Page 11 of Under Story

The firefighters pass a bag of pretzels, the stewards a smuggled-in bottle of bourbon, but conversation is notably scarce. There is an air of spectacle, even pilgrimage, as strangers come to Mecca or Jerusalem.

“The firefighters think it’s an alien,” Louis whispers.

“Maybe it is,” says Charlie.

“There’s a sentient ocean in Solaris,” Laurel says.

“All right,” says Louis, standing. “I’m going back to the dorms.”

“Without the Terra Bus?” asks Charlie. “Good luck.”

Louis plops down again. They sit together until the other campers drift back to their quinzees. When Laurel crawls inside again, she doesn’t feel quite so trapped in her head. Louis unrolls fleece liners, and she puts their sleeping bags on top.

Charlie uses her backpack to block the door. “No funny business.”

“I don’t like touching people,” says Louis, indignant, though Laurel remembers how he kissed her cheek at Gallagher’s, the sudden sweetness of it. He falls asleep with his knees in the crook behind hers. When Laurel wakes up, blue light filters through the quinzee, and her arm is touching Charlie’s. In the hazy moment between sleep and wakefulness, she can almost believe she’s back at home, with Eli in bed beside her—Eli, who sometimes reached out, while sleeping, to squeeze her hand in the dark.

Laurel knew of Eli long before they ever spoke. He was a junior-year transfer to McFarland High—an exotic specimen already—and when Laurel stayed late to work in the art room, she often saw him skateboard in the parking lot. He was tall, with olive skin and dark brown curls. Laurel had heard girls make fun of his nose, the bump at its bridge, but she thought it made him interesting.

In class, Eli rarely volunteered to answer questions. Laurel didn’t blame him. There were rumors that he’d won a prize from MIT for high school students, the result of a science project back in Chicago, which was not something to flaunt in suburban Wisconsin. At McFarland High, sports were king; academics were to be tolerated, not enjoyed. In biology, Laurel assumed a dull stare to hide her interest, though she dropped it guiltily when the teacher looked her way.

She was shocked to see Eli’s name on the sign-up list for the senior talent show. Maisie and Laurel speculated about what his talent might be. Yo-yo, Maisie suggested. Skateboarding, said Laurel, though it was unclear how this would translate to the auditorium. On the day of the performance, the girls’ bathroom was a hub of activity. Only Maisie noticed how painstakingly Laurel applied makeup: curling her eyelashes, adding liner to her Rimmel Black Cherry lipstick. They filled paper sleeves with popcorn and chose seats in the back of the theater. The stage was flanked by two decaying velvet curtains, which rippled as the lights dimmed overhead.

Eli was the last performer before intermission. He walked out holding a guitar in one hand and a wooden stool in the other, which he placed in the middle of the stage. (“Serious,” Maisie observed. “Acoustic.”) Then he sat down on the stool and closed his eyes. He wore a T-shirt and a leather necklace, his right hand grazing the guitar.

“La la la la la la la la la,” he sang. “La la la la la la la.”

Titters came from the auditorium. Laurel didn’t know whether they were laughing because they knew where Eli was going or because they didn’t. His voice had a gravelly, venturing quality, like a mellow Chris Cornell.

“When you’re feeling”—he paused—“sad and low.”

Having finished her own popcorn, Maisie reached a hand into Laurel’s. “Is this what I think it is?”

“We will take you where you gotta go,” Eli sang.

His tone was as melancholic as Radiohead. By the time he reached the chorus, people were laughing outright. It was the best rendition of “Spice Up Your Life” that Laurel had ever heard. The girls’ soccer team stood up on their chairs, swiveling their hips in accordance with the lyrics until the principal’s secretary waved them down.

Eli tilted his head toward the guitar until the chorus. Then he looked up, his lower lip brushing the mic.

“Jesus,” said Laurel, sliding down in her chair.

Maisie slouched until her mouth was level with Laurel’s ear. “Did we know that Eli is hot?”

“I did.”

“Brag, why don’t you,” said Maisie.

Laurel had eaten all of the lighter-colored popcorn, stockpiling a trove of highlighter-yellow kernels. She tipped the popcorn into her mouth. “I shall.”

For the rest of the month, she hoped for an opening. But the chair next to Eli was always taken in biology, usually by an admiring girl who had noticed him for the first time at the talent show. He sat with his friends at lunch. Given the timing of his transfer, Eli had only made two: Noah Takahashi and Riordan Salter.

Laurel had known Riordan all her life. Their fathers were cousins, and the two families spent holidays together. While the adults talked upstairs, Laurel and Riordan played crazy eights in his basement, which had wood-paneled walls and squishy orange carpeting and smelled, no matter what, like Cool Ranch Doritos. Riordan’s parents, Gary and Maureen, were computer programmers, but Riordan had little interest in the future. His hobbies were of the past: the dinosaurs; the Renaissance faire, at which he bought collectible goblets and daggers; and Magic: The Gathering, though the latter was not exactly historical (“So far as we know,” Riordan was fond of saying). At school, he and Laurel pretended not to know each other, but in private, they gossiped with pleasure.

“Eli Rosen,” said Laurel, on Thanksgiving. “What’s he like?”

They lay on beanbag chairs, woozy from stuffing and pie and the wine their parents allowed on special occasions. Riordan folded his hands over his prodigious belly, thinking. He often paused before speaking, but this one ventured long enough that Laurel wondered whether wine was the only substance he’d consumed that evening.

“He wants to be an astronaut,” said Riordan.