Leah on the Offbeat

  “Mom.”

  Holy shit. Like, she better not be implying what I think she’s implying.

  “I’m just saying.” She grins. “It’s going to be an interesting night.”

  As soon as we pull into the parking lot, Mom’s phone rings.

  “Oh, crap. I need to get that.” She answers it, scrunching her face at me apologetically, and mouthing, work.

  Awesome fucking timing.

  For a minute, Wells and I just sit there, while Mom nods and says, “Uh-huh. Okay. Right. Uh-huh.” She gropes in her purse for a pen and scribbles a few things down on the back of a receipt. “Well, I really—oh. Oh. Okay. No, no.” She shoots me a look that’s half guilty, half frantic. “Mmhmm,” she murmurs. Then she unbuckles her seat belt and twists back to meet my eyes.

  I look back at her and raise my eyebrows.

  “Yes. Okay. Absolutely,” she says into the phone. But she nods her head pointedly at me. Then she passes me her credit card.

  “I’m supposed to do this myself?” I ask quietly.

  She shrugs, gestures at her phone, and then points at the clock on the car’s dashboard. Which has been broken for years, but I get what she’s saying. Garrett will be at our house in two hours, and I’m wearing jeans and not a trace of makeup.

  “I’ll go with you,” says Wells.

  “Um. That’s not necessary.”

  “It’s actually perfect. I need to pick up a birthday card anyway.”

  I shoot Mom a look that says are you fucking kidding me. She shrugs and tips her hands up, eyes twinkling.

  So isn’t this magical. I’m bra shopping with Wells.

  He shoves his hands in his pockets as we walk through the parking lot. “So, what is it that you need?”

  “An item of clothing.”

  “An item of clothing?” He shoots me a confused smile. “Am I supposed to guess?”

  “No,” I say quickly. Fuck my life. “Just. It’s a bra.” For my boobs, Wells.

  “Ah.”

  Now I can’t even think straight. Maybe my brain is boiling. Maybe that’s a thing that happens when you achieve peak mortification.

  We step through the automatic doors, and the first thing I see is a bag display: giant canvas zipper totes and faux-leather purses and, already, a summery display of woven beach bags.

  “Oh no.” I smack my forehead.

  “Everything okay?” Wells asks.

  “I don’t have a purse.”

  I mean, technically, I do. But the only purse I own is a ratty canvas thing I bought three years ago from Old Navy. I can’t bring that piece of shit to prom.

  “Okay. We’ve got this.” He nods eagerly. “Would any of these purses work?”

  “And shoes. I don’t have shoes.”

  Okay, I’m honestly starting to freak out, because this really feels like a sign now. No bra, no shoes, no purse, car battery dead, Mom occupied. Universe, I hear you loud and clear. I shouldn’t have even considered going to prom. I should go back home and watch HGTV, and return the dress as soon as the mall opens tomorrow.

  I just wish. I don’t know. I wish I were the kind of girl who remembered things like bras and shoes and purses. It’s like there’s a prom gene, and I’m missing it. And I guess it makes sense. I can barely be trusted to dress myself, normally. No surprise I’m a hot mess and a half when it comes to this crap.

  “This is cool,” Wells says, holding up a little clutch. It’s made of gold fake leather, and it’s shaped like a cat’s face, and even I have to admit it’s adorable.

  I bite my lip. “How much is it?”

  He checks the tag. “Oh, it’s just twenty dollars.”

  “Welp. Never mind.”

  “Leah, I can cover that.”

  I laugh. “Yeah, no.”

  “I mean it. Seriously, don’t worry about it.”

  God, I really hate this. Literally, the last person I want buying me shit is Wells. He’s not my stepdad. He’s definitely not my dad. And it’s just weird and uncomfortable, and I feel like a sellout.

  But. I don’t know. I also don’t want to carry a canvas bag to prom.

  “I’m going to go find a bra,” I say quickly, eyes starting to prickle. This is all so ridiculous. And honestly, I don’t even know how I’m supposed to do this without Mom. I don’t know anything about strapless bras. I don’t know how they’re supposed to fit. I don’t even know if I’m allowed to try them on. I end up circling the racks in the lingerie area, probably looking like a little lost turtle. Finally, I grab the cheapest one in my size, but even the cheapest one is almost twenty-five dollars. For a bra I’m probably going to wear one time. And if I’m paying twenty-five dollars for a bra, there’s no way I can buy shoes. I’ll have to wear my sneakers. Just some giant ugly-ass sneakers. Now I’ll really have a prom aesthetic.

  I may be feeling slightly hysterical. Slightly.

  Wells is already holding a Target bag when I find him at the self-checkout. He smiles and rubs the back of his neck. “Okay, I know you didn’t want me to, but I got the cat purse.”

  “Seriously?”

  “It’s just, I thought you’d probably try to push back, and then I’d insist, and we’d go back and forth, and I know we don’t have a lot of time. So.” He bites his lip. “If you don’t want to use it, that’s totally fine.”

  “Oh. Um.” I stare at the bag.

  “I would have grabbed some shoes, too, but I didn’t know what size.”

  “That’s . . . fine. That’s really cool of you, Wells.”

  It’s weird. I’m used to saying his name with a sarcastic kind of emphasis, a tiny vocal eye roll. Saying Wells without that little bite feels strange and incomplete.

  I pay for the bra with Mom’s card, and we head back to the car. But when we get there, Mom’s still on the phone, so Wells and I lean against the trunk, side by side.

  “So, are you excited?” he asks.

  “For prom?”

  “Yeah.” He shrugs. “I never went to mine.”

  “I never thought I would.”

  “Just don’t forget to bring a camera. Your mom’s going to want pictures.”

  “My camera?” I mean, of course Wells would suggest that. As if I’m going to roll into prom with a giant old-timey camera and a tripod. Maybe I should skip the camera altogether. I’ll just bring some oil paints and a fucking easel.

  “I guess you’ll have your phone for that, huh?”

  “Uh, yeah.” I smile.

  He smiles back. And for a minute, we just stand there.

  “Thanks for the purse, by the way,” I say finally. I scuff my shoe on the asphalt. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “I was happy to.”

  “Well, I appreciate it,” I say, blushing faintly. Because apparently I’m not capable of thanking people without making it awkward. Wells probably thinks I’m ridiculous, getting so flustered over a twenty-dollar purse. Twenty dollars is probably nothing to him. He probably uses twenties as toilet paper.

  But Wells just shakes his head. “I know this kind of thing can be really uncomfortable. I used to hate receiving gifts.”

  “Me too.”

  “Even if I knew the person could afford it. I just didn’t like feeling like I was getting a handout.” He looks at me, and it’s as if he’s reading my mind. “I didn’t have a lot of money growing up.”

  “Really?”

  He nods. “Yeah. I was kind of the poor kid in the rich neighborhood. My friends all had houses, and we were in this tiny little apartment. I don’t think some people even realize there are apartments in the suburbs.”

  “Wow.”

  “Wow?”

  “I just. I don’t know. I totally figured you were kind of a country club kid.”

  “Well, I was, in a way.” He smiles. “I was a caddy.”

  “That is . . . a golf thing, isn’t it?”

  “Nailed it,” he says. And it’s strange. I feel lighter. Like maybe this nerdy dude can stick around if he
wants. Maybe Mom could use a bootleg Prince William to distract her. I guess it’s either that or haunting the aisles of Publix, warning the baby moms how fast it all flies by.

  Here’s the thing, though: no one ever warns the babies.

  30

  GARRETT’S EXACTLY ON TIME, AND I step out onto the front stoop to meet him. He looks at me, opens his mouth, and shuts it. I think it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him speechless.

  “Holy shit, Burke,” he says finally.

  “Holy shit, Laughlin.” I tug the end of my hair.

  I guess I do feel kind of pretty. Now that I’m dressed, the hair totally works, and I’ve got the rosy cheeks thing and the smoky eye thing and the freckled shoulder thing all happening at once. And as it turns out, my boots are the exact same shade of gold as my cat purse. So, that’s a thing that’s happening. I’m wearing combat boots to prom.

  Garrett just stares at my mouth. I guess I’m glad he’s not staring at my boobs.

  He gives me a bone-white corsage for my wrist, and Mom helps me pin a boutonniere to the lapel of his tux. Then she herds us outside the house for the photo shoot from hell. It doesn’t help that Garrett has no clue where his hands go. First he hooks his arm around my waist—then my shoulders—then back around my waist. I half expect him to whip out his phone to consult Google on the issue.

  When it’s finally time to go, he opens the car door for me—and it’s honestly super weird to be wearing a prom dress in Garrett’s mom’s minivan. Garrett’s as quiet tonight as I’ve ever seen him. I can’t help but steal a few glances at his profile.

  “You clean up nicely, Garrett,” I say finally. And it’s true. Garrett’s so annoying half the time that it’s hard to remember he’s handsome. But he is. He’s got a nice jawline and thick hair, and those bright blue eyes.

  “So do you,” he says. “Really.” For a moment, he’s quiet. “Are you excited for prom?”

  “I guess?”

  “You guess? I love your enthusiasm, Burke.”

  “Wait, let me try again.” I clear my throat. “I guess, exclamation point.”

  He laughs. “Much better.”

  I look at him and smile, but I feel this quiet smack of guilt. Because Garrett really is so funny and decent. He’d probably be a great boyfriend. He’s just not for me.

  And I should probably tell him that. Hey, Garrett. Just a heads-up! All that movie prom stuff you’re picturing? Isn’t happening. There will be no choreographed dance. No longing eye contact. Definitely no smoochy prom kiss.

  Hey, Garrett. I’m sort of painfully in love with someone else.

  At least I finally get the point of tuxedos. They make boys 75 percent cuter. And it’s not just Garrett—it’s all of them. I almost die when I see Nick, Simon, and Bram.

  Currently, Simon, Bram, Nora, and Cal are enduring an epic photo shoot with the parents. Nick’s sitting alone on the stoop, tapping his fingers on the edge of the bricks. But Anna runs straight toward me, Morgan trailing behind. And because I’ve turned into an actual cliché, I jump straight into the whole routine. Oh my God, I love your dress! Oh my God, are you so excited?

  Anna looks too cute. She really does. She’s wearing a two-piece gown with just a hint of tummy showing, and her hair is pinned up and braided. Anna and Morgan are both really tiny, and sometimes when I’m around them, I feel like the Hulk.

  But no.

  Because my brain can shut up, for fucking once. Hello, brain: please let me feel beautiful.

  I think I actually do. Feel beautiful.

  Morgan shoots me a cautious smile. “You look so gorgeous, Leah.”

  I freeze. I should have prepared for this. I knew I’d have to be around her. But I kept putting that out of my mind. She did apologize. And Abby forgives her. I mean, that’s something.

  “Thanks,” I say. “So do you.”

  “Can we talk?” she asks softly.

  It’s strange. I keep going back to what Anna said—that maybe I’ve blown this situation up to make the good-bye feel smaller. I’m pretty sure that’s bullshit. Morgan fucked up all on her own. It’s not like I asked her to be racist so I’d miss her less.

  “Okay,” I say finally. I glance back at the dogwood, where Simon’s dad is zooming in for awkward close-ups of Nora’s and Cal’s faces. I gesture vaguely at the road. “Over there?”

  “That works.”

  There’s this weird, taut silence as we walk down the driveway. I tug my skirt forward and settle onto the curb. Morgan’s eyes keep flicking toward me, like she’s waiting for me to speak. But I don’t know what to say. I don’t even know what to feel.

  She leans back on her hands and sighs. “So, I apologized to Abby.”

  “I heard.”

  For a minute, we both sit there, looking anywhere but at each other.

  “I fucked up,” she says finally. “I can’t believe I said what I said. I feel so shitty about it.”

  “You should.”

  “I know.” She shuts her eyes. “I know. Like, yeah, I was upset. I was so—God, I can’t even explain what that felt like. Getting rejected.”

  “But that’s not an excuse, Morgan.”

  “Oh, I know. It’s not. It not okay. Like, I call myself an ally.” She exhales. “But then the second it gets personal, it all flies out the window. I’ll never forget that I said that.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you don’t have to forgive me. I get that. I just wanted you to know I’m so fucking sorry. I’m going to do better.”

  I glance at her sidelong. Her lips are pressed together, and her brows are knitted tightly. She’s so painfully sincere. It’s written all over her face.

  But secondhand forgiveness is so messy. I never know where to land. If Abby’s over it, should I be? If Simon forgives Martin, should I forgive him, too?

  I open my mouth to speak. I don’t even know what I’m about to say.

  Before I can say anything, Garrett appears. “Hey, so the limo guy’s around the corner. Has anyone heard from Abby?”

  “Oh, she’s not here yet?” I cringe as soon as I say it. I’m even worse than Taylor. Abby’s not here yet? Wow, I totally didn’t notice! It’s not like I’ve been obsessively scanning the road for her car!

  God. What if she skips prom? What if she can’t handle the awkwardness? I should text her. Just to check in. I even start to pull my phone out of my purse. But just the thought of it makes my heart sink. What would I even say?

  Eventually, Simon drifts over, hooking an arm around my shoulders. “Okay, Abby’s almost here—she’s stuck in traffic. We should go ahead and do group pictures, though. We’ll just do the guys first.” Then he leans in and whispers straight in my ear. “You look amazing.”

  “Pshh.”

  “I’m just saying.”

  “So do you.”

  He grins and tugs my hair, and then he collects Garrett for pictures. Cal’s already left with Nora, but Simon’s dad lines the rest of the guys up under the dogwood tree. They’re quite a squad—I’m not going to lie. They look like a boy band. Garrett’s easily the tallest, so Mr. Spier puts him in the middle, with Bram and Simon on one side and Nick on the other. They’re all doing the prom dude pose with their hands clasped near their crotches while Simon’s mom frantically snaps pictures. It’s pretty amazing.

  But I’ve got one eye on the road, and every time a car approaches, my heart starts pounding. I know she’s almost here, but it feels like that moment won’t ever arrive. Time is dragging so slowly, and everything’s blurry and dreamlike. I try to focus on the warmth of the sun on my shoulders. Anything to keep me centered. I feel like I’ve swallowed a helium balloon.

  Then Abby’s car pulls up, and my whole brain clicks into place. Her mom turns into Simon’s driveway, and Abby slides out of the passenger seat, gripping her skirt in one hand and holding a clutch in the other.

  She lets her skirt fall.

  And fuck my life forever.

  She looks like a cloud.
Or a ballerina. Her whole dress is pale blue tulle, light as air, with straps crossed neatly between her shoulder blades. Her hair is pinned up loosely, her bangs swept to the side, and her lips and cheeks are soft and pink. It’s too much. I swear to God. This girl is too much, and I’m way too far gone.

  She looks at me, and her eyes flare wide. Wow, she mouths.

  For a moment, I just stare at her. Twenty-four hours ago, I was yelling at her on a football field, and now she’s grinning at me like it’s the easiest thing in the world. I can’t decide if I’m relieved or gutted. Like, come on: you’re not even going to be awkward about that? Not even a little?

  I’m jolted back to earth by Simon’s mom, who sidles between Abby and me, clapping her hands together. “Your paparazzi awaits.” She’s wearing an oversized red T-shirt that says, in giant black letters, FEAR THE SQUIRREL.

  “Why should we fear the squirrel?” I ask.

  “Because,” she says. And then she turns around to show off the back of her shirt. Which has a picture of a squirrel and the words HAVERFORD MOM.

  “Their mascot is a squirrel?” asks Abby.

  I catch Simon’s eye across the driveway. Bram knows? I mouth.

  He tilts his head, looking confused.

  I take out my phone and text him. Bram knows about Haverford?

  Simon pulls his phone out of his back pocket, glances at the screen, and grins. He writes back, He knows. Smiley emoji.

  We head over to the dogwood, and Simon’s dad arranges us for pictures. Peak awkwardness. I don’t know if Simon’s parents are clueless or if they’re messing with me, but they seem determined to place me between Abby and Garrett in every. Fucking. Picture. Except the ones where I’m supposed to stand by Morgan. “Huddle up close, guys. Act like you like each other.”

  How do parents do this? How do they always manage to say true things without knowing they’re true?

  Mr. Spier is just about to step in it by demanding a couples’ shot of Nick and Abby—but Simon heads it off at the pass, and then the limo pulls up. I slide in between Garrett and Nick while Simon’s mom pokes her head in to snap more pictures.

  The inside of the limo is essentially a strip club. Not that I’ve actually been inside a strip club. But there are seats on both sides, and a thin, fluorescent stripe along the wall, like a color-changing glow stick. And there’s a minibar—with bottles of water instead of booze. But still. I feel like I’ve stepped into someone else’s life. Like a Kardashian, or Beyoncé. I don’t want to look out the windows, or I’ll remember we’re in Shady Creek.