Hope and Other Punch Lines(17)

“Hey, Abbi,” Noah says again, and now he’s standing next to me and his friend is here too, and we make a semicircle of awkward high school–ness among grown-ups. I wish I weren’t wearing my Wonder Woman T-shirt and my cutoff shorts and stupid flip-flops, which somehow only now, in retrospect, seem an immature choice. Why didn’t my mom stop me? Of course, I should be wearing heels and a sundress or one of those cool rompers that Julia pulls off. So what if they make me look like a preschooler? Also, why am I wearing fox earrings, which are cute in exactly the wrong way? Foxes are cute, yes. Not girls wearing fox earrings. And yeah, yeah, I shouldn’t be dressing for the male gaze, but I don’t particularly enjoy feeling toddler-esque.

Cat would have told me to take them off. She would have been right.

“I’m Jack,” Noah’s friend says with a small wave. At first, they seem like a strange pair. Jack is tall and striking and rocks an artsy punk look; he’d fit in perfectly with my old friends. His brown hair is tufted into a casual mini-Mohawk, his nails are painted an electric blue, and though he’s currently instrumentless, he’s the type of guy who could get away with wearing a guitar strapped to his chest like a samurai sword. Still, somehow, like Noah, he exudes a certain goofiness.

“So, Abbi, I hear my friend here has been harassing you,” Jack says.

“More like blackmailing,” I say, and mirror his happy, slightly nervous grin. Though it hurts my neck to look up at him, I want to stand on my tippy-toes and touch his hair. “Any chance you can talk him out of it?”

“Sorry. He never listens to me. Noah’s a good dude, though.”

“I’m not so convinced,” I say.

“You guys do realize I’m standing right here?” Noah asks.

“Yup,” I say, and decide that after spending a solid half hour at this party not knowing how to insert myself into a conversation with one of the college kids, I’m happy to have people to talk to, even if one of them has taken on torturing me as an after-camp hobby.

“What do you think of camp counseloring?” Jack asks me.

“Better than school,” I say.

“Anything beats school,” Jack says.

“Syria. Syria doesn’t beat school,” Noah says. “Nor does the Sudan.”

“Did he just bring up Syria at a party?” I ask, but I keep my tone jokey, not mean. I’m still looking at Jack, but I can see Noah out of the corner of my eye. He’s grinning at me. All right, then. He can take a joke. Good. The back of his hair, I notice now, looks wet. I wonder if he took a quick shower and put the same clothes back on. Did he too stand in front of his closet for half an hour and then give up?

“And he said ‘the Sudan,’?” Jack says. “Not just ‘Sudan.’ Of course he had to add the the.”

“He really is the worst,” I say, and though it’s a terrible joke, Jack laughs anyway.

“I like her,” he says to Noah, and I feel like I’ve passed a secret test I didn’t know I was taking.



* * *



—

I spend the rest of the night with Jack and Noah, and before long, I forget all about my Wonder Woman T-shirt and the fact that I’m the third-youngest person at this party. Jack even compliments my fox earrings. And though I may only be talking to Oakdale people, I am decidedly Abbi here.

When Jack heads off to the bathroom, Noah brings up our first interview, and just like that, I feel Baby Hope seep back into my bones, and with her, an asthmatic rush of insecurity and disorientation. I have no interest in meeting my fellow survivors, or in reliving that moment of me with that balloon like the star of a dystopian Gerber commercial.

“I called Chuck Rigalotti. We’re all set for Tuesday after camp,” he says, and for the first time, he sounds a little worried, maybe even a little sorry. “You won’t have to say anything. I promise it won’t be so bad.”

“Ugh.”

“He wasn’t willing to talk to me until I brought you up. Seriously, I need you for this.”

“You’re lucky I’m in a good mood right now,” I say, though I feel that good mood starting to wobble.

“I’ll make it fun. I’ll bring you a Slurpee.”

“The giant one,” I demand. “Cherry.”

“Fair enough. Anything else for your tour rider?”

“Twizzlers, please.”

“That’s funny. Your friend Cat wanted our Twizzlers the other day too,” Noah says, and my stomach craters. “You guys only eat red foods or something?”

“Wait, you know Cat?” I ask, and my tone shatters the rhythm of our banter, which is too bad. It was just taking shape.

“I don’t, not really. I mean, we met her the other night outside ShopRite. She was pretty wasted, so Jack drove her home.” Noah looks at me, like really looks at me, as if he doesn’t trust my words and wants to see what my eyes have to say.

“Cat was drunk? On a weeknight?” I ask, and then lighten my voice. Noah’s actually pretty cool, minus the whole blackmailing thing. It’s not his fault that hearing about Cat, especially hearing about Cat drinking, makes me hurt. Not sure her favorite new recreational activity—getting stoned and drunk with Ramona and Kylie and this group of senior boys after school—was the exact reason for our friendship breakup; let’s just say our interests diverged.