“We gotta do better than this, Tabs,” he says. He looks sheepish. He hasn’t shaved still, and he shrugs and gives me big puppy-dog eyes.
“I know. Now that the baby’s coming and stuff,” I say. I crunch through the toast and crumbs fly everywhere. Paul doesn’t make me sit down or use a plate or use margarine instead of butter or anything.
“Nope. We gotta do better than this because I am still going for Family of the Year, and we’re not going to pull it off if we’re yelling at each other in public.”
I can’t help laughing. Paul has long joked about our ability to win Family of the Year. Over the years it’s become a thing we reference as totally real, like the Olympics. Like any day now they’re going to show up with a trophy.
“Germany could pull ahead of us?” I say.
“I think the real competition is going to be from Australia this year. They’re contenders,” Paul says. He goes to put more toast in the toaster for me, but I shake my head and pour some of the coffee from his full mug into my empty one.
“We can’t let the Australians win!” I say, and give him a little half hug before heading out the door.
Eleven hours to complete my Assignment.
By the middle of the day, I have a perma-mustache of stress sweat happening above my lip. I don’t want to do drugs with my dad. But I also don’t want to get high, period. I don’t like the way Paul’s eyes change when he smokes. I want my eyes to stay the same.
I want us to win Family of the Year and crush the Australians, and I’m scared.
But things are going to change either way. That’s what I remind myself when I almost want to give up. Everything is changing whether I like it or not. I might as well take charge of the changes.
I have so much trouble focusing while making lattes that I check my phone behind the counter, even though Cate hates it.
Midmorning, Joe comes in with Sasha, but he stays by the door, actively avoiding me, and she is too busy texting and making moony eyes at him to chat with me. Joe’s almost too much to take right now anyway. He’s in a collared white shirt and a thick blue sweater and it’s so handsome and unlikely on him, I have to wonder if maybe it’s for me.
I focus on my countdown, the way the hours have moved all the way down to single digits. Five hours to go. I also want to see Star accept her Assignment. I want to know she’s bought a ring. Or whatever it is girls do when they’re proposing to boys.
I can’t help it—I look at Joe again on his way out the door. He takes Sasha’s hand and an essential part of my heart cracks. I can’t imagine keeping up with the charade that I am interested in someone else.
AGNES: Star, couldn’t you go to City Hall or Vegas or one of those places people go? White sundress. Silver flip-flops. Candy ring. One of those beautiful poems that Bitty recommended, spoken in a hush in front of some judge or Elvis impersonator. Hours in bed afterward. What are you waiting for, Star? You’re the one who made us believe in love to begin with.
I scroll through responses under my desk, loving the romantic way Agnes writes and the way she pushes us all. I try to keep my head facing the line of customers. It’s quite an impressive feat.
ZED: Four hours, Bitty.
He doesn’t waste any time reminding me, at the end of the day, that even when I’m on a break, I have a lot of work ahead of me.
When I sit down, Cate brings me chamomile tea. She says I look sick and I have been staying up too late and we’re all going to get healthy and responsible together. Paul is cleaning tables nearby, so he overhears and sighs.
I sigh too. Because I hate chamomile tea.
I want it to be the moment after I complete the Assignment. I want the glowing skin and wink in my eyes, the glamorous red high heels and the pride in who I am, and to report back on the ways my life is changing. I want the same rush of feeling in my gut and all the way down through my legs as when I took that half step forward and kissed Joe in the gym. I want that flicker of power that came from being the one who leaned toward him instead of being the one who was leaned on.
Elise breezes in moments later.
Our date to hang out at the bookstore and eat scones and catch up. Shit.
It’s one of the few times she’s been more dressed up than me. Worn-in jeans hang off her hips, but she’s got orange cashmere on top, and a vat of gel worked into her hair. I wore leggings and a gray sweatshirt for my big day.
“Let’s go,” Elise says.
“I’m sort of not in the mood,” I say. There’s a wrinkle of annoyance between her eyebrows. I try to avoid looking at it, because I don’t really have a choice about this right now. I need to get my Assignment over with.
“Come on. You promised the bookstore. I’m bored. And you’re wearing your cranky outfit. So let’s fix all the things.”