19 So, About Those Happily Ever Afters…
I find Vindhya after school in the same room where we first met nearly three weeks ago. She’s reading a magazine. Her hair is in a devil-may-care braid—the kind a girl studies hair tutorials to master. I step into the room and close the door behind me.
“Hey, Vindhya, can we talk?”
She shrugs without looking up from the magazine.
I clear my throat. “I just want to say I’m sorry. I had no idea something like that would happen, and I… I never would have—”
She meets my gaze finally. She is stone-cold. “What is this? Do you need closure so you can feel better?”
I shift my purse strap on my shoulder. “No. I want to help. Is there anything I can…?”
Her mouth drops open, and she laughs one silent, mirthless ha. “I think I’ve had enough of your ‘help.’ ”
“I’m just trying to—”
“Stay away from me.”
It stings like a slap, but I force myself to hold her gaze. “Okay. Well, if you change your mind, the offer stands.”
She determinedly looks down at her magazine.
I walk out the door, head high.
So. That could have gone better.
Ten minutes after leaving Vindhya with her magazine, I pull Carmen aside in the girls’ locker room. We hang back while the others file out to the gym for practice. As soon as the door swings closed, I dive right in. “Carmen, are you happy?”
“Huh?” She looks like I just handed her a brand-new phone that may or may not explode in her face.
I try again: “Is your life better now than it was before you made it onto the squad?”
“Oh.” She looks down at her sneakers, clicks her heels together like, There’s no place like home, and looks back up. “Sure.”
“That lacked conviction.”
Her eyes crinkle. “Well, I mean, I love dancing. So that part’s great. But.” She shrugs.
“What?”
“I guess I thought I would automatically be besties with the whole squad, you know? But I feel like an outsider still. Nobody’s mean or anything. I just…” Her head ticks to the right. “Okay, like, I know Surya Agrawal is having a party over fall break, and I’m the only girl on the squad who hasn’t been invited.”
I can hear the warm-up music. We’re officially late for practice, which means we’ll be running sprints afterward. Carmen clearly registers that fact too, because she darts a mournful look at the door. But I need to finish this. I say, “Is there anything I can do? I want you to be happy.”
She hesitates. She opens her mouth and closes it. Bites her lip. Finally she murmurs, “They all follow you, Charity.”
I cringe a little, because ouch. She didn’t come right out and say that it’s my fault the Poms haven’t embraced her, but that’s the gist, right? I’ve been keeping my distance, so everyone else has too. I press my finger between my eyes to ease the tension there. “Carmen, starting right now, we’re friends. Okay? Real friends. And I promise you’ll get an invite to that party. I’m on it.”
She smiles, but her eyes are puzzled. I put my arm around her and push through the locker room door so that everyone gets an eyeful of how tight we are. Coach doesn’t pause practice, just waves us into the formation.
An hour and forty minutes later, I drag myself to my car, still sweating from topping off an hour of dancing with ten minutes of wind sprints. Plus my arms are buzzing from nudging Coach to let us leave halfway through our punishment. Noah is leaning against the Fit playing with the flip phone he had the day he sent me that first creepy text.
He glances up. “ ’Bout time.”
I pop the hatch and throw my dance bag and backpack in. “What are you doing here, and why the flip do you have a phone from 2005?”
“You’re kinda my ride, genius. And it’s a communicator.”
I raise an eyebrow. He holds the “communicator” out. I slam the hatch closed. He says, “Actually, it’s a Bluetooth. Check it out.” He flicks his wrist, and the thing unfolds with a chirp. He says into it, “Scotty, call Charity.”
It chirps again, and a second later my phone rings. I answer it, even though Noah is standing three feet away from me. “Hello?”
He grins at me, still talking into his communicator, “Hey, is this the Fairy Godmother Hotline?”
I snicker and cobble together a quick slogan. “We glimpse it, we grant it. For girl troubles, press or say ‘one.’ For all other wishes, press or say ‘two.’ ”
He says, loud and overemphasized, “One.”
I can’t seem to look away from him. His eyes are mostly green in the late-afternoon sun. They sparkle with teasing humor. I keep talking to him on the phone, possibly leaning in a tiny bit to get a better view of his pretty, pretty eyes. “Go ahead.”
“Well, there’s this one girl. I’ve loved her as long as I can remember, and I thought I—” His eyes change. More blue. More longing.
Suddenly I don’t want to play anymore.
Listening to Noah gush about Holly is like running my knuckles across a cheese grater. I lower my phone. “Sorry. The hotline’s closed. Let’s go.”
I open the car door and slide into the driver’s seat. Noah gets in. To the glove compartment he says, “You okay, Charity?”
“I’m fine. I just…” What is wrong with me? I love love. I want Noah and Holly to get their fairy-tale ending. It’s gotta be this whole crappy day that’s making me irrational. I say, “Carmen isn’t happy. Vindhya is miserable, and she won’t even talk to me. I mean, what if none of them are happy? I’m trying to fix my mistakes, but—” I back the car out and head toward the exit. “Anyway, it’ll be fine. I’m sorry for whining.”
Noah pushes his glasses up. “What can I do?”
“Nothing. I’ll handle it.”
He sounds a little exasperated. “Charity, we’re friends now. Remember? All you have to do is ask for help.”
I stiffen my spine. Leaning on someone who will be out of my life so soon is like setting fire to the garbage pile I’m already in. “Don’t worry about it. I’m fine.”
“Say ‘Help me, Noah.’ ”
“I’m not saying that.”
“Ayúdame, Noah,” he says in a near-perfect Dora the Explorer impersonation.
I roll my eyes.
“HIQaH,” he barks.
“I feel like I should flick you right now. Is that a real language?”
“It’s Klingon for ‘help me.’ ”
I reach out to flick him, but he grabs my hand. I tug it until he lets me go. Eyes on the road, I say, “There’s nothing you can do. It’s my problem.”
“Oh.” He heaves a dejected sigh. “I guess I shouldn’t have gotten the DL about Vindhya from my friends in Robotics Club, then.”
I practically yell, “You have friends in Robotics Club?!”
“I just spoke Klingon. How would I not have friends in Robotics Club?” He crosses his arms smugly.
“Yeah, come to think of it, why aren’t you in Robotics Club?”
“I’m more of a theoretical physics man.”
I have to think hard for a response to that, and eventually come up with “Cool.”
“But don’t try to change the subject. Do you want my help?”
“Well.” I glance his way. I won’t get used to it, I tell myself. I won’t depend on him. But it would also be ignorant not to tap into this underutilized resource. I clear my throat. “Okay.”
He gives me an I’m waiting for the magic word face.
“Please.”
“Vindhya missed some Robotics Club meetings the past couple of weeks. When some people called her on it a few days before homecoming, she quit. Without her they have zero shots at medaling at the regional robotics meet.”
I groan.
“Basically, you took a future NASA programmer, turned her into a walking Barbie doll, and submarined the entire robotics program in the process, more or less destroying the scholarship hopes of a couple dozen kids.”
“Give me a freaking break. I already feel bad enough.”
“Come on.” He chucks me in the arm. “You’re the fairy godmother. I’m Spock. We’ll figure it out.”
“Yeah.” It lacks conviction.
There’s an awkwardly long silence. Eventually Noah breaks it with “Hey, isn’t there a football game tonight?”
“It’s away. Poms don’t do away games. We have a competition in the morning, though.” We stop at a red light.
“Seriously? Like, who can shake their pompons the—”
“Don’t. Make me hurt you.” I stick my pointer finger in front of his face. One little inch more, and I could play connect-the-dots on his freckles. Totally platonic friends probably do that. The light turns green. I put both hands firmly at ten and two.
Noah motions zipping his mouth shut.
A couple minutes later we pull into his driveway, and he climbs out, shouldering his backpack. Before he closes the door, he leans back in and says, “Good luck in the morning.”
“You too.”
He looks confused, like he completely forgot about his wish or something. So I clarify, “Good luck with Holly.”
“Right.” He straightens up. “Holly.” He closes the door and gives me a wave. “See ya.”
By the time I’m smelling stale sweat on the school bus after the competition on Saturday, I have a text from Noah: Who shook their pompons the bestest?
I bite down on a laugh. I mean, he’s a sarcastic pain in the ass. But on the other hand, he’s kind of checking in on me, which is really… kind of… nice.
I’m tapping a reply when Scarlett’s voice accosts me: “Wow! Who has got our Ice Princess making goo-goo eyes?” She leans over the seat in front of me, trying to get a peek of the phone.
I lock the screen faster than you’d drop a hot pan. “Nobody. Sean, actually. I’m just texting Sean. And also, my eyes don’t goo-goo.” To make it legit, I unlock my screen and fire off an invite to Sean for breakfast tomorrow.
Scarlett looks like I have liar written on my forehead. “I know you’re up to something. Or someone.”
I don’t flinch. I stare her down. Eventually she turns back around.
Carmen gets on the bus, and I wave her over with a “Carmen! I saved a seat for you!” She shoots me a grateful smile and scoots in across the aisle.
I finish my text to Noah: Meh. We got third in our category. How was running? Please tell me the damsel twisted her ankle and you carried her home like Prince Charming.
Or don’t. Maybe don’t.
Noah: Her ankles are intact. But she laughed so hard she got a cramp in her side. At the end she gave me a hug. It was… sweaty.
For just a second, I think, Holly, you cheating little skeezer! I tamp it down, appalled at myself. This is how the fairy tale is supposed to go. Noah gets the girl, and they live happily ever after. I reply: Love is in the air. Won’t be long now.
The next morning Sean and I sit side by side at the counter at Inland Empire Bakery.
My bagel sits untouched, while I twist the paper sleeve around and around my cup of orange juice. I already, for once, remembered to ask him about dance stuff. Now we’ve lapsed into silence. I clear my throat and dive in. “Sean? Is your life better since… you know, since you met me?”
He pauses with his cream cheese croissant halfway to his mouth. “Charity? Are we soul-searching?”
I pick at my bagel. “I guess you can call it that.”
“Because of what happened with Vindhya?”
“Kind of.”
He sets the croissant down and drags his fingers across the napkin in his lap.
I press him. “Are you happy?”
He takes a pensive sip of his latte. “Happiness is complicated, Charity.”
I lean in. “You have a million admirers, you set every trend, you’re JLHS’s It Boy. You must be happy.”
He swirls his cup and watches the foam churn. “My father has also never been to a single one of my performances. Every person I meet assumes I’m gay, and—you know, not that it matters, but the majority of male ballet dancers are hetero. And even though what I do is just as intense as any other sport, not a single person—apart from maybe my mother—considers me an athlete. Since I don’t handle a ball, what I do doesn’t count. I don’t count. So… yeah.”
As he talks, my throat gets tighter and tighter. It takes all my willpower to keep it together. I’ve put a wedge between Sean and his father. I subjected him to stereotypes and prejudice after he worked so hard to get away from them. And I’ve acted like his details don’t matter, just like everybody else.
I eke out, “I’m so sorry. You deserve to be a hundred percent happy.”
Sean takes my hand. “It’s okay, Charity. I wouldn’t change it. I have to be me and let other people deal with their stuff. My father will come around. Or he won’t. But it’s still better than him loving somebody that doesn’t really exist.”
I lean into him, and we wrap each other in a hug. He smells woody and minty—it’s the cologne we picked out together before the talent show. I tighten my grip on him now, my head on his shoulder. After a long moment, I muster the courage to whisper, “I never told you this, but… you’re my real friend.”
“I know, sweetie. You’re my real friend too. And I don’t have many of those.”