Being Friends With Boys (27 page)

Veronica rolls her eyes. “We’re going to take off, then.”

Sylvia hardly nods at them.

“Bye, guys,” I say, waving.

Freckle Face points her thumb in the direction Taryn just went. “Have fun.”

“Who’s Erin?” I ask Sylvia when they’re gone.

She shrugs. “New girlfriend of Taryn’s. Who seems fairly needy.”

I glance at the clock over the washing machine. It’s already closer to five o’clock than four.

Sylvia sees me. “Why don’t we go over some of these others together?”

It’s another hour before Taryn comes back down. She startles us both with a big
“God!”
at the top of the stairs.

“Sorry about that.” She throws up her hands. I think she’s going to explain, but she just goes, “Drama,” as if that’s enough. She moves to her keyboard, walking a wider-than-necessary path around Sylvia. “So, should we just pick up where we left off?”

“If you want.” Sylvia shrugs.

“I actually—” I look at the clock again, not wanting to. “Am going to have to go at six thirty.” This is already way later than I thought I was going to be over here. I’m supposed to go out with Fabian tonight, but the clock hands—and my fight with Dad this morning—tell me that’s not going to happen. I’m not actually grounded yet, and maybe I won’t be, because of the mean thing I said—the way I hurt him out of being angry—but I don’t really want to flaunt that in his face.

The gleam goes out of Taryn. “Well, why don’t we work a
little longer, at least. Show me a few you did, so I can catch up.”

We go back through the songs Sylvia just taught me. Taryn’s rhythms and loops mixed in make everything way different, but also a lot better. By the last song, even though I mess up a few times, I’ve still got that kind of giddy feeling I had the other day. I like what we’ve done, and the warm spread of excitement pushes through me again.

“Come on, Little Bit,” Taryn tells me, shutting down. “I’ll take you home.”

“Thanks for being so patient,” I say to Sylvia.

“Well, keep working on it.”

“Char’s fabulous the way she is,” Taryn clips, not looking at Sylvia and heading up the stairs.

I’m not looking forward to facing Dad, but whatever it is that’s going on in this basement between these two, I’m ready to get away from.

A
fter breakfast the next morning, Dad asks me to go on a walk. “I need the air,” he says, patting his stomach. “Not to mention the exercise.”

I could use the exercise too, but I wish, a little, that we’d stay in the house, so Hannah or at least Darby can be around for backup. What I really need to do, though, is just apologize and listen, so I suck it up, put on my sneakers, and go.

For a long way, he doesn’t say anything. Ten minutes solid I’m tense, waiting for him to start discussing my punishment. But eventually it’s nice, just walking together, me and him. It’s like the grocery store, which we haven’t done in forever.

We’re about two blocks away from the house again when he breaks the silence.

“I want you to pursue your talents,” he goes. “But you have a responsibility to your schoolwork too, for more than one reason.”

I tell him I know. I tell him I’m not going to do anything but homework today. That I promise to be focused, and I’m sorry for what I said.

He hugs me in the driveway. “Maybe I’ll get to come see you sing sometime. I mean, I’d like to.” And it feels good, thinking that when he does, I’ll make him proud.

When we get back, I’ve finally got a text from Benji:
Slept late but woke up still thinking abt Friday. Thx for giving me something to smile abt this wknd.

It’s sweet, but also a little weird. And late. While I’m glad he’s thinking about me, I wish he’d been more like Fabian and left it at
Friday was cool
. And sent it yesterday.

Hope your day keeps you smiling
, I text back, my own cheesiness making me wince too.

I spend the rest of the afternoon making good on my promise to Dad, but after dinner, I’m itching to work on a new song for Sad Jackal. At first I think I might write about friends turning into—what, sweethearts? Lovers? Something with benefits?—but
I don’t know what Benji is to me right now, and besides, if I do that, everyone will think it’s really about Oliver and we’ll be back where we started.

There’s plenty else in my head, but none of it is right for a song either. What I really need—really, truly need—is the notebook. I need to write out all the jumbled-up things inside me about Oliver, Taryn and Sylvia, even Benji. And I need Trip’s insight and understanding on the other end of it. I need his perfect balance of humor and seriousness. I need somebody who won’t expect me to have all the answers right away, but who’s interested in helping me find them.

I don’t have the notebook, though, and I don’t have Trip. What I do have is a deadline with Oliver and a duty to Sad Jackal. So I test out a few other ideas.
“We’re just friends”
and
“Quit talking about us, you rejected bitch”
are the only things I can think of when it comes to Whitney or Oliver. Being surprised to find out that the guy you’re crushing on is involved with someone else is out of the question, obviously, and
“I’m in two bands at the same time”
isn’t a good way to break the news to Sad Jackal.

Frustrated, I open Jilly’s iPhoto and flip through that, but it’s all images I’ve looked through a ton of times before. One picture stands out this time—a crazy Hindu parade she walked into, coming out of the subway on a chorus trip to New York. But thinking about New York makes me think about what Taryn
and Sylvia said about hipster girl bands and how they try so hard to be all detached and disinterested, lisping into the microphone in their little-girl voices.
Only a little girl crawls out of you
, I jot down, but that’s as far as it gets. It’s midnight and I need to go to bed.

On Monday, I’m not really sure what class Benji has before 20th Cen., but I wait for him by the double doors of the main building, because it seems like the right thing to do, for a couple of reasons. While I’m there, I picture not just today, but the next day, and the next, and maybe several more days or weeks after that—me waiting to meet him so we can hold hands on the way to class. I remember that flower he gave me and wonder what other surprises he might show up with, if I gave him the chance. How would it feel, leaving school every day in that Volvo of his, going—wherever we wanted?

When he sees me, he’s pleased, and even more so when I take his hand. He doesn’t say anything about it—just asks me about my weekend as we walk to class. Our fingers are entwined, loose and casual. It feels natural and yet also completely weird. After class, before we separate, he kisses me, quick, on the lips, and I think,
Yeah, maybe I could get used to this.

Maybe.

The girls and I go to Duck’s for lunch, and they want to know all about my date. “Is he a good kisser?” And “Did he try to drug you?” And other stupid things like that. I tell them how Benji acts all tough but is this terrific guy inside—which is true. What I can’t say is that part of me is still thinking,
Benji and me? Really?
But by the time we head back to school, half the girls seem in love with Benji themselves, even Lish. I barely have to say anything about what kissing him was like; they all swoon just hearing how sweet he was about it.

It’s hard to tell what Oliver thinks, though. About anything. I thought he and I were okay after last week, but when he sees me waiting outside psych, he doesn’t stop to chat. Instead he opens the door, holds it for me, and then follows me in, barely lifting the corners of his mouth. The only thing he says when we’re in our desks is did I bring the new song. And he isn’t happy when I can only look back at him, biting on my lip.

Whatever. I’ve been busy and I’ll have the new songs soon. I hope.

Even though he’s sullen, we have rehearsal, so I hang out for a while by his car after school, making sure to stand nowhere near him. That is until I remember Lish’s comment about how hard we try to look like we’re not together. There’s no winning in this situation. It’s stupid.

What’s also stupid is that when Oliver’s ready to go, he simply glances my way and jerks his head toward his car. A wave of irritation sweeps over me. Again.

What I want to say is,
What the hell?
But instead I go for predictably normal and calm: “So, how was your weekend? Feel better?”

“I should ask you the same thing.” His caustic tone fills the car.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Have a good time with McLaughlin?” He laughs a little. “Contract any horrible diseases we should know about?”

I’m burning. He cannot make a dig at Benji, not like that. “I don’t see how that has anything to do with you, and how your weekend was, or how you’re feeling, which is what I asked.”

He shrugs. “I still don’t like the cover idea.”

“Yeah.” I look straight out the windshield. “Well, it’s not just your decision to make.”

“People are still staring,” he mutters as we pull out of the lot.

“Ignore them, then. God.”
Why would it be so terrible if people did think we were going out, anyway?
I want to add. Absolute total no, of course, but his making such a big deal about it is verging on mean.

“Covers are lame,” he goes on. “It’s like,
Really? You couldn’t come up with anything else?
”

Covers aren’t lame. They’re fun. And so, so, so much easier.

He sighs. “But what we really need are some new songs.”

“I’m working on it, okay?” I snap. “If it’s so unbearably urgent, why don’t
you
write them? Instead of letting everyone
think
you do?”

I watch him from the corner of my eye, to see how he reacts to this.

“That’s not what happened.”

“Yeah, well, that’s how it sounded.”

“Maybe Trip should come back,” he says, half to himself, as we get to his house.

Which makes me want to punch him. I mean, I was the one who told him not to let go of Trip in the first place. And Trip clearly has no interest in playing with us or anyone anymore, no matter how bad we miss him, because he’s obviously too deeply entrenched in his new group of friends. His new girlfriend. Also, I don’t
want
to be in a band with someone who doesn’t want to be friends anymore. Oliver’s moodiness is bad enough. I don’t need to be in rehearsal, avoiding standing too close to Trip, too.

I don’t get a chance to say any of this to Oliver, though, because Eli’s already at the house, waiting. I glare at Oliver’s back as he goes inside, then drop down on the rec room couch to watch them race on the PS3. When Abe and Fabian arrive, I am still gloomy and unhelpful. They play some songs, but I don’t
comment. I sing “Cage Song” and “Disappear,” with as little luster as possible. I think Oliver and Fabian can tell, but they don’t say anything. But it’s not just me. No one seems very energized at all. It is nothing like practicing with Taryn and Sylvia.

When we finally wrap up, Fabian asks if I need a lift home. I glance at Oliver and tell Fabian no, thanks. I’m sick of Oliver’s crap. He and I need to have a real talk.

But once the guys have all left, Oliver’s obstinate on the couch, his acoustic draped across his lap. He messes around, playing one thing, then another.

“So, what’s up?” he says, not making eye contact.

I sink down into the chair across from him, so that if he does look up, he’ll have to look straight at me. “I should ask you the same thing.”

“I don’t know what
that
was.” He points his thumb to the practice area.

Normally I would tell him we’re merely on a low after a big high, that the energy will pick up, but instead I just look at him. None of us were that great this afternoon, but neither was he. So he can’t act like he’s the only one who doesn’t have a problem.

“We need to get out there more,” he says. “Make some more connections. Look for new venues. Spend some time recording.” He rubs his bangs, frowns. “What we really need is some new material.”

That does it. He can’t treat me however he wants and then expect me to do everything for him. And it occurs to me: I don’t have to.

“You said that before. About nineteen times. I get it. But maybe for once you’re going to have to find someone else to help you.”

His blue eyes jump up at me, widen. It almost scares me too.

“What do you mean?”

Part of me backs down. But another part, a new part, feels glad to see him this way: panicked that I might not be around.

“I’m not just your lackey,” I tell him. “You can’t snap your fingers and expect me to do your bidding. I have a life outside of you, you know. And in my real life, my grades are horrible and there’s all this stuff going on, and I’m sorry if it means I’m not good enough for you, but I don’t know if I can keep it up, to be honest. Or if I want to.”