sleeper, so I won’t have to worry about waking her up while I get ready.
I start the shower and let the water get hot while I send a quick text to Paige.
Celia okay?
I doubt they’re going to be up this early, not after the night they had, but I know Celia will get pissy if she thinks I didn’t at least check in on her. Plus, if I’m being completely honest, I kind of don’t really care if I wake Paige up. I have a flash of guilt as I remember how I left her last night, to clean up Celia’s mess (literally and figuratively), but I don’t feel that bad. There’s been a lot of times I’ve been the one to have to clean up after Celia by myself, and a couple of times I’ve even had to clean up after the two of them by myself. So whatever.
Once I’m out of the shower, I dry my hair, then throw on shorts and a T-shirt. I pull out my laptop and spend the next hour or so brushing up on my Biogene facts and learning about the woman who’s supposed to be interviewing me. Her name is Dya Brown, and she actually seems pretty interesting. She went to Stanford (yay!—something to bond over), and won a bunch of research awards while she was there. She graduated eight years ago, so she’s young enough to hopefully remember what it was like to be in my position—about to finish high school and starting to plan my future.
After I’ve brushed up on my facts, I steam my interview suit, wishing I’d thought about the fact that I was going to be interviewing in Florida, and maybe brought something a little less heavy. The skirt part is fine, but the jacket seems a little formal for the Florida heat. Oh, well. It still looks really good on me (my mom believes in getting things tailored, even jeans, which I’ve always thought was crazy, especially since her tailor is this old Italian woman who’s always trying to hook me up with one of her sons, but now I’m glad my mom’s so on top of things), and that’s all that counts.
As I’m sliding my feet into a pair of sensible black pumps, Paige texts me back.
She’s feeling better! Gonna take a scuba-diving lesson, boat leaves at ten, won’t be back until late—good luck at your interview, we know you’re going to do greeeeatt xxo
I get annoyed for a second, thinking about how they’re just taking off for the day without me. Why would they book a scuba l
esson when they know I’m not going to be around? What am I supposed to do? Just spend all day by myself? They really can be pretty selfish.
But whatever. I can’t think about that right now.
I have an interview to go to.
It’s not that far from the hotel to the outdoor café where I’m supposed to meet Dya, and even though the sun is high in the sky, there’s a nice breeze coming off the ocean, and it feels cooler than it did yesterday.
So I decide to walk, figuring I’m going to get there early anyway, so if I end up a little bit of a mess, I can just pop into the bathroom and fix myself up. As I walk, I get a text from my mom, listing all the things to remember to tell Dya, reminding me not-so-subtly that if I want to get into Stanford, it’s important for me to get this internship. I know she’s right—Stanford’s already rejected me, and even with my dad’s connections and promises, I’m going to need all the help I can get.
Usually when my back is against the wall like this, I thrive. I’ve always done really well under pressure. But as I walk toward the cafe, even though I should be excited, all I feel is dread. My legs are heavy, my stomach is churning, and I can feel myself starting to sweat under my suit.
I try to tell myself I’m just nervous because I want this so badly. But I’ve been in situations where there’s a lot riding on something, and I’ve never felt this way before. The sun feels blindingly hot, even though I know it’s really not, and spots swim in front of my eyes.
I take a couple of deep breaths, and after a few more steps, I start to feel better. By the time I get to the café, I’m almost back to normal.
And then I see her.
Even though I’m early, she’s already here. She’s sitting at a table near the door, a glass of orange juice in front of her, tapping away on her iPad. I recognize her from her picture on the Biogene website, but she looks different at the same time. I know, of course, that everyone is going to look different from the pictures on their companies’ websites, that those pictures are taken professionally so the company can look their best to prospective clients and employees.
But still. The woman in front of me looks like she’s aged a lot since her picture. She has dark circles under her eyes, and even though she’s meticulously dressed in a white linen suit and black slingbacks, she looks too . . . I don’t know, formal. Like the kind of person who’s constantly having to worry about spilling something on themselves, or saying the wrong thing. It’s not that she’s nervous—it’s actually the opposite of that. In fact, she looks like she’s comfortable being like this, comfortable being so buttoned-up and in control.
My stomach does another flip as I take a step toward the café. I bypass the hostess stand and slip into the bathroom, deciding to give myself a quick once-over before my interview.
After being in the sun for so long, it takes my eyes a second to adjust to the darkness of the bathroom. I glance in the mirror. My face looks clammy and my forehead is shiny. I take a paper towel and mist it with the anti-shine spray I have in my purse, then pat it on my skin. I regloss my lips, adjust my suit, then gather my hair into a professional-looking loose bun.
You got this, I tell myself. This is everything you’ve ever wanted, and you’re going to nail it. I check to make sure I have nothing stuck in my teeth, give myself what I hope is a confident smile, and then walk out into the restaurant.
I head immediately for Dya’s table. She’s on the phone now, and I can overhear her telling someone in a cheerful voice that she’ll take care of it, but her face looks drawn.
When she sees me standing there, she ends her phone call. She gives me a friendly smile. “Quinn?” she asks, standing up and holding her hand out to me.
I freeze.
In the middle of the café, in front of Dya and everyone, I freeze. It’s like my feet just refuse to move.
A look of confusion passes over Dya’s face, like maybe she has the wrong girl, like maybe I’m not Quinn after all.
“Quinn?” she tries again.
The room starts to spin, and my vision blurs around the edges. I give Dya a smile and open my mouth to tell her yes, sorry, it’s me, I’m Quinn, I’m happy to meet her and so excited to have this opportunity.
Before graduation, I promise to . . . do something crazy.
“I . . . ,” I manage.
Dya frowns.
I open my mouth to try again.
But nothing comes out.
I turn around and run out of the restaurant.
I thought I’d start to panic once I was out on the sidewalk. I thought my throat would close up and my heart would flutter and my breathing would get shallow. But it’s just the opposite. Now that I’m out in the fresh air, I actually feel better.
It’s the same feeling I had the other day when I was on the boat with Abram, when I realized I didn’t have to worry about getting good grades or playing by the rules.
I walk fast, wanting to put as much distance between myself and the café as I can. The last thing I want is Dya coming after me and asking me what’s wrong. But after a few minutes it starts to become clear that’s not going to happen, so I start to relax.
Holy crap! I just walked out of my interview with Biogene. If that wasn’t doing something crazy, I don’t know what is.
I wander down the street, stopping briefly to buy myself an iced latte and a blueberry-lemon tart from a corner bakery. I eat it and then continue my walk. Even though it’s hotter now than it was when I left the hotel this morning, I don’t feel flushed or uncomfortable.
All I feel is happy.
And free.
I wonder if I’m having some kind of mental breakdown. Or maybe it’s one of those rebellious phases teenagers have sometimes, the ones where they do all the right things until they get to college, and then they start partying and going crazy because they finally have freedom. Of course, I’m not even in college yet, but still.
I’m shocked to realize I don’t care what the reasons are, that I’m just happy I’m not sitting in that café on this beautiful day, interviewing for an internship I’m not sure I deserve.
It’s like a high, deciding what you really want to do and then just doing it.
My phone rings, and I look down at the caller ID, expecting it to be someone from Biogene, asking me what the hell is going on.
But it’s not.
It’s my mom.
I expect to feel nervous, but I don’t.
“Hello?” I say. It comes out sounding cheerful, even though I wasn’t trying for that.
“Quinn?” my mom asks, sounding panicked. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say. “Did they call you?”
“Yes, they called me! Why did you run out like that? Are you sick?”
“Mom, I don’t want to do the interview with Biogene.”
There’s silence on the other end of the line, and then my mom puts on her soothing doctor voice. “Quinn, honey, it’s normal to have some anxiety about this, but you know that avoiding challenging situations won’t make them any easier.”
“I’m not anxious,” I say, although I guess that’s not completely true. I’m not anxious about the interview. But I am anxious about ending up doing something I don’t want to do, or spending the rest of my time in Florida working for something I’m not even really sure I want anymore.
“Then what is it?” my mom demands, her distress at the thought of me ruining the family name apparently overriding her ability to sound calm and in control.
“I just . . . don’t want the internship.” There’s no doubt in my voice while I’m saying it, even though there’s just a tiny sliver of it in my mind. A tiny, tiny little voice that tells me I shouldn’t be saying it. But that’s only because it’s a habit, like when you go to a restaurant and order the same thing every time. It feels uncomfortable because it’s different, not because it’s wrong.
“Quinn, that’s ridiculous,” my mom says. “Of course you want the internship. It’s all you’ve ever wanted.
”
“No, that’s . . . I thought I wanted it. But now I don’t know what I want.” I take a deep breath. “Mom, don’t you think it’s a little weird that it was my interview, and yet they called you to see if I was okay?”
“Of course they’re going to call me, Quinn, I’m your mother! They were worried about you!”
“If they were worried about me, they would have followed me out of the café or called me directly! They called you because you’re the one they’re worried about, Mom. You’re the one who has a connection to them.”
“Quinn, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but whatever it is, we can discuss it later. Right now you have to go back to the café. The woman has agreed to wait there for ten more minutes, but if you’re not back by then—”
“I’m not going back,” I say. “I don’t want the internship.”
There’s silence on the other end of the line, and it’s a scary silence, the kind of scary silence that makes me realize my mom is really, really mad.
“Quinn,” she says. “You will go back to that café. Now.”
“No.”
“Quinn,” she says, like she thinks that starting sentences with my name is going to change my mind, “if you don’t go back to the café, your father is going to be very, very upset with you.”
“Why?” I challenge. “Because he wants me to have the internship? Or because he’s worried about how you guys are going to look if I don’t go back?”
Another scary silence.
“Mom,” I say. “Please, you have to understand that I’m—”
But the line goes dead.
My mom hung up on me.
I stand there for a second in disbelief, just staring at the phone. My mom has never hung up on me before. Of course, I’ve never done something so blatantly against what she’s wanted me to do.
That’s the craziest thing about the whole situation—not that she hung up on me, but that this is the first time I can remember ever going against her wishes. Of course, until just now, I didn’t realize I even wanted to go against her wishes.