“Okay. You can have a little more time. But only if you stay together.”
“I’m the ride,” I remind her. “So he’s stuck with me.”
“Two hours from now at the latest. And that is firm.”
Mark’s jaw drops.
“Awesome. Thanks so much, Becca!”
“Okay, Kate. Come around the house soon so we can meet in person. Mark, have fun and be safe. I love you.”
We hang up, and Mark says, “Two hours from now? Are you my fairy godmother? Is this Jeep actually a pumpkin? I didn’t even know my mother was capable of establishing this kind of curfew. I wasn’t sure this hour was a time she knew existed. Like, maybe theoretically she knew, but I certainly didn’t think she would know from experience, like from actually looking at a clock and seeing that it was this late and she was still awake.”
“Don’t underestimate your mother.”
We both look out at the city. All of those lights, all of that darkness. I touch one of the rose’s petals. Violet is out there, somewhere.
“So,” Mark says. “I’m pretty sure you’re babysitting me.”
“Yeah. I wasn’t going to say anything about it, but that’s definitely the impression I got.”
“That’s kind of fucked up. Thanks, Mom. Thanks so much.”
“Well. Desperate measures, I guess.”
“So what now?” he asks, and right then his phone lights up.
“The photographer?”
He nods.
“He’s at a friend’s party in Russian Hill.” He turns to me and swallows, a grin spreading across his face. “He gave me the address.”
MONDAY
5
MARK
It takes a day for it to hit. I guess people are tired or something.
But when it hits, it hits.
By Monday morning, it feels like everyone in school has seen. Or at least the people who care about such things. Which includes Ryan.
The blog—the gossip one that everyone reads—calls me an It Boy. The life of the party.
This is open to interpretation. Some of the interpretations include:
I never realized how hot he is.
I heard he’s on drugs.
He must be dating that photographer.
He must be sleeping with that photographer. After all, they’re both gay.
You’d never guess that such a quiet guy parties so hard.
It’s too bad he isn’t straight—I’d date THAT in a second.
Even I can acknowledge that the photo’s amazing. I can say this objectively because I can’t really believe it’s me.
Everybody wants to know the details about what happened or what didn’t happen to It Boy and Rising Art Star.
I don’t know if Ryan finds the link on his own or if someone forwards it to him early Monday morning, knowing we’re friends. I do know, however, exactly when Ryan first sees it, because a few seconds later I get a text from him:
WTF? I think there are some things you have to tell me.
As if he’s told me anything about his weekend. As if I heard from him at all on Sunday.
I’ll see you at school, I text back.
But at school it’s not Ryan I’m looking for—it’s Katie. It’s so strange to think that she’s been here the whole time, walking the same linoleum halls, without me ever really knowing her. I wonder if she’s a member of the GSA, or if there are invisible pockets of lesbians who meet in empty classrooms throughout the school, under the radar of gay boys who are too caught up in their own drama to notice. I myself have never been to a GSA meeting, partly because it wasn’t something I could do with Ryan and partly because I usually had practice at the same time.
I guess Katie and I have formed our own rainbow alliance. It feels like she’s something I’ve always wanted but didn’t know I wanted until I got it: a partner in crime.
In all the craziness of Saturday night, I didn’t think to get her number and put it in my phone. I don’t even know where her locker is. But when Sara Smith comes up to me and says, “You two. Wow, you two,” I know she isn’t talking about me and Ryan. I ask her if she’s seen Katie, and she points vaguely over her left shoulder, which is enough to guide me.
Katie looks to be at the same level of surprise I am—something short of shocked but far past surreal.
“This is insane,” I tell her. “I mean, the plan was to get to Ryan and Violet. But now everyone else is a part of it. Sort of.”
“Have you heard from him?”
“Sort of. Have you heard from her?”
“No. Just Lehna. Who’s livid. She actually called me ungrateful.”
“Did she ask you what really happened?”
Katie shakes her head. We swore that we would only tell them what really happened if they thought to ask.
We’re betting on the fact that they won’t. And living on the hope that they will.
“May I make a confession?” I ask, even though I would never say such a thing if I didn’t already know the answer was yes.
“Please,” Katie says.
“I would just like to state for the record that I wish you could stay at my side all day, so we could go through this together. Whatever this ends up being.”
Katie looks at me with what I think is amusement.