I frown, and stare down at my hands, listening to the sound of the waves hitting the beach. “I think this was a mistake,” I say quietly. And Elliot is silent for a few moments.
Finally, Elliot shakes his head. He laughs a little then, but it’s cold. “I guess this was just an itch that needed scratching.”
I feel like I might actually throw up, right here and now, in the dirty Venice sand. An itch? We’ve know each other forever. Seen each other almost every day for the past sixteen years. And this was just an itch to him? “Well, it sounds like you’ve figured it out then.” I grit my teeth. “I guess you should just go.”
Elliot doesn’t just go, though. It’s three A.M. and the Boardwalk is sketchy enough in bright daylight. So to make matters painfully, awkwardly worse, he insists on seeing me home. Which means fifteen minutes of silent bike riding, neither of us even looking at each other.
As we approach my house, I wonder how we are going to end this evening. I think of all the things I want to say. I’m sorry if I sounded selfish. Or I should’ve explained sooner. Or if, maybe, when he asked me what the deal was with Will, I had just straight up said, “He’s nothing compared to you,” which I would’ve meant. Or maybe just, “Can we take that all back?” Back it all up to just before it all went so very wrong?
I stop my bike and get off, and turn to him, but Elliot’s already ridden right past to head home.
15
Sorry!
IT’S TEN A.M., and I’m supposed to be doing my history homework. My calendar tells me—in blue. But for once, I can’t bear to think about it. Instead, I am nestled among my fluffy covers, texting with Ava and protesting the rest of the day.
Ava: Navid ?. Smooch central.
AB: Good work.
Ava: Where did you go? Will seemed sad.
AB: Ugh, I was afraid of that.
Ava: Well, it’s Will, he didn’t really show it, but I could tell. So did you leave with Elliot?
My thumb hovers above the keyboard now.
Ava: Did you KISS ELLIOT?
AB: Well . . .
Ava: Omgomgomgomgomgomgomg
AB: But it didn’t go as planned.
Ava: What do you mean? It wasn’t good?
AB: Well, first it was really good. Like amazing. And then . . . it sort of fell apart. We got into a fight.
Ava: About what?
AB: Lucy. He didn’t believe me.
Ava: Well . . .
AB: I know, I know. But he basically accused me of LIKING someone writing my life.
Ava: Okay but nobody is perfect AB. It’s all crazy, no?
I lay my phone down on my chest and consider Ava’s words. Outside my windows, the palms stare judgmentally down at me. Maybe I’ve been focused on the wrong things. If I am real. If Will is real. When the truth is, whether we are all characters or not, it feels real. Perhaps that’s all that matters. I pick up my phone again.
AB: Okay, fair point. But he was such a JERK about it.
Ava: Well, of course he was. It’s Elliot. And I bet you were no peach either.
While I ponder this, another text from her comes through.
Ava: So, now what?
I stare at her words. Now what? And as if on answer, I hear Elliot’s laughter erupting from my kitchen, and my heart beats twice as fast.
I say good-bye to Ava and pull on some jeans and a cute sweatshirt, wash my face, apply a little bit of mascara, and try to flounce down the stairs as though I just woke up like this. My brother is facing me, stacking pancakes on three plates. That was sweet of him, I think.
But then he says, “Oh, AB, you’re here. I figured you’d already left for the library like usual.” And now the third place confuses me.
I know what I have to do next. I have to look Elliot in the eye. I know where he is, I can see his outline sitting on the countertop, his legs moving back and forth. Why is it so hard to face him?
Sometimes the body reacts in ways we can’t help, I hear Ava say, and try to prove her wrong.
I lift my head and glance to the right, just in time to see Elliot look away. He stares down at the floor, his brows knitted together.
“Hey, Annabelle,” he says dryly. And my stomach flips.
“Hello, Elliot,” I say back, my tone flat.
My brother looks up from the pancakes, from me to Elliot. “That’s weird,” he says.
“What?” Elliot and I both blurt out.
“You never call her by her first name.” Sam shrugs.
“So who is the third plate for? Who is stealing my pancakes?” I ask, still standing on the stairs.
Elliot clears his throat. “Whatever,” he says. “I don’t always call her that.” Then finally he casts a look my way, and my rib cage feels like it’s trying to squeeze shut.
“Who is the third plate for?” I ask again.
Suddenly, I hear the door to the bathroom open and a familiar voice humming a tune, getting closer to the kitchen, and my limbs start to feel cold.
“Ugh, I am obsessed with that song,” the voice says as it gets closer. “You know that one from that band we saw?” she says as she walks into the room, pulling her long, silky hair and throwing it over one shoulder.
Elliot is silent, looking at the floor.
“Come on, guys, you know it,” she says to Elliot and my brother. “It’s all hey, girl, something something, can’t forget about you.” Then she stops, and finally notices me.
“Oh, hey, Annabelle,” Clara says.
“Hi, Clara,” I say back. And I feel like I can’t breathe.
One important detail I managed to leave out about Clara, because I don’t like to think about her for prolonged periods of time, is that she only speaks in nonspecifics. Like she is too carefree to be bothered. Like she can’t listen long enough to learn the name of a street or a band or you know . . . her own bandmate’s sister. It took her, I’m not kidding, about ten times of meeting me before she finally got it right, and only because Elliot got mad at her about it.
With Clara, it’s always That Thing with the Stuff, That Place with the Food, You Know, You Know, You Know?
Part II, article 16 of The Elements of Style reads:
If those who have studied the art of writing are in accord on any one point, it is on this: the surest way to arouse and hold the reader’s attention is by being specific, definite, and concrete. The greatest writers—Homer, Dante, Shakespeare—are effective largely because they deal in particulars and report the details that matter.
As I listen to Clara babble on, flipping my own stupid pancakes, I am seriously considering loaning her this book. Or, like, kidnapping her and taping her eyelids open in order to force her to read it. Although, I’m not sure how well she can read.
“It reminds me of, you know, that time we saw that band, when we went to that place? By the beach?” She is sitting next to Elliot at the counter, nestled up against him, trying to run her fingers through his hair. He’s tense, I can tell, but what I really can’t tell is why. Is it her? Or is it because I am watching?
“What are you talking about, Clare Bear?” my brother asks. He’s not annoyed, but he’s not overly friendly, either.