“Oh, sweet,” Cal calls out. “That garage has space. I’m gonna park here.” I can’t tell if he’s ignoring the tension in the car, or if he’s too focused a driver to have picked up on it. I turn to face front, and Mateo and I sit in silence as Cal grabs a ticket at the entrance and makes his way through four levels of the parking garage, finally finding a spot in the open-air top floor. “We can leave our stuff in the trunk if you want,” he says as he cuts the engine and pulls the emergency brake.
I feel nauseated for real now, like I should legitimately be lying in my darkened bedroom taking a sick day. I almost ask Cal if he’d be willing to turn around and take me home, but one look at his hopeful face as he pulls his keys from the ignition squashes that. I’m here, so I might as well grab some coffee before convincing him to cut the day short. “Yeah, okay,” I say, pulling a small cross-body bag from my backpack. I slip my wallet, my phone, and my sunglasses inside, then loop it over my shoulder and open the car door.
Awkward silence descends yet again as the three of us throw our backpacks into the trunk and leave the parking garage. Part of the magic of the Greatest Day Ever was that we stumbled into a giant celebration for the Red Sox. It occurs to me now that if we’d had to supply our own entertainment that day, we probably would have turned around and gone back inside.
And we never would’ve become friends at all.
“So…should we get coffee?” I ask. “Is there a Starbucks nearby?”
“I don’t know, but…” Cal glances around. “There’s a place not far from here that I go to with a friend sometimes. It’s a little more off the beaten path, if you don’t mind a walk.”
“Sure.” I follow him down the sidewalk while simultaneously pulling out my phone. I quickly scroll through a pile of new text messages as I walk, breathing a sigh of relief that none of them are from my parents or school. I still need to sign up for alerts about my parents’ flight, so I do that and see that it’s scheduled to board at eight a.m. Pacific time, which is a little more than an hour from now.
I say a quick, silent prayer that my parents never find out that I skipped, so that nothing takes away from Mom’s big night. I should’ve thought about that before I agreed to call in sick, but it’s not too late. I’ll grab a coffee, ask Cal to drop me back off at school, and tell the nurse that I was nauseated but feel better now.
And then, magically, I do feel better. Having a plan always helps. I take a deep breath and turn back to my messages.
Emily: Hellooooooo, anyone there?
Emily: Bueller? Bueller?
I smile as we pause at a crosswalk. Emily’s been on an ’80s movie kick lately.
Daniel: Emily keeps asking me where you are.
Daniel: Did you skip or something?
Daniel: M&D are gonna flip.
I stiffen and almost text back, You’d better not say anything, but stop myself just in time. Because then of course he would. I’ll be back at school before lunch, and that will shut him up. I hope.
I’m about to put my phone away to join Cal and Mateo’s conversation when another text flashes across my screen.
Emily: Boney’s not here, either.
Emily: ARE YOU TOGETHER.
Emily: Kidding. I know you’re not.
Emily: Right?
I frown at my screen. Emily must be wrong about Boney. He’s giving his acceptance speech soon, so obviously he’s around there somewhere. I start to text her back, but before I can, someone pulls at my elbow. “Ivy,” Cal says.
“What?” I look up, realizing I have no idea where we are. The buildings around us are a lot more industrial-looking than they were a few minutes ago.
“There’s kind of a massive line,” Cal says, gesturing to a café across the street from us. He’s right; the line is snaking out the door and down the sidewalk. “Do you want to go someplace else first?”
I want to go home, I think, but for some reason the words won’t come. “Like where?” I ask, at the same time Mateo says, “Penguins.”
We both turn to look at him, and he points to our left. “Aquarium’s that way. Seemed like you really wanted to see some, Cal.”
“Oh yeah, right,” Cal says, but something in his expression flattens. “We don’t have to go right away or anything, though.” The light changes and we start automatically across the street, Cal leading the way to who knows where. “I just wanted to—I’m having this kind of miniature personal crisis, I guess. It’s not really about penguins.”
“Didn’t think so,” I say, just as Mateo deadpans, “It never is.” I snicker, but Cal doesn’t join in, so I get myself under control. “Then what is it about?” I ask.
He tugs at the hem of his shirt. It’s a blue button-down with subtle green polka dots—not nearly as flashy as the bright patterns he used to wear in middle school, but still more interesting than standard Carlton High guy attire. Cal has a colorful fashion sense that he inherited from precisely neither of his dads. Wes and Henry are both crewneck sweater–and–khaki guys who never met a neutral palette they didn’t like. “Relationship stuff,” he says. “You know how it is. Or maybe not. You guys seeing anyone?”