“And girls,” Layla chimes in. Sandy, who’s been looking through my
mom’s collection of books, looks up and smiles.
“Yes, please, Mrs. Hart,” the boys say in unison, all smiles and
politeness. She doesn’t know them like I do.
The minute she walks out, Layla looks up at Ryan and says, “Ryan,
you’ve got a little drool right here.”
He wipes at his mouth with the sleeve of his hoodie. “It’s kind of
impossible not to. No offense.”
“None taken.” I shrug. I’m used to the guys all coming over just
so they can be doted on by my mom. Even when we have school trips, the
guys try to bribe me to get her to be the chaperone. Suddenly my
living room, which has always seemed like a cave when I’m alone, feels
too hot, too tight. The AC is on, and I’m still sweating. I want to
tell everyone to get out so that I can jump in the shower, but that
would be rude.
Ryan combs his fingers through his slick blond hair, a telltale
sign that he’s getting ready for a speech. Aside from being on the
archery team, he writes for the Thorne Hill High School Press and is
treasurer of the senior class. He has parents who are still married,
don’t hate each other, and work in the city. They live in the Sea
Breeze gated community not a five-minute drive from here.
Sometimes it annoys me how perfect he is. It’s like he can do no
wrong. When we took a school-required test that’s supposed to tell you
what you should be when you grow up, he got “President of the United
States.” I got back an empty piece of paper, because they’d lost my
results. And it bothers me even more because he always says he was
born to be something great. He just knows it in his heart, and so does
everyone who’s ever met him.
Everyone who meets me likes me, sure, but I’ll never be suave like
Angelo, and I’ll never be as smart as Ryan. I don’t even know what I’m
going to do tomorrow, didn’t even know before my near-drowning. So
I’ve got that going for me.
“So,” Ryan starts. “I was thinking of getting a group together and
heading down to the Wreck. They’re having some end-of-the-world party
all week long. Who’s down?” He looks at me eagerly.
I’m not, but I say, “I’ll think about it. They gave me this
prescription that makes me want to sleep.”
Layla gives me a sideways glance, because she knows we weren’t at
the hospital long enough for them to give me a prescription. “I just
got a text from Maddy. She just invited me to the same thing.”
“Dude, I’m surprised she’s not here,” Jerry says. “She was pacing
in front of your hospital room for like days. I only went the one
time. It was so crowded. But she was definitely there a while.”
“Yeah, she was there when I went too,” Ryan adds.
Layla’s quiet, arms crossed over her chest. She looks small, like
she’s sinking into the couch. I get up from the floor and sit next to
her. So does Jerry.
“Why’d you guys break up anyway?” Bertie asks. The whole room
turns to look at me.
“When I broke up with Rebecca-” Ryan starts, but Bertie has his
hand up. “Hold up. No, man. We’ve already heard the Rebecca story a
bajillion times.”
I asked Maddy out three months ago. I think the pigtail braids did
it for me. Plus, we were already friends. I don’t want to talk about
me and Maddy. I don’t want to talk about it ever. I want to jump in
some cold water. But they’re not going to let it drop until I at least
say something.
“She’s nice and all, don’t get me wrong. But she wanted to be with
me every single minute. She wanted to call me as soon as we got home
from school and watch TV together over the phone . She waited by my
locker. She waited in my lobby downstairs before school.”
“Did she let you kiss her?” Bertie raises his thick black eyebrows
and wiggles his head, giving him the effect of a cartoon bobblehead.
“I mean, yeah?”
“How far did you guys go?” Bertie leans over Layla to ask me this.
Layla’s body feels hot next to mine. I glance at her. I can’t say
it. Not in front of her.
“Don’t you dare say a word, Tristan Allen Hart,” she says, evoking
my whole name as if it’s the ultimate command. Her eyes squint at me
like she has lasers and they’re about to slice right through me. Oh
god . I want to bang my head against the wall. I want to jump out the
window. She knows. Of course, Maddy told her.
The guys take it the wrong way. Even Wonder Ryan high-fives the
other guys for me. I try to deny it, but they talk over me.
“Look, she’ll get over it. It’s not like you’re going to be the
only one.”
“Plus, that friend of Samantha you made out with at the bonfire
was ten times hotter than Maddy,” Jerry blurts out, emitting a round
of manly man cheers.
The bonfire. The night before the storm. The reason I was hungover
the next day. I’m not a good drinker. I’ll have a beer and a half and
be plastered. That’s why I don’t usually drink. I just nurse the same
bottle the entire night and pretend like it’s always a new one. The
Hot Mess that was with Samantha. She saw I was miserable. I was trying
to avoid Maddy the whole day after she told me she was madly in love
with me and then started undoing my belt buckle. I could’ve stopped
her, but I wasn’t exactly thinking with my brain.
Either way. The screwed-up part is that I don’t even remember the
girl I was kissing. I don’t remember what she tasted like. I don’t
remember her eyes. Nothing. I just remember Maddy walking around the
big boulder and gasping. Then crying. Then throwing her beer in my
face and then the empty cup at the Hot Mess. She slapped me and I let
her.
Maddy was the girl I wanted to take a chance with because I was
tired of dating girls who couldn’t put a whole sentence together but
knew their father’s credit card number by heart. It’s just-she wasn’t
the right girl.
And now sitting here, with all my friends cheering me for being
alive, for being their idol, I feel lower than low. Because Layla gets
up, shaking her head at me. I try to grab her hand, but she pulls
away, and I don’t know what I can say right here, right now to make
her want to stay.
My head is pulsing. I tell Ryan that I’ll make it to the Wreck,
but something doesn’t feel right. I know I’ll probably puke my guts
out and go to bed. Layla and I take seats at the dining room table
with our parents, who sip on red wine, and Coach Bellini, whose
mustache is tipped in beer foam.
I vaguely understand now how it feels to be a wounded puppy that
wants to be left alone to lick his wounds. A very manly, strong puppy,
that is.
Mrs. Santos pops a cheddar cube into her mouth. Layla is a skinny
version of her mother with her dad’s hazel eyes. Mr. Santos is a tall
and broad Ecuadorian dude with a mustache who always smells like his
cigars. He extends his arm and pats my shoulder. I tighten my body
against the pain that spreads down my entire back.
“Listen here, boy,” says Coach, pointing a finger at me. Why do
grown-ups seem to do that, like if they’re not pointing in your
direction, you’re not going to know that they’re serious. “What the
hell happened out there? Don’t you ever go doing anything so reckless
again. Think of your momma right here. Your friends. Your team.”
“He was trying save someone,” Layla interrupts. She thinks Coach
is right, but it’s her nature to take the opposite side. Ms. Contrary.
“He was being heroic.”
“Firemen are heroic. Marines are heroic. You’re just plain