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Five
The only time throughout the school day that I see Corrine is during lunch. All morning, I try to mentally prepare what I’m going to say to her about the Holden situation, but nothing sounds nonchalant enough.
I visualize it:Hey, Corrine, so, funny story: I’m gonna be working with Holden, like, all the time for the next few weeks. I thought maybe it wasn’t that big of a deal since webothhate him? Plus, I kind of don’t have a choice. I’m sorry?
She punches me.
In my imagination.
But it still hurts, even if my imagination played it in slow motion at a few ideal angles.
My gut won’t stop screaming, the butterflies having turned into vultures. And the worst part is that I think, if Holden and I can get past the awkwardness and the unfriendliness, we could maybe make a better documentary than I would have with Yvette. I’m still wrestling with the less-than-ideal perspectiveswitch—I really didn’t set out to make a documentary about a privileged boy—but it’s what I’ve got to work with; at least this way, I can get more footage and won’t feel as bad about yelling at him to justbe betterwhen I’m filming.
In the noisy cafeteria, I throw myself into a seat at our usual round table next to Kayla, who’s hunched over her beat-up notebook. It looks like it’s seen some shit—edges frayed and bent, pages torn out and distorted from water, the white color of the paper just slightly off.
She tenses for a second, eyes me, then slams her notebook closed. She drops a Ziploc bag of baby carrots on top for good measure.
“Working on a new song?” I ask, while looking around for Corrine. Students are settling into tables, in line for an appetizing lunch of lukewarm turkey burgers and soggy sweet potato fries, but I don’t see her. Maybe it’s a fundraiser day. She’s in at least a million clubs, leading most of them because she wants to work at a nonprofit after college, and rarely has any downtime, even for lunch. Her guidance counselor actually made the school create a maximum number of clubs one person is allowed to participate in just for the sake of Corrine’s mental and physical health. Today might be a chess club day, or a mathletes day, or maybe it’s an environmental club day.
“Yeah,” Kayla says, crunching into a carrot.
“Can I hear it when it’s done?” We’ve played this game before. Kayla doesn’t share her songs with anyone and, at this point in our friendship, I don’t even feel offended.
“Sure,” she lies.
“You’ll be waiting a long time.” Devon Miles Smith, the guitarist in Kayla’s band, Nope.—yes, with the period—joins us with his girlfriend, Juniper Kim, like they do every day for lunch. I don’t really care for Devon Miles Smith, even though his full name is fun to say. I’ve been told I have one of those names, too, but it doesn’t make us kindred spirits. I only tolerate him for the sake of others.
While Kayla clams up when it comes to sharing her own material, she sings the shit out of other people’s. Nope. does amazing covers and has an almost-almost-famous local EP of original songs written by Devon Miles Smith, like my favorite, “Wasted Youth Starter Kit.” This past summer, they opened for Solo and the Wookiee at their reunion show, which isn’t that impressive when you consider there were three other opening acts, too, but still. There were about two hundred people present, way past the standing capacity of the venue, which is a huge deal for them. Kayla’s dream is to tour with her favorite band, Free Puppies!—yes, with the exclamation point. I suggested they call it The Punctuation Tour, but Devon Miles Smith didn’t laugh. I think he didn’t get it.
“I’d wait forever,” I say with a biting grin.
“I’m not sure anything Kayla has written would be worth that, but okay,” he mumbles into a cup of lime-green Jell-O. “Your life to waste.”
God, what a dick.
Juniper nudges him and then faces Kayla. “I’m sure it’s going to be great. You could sing random Google searches and it would sound amazing.”
“Thanks,” Kayla says with a smile. “Anybody do anything fun this weekend?” She glances at me. “I know some of us were too busy to even text.”
“I had to work on my documentary.” And, boy, does it need work. I don’t know why I thought this would be easy. Iwatchdocumentaries; I don’t make them. Maybe I would have benefited from fewer “you can do anything” speeches as a kid.
“Hey,” Corrine says, breathless, slamming into the seat next to me and freeing a tuna sandwich from a crumpled brown paper bag. She’s the only person who could make tuna seem appetizing. “Howdidfilming go?”
I freeze, all eyes on me. Corrine doesn’t look pissed, so it’s unlikely she knows. I mean, who would have told her, Holden? They don’t talk anymore.
“It was eventful.” Tell her. Tell her tell her tell her. “Actually, my subject freaked out and then she left.”
“She came back, though, right?” Juniper asks, eyes wide. “She’s your mom’s friend.”
“No, I wish. I got another contestant to agree to let me film them, actually. So, it might be okay.”
Here it is. My moment. I swear the cafeteria mutes itself, all attention on me. I can hear my heart thumping.
Corrine smiles wide, her teeth so perfectly white in contrast to her red lips. “That’s good. Who? What’s their story?”
“Uh, it’s kind of funny.”No, Brain, we decided it wasnotfunny.
She waits with an eager smile, like all those times in seventh grade when she texted me something in the middle of class and couldn’t stand waiting to see my reaction. I’m not ready to seeher composure shatter, but I have to say it.
