Shuffle, Repeat(74)

Together.

Theo is sitting on one of the benches with Ainsley draped over him. His arm is around her waist, and her fingers are twined in his hair. Oliver is on the other end of the bench, and as I watch, Theo leans toward him and says something. They both laugh and Theo kisses Ainsley.

Like nothing ever happened.

Like none of it mattered.

At all.

If I was still driving to school with Oliver, if we weren’t avoiding each other, if my heart didn’t hurt, I would run over and slam one of my songs in his face. I would crow about it, about how he himself is living proof that high school is a drop in the bucket of emotion and importance. He would be his usual combo of amused and chagrined, and I would triumphantly choose something by Joy Division or Ume or Wax Fang. Tomorrow I would blast that new song as loud as the behemoth’s speakers would allow. Oliver would smile tolerantly as I sang and danced in my seat, and maybe I even would catch him nodding his head along to the music.

Instead, everything inside me hardens. I turn to leave….

But not before Oliver glances in my direction. Not before our eyes meet.

? ? ?

When I come out of Spanish, he’s leaning against the hallway wall with his arms folded over his chest. The sight of him jerks my body to a frozen halt and my heart into a racing sporadic beat. He doesn’t smile, but he does edge his chin upward slightly in my direction. It’s a move done by guys in bars on TV. It’s a gesture that represents everything I hate. It’s the smallest possible motion one can make to acknowledge another person.

But because this is Oliver and because he has repeatedly defied my expectations, I excuse it. I excuse him. I merely drop my backpack to the floor where I’m standing, right in front of the open door. Other students jostle me as they stream around both sides of my body, but I stay still, a stony outcrop in a rushing path of water.

Oliver peels himself off the wall and ambles over. He stares down at me and I stare up at him, and no one says anything for what seems like way too long. He doesn’t look happy and I have no idea how I look, because my insides are trembling and my thoughts are jumbled, so it’s anyone’s guess how that mess translates to my face.

“I’m a decent guy,” Oliver finally says, and waits for a response. When I don’t have one—because it’s neither a question that requires an answer nor something I’m willing to dispute—he continues. “I honor my promises. I’m supposed to drive you to school.”

“I’m the one who told you not to,” I remind him.

“In a text message. Thanks for that.” He folds his arms over his chest again. “I thought you’d want to know that you were right.”

“About what?” It comes out of my mouth in a whisper.

“The playlist. I’ve been reassessing some things, and you were right about the music I’ve been listening to my whole life. It’s crap. It’s overly produced and fake, just like Flaggstone Lakes. In fact”—he pauses, running his fingers through his hair—“you were right about all this stuff being crap.” He spreads his arms in a gesture that encompasses himself, the school, everyone around us. Me. “You win, June. None of this matters. It doesn’t matter at all.” He crooks a smile at me, but there’s no joy in it. It’s bitter, flat, lifeless. It breaks my heart. “Call me if you want a ride on Monday.”

“I won’t,” I tell him.

“I know,” he says.

But he keeps standing there, looking down at me. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, because his expression is so blank. He’s not the Oliver I’ve gotten to know over this year: the one who’s exuberant, who cares about soufflés and bowling and football games.

That Oliver—the one who cares about everything—is gone.

And it’s my fault.





I’m alone in the farmhouse, alone in my misery. Mom is on campus and all my friends are getting ready for prom tonight, so I play games on my phone for a while. But not Mythteries. I don’t play that.

Somewhere around lunchtime, I try calling Dad. He doesn’t answer and I don’t leave a message, but I do shoot him a text.


hey dad, what’s up?



Even though he didn’t pick up when I called, he texts back right away.


hi beautiful. in rehearsal, new play, amazing role.

closes in july so def able to come out & help u move into dorms. what do u need for college?



I turn off my phone. I don’t know what I need anymore.

? ? ?

Two long and boring and lonely hours later, I’m reconsidering my decision not to call Mom when I hear a familiar crunching coming from outside. It’s accompanied by the low rumbling sound of an engine. Those two noises together can mean only one thing.

The behemoth.

I rush to the front door.

Except it’s the wrong behemoth. This one isn’t black; it’s somewhere between beige and gold. And the person driving isn’t Oliver. It’s his mother, Marley.

Oliver’s mom’s white-blond hair is pulled into a high ponytail and she carries a giant designer bag. She’s finally remembered to return some socks and pajamas she borrowed from Mom when she spent the night. “There’s a book, too,” she tells me.

I smile and nod and reach for the bag, assuming she’ll drop it and run, but instead, she pushes past me into the house. “Can I borrow a pen?” she asks. “And some paper?”