Going Vintage (20 page)

But he’s not Jeremy. I need to remind myself that. Oliver’s ears poke out and his eyes are a hypnotic blue. He’s unkempt and charming, while Jeremy is ridiculously handsome and has perfect lips … Oh. I still miss those lips.

If I try hard enough, I can almost pretend Oliver is just another boy who happens to have the same set of grandparents as the boy I’m trying to forget. Besides. We’re only buying crepe paper together.

Oliver strides across the parking lot, not bothering to look
both ways, just assuming the cars will stop. Which they do. His face breaks into his sideways grin when he sees me through the window. I hop back and scramble for a shopping cart. There’s no reason to feel guilty for watching him. We were supposed to meet here and I just made it first. It’s not like I was checking him out.

It’s not.

“I realized something driving here.” Oliver eases the cart away from me and strolls down the arts-and-crafts aisle. “I have no idea what decoration things we need.”

“Decoration things?”

“For the float.” He pulls out a little notebook and pen from his back pocket. He tries to flip to a clean page, but I notice the cover first. It’s purple and pink with tweeny peace signs. I don’t comment, just flick the paper.

“What? It’s my sister’s. I couldn’t find mine. And we need to make a list. Lists help.”

Truer words were never spoken.

He starts jotting things down, his long fingers gliding across the page. “So we probably need streamers and balloons. Where do you get that paper that’s thick and on the rolls? The ASB always uses it for signs?”

“Butcher paper?” I ask. “I’m sure the school has some available. If not, an art store will.”

He writes down “butcher paper” in slanted, all-caps print. “See, I knew you’d be good at this.”

“Why, because I’m a girl?” My tone turns to steel. I hope I haven’t given Oliver too much credit.

“What?” Oliver glances around the store. “No, because you’re sharp. Your mission statement was well-written. Criminy, you’re on edge.”

“Criminy?”

“Can I say something without you turning it into a question? Yes. Criminy. It’s a legitimate word and this is a perfectly fine notebook and we are on a mission. So let’s focus.” He spins around the store, utterly lost. “Uh, so what else do we need?”

I grab Oliver’s notebook and add to the list. Masking tape, tissue paper, balloons, paint, fringe, glitter garland. That should be good—we’re only decorating a little trailer and standing inside, not doing a whole float. “That’s a start,” I say. “We should go to a party store for this other stuff.”

He beams at me like I’ve just written a world peace treaty. “I am so glad you’re here.”

I can’t help it. I smile back. “I am too.”

For the record, I’m glad because I want pep club to be a success, not because my ex-boyfriend’s cousin just made me feel more important and useful than I’ve felt in forever. “Although this should be natural for you. You’re the one in ASB. I’ve never been in a school club in my life.”

“Seriously?” Oliver throws a pack of blue glitter into the cart, which wasn’t on the list, but maybe he has a vision I don’t. “What do you do, then? Sports?”

“No. My résumé has zero padding. Blank and free.”

“You’ve never done a school activity? What’s your thing, then?” He sounds genuinely interested, like he can’t imagine a
life not filled with responsibilities and activities and lofty college goals.

What do I do? Before last week, I hung out with my boyfriend 24/7. Well, obviously not 24/7. Maybe 20/6. The rest of his time went to basketball or BubbleYum.

I lean against the shopping cart. The neon lights are despairingly bright in here. They radiate my dim realization.

I don’t have a thing
.

How can I not have a thing? I’ve tried a million things, but nothing that I can claim. Nothing that I’m good at, nothing that’s mine. I am a thingless chunk of tofu. This is why Jeremy went elsewhere. BubbleYum plays lacrosse and probably owns an extensive corset collection. I have a bedroom filled with bobblehead dolls and thirteen months spent devoted to Jeremy’s hobbies, Jeremy’s schedule …

Crap. I’m
that
girl. Miss No Thing.
Crap
.

“I work for my dad,” I finally get out.

“At his office?” Oliver chews his pen. He doesn’t know—can’t see—how deep his question pierced me.

“Not really. He’s sort of an antiques dealer. I help him sift through his … acquisitions, figure out what has potential value.” I like how highbrow this sounds, like I’m tagging up priceless art and not sweeping up cockroaches.

“So you
do
have a thing. You’re a … sorter of the past.”

I don’t know how he knows that these are the most perfect words to say. I’m not a loser; I’m an eclectic. I am something and someone outside of Jeremy, and every day that becomes more and more clear. “Thank you.”

Oliver finally looks at me, sees that this conversation is more than chitchat for some reason. He doesn’t question it. “You’re welcome.”

I stick my bike in Oliver’s backseat and together we drive to Walmart. Our cartoon theme comes to us in the middle of the checkout aisle when Oliver sees this light-up, futuristic spinning toy.

“That’s it!” Oliver holds the toy above his head like a guide down on Hollywood Boulevard directing a pack of tourists. “
The Jetsons!
It’s an old cartoon, from the sixties.”

The sixties view of the future? Oh, that is rich. “I haven’t seen it, but I’ve heard of it.”

“We can do dangling balls, make the trailer a
spaceship
, dress up all futurey!” His face glows with assurance, and he jumps into the shopping cart and pumps his fist, overcome with pure pep.

I step back from the cart, both embarrassed and enthralled. I thought Oliver was trying hard before, but now I realize it’s quite the opposite—he doesn’t
try
, he just
is
, makes up his mind and doesn’t check if it’s going to work for his image or come off wrong. Since the rest of us are being so self-aware, his presence seems calculated. No one can possibly be that breezy, saying what he thinks, feeling what he feels. I can see why people
don’t
like him for this very reason—it’s so much easier to call him a poser.

Because if he’s the real deal, then that makes the rest of us fakes.

It’s noon by the time we’re done. Oliver vaguely mentions another stop and drives to Curry in a Hurry, an Indian buffet in a nondescript shopping center. Oliver gives me a grin and without saying a word, rushes inside. What does Indian food have to do with
The Jetsons
?

Oliver’s paying the cashier when I get in. He sticks the change in his turquoise money clip. “I couldn’t risk you saying no to such a fine dining experience, so I already paid.”

“We’re eating here?”

“Uh, yeah. That’s how buffets work. You pay. Make a plate of food. Sit down. Eat.”

“I’ve never had Indian food.”

“Then you, Mallory Bradshaw, have not lived.”

Oliver describes the different dishes, which helps, since everything looks like it’s already been digested. Usually, I order something very specific, something I know I’ll like, and now I’m scooping sauces that could be laced with fish heads for all I know. We get a separate plate of some flat bread called naan and Oliver comes up with puns (“Whatcha eating?” “Naan-ya business”) as we look for a table.

I can’t decide if it’s right that I’m having fun. I tug at my finger string. I’m going vintage, but not so vintage that I need to dress in black and mourn the loss of my past life. I’ve seen people laugh at funerals, so why not be giddy postbreakup? Especially around a guy who makes life feel so effortless, like a meteor could crash into his car and we would just shrug and take the bus.

We slide into a booth and begin the steady work of consumption. I dip the naan into a yellow chicken curry, loving the
flavor explosion. Within two more bites, I’ve already curried my shirt, but Oliver doesn’t seem to notice. He’s inhaling his green lamb stuff. He finally comes up for air and swallows. “I come here with my grandma a lot. She still takes us out to eat when we get good report cards. I think about the rice dessert during every test.”

I pick at my paper napkin. “Yeah, Jeremy said he loved grade dates with Grandma.”

“Look.” Oliver sets down his fork and wipes his face. “Can we just state how awkward this is? I mean, if Jeremy knew I was hanging out with you today, he’d punch me.”

“No, he wouldn’t.”

“Well, he would do
something
.” Oliver takes a sip of his Dr Pepper. “I’ll tell him, of course. It’s not a secret. We’d be doing this stuff whether or not you two were still together, right?”

No. We wouldn’t. If I were still together with Jeremy, we’d be at the park on Sunday, feeding the ducks because I love it, then finding a spot under a tree and making out, because I thought Jeremy loved me. “Sure.”

“Or I could go back to the buffet and spoon some of that nasty-looking brown lentil stuff onto a plate. We have to take a bite if either of us says Jeremy’s name.”

“I like that game.” I poke at my basmati rice. “I mean, I’m okay talking about him, but I’d rather not.”

“Then it’s agreed.” Oliver raises his glass. “He is impeding your pep, and I need your A game.”

“Only if I get a merit badge.”

“I will make some calls.”

Then Oliver starts telling me about his Eagle Scout project, how he collected lap blankets for nursing homes, then stitched a little note in the corner of each quilt to personalize it. He worked on the project for six months, much longer than he needed to, but he wanted to do it right.

“I can’t believe you’re really an Eagle Scout.”

“Lying about being a Scout is a double lie, Mallory. Scout’s honor.”

“Then this college application thing is a crock. You like service. And I don’t care how you act at school; you like people too.”

He leans across the table, the string of his hoodie narrowly missing his food. “You tell anyone, I’ll secretly nominate you for student body president, got that?”

“See? Even your threats are filled with spirit.”

Oliver startles, like he realizes how far off course we’ve gone, whatever course he had in mind. “Spirit. Hey, we’re not going to have much time to work on this float. The homecoming game is Friday.”

“We’ll get it done,” I say. “It’s really not that much effort—I promise. Class floats are the ones that go all out.”

“I just mean, I’m glad joining this club gave me a reason to hang out with you.” He takes a bite of chicken on a kebab, chews slowly. Too slowly. He needs to finish this thought. “Hang out with you alone. You’re different from who I thought you were.”

My back goes straight. “And who was that?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know. Not you. Not”—he gestures around the table—“this.”

This?
This
? That’s all he gives me? Is
this
good or bad?

Maybe he means the same thing that I was thinking. That he was the product of someone else’s skewed point of view, and we tend to take that as fact, when really there’s so much more to us beyond the scope of one person’s opinion. Especially when the character reference is courtesy of Jeremy.

“Should I say thank you? I’m going to say thank you. Then it has to be a compliment.”

Oliver laughs. “See? This. That. You’re funny.”

I cover my smile with my torn napkin. So I don’t need to save my jokes for Ginnie. Oliver appreciates my humor. Maybe funny is one of my things too. “It’s for Girl Scouts. Comedian badge. I’ve been working on it for months.”

“If you’re not a Girl Scout, you shouldn’t joke that you are. Double lie, remember?”

“I’m underground. So high up in the organization, I shouldn’t even mention it.”

“Badge achieved.” Oliver looks out the window, his face serious again. “So. After this float. We’ll still have a pep club meeting here or there, and you’ll either get back together with my cousin or stay broken up.”