The Best Laid Plans(48)

Andrew drives us to Jan’s, mercifully letting my odd behavior slide. He pulls into a spot out front and we climb out of the truck.

The diner is empty except for another group of Prescott students huddled together in a corner booth. It’s not uncommon for kids to smoke weed before school and come to Jan’s for their early-morning munchies. I’ve never been an early riser and have always marveled that anyone could love smoking enough to set their alarm for it. These guys are a group of sophomores whose names I don’t know, and they’re sitting silently, shoveling pancakes into their mouths with glassy eyes.

I steer Andrew toward the booth in the opposite corner, wanting to sit as far away as possible, for privacy. It’s unlikely they’d be able to listen to our conversation at all in their state, but I’m feeling paranoid and jumpy.

The waitress comes over to take our order: two small stacks of pancakes with strawberries, two coffees, and two sides of bacon. When she walks away, things fall quiet and I remember why we’re here.

“So I’m guessing you have something embarrassing to ask me,” he says, “because you sent me that cryptic text and now you’re acting like a weirdo.” He takes a sip of his water. “Thank God we’re already friends, because I probably would have dropped you by now if I didn’t know you so well. You’ve been a complete disaster all morning.” He smiles to show me he isn’t serious.

“I told you to forget that text.”

The waitress comes back with our coffees and sets them down on the table in front of us. Andrew pulls his coffee toward him and grabs three packets of sugar, tearing them open and pouring them in one by one.

I wrinkle my nose at him, taking a sip of my own coffee. “I didn’t mean to send it.”

He frowns. “You can trust me, Collins. Remember what you told me before? You’re here for my weird shit? Well, I’m here for your weird shit too. You’re my little weirdo.”

“I know.” I pick up one of the empty sugar packets in front of him and begin tearing the paper into little pieces—something to keep me distracted.

“We all need someone to talk to about embarrassing things.” He takes the sugar packet out of my hands and pushes the little pile of paper away from me. “Remember that time you slept over in first grade and when we woke up in the morning, you had wet the bed?” He grins.

“That was you,” I say, laughing despite myself. “You were the one who wet the bed.”

“But we can’t prove that, can we?” He raises his eyebrows. “Anyway, this can’t be worse than that.”

“It’s worse,” I say glumly.

He takes a sip of his coffee, and then his eyes light up. “Okay, what about the time in seventh grade when you got your”—he pauses, tripping over the word—“um, period at school and you had to borrow my sweatshirt for the rest of the day?”

I remember the horror of that day clearly. I stood up at the end of math class and noticed a small red stain on the chair. It felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room and I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. I wasn’t friends with the girls yet and didn’t have anyone to ask but Andrew. I held my backpack awkwardly over my butt and pulled him to the side of the room, my face burning as I coughed out the words. He let me tie his sweatshirt around my waist for the rest of the day, and we never once brought it up again. It was one of the first times I felt a strange kind of distance from him—when I began to realize I was a girl and he was a boy, and our experiences were going to branch off into different directions.

“I can’t believe you’re bringing that up,” I say, feeling my face heat.

“I’m just saying, this can’t be more embarrassing than that.” He takes another sip of his coffee and then sets the mug down on the table and leans back in the booth, waiting for me to speak. I don’t.

“Okay, I’ll ask you questions then,” he says, leaning forward again and clasping his hands in front of him on the table. “Is this similar to the great period incident of seventh grade?”

I shake my head no.

“Okay, what else is embarrassing? Hmmm. Does this have to do with . . . bodily functions? Bathrooms? Toilets?”

I laugh, shaking my head again. “No toilets.”

“Thank God.” He thinks for a moment. “Does this have to do with Hannah? Is that why you can’t ask her?”

I sigh, shaking my head again. “I can’t ask her because she’s a girl. I mean, I could I guess, but I’m . . . um, straight.”

“Hmm. Does it have to do with James Dean?”

I nod, tapping my nose like in charades.

“Did he do something?” He leans forward, frowning. “Do I need to kill him?”

“No. Nothing like that,” I say, and he relaxes.

“Is this a sex question?” He leans forward in the booth. “That’s why you can’t stop giggling. It’s because you’re five years old.”

“Hey!” I say, but tap my nose anyway. He’s getting too close and I’m not sure I want to keep playing the game. If I ask him, there’s no turning back. There’s no guarantee things won’t be ruined between us forever. This is worse than the great period incident of seventh grade. Much worse.

“I just want some advice,” I say finally. “And you seem to know what you’re doing. I mean, I’ve seen you hooking up with a lot of girls, obviously, and so you must be able to help me out a little.”