Famous Last Words (21 page)

“AJ, wait—” But it’s too late. In one angry motion, he’s gone and I’m talking to a slamming door.

Meg finds me crying in the bathroom. “What’s up, kiddo?”

It takes me a nanosecond to spill. “AJ’s mad at me.”

“Why?”

“He thinks I’m jealous that Shelby’s been talking to Coma Boy all night.”

“Are you?”

I shrug. “Honestly, I’m confused about that myself.”

“Yeah, well, don’t be too hard on your friend. Coma Boy has that effect on women. What’s the big deal?”

“I guess the big deal is, that Shelby knows that at one point I was sort of crushing on Tony.”

“Are you still?”

“I’m over it. Especially since he stole my story.”

“He stole your story? You never told me. Which one?”

“Motorcycle Grandma.”

“Ah. That did seem too clever to come from him.”

“Right?”

“Maybe you should tell him how you feel.”

“Who?”

Megs puts a hand on my shoulder and looks me in the eye. “I can see why AJ’s getting frustrated.”

I give her a guilty grin. “Thanks, Meg.”

“Anytime.”

*   *   *

When I go back into the barroom, Shelby is holding a beer and talking to Tony and Alexis. Interesting. Alexis has never said more than two words to me. I don’t want to be here anymore, and it’s probably a good idea to leave before Shelby gets drunk and embarrasses me in front of my coworkers.

“Hey,” I say when I walk up to Shelby. “We should get going.”

“Noooww?” Shelby whines. “It’s still early.”

“Hang out awhile longer. I can drive you girls home,” Tony says.

“That’s okay,” I say. “We’ve got a ride.”

“You go if you want to. I’m staying,” Shelby says.

“Can I talk to you a minute?” I say to Shelby.

“Go ahead and talk. I’m standing right here.”

I clench my fists.

“Fine. I’ll be sitting with Meg and Harry,” I say, but then I lean in close so only Shelby can hear, and whisper, “Enjoy your first and last bar night.”

It produces the desired effect. Fifteen minutes later, we leave the Harp & Bard and suffer through a wordless car ride home. When we pull up in front of my house, I thank her mom as I’m getting out of the car.

“Bye,” Shelby says.

“See ya,” I say back.

Somehow I knew, as I slammed the car door shut, it was the last thing we would say to each other for a while.

chapter twenty-three

Weddings

Thursday morning at work I spend hours rehearsing an apology to AJ in my head. By noon, I’m feeling anxious that he still hasn’t shown up yet. I hope he’s okay.

“Hey, Alice,” I say. “Did AJ call in sick today?”

“He took some time off, remember? He won’t be back until Wednesday.”

That’s right. He mentioned driving out to Ohio with his dad for his cousin’s wedding. I forgot it was this week. Shoot. And I’ll be off Wednesday. It’s my birthday, and I’ll be taking the road test to get my license. I won’t see him until Thursday. That’s a whole week.

“Don’t worry,” Alice says. “You’ll do fine by yourself.”

“Thanks, Alice.”

*   *   *

Alice was wrong. I’m not fine by myself. More like uptight, angry, and unfocused. The sight of Tony Roma makes me want to puke. It’s not easy to avoid him since we all work together in one newsroom, but I do my best. Thursday and Friday pass by more slowly than eight hours of standardized testing. I spend most of my time polishing up my story on Mr. Kovalevsky, the POW. I want it perfect before I turn it in to Harry.

“Nice job, D’Angelo. You should be proud,” Harry says when he finishes editing it. “It’s going to run in Sunday’s paper.”

Harry’s words should have me turning cartwheels, but there’s this tightness in my chest that hasn’t left since my fight with AJ at the Harp. Not even the sight of my name on the front page of the Sunday
Herald Tribune
is enough to snap me out of it.

“Fantastic story, sweetie,” Mom says over breakfast.

“You must have worked hard on this,” Dad says.

“I did. Thanks.” I don’t look up from my cereal.

“Anything you want to talk about?” Mom says.

“Just tired.”

This prompts her to get up from the table and feel my forehead, first with her palm, then with her lips.

“You’ve been working too hard,” Dad says.

“Maybe,” I say. “I’m going to go lie down for a while.”

I can feel my parents looking at each other as I clear my dish and leave the room.

*   *   *

On Sunday afternoon, I decide to walk down to Bargain Books & Beans—not for research, just for me. I’m too unsettled about my lack of communication with AJ (and to a lesser extent Shelby) to worry about stupid Sy Goldberg and the mayor. I take my laptop and a copy of the paper with me.

“Sam!” someone yells when I walk into the coffee shop. “Over here!”

“Hey, Joanne,” I say as she waves me over.

“Great story on the POW,” she says, pointing to the copy of the
Herald Tribune
in my hand.

“You read it? Thanks,” I say.

“Listen, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about something.”

“Okay.”

“I’ve decided to join the dance team this year,” Joanne says. “I’ve been dancing at the same studio since I was three, and I finally feel confident enough to compete on stage, in front of people. So I’m going for it.”

“That’s wonderful, Joanne. You should!”

“Anyway, I don’t think I’ll be able to handle competitive dance and being yearbook editor. So I wanted to ask if you’d be interested.”

“That’s so nice of you to offer, but what about Missy or Sarah? I wouldn’t want to step on any toes. And wouldn’t a faculty adviser have to approve me or something?”

“Missy and Sarah are too busy with sports, and I’ve already mentioned your name to Mr. O’Hara. He thinks you’d be perfect.”

“He does? Wow.” Mr. O’Hara teaches AP English. He’s also yearbook adviser. “Can I think about it?”

“Sure. But I hope you say yes. You can totally handle it. The hardest part is making sure everybody sticks to the word count when they write their blurbs. I know it’s hard, since you don’t get to say much about your time in high school in less than a hundred words.”

“So true.”

I buy an iced latte and chat with Joanne some more before she leaves. I’m happy I connected with her and Fiona’s group this summer. I’ve known them since middle school, but for some reason, we’ve never really talked. Maybe Shelby’s right about my tendency to be standoffish.

I open my laptop and think about Joanne’s offer. What she said about editing students’ blurbs made me think of obits. What doesn’t? But it also gives me the perfect idea for my blog. I type the first sentence:

Imagine you’ve been asked to write your own obituary. What would it say?

The rest just seems to flow from there. I talk about obits and high school yearbook write-ups and how we tend to look at our lives more closely when we’re aware of the limits—word counts, space, time. And then I tell the story of Anton, the boy who died in the fire. When we are gone, what words will we leave behind? That’s when a name for a blog hits me, Dead Lines: A Teen Obit Writer’s Take on Life. When the time is right, I’m going to show it to Harry and see what he thinks. Writing about the dead this summer has taught me how to live. Maybe I’ve got something to share. I wish I could show this to AJ.

I pick up my phone and text him.

Hey,

I say. My temples pulse as I wait for his reply. I try to look at my computer screen, but my eyes won’t focus on any words. The same thing happens when I scan the coffee shop and the sidewalk outside: I don’t
see
anything. Finally, my phone makes a text sound.

Hey,

AJ replies.

I’m sorry.

I type back immediately,

U should be,

and then, two seconds later,

☺

Then I type,
C U soon?
A few minutes go by before I get a return text. I laugh out loud when I see it. A photo of him from the nose up, like he’s peering into the camera. The attached message says,

Sooner.

The tightness in my chest loosens, and for the first time since bar night, I can breathe.

*   *   *

Tomorrow is my seventeenth birthday. My insides feel like a shaken bottle of soda that needs to settle down before it explodes. Summer is coming to an end, and the sun is already setting earlier. I need to get a run in before it gets too dark.

I set off toward the high school so that I can run laps around the track. When I reach the parking lot, I again hear the familiar sounds of the marching band on the practice field. This time, however, I also hear a coach’s whistle. The football team is in the stadium. Ugh. I’ll have to run laps while the team conducts its practice drills. Do I really want to sweat in front of all those jocks? Screw it. I want to run around the track, and I’m going to run around the track. I up the volume on my iPod and go for it.

Mile One: Shelby and I haven’t spoken in seven days, and there’s no real reason why. We aren’t mad at each other, are we? The problem is, with every day that goes by, there’s another day of silence between us.

Mile Two: If she had called, I would have talked to her. Why hasn’t she called me? Why haven’t I called her?

Mile Three: Tomorrow I’m going to tell Joanne I want the job as yearbook editor.

Mile Four: When I get back to work, I’m going to show Harry my sample blog idea.

Mile Five: I wonder if I can get into Columbia or NYU if I apply. New York City is a lot closer than central Pennsylvania. I could keep working at the
Herald Tribune
straight through college. Maybe I should dust off my SAT prep book.

Mile Six: I keep running. And running.

I arrive back home just as the tangerine-colored sun sinks below the horizon. I shower and get ready for bed. But even after watching five different shows involving culinary competitions—cupcakes, wedding cakes, five-course dinners—and finishing
Waiting for Godot
, I can’t turn my brain off. Work, school, college, Shelby, Coma Boy, AJ.

It’s three in the morning, and I’m lying in bed, willing myself to fall asleep. My pillow feels too hot. I keep flipping it to the cooler side, but it’s no use. Finally, without stopping to think, I grab my cell phone and dial the one person I want to talk to right now.

“Hey,” he says.

“You’re home?”

“I’m home.”

“How was Ohio?”

“Flat. Far.”

“I’m glad you answered your cell.”

“I left it on. I was hoping you’d call.”

“You were?”

“Yup.”

I spit it out before I lose my nerve.

“You know, there’s this amazing band playing at the Jersey shore the Friday before Labor Day,” I say.

“Are you asking to be my plus one?” AJ asks.

“I am.”

“That’s more than two weeks away.”

“I wanted to give you time to think about it.”

“Pick you up at seven,” AJ says.

“It’s a date.”

“Is it?” AJ asks.

I think it is.

chapter twenty-four

Advice Column

Today is my birthday. It began like all the others for as far back as I can remember—with my dad singing that Beatles birthday song. “
Bananananana. You say it’s your birthday.
”

“It never gets old,” Dad said this morning.

“Yes. Yes it does,” I told him. “But thanks.”

Mom and I had to cut him off after the third line.

Since Dad has a meeting in Manhattan, Mom took the morning off to drive me to the Division of Motor Vehicles for my road test.

Despite that Mr. Harrison at the DMV said my parallel parking “left a little to be desired,” he was feeling generous and passed me anyway. At long last, I’m a licensed driver in the state of New Jersey.

“Congratulations, honey!” Mom says, and gives me a sideways squeeze when we get in the car. “You keep your eyes on the road, and I’ll text your father to let him know the good news. We’ll all go out tonight to celebrate. Your choice.”

Twenty minutes later, I drop my mom at the bus stop, and for the first time ever, I’m alone in the car. It’s a bit odd, lonely even. At home, now that the road-test anxiety and excitement are behind me, I have nothing to do. Shelby and I had always planned on celebrating after my road test (provided I passed) with our first car ride together alone. One of those stupid rites of passage we’ve been dreaming of ever since I got the Barbie Volkswagen Beetle and Shelby got the RV. But there’s been no call or text from Shelby. Part of me was hoping my birthday would be the icebreaker.

I return a birthday text message from Meg and tell her I got my license. Even Joanne remembered, and I mentioned it only in passing that day at the coffee shop. When I text back my thanks, I add that I want the yearbook-editor gig.

YAY!
☺
Will let Mr. O’Hara know.

I’m going to be yearbook editor! This calls for a snack. I’m craving pretzels dipped in cream cheese. There’s nothing better than the salt-dairy combo. At nine fat grams per two tablespoons, however, I usually opt for fat-free cream cheese, which is merely a white substance for people with good imaginations. But screw it, today is my birthday and I’m going for it.

“Get your shoes on, birthday girl!” Gram says. She’s standing in the kitchen with her pocketbook draped over her forearm. “You’re taking me to IHOP for lunch.”

“I am?”

“Of course! I’ve been waiting for this day for a long time. I’m free of Aunt Connie.”

Okay …
still
not how I envisioned seventeen to be, but it’s got to be better than watching daytime TV and hearing about yet another drug that may cure my horrible disease but brings on dry mouth, insomnia, suicidal tendencies, chronic diarrhea, and a limp.

“Just let me grab the keys.”

“Now you’re talking.”

An hour later, Gram is sitting across the table from me at IHOP, a heaping pile of chocolate-chip pancakes with extra whipped cream in front of her. My phone rattles on the table. A text from Shelby.