Shuffle, Repeat(12)

Itch and I drag two quilts and a pile of pillows onto the family room floor to fashion a fool-around nest for ourselves, and then he dorks around with the remote control until he finds a horror movie. Both of us know we’re not actually going to watch it, but this is how we’ve always prefaced our physical interactions: by first pretending we’re going to do something less intimate.

“What do you think of the house?” I ask once the movie is playing on mute.

“It’s cool. Way bigger than your last place.”

“Yeah, I actually have my own bathroom here.”

“But it sucks that it’s so far away.”

“Only twenty minutes from school.”

“Thirty minutes from me,” he says, and I am reminded that he wants me near, that my proximity is desirable. The way he wants me makes me feel worthy of being wanted. It makes me want him. I’m starting to tug him toward me when he says something else. “And now you have to drive with that douchebag every morning.”

I have an errant flash of protectiveness, a desire to defend Oliver. After all, there was the Mohawk. “He’s not that bad.” Itch makes his snorting sound that means he’s not buying something. “No, really. I don’t think he’s like all the other muscle heads. He’s definitely smarter than I thought.”

“Really.” It’s not a question the way Itch says it. “Because I haven’t seen him around the AP classes.”

“I haven’t seen you around the AP classes.” I kiss him on the neck so he knows it’s a joke. He doesn’t answer, because he’s more interested in rolling on top of me and not watching the movie.

This is why teenagers get a bad rap.





This time, it’s Oliver who has an idea when I climb aboard. “We disagree about music, right?”

“Very much so.”

“And also about what constitutes meaning in our high school life.”

“Does Theo know you use big words when he’s not around?” Oliver flicks a gum wrapper at me and I flinch backward with a squeal. “Really, what do you see in that dipshit?”

“We’ve been friends since middle school,” Oliver tells me. “We have a history.”

“Our country has a history of denying women’s rights and smoking on airplanes and allowing cousins to marry. Doesn’t mean we still adhere to those things.”

“Are you going to behold my genius or what?” Oliver unlocks his phone and hands it over.

I take it with a show of trepidation and tap the screen to find that his music app is open. In the center of the screen is an icon with the title Sunrise Songs. “All I behold is a cheesy name.”

“Open it.”

I do, but it’s empty, which doesn’t make any sense. “Explanation, please.”

“This is the solution to all our problems. This is the grand prize for the person who proves that their life philosophy is true.”

“This is a playlist,” I tell him.

“Exactly.”

“Are you high?”

Oliver shakes his head. “Keeping my body pure for the football field.”

“Please don’t flex your muscles again.”

But of course he does.

“It’s our morning playlist,” he says. “We’ll listen to it on the drive to school.”

“And yet there are no songs on this playlist,” I tell him. “It’s empty.”

“That’s the part where I’m a genius.”

“That’s the part I find most hard to believe.”

“Listen,” he says. “Learn.”

“Lame,” I say, but wait for him to explain.

“You think high school doesn’t matter. I know that it does.” Oliver pokes me lightly in the arm. “Anytime one of us can find a reason to support our side of that particular conversation—”

“Argument.”

“Whatever. We get to add a song to this playlist. Then we can let it shuffle and repeat in the mornings. More wins for you means more of your screamy music on the list.”

I’m skeptical. “But the argument—”

“Conversation.”

“It’s subjective. There’s no definitive answer. I will naturally come up with brilliant ways to prove that I am right”—Oliver snorts—“but that doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll concur.”

“We’ll have a gentleman’s agreement.”

This time, I am the one who snorts. “You hang out with people who shave male parts onto people’s heads. Nothing about you is gentlemanly.”

He gives me a look of mock offense. “Everything about me is gentlemanly. But fine. We’ll just find someone who can be objective.”

“I nominate Itch,” I say.

“Then I nominate Ainsley.”

I sigh. “Obviously my answer is no.”

“And obviously mine is the same.”

I look down at his phone again. It’s a fun idea; I’ll give him that. It adds a little competition to our morning routine. I mull over the details. “I have some additional rules.”

“Hit me.”

“Don’t tempt me.” I hold up a finger. “Proofs may only be given on school premises and during school hours. First bell to last bell. I don’t want you drunk-texting me in the middle of the night.”