“Upshot? Not talking. Still married,” Theo says, and pours me my own glass without my asking. I take a sip, breathe through my nose, like Scarlett taught me. It’s not half bad.
“Where are they?” I ask.
“Who knows? Couples therapy? A work dinner? My mom never used to go out this much.”
“My dad either.”
“They’re both idiots.”
“Stop it.”
“They are. They thought they could just insert replacement here and forget that someone they loved actually died. Even I’m more emotionally mature than that.”
I drink my wine. Theo’s not wrong.
“Now what happens?” I ask. Two sips and my arms start to tingle, that feeling that tells me the alcohol is winding its way into my system.
“No idea. I just didn’t need all this shit, you know? Like junior year isn’t stressful enough?”
“What are you worried about? You’re acing all of your classes, you have PSAT tutors—did you hear the plural there, ‘tutors’?—and I’m sure your mom has a friend of a friend on every admissions board. Your life is cake.”
“You’re describing pretty much every single kid at school. How many people do you think Harvard accepts from Wood Valley? Five.”
“Harvard? Seriously?”
“What?”
“Nothing. It’s just that I never even considered getting into Harvard. I don’t think anyone from my old school has ever gotten in there, even our valedictorians.” I don’t mention that in Chicago I was on track to graduate first or second in my class, and now my rank has dropped just by transferring. Apparently, FDR’s classes aren’t weighted as heavily. One more way I’ve been screwed by this move.
“Well, thank you for that little life lesson,” Theo says, and for a moment he looks angry—like he’s-going-to-have-another-temper-tantrum angry—but then it passes and he just sighs.
“I just mean, Harvard isn’t the be-all and end-all,” I say, as if I know these sorts of things. “You’re going to get into a great school no matter what.”
I like wine, I decide. It makes me feel slippery, soft, allowing words to just leak out. It makes it less hard being me.
“My dad went to Harvard.” He plays the dead dad card, as if that will get any sympathy from over here. Instead, I laugh. I can’t help it. It’s funny.
“What? Why are you laughing?”
“Because your dad went to Harvard,” I say.
“Why is that so funny?”
“You’re a freaking legacy!”
Theo looks at me, starts laughing too. “You’re right. And his dad went to Harvard too. My life is pretty much cake. You know, other than being gay and losing my dad. But the rest, fine. You win.”
“Here’s an idea: You really need to start a YouTube channel where you can whine to the camera. Boo-hoo, I’m gay. Boo-hoo, my dad died,” I joke. Theo smiles.
“Already have one. I’ll send you the link.” Theo clinks his glass with mine. “You know, you can sit in on my PSAT tutoring sessions.”
“Really?” I ask.
“Don’t get too excited. Mondays only. Not Thursday. Thursday is when the magic happens.”
CHAPTER 18
Me: Three things: (1) Not to gross you out, but I have super-long toes. They’re kind of creepy. (2) I write very bad poetry when I’m feeling sorry for myself. (3) I hate cartoons, even the ones on Adult Swim.
SN: (1) my favorite day of the week is Wednesday. I admire its in-betweenness. (2) I’d bet you a hundred bucks that your toes are actually cute. (3) I went through a phase in 9th where I painted my fingernails black. yeah: I thought I was SO COOL.
Me: You going to the party tonight?
SN: don’t.
Me: Don’t what?
SN: don’t try to figure out who I am. please. just don’t.
Me: I don’t get it.
SN: just trust me, okay?
? ? ?
Me: HAVE FUN TONIGHT AT HOMECOMING! You look amazing.
Scarlett: Thank you. One of my finer selfies, if I do say so myself.
Me: Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Actually, I take that back. HAVE FUN.
Scarlett: Oh, I intend to….
Scarlett: Did you note the ellipsis there? Because that was intentional.
Me: I noted the ellipsis.
Scarlett: Good. Just making sure.
—
Agnes applies my makeup with at least fifteen different brushes. When she’s done, she sweeps my hair behind my shoulders and makes me face the mirror.
“Voilà!” she says, like we’ve just finished a makeover scene on a morning show. I look up and smile at the face blinking back.
“Wow,” Dri says, and claps in excitement. “You look a-maz-ing.”
“Thanks, dah-ling,” I say. We gather for a group selfie, since we are all looking pretty damn good, and once we each approve the picture, after only three tries, Agnes Instagrams it and tags us.
Dri has agreed to be our designated driver, since drinking aggravates her IBS. I’m learning that Dri has a lot of what she calls nerd ailments: IBS, asthma, carpal tunnel syndrome, myopia. We all pile into her mom’s car and turn up the radio. I feel like a normal teenage girl headed to a normal party on a normal Saturday night. I might have, for at least a little while, taken off my top-secret grief backpack and left it behind.