“Did you know Alan has a girlfriend?”
“Dude, you have a girlfriend? No more Lane-whoever? From that show?”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” Alan says quickly. “Not yet, anyway. So at the moment I am still Lane Kim. Virginal and tragic.” He bangs his head lightly against the tabletop. “But I do like her. It’s Aimee Nam—you know her? She’s in our year.”
“I don’t think so. She’s Korean?”
“Yeah, but that’s not why I like her,” he says all defensive-like.
“Yeah, sure,” Mabel and I say at the exact same time. She fist-bumps me.
“No, really! Meg wasn’t Korean, and I was in love with her, wasn’t I?” Suddenly Alan’s eyes get huge and he clamps his mouth shut.
“Whoa, dude. Back up,” I say, holding up my hands. “When were you in love with Meg?”
“I already told you about this…” he says.
“You said you liked her in seventh grade and she turned you down.”
“Yeah.”
“So…?”
Alan exhales in a huff. His breath carries all the way across the table to me. It smells like wine. And pumpkin cheesecake. “So, okay, maybe it was more than ‘like.’ And maybe it was longer than seventh grade. But I don’t think she knew. And it didn’t last forever—by the time we hit sophomore year, I was completely over her. My self-preservation instincts kicked in.”
I glare at him. I’m allowed to be mad that he was in love with my dead girlfriend before I knew her, right?
“Well, she might not have known you were in love with her, but the rest of us sure as hell did,” Mabel says as she opens another bottle.
“Shut up, Mabel. You did not,” Alan says.
“Did so.”
“Did—”
“All right, all right,” I say. “Tell us about Aimee Nam.”
“Dude, she’s gorgeous. She looks like Yunjin Kim. She runs the yearbook staff. She wants me to join, but I watch Hope after school, so, you know, that wouldn’t work.”
I’m probably supposed to say, Oh, that’s cool, man. You don’t have to watch Hope anymore. Live long and prosper. But there’s no way. I need Alan to watch her after school. He’s the sole bridge connecting me and UCLA.
“But you like hanging out with Hope, right? Because she makes you feel close to Meg? Isn’t that what you said?” I know I’m a dick for playing that card. But right now, I don’t really care.
“Yeah.” He looks over at Hope, sleeping in her swing. “You’re not wrong about that.”
We drink the rest of the wine (four bottles total…we’re wrecked), and Alan and I eat the rest of the cake and decide that wasn’t enough, so we order a pizza.
My mom comes home Saturday morning to find us sprawled across the living room, surrounded by empty wine glasses and a half box of congealing pizza.
“Looks like you guys had a fun night,” she says. She doesn’t sound thrilled, but she doesn’t sound super mad either.
“Yeah. You too,” I mumble into the throw pillow I was sleeping on. Nothing like seeing your mom come home at eight in the morning on a Saturday in the same clothes she left the house in the night before. I have a sudden vision of me and Hope in a frighteningly similar situation seventeen years from now. Ugh.
Mom smiles. “Most fun I’ve had in years.”
“Glad to hear it. Love you.”
“Love you too, buddy.”
And I close my eyes again.
Chapter 21
Shoshanna was pissed on Friday when she found out she couldn’t cheer my name because I was on a one-game suspension. She was more pissed when Addison beat our pathetic asses by six goals. And she was even more pissed when I told her I wasn’t going to her postgame party. But by Monday morning, it’s like she’s forgotten about all that.
She meets me at my locker, smiling and upbeat, her cheek painted with a sparkly blue #1. She holds out a cookie tin.
“You know there’s no game today, right?” I stash my gym bag in my locker and pull out a couple of books.
“I know that, silly,” she says, bouncing on the balls of her feet, her ponytail swinging back and forth behind her. Even her eyelashes are glittery. “Today is the first day of a brand-new week, and as your cheerleader, it’s my job to make sure you’re pumped and ready to kick some Clinton Central ass come Friday.”
“Actually, that’s kinda my job,” I say.
“Every little bit helps, Ryden.” She hands me the cookie tin.
“What’s this?”
“Brownies. Happy Monday!” She rises to her tippy toes, gives me a quick kiss on the cheek, and goes to class.
What is it with girls giving me food lately? Am I emitting some sort of “feed me” signal on a frequency only women can hear?
In homeroom, I try one of the brownies. They’re pretty good. But not nearly as good as the stuff Joni’s given me. I never thought I’d say this, but I’d take Joni’s dad’s vegetarian empanada over one of Shoshanna’s brownies any day.
I pass the tin around homeroom, and by the time it gets back to me, it’s empty.