Getting Over Garrett Delaney (2 page)

“Temperamental as ever.” Garrett hands me the cherry-red passenger helmet.

“Aww, she’s just messing with you.” I knock three times on the metal for luck as I climb on board. It’s stupid, I know, but tradition. The only time I didn’t knock, Vera threw a mechanical temper tantrum and gave out on us somewhere past the last gas station but before the creepy abandoned development on the outskirts of town. We froze on the side of the street in the rain until my mom came to pick us up — armed with “I told you so” and a lecture on road safety and organ donation.

“You think she’ll make it through another year?” I ask, tucking my hair into the helmet.

Garrett feigns outrage. “You’ll have to pry Vera from my cold, dead hands!”

I laugh. “You might want to rethink that metaphor, with all those road-safety stats my mom keeps leaving out for you.”

“Hush, child,” he scolds me, climbing on in front. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“I’m plenty adventurous!” I protest, wrapping my arms around him. Never mind adventure. This is the part I love the most: the excuse to hold him tight for as long as our journey takes. “Just remember who you drag along to all those foreign movie nights in the city.”

“You love them.” Garrett starts the bike, and slowly, we start to ride away. “Don’t even try to deny it!” he calls over the noise from the engine.

So I don’t. Because I do love them.

And him.

Totally Wired is busy when we arrive, the evening cappuccino crew jostling for position with the summer college crowd buried behind their textbooks. We head for our regular table in back, the one under the wall of old rock-show posters, peeled and fading. “The usual?” Garrett asks.

“Yup!” I hurl myself down on the cracked leather bench. “Here, I think I’ve got …”

Garrett waves away my crumpled dollar bills. “Are you kidding? It’s the day of your birth. Your money’s no good to me.”

He heads for the counter while I settle back and check out the scene. This place is the closest Sherman, Massachusetts, comes to having a hangout of any kind: the lone beacon of coolness in a line of generic drugstores, take-out places, and bland clothing outlets. I live in the cultural wastelands, I swear. After years of praying to the Gods of Cultural Experience, I’ve had to accept that this town is a lost cause; when they opened a strip mall outside of town with,
gasp,
a Chipotle, it was all kids in school could talk about for a week. No, if we want culture, we have to drive for it: forty miles to the nearest college town or a couple of hours east to Boston, where Garrett and I gorge on Indian food, art-house movies, and the sweet, sweet mildewy scent of used bookstores.

But I have to admit, as lone beacons go, Totally Wired is great. The bare brick walls and steel pillars and weird art are like something you’d find in Brooklyn, or Chicago maybe, and there’s always a cool song playing. If you ask, the baristas will tell you the band and the album and how this new stuff isn’t as good as the release from a few years ago, when they had a different bass player and the lead singer hadn’t sold out.

“Hey, kid.” LuAnn snaps her gum as she clears the table next to mine. At least, I think her name is LuAnn; that’s what it says on her old-school diner name tag, but I’m always too in awe of her to ask if it’s for real. “Cute shoes.”

“Oh, thanks,” I mumble. “They’re only from Target.”

“Still, you’re working them.” She winks and struts away in her pink 1950s sandals that match her floral-print sundress. I look down at my red sneakers, feeling a glow of pride. Fashion compliments from the resident vintage queen are gold dust; LuAnn is always showing up in crazy ensembles, with her long red hair in pin curls or a severe wave. She can’t be more than a few years older than me, twenty at the most, but she has this aura of awesome confidence I can’t even begin to mimic. Not that I’d ever try.

“Make a wish.” Garrett returns, depositing a tray with our drinks on the table and presenting me with a cupcake adorned with a single candle.

“You didn’t have to!” I protest, but inside, I’m beaming. Red velvet: my favorite.

He remembers.

“Sure, I did. It’s a momentous day. You’re seventeen now. You can do … absolutely nothing you couldn’t already.” Garrett makes a face, then laughs. “Still, we have to celebrate. You’re all grown up!”

I grin. “As long as there’s no singing,” I warn him, then blow out the candle. “You’ll get us barred for life.”

Garrett blinks. “Are you saying I can’t sing?”

“I’m saying the last time you broke out in a chorus of Radiohead, half the neighborhood cats went into a frenzy.” I scoop a fingerful of frosting from the top of the cupcake. After all, what is cake if not a vehicle for frosting?

“Yum.” Garrett reaches over with ink-stained fingertips and does the same before I can slap his hand away. “Ow!” He sticks out his tongue, covered with sprinkles. “So what did you wish for?”

I shrug. “The usual: world peace, winning the Nobel prize … Meeting Justin Bieber …” I add with a laugh.

“Aiming high. I like it.”

“A girl can dream.” I busy myself with the cupcake, hiding my lie. The truth is, I wished for the same thing I always do, when I let myself wish at all.

Him.

A group of girls comes chattering along the aisle next to us, fourteen or fifteen years old maybe, heading back toward the bathroom. They’re loud and excited. “Ohmigod, we
have
to see that movie!”

“I know — he’s so cute.”

“Do you think he did that flying thing, or was it all a stunt guy?”

“No way, he wouldn’t do something like that!”

Garrett and I share an amused roll of the eyes. “God, someone needs to lock them in a room and teach them about real culture,” Garrett murmurs conspiratorially. I giggle. “I’m serious!” he says darkly. “A whole generation raised on plastic pop stars and movies with happily-ever-afters.”

“The only way they’ll ever discover great literature is if someone makes a Disney sing-along,” I say. “
Anna Karenina:
the dance-off.”

He snorts on his coffee, and I feel a surge of pride at my quip. The girls move on.

“So what did your mom get you?” Garrett settles back in his seat.

“No idea.” I pour half the canister of sugar into my coffee, the only way I can stand it so black and strong. Garrett says those ice-blended syrupy things are milk shakes with delusions of grandeur — kid stuff — so I switched to the hard stuff ASAP after we met. “She was talking about some big surprise for when I get back tonight.”

“Maybe she’s finally caved on the car,” he suggests. “You left out that list of used models, right?”

I fix him with a dubious look. “We’re talking about the same woman, right? Tiny, incessantly organized, insanely overprotective?”

“OK, maybe not,” he agrees. “But she’s got to let up sometime, right? You’re a junior now. It’s not like you can ride around on the bus forever.”

I grimace. “Don’t remind me.” In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not a senior. Not anywhere close. In my many disagreements with my mom, this is the sorest spot of all: that despite the fact I turned seventeen today, I’m still only heading into my junior year of high school. Such is the fate of those of us born on the school-year borderline. Sure, Mom has psychology reports in her corner — and believe me, she quotes them all the time — about how it’s better to be the most advanced, intelligent, mature kid in your peer group, instead of the underdeveloped wisp in the class above with lower reading scores and a way smaller chest, but honestly, I’d take that boob-related insecurity in a heartbeat rather than feel so out of place and
old
all the time.

“Knowing her, she’s probably booked us for another mother-daughter bonding retreat.” I sigh. “A workshop on realizing our full potential or some other bleak hell.” This is what I get for having a real-live life coach as a mother; the last time, it was “Seven Steps to Actualizing Your Inner Awesomeness,” none of which turned out to include room service or cable TV. Some retreat.

Garrett gives me that famous half smile, but this time, it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He’s toying with the handle on his coffee mug, and now that I’m sitting right across from him, I can tell something’s not right. I have a radar for his moods, and this one isn’t exactly a bundle of sunshine and bunnies.

“What’s up?” I ask. “Are you OK?”

“Sure. Fine. Hey, did you see that documentary on Warhol and the Factory scene?” Garrett gulps his coffee, looking casual as ever, but I know him too well.

“Nope. You’re not distracting me that easy. Spill,” I order, setting my elbows on the table and fixing him with a look. “I mean it. You’re holding out on me.”

He exhales. “It’s nothing. I mean, it’s your birthday; you don’t want me to get into it.”

“Garrett!” Now I’m starting to worry. “What’s going on? You know you can tell me anything.”

A pause, and then he says the words I’ve been longing to hear, the ones second only to “I love you” and “I can’t live without you.”

“I, um … It’s me and Beth. We broke up.”

“You what?” I gasp. Talk about a birthday miracle: I offered my wish up to the universe, and it delivered! OK, so Garrett hasn’t swept me into a passionate embrace and sworn he can’t live without me, but still, this is a start.

“When?” I ask, struggling to hide my joy. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

He looks awkward. “It was just last night. I mean, we’ve been fighting for a while, but … I don’t know. I didn’t want to spoil your birthday with all my breakup drama.” He keeps playing with his coffee cup, looking embarrassed.

“Garrett! What happened? Did she cheat on you? Did you finally get sick of her reading
Cosmo
all the time? Did she throw one tantrum too many?” Garrett has a thing for redheads, and drama club girls at that. I’ve thought about dyeing my hair and nearly auditioned for the spring play, but somehow, I don’t think even that would make the difference. “Wait. I’m sorry,” I say, reminding myself that I’m supposed to be the supportive friend here — rather than, you know, filled with wild hope and rapturous expectation. “The most important thing is, are you OK?”

He nods, reluctant, but something about the way he presses his fingertip into the sugar grains on the table brings me back to earth with a jolt. He’s genuinely hurt here, and even I wouldn’t wish that on him, however thrilled I am about the circumstances behind said pain. “I guess it was inevitable?” he asks. “I mean, she’s graduated now. And things haven’t exactly gone smooth these last few months.”

“You mean, because she’s crazy,” I point out.

“No! Beth is just … complicated. High maintenance …”

“Crazy,” I finish, shaking my head. “The girl would throw a fit over anything.”

You may think I’m a teeny, tiny bit biased when it comes to the character of Garrett’s girlfriends, but trust me, this isn’t even me being blinded by jealousy and unrequited longing. After tagging along on countless third-wheel movie nights and after-school hangouts, I can safely say that Beth Chambers is a high-strung, temperamental bitch. And I can — say it, I mean. Finally!

“You’re so much better off without her,” I reassure him fervently. “I don’t know why you dated her in the first place.”

Let alone for five months. Five whole months of agony, watching him moon all over her, every kiss like a tiny dagger to my heart.

Garrett gives me this wistful smile. “Because she’s beautiful.” He sighs. “And unpredictable. And being around her inspired me to write the most amazing poetry… .”

I bite my lip. OK, so we’re not quite done with the tiny daggers just yet. “But it didn’t work out, right?” I remind him. “There was a reason you broke up with her.”

He nods, resigned. “She wanted commitment. You know, that we’d stay together in college. She made it into an ultimatum, like if I couldn’t promise her that, then there was no point in even trying.” Garrett’s voice is heavy, and even though this is the news I’ve been waiting — hoping, praying! — for ever since they first hooked up at Lexie Monroe’s party, I can’t help but feel a pang for him.

“You did the right thing,” I insist. “Really, you won’t regret it.”

Garrett, alas, isn’t as convinced. “I don’t know. I cared about her,” he says quietly. “I still do. I know she could be … difficult, but when we were together, just the two of us, it was amazing.”

“But she gave you the ultimatum,” I remind him gently. “And who could give that guarantee, anyway?”

He manages a smile. “I know. I’ll feel better soon. I hope. See?” He rolls his eyes. “This is why I didn’t mention it — I didn’t want to drag you into my relationship angst. Not today.”

“What are best friends for?” I bounce up. “Come on, no more moping around here. There’s a
Before Sunrise
box set with our name on it.”

He pauses. “Are you sure?”

“Hmm, let me think about that.” I pretend to ponder. “An evening with Ethan Hawke and pizza. Oh, the tragedy!”

Not to mention snuggling up with Garrett on the conveniently small couch.

Garrett finally cracks a smile, genuine this time. “We’re gonna party like it’s your birthday,” he raps, badly, slinging an arm over my shoulder as we head toward the exit.

“Eww, no, stop!” I hit him.

“Gonna talk about Descartes like it’s your birthday.”

“I’m officially disowning you,” I tell him, putting distance between us. Garrett just sings louder.

“Gonna sip root beers like it’s your birthday.”

I catch LuAnn’s eye as we pass. She grins, and I blush. “I can’t take him anywhere,” I tell her as Garrett makes lame white-boy gang signs.

“You know we’ll stay out past eleven o’clock ’cause it’s your birthday!”

“And you call yourself a poet.”

By the time Garrett drops me off back home after our movie marathon — and a whole tub of peanut brittle — I’ve managed to convince him that breaking up with Beth is the best thing that’s ever happened to him. I definitely know it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Finally, the Gods of Unrequited Crushes are on my side: Garrett is single, just in time for us to head off to lit camp together. I can see us now: days spent pushing each other to dizzying literary heights, nights spent sneaking away for romantic rendezvous under the stars.