Leah on the Offbeat(43)

“Oh boy.” The edges of her lips curve up. “Should have known you were one of those people.”

“One of those people? As in, I’m not a monster?” I shake my head slowly. Like, you look at Abby, and she’s the picture of innocence: spiral curls, lavender pajama shorts. But no.

“Okay, this may blow your mind,” I say, “but have you ever heard of—”

“Bookmarks. Yes. I know.” She rolls her eyes. “Nick used to give me so much shit. I honestly think he bought me a hundred bookmarks while we were dating.”

“So where are these hundred bookmarks now?”

“Well, obviously, I had to get rid of them.”

“Because . . .”

“Because we broke up?” She shrugs. “I don’t know. Nick stuff makes me sad. Is that weird?”

“Why would that be weird?”

She smiles wistfully. “I broke up with him. I’m not allowed to be sad.”

“You can feel however you want.”

“No, I know. But it’s complicated.”

And suddenly, she looks like she’s going to burst into tears. Maybe Simon was right. Maybe Abby and Nick were never meant to break up.

“So, it’s raining,” Abby says.

“Yeah, I hear it.”

“Do you think they’ll cancel the tour?”

“I don’t know.”

“I mean, probably not, right? And maybe it will clear up by this afternoon.” She sighs, glancing at her phone. “Anyway, the boys are leaving Boston. I just heard from Simon. Apparently Nick just found out he got a scholarship to Tufts, and he really likes it there, so.”

“Where are they going next?”

“Wesleyan—they’re staying with Alice. And then tomorrow’s NYU.”

“That will be fun for Simon.”

“Yeah.” She stretches. “He’s so funny. He’s, like, so adamant that he doesn’t mind doing long distance with Bram, and it’s just a coincidence that he chose New York.”

“Yeah,” I say, and Abby smiles faintly.

I feel myself starting to calm down, heartbeat dialing back to normal. We make our way from the bed to the couch, and by noon, we’re dressed and jacked up on Froot Loops. The rain has slowed to a drizzle, so I guess it could be worse. Of course, Abby brought wellies—bright green with polka dots.

“Did you know it was going to rain?”

“No. I just like them with this outfit. Is that weird?”

“It’s pretty weird.”

She pokes me in the arm.

But she doesn’t look weird. She looks perfectly collegiate. I’ve always been so jealous of the way Abby layers clothes. She makes it look intentional. Case in point: today’s skinny jeans and a navy plaid shirt, under a fitted gray sweater, rolled up at the elbows. And the wellies. When I try to layer, I just look like I’m hiding something.

I tuck my hair behind my ears. “Should we head to the admissions office?”

“Yes!” She pulls an umbrella out of her suitcase. Of course she brought an umbrella.

It’s a quick drive to get there, and we sign in at a desk inside the admissions building. Then they direct us to an auditorium down the hall. We’re a few minutes early, but the seats are already filling up.

Literally everyone is here with at least one of their parents. Everyone except Abby and me.

“We should make up fake identities,” Abby whispers, settling in next to me in the back row.

“Why?”

“Because why not? We’re totally anonymous right now.”

“You do realize that these people are going to be our classmates in five months, right?”

She stares straight ahead, smiling. “So?”

“So, you’re ridiculous.”

She ignores me. “From now on, you have to call me Bubo Yass.”

I laugh. “What?”

She gives me this smug little grin. “It’s an anagram of my name.”

“That’s very Voldemorty of you.”

“Oh, I just read that part like a week ago! All right. And your new name is Hue Barkle.”

I look at her, stunned. “How did you do that so quickly?”

“I don’t know.”

“SAT Abby rides again.” I shake my head. “Thank God you dog-ear pages.”

“What?”

“Otherwise, you’d be too perfect. It’s gross.”

She scoffs. “Excuse me?”

“I’m just saying.” I count it off on my fingers. “Cheerleading, dance, drama club, yearbook, student council. Perfect SAT scores—”

“Perfect critical reading.”

“Oh, okay, so you bombed math and writing.”

“Well, no.”

I grin. “Like I said. Perfect.”

“Well, I have to be.” Abby shrugs.

“Why?”

“Why do you think? Because that’s my life. Because black girls have to work twice as hard. And even when we do—I mean, you heard what Morgan said.”

“Ugh. I’m sorry.” I rub my forehead. “Morgan’s just—”

“But it’s not just Morgan. Okay? What she said? That’s not like a fringe point of view. I get that all. The. Time.”