The Best Laid Plans(47)

I glance at the time. 6:15. I have fifteen minutes to come up with a lie, to make up something reasonable, an excuse for what I texted. I scroll up on the message thread and reread what I sent.

    Are you free tomorrow after school? There’s something really important I need to ask you





Okay. It’s not so bad. It’s not as if I sent him: I want to have sex with you. Plz respond. I can come back from this. But what important thing can I make up? Andrew has an uncanny sensor to my bullshit. He’s known me for too long—has seen me try to weasel my way out of situations since childhood.

I run to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. There’s no time to shower. The bathroom clock ticking away the minutes has a grip on my thoughts, the pressure wiping my mind completely blank.

I groan and throw my phone down on my bedspread. There’s a poster over my bed of a baby polar bear—something I outgrew years ago but never bothered to take down. Andrew once drew round glasses and a lightning bolt scar on the bear’s face in Sharpie, the words “Beary Potter” scrawled in messy letters over the white fur. Now the poster seems to be mocking me, the memory of that moment reminding me of everything I’m set to lose.

There’s a honk outside—Andrew’s truck—and I jump. I grab a pair of jeans off the floor, sniffing them to check if they’re wearable, and pull them on. Then I yank open my dresser drawers and pull on the first shirt I see, something I tie-dyed at camp however many summers ago. My phone beeps at the same time I hear my mom’s voice call up the stairs.

“Keely, honey, Andrew’s outside. Are you awake?”

Her footsteps make their way toward my room.

“Yeah, Mom!” I call back, clicking open the screen on my phone. There are three texts from Andrew.

    Wake up!

You better order your own bacon today

oink oink



I throw open my bedroom door and barrel out, almost colliding with my mom, who’s standing on the other side, a steaming mug in her hands. She jumps back, somehow managing not to spill anything.

“Whoa, honey, slow down!” She’s still in her pajamas, a silk robe she picked up on a trip to Japan, with bright butterflies and flowers etched around the collar. She holds out an arm to stop me.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say, trying to get past. She reaches up to smooth my hair back from my face and looks at me for a moment, her hand on my cheek.

“You would tell me if you weren’t okay. Right?”

“Yes,” I pull away. “I’m late for breakfast.”

She hands me the mug. It feels warm and comforting in my hands.

“Here, take this with you.”

I take a sip, expecting coffee, and choke when a hot leafy sludge hits my lips.

“Mom! What is this?”

“It’s coca-kale-a,” she says. “It’s a wonderful, cleansing drink. Apparently Beyoncé drinks one before every show.”



* * *



? ? ? ? ? ?

I grab my backpack at the door, mug still in my hands, and run down the front steps to Andrew’s truck. The morning is cold and foggy, typical for April. Warm, muggy mornings won’t start for another few weeks, when one day, without warning, summer will arrive in a sweltering haze.

Climbing into the truck, I grunt hello, handing him the mug and watching as he takes a sip, waiting for the inevitable expression of disgust. Instead, he raises his eyebrows.

“This is interesting. What is this?” And then he throws back the mug, slurping down the rest in a few gulps. “Very salad-y. Not sure I would recommend it for breakfast, but thanks.” I should have learned by now that Andrew’s like a human garbage disposal. He hands me back the empty mug, and I take it, careful not to let our fingers touch. I slump down on the seat, reaching to fiddle with the radio, anything to distract myself from the mess I’ve gotten into. I’m mad at myself for being aware of his fingers at all.

He’s rumpled, his hair sticking up in a way that makes it clear he only recently lifted his head from his pillow. His glasses are on, and they’re bent slightly, like he probably just sat on them for the hundredth time. I feel hollow in my stomach as I look at him, and before I can help it, a brief flash pops into my head of what it would be like to kiss him. I begin giggling uncomfortably, feeling my face grow clammy and hot.

Hannah has ruined me.

“So what’s up?” he asks, and then stops when he sees my expression. I haven’t thought of a cover-up lie, a simple innocuous question to ask him instead, and now it’s too late. He fiddles with his glasses, taking them off and then putting them right back on. “Do you want to talk about it now or wait for bacon?”

“Bacon,” I say, still caught in a wave of giggles. He turns the keys in the ignition and the truck rumbles as the engine starts.

“Should I be worried?” he asks, checking behind him before pulling out of the driveway. “You said it was important.”

I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself, letting the giggles subside. “It was nothing.” I clear my throat, trying to remain serious. “Just pretend I never texted you.” And then, before I can help it, I burst out into another fit of giggles, this time worse than before.