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“She doesn’t mind.” She puckered her lips at the stuffed animal and crooned, “Do you, Booby?”
“It’s Birdy.”
She took the toy out from under her and walked it along the bedspread. “You should’ve named her Booby, though.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s what she is. A blue-footed booby.”
“She’s a pelican.”
“This is not a pelican.” Val gaped at me. “You should know that. You grew up by the beach.”
My heart panged in my chest. That couldn’t be right. She had always been a pelican, and that didn’t just change. “Why would you say that?” I asked.
“Exhibit A.” She tapped her head. “I’m a black hole of useless information.” It was true. Val was always pulling random facts out of her ass. “But even if I weren’t, see exhibit B. Blue feet.” She showed me Birdy’s webbed feet which were, in fact, blue like her beak. I’d just assumed she was colorful because she was meant for kids. “Plus, the tag says ‘Blue-footed Booby.’”
My eyes dropped to the comforter. Had I been so blind that night at the fair that I hadn’t even seen what was right in front of me? Maybe I was kidding myself thinking Manning was looking forward to tonight. What if he blamed me for what he’d lost? Tiffany certainly did. What if he wasn’t happy to see me at all? Was there any other explanation for why he’d never responded to my letters, had never bothered to even call?
I couldn’t think that way.
Tonight was not going to go wrong. Manning would see me, and just like that first day on the lot, we’d be drawn together. We’d know the truth without saying it—Manning was doing what he needed to until I was eighteen. Nothing else mattered until then.
Val was suddenly standing in front of me, my shoulders in her hands. “Hel-lo? What’s wrong?”
I shook my head, clearing my thoughts away. “Nothing.”
“Not nothing. You’ve been moping since the day I met you, and I’m not going to let you get away with it anymore. Why does this pelican-turned-booby bother you so much?”
My mouth wouldn’t open. It was too weird to say out loud. I’m in love with a man my sister calls her boyfriend. If you hadn’t lived the story like I had, it sounded awful. Val was as open-minded as anyone I knew, and even this was asking for a lot of understanding.
“Is it about a boy?” she asked.
“How’d you know?”
“It’s always about a boy. Corbin?”
“No.”
“So there’s another boy.” She tapped a light fingertip on my shoulder, studying me. “Why don’t I know about him?”
I wriggled out of her grasp and went to my closet for running shoes. “Because he’s not a boy.”
She gasped. I could feel the delight coming off her in waves, even with my back turned. “He’s older?”
“Yes.”
“Older than Corbin?”
“Yes.”
“I need to know more.”
“I can’t tell you.” I sat on the edge of my bed to lace up my sneakers. “If I could, I would.”
“Please. This is too juicy. Is he in college? Is he a teacher? Is it Mr. Caws?”
I made a gagging noise, then giggled. “I’m not going to tell you.”
“I’ll tell you all my secrets.” She leaned back against my dresser. “Hmm. In sixth grade, I peed my pants at my desk and didn’t tell anyone so the next person sat in it.”
“Oh my God, how disgusting.”
“I know.” She laughed. “All right, here’s a good one. It’s not funny, though. I wasn’t completely honest with you about the first guy I slept with at my old high school. I told you it was no big deal, but I actually really liked him.”
“You said it was with a stranger.”
“I was embarrassed. He stopped talking to me after and rumors spread.”
Once in a while, Val reminded me of Tiffany. Mostly tough, but their weak spots were arguably more sensitive than other people’s. Val also had issues about her dad, who’d left her mom when Val was entering high school. “I’m sorry.”
She shrugged. “It’s fine. It taught me some things about men.”
“Like what?”
“Mostly that they’re immature . . . which is why I’m excited about this older guy.”
“It’s not . . . we’re not, like, together or anything.”
“You have a crush. Who doesn’t? Is it the good kind of crush? Like one you want to act on or one you don’t? There’s a difference.”
“Definitely the first one.”
She went over to my closet. “Well, you never dress sexy at school—your closet is sad—but I guess that’s because he already graduated, huh?”
“How can a closet be sad?”
“Do you have anything red?”
“I don’t think so. Maybe a sports bra. How come?”
“Hmm. Red makes men horny. It’s, like, biology. Plus, it looks great on blondes.” She held out a knee-length, maroon corduroy skirt. “This is kind of red, but it’s also . . . hideous.”
“It’s from middle school. I meant to take it to Goodwill, but—”
