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  “That’s because there’s real history there,” Ava says.

  “But that doesn’t mean it’s love,” I say.

  “And it doesn’t have to be!” Ava cries, throwing her hands in the air. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. You have no idea where either of these relationships is headed. Do you remember Jake Schwartz?”

  I lie back, covering my eyes with one hand. “How could I forget? He’s the only guy who has ever dumped you, by my recollection.”

  “And I will forever loathe him for messing up my perfect record,” Ava mutters. “But do you remember when I first met him at summer camp? He seemed perfect! It was a romance for the ages. And then I went to visit him in Cincinnati. Do you remember what happened? Do you remember the lizards?” She is leaning over me now, an intense look on her face.

  “Yeah, that sucked. I’m sorry.” I stare up at her, sliding my hand over my mouth to hide my smile.

  “He had a bedroom full of lizards!” Ava exclaims, throwing her hands in the air. “Wall to wall! He had neglected to tell me, in all our deep, emotional connection”—she rolls her eyes—“that his true life passion was reptiles.”

  I nod my head, keeping my mouth tightly shut so I don’t laugh. Because that would really set her off.

  “My point is, if you’d asked me that summer what would happen with me and Jacob, I would’ve said he was the man of my dreams! We never fought once. We had everything in common. We were crazy about each other. But sometimes life has other plans. Sometimes people take time to reveal themselves to you. Who knows, you could go to Will’s house tonight and he could have a bedroom full of lizards.”

  “I doubt it,” I say.

  “But you don’t know,” she says back, and I can’t argue with that.

  I stare at the horizon line for a moment. “The thing that’s killing me is that sometimes I think I can feel her in my head. I’ve begun to doubt my own thoughts, because I’m worried Lucy Keating is writing them.”

  “Okay, well, say this is true,” Ava ponders aloud. “I get it; she’s like God. But she’s not everywhere. Where’s the one place a writer never writes about? Where nothing interesting usually happens?” Ava breaks into a slow smile.

  “I don’t know,” I say in bewilderment.

  Ava is now in full-out grin mode. “The bathroom,” she says.

  “Gross!” I yell.

  “Gross or not, it’s your only way out. If you’re feeling a little nuts, go sit in the bathroom until your head clears. Now, let’s get out of here; we need to figure out what we’re wearing to this party.” She grabs her tote bag and the blanket and starts walking toward the Boardwalk.

  “Hey, Ava?” I say as we walk back along the Boardwalk, passing tattoo parlors and vendors who are packing up their art for the day, and all the things that make this beach so crazy—like the guy who walks around in a Star Wars stormtrooper uniform. “You’re so much more than a sidekick to me.”

  “I know,” she says, turning around and wrapping an arm around my waist.

  “But you are a killer emotional support pony,” I say quietly, and she gives me a playful shove.

  When I get home from the beach, Mathilda Forsythe is standing on my lawn, watching The House like she is waiting for it to answer a question. I look at her, and she looks back, providing no explanation.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  Just then my mom walks outside, wearing worn-in jeans and a linen sweater. “Oh, honey, you’re back earlier than I expected.” She hesitates, but puts on a bright smile. “Mathilda is interested in buying The House.”

  I feel instantly nauseous. This is all wrong. This house can’t belong to Mathilda, with her limited conversation and her black ensembles. This has to go to a family. With a brother and sister, and a small dog with an attitude problem. I think fast.

  “Did you tell her that the heat only works half the time?” I say, placing my hands on my hips.

  “Annabelle,” my mother says. “Cut it out. Mathilda knows it all. She wrote about the place, after all.” And to Mathilda, she says, “I’m sorry, Annabelle is having a hard time adjusting to the move.”

  “Does she know the upstairs toilet spins the wrong way?” I blurt out.

  “That’s not even true!” my mother exclaims.

  “It could be.” I jut my chin out. “Now you’ll always wonder. Also, the neighbors always park in front of our garage, no matter how many times we tell them not to. And they throw tons of parties that go late into the night. Nobody gets any sleep around here.”

  “Well, now you are just making stuff up,” my mom says, the color rising in her cheeks. “Go to your room.”

  “Not my room for long,” I announce, and march into The House. I sit on my bed for a minute, my whole body vibrating. I should go for a run, even if it’s about to get dark. I get up and start pulling on my gear.

  This is all unfair, and it’s happening too soon. They can’t just tell me they’re separating one week, and sell the whole house the next. Especially not to Mathilda. She doesn’t belong here. I plug my headphones into my ears and jog downstairs, ready to burst through the front door, but decide to detour and give my parents one last piece of my mind.

  “You know what?” I announce as I march through the doorway, and then stop. The living room and the kitchen are empty. There is nobody around to even be mad at.

  Just then I hear a noise coming from the garage, a few thumps followed by someone yelling, and choose to investigate. Curiously, I make my way through the mudroom. When I push open the door, I find Elliot out there on the drums.

  “What is it?” he asks, sweaty, stopping to take a sip of water and stare at me in the doorway. “You look like hell. Did something happen to Diane Sawyer?”

  “My mom has someone here to look at The House.” I blurt out, and ignore his joke.

  “Gross,” he says. Then, “Come here.”

  I make my way over to the drums, and with a serious look, he hands me the sticks.

  “What do I do with these?” I say, holding them like they’re on fire.

  “Have at it,” Elliot says, as if it’s obvious. “Trust me, it will help.”

  “But I don’t play drums,” I say. “I don’t play anything.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Elliot says. “That makes it even better.”

  I hesitate, then sit down at the drum set and reorient my grip until the sticks feel comfortable and light in my palms. And then with one more glance at Elliot, I let the first stick fall against the barrel of the drum, followed by the second stick. They increase in rhythm and intensity until suddenly I am wailing down hard. And when I look back at Elliot one last time he just stands there, arms crossed, grinning from ear to ear.

  12

  Sorry I’m Late

  IT IS so “Will” to show up at school brand spanking new, just months before we all leave forever, and within no time at all host a party more crowded than I could throw after four years.

  I walk through his living room and out a set of large doors that open onto a terrace overlooking an expansive pool, where I find him surrounded by friends, dressed in red swim trunks and a T-shirt. His eyes light up when he sees me, and I smile right back. I feel bad about what happened earlier, and I’ve decided to heed Ava’s words. Will is amazing, and okay, so maybe he was written for me. But is that the worst thing in the world?

  “Excuse me,” he tells nobody in particular, squeezing through and around people to make his way over, his gaze never leaving my face. Without a word, he pulls me into a warm hug, and I can’t help but feel safe here. I have never been this girl before. Yes, I have the popular friends, but I’ve never had the guy.

  “Hi,” he says with a side smirk as soon as he pulls away. “You look …” He doesn’t finish his sentence, but instead just shakes his head.

  I blush, and look down at the dress Ava picked out for me. It’s a dusty rose, with spaghetti straps and buttons down the front. She complained for the zillionth tim
e why I don’t own anything with a pattern, and I told her for the zillionth time that patterns are rarely flattering, and never practical.

  “Stop,” I say to Will, giving him a playful shove. I saw a girl do something like it in a movie. Given my limited experience on how to behave around guys, I’ve been doing my research.

  “I would, but I can’t. Bad at lying, remember?” Will says. His pupils are gigantic, and his cheeks are rosy. I’m not sure if it’s from me or if he’s already a little drunk. “Are you good?”

  I open my mouth, trying to find the words. “I’ve had the weirdest week,” I say. “But I think it’s about to get better.”

  Will cocks his head to one side with a small smile. “Do you want something to eat?” he asks, and when I say yes, he takes my hand and leads me through the party to the kitchen.

  Spread out on the table is an array of burgers, chips, guacamole, and—like a prized piece of jewelry in an art museum—a bowl of poke.

  “You have poke?” I ask, quickly grabbing a chip so I can scoop some into my mouth. “This is my favorite!”

  Will shrugs. “It’s decent. I think I added too much salt.”

  As I bite down on the delicious fish, my eyes light up. “You made this?” I ask when I’ve stopped chewing.

  Will gives me a proud look. “It’s my specialty. My grandma’s recipe.”

  Just then Ava wanders in, tugging Navid by the arm. “Hey,” she says, stopping and wrapping her arms around Navid’s midsection, her head resting just below his collarbone.

  That was fast, I think. I don’t even know how she does it. But I just grin. “Hey,” I say back.

  “She has arrived!” Navid grins, straightening his glasses. “We’ve been waiting for you, Annabelle.”

  “Did you hear that Will made the poke?” Ava looks at me, eyes wide, as though what she’s really trying to say is, Did you hear Will was made for you, and let’s all just accept that this is a very good thing.

  “I did,” I reply.

  “Isn’t it so good?” Ava asks.

  “It’s okay; a little salty, though.” I make a face. Then I give Will a big smile.

  “Oh, that’s it, you’re going in,” Will says, and grabs me around the waist. I start shrieking and laughing as he pulls me back in the direction of the pool.

  “No!” I cry. “No, no, no, please!” Will pulls back for a moment and we look at each other. My arms are around his neck and his beautiful eyelashes are angled down at me. Behind his back, I can see people whispering.

  “Okay,” he says softly. “Sorry.”

  “That’s okay,” I say, and swallow. And then I want to punch myself when, without thinking, I look over my shoulder.

  “What are you looking for?” Will asks.

  “Nothing.” I shrug. “Just seeing who’s here.”

  “Everyone who matters is right here.” He smiles, and puts an arm around my shoulders as we head back inside. “You want a beer?”

  An hour later, I’m feeling pretty great in Will’s kitchen. I don’t drink, basically ever, because I don’t like the idea of losing control, but I’m letting Ava talk me into it tonight, and Navid and Will. Still, something is gnawing away at my insides, and the beer seems to muffle it, but not with complete success. It keeps rising to the top, from my stomach up to my brain: Where is Elliot?

  “You’re distracted,” Ava whispers when Will goes to help with some kind of issue with the music speakers, and Navid gets pulled into conversation with someone from his history class.

  “Am I?” I ask. “I thought I was hiding it.”

  “You can’t hide it from me.” She sways a bit, but she’s okay. She’s already drinking water. “Annabelle, I know you like Elliot. A part of me wonders if maybe you always have. But I’m not sure he’s the one. And more important, I’m not sure he’s coming.”

  At this piece of advice, the thing gnawing at my insides seems to wake up a little bit, snore slightly, and then turn over.

  “I know,” I say, and shrug.

  “Have you considered the fact that maybe, yes, in some wild universe Will was made for you. Written for you, every part of him. But maybe even if he wasn’t, he’d still, like, be made for you?” she asks. “Have you also considered that maybe your life could be worse than having this incredible guy falling at your feet?”

  “The point is that I shouldn’t have to consider it,” I say. “I shouldn’t have to wonder if Will would’ve made my favorite food on earth either way, or if he just made it because Lucy wrote him to. I don’t want to just accept the incredible guy. I want to make my own choices. Can we stop talking about this? You’re making my head hurt.”

  “I’m making my own head hurt,” Ava mutters. “But just look at it this way. We don’t know where any of this starts or ends. We don’t know for sure if it’s even happening. We just know Lucy said it is. So maybe Will is perfect for you no matter what! Maybe Lucy’s just made it so he behaves more like a dream boy and less like the rest of all these idiots?” She nods over her shoulder to the other side of the kitchen where Navid is arm-wrestling one of his friends on the countertop. Several half-empty beer cans clatter to the floor from their struggle.

  I consider this just as Will comes back from the living room and grabs another beer from the fridge. The sight of him makes me smile. But then I hear something else that sends a shiver down my shoulders.

  “Sorry I’m late,” someone says in a crackly voice, and I turn to find Elliot in the doorway, looking right at me.

  “You almost missed the party,” I tell Elliot. I’m being cautious, for my own sake and because I am very aware of the fact that over my right shoulder, Will is watching us intently from another part of the terrace. We’re leaning on the railing and staring down at the pool.

  “I know, I’m really sorry. I can explain,” Elliot says.

  “It’s fine,” I say. “It’s not like we had set plans.” And I’m sure he can explain. But it’ll probably be something stupid. Like Lenny, the bassist in his and Sam’s band, had people over for beers and he lost track of time. Or he decided to surf too far north in Malibu and got stuck in traffic coming back. It’s always the same with him. No responsibility, no problem. Not that I should even care. It’s not like he promised me he was coming. It’s not like it would matter if he had.

  But Elliot is frowning. “No, it’s not fine,” he says. “It was actually super frustrating. First I got pulled over when I wasn’t even speeding.”

  “Sure,” I say with a smile.

  “I wasn’t, Annabelle,” Elliot says more intensely, and my smile disappears. He really is being serious.

  “Okay.” I nod. “Sorry.”

  Elliot continues, leaning out over his clasped hands. I’ve never seen him be so serious. “Then, after I dealt with that, my car broke down. Which was spectacular luck, since my dad keeps those cars in perfect working condition. So I decided to leave it parked on Lincoln, because I was running so late. But when I got out, my phone was just gone. Not in my back pocket, not under a seat—nowhere. It must’ve fallen out when I got pulled over. So I decided to walk, but I kept getting turned around.”

  Out in the pool someone does a massive belly flop off the diving board, and the whole party erupts in cheers. I turn my face toward Elliot. This is actually impossible to comprehend. “How do you get turned around in Santa Monica?” I ask. “We’ve lived here our whole lives, and half of the streets are numbered.”

  “Thank you for reminding me of that.” Elliot makes a face. Then he shakes his head. “I don’t know what happened. I can’t even believe I made it here. But I made it.”

  I glance back down at my beer, and when I look up again, I find Elliot looking down, too, but his head is really close to mine. Then he meets my eyes, and my knees feel kind of wobbly.

  “If it was so hard to get here, why’d you keep trying?” I eventually ask.

  “I think you know why,” he says, looking back down.

  I swallow. “Because of me
?” I ask quietly.

  “Would it be okay if it was because of you?” he asks back, just as quiet.

  With the tiniest nod, I tell him yes.

  I’m still not sure if I believe him, because this story is absurd. But he got here. He still made it. For me, he says. And now that I think about it, I wonder if there is more to his story than I realized.

  Elliot’s phone rings, and we look at each other.

  “So your phone was in your pocket the whole time?” I ask, and start cracking up.

  Elliot pulls his phone out of his back pocket, and stares at it like it might bite him. “No, it wasn’t,” he says slowly.

  “Well, apparently it was,” I say with a shrug.

  “No, it wasn’t,” Elliot says again, firmly. Then he takes the call. “Dad, yeah. I’m so sorry. I swear, I’ve been treating her like a queen. She’s on Lincoln at Wilshire. Can you have Curtis pick her up? Or I can do it in the morning. I know.” He runs a hand through his hair. “It was crazy. I promise I was taking good care of her! It was like some unseen force took over the car’s engine.”

  This gives me a small chill. When Elliot hangs up, I study him closely.

  “You really did go through all that tonight?” I ask, and my heart begins to speed up. “The cop, the engine trouble, the phone …”

  “Yeah.” Elliot looks around. “Weren’t you here for that story?”

  “And you didn’t just go home,” I say, pushing.

  “No, AB,” he says, clearly frustrated. “I just told you.”

  I close my eyes for a moment, trying to get my thoughts straight. It was different before, when it was just about me, about my life. When she was getting in my head. But there’s no other explanation for what happened to Elliot tonight. It was her. Lucy Keating. She’s not just controlling me; she’s controlling everything. Elliot having so much trouble tonight. Elliot getting hit on the head with a drumstick at Paper Girl show.

  Then the realization hits: Lucy Keating doesn’t want Elliot to be close to me.

  “I could kill her,” I mutter.

  “Kill who?” Elliot asks.