I stay inside all weekend. And when I say inside, I mean inside my room. I want to avoid the windows, just in case the neighbors are out there, staring at our house and having whispered conversations about what to do about the new, disruptive family.
And I want to avoid Mom. I’m still pissed at her for somehow turning Miles’s tantrum on the corner into something I was doing wrong. And there’s also a little part of me that’s afraid she’s right.
Usually on Sunday mornings, I watch Miles when Dad plays golf and Mom goes on a Costco run, but everyone stays home this Sunday. We don’t talk about it.
Caroline and I also haven’t talked since Friday. When I looked at my phone again, it was full of I told you so’s about Nico and strategizing about the next steps—and also hints at something else big with a string of mysterious smirking and confetti emojis. But when I tell her what happened with Miles, she switches to hearts instead and then gives me my space. She’s been witness to enough Johnson-family lawn meltdowns to get that I need a couple days to lie in my bed and read my favorite Sarah Dessen book for the millionth time and wallow.
By Sunday night, though, I’m sufficiently wallowed and ready to get back to business. She answers after the first ring.
“Okay, okay,” she says quickly, as if we’re midconversation. “Friday’s action was really promising. I should have known that clumsiness would do it. Classic! But we can’t get complacent. We need to follow that up strong. I really think it’s going to be the elevator. . . .”
It feels so good to laugh again. “Oh yeah?”
“Wait, but first, how’s Miles?”
“He’s good. He was good about an hour later, but it’s taking the rest of us a little bit longer. You know . . .”
“I do. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. It’s life.” I don’t want to talk about my family right now. “But girl, I don’t know how I’m going to, like, lure him to an elevator. . . .”
“You’re still not trusting my genius?” she scoffs. “Anyway, I found Nico on Instagram—”
“What? I didn’t even tell you his last name.”
“Well, that wasn’t hard to find. And then I just typed Nico Lucchese in, and, boom, I got it . . . nicothesedays.” But then her tone shifts. “Except listen, you didn’t tell me that he had a girlfriend. . . .”
I know she’s waiting for me to explain, but I stay silent, holding on to this plan for one more moment. Before she tells me that she’s over it, it’s too impossible, and gets mad at me for wasting her precious time that she could be spending with Brandon and her new friends.
“Tess?”
“Okay, I know, I know. But I just found out Friday. After we talked. And I’m not really sure how serious they are even. . . .” She’s definitely done now.
“It’s kind of important information for me to have if I’m going to be setting you up with your soulmate. How can I make an effective plan if I don’t know all of the possible obstacles?”
“Wait, what? You’re not out?”
“No, of course not!” she says, as if I just suggested something crazy. “I mean, at first it felt a little skeevy, you know, trying to take away some other girl’s boyfriend. But then I looked at her page.”
“You did?”
“First of all, her name: Poppyyyy. With four Ys. Ew.”
“Uh, is that really so bad?”
“Alone, no. But then she has one of those pictures. You know the ones: his hand is outstretched, holding hers, and she’s looking back at him with this cool smile, like aren’t we just having the best day together and I’m so happy you’re taking this spontaneous photo. Even though you know she made him do it and probably did, like, fifty-five takes. There are a million other pictures just like it on IG, with other girls and their Instagram boyfriends. It’s clear he’s just a prop to her.”
“Okay, I don’t know if I’d say—”
“And he’s only posted one photo with her in the past two months. Did you see it?”
I put her on speaker, so I can open the app and find his account. I surprisingly hadn’t looked him up yet—terrified that a rogue finger would like something on accident and cement me as a psycho stalker . . . which I guess I might be now.
“Do you see the caption?” she asks again.
“‘Love you?’” I ask, confused. “Why do you want me to see this?”
“Not love you. L-U-V and the letter U.”
“Maybe it’s just faster to write?”
“He’s in the creative writing conservatory with you, right? And it’s literally three more characters! No. No, no, no . . . there are cracks forming in their relationship. It’s built on shaky ground—basically falling apart. This is a perfect moment for you to ease on in there.” I can’t see Caroline, but I can picture her crazy eyes. Usually they’re reserved for when she’s been grounded too long or when I make one of her characters do something she doesn’t approve of, like die off or choose the wrong guy.
“Hey, what’s your big news that you were hinting at?” I ask, hoping she’ll slow her roll.
“Yes, that! Well, I’ve been wanting to tell you since Friday because of course there’s no one else I want to talk to about this. . . .”
She draws out the last word, waiting for me to attack her with questions.
“Do you want a drum roll or something. Spit it out already!”
“BRANDON ASKED ME OUT!”
I simultaneously feel like fireworks are exploding around me and also like someone punched me in the stomach. It’s confusing. “What?”
“Yeah, on Friday, during AP Lit,” she says, talking a mile a minute. “We were paired up again, and we were reading this poem. It was called ‘To Caroline,’ can you believe that? I don’t really get what it was about, but Brandon was reading it to me, and I got what he meant by it. You know what I mean? And after he was done, he took my hand under the table and asked me out. But he did it in rhyme, like the poem. ‘Please, Caroline, know that I’m true. I want to go on a date with you.’”
“Wow.”
“Isn’t that, like, perfect? It’s like something out of one of your books!”
I shake my head, snapping myself out of it. “That’s amazing, Caroline! I’m so happy for you.”
“Anyway, we went out last night, and it was just everything, Tessa. Really.”
My mind races to catch up with what she’s telling me. Caroline is smart, beautiful, and funny. Any guy would be lucky to have her. But somehow this isn’t making sense. For years we’ve dreamed of exactly this—whispering about our ideal boyfriends during sleepovers, countless games of MASH—and now it’s finally happening . . . when we are hundreds of miles away from each other. I was supposed to be involved, to be there.
Finally I mumble, “But . . . how did you get your parents to agree?” Caroline’s dad is super protective. Like, he watched her walk down the street to my house kinda protective. I’m pretty sure he’s told her she can’t date until she’s forty.
“Him and Mom were out themselves—to see that new Tom Hanks movie. I encouraged it, told them they needed a little date night to, like, reignite the spark or whatever.”
She spends the next thirty minutes describing every last detail of their date: how he took her out to get fro-yo at the Westfield Galleria, how he wore a green sweater because he remembered that was her favorite color, how he tried to end the night with a chaste kiss on her cheek before she grabbed his face and “To tell you the truth, basically rocked his world.”
I do my very best to to say “Ahhhh!” at all the right parts and tell her how perfect it all sounds. That’s how I feel, genuinely, but it’s like half of myself is having to remind the other half of that. I don’t know why this isn’t coming easier.
“This is our year, Tessa. I know it. I have my first boyfriend, and you’re . . .” There’s a long pause. We both feel it. “Well, you’re going to kill it with your writing and find your happily ever after. Amazing things are going to happen for us.”
I wish I could believe her. But the rest of our call is devoted to analyzing Brandon’s swoony follow-up texts and discussing what she’ll do tomorrow morning at school, all part of Caroline’s very real love story, and I feel silly bringing up my hypothetical love story at all.
“You look pretty,” Mom says when I walk into the kitchen Monday morning.
In between reading and wallowing, I used some of my free time this weekend to study YouTube tutorials on twist-outs, and I’m pretty happy with how it turned out. And I’m wearing one of my favorite skirts—it’s tight at the waist but goes out full, with a forest-green floral print. I paired it with gold flats and an eyelet sleeveless top.
But I don’t want to talk to my mom about it.
“Thanks.”
“Do you want a ride today? I have a later shift, and I’d love to see Chrysalis again. . . . Maybe we could talk?” She pushes the laptop in front of her to the side, and I can see that she has a tab opened to eBay. I’ve heard her and Dad having panicked discussions about it all weekend—they haven’t been able to find a copy of Enter the Dream Zone anywhere, probably because Miles is their only remaining fan.
“No, that’s okay,” I say, grabbing a yogurt from the fridge. “Sam can drive me.”
Miles walks into the kitchen. He’s still in his pajamas even though it’s getting late, but Mom doesn’t rush to him immediately, which is . . . different. Instead she keeps trying to catch my eye.
“Are you sure, Tessa?” she says. “I think it might be good for us. To have that time.”
I shrug. “I don’t want to ditch Sam.” Ignoring her searching face, I make my way over to Miles. “Do you want me to help you pick out something to wear? I think slippers may be against dress code.”
He smiles real wide. “You’re not the boss of me. And these look better than what you have on!”
“Oh yeah, who made you Mr. Fashion Police, bud?”
“One day you’re in and the next day you’re out!” He’s trying to do some accent I can’t place, but it just dissolves into mischievous giggles. “And you’re out, Tessie!”
“Wait, Project Runway?” I laugh. “Is that still on?”
He smiles even bigger, pleased that I got it. “I watched reruns yesterday! I watched it alllll day! That’s how come I know that you’re out!”
“Tessa . . . ,” Mom cuts in. But the doorbell interrupts her, and I happily flee to answer it.
I’m confused, though, when it’s Sam standing there, two plastic Tupperware containers in his arms. “Wait, am I late? I’m sorry. I don’t even know what time it is. . . .”
“No. No—it’s just . . . does your brother, uh, does Miles like Oreos?”
“Um . . . yeah?”
His shoulders drop as he lets out a large exhale. “Okay, good. I should have checked. But I just . . . I don’t know, didn’t. So, uh, I made him these cookies-and-cream donuts.” He opens the larger container, revealing perfectly iced donuts with crumbled Oreos on top. “I know they’re not exactly a healthy breakfast, but he can always save them for later. And, um, this is chocolate ice cream I made with Oreos and chocolate chips. It actually should go in the freezer pretty quick.”
I know I should say something, but I’m speechless. Sam’s cheeks turn pink, and he looks down and starts rubbing the side of his face.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have. I mean, maybe it wasn’t my place—”
“No! Not at all! Just . . . why?”
“He just seemed so upset on Friday, and that DVD, it’s not available anywhere online. Did you know that? Well, yeah, I’m sure you guys do.” He’s talking fast again, but still not looking at me. “And I just wanted to help, and this is the only way I know—”
“Sam Weiner, is that you?” He’s interrupted by Mom barreling in from the kitchen, which forces him to raise his head and make eye contact.
“Hi, Mrs. Johnson. These are for you. Well, for Miles.”
“Oh my goodness! Aren’t you just the sweetest?” Mom beams, and Miles comes running to the door, hearing his name.
“Donuts!” Miles shouts. He does a little dance in excitement. I look at Sam, and he’s just smiling. And not the fake smile that people do when they’re uncomfortable, but the real kind. I’m smiling the real kind too.