Twelve Steps to Normal(73)

“Your mom knows how to adapt to change,” I say. “She’ll be okay.”

He glances up at me. “What about you?”

“What about me?” I repeat.

“I still remember our conversation from that day in the parking lot. You were miserable when you came from practice.”

I stare down at my hands. Caught.

“I think… a part of me doesn’t want to be on the Wavettes,” I admit. “The part of me that stays only wants to in order to be close to Whitney and Raegan.”

“So why don’t you quit? It’s not like you’ll lose their friendship.”

It’s true. It’s scary how true it is, and yet I continue to be the biggest hypocrite. Because this not how my twelve-steps list is supposed to go. I’m supposed to want to be on the Wavettes with my best friends, to earn back their friendship. I’m supposed to want to reconnect with Jay, but I’m falling for someone completely different.

“I guess being part of the team makes me feel like I’m part of their lives again, like I was back in freshman year. Even if it doesn’t feel the same.”

“But… you’re sticking it out until it does feel the same?”

I shrug, not quite committing to a yes or a no.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he says. “But why try so hard? To get back to a point in time that maybe wasn’t so great for you?”

My phone chimes with a text. Dad. Almost done with tutoring?

Ever since my outburst with Peach, he’s been keeping a closer eye on me. I’ve caused the walls to go back up between us, but I know the only way to break them down is to apologize to both him and Peach. I still haven’t, and I know that hurts him more than he’d ever admit.

I’m thankful to use my dad as an excuse to exit this conversation. “I should get home.”

His features sink with disappointment. “Yeah, okay. It’s getting late anyway.”

He climbs out of Audrey II, then extends a hand to help me.

I’m reaching down to get my book bag when he says, “Listen… I, uh. It’s just that, if you ever need another Slurpee night, I’m available. You can text me anytime.”

I know his words are coming from a good place, but they fill me with unexpected guilt. Here I am again, avoiding his hard questions by looking for an escape when he’s simply trying to be there for me. And after we just kissed. I hope he doesn’t take it as a rejection, because it’s not.

It’s definitely not.

He’s asking the questions I should have been asking myself all along. “Thank you,” I say, and I hope that he knows I mean it.

He smiles, but his face doesn’t light up like it did before.

With one last glance, I do the only thing that comes easy. I leave.





TWENTY EIGHT


THE NEXT TWO DAYS OF Wavettes practice are exceptionally awful. Coach Velasquez plays a recording of our homecoming performance from her phone, ripping our form to pieces. Because we were off our A-game, we run through our main sequence dozens of times and stay thirty minutes later than we usually do for a longer cool-down.

By Thursday evening, I’m so sore and exhausted that I fall asleep on the living room couch. When I wake up, it’s somehow already nine o’clock. I sit straight up, already in a full-blown panic. I have a ton of homework due tomorrow that I haven’t even started.

My sudden motion startles Saylor, who’s sitting on the love seat across the room watching Animal Planet with Nonnie.

“Shit,” I say. “Shit, shit, shit.”

Nonnie rubs her cat slippers together. “That’s quite the amount of expletives.”

I rub my eyes. They’re raw and itchy—no doubt my mascara is smeared everywhere. My skin feels dry from falling asleep with makeup on. I’m going to regret it when I break out later this week.

“I have an English paper due tomorrow.” I dig through my schoolbag that I’d left by my feet. “I haven’t even started. I’ll be up all night.”

Saylor eyes the textbooks I’m piling on the coffee table. “I can help.”

“Thanks, but—”

“Seriously, I don’t mind. I’m not working tonight.” He motions upstairs. “Go get your laptop.”

My brain is too scrambled to come up with any better ideas, so I go and grab my computer. When I bring it back down, he takes it from me and opens a blank Word document.

“What are you—?”

“Get your book and tell me your thesis,” he says. “You think, I’ll type.”

My stress level begins to dissolve. It takes me a moment to remember the prompt for my essay. “I have to write if I think John Proctor is a hero or an anti-hero. From The Crucible.”

“Ah, I know that one,” Nonnie interrupts. “Shakespeare?”

Saylor and I exchange a horrified look.

She stands up, patting me on the arm. “You know, maybe I’ll grab us some snacks.”

As she disappears into the kitchen, her teal curlers bobbing as she walks, Saylor turns to me. “I’ve read it,” he assures me. “What’s your stance?”

I talk, trying to remember what I’d thought when I finished the play. John Proctor isn’t a hero. Not really. He chose to die rather than continue living a lie, because his reputation and name would be tarnished going forward.