Leah on the Offbeat

  “We?”

  “Morgan’s in the bathroom.”

  Another conversation I’m not ready for. Oh, hey, Morgan! Sorry you didn’t get into your dream school. Hope it’s cool that I’m totally going there. Panic must be written all over my face, because Anna purses her lips. “You know she’s not mad at you, right?”

  “Right.”

  “I think she’s worried you’ll be awkward.”

  “I haven’t even talked to her.”

  “I know, I know. She’s just paranoid. It’s fine. I’m texting her where we are.” But before Anna can hit send, Morgan trails in behind a pack of giggling middle schoolers. She looks miserable. She looks like she just got dumped. She’s in sweatpants and glasses, her blue-streaked hair scraped back into a messy bun. Anna catches her eye and waves, and she cuts down the aisle and across a row of seats.

  “Hey,” she says quietly.

  “How are you doing?” My voice sounds so painfully gentle that I cringe.

  “Fine. I’m fine.”

  I nod, and Morgan shrugs, and Anna’s eyes shift back and forth between us.

  “Sorry about UGA,” I say finally. “That really sucks.”

  “Yeah.” She sounds defeated.

  “Sorry,” I say again.

  She sinks into her seat. “Whatever. I’m not mad at you or anything.”

  I perch on the edge of the seat beside her.

  She leans back, covering her face with her hands. “It’s just . . . ugh. It’s just so unfair.”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “Not you. You totally deserved to get in. You’re like a genius. But other people . . .”

  I swallow. “I don’t know how they make their decisions.”

  Morgan smiles humorlessly. “Well, I know how they make some of them.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m just saying. I’m ranked eleventh in the class. And some of the people who did get into Georgia . . . aren’t.” She shrugs. Beside me, Anna shifts uncomfortably.

  I blink. “You think someone lied on their application?”

  “I think I’m white,” Morgan replies.

  The whole world seems to stop. The blood rushes to my cheeks.

  “Are you talking about Abby?” I say quietly.

  Morgan shrugs.

  My mouth falls open. “I can’t believe you.”

  “Well, sorry.” Her cheeks flush.

  “That’s really fucking gross, Morgan.”

  “Oh, so you’re sticking up for Abby now. Awesome.”

  I lean forward, chest tight. “I’m not sticking up for anyone. You’re being racist.”

  I can’t believe this—and coming from Morgan. Morgan, who read All American Boys three times and drove all the way to Decatur to get it signed. Morgan, who once shouted down a stranger in a grocery store for wearing a Trump hat.

  “I’m being honest,” says Morgan.

  “No, I’m pretty sure you’re being racist.”

  “Who’s racist?” Garrett asks, sidling up. I glance up at him, and Bram’s there, too. Morgan sinks into her seat, like she’s trying to disappear.

  I stare her down. “Well, according to Morgan, Abby only got into Georgia because she’s black.”

  Bram winces.

  Morgan’s face is blotchy red. “That’s not what I meant.” She grips the armrest, eyes flashing.

  “Well, you said it.” I stand, abruptly, my jaw clenched and sore. I’m furious, down to my bones, in a way I can’t even articulate. I push past the boys and storm up the aisle. Random people tilt their heads toward me as I pass. They know I’m pissed. I always wear it on my face. I slide into an empty row near the back and squeeze my eyes shut.

  “Hey,” Garrett says, plopping down next to me. Bram sits beside him.

  “I’m so angry,” I say.

  “Because of Morgan?” asks Garrett.

  I shrug, lips pressed tightly.

  Garrett and Bram exchange glances. “She thinks Abby took her spot at Georgia?” Garrett asks.

  “I don’t know. But she thinks Abby only got in because she’s black, and that’s bullshit.”

  “People think that a lot,” Bram says softly.

  “That’s messed up,” Garrett says.

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “You know, I didn’t realize you and Suso were such good friends.”

  I feel the heat rise in my cheeks. “We’re not. It doesn’t matter. Jesus. I’m just saying it’s racist.”

  He props his hands up defensively. “Okay.”

  “Okay,” I huff back at him.

  Bram just watches us, not saying a word, which makes me even more self-conscious. I tug my dress down and stare at my knees. Maybe I could send a telepathic message backstage to the powers that be. Dear God and/or Cal Price: please start this show now. Dim the lights so I can disappear.

  Garrett nudges me. “So, did you get my texts?”

  And . . . fuck my life.

  “Yeah. Oh. Yeah, I’m sorry. My phone just . . .” I trail off uselessly.

  “No worries. Just wanted to hear what you thought of the game!”

  God, I can’t. I’m sorry. I should tell him, but I can’t. I’m like an actual fuse. Overload me, and I shut down. I guess Garrett’s the hair dryer who pushes me over the limit.

  I lie. “It was cool.”

  “Yeah. Ha. If you forget about the first half.”

  “Mmhmm.” I nod vaguely.

  “Where’d you run off to afterward?” Bram pipes up. “We missed you.”

  “Oh. Um. My mom needed the car, so . . .” I swallow.

  “That sucks.”

  “Yup.”

  The houselights dim. Thank God thank God thank God.

  The overture begins, and my whole body sighs.

  9

  HOURS LATER, I’M IN SIMON’S backseat, driving to Martin Addison’s house, of all places.

  “Who let him host this?” I ask. I can’t help but growl a little when I talk about Martin. Abby, sitting next to me, shrugs and shakes her head.

  “I don’t know,” says Simon. “He offered.”

  “We should have had our own party,” Abby says.

  “Can we just suck it up? Please? It’s the last cast party.” Simon’s voice skids on the word last. He’s never been good at endings.

  “You okay?” Bram asks softly.

  Simon pauses. “Yeah.”

  The light turns green, and Simon makes a left. Martin lives at the end of a cul-de-sac in one of those leafy neighborhoods off Creekside Drive. I’ve only been there once. It was freshman year for a history project. Me, Martin, and Morgan. And we chose one another, too. What a joke.

  No one talks for the rest of the ride. Bram fiddles with the music, and Abby stares out the window, lips tightly pursed. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen her look so upset. And I know she hates Martin, but I can’t help but wonder if it’s more than that. Maybe Morgan said something to her.

  Martin’s whole street is lined with cars, and it’s almost dark when we get there. We pull in behind Garrett’s minivan, which is parked but still running. He drove here with Nick—they turn off the car and step out when they see us. And wow. It’s ridiculously cold out, especially in a cotton dress and a cardigan. I’ll just say my out-of-this-world boobs are extra out of this world tonight.

  We end up walking in twosomes. Nick and Garrett, Abby and Bram, Simon and me. It’s weird that Abby and Nick aren’t walking together. I lean toward Simon, close enough that our arms touch. “Hey, is something up with Nick and Abby?”

  Simon grimaces and shrugs. “Yeah. I don’t know. I talked to Nick for a minute earlier. I think they’re fighting.”

  “About what?”

  “Well, Nick got into Tufts yesterday.”

  “Oh, wow.”

  “I know, he’s psyched,” Simon says, “but then I guess he and Abby had the talk.”

  “The talk?”

  “The are-we-doing-long-distance-or-what talk.” br />
  “Oh.” Something tugs in my chest. “Okay.”

  “Yeah. It didn’t go well.”

  I glance up at Abby, paces ahead of me, thoroughly bundled in an oversized cardigan. She’s walking so close to Bram, you’d think they were conjoined.

  “Okay, so translate that,” I say quickly.

  “Translate what?”

  “Didn’t go well. What does that mean?”

  Simon frowns. “I don’t know. Nick wants to stay together, but Abby doesn’t want to do long distance.”

  “Oh shit.”

  “Yeah.”

  We walk in silence for a minute, almost at Martin’s house. There’s music coming from the basement—the soundtrack to Joseph. A little too on the nose for the Joseph cast party, in my opinion, but what do I know?

  “I’m scared they’ll break up,” Simon says finally, his voice barely audible. “I think it could ruin us.”

  “You and Bram?”

  “No. God. No. We’re good.” Simon smiles. “No, I mean us.” He waves his hands around vaguely. “Our group. Our posse.”

  I snort. “Our posse.”

  “I’m serious. What if there’s drama and it gets weird and we have to go to prom in separate limos?”

  “Oh no. Not separate limos.” I try not to smile.

  “Shut up. It would be sad and you know it.”

  “Aww, Spier. Why are you sad?” Garrett bursts between us, hooking his arms around our shoulders. “Don’t be sad. We’re about to walk into a partaaaay.”

  “Are you already drunk?” I ask.

  “No.” He scoffs. “I’m naturally like this.”

  “I actually believe that.”

  “You kidder,” he says. He nudges Simon, hard. “She’s such a kidder. She loves me. Did you know she came to the game on Saturday?”

  My stomach drops.

  “That’s right, Spier. Leah Andromeda Burke picked my game over your play. And she wasn’t there to see Greenfeld. I’m just saying.”

  “Andromeda?”

  “That’s not your middle name?”

  “No.”

  “Now it is.” He squeezes my shoulder. “Leah. Andromeda. Burke.”

  Yeah, he’s already drunk. I don’t know how he managed to do that walking from his car to Martin’s house, but he did. It’s in his voice, in his grin, on his breath. I tug his hand off my shoulder and walk straight to the doorstep, where Abby and Bram are waiting.

  “Buuuuuuurke. Wait up!”

  “How did he get drunk already?” I ask Bram.

  “He brought a flask in the car.”

  “He drove drunk?”

  “Oh no. He wouldn’t do that. Apparently, he and Nick drank it while they were parked.”

  “Of course they did.” Abby rolls her eyes.

  “That’s so stupid. How are they getting home?”

  Bram sighs. “Probably me.”

  There’s a note taped to the door, written in loopy handwriting. Welcome, Egyptians and Canaanites! Venture down to the basement! Abby catches my eye and smiles faintly. I look quickly down at my feet. When I look up again, Simon, Garrett, and Nick have caught up to us on the stoop. Abby pushes the door open and walks straight inside.

  Martin’s basement is huge. These Shady Creek houses are unreal. The Addisons aren’t even rich. Not like Jeeves-shall-show-you-into-our-parlor rich. They’re just the usual Shady Creek rich: three floors and flat-screen TVs and a pinball machine in the basement.

  I’m guessing from the tiny sandwiches and ceramic plates that Martin’s parents had a hand in setting this up. There are sophomores draped over the couches, legs over hands over laps. A couple of people are singing and dancing along with the Joseph soundtrack. Cal and Nora are tucked into an armchair, scrolling through his phone. I think Bram, Garrett, and I are the only non-theater people here.

  “You guys came!” Martin bounds over to us. Kind of like a golden retriever, as insulting as that is to Bieber Spier. “Okay, so, people are just hanging out, and, uh. Let me know if there’s anything you want. My mom can run to Publix.” He pokes his elbow nervously and lowers his voice. “And there’s vodka. In the bathroom.”

  “In the bathroom?” Simon raises his eyebrows.

  “Yeah. It’s, uh. Don’t tell my parents. It’s under the sink behind the toilet bowl cleaner. It’s the one in the vodka bottle. Don’t drink the toilet bowl cleaner.”

  “The vodka is the one in the vodka bottle. Got it.”

  “Cool,” Martin says. And for a minute, he just stands there nodding. “Okay, so, I’m gonna . . . yeah.” He walks away backward, almost knocking over a freshman. Then he turns back around, makes finger guns at Simon, and almost bumps into someone else. I swear to God, that kid should wear a protective rubber bumper and possibly water wings.

  I turn back to find Simon, but he’s already settled onto a corner of the couch with Bram. Abby turns to me. “You don’t drink, do you?”

  “Nope.”

  “Right. Okay. But you’ll come with me, right? To the bathroom? So I don’t drink the toilet bowl cleaner?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Garrett dropping it like it’s hot to “Go, Go, Go Joseph.” Nick’s leaning again the wall nearby, flushed and smiling. He’s talking to Taylor Metternich.

  Abby rolls her eyes. “What an asshole. Come on.” She grabs my hand and tugs it. Abby. This is weird. “I don’t even care, you know?” she says as I follow her down the hallway. “Like, I’m not even upset. He can do whatever he wants. Is this the bathroom?”

  “I think so?”

  She tries the door, but it’s locked. “Someone’s in there. Only Martin would put the booze in the bathroom. Let’s just sit.” She slides against the wall, landing cross-legged, and I settle in beside her. Legs straight ahead, pressed together. I should have worn jeans.

  She sighs, shifting toward me. “I can’t believe he’s talking to her. Seriously, Taylor?”

  God, what do I even say to that? Sorry you and Nick aren’t as perfect as everyone thinks you are.

  “Taylor’s annoying,” I say finally.

  “Yeah.” She folds her legs up, hugs her knees, and tilts her head to look at me. “Anyway, I heard you stood up for me today.”

  “The Morgan thing?”

  “Mmhmm. Bram told me what happened.” She smiles. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “I mean, Morgan was being racist.”

  “Yup. But not everyone would have called her out, so.” Abby shrugs. “Thanks.”

  There’s this flutter in my stomach. I don’t exactly feel like puking. But I don’t not feel like puking. This is why I don’t get close to Abby Suso. It always ends in nausea. I shift slightly to the right, putting an inch of space between us.

  “Did she ever mention the tour thing?” Abby asks, after a moment.

  “Yeah.” I smile wryly. “Guess that’s not happening.”

  “Well, you and I could still go.”

  Suddenly, the bathroom door bursts open, and out stumble two juniors. They’re flushed and draped all over each other, and something tells me vodka and toilet bowl cleaner aren’t the only liquids we’ll find in this bathroom.

  “They have sex hair,” Abby whispers.

  “I know.”

  “Like, you can’t do that in Martin Addison’s bathroom. I am perturbed. Aggrieved. Disquieted. Hey, Morgan, guess who got an 800 on the SAT critical reading section.” Abby locks the bathroom door behind us and kneels in front of the sink.

  I perch on top of the toilet seat. “Did you really?”

  Her mouth quirks. “Yeah. Ugh. Sorry, I feel like I’m bragging.”

  “No, it’s cool.”

  She smiles up at me and shrugs. “I don’t know. Anyway, here’s the vodka, and there’s Coke. Is vodka and Coke a thing?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Clearly, Martin has no idea either.” She rolls her eyes. “You sure you don’t want any?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “
Okay. I’m just gonna . . .” Abby tips some vodka into a red plastic cup, and then she fills the rest with Coke. She takes a sip and grimaces. “Wow. This is gross.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She shrugs. “Am I allowed to bring the cup out? I don’t have to drink this in here, right?”

  “I mean, that would be weird.”

  “Yeah, but it’s Martin.”

  I laugh. “Right.”

  I tap the toes of my flats on the tiles, staring down. I feel awkward and strange. This is so unexpected. Alone with Abby Suso in Martin Addison’s bathroom. I sneak a peek at her through my lashes. She’s leaning against the bathtub now, back straight, pretzeled legs. Every time she sips her drink, her nose wrinkles. I’ve never understood the appeal of drinking. It’s not like liquor tastes good. I mean, I know it’s not about that. It’s about feeling loose and light and unstoppable. Simon described it to me once. He said drinking lets you say and do things without filtering or overthinking. But I don’t get how that’s a good thing.

  Abby yawns. “It’s like—okay. He didn’t apply anywhere in Georgia. That’s fine. But that’s where I’ll be, and the closest he could be is North Carolina. And I’m sorry, but I don’t want to stay home from parties because I’m expecting a call from my boyfriend. I don’t want to miss out on college, you know?”

  Sure, Abby. I totally know. My boyfriends are always trying to call me during parties. So many parties. Which I totally go to, because I love sitting in bathrooms watching other people drink.

  I should hate this.

  Why don’t I hate this?

  Someone bangs on the door, and Abby hops to her feet. “Just a minute!” She chugs her drink. “Oh my God, this is so gross. I’m literally going to vomit.”

  I stand abruptly, pushing up the toilet lid.

  “Not literally literally. Come on, let’s go.” She takes my hand.

  We step out of the bathroom, and there’s Garrett, blue eyes shining. He’s acquired a party hat somehow, which he’s wearing cocked to the side. He stares at our hands and his mouth falls open.

  “Oh my God. What. OH MY GOD.”

  “Not what you’re thinking, Garrett.”

  “Ladies, wow. Okay. Hear me out. I have an idea. Let’s just all go back into the bathroom, and whatever happens . . .”

  “Nope,” I say flatly.

  Abby releases me and twines both of her hands through Garrett’s, peering up at him with doe eyes. “Garrett, sweetie,” she says, “I will never, ever do that.” Then she tugs her hands away and pats him firmly on his bicep. “In front of you,” she adds quietly, nudging him toward the bathroom.