If I'm Being Honest(57)

“I’m not telling you what to do. It’s just . . . he’s obsessed with you,” I say gently. “If a guy were ever willing to go to such embarrassing lengths for me, wouldn’t I be an idiot for ignoring him?”

Her eyes remain fixed on Grant, who’s now chasing his lyric sheet down the sidewalk and into the neighbor’s hedges. Even I have to admit it’s adorable.

“You know, Cameron,” Hannah says, “for once, you might not be wrong.”



* * *





Elle finishes off my makeup with a bright orange wig to match my cummerbund. I’m hideous. It’s perfect. While she’s packing up her collection of brushes and fake eyelashes and eyeliners, I thank her again for coming.

“No problem,” Elle replies, climbing out of the van. I follow her to the driver’s side door. “Are you going to explain what exactly you’re doing with these people?”

I pick up the edge in the way she says “these people.” When I texted Elle the idea of helping with Rocky, explaining how she could use the content for her channel, I’d waited for her reply with a kind of nervous excitement. Not that I expected she and Paige would become besties, but I’d hoped the event could bring together the two weird, incongruous halves of my social life. Elle had replied only, ok. Where and when? Which was indecipherable, but better than nothing.

I search her expression, but she’s fixed her features in an unreadable mask. She gets into the driver’s seat and closes the door hard. “Is there a problem with me hanging out with them?” I ask hesitantly through the open window.

“I don’t care who you hang out with,” she says sharply. “I don’t care if you have a whole group of new friends.” She darts a judgmental glance in their direction. “I just hope you remember I’m your best friend.”

“Of course I do,” I reply, caught off guard.

“Good,” Elle says. “If this is because you’ve got the hots for Charlie Kim or BB or some other . . . socially challenged guy, I want to know first. Not Paige.”

“Brendan,” I correct.

“Really?” Elle’s eyes widen. “You’re into BB?”

“No, I—” Flustered, I fumble for words. “It’s—I’m not into Brendan. I just call him Brendan now. The nickname I gave him, it’s stupid.”

“Huh.” Elle narrows her eyes. “Well, okay. Brendan.”

I smile reassuringly. “I’d tell you if I were into Brendan, or anybody new.”

She eyes me, and my smile fades. Normally, now’s when Elle would look pleased or haughtily joke about her unfortunate hookups with Elijah from marching band. Instead, she’s stony, scrutinizing. Something’s still off.

“Hey,” I say, “would you want to come with?” I ask, nodding at the cars. “We could hang out.”

“With them? No thanks.” She turns the key in the ignition. “Have fun, though,” she says. She pulls out of the driveway, leaving me to watch her taillights recede down Paige’s block. I bite my lip, torn. Finally, I decide I can’t worry about Elle tonight. I have a night of ridiculous costumes and virgin sacrifices to survive.

While Paige and Charlie haul a cooler out the front door, I walk to Paige’s car, where Abby waits in the passenger seat. I gingerly climb into the back, careful not to disturb my wig or costume. I have to push aside piles of homework and a pair of mismatched Converse, and I can’t help cringing. One of these days, I’m going to give Paige’s car—and room—a good top-to-bottom organization.

“I can’t believe it,” Abby says under her breath.

“What?”

She points to the car in front of us, by Paige’s mailbox and the trash cans lined up on the curb. I look. Grant sits behind the wheel, Hannah in the passenger seat next to him. Grant says something, and I watch Hannah laugh.

“Hannah volunteered to go in Grant’s car,” Abby says. “Either she really hates you or something’s going on with those two.”





Twenty-Seven



NIGHT IS FALLING WHEN PAIGE PULLS INTO wherever we’re watching this movie. We pass manicured lawns and wrought-iron gates, and then what I realize are gravestones. “Wait,” I say, startled. “We’re watching the movie in a cemetery?”

Paige glances in the mirror. “Did I not mention that?” she asks coyly. She parks the car. “The Hollywood Forever Cemetery hosts the greatest, weirdest screenings.”

I get out of the car, awestruck. Into the cemetery file hundreds of costumed Columbias, Magentas, Riff Raffs, and Frank-N-Furters, and with them people in wild costumes I don’t recognize. It’s a parade of neon-colored wigs, fishnets, and elaborate underwear. They walk toward the palm trees ringing the cemetery, heading for the open lawn where picnic blankets carpet the ground. Near the tombstones and mausoleums, people pose for pictures in their costumes. On the far end is a high, white wall, projected onto which is a pair of ruby-red lips.

“It’s . . .” I falter, not finding words.

“I know,” Paige says, smirking.

Grant’s car pulls in next to ours while I’m watching a row of particularly perfect Frank-N-Furters walk into the cemetery. From the way they’re handling their six-inch heels—way better than I ever could—I figure they’re probably professional drag queens. A car door opens beside me, and distantly I’m aware of Charlie, Grant, and Hannah climbing out, and then a fourth person—in a shiny gold Speedo.