Leading Lines Page 3

  And he really listened as I told him about each photo, but about halfway through the album, I realized it felt like, Hey, here’s an album of my life over the last two weeks that has almost nothing to do with you. And I could see that his eyes were sort of glazing over, and I got it, because that was how I felt on guitar pick number five of seven, and I realized maybe we were more into the gifts we were giving each other than the ones we got, if that makes any sense. So then I sped through the rest of the photos, quickly mentioning Ramona and some of the other Tisch campers and some of the highlights of my time away. He didn’t seem to mind how I was rushing, which made me relieved that I caught his cues and didn’t drag out the vacation-photo slideshow any longer, even if it also made me feel a little deflated.

  Once I closed the album, I couldn’t help but blurt out what had been bugging me for days.

  “Why didn’t you reply to my texts?” I fiddled with the edge of his comforter, pulling at a loose thread.

  “What texts?” he asked. He stretched out, hands behind his head on his pillow.

  “I texted you. Last Wednesday. And Thursday.”

  “You broke the ban?” He nudged me playfully in the side; I swatted his arm away.

  “It was important.”

  He sat up and faced me. “What happened?”

  “You really didn’t get the texts?”

  He shook his head and explained he’d gotten a new phone a few days into the tour. “I spilled beer all over mine on the third night. Maybe they came through between phones?” His casual mention of beer threw me (he wasn’t drinking before he left, on the oncologist’s recommendation). And even if he had missed those texts while he was away, surely he got the one I sent the previous day, but he made no mention of it. Instead, he pulled out his shiny new iPhone from the back pocket of his jeans. “Well, the ban’s off now, right?” A second later my phone beeped.

  Dylan: Boyfriend Alert!

  I smiled and looked up at Dylan, trying to brush off my annoyance—how was he to know I’d had a major life crisis?—but he was engrossed in his phone, texting someone else and I wanted to ask who. Not that Dylan doesn’t have his own life, but he doesn’t really have a lot of friends that he kept in touch with after graduation. He didn’t let anyone know he had cancer, so he lost touch with a lot of his guy friends who went away to college. Most people think he’s on a BFL—a Break From Life, taking a year off between high school and college.

  He leaned over to place his phone on the nightstand beside his bed and turned back to me, grabbing one of my hands and holding it between his. “So what was the crisis?”

  So I told him. All about David. He listened to the whole sordid story and didn’t try to do that guy thing where they solve the problem, he just listened, and then told me he was sorry he wasn’t there for me when it was all going down.

  I switched the topic of conversation over to him, and he told me all about his two weeks away, which couldn’t have been more different than mine. How they hit a different town every day, a different venue every night. About how they tried to stop at all the diners from Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives along the route. How they stayed up until 4 in the morning and slept till 2 in the afternoon. How they played name that tune on the bus and poker in the hotel rooms.

  I listened, but it was like watching a movie from the halfway point. You’re not invested in the characters, because you can’t quite get them straight. And as he was telling me all of the stuff that happened to him, all I could think of was how much fun he had. How much fun he had without me. And so, instead of feeling happy for him, I felt glum and distant.

  But then, we were tired of talking. And we snuggled into each other. I pulled out the Sabres blanket he’d sent with me to New York, and we put on a movie, and then we ended up not really watching it, and I stopped worrying about our time apart and instead focused on our being back together.

  • • •

  “I made pancakes,” Mom says when I come downstairs the next morning. She’s hovering over her iPad at the kitchen counter, coffee mug in hand. I eye the table. In addition to the pile of pancakes, there’s whipped cream and strawberries.

  “I was feeling bad that I left you to fend for your own dinner last night. I can’t seem to say no to the overtime shifts.”

  By the time I came home from Dace’s, it was well after 8, and I’d eaten at her house without even calling to let Mom know. But I don’t tell her that, because I already feel lousy for not having a part-time job while she’s picking up any extra shifts she can get.

  “I’m not hungry,” I say, ignoring my grumbling stomach.

  “Come on, Pippa. You can’t keep punishing me.”

  “I’m not.”

  I turn and face her. She takes a sip of coffee. “Can you just sit?”

  “Fine.” I shuffle over to the table and put my apple down a little too forcefully.

  She joins me. “Well, how was school yesterday? How were your classes?”

  “Fine.”

  “Come on, tell me about the teachers. Anyone good?”

  “New homeroom teacher.”

  “She’s nice?”

  “He. Yeah. Can I go?”

  “Fine. But take a pancake with you?”

  I grab one off the top of the pile and take a bite as I walk down the hall. I put on my boots, coat and hat, then sling my bag over my shoulder. I pause. “Really good pancake.” Then I’m out the door.

  CHAPTER 4

  “Hey Pippa. Quick question,” Ben says when he sees me coming out of last period later in the week. “Your mom works for a vet, right?”

  “Yeah. At Furry Friendz.”

  “Is it a good place?”

  “I guess? As far as vet clinics go. It’s not a puppy mill or anything, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Can I get the details? My cat’s wheezing and my mom’s worried. And we don’t have a vet in Spalding yet.”

  I pull out my phone and send him the contact for Mom at work. “I’ll tell my mom. What’s your cat’s name?”

  “Catniss.”

  “Funny. Kay, tell your mom to give Catniss’s name on the phone.” I stop at my locker and focus on the combination lock.

  “You come up with an idea for the alumni event yet?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “Nothing I’m excited about.”

  “Well, I’ve got something,” he says.

  “What is it?” I open my locker and toss my books in, then grab my camera and a notebook.

  “Want to grab a coffee and discuss? I’ve got my car here.”

  “Can’t. I’ve got Hall Pass in 10 minutes,” I say, slinging my Rebel over my shoulder and shutting my locker.

  “I’ll walk you.” He falls into step beside me as we head down the hall toward the photocopy room. “OK, so, what if we interview Spalding alumni and ask them their favorite memory of Spalding?”

  “Like my Streeters column in the paper?” Finally, all that practice asking hard-nosed journalistic questions like “What’s your favorite caf food?” is paying off.

  “Yeah, but then maybe instead of taking the person’s pic, we take a pic of their memory instead. So then in the end we’ll have all these shots of Spalding icons, and maybe make it into some sort of collage?”

  I nod. “We could get it printed on poster paper and make a massive mural for the gym wall,” I say, nodding. “It’s a great idea. We should make sure that people know their memory can be of anything while they were here at Spalding. Like Pete’s Pizza, the car wash on DeMoines, which is always totally staffed by Spalding students every summer …”

  I stop at the water fountain in the atrium to get a sip of water. Ben leans casually against the wall, one foot up. I stand up and tilt my head back, looking up to the bright afternoon sun that’s coming in through the glass ceiling above us.

  “Ho
ld this a second,” I say, pointing at the button for the fountain. Ben depresses the button, and I bend down so I’m eye level with the fountain, pulling my camera to my face.

  I adjust the shutter speed to 1/125 and a narrow aperture to ensure the water droplets are in focus and then set my ISO to 100 to capture all the detail. I fire off a few shots, then check the viewfinder. Close, but not quite. I fine-tune the exposure and squat even lower, then try a few more times. “Got it.”

  “Let’s see.”

  I show Ben the reflection of light on the stream of water, set against the stainless-steel backsplash.

  “Not bad.” He grins.

  I roll my eyes at him. “I gotta go.”

  “So I’ll tell Principal F our idea?”

  “Wait. We should talk to the rest of photo club, see what they think …”

  “Gemma’s the only other one working on this with us.”

  “True, but …”

  “She’s totally going to be on board with this. I’ll text her. Let’s just pitch it to Forsythe and then we can get started.”

  “It’s just …” I can feel myself blushing.

  “What?”

  “Listen.” I look around to make sure no one’s listening. “I don’t want Dylan getting the wrong idea about us. I want it to be very clear that this is an assignment we have to do, because Principal F asked photo club to contribute. Not because you and I want to work together.”

  Ben looks momentarily stunned, then recovers. “Listen, I get it. You have a boyfriend. You chose him over me, like, months ago. There’s nothing between us. I’m void of feelings when it comes to you. You’re kind of just like this androgynous thing. Like a parakeet. But one of the smart ones, that can do tricks and talk and stuff. So don’t stress.”

  Now I feel sort of silly.

  “Do you want me to call Dylan and tell him there’s nothing to worry about?”

  “No, definitely don’t do that. I’ll tell him,” I say, already dreading the conversation. But I’m relieved to hear Ben say it: there is nothing between us. I’m a parakeet.

  “I look forward to our strictly Photo Club Business interactions,” Ben says, seriously, sticking out his hand. I smile, shaking his hand.

  “Don’t smile!” he says as I pull open the door to the photocopy room. “Someone might actually think you’re having fun with me.”

  CHAPTER 5

  “Buckle up, we’ve got a long ride ahead of us,” Dylan says when he picks me up shortly after 8 on Friday night. He’s wearing a driving cap, which he moves out of the way to kiss me when I get in the car.

  “We do?” I close the door of Dylan’s Dadmobile and feel a flutter of excitement.

  “Radio Flyers—the band that opened for Cherry Blasters?—are playing tonight at Roxy’s. I can get us in and introduce you to the band.”

  “Oh,” I say, trying to hide my disappointment. Dace and I had spent hours trying to figure out what Dylan’s surprise would be. A hotel room for our first time? Dinner at a fancy restaurant? Tickets to some photography or art exhibit I don’t know about? Worst-case scenario I guessed he would take me to the new Channing Tatum movie—the one he keeps making fun of me for wanting to see.

  “I should probably check with my mom,” I say, trying to keep my voice light as I text Mom. One of our first dates was a concert, so I don’t know why I’m not excited to see a band tonight, except that it’s a band Dylan spent two weeks with, and it feels like I’m tagging along to this other life he had, or something. A second later, Mom texts back, telling me to have fun. I’m surprised she’s OK with the long-distance night out. I wonder if it’s because I’ve been cold with her, and she’s trying to get back on my good side.

  Dylan’s chattering about the Radio Flyers, filling me in on some development with all his band friends since he’s been back, and the next thing I know he’s repeating my name.

  “Sorry. Zoned out for a sec,” I say.

  “So anyway, I was saying …” I know he’s trying to make me feel connected to the band, to his new friends, but the more he goes on about them, the more disconnected I feel.

  “You OK?” he says, and I nod.

  “I’m sure the band will be great. I just … haven’t heard them before, you know, so it’s hard for me to be as excited to see them play. But I’m sure they’ll be great.” My face hurts from forcing a smile.

  “Oh, I’ll put them on right now,” he says, grabbing his phone from the console between our seats. A second later, jangly guitars fill the air.

  “They’re awesome, right? You’ll love the guys.” He merges onto the freeway. “Actually, I should’ve told you what we were doing. Dace would’ve loved it too. She could’ve come along.”

  “Dace is at ski club.” The clock on the dashboard glows green. Right about now they’re skiing under the lights, weaving in and out of glistening trees. Or hot-chocolate-breaking inside the chalet by a fire. He doesn’t say anything. “I wanted to join too, but you know, Fridays are supposed to be our night. When we do something we both want to do,” I add.

  Dylan glances over at me. “Was that a dig?”

  “No,” I lie.

  “If you want to join ski club, join ski club.”

  I want him to add, “But I’d miss you.” Or “We can find another night to have date night.” Something that indicates he still wants one night to be our night. But he doesn’t. Neither of us says anything for a while. He’s tapping on his steering wheel to the beat of the song as though nothing’s wrong, and I try to shake off my bad mood. How was he supposed to know I didn’t want to go see the Radio Flyers? And it’s just one Friday. One Friday in a lifetime of Friday night dates. And Dylan and I are together—and we always have fun, no matter what we’re doing. I just need to stop overthinking it. Dylan cranks the radio, catches my eye and sticks out his tongue at me and I laugh. I lean back in my seat as he roars down the freeway.

  • • •

  It’s a little after 9 when we get to Roxy’s, but the bar is already packed. Everyone at Spalding talks about Roxy’s, but almost no one has actually gotten in, since the bouncers are renowned for being total hard-asses about fake ID. But Dylan’s on the guest list and one of the Radio Flyers guys is standing at the door talking to the bouncer when we get to the door, and he looks at us, nods, and like that, we’re in. Dylan shakes hands with the Radio Flyers guy, says something to me that I can’t hear over the noise and then grabs my hand and pulls me through the throngs of people, as though he knows exactly where he’s going. I bite my lip and stare intently at everyone’s shoes.

  “DM! DM! DM!”

  This gaggle of girls is suddenly standing beside us, though one stands out—she’s got jet-black hair, big bangs, bright red full lips, the kind that hold lipstick perfectly—and she practically leaps into Dylan’s arms, hugging him tight, and I’m left there, staring, mouth agape.

  When they break apart, Dylan looks from the girl, to me, and then slings his arm around me, which makes me feel slightly better about the love-in that just happened before my eyes. Then the girl backs up, if only slightly, to resume her spot with her three friends.

  “Muse, this is Pippa.” He squeezes my shoulder.

  “Hey,” Muse says, tilting her head, broadly grinning and throwing her hand out to me.

  Muse? Her name is Muse? I try to remind myself it’s just a name and doesn’t mean she’s as fascinating as her name sounds. But she looks fascinating. She’s got a tattoo that runs the length of the inside of her arm from her wrist to her elbow. It says something—in swirly font—but I can’t read what.

  “It’s great to meet you,” she says to me. “I’ve heard so much. You’re even prettier in person,” she says. I don’t know where to start. She’s heard so much about me? When? Where? I’ve heard nothing about her. Why is she being so nice? Why do I want to hate her?

  �
��And it’s soooo good to see you,” Muse says, smiling at Dylan. Her eyes are the kind that sparkle. The kind you can’t take your own eyes off. “Texting just isn’t the same.”

  I look from her to Dylan, who looks … oblivious. He’s been texting with Muse? Dylan just nods, as I try to figure out who this girl is.

  “We’ll grab drinks,” Dylan says. “Want something?”

  “Oh, no thanks, we’ve got a pitcher over there,” she says, pointing to the table behind her, where her three friends have disappeared to. “But come over, we’ll grab you seats.”

  “Cool.” He turns and I follow him to the bar, even though 98% of me wants to just walk right back out the door of the club.

  “What do you want?” He asks.

  “Just a Coke,” I say, and he orders one and himself a club soda.

  “How do you know her?” I ask after he hands me the glass and clinks his with mine. He takes a sip of his drink.

  “Muse? She was on the tour.”

  “She was? Like every show?” This might’ve been useful information. But what was he supposed to tell me, that he was hanging out with this gorgeous girl for two weeks? I can see why it didn’t come up.

  Dylan takes another sip of his drink and looks around, bobbing his head to the music playing over the PA. He turns to me and says something I can’t hear and points to the table where Muse is, and I follow him. He downs the rest of his soda as he walks ahead of me and puts his cup down on a table as we pass. Muse eyes Dylan and jumps up as we approach. She leans close, saying something to him, her cheek pressed to his cheek. I’m behind him, so I can’t see his reaction to whatever she’s saying. She sits back down, pulling a chair closer to her, for him. But he grabs another chair for me, and puts the two empty ones together, and then we sit and he leans over to tell me the band should be on any minute, and I nod, then focus on the straw in my drink.