Leah on the Offbeat

  My stomach swoops.

  “WHAT?” Garrett shrieks, eyes darting back and forth between us. “You should. Do that in front of me. Okay? Please. Good. I have to pee.”

  “So go pee.”

  I think my brain’s made of Jell-O. My thoughts won’t stay in one place. She’d never do that. In front of Garrett. But maybe otherwise?

  How am I supposed to interpret that?

  We leave around eleven. Garrett’s a drunk mess, so Bram drives him home in the minivan, with Simon following behind. Then we all pile into Simon’s car for a shitshow of a ride. Simon and Bram take the front. Nora and I are basically on top of each other, squished between Nick and Abby, who aren’t talking. It’s the kind of silence that has its own gravity. Black hole silence. Simon tries to fight it with a steady stream of Simon-babble, but after a few minutes, even he stops speaking.

  We pull into Bram’s driveway, and Simon leans over the gearshift. They kiss softly and quickly, and Bram mouths something to Simon. Simon shakes his head, grinning. Abby calls shotgun as soon as Bram unbuckles his seat belt.

  “You sure you don’t want to spend the night?” Simon asks for the fifth time tonight. And normally I would. I don’t care that it’s Sunday. Simon lives so close to school that it would actually make my morning easier.

  But Abby’s sleeping at Simon’s tonight. And I’ve had enough Abby weirdness for one night.

  My mind reels through the last few hours. Morgan’s blotchy red anger. Lying to Garrett. Abby kneeling in front of the bathroom sink. Abby taking Garrett’s hands. Abby saying never. But only never in front of Garrett.

  And I have no idea if she’s kidding.

  10

  THE SECOND I STEP OFF the bus on Monday, Abby’s in my face. “Hey,” she says casually, falling into step beside me. “So, last night was weird.”

  “Uh, yeah.” I wince as soon as I say it. I have this problem sometimes where I sound bitchier than I mean to, and it’s a thousand times worse when it comes to Abby. Simon once asked me point-blank why I dislike her so much. But here’s the thing: I don’t even dislike Abby. It’s just that my brain doesn’t work right around her.

  It doesn’t help that she looks obnoxiously cute—striped shirt tucked into a red skirt over tights, hair clipped back with bobby pins. She covers her mouth, yawning, and then catches my eye and grins.

  “Okay, so I have a proposition for you,” she says.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Mmhmm.” She tilts her head sideways and her eyes glint like she’s about to make a joke. She’s an inch or two shorter than me, and probably half my weight. Or not. I don’t know. She’s not actually that thin. Just kind of trim and muscular. Mesomorph. That’s the word I know from the magazines Mom leaves in the bathroom.

  “So, this campus tour,” she says when we get to my locker. “I’m not going with my parents. Not doing it.”

  “Everyone brings their parents.”

  She shakes her head. “Not me.”

  “You sound very certain about that.” I feel myself smiling.

  “Do you want to come with me?” she asks. “Spring break. Any day. I can borrow my mom’s car and drive us up there, and we can stay with my cousin’s friend. It could be like a whole road trip.”

  “Like Simon and Nick?”

  “Uh, they wish they were coming on our trip. Because we’ll get to go to parties and do whatever we want. It’ll be amazing. We’ll actually get a real idea of what it’s like there.”

  I look at her, speechless. Other than Martin Addison’s bathroom, I don’t think we’ve been alone in a room together for over a year. But suddenly Abby’s talking like we’re the kind of friends who go to parties and take selfies and split French fries at midnight. Am I losing my mind?

  “Or not,” she adds quickly. “We don’t have to go to parties. I seriously don’t care. Totally up to you.”

  “So, you want me to go with you to Athens,” I say slowly. Then I realize my fingers are tapping out a drumbeat. On my locker. I let my hand fall.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “What do you mean?”

  I shake my head quickly, staring at my shoes. “We’re not . . .” I shut my eyes.

  I’m not friends with Abby Suso. I’m not anything with Abby Suso. And to be honest, this whole thing is fucking me up a little.

  “Obviously, I know you have to ask your mom and everything.”

  “I just . . .”

  I glance up in time to see Taylor charging toward me, hands clasped together like she means business. “We’ll talk,” Abby says, the palm of her hand grazing my arm. Then she disappears up the stairs, like she was never here at all.

  “So?” Taylor says with a big, expectant smile.

  My eyes drift toward the staircase. “What’s up?” I say halfheartedly.

  “So, what did you think?”

  “What did I think?”

  “Of the play!”

  “Oh,” I say. “It was great. Congrats.”

  “Obviously, a few people could benefit from formal training, but overall, it was good, right? And Nick was just so wonderful.” She smiles. “Hey, speaking of Nick . . .”

  God, this girl. I don’t think she knows the meaning of the word subtle. Like, if you’re going to bust in talking about Nick and then segue into talking about Nick, it’s going to be pretty goddamn clear that you want to talk about Nick.

  “I just had this really cool thought,” Taylor continues. “So, like, everyone—oh my God, everyone—is telling me they love the way my voice and Nick’s voice blend together. Like, so many people have told me they just got chills listening to us.” She laughs. “Isn’t that funny?”

  “So funny.”

  “Anyway.” She beams. “I was thinking—what if Nick was in our band?”

  I pause, narrowing my eyes. “What?”

  “Like, we could add a harmony line to the lead vocals, or maybe even rework our set list to include some duets. And, obviously, he could play guitar.”

  “We have Nora.”

  “Right, of course! But what if we had two lead guitarists? I just think it would add this extra dimension to the sound, you know? And obviously, having a guy in the band would add so much vocal range.”

  “Yeah, but we’re an all-girl band. That’s kind of the point.”

  Taylor nods eagerly. “Oh, totally. Like, I totally get that. But I was also thinking maybe it would be sort of cool to have, like, an all-girl band with a guy singer. You never see that. You always see an all-boy band with a girl singer, so this would be like a reversal, you know?”

  I mean, holy shit. She’s serious. She wants Nick in our girl band. So, now I’m wondering how hard you can side-eye someone before your eyes stick that way. Permanent side-eye. It’ll look great with my resting bitch face.

  “Anyway, maybe we could discuss it at rehearsal? We’re still meeting today, right?”

  Fuck. Hadn’t remembered that. And I’m really not up for an afternoon with Morgan. Really, extremely, wholeheartedly not up for it.

  But I’m not a total dick. So at the end of the day, when Anna finds me at my locker, I follow without protest.

  Everyone’s already in the music room when we get there. There’s Nora, cross-legged on the floor, tuning her guitar. Taylor’s on the floor, too, in a butterfly yoga pose, and Morgan’s planted stiffly in a plastic blue chair. She stares at her knees when I walk into the room.

  “Well,” Anna says slowly. “We’re all here.”

  I scoot near the piano, scrunching my legs up in front of me. Nora bites her lip, eyes drifting from Morgan to me. No one speaks.

  Anna shakes her head. “Okay, y’all want to do the whole awkward silence thing? Fine. Get it out of your system.” She pulls out her phone. “Five minutes. Go.”

  “What, you’re timing us?”

  “Four minutes and forty-eight seconds.” Anna holds up her phone.

  “This is ridiculous,” Morgan mutters.

&n
bsp; Anna nods shortly. “I agree. You guys are being ridiculous.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Four minutes and nineteen seconds.”

  I blink. “Wow. So, Morgan says something blatantly racist, I call her out on it, but somehow we’re both equally ridiculous? Just some silly girl drama?”

  “Leah, you’re overreacting, and you know it. It was one stupid comment,” says Anna.

  “One racist comment.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Morgan wince.

  “Yeah, don’t lecture me about racism,” Anna says.

  My whole body clenches. “You know what? I don’t even know if I want to be in the band anymore.”

  “Oh, come on.” Anna rolls her eyes. “Because of Morgan?”

  I shrug, cheeks burning.

  “So, you’re telling me,” Anna says, “that you’re throwing away a year of work and collaboration and everything, because of one comment?”

  Anna’s looking at me like I just choked a puppy. Nora and Taylor are silent, and I don’t dare look at Morgan. I stare down at the floor.

  “I’m just—”

  “Like, you’re mad. I get it. But holy shit. Quitting the band?”

  “It’s not like the band’s going to last forever.” I laugh, but it comes out flat. “We graduate in less than three months.”

  And in that moment—for a split second—I feel it. How short that is. How soon everything changes. It’s strange, because good-byes are a thing I can understand intellectually, but they almost never feel real. Which makes it hard to brace for impact. I don’t know how to miss people when they’re standing right in front of me.

  “Look, we had a good run.” A lump rises in my throat. “But you can’t force this. I’m not okay making music with—”

  Anna’s phone alarm rings, making all of us jump.

  Then Morgan stands. “You know what? Let’s just do it this way. I’m the fuckup. I’m the one who ruined the band.” Her voice breaks. “So clearly, I’m the one who should leave.”

  Anna sighs. “Morgan, come on.”

  “No, it’s cool. I know when I’m not wanted. I’m super used to it.” She swipes the corners of her eyes with her fingers. Then she scrunches up her mouth and walks swiftly to the door, slamming it shut behind her.

  “Wow. Hope you’re happy,” says Anna.

  “Okay, can you stop?” Nora says, whirling to face her. “This isn’t Leah’s fault.”

  Anna opens her mouth to reply, but Taylor cuts her off. “Okay, can someone please explain to me what just happened?”

  We all look at her.

  Taylor looks perplexed. “Morgan just quit the band?”

  “Apparently,” Anna says.

  “Okay.” Taylor pauses, pressing her lips together. You can almost see her mind whirring. “Wow. So, I guess we need a fifth person.”

  Jesus. “Taylor, we’re not letting Nick in the band.”

  “Okay, but—”

  “Nick isn’t even a keyboardist,” Nora says.

  “No, he’s not,” confirms Nick, and my head whips toward the doorway. He’s standing, flanked by Bram and Garrett, all in soccer shorts. And then there’s Abby, in gym clothes. I’m a little caught off guard. I didn’t even hear them come in.

  Taylor beams. “What are you guys doing here?”

  “Well,” Bram says. “I have a favor to—”

  “Wait,” Garrett interjects, smiling almost sheepishly. “Did you just say you need a keyboardist?”

  “You’re a keyboardist?” asks Taylor.

  “Well. I’m a pianist.”

  Nora gapes at him. “Excuse me?”

  Garrett laughs. “A pi-a-nist,” he enunciates, sauntering into the music room. He sinks down next to me and grins. “A pianist with a—”

  “Yeah, we get it,” I say.

  “We do need a pianist,” Taylor says slowly. “Morgan just quit the band.”

  “What? Really?” says Garrett.

  “Yeah, because Leah was being a dick again,” Anna mutters.

  “Oh.” Garrett glances nervously between Anna and me. “This is about the UGA thing?”

  “You mean the fact that Morgan thought I got in because I’m black,” Abby says.

  “She doesn’t actually think that.” Anna blushes. “No one thinks that.”

  Abby snorts. “You’d be surprised.”

  And then no one speaks for what feels like an hour.

  Finally, Taylor turns to Bram. “What’s your favor?”

  “Right.” Bram shoots her a tiny smile, shutting the door gently behind him. “So, I think I’ve got my promposal figured out.”

  “What? Oh my God!” Taylor exclaims. “You’re promposing to Simon?”

  He nods slightly, and she emits a joyful squeak.

  “But I need you guys—Nora, you especially. He’s giving you a ride tomorrow, right?”

  “To school?” Nora nods. “Yeah.”

  “Do you think it would be possible to get him down here at exactly eight fifteen?”

  “You’re promposing to him in the music room?” I ask.

  “Yes. Hopefully. And actually, I have a question for you, too.”

  “Hit it,” I say, peeking over his shoulder, where Nick’s settled onto the floor beside Taylor. It’s hard to know what to make of that. Maybe it means he hasn’t made up with Abby. Not that I care. It’s just weird.

  Bram bites his lip. “Do you think I could borrow that drum kit?”

  11

  THE TRICKY PART IS THE timing. Getting Simon to school by 8:15 is easy. Getting him there at exactly 8:15 takes a little more finesse. Thank God Nora talked me into spending the night, because who knew Simon Spier was so aggressively punctual in the mornings. It’s taking all our combined efforts to stall him.

  “You guys,” Simon bellows up the stairs at 7:44. “Come on, let’s go!”

  “Just a minute!” Nora yells back.

  “What are you guys even doing up there?”

  Nora pokes her head out into the hallway. “Dude. Cool your jets.”

  “Is he always this excited about school?” I mutter.

  Nora rolls her eyes. “Yeah. He likes to do homework in the mornings with Bram.”

  “Homework,” I say, with air quotes.

  “Exactly.”

  Simon clambers up the stairs and hovers in Nora’s doorway. “Guys. We’re going to be late.”

  “No we’re not.” Nora calmly latches her guitar case. “You just want to get there early to see your boyfriend.”

  Simon huffs. “I have homework. Come on. We’re leaving.” He grabs Nora’s backpack.

  “Wait,” Nora says. Simon looks exasperated, but Nora just shrugs. “I think I’m wearing two left socks.”

  “No. No you’re not. That’s not a thing,” says Simon. “Let’s go.”

  Then he hoists the backpack onto his shoulder, already tugging his keys out of his pocket. I swear to God, that clueless little peanut. It’s like he’s determined to ruin his own promposal.

  Nora and I exchange wry glances as soon as he leaves the room. “It’s fine. We can stall him in the parking lot.” She grabs her guitar case.

  The Spiers live five minutes from school—I think they can technically walk there. Simon pulls into the senior lot and checks his phone as soon as the car’s off. I check the clock on the dashboard: 7:57.

  “Actually, I need advice,” I blurt.

  It’s a foolproof question—Simon loves being needed. And sure enough, his whole face lights up. “Yeah. Okay, yeah, sure. Let me just text Bram . . . okay. What’s up?” He turns all the way around to face me.

  “It’s about Garrett,” I say, leaning forward between the seats.

  Ten minutes later, Simon’s talking in circles. “So, you just no-showed?” he asks.

  I shrug sheepishly. “Yeah.”

  “But Garrett thinks you went to the game.”

  I nod.

  “Leah!”

  “Am I the worst person?”

>   “Well, no,” says Simon. “That would be Voldemort.”

  “But I’m close, right? Like, Voldemort is here.” I level my hand up, almost to the roof of the car. “And I’m here.” I drop my hand a few inches. “And then the next worst guy is down here. Like, the dentist who killed that lion. He’s right here.”

  Nora laughs. “Wow.”

  “You have to tell him,” says Simon.

  My stomach drops. “You think?”

  “Yeah.” He nods. “You should be honest. Just explain what happened, you know? Garrett’s a really nice guy. He’ll totally understand.” Simon rubs his cheek, pondering this. “Or . . . you could say you got sick. Okay, that actually sounds more plausible. You could just be like, ‘Hey, I was about to leave, but then I got really, really sick, and I couldn’t even check my phone.’”

  The corners of my mouth tug upward. “So I should be honest . . . but also lie.”

  “Yes,” Simon says.

  “Simon.”

  “I could tell him for you. I could hint that you had really bad diarrhea and were too embarrassed to mention it. Garrett, of all people, would definitely understand that.” Simon snickers.

  “I’m not telling Garrett I had diarrhea!”

  “Right, I’ll tell him.”

  “I will hurt you.”

  “Me too,” Nora says.

  “Why are girls so violent?” asks Simon.

  I don’t even respond. I just side-eye him to hell.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t mention it,” Simon says a moment later. “He’ll probably just forget about the whole thing.”

  “So now you’re saying she shouldn’t say anything?” Nora asks.

  “Definitely not.” He nods firmly.

  So I should definitely tell the truth and definitely lie and also definitely avoid the conversation altogether. Thank you for this classic Simon wisdom.

  “Hey, so what do you think of Garrett?” Simon asks slyly.

  “Oh, hey! Will you look at that? It’s almost eight fifteen,” I say. Already, my hand’s on the door.