Every Last Word (16 page)

I’m sad he has a girlfriend, but watching him right now reinforces what I already suspected about him: he’s a good guy.

“How long have you been together?” I ask.

“We’re not together.” He doesn’t look at me. “We’re just friends. We’ve been good friends for a long time.”

They’re friends.

It reminds me of what he said in Poet’s Corner that day, warning me not to push the friends thing with him.

Out of nowhere, he shakes his head hard and sits straight up. “Sorry. I’m worried about her. I’ll snap out of it.” He twists in his seat to face me. “Subject
change. I liked the poem you read this afternoon.”

“Thanks.” I picture the Post-it in its new home on my locker door, and smile to myself. “Sometimes there’s a whole side of your personality you don’t always show
everyone, you know?” I glance down at the odometer. It’s on seven. “I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately.”

He leans back in his seat and I steal a glance at him. He’s watching me with an inquisitive look in his eye. “It’s interesting. Usually, after people read a few times, they
start to make more sense to me, but every time you read, I find myself…” He pauses, searching for the right words. “More curious about you.”

“Good. Then we’re even,” I say.

“Are we?” he asks.

“I’ve been curious about you for a while now.” I’m not sure where this boldness is coming from, but it feels pretty natural. I look over at him. “Sorry. That was
all your fault.”

“Mine?” He laughs. “How so?”

“Blurting.” I take a left at the light and merge into traffic, picking up a little speed. “I’ve been practicing.”

“And how’s that going for you?”

“Not so great. I probably took it too far today.”

He raises his eyebrows. “How so?”

“Kaitlyn isn’t speaking to me because she told me my hair looked ridiculous like this.” I point at the braided, twisty thing I did this morning. I wanted to try something new.
“And instead of heading off to the bathroom to change it like I normally would, I told her that her blush was too heavy and she looked like a mime.”

“Well, if she looked like a mime, it makes perfect sense that she’s not speaking to you,” he says.

That cracks me up.

“I shouldn’t have said that to her,” I say, grimacing. “It was probably more bitchy than blurty, wasn’t it?”

“Maybe. Don’t worry, you’ll get the hang of it.” He grabs my phone from the cup holder. “Want me to put on some music to kill this awkward silence?” he asks
with a grin.

Normally I’d be irritated by the idea of someone poking around in my music—it seems personal, like rifling through my underwear drawer—so I’m surprised when I hear myself
say, “Sure” and then tell him my password, like I do that all the time. Out of the corner of my eye I can see him sliding his finger across the screen. I don’t even feel the urge
to grab the phone out of his hand.

“Hmm,” he says.

“What?”

“
Oblivious to Yourself. A Cryptic Word. It’s a Reinvention
. Are these playlist titles, or a creative way to study for the SATs?”

I’ve never let anyone see my playlists, and I’ve never told anyone how I name them, but he’s looking at me like he’s genuinely curious.

“You’ll think it’s weird.”

“Try me.”

I can tell from the expression on his face that he’s not going to let me off the hook.

“Fine. When I was in fifth grade, my mom and I went to see this linguist speak at the public library. I fought with her about going, but once I got there, I was completely fascinated.

“He talked about words—where they come from, how new ones evolve, how politicians and advertising executives and even journalists use them to subtly manipulate people’s
opinions. I’ve had this thing for words ever since. Especially lyrics. I don’t just listen to songs, I study them. It’s kind of a hobby.”

Shrink-Sue doesn’t call it a hobby. She calls it an obsession. A ritual. Whatever.

AJ looks like he approves. He still seems interested. So I keep talking.

“I’ve mentioned that I have this thing for the number three, right? Well, when I’m done making a new playlist, I pick one song that, sort of, captures the mood, you know? And
then I find three words I like within those lyrics, and that becomes the title.

“Like the playlist
Melt with You
. It’s a bunch of upbeat eighties dance tunes, and kicks off with the song
Melt with You
. And I love the word
‘melt’…it’s so visual, right? And the songs are kind of cheesy, so it fits.
Melllllt
.” I say the word slowly, drawing it out, and I feel my mouth turn up into
a satisfied smile. “See. It makes me happy every time I say it.”

I look over my right shoulder, wondering if he’s considering asking me to pull over and let him out of the crazy girl’s car. Instead I find him sliding his thumb up and down the
screen again. “Okay, I’ve got to know about
Grab the Yoke
.” He glances at me. “Yoke. Great word. Limited uses.”

Hmm. I’m not sure how to explain this playlist without admitting more than I’m ready to. I go for it anyway. “Track four, ‘Young Pilgrims’ by the Shins.”

“Excellent song.” I catch his head bouncing lightly, in time with the beat, and I can tell he’s thinking through the lyrics, hunting for the word “yoke.”

I spare him the effort and feed him the line. “
I know I’ve got this side of me that wants to grab the yoke from the pilot and just fly the whole mess into the sea
.” I
pull up to a red light. “I love that line. I don’t often want to grab the yoke and crash into the sea, but sometimes I do.”

Great. Now he’s staring at me like he’s worried about my safety or something. “That one’s kind of a depressing playlist. I listen to it when I need a good cry. But
don’t worry, I’m not about to off myself or anything.”

“What’s
Song for You
?” he asks, and I feel the blush heat my cheeks when I think about the playlist filled with acoustic guitar songs I selected because I could see him
on stage, playing them, singing them. At night, I sometimes pop in my earbuds, close my eyes, and imagine him playing them and singing them to me.

“Nothing. Just a playlist,” I say, hoping he won’t open it up to check its contents.

He doesn’t respond right away. There still isn’t any music on, and now he’s telling me to turn onto his street.

“So your fascination with words isn’t a new thing?”

“No. Just the poetry part.”

I can tell we’re getting close to his house, but I’m not ready for him to get out of my car. I try to think of a question that will keep him talking even after we reach his
driveway.

“When did you start playing guitar?” I ask.

“Seventh grade,” he says.

Keep him talking. Keep him talking
.

“What made you choose guitar?”

“You.” He’s still running his fingertip along my phone, and he doesn’t take his eyes off the screen after he says it.

“Me? What do you mean ‘me’?”

“Do you really want to know?”

I look at him out of the corner of my eye. “I think so.”

“It’s this one here,” he says, pointing up at a long, steep driveway. I check the odometer. It’s almost on three. I turn left, step on the gas, and stop in front of his
garage door. When I pull the parking brake, the odometer hasn’t moved much, but it’s close enough.

Three. Yes!

I cut the engine and twist in my seat so I can see him better. “So, what do I have to do with you playing guitar?” I ask. I was bursting with curiosity, but now that I study his
face, I’m not sure I should be.

“Well, not
you
, per se. But a bunch of people like you were when we were kids.”

Uh-oh
. My stomach drops.

He tosses my phone into the cup holder. “I transferred to a new school in fifth grade, but as you can probably imagine, I was a big target there, too.” He laughs a little, even
though it’s not funny at all. “My mom finally took me to see a speech therapist. I went every week, but I didn’t make much progress. Eventually, it seemed easier to just stop
talking.”

I suck in a breath and press my lips together.

“But then, in seventh grade, I had this incredible music teacher. She handed me a guitar. She worked with me after school, every day, all year long, teaching me how to play. It gave me
something I didn’t have before, you know? It kind of…gave me a voice, I guess.”

“Yeah,” I say, hanging on every word he says.

“Then, one day, I started singing. And when I did, the stutter disappeared completely.”

“Really?”

“It was like I needed to trick my brain, to distract it with something else. After that, my speech therapist starting working music into our sessions, and ever since then, it’s
gotten better. Now it only hits me when I get really nervous. Like, when I’m sitting in my driveway in a girl’s car.” He peeks up at me from behind his thick lashes. “Then I
trick my brain by doing this.”

He looks down at his hands and I follow his gaze. He’s got his finger and thumb pressed together, brushing them against the seam on his jeans. “No one realizes it, but when I have to
talk in class, I’m always playing invisible guitar strings under my desk.”

“AJ…” I begin, but I don’t know how to finish. I have no idea what to say.

He reaches behind him, feeling for his backpack. “Do you want to come in?”

I look up at the house for the first time. It’s a small single-story nestled into the trees, like one of the original cabins built in our Northern California town back in the 1940s. There
are lots of houses like this around here, but most have been added on to, remodeled, or knocked down completely. This one doesn’t appear to have had any work done to it.

“Do you want me to?”

“Yeah.” He opens the car door and looks at me, smiling. God, I really like it when he does that.

“I don’t know.” I smile back at him. “That might make it seem like we’re becoming friends.”

“Hmm,” he murmurs. “Maybe we are.”

I
nside, AJ’s house is pretty and well decorated, but just as dated as the outside. The carpet is dark brown shag, and I don’t
even want to venture to guess how long the wallpaper has been there, but the furniture is nice, and even though it’s a mishmash of styles, it all kind of works together. It’s cute.

AJ sets his keys on the table in the entryway and drops his backpack on the floor.

“Is your mom home?” I ask.

“She’s at work. She gets home around six.” He gestures toward what I assume is the kitchen and says, “Do you want anything to eat? Something to drink?”

I shake my head and set my keys on the table next to his. “Is anyone else home?”

He looks down the hallway. “My brother, Kyle, might be here, but I doubt it. He plays soccer so he’s never around.”

Of course. Why hadn’t I put the two together before? “Kyle’s your brother?”

Kyle Olsen was the first freshman in years to make it onto the varsity soccer team. He’s really good. He’s also incredibly good looking. Because of his age, Olivia was worried about
what the rest of us would think after she hooked up with him at a party last year, but over dinner the next night, we collectively listed his attributes on a napkin and unanimously approved him as
the only freshman acceptable to date. Armed with the Crazy Eights’ stamp of approval, Olivia jumped in with both feet. But she was mortified when, in the days that followed, Kyle didn’t
go out of his way to see her again and gave single-word replies to her many, many texts.

AJ steps into the living room and I follow him. The walls are covered with framed photos of both of them, but Kyle’s definitely stand out, his action shots on the field dominating
AJ’s formal school pictures. I note the photos of his mom with the two of them, and I wonder what happened to his dad, but I don’t ask. I’m going with divorce. Kaitlyn’s dad
died when we were in third grade, and there are still pictures of him all over their house.

“In case you’re wondering, yes, I’m well aware of the fact that my little brother’s a lot cooler and much better looking than I am.” He points at a close-up of his
brother in a case-in-point sort of way and then grins at me. There’s that dimple again. I look at a photo of Kyle. He doesn’t have one of those. “I’ll probably need therapy
someday.”

I try not to take his therapy comment personally. “Hey, don’t knock it. You might enjoy paying someone to listen to you talk about your problems.”

“I wasn’t knocking it at all.”

I roll my eyes. “Besides, I doubt you’d need it. You seem pretty well adjusted.”

He steps closer and leans in, like he’s telling me a secret, and the sudden gesture of familiarity takes me aback. He seems even taller now that he’s this close. He looks cute in his
button-down shirt. And he smells good, like boy deodorant. “Everyone’s got something,” he says.

“Do they?”

“Of course they do. Some people are just better actors than others.” His words remind me of Abigail’s poem about acting “as if.”

He’s still close, nearly touching me, and I feel an overwhelming impulse to tell him my “something.” If I stood here in his living room and told him about Shrink-Sue and my OCD
and my sleep issues and my severe
lack
of adjustment—how, over the years, I’ve become an Oscar-worthy actress, so skilled you’d think I’d tricked myself into actually
being
one of the normal ones—would he understand? I bet he would.