canal,” I tell her. “There’s nothing lovely about it.”
“Yes, there is.” She smiles again, and I want to shove my sub down her throat. What right does she have to be so happy? What right does she have getting asked to homecoming? I didn’t know the thing existed until today when Marisol told me that Ryan Rosenbloom asked her.
“You should go,” she tells me all casually. “It’ll be fun.”
I look at her eager expression, and I want to crush her. “Let’s see,” I say, my tone equally casual, “I’ll just select one lucky guy from my many admirers, find the perfect dress, and have an absolutely lovely time.”
“You don’t have to make fun of me.” Her voice oozes deflation.
“You’re right, I don’t, but I am.” I choose my next words carefully. “Marisol, what’s happening to us? We don’t do dances.”
“We,” she says, her voice slightly clipped, “don’t do anything. That’s the problem.”
“That’s so not true!” I say, but maybe it is? “Besides, didn’t Ryan’s best friend call you ‘brace face’ for all of seventh grade?”
Marisol’s eyes narrow. “Ryan hasn’t been best friends with Jeff Henderson since eighth grade. So what’s your point?”
“Well, Ryan never defended you. That’s my point. Seriously”—my voice drips with false concern—“how can you trust a guy like that?”
“Well”—Marisol squishes her eyebrows—“correct me if I’m wrong, but you never defended me either.”
“Yeah”—I squish my eyebrows back at her—“but that’s because Jeff used to call me ‘caterpillar face.’ And”—I rub the now hair-free space between my eyebrows—“that was a very traumatic experience for me.”
“Whatever.” Marisol smiles victoriously. “That makes Ryan and you one and the same.”
“Whatever.” I pout in silence.
“What’s your problem?”
“Nothing,” I tell her, which is a lie.
I watch Carlos. Or Bob. Or whatever his name is. I wonder if he ever went to homecoming. Or maybe he’s one of the last people in America who understands what it’s like to never have a date? But that doesn’t make sense, I remind myself, because he has a daughter. We’ve seen her out here with him. So he’s had at least one successful date.
So now I know that there is absolutely no one left in America besides me who understands what it’s like to be without a date, or worse, to be without the hope of dating.
I give Marisol a sidelong glare. Marisol used to understand everything, but now she wants my father to date her mother, and she wants to go to freaking dances and sit with the Jewish clique and forget me.
“You’re sure?” she asks.
“Sure about what?” I toss out the attitude.
“Not going. I think Ryan’s cousin Jared doesn’t have a date.” Marisol’s voice trails up hopefully. “Or at least he mentioned that to me before.”
“That must have been one long conversation.” Today is the first day Marisol ever mentioned talking to Ryan, but now she was using words like before ?
“Why?” she looks confused.
“For him to feel comfortable enough to mention his lonely, half-retarded cousin.” I watch her shift uncomfortably on the grass. “I’m just saying he must have felt extremely comfortable with you.”
“Well…” She picks nervously at a weed.
“Well, what?”
“Ryan’s been calling me since the middle of October.” She doesn’t lift her eyes from the weed.
“That’s like a month ago,” I say slowly.
“I know.”
“So you’ve been keeping this from me. Why?”
I search her face for clues. When did we become the type of best friends to keep things from each other? What happened to our truth nights, to knowing everything? Why the secrets?
“I don’t know.” She shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t want to keep stuff from you. Just, lately, I want to do stuff. I want to go out. And you always want to stay in.” She lifts her eyes back to mine.
I don’t know what to say. I mean,
“Yes, there is.” She smiles again, and I want to shove my sub down her throat. What right does she have to be so happy? What right does she have getting asked to homecoming? I didn’t know the thing existed until today when Marisol told me that Ryan Rosenbloom asked her.
“You should go,” she tells me all casually. “It’ll be fun.”
I look at her eager expression, and I want to crush her. “Let’s see,” I say, my tone equally casual, “I’ll just select one lucky guy from my many admirers, find the perfect dress, and have an absolutely lovely time.”
“You don’t have to make fun of me.” Her voice oozes deflation.
“You’re right, I don’t, but I am.” I choose my next words carefully. “Marisol, what’s happening to us? We don’t do dances.”
“We,” she says, her voice slightly clipped, “don’t do anything. That’s the problem.”
“That’s so not true!” I say, but maybe it is? “Besides, didn’t Ryan’s best friend call you ‘brace face’ for all of seventh grade?”
Marisol’s eyes narrow. “Ryan hasn’t been best friends with Jeff Henderson since eighth grade. So what’s your point?”
“Well, Ryan never defended you. That’s my point. Seriously”—my voice drips with false concern—“how can you trust a guy like that?”
“Well”—Marisol squishes her eyebrows—“correct me if I’m wrong, but you never defended me either.”
“Yeah”—I squish my eyebrows back at her—“but that’s because Jeff used to call me ‘caterpillar face.’ And”—I rub the now hair-free space between my eyebrows—“that was a very traumatic experience for me.”
“Whatever.” Marisol smiles victoriously. “That makes Ryan and you one and the same.”
“Whatever.” I pout in silence.
“What’s your problem?”
“Nothing,” I tell her, which is a lie.
I watch Carlos. Or Bob. Or whatever his name is. I wonder if he ever went to homecoming. Or maybe he’s one of the last people in America who understands what it’s like to never have a date? But that doesn’t make sense, I remind myself, because he has a daughter. We’ve seen her out here with him. So he’s had at least one successful date.
So now I know that there is absolutely no one left in America besides me who understands what it’s like to be without a date, or worse, to be without the hope of dating.
I give Marisol a sidelong glare. Marisol used to understand everything, but now she wants my father to date her mother, and she wants to go to freaking dances and sit with the Jewish clique and forget me.
“You’re sure?” she asks.
“Sure about what?” I toss out the attitude.
“Not going. I think Ryan’s cousin Jared doesn’t have a date.” Marisol’s voice trails up hopefully. “Or at least he mentioned that to me before.”
“That must have been one long conversation.” Today is the first day Marisol ever mentioned talking to Ryan, but now she was using words like before ?
“Why?” she looks confused.
“For him to feel comfortable enough to mention his lonely, half-retarded cousin.” I watch her shift uncomfortably on the grass. “I’m just saying he must have felt extremely comfortable with you.”
“Well…” She picks nervously at a weed.
“Well, what?”
“Ryan’s been calling me since the middle of October.” She doesn’t lift her eyes from the weed.
“That’s like a month ago,” I say slowly.
“I know.”
“So you’ve been keeping this from me. Why?”
I search her face for clues. When did we become the type of best friends to keep things from each other? What happened to our truth nights, to knowing everything? Why the secrets?
“I don’t know.” She shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t want to keep stuff from you. Just, lately, I want to do stuff. I want to go out. And you always want to stay in.” She lifts her eyes back to mine.
I don’t know what to say. I mean,
Similar Books
