“No more need for runnin’,” I sing dramatically into the remote and drop to my knees.
“Takin’ it to the streets,” Luke half sings, half laughs.
“Oh, oh-oh, nah, nah,” I sing from the ground, my eyes closed. When I look back up, Luke is lying down on the deep leather sofa, laughing and clutching his stomach. I love it when he laughs like that. So hard no sound comes out of his mouth and he fights to breathe.
I giggle and take a running jump for the other end of the couch, landing with an ungraceful thud. It’s after midnight on Friday night and we’re on Mountain Dew number four and record number six. Claire is sleeping at her grandma’s house and Colonel and Mrs. Weixel are out of town. So we can be as loud as we want.
“Oh my God,” Luke says, still laughing but trying to catch his breath. He sits up and leans against the arm of the couch. “I love it when you’re silly, Mac.”
I shrug and throw my dark hair over my shoulder. “I guess you bring out my silly side.” Luke smiles and I can tell he likes that.
“Are we the only two seniors in the world sitting around on a Friday night listening to the Doobie Brothers?” he asks.
“Probably. But proud of it.”
Luke and I have the same eclectic music taste. Singers and standards. Top 40 Pop. Jazz. We like it all. But we have a special place in our hearts for the bands of the seventies. Chicago. Doobie Brothers. Steely Dan. We’ve totally confiscated all of Luke’s parents’ old records. Playing air guitar to the Doobie Brothers’ “China Grove” or acting out the scenes from Chicago’s “Saturday in the Park” like two total goofballs (Luke does a fabulous man selling ice cream) has become our weekend favorite. I live for these silly moments. When I’m not the chosen Black Angel child. When I’m just Reagan. Or as close to whoever Reagan really is.
Luke shakes his empty pop can on the coffee table and stands up. “Want another one?”
“No thanks,” I answer and nuzzle my warm face up to the cool leather of the couch. “I think I better quit it on the Mountain Dews if I want to fall asleep tonight.”
Luke comes back from the wet bar in the corner of the room and hands me a bottle of water.
“Here you go,” he says and flops back down. I love this couch. It’s so deep, two people could sleep side by side without a problem. I remember when the Weixels bought it last year; the delivery guys spent a good hour trying to figure out some way to get it through the back door, up the back staircase, and into the bonus room. Once it was finally in place, Luke and I volunteered to break it in and spent the entire night listening to music and watching movies. The leather was pristine then; now it’s soft and worn. I run my fingers along the dark creases and wonder which lines were made by us during our many Friday and Saturday nights.
“So when do you find out about West Point?” I ask and open up the bottle of water.
“I find out if I get the Congressional nomination soon. I’m getting kind of nervous,” Luke says and reaches for one of the remotes. He points it at the receiver and turns down Michael McDonald’s voice so we don’t have to yell.
“How will you find out?”
“A letter in the mail will let me know if I got the nomination,” Luke replies and scrunches his face.
“What?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Just funny to think that a single piece of paper will decide my entire future.”
“You’ll get the nomination,” I reassure him, reaching out to touch the top of his smooth hand. I hold my fingers there an extra beat and feel that familiar rush. I lean forward and put my bottle of water on the coffee table, breaking our connection.
“I hope you’re right,” Luke says, pressing his full lips together. His lips are such a pretty shade of watermelon pink, they almost don’t look real. They’re the lips you’d expect to see in the pages of GQ or on a movie star, not on an eighteen-year-old army brat.
“They’d be fools not to take you. You were accepted into the Summer Leaders Experience this summer, which makes you a shoo-in,” I say, counting his accomplishments on my fingertips. “You’re the leader of your JROTC class, you’re on your way to being valedictorian—”
“Alongside you,” Luke interrupts me and I wave him off to continue counting.