“So, let me get this straight . . .”
We’re standing in the foyer of Marijke’s house and she’s staring at the speaker dock looking doubtful.
“I drive to Tommy’s,” she’s saying, “park down the street, sneak into his backyard, turn this thing on, and—what? Just stand with it over my head, waiting for him to hear me?”
I shrug. “Yeah. That’s about it. Why, were you expecting fireworks?”
“No, not necessarily. I just think that when guys put themselves out there like that, it’s totally romantic. When a girl does it, she just looks like a stalker.”
I frown. “Who cares what it looks like? Who is going to see you besides Tommy?”
“Well, you are, for starters. I already told you, I’m not doing this without you as my wingman.”
I arch an eyebrow. “So, what, am I going to be holding your hand or something?”
“Nope, I’ve already figured it all out. It’s gonna be dark out and Tommy’s backyard is practically a jungle. I got my dad to bring home one of the portable spotlights they use for presentations at the dealership. I figure you could put the spot on me so Tommy could see me—so he’d know it was me and not some crazy person.”
Huh. Guess she’s really thought this through.
“I suppose I can do that,” I say slowly. “And now that I think about it, I should probably drive too—Tommy won’t know my car if he sees it accidentally.”
“Good idea. Come on, let’s go upstairs. I need outfit advice.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously—come on.”
When we get to her bedroom, I glance at the outfit choice that’s spread out on her bed: a tight black mini and a pair of sky-high silver stilettos.
“Um, well, I would imagine Tommy’s backyard is made of, you know, grass. If that’s the case, you aren’t walking anywhere in those spikes—they’ll sink right in and stay there.”
“Good point, good point.” She dives back into her closet and brings out a pair of glittery flats and a jean skirt.
“You are wearing a shirt too, right?”
Marijke rolls her eyes.
She picks up a black cami from her bed and shakes it at me.
“Okay, so, a skimpy tank top and tiny skirt . . . and what exactly are you trying to make happen? A lap dance?”
“Har, har.” But Marijke now looks doubtfully at her new outfit choice, and I can’t help but laugh.
“It’s going to be dark. Who cares what you’re wearing? Just get dressed so we can get out of here. I have to be home by eleven.”
It’s a quarter to nine when we finally make it back down the stairs.
“Mom? Dad?” Marijke calls. I follow her as she walks into the kitchen. We both stop short when we see her parents. They’re standing very close to one another and are talking quietly, with serious looks on both of their faces.
Marijke arches an eyebrow at them. “I’m going to finish studying at Lily’s house.”
“Not too late, okay?” her dad says, glancing at the clock.
“Okay.”
“Good night, sweetie,” her mom says, her voice almost sugary and oddly fake.
As I back down the driveway, I feel obligated to say something, so I go with, “Your parents seem really nice.”
Marijke snorts.
“I love them, really. But sometimes they are just . . . too much.”
I’m not really sure what that means, but I don’t ask questions. Who am I to judge someone’s parents when my mom is probably nominating herself to be the next Bachelorette as we speak?
Instead, I let Marijke direct me toward where Tommy lives, a few miles outside of town. The farther we drive, the bigger the houses get. When we finally pull into Tommy’s neighborhood, I’m gawking at the McMansions and whistling through my teeth.
“Wow. I don’t think I knew there were houses like this outside of the Real Housewives.”
Marijke laughs. “Tommy’s family is loaded. His dad’s a surgeon and his mom’s some kind of ad executive. They make tons of money, but they’re never home.”
“Wow. I had no idea he was rich.”
She shrugs. “He tries to hide it—vintage car, used guitars, that kind of thing. I don’t think he really wants people to know the truth.”
“So will Tommy be the only one there tonight?”
She shakes her head. “I think Tommy’s sister is home from college for a couple weeks. And his parents could be home, but I’m hoping he hears this before anyone else.”
I hope that too. Otherwise, this could get pretty freaking embarrassing for everyone involved.
We move farther into the neighborhood, where the houses back up to a thick line of trees.
“Okay, go ahead and park,” Marijke says, directing me over the grass. “His house is down at the bottom of the cul-de-sac. We can walk from here.”
I carry the spotlight, which is sort of like a glorified flashlight but bigger. Marijke grabs the speaker dock with my iPod already hooked up. Quickly, we shuffle down the road in the dark. The houses are far enough away from the street that there’s little light revealing us to anyone who might be watching. It’s one of those kinds of neighborhoods without street lamps or sidewalks.
I gotta admit, Tommy’s house is pretty amazing. Nothing like the thirty-year-old ranchers and split-levels in my neighborhood. It’s blue, I think, although it’s dark so it could just be blue in the dim light. There are numerous windows and a fancy front door. Above it, a stained-glass panel catches the porch lamplight and shoots a golden-rosy glow out into the world. There are a few cars parked in the driveway. Tommy’s is closest to the garage, with a little two-door BMW parked behind it.
“Good, he’s here,” Marijke breathes. “And that’s his sister’s car. So hopefully his folks are out.”
I just nod as we move around the side of the house. For a split second, I consider the intelligence of this idea—these are the kind of houses with alarm systems and security cameras. I wonder if someone is catching us on tape right now and simultaneously calling 911. I try to shake the thought from my head.
We won’t be here long enough to get arrested, I tell myself.
Then I force myself to believe it.
Marijke has me stand in the very back of the yard, where the trees get thick and the underbrush clings to my jeans and twists around my ankles. She stands about fifty feet in front of me, roughly in the middle of the lawn. As she reaches to push play on the iPod, I stop her.
“Wait—what am I supposed to do? I mean, if he comes out and you guys are all, like, romantic or whatever.”
She shrugs. “You can stay or you can go. He can take me home if you want.”
“Fine. Just don’t forget I’m here when you start groping each other.”
I wave a hand, signaling for her to go ahead and start the music. I fiddle with the spotlight and it flashes on just as the first loud notes of Peter Gabriel’s song burst from the speakers.
I look back up at Marijke, who is standing there with total confidence—shoulders back, head held high, speaker dock far above her head. I feel an overwhelming sense of pride—she’s really rocking this.
I have a little trouble getting the spotlight on her and she glares back at me, only to have me practically blind her. But once I’ve got it steady, I take a deep breath and watch the upstairs windows, waiting for some sign of life. Honestly, it’s kind of hard to see with the spotlight’s aura glowing around me. All I can really see is Marijke, sort of swaying now, as the song moves into the iconic chorus.
I can’t believe he hasn’t heard the music yet. I drop my arms and try to regain some feeling in them. In the air, Peter Gabriel’s voice croons about light and heat and being complete. Peering up at the house, I force myself not to give up. Instead, I shove my arms back in the air.
After another minute passes, though, I’m beginning to feel doubtful. That is, until two pale figures emerge from the darkness. I don’t have any trouble seeing who they are. Or who they aren’t, really.
They aren’t Tommy.
I hear her talking to them, and she signals for me to come closer. I kill the lights and stumble out of the wooded area, my eyes adjusting to the darkness around me.
“This is Lily,” she says as I approach. I can hear her voice quavering a bit. “She’s a friend of mine from school. Lily, this is Mr. and Mrs. Lawson. Tommy’s parents.”