The Best Laid Plans(19)

He picks up the remote and pauses the movie.

“I know the stomach flip. Believe me.” He reaches a hand up to fiddle with his hair, the floppy part on his forehead. He’s got his glasses on so he can see the movie, and he takes them off, tapping them against his palm. “Are you . . . have you . . . um . . . do you like someone?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “No.” For some reason, I feel like I have to deny it. “I guess I’m just wondering what you get out of it. Is it just sex?”

Now he looks really uncomfortable. His face is probably even redder than mine, and I don’t know why I said anything.

He scratches his chin. There’s stubble growing in there, just barely. “No,” he says. “It’s not sex . . . just sex.”

“Was Sophie different?”

Andrew dated Sophie Piznarski for six months our freshman year, back before Party Andrew existed. I hung out with them sometimes, just the three of us, me sitting awkwardly on one end of the couch playing games on my phone while they cuddled together on the other.

“Sophie was a long time ago,” he says. “It’s different now. I’m different.”

“No kidding,” I say.

“It’s just easier this way.”

“Cecilia’s easy?”

“That’s not what I’m saying. I mean, I’m easy. I like things to be relaxed and . . . I don’t know. Feelings suck. No feelings, no stress.”

“C’mon, if you’re not feeling anything, what’s the point?”

“I feel lots of things,” he says, and I can sense that he’s getting agitated. “You have no fucking idea.” The curse word takes me by surprise. He was all jokes and smiles a few seconds ago, but I must have struck a nerve. His hands are in his hair, scrunching and pulling, and he probably doesn’t notice he’s doing it. I reach a hand up and rest it on his, trying to stop him.

“All right, I believe you.”

He pulls his hand away. It’s as if all the parts of Andrew have been mixed up and he’s trying to set them right again, get them back in their proper places.

“Sorry, Collins.” He takes a deep breath and then smiles, back to normal. “Don’t mind my weird shit.”

“Hey,” I say. “I’ll listen to your weird shit whenever, okay? I’m here for your weird shit anytime you need me.”

He puts his glasses back on, adjusting them until they’re straight. “Thanks.”

“You’re allowed to have feelings, you know.”

“Thanks for the tip, doc,” he says.

“I mean it. I’m your best friend. You can talk to me about real stuff.”

“A little confident, don’t you think?” he says, grinning. “Just proclaiming yourself my best friend.”

“Oh, shut up,” I say. “I think I’m allowed to proclaim myself whatever I want after eighteen years with you.”

“Actually, I’ve been getting really close with Jason Ryder lately,” he says, a mischievous smile on his face. “He might be taking your spot. He told a hilarious joke recently about women and sandwiches, and I think it might make him best-friend material. He’s—”

I shove him before he can finish and he falls off the couch.

It’s my first day of work after school on Tuesday, and when it comes I’m a nervous wreck. Every class seems to be about five seconds long, like I’ve spent the whole day stuck in hyperspace. Andrew, Hannah, and I have ceramics together last period, which is usually my favorite class, but today I can’t stop checking the time. We’re sitting at a big wooden table lined in paper, trying to paint our mugs with colored glaze. Mine looks less like a mug and more like a monster from the deep.

“Excited for today?” Hannah asks me from across the table. She dips her brush into the blue and paints a perfect swirl.

“What’s today?” Andrew asks. His mug broke in the kiln, so he’s just been watching us glaze.

“Keely’s big first day,” she says. “Our little baby’s all grown up.”

“Video store?” he asks. He has a thin stripe of purple paint on his left cheek and I wonder how it got there, considering he hasn’t touched the paint all class.

I nod, feeling the swooping rush of nerves in my stomach. I glance up at the clock and see that the class period is almost over. Suddenly I want to throw up.

I tried to dress up a little bit today. I wore black pants—real pants instead of leggings—and the new sweater my mom got me for my birthday. She keeps complaining that I haven’t worn it, but that’s because it’s too small and bunches around my boobs. Usually I try to keep attention away from that zone, but today I thought I’d try something new for James Dean’s sake.

“Are you nervous?” Hannah flutters her eyelashes in a way that means she’s talking about James Dean and not the job.

“You’re an animal, Collins,” Andrew says. “You’ll kill it.” He reaches down and digs around inside his backpack, pulling out a bag of potato chips. I don’t know how he can stomach them right now—the room smells like clay and turpentine—but I’m not surprised. As he’s mid-chew, a girl comes up to our table. She’s walking with quiet hesitant steps, like a deer in a forest worried it’s going to be shot. She’s thin and dainty like a deer too, with big eyes and a pointy nose. Her name’s Madison Jones. Sophomore.