Leah on the Offbeat(28)

And she threads our fingers together.

Right here at the lunch table. I don’t even know what’s happening.

“You know what they say,” Abby murmurs, glancing sideways at Garrett. “What happens in Athens stays in Athens.”

Garrett raises his eyebrows, grinning. “Say no more.”

And suddenly, I’m pissed. No, actually, I’m furious. I tug my hand away from Abby’s and scoot my chair out abruptly.

“Wait, what just happened?” Simon asks.

When I’m mad, I escape. It’s what I do. I stalk out of rooms and storm down hallways and disappear into bathroom stalls. Because if I stay, I’ll lose my shit at someone. I will. I swear to God. I don’t even know who I’m more pissed at. Abby, for teasing me. Garrett, for making it about him every fucking time. Because that’s why bi girls exist, Garrett. For your masturbatory fantasies. I want to scream in his face. Dude, if you like me—if you actually like me—then be jealous. Be worried. Be something. If this were Nick flirting with me, Garrett would think whoa: competition. But because it’s Abby, it doesn’t mean anything. It’s like it doesn’t count.

Not that Abby was flirting with me. She probably wasn’t.

Definitely wasn’t. And I definitely don’t care.





13


I feel like you’re mad at me, Garrett texts me after school. About the Abby thing. I’m sorry Burke, I was honestly joking, but I’ll stop for real. I’m sorry.

I stare at the screen. I don’t know where to begin. I mean, how do I call him out if he doesn’t even know I’m bi?

I sink into the couch, feeling suddenly exhausted. It’s fine. Just promise me you’ll stop being a dick, okay?

I promise! he responds immediately, smiley face and all. So, we’re cool?

We’re cool.

Except I’m the opposite of cool. All weekend, I’m uneasy. Because Garrett actually apologized, but Abby didn’t. Not that she would. I just don’t get her. I don’t get what she’s doing. And it’s not even the what happens in Athens comment. That could mean anything. It could mean frat boys and keg stands and hetero trash for days.

But the look on Abby’s face when I said I was going to prom with Garrett. How surprised she seemed that I hadn’t told her. But why would I tell her? She has a boyfriend. So what if they’re fighting? She. Has. A. Boyfriend. Therefore, none of this matters, and prom can go fuck itself.

Of course, my mom is totally high on prom hype. She takes two hours of leave time on Wednesday to pick me up right after school. “Hop in. We’re going dress shopping.”

I look at her. “Do we have to?”

“Yes, ma’am. Because you’re going to pro-om.” She gives it a solid two syllables. “I’m so excited right now.”

It’s like we’re from two different planets. Every once in a while, it hits me: if I knew my mom in high school, I don’t think we’d have been friends. It’s not like she was an asshole in high school. She was kind of like Abby. In every play, at every party, perfect grades. She always had a boyfriend—usually a soccer player with really defined abs. But sometimes she dated nerdy guys, or musicians, like my dad, who apparently used to smoke a lot of pot. I guess it didn’t lower his sperm count.

“You know, the last time we went prom dress shopping together, you were on the inside.”

“Haha.”

“My little prom fetus.”

“Gross.”

“It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.” She pulls into the mall parking deck and finds a spot near the elevator. My mom has charmed luck with parking spaces. It’s essentially her superpower. “And you have a date!”

“Yeah, with Garrett.”

“Garrett’s so adorable, though.” She pauses to grin at me. “Okay, so here we are. Where’s formal wear?”

Department stores are like diners. No focus. Too many options. I feel overwhelmed just being here. Mom pauses by an escalator, examining the store map.

“Aha. Upstairs.” I follow her onto the escalator. “So, what’s typical these days? When I was in high school, everyone wore floor length, but I hear that’s not a thing anymore.”

“It’s not?” I swallow.

“Or maybe I’m thinking of homecoming. I don’t know. Oh, here we go.”

Racks and racks of dresses. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much satin in my life. They’re all electric-bright and strapless and loaded with sparkles. I don’t own anything like this. I have nothing close to prom-appropriate. I’ve skipped every single dance since we grew out of bar mitzvahs. Which was clearly the right decision, because these dresses are trash, and prom is stupid anyway.

Except it doesn’t feel stupid.

It makes me cringe to admit this, but I want the whole prom thing. The dress, the limo, all of it. It actually hurts, imagining prom happening without me. Me, alone in my pajamas, spending the whole night trolling Instagram and Snapchat. Watching everything unfold virtually. Seeing once and for all how little I’m missed.

Mom starts pushing through hangers, pinching fabric between her fingertips and peeking at size tags. “These are kind of cool, Lee. I’m digging the two-piece.”

“Are you joking?”