Afterparty(78)

I say, “What?”

Dylan says, “I was going to tell you. But I wasn’t sure if it was going to be a parade or a funeral.”

At the pit of my stomach, something curdles. I put down my shake.

“What?”

“Do you want to walk?”

I have the feeling that, basically, he doesn’t want to tell me whatever this is in the caf and then be treated to me throwing food at him.

The quad is almost empty by now as we walk around its perimeter. “Just tell me.”

He says, “I got into Georgetown.”

I am just above us, in the trees, watching us. I am watching him evaporate into thin air as I reach out my arms and find them flapping in an unpopulated space.

“But you’re a junior. You can’t get into Georgetown.”

“I have enough units,” he says. “A junior from Loyola got in last year. Palmer just has to get Latimer to fork over a diploma. But they will, just to get rid of me.”

I am watching myself be a good friend and a decent person, and not having the clingfest that I feel like having.

I say, “That’s great! Congratulations.”

I am trying to be completely happy for him. Because it’s a big deal and it’s wonderful and he wants out so much—such as every few sentences, ever since I met him. I’m thinking about how the only things he’ll miss in L.A. are me and Arif and Lulu. How staying would mean one more year in a guesthouse he hates, at a school he hates, with parents who only make cameo appearances to tell him that he’s surly.

I say, “You have to go. Dylan! It’s amazing.”

He says, “You don’t look happy.”

“I didn’t realize that we had an expiration date that soon. That’s all.”

He says, “So. Here’s the thing. I don’t do sap. But where else am I going to find somebody that enthused over a half-eaten chocolate bird?”

“Excuse me?”

“We could still be together,” he says.

We are sitting on the bench on the far side of the library, my back against his chest, my head lolled back against his shoulder.

And I want to believe this, I do, but even in my smitten state, it’s not all that believable. “How would that even work?”

He says, “I can fly back all the time.”

“Don’t promise me things that you’re going to regret. Don’t. You’re not going to want to. You’ll be in college.”

He says, “I’ll want to.”

We walk to the parking lot, holding hands.

He says, “So. This is going to be good, right?”

I’m pretty sure that if I got into Georgetown, I’d get home and my dad would have frosted cupcakes in the school colors, and there’d be streamers in the living room. And I realize, he is going home to that cool, completely solitary guesthouse, clean laundry and fruit left by the housekeeper—not to people jumping up and down and going, Yay! Boy genius! Hug, hug, hug.

I say, “We’re going to celebrate. This weekend. We’re going to completely whoop it up.”

He says, “You don’t look like you want to celebrate, Seed. You look miserable.”

“I’m going to miss you, what do you think? But this is Georgetown, it’s not like I don’t know how much you want it. You want to picnic Saturday? Or I could take you to brunch? Or I could drive you up the coast. We could play miniature golf at that dorky place in Ventura.”

“Brunch?” He looks aghast. Then he says, “Yeah, that would be nice.”

He stands over me as I get into my car. It doesn’t hit me how much I’m shaking until he walks away.





CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR


I SPEND THE EVENING IN avid celebration mode, as opposed to wallowing in the fact of Dylan’s somewhat imminent departure. I find the Georgetown colors (blue and gray) for purposes of cake decoration. I do not make a playlist of women wailing blues songs to accompany this activity. I order a Hoyas sweatshirt for him online. I consider putting on his white shirt that I haven’t returned yet, but don’t, due to the pathetic-ness factor. I make a congratulatory card in which a kinetic Airedale resembling Lulu tap-dances.

I don’t much feel like tap-dancing.

My dad sticks his head in and says, “Are you crying in there?”

It’s hard to deny, when there are tears dripping down your face, and you’re not dicing raw onions or watching Bambi.

He says, “Should I be worried?”

“Nope. It’s just stupid. I’m trying to do a ton of work instead.”

My dad says that this sounds quite mature, but walks away looking confused.

Mature or not, I am determined to jump around and say “Yay” all over Latimer in the morning, in a masterful display of my unclinginess.

But Dylan isn’t there. Not that that’s entirely unheard of, but usually he makes an appearance in homeroom, or he shows up in the music room. Or somewhere.

Me: Where are you?

Dylan: Taking the day off. Taking Lulu up to Tree People Park.

Dylan: Want to come?

Me: Some of us have to go to class from time to time.

Me: Some of us still have to worry about our GPA.

Dylan: And some of us don’t!

Me: Go be smug with your dog Kahane.