They Wish They Were Us(16)

I beam back at him and he wraps me in a hug across the console. He still smells like lavender soap and the faint trace of tobacco.

“Diane’s?” he asks.

“Please. I’m starving.”

He starts the car and dials up the stereo, making swift turns as we head up the Cove. I used to go to the diner every Sunday morning after Hebrew school with Mom, Dad, and Jared when we were little. We’d split mountains of blueberry pancakes and overstuffed bowls of hash browns. Hot chocolate for me and Jared, mug after mug of coffee for Dad, who loved to tell us stories about growing up modern orthodox in Williamsburg before it was cool. We’d listen patiently as he went on and on about his grandparents who only spoke Yiddish and died before we were born and before Dad became less religious. Going to Diane’s alone still feels like riding without training wheels for the first time. An adventure of epic proportions.

“So, senior year?”

“Senior year,” I echo. “It’s chill.”

Adam laughs. “That’s my Jill. Totally unfazed.”

I flush at the notion that I’m his. “It’s probably all so boring to you now.”

Adam laughs. “Nothing you say is ever boring, Newman.”

The hair on the back of my neck tingles and I turn to him and take in his profile. His arms bulge just slightly out of his heathered T-shirt, and the muscles in his forearm stiffen when he reaches one hand to push his clear plastic glasses up the bridge of his nose.

I lean back in the seat and try to relax. I take note of my limbs and my posture, how I sit and how my arm fits just so on the window ledge. Is this right? I wonder as we pass the vacant Mussel Bay tollbooth, the skinny one-lane road that’s bordered by water on both sides, the tiny fisherman’s dock that sells the best stuffed clams in the summer. I can almost make out Ocean Cliff through the fog. It’s all so familiar.

Adam pulls into the tiny parking lot, only six spots deep. The bell chimes when we push through the door and a waft of cinnamon and sausage grease smacks me in the face.

“Well, look at you two! My favorite babies!” Diane tucks a pen into her firetruck red bouffant and skips over, wrapping both of us in a giant, sugary hug. As usual, she’s wearing bright red lipstick and an old-school white waitress uniform that’s been neatly pressed. She looks like one of the servers, even though she owns the place. “Any seat in the house!” She winks, already knowing our booth is free. Adam makes a beeline toward the one with the thick crack down one side.

“Good to be home,” Adam says when we sink into the red leather.

“Nothing like this in Providence?” I ask, pulling open the laminated plastic menu. It’s as thick as a book.

“No way.”

Thank God, I think.

“What’ll it be, dawling?” Diane asks in her heavy Long Island accent. “The usual?”

“You know it,” he says. “And a coffee. Black.”

“For you, dear?” She turns to me.

“I’ll have the same.”

“Coming right up. You two enjoy yo’selves.” She winks and heads to the kitchen.

“I fucking love this place,” Adam says. His eyes settle on a point on the wall right above my head. “It feels like home.” I turn my head to follow his gaze, though I already know what’s there. Tucked into a blue Gold Coast Prep frame, our faces smile back at us. The photo was taken freshman year, the last time I came here with Shaila. Adam had driven us, Rachel, and Graham here after our last final of the year, the week before initiation. I had been grossed out by my own singleness, horrified to fifth wheel their double date. But Adam assured me I belonged. He wanted me there.

We had all expected Diane to chuck the photo after everything. But the Arnolds never came here. And neither did the Calloways, obviously. “So what’s it matter?” she said when Adam asked her about it last year during his winter break. “It was a moment in time. Just because it’s over doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

“So,” I say. “What’s this playwright thing?”

Adam sighs. “I promised Big Keith I’d come back this semester to teach a workshop to the kids. All fourth and fifth graders from the city. Low income. They come out for a full weekend of script-writing seminars.”

“That’s so cool,” I say, not even trying to hide my awe. Big Keith was Adam’s mentor. He ran the theater department at Gold Coast Prep and had put Adam up for all the awards. He was legendary in the tristate area. The fact that he invited Adam back to teach was sick.

“Let’s not talk about it, though. It’s probably so boring to you.”

“You know it’s not.” I roll my eyes at him.

Adam tilts his head and raises an eyebrow, like he doesn’t believe me. “Fill me in on Player drama.”

I laugh. “There’s no drama.”

Adam smirks. “There’s always drama.”

“Nikki and Robert are on and off, you know that.”

“Eh, boring. Next. Have you come up with any good pops yet?”

My heart tightens. The pops are my absolute least favorite thing about being a Player. Everyone else thinks that they’re necessary, that they set us apart and make us tough. A way to break you and then put you back together, to prove you can follow the Players’ rules, that you’re worthy, you deserve everything the Players can offer you. I think they’re a means to an end. “Not yet,” I say slowly. “We gotta personalize them, you know, so I think we’re waiting to see who gets in.”