Con: Kyle doesn’t like me that way, which sucks enough already, but the more I get to know him, to actually see him, the worse that’s going to feel. Doing this would be like starting with a paper cut and trying to bandage it with a machete.
If I’d learned anything from the past week, it was that other people could be cruel—needlessly cruel—for no reason at all. They’d probably already forgotten what they said to me. Even Jessie seemed to be over it by now; all the internet trolls wouldn’t know me if they tripped on me. But it would almost certainly start up again—and be way worse—if they did know who I was. I couldn’t go through that again.
So it had to be no. Everyone might hate me for a while, but how was that any different from my life right now? Mo would come around eventually, hopefully around the same time I was ready to be on speaking terms again. And Kyle . . . well, Kyle never really liked me in the first place.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my phone light up, the harsh metallic glow of its screen reflecting off the folds of my comforter.
(From Kyle): Hey, what r u doing tonight?
I wasn’t ready to hear from him yet. Knowing I was going to single-handedly end his star turn was way easier when he was an abstract concept instead of a real contact.
Could I text that the whole thing was off?
No, he’d never speak to me again. Plus, it just felt cowardly. Like breaking up over social media or something.
(To Kyle): No plans yet. I know, hard to believe of a social butterfly like me.
(From Kyle): Come to Beau Anderson’s party it’s gonna be huge.
Beau Anderson? The senior football player? I had never in my life gone to a party like the ones he threw, with multiple kegs and random hookups happening in any room with a door that closed and kids vomiting into bushes or toilets or tubs “then rallying!” They sounded more like something out of a movie than Apple Prairie. Frankly, I’d never wanted to go.
(To Kyle): Maybe. I doubt I’ll know anyone there.
(From Kyle): You’ll know me. And Monique.
Wait, what?
I typed Mo a text.
(To MO-MO): Beau Anderson’s? Really?
(From MO-MO): Don’t automatically say no. It could be fun. Besides, if you and Kyle are going to homecoming you should hang out. Which is easier and more likely to lead to sloppy makeouts if you’re drunk.
(To MO-MO): Nothing in your text is ever gonna happen.
(From MO-MO): Stop being a drama queen and let’s do something fun for once.
Great, now Mo was doubling down on being evil.
(From Kyle): Say yes? Promise I’ll shower so I don’t smell like fries AGAIN
If I didn’t go they—well, mostly Mo—would berate me all night. And every new text from Kyle would just make it harder to tell him what I had to.
Besides, if I wasn’t going to take the coward’s way out and text him the bad news, how was I going to tell him? The longer I waited, the harder it would be. I needed to do it before Mary sent today’s footage to wherever footage goes before it embarrasses you in front of a national audience.
(To Kyle): Fine, you’ve convinced me. Make sure to use chzburger aftershave though otherwise I won’t know for sure who you are.
(From Kyle): Obvs.
I’d go to the party and tell him there.
After that, I probably wouldn’t have to worry about hearing from him much anymore.
chapter twenty-six
KYLE
FRIDAY, 7:42 P.M.
I could have offered to pick Rachel up to go to the party, but after the conversation with Emma—the half a conversation she let me have—it seemed like a bad idea, at least if I ever wanted Emma to speak to me again. Rachel being there was enough. Getting to know each other better didn’t have to mean being besties right away.
But I wasn’t gonna show up alone. Everyone else might not care about it, but I hadn’t forgotten that Lamont and his crew were not my fans. Being on TV today: probably not helping that any.
I threw myself onto one of the worn-out denim beanbags in the Xbox corner of my room and scrolled to Ollie’s number. He was always hit-or-miss with texts. If you didn’t catch him at the right moment, he wouldn’t respond. Which was fine usually, but I needed a wingman now, not tomorrow.
He picked up on the first ring.
“Hey, Kyle,” he said. I could hear a sports announcer shouting in the background. Ollie always had ESPN on. Sometimes he even watched ESPN Classic. “How’s L.A.?”
“Actually I’m back already.”
“Really? That was fast.” The background noise got softer. “I saw the show. I thought they were going to have you back. Are you flying out again?”
“No, they did the follow-up here. That’s why we came back so fast.”
“Yeah?”
“They staged a homecoming invite.”
Ollie didn’t say anything for a second.
“Who’d they have you ask?”
He sounded suspicious. I should have known Ollie would cut right to the awkward part. Ollie: always able to smell when you weren’t telling him everything. It was part of why I liked him. Who wanted friends who never called you on your BS? You’d wind up . . . being Dave. Oof.
“Rachel.”
Ollie exhaled thoughtfully.