Meant to Be

  After a quick pit stop in the nearest kiddie bathroom (I’m not leaving any aromatic evidence in the staff room), I make my way to the Devil’s Dinghies. I check today’s schedule and see, annoyingly, that Luke is off for the day. Kind of a shitty start to our not-exactly-relationship, no?

  I sluggishly walk toward the ride, and upon arrival am surprised to see cans of paint and paintbrushes lining the wall near the mural. I’m not sure when Sam Hain expects me to do the painting, but I’m excited by the prospect. Even though I’m no great artist, I took art classes all through high school and would love to be able to continue doing something creative in my daily life. It’s daunting to think of creative pursuits outside of class assignments. Some people write or draw or play music in their spare time, and I envy them. Me? I’ve never found the motivation to do more than read fan fiction, watch TV, and go for the occasional run when my industrial-strength sports bra is clean. How do I become inspired enough to create unless someone else is forcing me to do so? Is Sam Hain forcing me to do this? I wouldn’t want to tell him no now that he’s bought the paint.

  I’m glad that I have the assignment. Especially since today Travis arrives, and I can assume that my nights, once filled with vintage sitcoms or Viddles with Lish, may start to become significantly freed up.

  CHAPTER 16

  One of the many perks of working at a kiddie amusement park versus an all-ages park is that Haunted Hollow closes at six o’clock. That means I still have nighttime to do …

  … what exactly am I going to do tonight? Employees aren’t allowed cell phones at their ride areas, so if I want to communicate with the non-Haunted world (some days I do, when I’m particularly bored or annoyed with belligerent parents or excited about a hangout later in the day; some days I don’t, when the kids are excruciatingly adorable, the parents polite, and Luke is decidedly charming) I have to wait until I can access my locker at lunchtime or the end of the day.

  At the beginning of lunch, I assume I’ll have fifteen texts from Lish detailing every moment of her long-awaited rendezvous with Travis.

  Nada.

  Not a text or emoji or any message on any one of my six thousand options for cellular communication.

  Must be busy.

  There is, however, a message from Luke.

  Anyone fall into the Dinghies abyss today?

  I smile a secret smile as I reread the message sixteen times. Adam eats his tuna surprise (they add raisins. Surprise!), oblivious to the newly blooming pinkness on my cheeks.

  Only a Buzz Lightyear toy. It was like the horror Toy Story sequel the world has dreamed about.

  I slowly chew my peanut butter and banana chips sandwich, awaiting a reply. Some days Uncle Jim decides he wants to be parental and packs me a lunch. That’s how I end up with chunky peanut butter and dried banana chips in the same sandwich, which sounds gross but is insanely delicious and crunchy and I think Elvis would have approved.

  My phone cackles in my lap, and I eagerly read the next message from Luke.

  Come over tonight?

  Ugh and swoon and melt. Could that have been written any more perfectly? Let us dissect:

  • He skips the formalities of the “Can you,” almost as though he desperately needs to see me.

  • There is something nonchalant yet seductive about the word come. Or maybe I’m looking too much into that one.

  • By not saying “to my house,” he is already adopting a casual familiarity, like, of course I know where “over” is (even though I have never been to his house before and have no idea where he lives).

  • My absolute favorite piece of this is the question mark. Without it, Luke would have sounded like a dominant asshole. But the question mark turns him into a pleading puppy dog.

  My fingers are itching to type a resounding YES into my phone, but I allow myself to take two more bites of my PB&B sandwich to feign coolness. Before I can enter the letter y, another message chimes. This time from Lish.

  Travis is here and he is everything. Come meet him after work!

  Analysis:

  This text bothers me for a slew of reasons.

  • Why does the first word have to be Travis? No greeting? No I statements?

  • He is Everything? Like, fucking EVERYTHING? How is that possible? What does that even mean? Everything she ever dreamed of? Everything he presented to her on his online profile? Everything to her, and, if so, everything she’ll ever need from now on, which does not include me?

  • Her usage of the word come is very bossy.

  • Why doesn’t she ask if I want to meet him? Why must she demand that I do so?

  • Exclamation point = Order me around much?

  • Why does she assume I have nothing to do after work? Maybe I’m tired after a hard day of pushing buttons and helping kids after they’ve had a guest illness (ie, ride barf). Maybe I’m going to hang out with other friends from school. Or work friends. Or one work friend in particular who is over a foot taller than me and writes magnificent messages to me instead of this dictatorial drivel and wants me to come over, if you know what I’m saying.

  Before I can stop myself, I type:

  Sorry—made plans.

  And send it to Lish.

  But then I feel a little guilty. Because this is Lish. And it’s not like she’s telling me to come over and clean her toilets or take a physics exam or go to college when I don’t want to. And it is like she’s including me on what could possibly be one of the most important thresholds of her life.

  I type another message.

  Tomorrow? I can’t wait to meet him.

  It may not be true, but at least my conscience won’t berate me the rest of the day.

  Lunch break is almost up, which I am made fully aware of when Adam asks, “If you’re not going to finish, I’ll take that oatmeal scotchie off your hands.”

  I shove the entirety of the cookie into my mouth before he helps himself, and he pouts accordingly. Then he proceeds to eat the slice of cafeteria cake he already had on his tray.

  “How do you eat with that hat on?” I crinkle my nose at the tangy stank drifting off certain angles.

  “I’m immune at this point.” Adam’s lips are framed with frosting. My cue to return to work. I type a hasty but cool Sure. What’s your address? to Luke and stow the phone in my locker, then spend the rest of the afternoon in my head’s fantasyland that’s probably too PG-13 for a kids’ amusement park. Maybe R. Although it’s pretty hard to be too pervy in my daydreams when I have to seat-belt flailing five-year-olds into tiny boats as their moms apathetically pacify them from the queue.

  A busy afternoon fast forwards my shift quickly, and by the time six o’clock rolls around and the stragglers are ushered out the front gates, I’m a bundle of nerves.

  It’s not as though Luke invited me to his house to have butt-naked sex. And it’s not like I haven’t had sex before (albeit somewhat mediocre, kind-of-ending-in-emotional-trauma sex). I’ve had boyfriends, boys who were friends, gropey friend–acquaintance things, and we didn’t do the do. What am I getting so bunged up about? Maybe it’s because Luke and I have known each other awhile, so there’s already an established relationship of sorts. But never with a label (as non-labely as our label is) and never when he didn’t have a girlfriend (note: this didn’t stop us that one time). Do I want to have sex with him tonight? Theoretically, I’ve wanted to have sex with Luke Jacobs since the first time I saw him. The way you do that in your head, to your best friend, you say, Oh my god, I want to sleep with Luke Jacobs, where you don’t actually envision you will ever really be taking your clothes off and seeing his penis and then, you know, the whole condom thing and the crinkly wrapper and then rolling it on down and then him actually inserting his penis into your vagina and …

  OH MY GOD I just made sex sound like the least sexy thing imaginable. I should fucking teach sex ed because kids would be all, If that’s what it’s like, why bother?

  How am I even re
lated to my bodice-ripping writer uncle? Maybe I should get some pointers from him the next time I attempt to pontificate on the fantasy world of a teenage girl’s brain.

  What I was getting at, before I rudely interrupted myself with the words penis and vagina, is that the idea of sex with Luke Jacobs is hot. The possibility of sex with Luke Jacobs is slightly trauma-inducing.

  It is, however, only June.

  CHAPTER 17

  I casually sprint to my locker to check my phone. As I hustle along, I faintly hear Adam catcall, “Looking good, Aggy!” Damn you, average-support bra! I remind myself to review the park’s sexual harassment policy and race to the staff room at a pace that will get me there quickly without breaking a sweat.

  There, standing in front of my locker is one Luke Jacobs, all brawn and silky hair, in a Faith No More t-shirt, shorts, and ragged checked Vans.

  “No fair,” I quip. “You get to be dapper, and I’m stuck in fluorescent orange.”

  “I don’t know if I’d call this dapper. And it would be a lot weirder if I wore my Haunted Hollow shirt on my day off, wouldn’t it?”

  “I suppose,” I concede.

  “Besides. You look cute in fluorescent orange.” Giggle.

  “You kind of have to say that, seeing as you’ve never actually seen me in another color,” I say.

  “Well, we’re just going to have to change that, aren’t we?” He smiles down at me, warm and gooey like a hot-out-of-the-oven chocolate chip cookie.

  I don’t have the wherewithal for a clever retort, so I ask, “What are you doing here, exactly? I thought I was going to your house.”

  “Yeah, well, my mom and her man are home, cuddled up on the couch, and I thought that might take away from our first date.”

  First date. First date. First date.

  “Yeah. Parents. Pffft.” If I continue with this enchanting dialogue, there may be no second date.

  “You wanna get something to eat? I just have to pick up my sunglasses at the Ghoster. I left them yesterday.”

  “Sounds good,” I reply, and reach into my locker to grab my stuff.

  The two of us walk toward the Ghoster, periodically bumping arms due to our close, but-not-too-close strides. His skin feels warm, and the light hair on his arm tickles my own.

  We pass the Terror Train, and Adam whistles at us, the swit-swoo sound from antiquated cartoons. “Does he understand that what he’s doing makes people uncomfortable?” I ponder.

  “He’s definitely socially stunted. Did that make you uncomfortable?” Luke asks, concerned.

  “Not that, per se, although kind of dorky, no? Mostly it’s when he’s staring at and/or commentating on my boobs,” I say, and immediately realize I am practically begging Luke to look at them. Or maybe daring him not to look at them?

  Luke glances down, and I’m not sure if it’s directly at my breasts or not. He has to look in that general direction anyway since his eyes are much higher than any part of my body. Plus, he’s allowed to look at my boobs. The way I like the ropy muscles of his forearms. An even trade.

  “Adam’s harmless. I mean, I can see why it would bother you. The thought of my boobs being anywhere near his hat—”

  “Good save,” I note.

  “Thanks.” Luke considers something for a moment. “I can talk to him if you want.”

  “That could be all kinds of awkward. I don’t want him to know I said anything to you about it.”

  “I could come at it from a different angle. Like, stop looking at my woman’s body,” he says in a gruff, assertive voice that makes me blush.

  “I’ll let you know,” I say, and tingle at the my woman detail.

  Luke picks up his sunglasses from under the control booth console. Together we decide on pizza for dinner, and he recommends a local place called Bill’s since I don’t know the area well.

  We pass the Devil’s Dinghies, and Luke spies the paint cans along the wall.

  “Is someone finally repainting the mural? That project is way overdue.”

  “I agree, and actually, that someone is me. Although I don’t really know when. I was considering starting tonight before I heard from you.”

  “I could help,” Luke suggests. “I worked stage crew freshman year. Painted the Fiddler on the Roof set,” he tells me with a modicum of pride.

  “Just freshman year? Why’d you quit?” I ask.

  “Too intense. It was like a cult.”

  “I’ve heard that about the theater department. I considered joining, but I’m too lazy.”

  “A fine quality in a woman.” Luke winks. I don’t think I’ve ever been referred to as a woman so many times in one day.

  We walk to the parking lot, and Luke leads me to his gray Ford Focus. He moves to the passenger side, I presume for purposes of chivalry, but proceeds to lean in and throw crumpled fast food wrappers into the backseat. “I have a confession to make.” He draws his lengthy torso out of the doorway. “I am a junk food addict. And a total slob. Can we still be lovers?” he asks.

  “Lovers?” I cringe.

  “Bad choice of word. Friends? With benefits? Possible benefits, I mean. I don’t want to assume.”

  “Because then you’d make an ass out of you and me,” I volunteer.

  “Exactly,” he concurs.

  We avoid the answers and drive with music loud and windows open. I’m glad I don’t hate the songs he chooses. It would be tragic for our nonrelationship to end so soon based on musical incompatibility. I once had a crush on this adorable band geek until I realized he was a hard-core country fan. Not like good, old country music, but new country that’s all ’MERICA and drinking out of plastic cups.

  When we arrive at Bill’s I let myself out of the car, a gesture that feels perfectly natural to me but is a point deducter on Lish’s list. Luke soon rectifies any potential dating gaffe by meeting me at the front of the car and lacing his fingers through mine. His hand is slightly steering-wheel sticky, but the size discrepancy negates anything bad about this situation.

  Bill’s Pizza is an institution of hunting and stuffed animals. There is a dead duck mounted directly above our booth. They also have baskets of peanuts on the table, and you’re encouraged to throw the shells on the tiled floor. A restaurant deadly to both animals and anyone with peanut allergies.

  We order a half-sausage, half-cheese pizza and munch from a basket of peanuts as we make small talk about our senior years. Luke has a million stories about everything from overstretched swimsuit elastic mishaps on the swim team (not his) to spending most of prom in a hotel bathroom throwing up due to a wonky shrimp salad. I share tales of Uncle Jim’s romance novels and the time Lish and I went to a late-night Harry Potter movie marathon where I fell asleep during Sorcerer’s Stone and didn’t wake until Harry, Ron, and Hermione sent their own kids to Hogwarts. Luke tells me he’s never seen or read Harry Potter, and I act like this isn’t a huge kick in the gut. Not everyone can like the same things, I convince myself. Even soul mates. I wonder what his thoughts are on Doctor Who. (Best not ask. That could be a deal breaker.) I consider how I’d feel if Hendrix Cutter didn’t like Harry Potter or the Doctor, and quickly reprimand myself for even thinking about Hendrix Cutter at such a time. Then I can’t stop myself, and I break out in a light sweat at the prospect of Hendrix Cutter busting through the double doors of Bill’s Pizza holding a limp bouquet of daffodils, calling out desperately, “Agatha Abrams! Where are you?”

  Luke keeps talking as though I’m not insane, and the voice in my head eventually shuts up. Conversation is relatively funny and easy and does not once fall into the trappings of MTBs or college or The Future. I imagine this is what dates were like before the Naming.

  The pizza arrives, and I stick with the all-cheese side. I failed to tell Luke that sausages gross me out due to the tiny fat globules inside. Luke doesn’t notice, and he manages to polish off the entire sausage side himself. Not without offering me the last piece, of course.

  The one thing that would
make this date better is if I were not wearing my work clothes, but seeing as Luke didn’t seem to care (maybe he is one of the chosen few who is turned on by fluorescent orange), I try not to let it bother me.

  When the check comes, Luke pays it with a wave of his hand and “I got this.” Hendrix Cutter is nowhere to be seen. I’d say this date is going quite well.

  As we walk back to the car, Luke rubbing circles on his unnoticeably distended belly, he hooks his arm over my shoulder. It’s heavy but welcome, and I decide to make the move of linking my fingers through his. He pulls me in closer, and I lean into his t-shirt, trying not to be too obvious as I inhale his soapy scent.

  This time he does open the door for me, not just for fast-food evacuation, and I slide into the seat. Take that, Lish! We drive back to Haunted Hollow and park in the employee lot. The back gate remains open, as maintenance and Sam Hain stay late some nights. We enter the park and stroll past Sam Hain’s office. Mr. Hain looks out the window at us, and I attempt an international symbol for painting (gleaned from The Karate Kid—up, down, up, down). It seems to satisfy him, and Luke and I travel to the Devil’s Dinghies.

  I lower the wooden plank from the park side to the grassy island inside the ride, considering for a moment that Luke may be too large for the flimsy plank. He deftly crosses, and we survey the mural to select which devil wins the first face-lift. I choose my favorite image, that of a red devil boiling three humans in a cauldron, stirring around their rope-restrained bodies with glee. Much of the red on the devil and the black on the cauldron have eroded, and the terrified expressions on the people’s faces are barely recognizable.

  “Let’s start here,” I say to Luke.

  “Ooh. That one’s my favorites.” He grins. How are we not a match made in heaven? Or science? Or wherever Empties come from? I try not to dwell on the elephant in everyone’s room and attempt to open the black paint canister. The lid won’t budge.

  “I got it,” Luke offers, and with the tip of his keys manages to pop off the paint lid effortlessly.