You and Me and Him (7 page)

I whisper, “Tell you later,” to Dad, and he retreats to the garage. I turn back to Mom. “Nash and I met him the first day. And no, not a date. Nash likes him.”

“Ooooh.” Mom nods. “Oh, he’s gay.”

I consider letting this misconception save me from further interrogation, but I decide to stick with the truth. “Mom, I haven’t asked him if he’s gay or not, but he is not interested in me. We met at the trailhead. We hiked for a bit. We went our separate ways. Nothing more to report.” I head for the stairs before she can speak again. “I’ve got to take a shower.” But as I climb the stairs, I clutch my boots and steady my breath. I haven’t been completely honest with Mom, or with myself.

Nash calls right after I get out of the shower. “How was your hike?” he asks without saying hello.

“Fine,” I say. “We saw a moose. And the weather was—”

“No outdoorsy details, please. I’m really only interested in Tom-specific information,” Nash says, interrupting.

“Um, Tom was . . . excited about the moose, impressed by the waterfall, and thinks Cedar Ridge is a great place to live,” I say.

“You’ve got to be kidding! He said that?”

“He said that. But I told him that was because he hasn’t seen Seattle with you. He mentioned you guys already had some kind of plan?” I don’t want to be third wheel on Tom and Nash’s adventure, but I’m usually Nash’s Seattle guinea pig, up for anything he wants to try in the Emerald City. I’m bummed I might miss out on what I am sure will be one of his best itineraries.

“Yes. Definitely. That Monday, the teacher work day or whatever. We’re going. I need you to be the designated driver.” Nash doesn’t drive.

“What, exactly, do you have in mind, Nash?”

“Don’t worry, Mags. Nothing nefarious or illegal. Tom doesn’t have his license yet. Besides, you always drive when we go to Seattle,” Nash says.

“Oh,” I say. “Great. I’ll ask my mom if I can borrow her car again. I wasn’t sure you wanted me to go—”

“Of course you’re going!” I can tell from his voice that he never imagined anything else. Nash goes on to outline his plan, demanding my opinion about which options Tom will think are both cool and vaguely romantic. When we hang up, he’s feeling more confident, and I feel more like the supportive best friend I want to be.

By Monday the fluttery feeling I get whenever I see Tom seems to have faded a bit. But the next few days, I’m extra careful to give Nash and Tom time together. I eat in the library with Cece a couple times, take extra shifts at Square Peg so I’m busy after school, and make sure Tom and I end up on opposing teams in soccer during PE. Bio is the one place where I can’t avoid one-on-one with Tom. It’s pretty hard to get through a lab without talking to your lab partner. Besides, Kayla keeps circling. She’s not stalking me, so Tom must be her prey. A part of me wonders if I should let Kayla have a shot at him to find out which way that gate swings, but I know letting Kayla close isn’t going to help Nash.

The first lab is an onion cell thing to get us used to working with the microscopes. Tom keeps making lame jokes about peeling back the layers of an onion to reveal the complexity inside. I feel bad because he’s trying really hard, but I think of Nash and stay focused.

“Oookaayy.” Tom sighs. He leans down and looks through the microscope. “Let’s get down to business.”

I wait.

“Whoa, take a look at this,” he says after a minute. He pulls me over and makes me look through the scope.

I do and see not the outline of a dyed onion skin cell but letters. I look at him, but he’s filling out the lab report. Stooping, I squint through the lens again and start to pull the focus out so I can see all the letters. I decipher a tiny note written in block letters.

It says, “
be my friend
.” Tom is not making this easy.

I pull the note from the clamps, write “
okay
” on it, then put it back in. I gesture for him to look through the lens and then sit on the stool doodling on the margins of the lab instructions.

He looks, peers up at me, looks again, and then grins. “Rad!” he says.

“‘Rad’?” I smile for the first time all period. “Really? ‘Rad’? Is this 1984?”

He ignores me. We whip through the assignment and hand it in just before the bell. We’re almost out the door when I hear Tom’s name.

“Can I talk to you a second?” Kayla asks him.

“Sure. Go on without me.” Tom waves me away. “I’ll see you there.”

I hesitate for a minute, but I can’t exactly lurk in the doorway while they talk, so I head to PE wondering which of Nash’s nightmare scenarios is playing out between Tom and Kayla in the biology room.

I don’t get a chance to find out until Nash and Tom show up at Square Peg after school. There are storm clouds brewing over Nash’s perfectly coiffed hair. I go on high alert when I see his expression.

He nods at me and heads straight to the Blues corner, as far from Tom as possible.

“How goes the fight, Quinn?” Tom asks. He seems relaxed, but I know he’s too smart to have missed Nash’s bad mood.

“Today we have exceeded expectations here at Square Peg,” Quinn says. “How’s that small-town adjustment period going for you?”

“Not bad,” Tom says. “I think I already have more of a life here than at my last school, and I lived there for six months.”

“Nice,” Quinn says. “What’s on the social calendar today? I’m sure it can’t get any better than hanging with us listening to vintage vinyl.”

“I’m actually meeting another friend here.” Tom looks at his phone.

I glance at Nash as Tom says this; he’s pretending to ignore the conversation. The bell rings and Kayla walks in. A cluster of her friends waits on the sidewalk outside.

“You ready, Tom?”

He nods.

Kayla links elbows with him and draws him to the door. Suddenly she stops like she’s forgotten something. “Oh, Maggie. I was thinking we should have coffee sometime. I’d love to catch up.” She says it like that’s something we do once in a while: catch up over coffee.

I am stunned into silence. My scalp prickles. Everyone’s eyes are on me, waiting for me to respond. My head bobs up and down like an involuntary spasm, but it must read as a nod to everyone else in the room.

“Tomorrow? Around six?” she says. The spasm must still be in effect because Kayla and Tom both smile their dazzling smiles like I’ve given the right answer. They wave and shut the door behind them with a jingle and a click.

“I know I’m several years removed from understanding the intricacies of the social scene at Cedar Ridge High, but that seemed a little weird to me,” Quinn says.

“Yeah,” I say. “
Twilight Zone
weird.” Quinn and I are both still staring at the door when Nash speaks.

“What the hell was that, Maggie?”

I turn and see Nash’s face, flushed and wounded. “What?” I say.

“That . . . whatever that was just now. With you and Kayla?” he says, sputtering.

“She’s the one who asked Tom out. Personally I think she’s barking up the wrong tree, but it’s not like we can keep him from making other friends.”

“Obviously Tom spending time with Kayla is heinous. But I’m not talking about her asking Tom out. I’m talking about her asking
you
out!”

“Oh, that. Yeah.
That
was unexpected.”

“
That
was Kayla Hill!” he says. “You just agreed to hang out with Kayla Hill!”

“I know,” I say. “I choked.”

“To review: We don’t say yes to coffee dates with evil people who tried to ruin our lives.”

“Nash, she’s not evil—”

“Oh, right, she just does evil things.”

“Nash—”

“Do we need to take a walk down memory lane and relive Kayla’s past wrongs against you?”

“No. I’m good. I remember.”

“Then why?”

“Maybe she’s changed?” I say it like I’m trying to convince myself.

Nash shakes his head. “Just be careful, Maggie,” he says. “I don’t trust her. Not with Tom, and definitely not with you.”

“Nash, I’m sure Tom isn’t really interested in Kayla.”

“When has that ever stopped her from getting what she wants?”

“Tom’s way too smart for that.”

“I thought you were too smart for that too, but here you are, lining up for round two of the Kayla Hill smack-down.” He grabs his book bag and heads out the door.

“You guys are better than reality TV,” Quinn says, changing the record out. Over the store speakers, the Cure is singing “Boys Don’t Cry,” but I don’t believe that’s true.

I text Nash after work, but he doesn’t respond. After my homework, I bake a fresh batch of Nash’s breakfast bars; I think he’s been sharing them with Tom. And I whip up some rosemary lemon shortbread. I glaze the cookies, placing a couple of rosemary sprigs in the icing on each one. They look plain, but it’s amazing how much flavor’s going on in each one. They’re buttery and herbal, not too sweet.

I wrap the cookies, checking my phone one more time. Cece called, but nothing from Nash. I put one piece of shortbread on a plate, make myself a cup of tea, and sit at the counter. Mom comes in as I take my first bite.

“Cookies again?” she says, and my jaw clenches.

I put the cookie down and brush the crumbs off the front of my shirt. “I was out of Nash’s breakfast cookies, and I wanted to use the last of the rosemary from the garden,” I say.

Mom looks at the cookie, but instead of the usual disapproval, her face relaxes into a wistful smile. “Shortbread.” She sighs. “Your grandma used to make shortbread. She was famous for it. It was always my favorite.”

I have probably only seen my mom eat a half-dozen cookies in my entire seventeen years, so this is a revelation to me. “Have one.” I grab one of the wrapped cookies from the bag and offer it to her.

“No, those are for your friends,” she says, stepping back.

I lean forward, trying to touch her with the cookie. “Take it, Mom. They’re not for anyone in particular. I bake them so I can give them away.”

But she takes another step back and shakes her head. “No, thank you, honey,” she says. “I’m sure they’re delicious, but I . . . I can’t.” She purses her lips in a tight little line. She thinks
I’m
the one with food issues?

I toss the cookie back in the bag. “I’m going to bed. Good night, Mom.” Taking one last swig of my now-cold tea, I leave the mug and my half-eaten shortbread on the counter.

I jump on the bus the next morning and rush down the aisle to Nash. Collapsing onto the seat, I pull out a baggie with a fresh-baked breakfast bar. “Peace offering,” I say, handing it to him. “Sorry.”

Nash takes the bar and starts eating. “Sorry too,” he says, covering the partially masticated cookie with his free hand. “Let’s chalk it up to low blood sugar.” He indicates the bar.

Putting my head on his shoulder while he eats, I notice Tom isn’t on the bus. I wait until Nash is done and has neatly folded the empty baggie and placed it in his backpack before I speak.

“So, what’s the plan?” I have no idea where Tom is in the Nash Taylor–crush life cycle at this point.

“Well, we have that trip to Seattle on Monday,” Nash says. “And Tom and I are watching some weird Japanese sci-fi movie after school today. He called last night, after he got home from hanging out with you-know-who.”

“And?”

“And we talked until after midnight.” Nash sighs. “Even over the phone he makes me swoon.”

“‘Beware of fainting fits. Beware of swoons.’”

“Huh?”

“
Mansfield Park.
”

Nash still looks confused.

“Jane Austen?” I say.

“I thought you were over your Austen obsession.”

“Just some friendly advice.” I give Nash a couple more breakfast bars. “So, you sure you want to keep going? Is he worth it?”

Nash nods, smiling; he’s not ready to let go of this one yet.

The bell on the door at Square Peg jingles right before six, and I look up, ready to tell whoever it is that we’re closing, but it’s Kayla. My whole body tenses. I wasn’t actually expecting her to show up. I thought the whole coffee invite had been for Tom’s benefit. Now that she’d had her date with him, I didn’t expect her to keep pretending she wanted to be friends with me. But she strides up to the counter, says hi to Quinn, and turns to me.

“Maggie? You ready?” she asks.

I look at Quinn, who nods, and grab my stuff. “Let’s go.”

Kayla and I settle into a booth at Common Groundz, the café nearest Square Peg. I’m always amazed when people incorporate puns into their business names like that. It seems to be rampant among coffee shops and hair salons. Here in Cedar Ridge we have coffee shops called Bean Me Up, Human Beans, Espresso Yourself, and C U Latte. The salons are even worse: Hair of Coarse, Curl Up and Dye, and my personal favorite, Hairanoya.

Kayla grasps her caramel latte in two hands and smiles. Her teeth are perfect and white. They look like Chiclets.

I chug my glass of ice water and then take a sip of my too-hot americano. I look at Kayla.

She looks at me.

I wait.

She waits.

“Awkward” doesn’t even begin to cover it.

“Sooo . . .” I begin.

“I know . . .” she says.

“You go ahead,” we both say at the same time.

“Jinx!” we both say at the same time again. We stare at each other a minute, and then burst out laughing. Ice officially broken.

“So . . . why are we here?” I ask.

“It’s my favorite coffee shop in town.”

“No, why are we here together?”

Kayla looks down at the rosette of white steamed milk and brown coffee crema inscribed on the top of her latte, then somehow takes a sip without destroying the design.

“I just,” she begins. “I thought it would be nice to get to know you. Again.” She smiles, but she’s less sure now.

“Seriously, Kayla?” I say. “We’ve known each other forever, but I don’t think you’ve spoken to me for at least four years. Not since . . . well, not in a long time. Why now?”

Her face morphs through several expressions in a few seconds. I see a flush in her cheeks as her nostrils flare. Her eyebrows scrunch together. She follows this with a smile that doesn’t quite make it to her eyes. Around the eyes there’s something else, something that makes me think of the Kayla I used to be friends with.