Leah on the Offbeat(7)

It’s from the University of Georgia—the return address is printed with their logo. It’s not a big envelope like my admissions packet. Just a random letter-sized envelope, the perfect size for a letter from the dean retracting my scholarship and reversing my acceptance. We are writing to notify you that your acceptance to the University of Georgia Honors Program was, in fact, a clerical error. Our records show that our department intended to admit some other Leah Burke who isn’t a steaming hot mess. We apologize for any inconvenience.

“Are you going to open it?” Mom asks, leaning against the counter. She’s wearing eye makeup, like she does for work sometimes, and she looks obnoxiously beautiful. Her eyes look electric green. I should say, for the record, that having a mother who’s hotter than you sucks balls.

I take a deep breath and open it. Mom peers at me while I read. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, totally.” I feel myself relax. “It’s just a bunch of info about tours and accepted students day.”

“We should probably do that, huh?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

I mean, it can’t matter. Because my mom isn’t Simon’s mom or Nick’s mom. She can’t randomly take off work for a campus visit. I can’t even picture my mom on one of those tours. I’ve never actually been on one, but Simon says it’s just a flock of mortified kids cringing while their parents ask questions. Apparently, Simon’s dad asked the tour guide at Duke to “please elaborate on the campus gay scene.”

“I wanted to fucking die,” Simon told me.

Pretty sure if my mom were on that tour, she’d be snickering in the back, rolling her eyes at all the other parents. She’d probably get hit on by frat dudes, too.

“Seriously, it’s fine.”

She smiles. “I really do think you should sign up for this, though. Let me just sort things out with work, and we can make a whole day of it. And actually, Wells has family in Athens, so—”

I laugh incredulously. “I’m not doing my college tour with Wells.”

She flicks my arm. “We can discuss this later. Do you want a yogurt?”

“Yeah.” I scrape my hair back. “Anyway, I’ll just see when Morgan’s going. I can pretend to be a Hirsch.”

“That’s an idea,” Mom says. “And you could wear a Tech jersey to mess with them.”

“Totally, Mom. I’ll be so popular on campus.”

My phone buzzes with a text from Simon. Fuck. My. Life. Leah. Oh God.

“Okay, I better go,” Mom says, setting my yogurt down. “Have fun today.”

I say good-bye to her and turn back to my phone. I can’t fuck your life, I’m monogamously fucking my own life.

Okay, that’s funny, Simon writes, but seriously.

What happened?

Three dots.

And then: My voice keeps cracking!

What?

When I sing.

That’s really cute. Emoji with heart eyes. I take a bite of yogurt.

LEAH, IT’S NOT CUTE. IT’S ALMOST OPENING NIGHT. THE SCHOOL PERFORMANCES ARE LIKE RIGHT NOW.

I think you’re nervous

YOUR nervous.

*You’re. Holy shit I can’t believe I just did that. And I capitalized it, ugh, don’t tell Bram AHHHHHHHHHHHH FUCK I’M DONE

Simon. You’re okay. I throw away my yogurt cup and toss my spoon into the sink. Eight fifteen. Time to get to the bus stop. Even though it’s mega cold. Even though my texting fingers are going to hate me.

Also he’s never heard me sing and he’s going to break up with me.

I laugh. Bram’s going to break up with you when he hears you sing?

Yes, Simon writes. I can picture him: pacing backstage, costume half assembled. The school performances are technically dress rehearsals, but everyone misses class to watch them. Seniors don’t even have to check into first period. I want to get there early to claim a seat in the front, where I can heckle Simon and Nick. But naturally, my bus is late. It happens every time it’s cold out.

He really hasn’t heard you sing? I write.

I DON’T SING. And, without missing a beat, he adds, But seriously, what if my voice cracks and everyone throws tomatoes and then they pull me off the stage with an old-timey hook??

If that happens, I write, I will film it.

Nora’s waiting for me when I step off the bus.

“Thank God you’re here. What are you doing right now?” She rakes a hand through her curls. I’ve honestly never seen her look so freaked out. And that includes the time classy eleven-year-old Simon molded brownies to look like actual shit and then proudly ate them in front of us.

I look at her. “What’s going on?”

“Martin Addison has a cold,” she says slowly, blinking like she can’t quite believe it.

“Noted. I won’t make out with him.”

I don’t even think she hears me. “So he’s staying home to rest his voice for tomorrow, but now we don’t have a Reuben, and we’re supposed to start, like, now. So I was wondering . . .”

“I can’t play Reuben.”

“Right.” She presses her lips together.

“I’m the worst singer, Nora. You know that.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m not . . . ugh.” She laughs nervously. “Cal’s filling in for Martin, so now I’m Cal, and I need you to be me.”