That afternoon, Gael approached his house at his usual early, marching-band-free time.
What Gael had said at today’s quasi-intervention was true. Mr. Potter wasn’t going to let him back in until the following semester. Plus, he wasn’t sure he wanted to go back. At least, not yet, anyway.
When he got inside, he saw Sammy sitting at the dining room table, arms crossed, eyebrows knit. She was surrounded by scraps of tulle and satin from the elaborate Marie Antoinette costume his mom was making for Piper for Halloween, and she was tracing circles with her finger in the ivory tablecloth.
“Do you know where Piper is?” Sammy asked. “She should have been here fifteen minutes ago. I’m getting worried.”
It took Gael a minute to put it together. “Oh shit,” Gael said. “I think she has a field trip.” He remembered Piper saying something about the UNC planetarium over breakfast. It was the first time she’d sounded more like her usual self, like she wasn’t mad at him anymore. “My mom didn’t call you?”
Sammy glanced at her phone. “Nope, no missed calls. Looks like she forgot to tell me.”
Gael shrugged. It would have been nuts for his mom to miss a detail like that months ago, but now? Not so much. “Sorry you had to come for nothing.”
Sammy sighed. “It’s fine.” She grabbed her bag and slung it over her shoulder, standing up. “I’ll see you tomorrow, I guess.”
As she headed for the door, Gael followed her. “Wait,” he said.
Sammy turned back, exasperated. “Yeah?” she asked.
Gael wanted to ask her why she’d walked away so abruptly yesterday. He wanted to ask her if everything was all right. But suddenly it seemed ridiculous—pushy. “You want to hang out or something?” he asked. “Since you’re already here?”
Sammy shrugged, then adjusted her glasses. “What do you want to do?”
His eyes searched the room for some kind of idea and landed on his mom’s Entertainment Weekly. “Uhh, we could go to a movie? I’m not sure what’s out, the new Wes Anderson doesn’t open until Friday, not that you would want to see that, but we could walk down to the Varsity and see what’s playing.”
Just then, the Entertainment Weekly fluttered off the dining room table, landing at Sammy’s feet. Gael glanced at the open window. Weird, he thought. He could have sworn that was closed a minute ago.
(I mean, I have no earthly idea how that window got open, either. *winks*)
Sammy picked it up. “I totally forgot that Goodbye Yesterday was out. That’s playing at the Varsity.”
Gael raised an eyebrow, stepping closer to see the spread. A generically good-looking girl looked up at a tall, lanky guy. “A romantic comedy,” he laughed. “Of course.”
Sammy rolled her eyes. “Well, the only other option at the Varsity is likely some depressing foreign film. They’re always playing that kind of thing.”
Gael burst into laughter. “Are you serious?”
Sammy crossed her arms and leaned back against the front door. “Watching foreign movies that aren’t assigned for class feels like work. Plus, Goodbye Yesterday is by a seriously funny woman with an awesome YouTube series. It’s not going to be as cheesy as you think. And even if it is, one cheesy movie won’t kill you.”
She pulled out her phone and tapped a few times. “It’s playing in half an hour. If we leave now, we’ll just make it.”
“All right, all right,” Gael said, throwing his hands into the air. “But I reserve the right to ceaselessly criticize it afterward.”
Sammy smirked. “Maybe you won’t even want to.”
“Maybe.” Gael grabbed some money from his mom’s emergency canister on the kitchen counter (he thought it only seemed right since she’d forgotten to cancel on Sammy), shrugged into his jacket, and followed Sammy out the door.
There was a chill in the air as they headed down Henderson Street toward Franklin. Sammy wrapped an intricately patterned scarf around her neck and shoved her hands deep in her pockets.
“So are you telling me you mostly watch rom-coms?” Gael asked.
Sammy shrugged. “I do watch a lot of them, but I mostly watch horror, to be totally honest.”
“Really?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she said. “You got a problem with that, too?”
Gael shook his head. “It just seems so unlike you.”
They cut over to Rosemary Street as a car blasting Sublime flew past them.
“Look, I watch all the serious movies, too. But if you’re going to be a genre snob, you’re going to miss out on a lot of good stuff. What’s your deal against romantic comedies, anyway?” she asked.
“My deal,” Gael said, as stunning Southern homes and the occasional frat house rose up around them, “is that they’re really formulaic, and the writing is always bad, and they’re so . . . predictable.”