Just Like Fate (8 page)

Joel drives a white, vintage Volvo wagon that would look good
on no one but a guy completely comfortable in his own skin.
I’m sitting on the stoop when he pulls up; he nods at me but
doesn’t get out. I walk over and climb into the passenger seat;
it smells like fake pine, soap, and the faintest hint of cigarettes.

“Do you smoke?” I ask, fastening my seat belt.
“You smell it, too? My mom says I’m crazy—she has the
worst sense of smell of anyone I know. Anyway, no, I don’t
smoke—the previous owner did,” he says, shaking his head.
“This was my uncle’s car. The one I told you about? I can’t
get the smell out. I’ve used my own cash to have it detailed
twice.”
“It’s not that bad,” I say. “You can barely notice it over the
air freshener.” I bat the tree hanging from the rearview mirror,
then feel idiotic for doing it; I shove my hands under my legs
to keep them contained. Joel reads it as me being cold and
turns up the heat.
“So, where are we going?” I ask as he pulls away from the
curb.
“Fairgrounds?” he asks, and in a flash I’m nervous. People go to the fairgrounds to drink or make out—at least that’s
what Simone tells me. I’ve only been there once and it was
pretty lame.
“Sure,” I say, sitting back into the seat and trying to
breathe away my anxiety. Joel and I don’t talk much the rest
of the way, and I wonder whether he and Lauren usually drive
in silence or whether they have an infinite number of things to
talk about. I can’t help but feel like I’m doing it wrong.
Joel takes a right at Magnolia, then pulls through deserted
gates with unmanned pay stations that make me think of a
scene from a dystopian novel I read last summer. There’s a
wide expanse of pavement ahead of us: a massive, cracked lot
with no streetlights or guidelines. Around the perimeter is a
jumpable white fence; to the right is the underside of a grandstand where concerts happen when the fair comes to town.
Joel turns in that direction, driving diagonally across the lot
and parking expertly between the break in the grandstand so
people driving by on Magnolia can’t see his car.
“Come on,” he says, killing the engine. He opens his door,
so I open mine; now I’m genuinely cold and shiver from the
chill. My sweatshirt wasn’t a good choice.
“I have an extra jacket in the back—you want it?” he asks.
“Sure.”
Joel opens the back door and grabs the fleece-lined denim
jacket he wears all the time. I walk around the car and take it
from him, then shrug into it, trying not to blow a fuse from the
perfect smell of him enveloping me. I want to live and die in
this jacket. “Thanks,” I manage. “Much better.”
I follow Joel through a tunnel and up a ramp to the front of
the grandstand, then watch him jump a waist-high chain like
it’s nothing. I duck and go under, trying not to fall or get my
hair caught in the links. He tromps up the metal stairs to the
highest-possible point, then turns and sits on a cold bench—I
trail behind and do the same. Only then do I realize what a
great view of the city we have from up here—this side is taller
than the one facing us, so we can see the hills to the left and
the water to the right.
“This is pretty awesome,” I say, leaning back against the
wall where one of the luxury boxes is. “I’ve never been up
here.”
“I come here a lot to draw,” Joel says. “It’s peaceful.”
“That it is,” I say. “And freezing.” I shiver and he scoots
a little closer to me. He leans back, too, and we both stare
straight ahead.
“So,” he says.
“So.”
“Are you mad at me?” he asks. I look at him, surprised.
I decide to make light of the situation, hoping it will help.
“Why would I be mad?” I ask. “It’s not like I wasn’t a participant in the whole auditorium kissing session.” But when Joel
looks at me with those too-dark eyes, all lightness flies out the
window. “I know you have a girlfriend,” I say. “I’m not expecting anything.”
“But what if I want you to expect something?” he says,
holding me like shackles with his gaze. A breeze blows my hair
into my mouth, and as I pull it out, I let myself smile.
“Why now?” I ask.
He shrugs—I’m not sure it’s the right reaction, but it’s
all I’ve got from him. Then, “Maybe it’s always been there; I
don’t know. All I can say is that when things started going to
shit with Lauren, you’re the one I started thinking about.”
“Are you serious?” I ask. I think my heart’s going to leap
right out of my chest.
“I’m serious,” he says. “And this whole thing with your
grandma—it’s bringing back all those feelings I had for my
uncle. I feel like you’re the only one who gets me right now.”
I’m aware that Joel’s words are not quite perfect, but I’m
not sure what perfect looks like, either. So when he kisses me
again, long and without holding back, I go with it. I feel it deep
inside like I want to crush him with all of the emotion surging through my veins, but then he pulls back to have me rest
against him and we watch the sunset without speaking.
I think of perfection, and whether it exists.
I think of Lauren, and what she’d be saying or doing were
she here instead of me right now. I wonder if Joel is going to
break up with her, and whether I’d still come here if he told
me he wasn’t. I realize that I would.
Then because it’s what I do, I think of Gram. This time I
don’t think about how much I miss her. I don’t replay her final
words in my mind. Instead I’m crushed by the thought that
were she still alive, Gram would probably be disappointed in
me right now.

NOT
, I send back to Chris and shake my head. Since I
gave him my number he’s texted me about a hundred times,
but not one phone call. I’m not sure if he’s purposely drawing
it out or if he’d rather text. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like
the instant satisfaction of writing back and forth all day.

I lean against the kitchen counter as my dad and Debbie
click through their laptop, paying bills. Debbie—which is
actually what all of her friends call her—is pretty cool about
everything, even though I get the sense that she wants to spend
more time with me but is afraid to ask. I like her enough . . .
but it still feels sort of traitorous to my mom to just dive into a
relationship with my father’s new wife. I’m taking it slow.

NOT A CHEERLEADER
, I reply to Chris.
BUT I HAVE A
PRETTY GOOD HIGH KICK. WATCH OUT.
VICIOUS.
I laugh and Dad and Debbie look over, smiling like they’re
in on the joke somehow. “Is that Simone?” my father asks. My
expression falters a little, and I nod.
“Yep. She’s sharing some of her latest misadventures.”
I don’t know why I lie to him—there’s no reason to. Then
again, what if he doesn’t think I should date or he has some
weird dad ritual for meeting any guy I text? Or maybe I like
having a secret. Something I can’t be judged for.
“Do you want anything to eat?” Debbie asks. “I can reheat
some macaroni.” She brushes her auburn hair behind her ear,
such a youthful movement that I have to remind myself that
she’s not
that
much younger than my dad. Still, she’s nothing
like my mom. At the thought of my mother, I lower my eyes.
“No, thanks. I’m probably going to watch some TV,
though.”
“Oh, okay. Maybe I’ll join you later?”
“Sure.” I offer an awkward wave, noticing how my father’s
forehead creases even though he’s pretending to watch the
computer screen. I leave the room and head to the couch, falling back without even grabbing the remote.
I’M WRITING YOU A SONG
, Chris texts.

YOU LIKE NEIL DIAMOND, RIGHT
?
I laugh.
IT’S SWEET CAROLINE, ISN’T IT
?
HOW CAN YOU HATE THAT SONG??
BECAUSE WHEN YOUR NAME IS CAROLINE, EVERYONE THINKS YOU WANT TO BE SERENADED WITH IT. ALL
THE TIME.

I’ve been hearing that song since I was a kid, both from
my family and friends. Except Simone. She hates it nearly as
much as I do.

SOUNDS TO ME LIKE IT’S MORE A PROBLEM WITH
THEIR LACK OF CREATIVITY,
Chris texts.
POSSIBLY. OTHER THAN THIS AMAZING SONG YOU’RE
WRITING, ANY OTHER BIG FRIDAY NIGHT PLANS?
The
minute I hit send, I regret it. Will he think I’m asking him out?
ARE YOU ASKING ME OUT, CAROLINE?
I put my hand over my mouth to stifle my giggle and then
dart a look toward the kitchen, wondering if my dad and Debbie can hear my embarrassment all the way in there.
NO. JUST THOUGHT A PARTY STUD LIKE YOURSELF
WOULD BE OUT AND NOT TEXTING A STRANGER.
I CAN BE OUT AND STILL TEXT.
My heart dips just a little as I think about Chris demonstrating his superhuman strength for another girl. But then I
remember where it happened, why it happened . . . and I don’t
really feel like texting anymore. I don’t feel like anything.
I’M NOT ACTUALLY OUT,
he writes back after I don’t
immediately reply.
STALKING YOUR FACEBOOK PAGE
INSTEAD. SHOULD I KEEP THAT DETAIL TO MYSELF?
But I’m no longer in the mood to joke around.I look toward
Gram’s picture hanging on the wall in the dining room. It’s a
photo of her and my grandfather, his hand on her shoulder as
they both mug for the camera. They were so happy together.
I glance down at my phone and scroll the messages, wanting
to talk to someone to take my mind off Gram. Realizing how
much I need Simone. And remembering that even she doesn’t
want to talk to me right now.
I HAVE TO GO
, I type to Chris.
NIGHT.
GOOD NIGHT. NEXT TIME I’LL CALL YOU.
I lie on the couch, tucking the throw pillow under my
head as I reach for the remote on the coffee table. My phone
buzzes, startling me. But it’s not Chris. My mother is calling. I
click ignore and then leave my phone at my side—pretending
that I don’t exist.

After our impromptu date at the fairgrounds on Wednesday,
Joel turns completely cold, avoiding me in class and in the halls
and just flat-out everywhere. It’s so unnerving that I become
hyperaware of where he is at all times, watching for waves or
glances or any indication at all that he did, in fact, have his
tongue in my mouth two days ago. The funny thing is that
focusing on Joel—even though he’s being a complete jerk—is
somehow better than focusing on the void in my heart.

The void Gram left behind.
“Bad news,” Simone says when she shimmies up next to
me at my locker after school on Friday. I look at her, bracing
for a blow. Simone was supportive when I told her about my
behind-the-scenes romance with Joel, and she said she’d run
recon. So . . . bad news isn’t exactly what I want to hear.
“Oh, no,” I say, leaning in close.
She nods. “Yep. So Joel and Lauren are hanging out this
weekend.” She does an exaggerated frown like one you’d draw
in kindergarten. My heart sinks.
“Well, maybe he’s going to break up with her,” I say, feigning optimism and hating myself for not just forgetting him
altogether. Why do I like someone who had a zillion chances
but never took one? Who may or may not like me now because
I had a death in the family and he feels some sense of kismet
because of it?
“Maybe,” Simone says, then, “Yeah, that’s gotta be it.
I’m sure that’s what he’s doing. So, hey, what are
we
doing
tonight? We could drive to Clinton and make your brother get
us into a college party. We haven’t done that in ages.”
I do want to go visit Teddy sometime, but not this weekend.
“I promised Natalie we’d get pedicures,” I say. “So I have
to go meet her. But I’ll come over later?”
Simone looks at me like I’ve grown horns. “You’re not
seriously ditching me for your evil sister.”
“I’m not ditching you,” I say, starting down the hallway.
Simone falls into step. “And maybe lay off Nat, okay? We’re
both going through the sadness of losing Gram; we get each
other better right now. I mean, I know we always used to joke
about her, but it’s sort of not funny anymore.”
“Got it,” Simone says, eyes serious. “I . . . I’m sorry. I
should’ve put all that together myself.”
“It’s okay,” I say, relieved.
“No, really. That was beyond lame of me,” she says. “Consider Natalie
my
bestie, too.”
“Well, you don’t have to go that far,” I say, “but thanks.
And I’ll be at your house by seven—I don’t want to miss
greasy pizza and gossip.”
“Don’t think for one second that you’re forcing me to listen to mopey music all night long.”
“It’s not mopey; it’s soulful,” I say, laughing. She eyeballs
me.
“Look at you in your cute little Cons with your shoe-gazer
music—you’re so EMO,” she says, bumping me.
“And you’re the pop diva,” I say, bumping back. “Not
everyone is all ‘Brittney Banshee is the best thing to ever happen to music!’” I mock.
“Whatever; you love her too.”
“I like her. You love her. Like, want-to-dye-your-hairblue-and-dance-in-rainbows-with-her love.”
“Well, you are
way
obsessed with Electric Freakshow.
Like, want-to-have-their-punk-rock-babies-with-faux-hawksand-vintage-T-shirts obsessed.”
We both crack up. Simone takes my arm and starts swinging it as we walk. “We’re so awesome,” she says, starting a
round of our long-running extreme self-confidence game.
“We’re the prettiest girls at school, and our breath never
smells.” I lift my chin and straighten my naturally deflective
posture.
“We have the nicest, shiniest hair. We have princess hair!” she
says, beaming and stroking her hair like Sleeping Beauty might.
“We are the smartest girls on the planet! Anything we
don’t know is worthless because we are the taste makers of . .
. everything!”
A girl walking in front of us turns around. “Wow,” she
says, looking us up and down. “You really like yourselves.”
She flips back around and Simone and I laugh all the way to
the student parking lot.