Wrong About the Guy (23 page)

I
was alone in my room when I found out online that I'd been accepted to Elton College. I screamed and Mom and Lorena came running in, concerned. Once I explained, we all jumped around for a while and they hugged me, and then I said, “I want to tell George in person. Don't call or text him, Mom.”

“Why would I?”

“You told him my SAT scores without my permission.”

“That was when he was your tutor, not your boyfriend,” she pointed out. “And I was paying him for the time he spent with you. I've stopped doing that, in case you hadn't noticed.”

“I should tell him to submit a bill,” I said. “He's been putting in some long hours with me over the last couple of weeks. Lots of late nights . . .”

“I don't want to hear about it!” she said, putting her hands over her ears. She was in a much better mood
these days, willing to laugh and be silly. Jacob had a whole weekly regimen with various therapists and had added about fifteen more words to his vocabulary in just a few weeks, and Mom had said to me a few days earlier that knowing he was getting help and seeing him respond to all the interventions made her feel better about everything. And I could see that in her face every day—that little line between her eyes had virtually disappeared.

She dropped her hands and said more seriously, “But can you still apply somewhere else? You got in so easily—maybe you didn't reach high enough. The Ivies—”

I cut her off. “Too late. I'm committed now—early decision, remember?—and it's good news, so don't harsh my buzz.” I slipped my feet into flip-flops, twisted my hair into a knot, threw on a sweatshirt, and was out the door before she could say anything else.

It was late afternoon on a weekday, and traffic was predictably hellish going over the hill into the Valley. I listened to music and tailgated every car in front of me. Not that it helped.

About halfway there, I got a call. Heather. My stomach tightened. It was the first time she'd called me since I'd told her about George. I'd texted her a bunch of times, asking her if we could please just talk, but she never responded. I kept trying; she had a right to be mad at me, and I had a right not to give up on our friendship.

But now she was breaking the silence. She must have heard from Elton.

I hoped she was calling to say, “Hey, since we're going to be going to school together, let's make up!”

Please let it be that.

I hit the car's Bluetooth speaker and said hello. I heard weeping on the other end, then finally some broken words. “You got in, didn't you? Didn't you?”

Crap. “Yeah. You?” But I already knew the answer.

“I listened to you!” she sobbed. “I listened to you and you told me I'd get in and I could have applied somewhere better for me. I didn't even want to go to Elton—I let you talk me into it—”

“Then maybe it's not so bad,” I said, torn between irritation and remorse. “You'll get in somewhere you like better.”

“You've been a bad friend to me.” She hung up.

I reached George's apartment about fifteen minutes later. When he opened his door in response to my knock, I said, “I got in,” and burst into tears.

He pulled me inside, shut the door, then sat down with me on the sofa while I told him about Heather. “She's so unhappy. And it's all my fault. I've ruined her life in every possible way. What do I do now?”

He gently brushed his knuckles against the tears on my cheeks. “Don't panic. She'll be okay.”

“You were right. You said she wouldn't get in just
because I wanted her to, that I should stop pushing her to apply there.”

He didn't say anything. He wasn't the
I told you so
type but we both knew it was true.

“I've lost my best friend. I had already hurt her and now she hates me even more.”

“You didn't lose her. She loves you and she knows you love her. Just give her some time to recover.”

We sat like that for a while, my legs across his lap, my head on his chest. Just being with him made me feel better. I inhaled the salty-sweet scent of his neck (no cologne, just him, thankfully) and felt better. I wished I hadn't had to hurt Heather to end up here, inside George's neck, but I didn't regret the outcome.

But then . . . I sat up suddenly and moved away from him. “You don't seem all that happy for me,” I said accusingly. “About Elton, I mean.”

“I am,” he protested. “It's great news. I'm not surprised but I'm happy for you.”

“Then why don't you
sound
happy?”

He looked down at his hands. “Connecticut just seems very far away, that's all.”

“Oh,” I breathed, suddenly understanding. I threw myself on him and pinned him against the sofa. “That's a very good reason for you not to seem happy.” I straddled him, then leaned forward and dropped my head until my lips met his.

A day or two later, George showed me a list he'd made of schools that he thought Heather would like and could get into. “She said her college counselor wasn't very good and had hundreds of kids to oversee, and her mother didn't strike me as a clear thinker, so I went ahead and did some research. I could email her this. Do you think she'd be okay with that?”

“Print it up,” I said. “I'll take it to her.”

“Really? You think it'll be okay if you just show up?”

“I'm hoping that if we're face-to-face, I'll be able to convince her to forgive me.”

When I got there, her mother answered the door and said stiffly, “Oh, Ellie. What are you doing here?” Our last exchange had been when she asked me to stop calling Heather's cell, so it was pretty awkward.

I asked to see Heather, and Mrs. Smith called out, “Heather? Come to the door, please.”

Heather came down the stairs and stopped short at the sight of me.

Her mother said, “You didn't tell me you were expecting Ellie,” and Heather said in a faint voice, “I wasn't.”

I slipped past Mrs. Smith—who hadn't invited me in—and went right to Heather. I said, “Can I talk to you for just like five minutes? Please?” and she hesitated but then said a reluctant okay—she was incapable of being cruel—and led me up to her room.

Once the door was closed, I said in one breath, “I misled you and I also hurt you. I'm sorry in every possible way. I love you and I need you in my life. Can you ever forgive me?”

It was
Heather
. That's the thing. Maybe someone else would have made me suffer a lot longer. But that wasn't who she was. She was made to like people and I was her best friend. So she burst into tears and we threw our arms around each other and hugged for a while and I apologized about fifty more times, and pretty soon she was telling me it wasn't my fault, that she understood, that she had made her own decision about applying and she knew it, and pretty soon after that, she was chattering away again, confiding in me about school and friends and her parents, just like always. Or almost like always—neither of us mentioned George, which meant things weren't entirely normal between us. He was such a big part of my life now that I had to keep editing things I wanted to tell her. But the important thing was that we were friends again.

Later—after we'd left the house and gone out for cupcakes and more tears and hugs—we came back and looked up the colleges on George's list. One was less than two hours from where I'd be in Connecticut, and we both got stoked for that, but I was careful this time not to push her or act like I knew what I was talking about. I'd learned my lesson.

“I'm over Elton anyway,” Heather said, leaning back against her headboard—we had curled up on her bed with the laptop. “If all the kids are like you, they'd be smarter than me and I'd just feel stupid for four more years. Anyway . . . it was always more your choice than mine.”

I couldn't argue with any of that. And didn't.

O
ver the next few weeks, Aaron and Michael moved out of the hotel and into a huge and beautiful penthouse apartment in Santa Monica with a view of the ocean. Crystal kept the house. She and Michael were working out some kind of joint custody agreement, which for now mostly involved Megan's carting the baby back and forth and having to take care of her in two different places. Crystal was going back to acting, Aaron said. He never saw her alone: one of the conditions of his getting to stay with his dad in LA was that he wouldn't. He admitted to me that it was sort of a relief. He was over her.

Whatever Crystal felt about the whole thing remained a mystery: she was completely out of our lives. Mom and I did spend time with Mia when she was at Michael's, though. She was still the world's cutest baby, as far as I was concerned.

Arianna continued to tell everyone at school that I was stuck-up, and Riley continued to come rushing to report it to me no matter how much I made it clear I didn't want her to, but none of this affected my life much. The kids who fawned over me because I was Luke's stepdaughter still did; the ones who I'd always hung out with stayed loyal; the ones I didn't know well may have believed Arianna but it didn't matter: we had only one more semester together and I could survive a few dark looks and mutters for that long.

Right before Christmas, we finished collecting donations for the Holiday-Giving Program and handed out the presents at the annual party at the shelter. To my relief, Ben was civil—almost pleasant—to me when we were working together. I didn't know whether he had softened because he knew he had been unfair to me or because Arianna was losing a little of her luster as a girlfriend, but I was glad either way. It made the whole thing more pleasant.

Luke wasn't able to come to the party, but even if some people came hoping to see him (thanks to Arianna), they didn't leave too disappointed. Once they got busy entertaining the little kids and handing out presents, most of the students had fun, and I knew a lot of them would sign up again next year—with or without a celebrity tease.

As we were cleaning up at the end, Ben told me, a
little uncomfortably, that he thought we should make Arianna the president of the program for the following year, since she was the only junior who had run any part of it. I instantly agreed. He looked surprised, but I figured she
had
worked hard and earned her place at the top.

And I'd be at college. She couldn't bug me there.

Aaron got accepted early to the USC film school, which was his first choice, so he was as relaxed as I was as second semester got under way. We got together a lot in the evenings when neither of us had any other plans, going out for frozen yogurt, drinking boba tea, trying new restaurants (Aaron got his father's assistant to book us some of the hardest-to-get reservations in town, using Michael's name), and being generally hedonistic and sugared-up.

George was never thrilled to hear I had plans with Aaron, but he wasn't the kind of boyfriend who was going to tell me what I could or couldn't do. (Not that I would have gone out with anyone who
was
.)

“It would be easier if he were just a little less cool and handsome,” he said once when I came over to his apartment after having dinner with Aaron. “Or if I were a little
more
cool and handsome.”

“Cool and handsome is overrated,” I said.

His smile was pained. “So you agree I'm neither?”

“You're everything good and smart and funny and kind and wonderful and exciting and wonderful,” I said.

“But not cool or handsome.”

“
And
cool and handsome. And wonderful.”

“You said
wonderful
three times,” he pointed out, and then caught me against his chest and covered my mouth so I couldn't say anything else for a while.

Spring came. Heather got into five of the seven colleges she'd applied to and freaked out over having so many choices. I pointed out that that was a good thing, but she still spent days agonizing and calling me constantly to discuss their different merits.

In the end, she
didn't
pick the one in Connecticut, near where I'd be. She kept apologizing to me, explaining over and over again that her dad really wanted her to go to Steventon and it actually looked perfect and she felt less guilty making him pay for a college he was enthusiastic about, and repeatedly assuring me that it had been a tough decision, because she wanted to be near me. I told her it was totally fine. At this point I was just relieved and happy that she seemed excited about going off to school in the fall.

I had already met a bunch of my future classmates online and had found a few I really liked, including two who wanted to room together. They only knew me as Ellie Withers and had no idea Luke Weston was
my stepfather, so their enthusiasm and interest seemed genuine, and I was feeling pretty optimistic about having a more normal social life in college than I'd had in high school.

Mom kept tweaking Jacob's therapies, increasing his time with the ones she liked and pulling away from the ones she didn't, and he was doing great, saying a ton more words and getting frustrated much less.

We were hanging out in the family room one day when he called out, “Mom. Look!” and we both jumped to our feet—it was the first time he'd ever said her name just to get her attention.

He pointed to the floor, where he'd been busily arranging some plastic letters. Most of them were in a long row.

“What's a jacobellie?” Mom said, studying it. Then, with a delighted laugh: “Oh, it's his name and yours put together!”

“Did you know he could spell?” I asked, dumbfounded.

“I had no idea.”

“He's a total genius!”

“There's definitely a lot more going on in that little head than we realize.” She called Luke to tell him and I could hear him shouting with excitement at the other end of the line.

Thanks to Luke and Michael, in May, George finally
landed a job—as the assistant to the vice president of development at a TV studio. It wasn't the writing job he'd hoped for, but he had reached a point where he was just happy to have full-time work. His hours were long, and he always had scripts to read on the weekends. I complained that he wasn't paying me enough attention, and he came up with a solution: that I stop complaining.

We'll Make You a Star
had gone on hiatus in April, so Luke was desperately trying to write and record a new batch of songs for the album he wanted to release the following fall. It kept him busy, but the Luke who was being creative was always happier than the one who was the TV star. He didn't love that job, but it paid the bills and—he would have been the first to admit—gave him the leverage and power to put out the kind of music he wanted to.

My grandmother started dating some senior citizen and informed me soon after that their relationship had become “physically intimate.” I jokingly reminded her to use condoms, and she said seriously, “Well, of course pregnancy isn't an issue for me, but STDs are. You know what those are, right? STDs?” I told her I did and got off the phone quickly, before she could give me more information about that than I wanted, which was really any information at all.

I didn't want George to go with me to my prom. “You're too old,” I explained. “It would be incredibly awkward for you to be around all those high school kids, and I'd feel guilty dragging you around, making you meet people who just want to see who Luke Weston's stepdaughter is dating. You'd hate it. Aaron's up for it and he's used to all the fame-whore weirdness.”

“I'm all in favor of not going,” he said, “but couldn't you not go, too? Especially not with him?”

“It's the only high school prom I'll ever have. And who would you rather I went with? You know you don't have to worry about Aaron.”

“Can't you go with a gay friend?”

“The gay guys in my grade all have dates,” I said. “All the girls who don't have boyfriends were fighting over them. Anyway, I've already asked Aaron and he's already said yes.”

“Fine,” he said. “Just come over to my place after. No flying around all night on Aladdin's magic carpet.”

I promised. Mom knew I was planning to be out all night anyway—everyone stayed up on prom night.

She and Luke took a ridiculous number of photos of us when Aaron came to pick me up for prom. As we posed, his arm around my shoulder, he reminded me that he was going to put me through all of this again in a week, at
his
school's prom.

He clutched me a little too tightly during the last dance of the night, so I pulled away and said, “Let's sit this one out.”

The limousine dropped us off at my house and I walked him to his car. He leaned against it and said, “Sometimes I think I made a mistake, missing my chance with you.”

And I said cheerfully, “You never had one.”

I don't think he believed me, but I didn't care. I quickly pecked him on the cheek and ran inside to get my stuff.

It was past midnight by the time I got to George's apartment.

“Wow,” he said when he opened the door to me. I was still wearing my ivory-colored prom dress, which was very tight in the bodice with a long, flowing skirt. It had, as Mom pointed out, cost more than a month's rent at our old apartment. I'd brought a change of clothes in a bag, but wanted George to see me all done up. “Your mother sent me a photo but it didn't do you justice.”

“Do you like my hair?” Mom had hired Roger to style me, and he'd straightened my hair with a flat iron, then pinned half of it up, and let the rest of it fall to my waist, which it did when it was completely straight.

“It's pretty,” George said, and touched it lightly with
his fingertips. “But I wouldn't want you to straighten it all the time. I'd miss your curls.”

“Don't worry,” I said. “It took three hours to get it like this. I may never do it again.”

We went inside and he said, “Will you hate me if I do a tiny bit of work? I just finished reading a script and I need to write down a few notes before I forget.”

I pouted. “If you'd rather work than be with me . . .”

“Not fair,” he said. “I'd rather work
and
be with you. Come sit next to me.” He led me over to the tiny table where he worked and ate. And did everything else that could be done on a table. His apartment was small, narrow, and dark. It was my favorite place in the world.

I sat down with him. “How was it? The script?”

“I kind of loved it,” he said. “I mean, it's a mess and needs a ton of work, but it's got this incredible idea and these moments of pure genius.”

“So you'll help the writer make it much better.”

“That's the goal.”

“It's what you do,” I said. “Take something that's a little rough and messy and make it much better.”

“Is that what I do?” he said, amused.

“It's what you did with me, wasn't it?”

“The raw material was very good,” he said. “Moments of pure genius.”

“I was always a great idea,” I agreed. “You know what else is a great idea?”

“What?”

I knocked the script off the table. It fell on the floor.

George didn't get around to picking it up until the morning.