Finding Mr. Brightside (7 page)

Just now noticing the twin daggers shooting out from Juliette’s eyes—looks like they’ve been there awhile. In case there’s any confusion over who her target is, she points in my direction and then makes a throat-slitting gesture with the same index finger.

I step out of the car, still excited to see her.

Juliette

M
Y DAD’S PRETEND-ALLERGIC
to all animals, so the shelter’s where I go to get my embarrassing weekly dog fix. Sorry, cats—I just can’t, okay? Dogs are preferable because they have nothing in common with me. I’ve yet to meet a cocker spaniel who’s addicted to her heartworm medication, a golden retriever with too many emotional barriers to count on four paws, a Dalmatian with unresolvable mother issues.…

The attractive young man at the end of my leash is Bing; I named him after the search engine, not Crosby, the depressing “White Christmas” crooner. Bing is a three-year-old Saint Bernard, but to any potential adoption applicants who inquire about him today, he’s practically a
puppy
, and possibly a pure-bred descendant of a recent Westminster Dog Show winner, depending on if I get my first-ever believable feeling re: someone’s ability to provide a loving home.

“Hey,” is all Abram has to say for himself as we approach him. Bing doesn’t play hard to pet, would much rather sit down on Abram’s foot, lick the taste off his hand, and fall unapologetically in love.

“Why are you here?” I ask, annoyed that he smells good, like some sort of ocean-breeze cologne and the rosemary-mint conditioner his mom bought him last week.

He could ask me the same question, but just shrugs. “Hadn’t seen you in a while.”

He leans down until he’s eye level with the dog while I try to think of something discouraging to say to that. I can’t do it, so I introduce the two of them.

“Abram, Bing. Bing, blah.”

The formalities over, Bing immediately flops onto his back so Abram can scratch his chest properly.

“I can take a hint,” Abram says, winking up at me and scratching away.

Bing lets out a skeptical sigh, so I don’t have to. Cute. Not sure which one I’m talking about.

“We still partying together tonight?” Abram asks me, skipping over the part where I’ve been crazy for the past three days. I make the mistake of noticing the hope in his eyes, digesting it long enough to feel a nagging pinch of optimism myself.
I’m not someone to get your hopes up over
, I try to tell him with mine, but I’m much better with non-verbal death threats.

“Sure,” I say, covering the dog’s ears. “If Bing gets adopted.”

“Deal.”

Abram insists the three of us shake on it.

15

ABRAM

I
ASK
J
ULIETTE
if Bing’s dad really medaled in a bunch of dog shows, as we watch him ride away with his new owners. She shakes her head no, her lips curving up, up … and this time the smile sticks. Her capacity for happiness is a lot roomier than she gives herself credit for. I ask if I can give her a ride home, and she can’t think of a reason why it’s a bad idea, probably because it’s a win-win.

A short car ride later, I’m dropping her off at the stop sign at the end of our road. She doesn’t want to further distract her dad if he’s staring out the window when he should be writing, and her reasoning sounds pretty logical to a slacker like me.

“Don’t touch his papers,” I warn her, and her eyes narrow as she wonders how I latched on to that little detail, or maybe why I’ve chosen this moment to remind her I remembered it.

She opens the door, steps out, then pokes her head back inside. “Pick me up at seven thirty?”

“I’ll be there.”

She starts shutting the door, then stops. “In a cab.”

“I’ll be
in
there.”

“Ask for Asad or Farrukh,” she says, “and I’m really shutting the door this time.”

“No rush.”

“Abram?”

“Yep?”

“Thank you for following my cab today.”

“Anytime.”

She shuts the door less forcefully than she usually does.

Juliette

H
E JUST SENT
a text asking what kind of costume he should wear to the party. Typing in my response:
Don’t ever text me while driving again!
Send. Sometimes I wonder if I’m coming off as too flirtatious—such a fine line.

His next message informs me he’s at the car wash down the road, and also that he’s lol’ing. Abram has “lol/ha-ha” disease—rarely sends a message without one or the other—but unlike everyone else in America, he almost always laughs as he’s keying in the chuckles. I tell him I’ll pick up something extra special for him at CVS, which also gives me a reason not to disturb my dad. The threatening
You better have some new material written when I get home!
text I sent him a half hour ago might be working.

Want me to pick you up there in 20?
asks Abram’s text.

Yes, please.

16

ABRAM

F
ORGOT HOW MUCH EXCITEMENT
I can get out of a good, clean game of beer pong; I should start a league or something. Juliette wouldn’t join. She’s standing off to the side of the table, looking out-of-my-league in her red tennis dress, her hair tightened back in a low ponytail. She seems uninterested in the pong proceedings as well as her other Halloween-themed surroundings. Her best friend and my formidable pong partner, Heidi, is helping me keep track of Juliette’s whereabouts in between throws. It’s a tough job, but somebody’s gotta stop my girl from French exiting before I can finally kiss her.

Juliette

A
BRAM HAS SUNK
every single shot at Heidi’s portable beer-pong table tonight. Apparently that’s impressive, because I’ve been watching from the sidelines like some sort of
That’s my man!
pong groupie. Maybe I should leave without saying good-bye to anyone?
Such
a good idea, but then Heidi will get her feelings hurt, and there are only so many times I can right my wrongs with a package of headbands. Let me just grab my purse.…

“Where ya going, Maria Sharapova?”

Since when is Heidi so observant? It’s like she has eyes in the back of her head tonight. Ironic, since there’s also a plastic knife extending from her spine, the centerpiece of her Monica Seles costume.

“Just looking for my Chapstick,” I say, holding up a closed fist of air like I’ve found it.

Heidi yells out a supportive “C’mon!” to celebrate my find—ever the best friend to my worst. She arcs a ball into one of the cups across from her and then holds her hand in the air afterward to rub it in. I like her playing style; the boys at the table are turning in strangely sportsmanlike performances. Abram gives her a high five as their two opponents, Jeff and Aaron, former teammates of Abram’s who are both showing a lot of thigh in their identical Bjorn Borg costumes, seem genuinely happy for her success.

Abram sinks another shot and then adjusts the Andre Agassi mullet I found for him at CVS, picks a wedgie from the tight jean shorts he borrowed from Heidi, and smiles at me. I text him a half-smiley and then ask Heidi if I can use her phone. Instinctively she hands me the rubber cell-phone flask at the edge of the table, watches as I unscrew the antenna and make a call that tastes like a
wrong number
.

“Pretty smooth, right?” Heidi says.

“Rough,” I reply through the flames in my throat.

“The next call will be better,” she promises, taking a swig herself.

Half an hour later I’m still here, and Abram’s carefully filling up the cups for rematch number eight. Haven’t seen him this into something that doesn’t matter since the whole being-around-me thing started happening. Here comes Heidi to check on me again.

“Having fun yet?” she asks.

“Getting there.”

I bob my head once to the music for emphasis.

“Abram is such a great guy.”

“Neat, why don’t you date him?”

“Because I like my men five-seven and below, you know that.” Heidi nods downward toward the dwarf licking his chops in the corner. I groan and remind her that the guy is a) grotesque, and b) in a weird relationship with the oblivious girl beside him. She raises her eyebrows like maybe he’s not as off-limits as he seems, mouthing the word
hot
for extra-unfortunate emphasis. At a loss, I tell Heidi she looks pretty tonight, over and over again in slightly different ways. “Like a tennis player,” I add, and that’s the one she’s looking for, all she’s ever wanted to hear from anyone in lieu of the basketball-player comparison she unfairly gets. “The braid suits you.”

“You mean it?” she asks, flipping it around so I can see it again.

“I do.”

I don’t love the braid, but I like that it’s making Heidi happy. She should be in a Paxil commercial, dancing like she is now, encouraging others to join in on the joy, which of course Abram can’t resist (if you count putting your fists in the air, rolling them around, and relying on your increasingly handsome face as dancing).

Is it really necessary to never make the best of anything just because life dealt me a difficult mom and then yanked her away before I could figure out what to do with her?

ABRAM

J
ULIETTE: LOOKS LIKE SHE
has the world’s most beautiful headache. Lips: Slightly pursed, redder than when I last stared at them. Cause: Mysterious ruby liquid she has been drinking from Heidi’s revolutionary cell-phone flask. Idea: Maybe if I kiss her, she … would not want me to finish that sentence.

Can anyone tell I am thinking these thoughts in my robot voice? I am doing a subtle robot dance right now. I am a bit on the drunker side of the spectrum. I do not use contractions. I love pong! My ass hurts from Heidi, quote, “giving it what it deserves.” I am giving this party an A+.

Juliette

H
EIDI KEEPS TURNING UP
the music. It’s never loud enough for her until the beats are pounding in my rib cage. Here she comes with Abram; they’re requesting my presence on the dance floor again.

“Please go away.”

They can’t hear me, but that’s the closest I’ve come to saying yes.

Heidi points to her heart like she loves this song. More than the last one? Thought that was her all-time favorite. She pulls me out to the designated dance rug in the center of the room. Without giving me much of an adjustment period, she bends over and rotates her booty around in a disturbing helicopter motion, then twerks me up against Abram. It’s really happening, only wish I could lie to myself that it isn’t. Heidi’s yelling, “Get it, Juliette. Get iiiiiit!” just in case I’m thinking of declining. I put up with it until I feel Abram’s hands on my waist, barely, he would never be pushy about that. He turns me around toward him, snaps his fingers a couple of times, yet doesn’t look stupid. A familiar urge comes over me. This time it involves
him
.

“I want to go somewhere,” I say.

“Okay, sure … do you remember where I lost my hoodie?”

“No, I mean outside of state lines … for multiple days.”

“Like a vacation?” he asks.

“If that’s what you want to call it.”

He points to himself by way of asking if he’s invited. Somehow he does it to the beat of the music, pulls it off without looking like he’s nailing a boy-band audition. Where does he practice these moves? His sleep? They have to be instinctual.

I nod, tell him he’s invited. He swallows hard, trying not to get too excited, which is another smooth move on his part. He points to the random map of the world Heidi’s dad has framed in the corner of the room, and I put my hands up, shrug, and then halfheartedly raise the roof to the music’s
thump, thump, thump
. I’m certainly looking dumb, but he sees potential in what I’m doing, tries to mimic it, but not even he can save it. Meanwhile, still in search of her fairy-tale ending, Heidi has waltzed off to dance between the dwarf and his girlfriend, who seem much more interesting when she’s around. In her own inappropriate way, Heidi’s setting a good example for me. That, right there, is how not to give a shit, let alone two of them.

“My family has a house on the beach,” Abram offers. “My mom and I haven’t gone for a while, but my dad was there last—you know that already.”

Yes, I know. My mother was with him; the details were all texted out on her phone.

Should I bring anything special for our “work conference” at the beach, Mr. Morgan?

Just your tennis racquet
, Ian Morgan texted back.
And don’t pack nearly as many clothes as last time.

Hopefully he packed some better pillow talk.

Perfect, my tear ducts are twitching with a twin set of drunk-girl droplets. My buzz must be stronger than previously denied to Heidi. Is my blood Adderall content too high to be drinking? No, I don’t want that to be it.

“You okay?” Abram asks.

Not even close. I feel dizzy, but I want to show him I have enough mental stability left in the tank to take this trip, stay in a house where our parents slept together, without making it all about them. So I nod. Crack a smile. No teeth, though. Toothiness makes everything weirder. Abram smiles back, also no teeth, taking his antisocial cues from me like they’re normal, yet another positive sign he’s the best possible person to strand myself on an island with.

“Let’s go to the beach,” I say.

He nods like the decision’s less complicated than it really is. “When?”

“Whenever. Or ASAP. Whichever comes first.”

“Sounds good.” He takes my hand and twirls me around to celebrate. When he draws me closer, to his chest, I swear I can smell the ocean on his skin, sea-salty and crisp. Cologne or potato-chip residue? That is the question. Until he asks a better one.

“What do we tell our parents?”

I frown, tucking his wig behind his ears. “We tell them … at the last possible second.”

17

ABRAM

I
TOLD MY MOM
about our road trip the morning after Heidi’s party, so pretty much right away. Took me the next five days to convince her to hand over the keys to our beach house. As of last night, she still wasn’t blown away by the idea of me driving six-plus hours to South Carolina, with the standoffish daughter of my father’s mistress, to stay alone together all weekend in the same house where
they
stayed a few months before their deaths. When I put all her least-favorite parts about the plan together like that in a series, I can better see the place of “Are you kidding me, Abram? You want me to call the school and play hooky for you, too?” she’s coming from. Albeit from Juliette’s driveway, at seven thirty a.m. on a Thursday morning, watching as my travel-mate kicks her giant suitcase across the threshold of her front door.