The Best Laid Plans Read online

  I’m going to kill Andrew for throwing me a birthday party and then leaving me to fend for myself.

  C’mon, Collins, he whined earlier when I insisted it was a bad idea. We’ve spent all your birthdays together. Can’t stop now. It’s true—Andrew was there the day I was born. Before, actually. Our moms became friends in Lamaze class, so we’ve been stuck with each other forever. Andrew’s birthday was last week, and his parents took us out for dinner at Giovanni’s. Not really the birthday adventure he had in mind. So now that they’re out of town, I’m stuck with this.

  I walk into the kitchen, narrowly avoiding Jarrod Price, who’s puking into the trash can. There are cups and dirty plates scattered all over the Formica counter. Andrew promised to get me pizza if I agreed to the party, and now the boxes litter the kitchen, covered in stray crusts and congealed cheese.

  I gather up the dishes and put them in the sink, lathering up the sponge with soap and water.

  “Please tell me you’re not cleaning right now.” Andrew slings an arm around my shoulder and pulls me into a quick hug. He’s always reminded me a little of a golden retriever—a smiling, floppy mess of sandy hair and freckles. Sometimes I swear I can see him wagging his tail.

  “I just thought I’d get a head start.” I pick up a red plastic cup and run it under the faucet. Andrew whacks it out of my hand, splashing us both. His flannel shirt is already so rumpled it’s like he’s been rolling around in it. Which he probably has, with some girl or other. Gross.

  “No cleaning on your birthday,” he says. “House rules. Besides, this is a red Solo cup. It’s disposable.”

  “Don’t let it hear you say that. You might hurt its feelings.” I glance across the room to where Danielle is standing, sur-rounded by a gaggle of junior girls. “Do you think she’ll be okay?”

  Andrew follows my gaze. “She’s Danielle Oliver. She thrives off attention. Things couldn’t have worked out better for her if she’d planned it.”

  I think about my conversation with her upstairs, how she made me promise not to tell. “I just feel bad. If it were me—”

  “She’s not you.” He loops an arm around my back again. “Thank God. You think I would have stuck around her for eighteen years?” I let him lead me over to the fridge. “I got you those stupid watermelon drinks you like. Did you see them?” He pulls out a pink frosted glass bottle and I grab it from him with joy.

  “And you’re only telling me now? I’ve been trying to drink this stale pee all night.” I motion to the keg, sitting on a pile of dirty beach towels in the corner, thanks to Andrew’s cousin who turned twenty-one a few years ago and has been supplying our booze ever since.

  “I’m just trying to toughen you up a little,” he says. “Someday you’re going to find yourself out in the wild, maybe at a party with a host who isn’t so charming or thoughtful, and there won’t be any stupid watermelon drinks and you’ll think to yourself, Thank God Andrew Reed taught me how to drink beer.” He motions toward the keg. “But you’re right, this tastes like pee.”

  Still, he reaches over and pours himself a cup. That’s when one of the juniors peels away from Danielle and comes up to us, touching Andrew lightly on the shoulder. Cecilia Brooks is always lightly touching people’s shoulders. It’s like she’s mastered some sort of secret code. I know for a fact Tim Schneider always does her trig homework when she asks, which is the kind of powerful I wish I could be.

  “Hi, Drew.” She tucks a strand of curly blond hair behind one ear and smiles, revealing two rows of perfectly white teeth. Cecilia’s parents are dentists.

  “Hey, Cecilia,” he says. “I’ve been looking for you!” His usual line. Party Andrew has a different personality than regular Andrew. He always gets way cheesier when he’s around girls, and somehow it works. Andrew upgrades girlfriends like he’s upgrading iPhones.

  “No you haven’t!” She laughs and slaps him lightly on the chest. “You’re such a liar.”

  “He’s been talking about you all night,” I improvise, trying to help him out. “I can’t get him to shut up about it.”

  Andrew steps down on my foot, indicating perhaps I’ve gone a bit overboard.

  Cecilia turns reluctantly to me. “Oh, hi, Keely.” Then her eyes go wide. “Oh my gosh, is that a watermelon Breezer?” Her hand comes up to rest once more on Andrew’s shoulder. “I love those!”

  I want Andrew to be above it. But no straight boy, it seems, is immune to the magical touch of Cecilia Brooks—especially not Party Andrew.

  “Yeah, do you want one? I bought plenty.”

  “Really? You are so sweet!” Shoulder touch.

  I’m glaring at him, clutching my watermelon Breezer with two hands, as if somehow his pathetic pandering will cause it to slip from my grasp, sprout little wings, and fly into hers. He grabs a frosted pink bottle from the fridge and cracks it open, handing it to her. She takes a sip, glossy lips resting in just the right way on the mouth of the bottle.

  “So, Drew, I came here with Susie, right?” Cecilia says. “But she might be too drunk to drive. She’s had like way too many shots of raspberry Smirnoff. Do you think . . . are people staying over here tonight? Do you think we could crash here?” Shoulder touch.

  “You can definitely sleep here,” Andrew says, and Cecilia beams at him. I can practically see the hearts in her eyes.

  I know he’s lost to me for the night, along with the rest of the watermelon Breezers, so I finish my drink and set it down on the counter, ready for the next move. We’ve been here before and I know my lines. “I’m gonna go find Hannah. I’ll see you guys later.” I wave and walk into the dining room.

  Andrew chases after me, leaving Cecilia behind. “Hey, you can take my bed tonight, okay?”

  “Aren’t you two going to need it?”

  “It’s your birthday. You’re not couching it.” He grins. “Besides, we can take the guest room. Or the shower.”

  “Please don’t put gruesome images in my head,” I say, hitting him on the shoulder in a not-so-delicate way.

  “C’mon, there’s nothing gruesome about a shower. This isn’t Psycho.”

  We discovered Hitchcock when we were twelve, stumbling upon a DVD of Strangers on a Train at the local video store. We watched it on the fuzzy TV in his basement, bringing down our sleeping bags to spend the night and pretending we weren’t scared. This led to a slew of basement movie marathons and the infamous time I peed my pants during The Birds. Now, whenever we see seagulls at the beach, or flocks of geese in the sky, he always says something infuriating about the air smelling like pee.

  Andrew breaks into an impish smile, the corner of his mouth going crooked. He motions back toward Cecilia, his voice low. “Tonight, we’ll be Strangers on a Drain.”

  “Oh, stop.”

  “I can’t wait to check out her Rear Window, if you know what I mean.”

  “I’ve got some birds for you.” I laugh, flipping both my middle fingers at him.

  Andrew waggles his eyebrows. “Tonight I’m gonna show her my Hitchco—”

  “My favorites!” Hannah crashes into us then, pulling both of us into a tight hug. “Are you guys seriously doing Hitchcock puns? If I didn’t love you both so much I would hate you right now.” Hannah’s grip is surprisingly strong because she’s been playing field hockey since sixth grade and has the muscles to prove it. A hug that almost hurts is a Hannah Choi specialty.

  “Oh no,” Andrew says, pulling out of her grasp. “If you don’t think we’re funny, then who will?”

  “That’s why you have each other,” she says, laughing and brushing the long bangs out of her eyes. Hannah has shampoo-commercial hair—black and thick and bouncy. She’s gorgeous, which doesn’t do me any favors considering I spend most of my time standing next to her.

  “Actually, he’s ditching me.” I lower my voice, nodding my head back toward the kitchen. Cecil
ia is still there, whispering now with Susie Palmer, her arms folded.

  Hannah flashes Andrew a wicked smile. “Oh, are you and Cecilia Brooks going to do each other?”

  “Yeah, probably in the shower,” I say with a grimace. “I just heard way too much about it.”

  Hannah laughs. “If anyone can handle all the gory details, it’s you.”

  “We’re not going to do each other, as you so beautifully put it,” Andrew says, all faux-offended. “Besides, it’s your birthday, Collins, so if you want to hang out instead . . .”

  He trails off, and I can tell he’s waiting for me to give him permission to ditch me. I should be annoyed, but it’s not like I didn’t know this would happen before the party even started.

  “Don’t let me hold you back from love.”

  He scratches his nose. “You sure? Hannah and I wrote you this birthday rap and we haven’t gotten a chance to—”

  “That sounds excruciating.” I laugh, practically shoving him away from me. “Just go. If you keep ignoring her and talking to us, you’ll miss your chance.” I can feel Cecilia’s glare from here like it’s a physical touch. “I have Hannah. And leftover pizza.”

  “Okay, cool,” Andrew says. “And I’m not ignoring her, you know. I’m giving her time to miss me.” He turns back to Cecilia then, flashing his stupid Party Andrew smile, and like always, it works. She comes into the dining room, sliding an arm through the crook of his elbow.

  “So, Andrew, I need a partner for beer pong. Want to play?”

  She begins to pull him as if he’s already answered her question, and he lets her drag him away. “I’ll see you two later, okay?”

  “Have fun, kids!” I wave, and he calls back to me.

  “My sheets have birds on them, Collins, so try not to wet the bed!”

  I flip him off again and hear his laugh as he leaves the room.

  “He’s disgustingly good at that,” Hannah says. “I don’t know why we’re friends with him.”

  “We’re enablers,” I agree.

  I know Andrew appreciates our help with girls, and if I asked for his help with guys, he would do the same for me; it just hasn’t ever happened. Guys don’t come up to me at parties and magically touch my shoulder. Before I can help it, an image flashes through my mind of Danielle and Chase naked and tangled together on the bed and I feel a little sick. I look around the party and try to imagine who I would approach if I could, who I would let lead me into the master bedroom like Danielle did. It occurs to me suddenly that I could do it, I could try to lose my virginity tonight, right now, on my eighteenth birthday, and then it would be over.

  But there’s nobody here I want that way. Not Chase, who knows he’s the best-looking guy in our class and acts like it. Not Jason Ryder, who acts even worse. Not Edwin Chang, who everyone knows is in love with Molly Moye, or Jarrod Price, who is pretty much always high. Definitely not Andrew, who is basically my brother and is currently wrapped around Cecilia like a winter scarf, whispering into her ear as she wriggles in his arms.

  I’ve known them all for too long—since they used to pick their noses, have farting competitions, eat melted crayons and glue. It’s hard to look past that now. I think for the millionth time about how college will be different, once I’m out of nowhere Vermont, once I get to the city and can walk down the street and be surrounded by strangers for the first time in my life—people who don’t all look and act exactly the same, who won’t know my parents or what I was like when I was ten, won’t think of me as Andrew’s best friend, as the girl Danielle tolerates—the least cool one allowed at the lunch table.

  I shake my head and loop my arm through Hannah’s. “Andrew said I’ve got dibs on his bed. Want to share the room with me?”

  “Yes. Thank God. I’ve been trying to find a spot to sleep for a while, but everyone’s claiming them. I tried to take the couch in the office and Sophie practically murdered me.”

  Here’s the thing about parties in the middle of nowhere. There’s no such thing as Uber, and you’d be an idiot to drive drunk—especially with the snow—so everyone spends the night. It’s like one giant alcohol-infused sleepover.

  Hannah and I head up the stairs, passing a wall of framed pictures from Andrew’s childhood, pictures I’ve seen a million times and am mostly in—Andrew and me on Halloween dressed as Ghostbusters, fistfuls of candy in our tiny hands; Andrew and me in middle school, blond and skinny with braces and acne, the height of our awkward phase. Hannah taps her finger on one as we pass—Andrew’s tenth birthday, when he and I got in a mud fight. We’re smiling at the camera, completely splattered.

  She grins. “Think everyone has already seen these, or is there still time to hide them?”

  “It’s too late.”

  “I can’t even tell which kid you are.” I know she’s joking, but she’s got a point; I look exactly like a boy here. But there’s no use hiding the past. If I can remember everyone picking their noses, chances are everyone remembers me like this too.

  I spent all of elementary school with Andrew. I didn’t see the need to make any other friends, not when Andrew and I biked at the same pace and could quote all the Star Wars movies by heart—even the prequels. My mom warned me of the dreaded “cootie” phase—of the day Andrew would change and decide he couldn’t be my friend. But it didn’t happen. Puberty hit and we somehow stayed friends.

  There were uncomfortable years, sure. I remember being the only girl at Andrew’s thirteenth birthday pool party and being terrified to strip down to my bathing suit, wanting desperately to join in the cannonball contest but worrying my suit would fly off or my period would start. I remember posing for pictures with him at family gatherings, our parents casually telling us to “get close together” and me not being able to breathe from the awkwardness of it. I remember the time Andrew invited me over in seventh grade and I showed up in my pajamas, not expecting a bunch of other boys to be there—cute boys from our class—and I was so mad he hadn’t warned me that I didn’t speak to him for three days.

  And then there was Andrew’s first kiss, with Sophie Piznarski at the eighth-grade dance. He pulled me outside the cafeteria to tell me, his face a confusing mixture of excitement and embarrassment. Was this kind of conversation okay? Could we talk about these things? Was it too weird?

  During those turbulent, traumatic years of frizzy hair and braces, when Andrew and I were still testing the waters, trying to figure out how to relate to each other; when he was always surrounded by other boys, and every time I tried to talk to another boy it felt like I had clay in my mouth, it was a mercy I met Hannah. She was cooler than I was, and friends with Danielle and Ava—girls who, at thirteen years old, already looked like Instagram models. She invited me to sit with her at lunch, rescuing me from tomboy obscurity and the vulgar conversations of middle school boys.

  I was worried my new group of friends would make things different with Andrew—that he’d feel weird or left out that I had a new best friend besides him, but I should have known better. The first time I hung out with both Andrew and Hannah, they bonded over a mutual obsession with Harry Potter, and soon the three of us were inseparable. They’re both Gryffindors, of course, and even though I’m a Hufflepuff, they say they love me anyway.

  At the top of the stairs we see Molly Moye making out with Edwin Chang, the two of them leaning against the door to the hall closet like they might try to climb inside. Edwin still has a bottle of beer in his hand, and it’s seriously close to spilling because he’s trying to hold it steady and grope Molly’s ass at the same time. Hannah is friends with Molly from field hockey, so we’ve hung out enough times for me to know that Edwin and Molly getting together like this is a momentous occasion, but for some reason I don’t feel like celebrating.

  “Is everyone in this house in heat?” I mutter under my breath, walking over to take the bottle out of Edwin’s hand and setting it down
on the hall table, on top of a magazine so it won’t leave a ring. He barely even notices, just gives me a quick thumbs-up, which I return, because I’m trying to act like I’m cool with everything. We edge by them into Andrew’s room, and once the door closes, I relax. The place is a mess, but it’s a mess I can clean up. The floor is strewn with laundry, and the bedsheets—green with flying ducks—are unmade and rumpled. Against one wall is the old couch I usually sleep on when I stay over. Hannah plops down on it while I sit on the bed, throwing her an extra blanket.

  “So what happened?” she asks. “I was in the basement and I heard everyone cheering.”

  So I tell her about Danielle and the crowd and the Madonna song, the word unfuckable loud over everything else, as sharp as a blade.

  “It’s just so typical.” I take off my woolly socks and flop back on the bed. “This place sucks.” I’m going to USC for college, in California, which everyone thinks is crazy, but I need to be somewhere completely new. I’m sick of Prescott—the snow, the ice, the wind so cold sometimes it feels like it’s actually eating you. All I know is I want to make movies, and Vermont is pretty bleak on that front. All we have are writers, snowboarders, and serial killers.

  Hannah is going to NYU to study art, and Andrew is going to Johns Hopkins because even though he hides it well, he’s freakishly smart. Johns Hopkins is in Baltimore, which is 2,646 miles from Los Angeles, which is 2,777 miles from New York. I’ve looked it up. Next year, we’ll just be three distant dots on a map. That’s the scariest part. I’m ready to get the hell out of Prescott, but I’ll never be ready to leave them.

  So we need to make the next few months count. All that’s left are the moments—the big memories we’ll look back on, the ones that will matter when we talk about high school twenty years from now. When school ends in June, the three of us have a plan to blast “Free Bird” from Andrew’s truck speakers and point our middle fingers to the sky as we zoom out of the parking lot—one final fuck you to everyone and everything else. I already have it planned out in my head, can picture the rest of the school year like the frames of a movie.