The Best Laid Plans Page 9

  Who do you want it to be?

  My cheeks redden and I feel my breath quicken. I pick up the phone and wait, unsure what to say. He writes again.

  So how does Keely spend her Saturday nights?

  There’s a pause and I stare at the “. . .” on the screen that means he’s still typing, trying to calm my racing heart. I save his number into my contacts as James Dean, grinning stupidly. He texts again.

  I bet you’re on a date

  “Who are you texting?” Hannah asks from next to me. “You’re so red right now.” She reaches over and grabs the phone from my hands, which are too sweaty to hold on. “Oh my god, James Dean. He finally texted you? This is amazing!” She sits up, folding her legs under her and tucking a lock of black hair behind her ear.

  Danielle and Ava sit up too.

  “Wait, who is that?” Ava asks. “A guy from your work?”

  Hannah shows them the texts.

  “Dude, he’s really into you.” Danielle reaches over to take the phone.

  “No he isn’t,” I answer automatically, shoving the idea away before I can latch on to it. I can’t let my hopes rise like that. It’s easier not to care.

  “No, seriously,” she says, scrolling up. “He texted you three times in a row.”

  “What do I say?” I ask, my face somehow getting even redder.

  “What guy is this?” Ava asks. “There are rules to these things. You have to wait at least ten minutes. And no exclamation points. Ever. Enthusiasm is way too desperate.”

  “You know who he is, actually,” Hannah answers. “We saw him at Dunkin’ Donuts. The morning after, well.” She clears her throat and looks at Danielle before continuing. “After Andrew’s party.”

  “I REMEMBER HIM!” Ava shrieks, almost spilling the bottle of nail polish in her hand. “Cheekbones for days.”

  “He went to EVmU, right?” Danielle asks.

  “Yeah, he’s a junior,” I answer.

  “Oh,” she says. “Interesting.” She hands the phone back to me with a blank expression.

  “What?” I grab for it, relieved to have his messages back in my possession. “Do you know him or something?” I think about how she almost approached him but then changed her mind at the last second.

  “No, it’s nothing.” She shrugs and rummages through the box of nail polish.

  “What?” I ask again. “Just say it.”

  She grabs a little bottle of black nail polish and then looks up at me.

  “It’s just . . . well . . . he’s in college and he’s probably been with his fair share of girls. I mean, he looks like a model.”

  “What, are you saying I’m not good enough for him?”

  “Keely, you’re beautif—” Hannah begins to say, but Danielle speaks over her.

  “You’re a virgin. That matters.” She shrugs. “He doesn’t know, obviously, so he’s probably trying to sleep with you and turn you into a steady hookup. But if you tell him you’re a virgin, it could only go two ways: he’ll be weirded out and lose interest, or he’ll take your virginity and never speak to you again. Neither of those are good scenarios.” It’s blunt, but it sounds true, and it’s completely discouraging. “I just doubt he wants to teach you how to have sex. He’s got too many options to be interested in that.”

  “You don’t know him,” I say sharply. “What if he actually likes me? What if he wants to do things the old-fashioned way?” Three faces stare back at me blankly. Danielle begins to laugh.

  “You’re saying this hot college guy, who probably has his pick of every girl on campus, suddenly starts texting you, and wants to take you out for a nice steak dinner? Do you want him to give you a promise ring? Maybe you guys can hold hands and then after you can write about it in your diary.” She’s still holding the unopened bottle of black nail polish in her hands and she shakes it as she speaks, the click click click emphasizing every word. “Sorry, Collins, it has nothing to do with you. You’re totally datable. It’s just—a guy like James Dean doesn’t want to date anyone.”

  I sigh and look down at my phone. “Well, I need to answer him. It’s been too long.”

  Ava clicks her tongue. “The longer you make him wait, the more he’ll sweat.”

  “Give me the phone.” Danielle sets the nail polish aside, her hands still dry. Then she holds her palm out to me.

  “Wait, what are you going to say?” I drop the phone into her hand, hesitant.

  “You just have to come across as more experienced,” she says, typing something onto the screen and then turning it to me.

  I’m on a date, but it’s kinda boring

  She presses SEND and we all inhale at the same time, staring at the phone. Danielle puts it down on the rug in the middle of us and we don’t speak, willing it to vibrate. After three tense minutes, it does, and we all lunge for it. Danielle reaches it first.

  “Let me have it!” I say.

  “What does it say?” Ava says, her hands wet with nail polish. “Someone show me!”

  We’re having a party tonight. You should come by when you’re done. I promise not to be boring

  We let out a collective shriek. I feel a nervous excitement bubbling up inside of me. There’s no mistaking the tone of this text. Some part of him is interested in me. Maybe he felt the same energy I did the other day in the break room. Maybe his knee on mine was on purpose after all.

  “You have to go to the party,” Danielle says.

  “I can’t go to a college party,” I say immediately. “I don’t even like high school parties.” I feel like a pent-up ball of energy—like I need to jump or scream or run around the room.

  “Your parents already think you’re sleeping over at my house, so you have no excuse.” Danielle types a response.

  Maybe. I don’t know how late I’ll be. What’s the address?

  He answers almost immediately.

  415 Maplewood Ave. Don’t bring your date. I want you all to myself

  “And that’s how it’s done.” Danielle drops the phone onto the rug. “Let’s get ready.” She stands up and begins rummaging through her closet. “I know I have something perfect in here for all of us.”

  “Wait, all of us?” I ask, a sinking feeling creeping into my stomach.

  Danielle turns back to me and rolls her eyes. “You don’t think I’m going to let you go to this party by yourself, do you? You’ll get eaten alive.”

  “College party!” Ava squeals, running over to the closet, her boobs bouncing with every jump. I feel my stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with the Chinese food.

  ELEVEN

  DANIELLE LIVES RIGHT by the west end of campus, only a few blocks away from the EVmU pool and track. When we look up Dean’s address and find out it’s walking distance, it feels like it’s meant to be. And yet the walk is not easy or pleasant because Danielle has dressed us all in heels—sparkling, sequined, five-inch monsters.

  Ava has put on two bras—a sports bra over her everyday push-up bra, so her boobs are hoisted to her chin, her tiny frame overpowered by cleavage. I refused to wear a short skirt like the others, and Danielle eventually relented and let me wear my jeans on the condition that I borrow one of her bras and lacy black crop tops. My stomach is more exposed than it’s ever been, and the air feels chilly against my skin. Still, the cold stomach is nothing compared to the feet. My feet are a half size smaller than Danielle’s, so they’re slipping and sliding in the torture shoes and rubbing in all the worst ways.

  “This is what everyone wears,” Danielle hisses when I complain. “I’ve been going to frat parties since birth. Deal with it.”

  “Yeah, everybody calm down,” Ava says, even though her complaints about being cold have been our steady soundtrack for the la
st twenty minutes.

  Hannah did my makeup tonight for the party, keeping it simple like I requested—just eyeliner, mascara, and a touch of lip gloss, which feels sticky and tastes like cotton candy. My hair is in soft waves, curling down my back. I have to admit I feel . . . pretty. Pretty, but not myself.

  We turn down Maplewood Ave. and pass some grad student housing, a convenience store, and a few fraternity houses, their yards scattered with the debris of old parties—red cups, destroyed cardboard beer cases, a Slip ’N Slide that looks frozen solid. There are a few guys outside in the yard, and I automatically fold my arms over my stomach, trying to hide myself. Someone whistles as we walk by, and Danielle flips her hair over her shoulder, looking back at the frat guys with a smile.

  We stop at the end of the street and I check the address.

  “I think this is it. 415 Maplewood.”

  The house is white and slightly run-down, peeling paint and scattered trash. There’s a faint thump of music coming from inside and a murmur of voices, too quiet to understand.

  “Were we supposed to bring something?” I ask no one in particular, an overwhelming sense of anxiety filling me.

  “Like what?” Hannah asks.

  “I don’t know.” I tap my phone against my palm. “Like a ham?”

  “No one brings a ham to a party.”

  “No,” I say, “I mean, like, a housewarming gift. Something to eat. Cheese and crackers?”

  “This is why you have us.” Danielle pats my shoulder.

  “Should I text him?” I look back down at my phone. What’s the proper protocol for attending a party where you only know one person?

  “Let’s just go in,” Ava says, walking purposefully across the lawn and up the front steps. She pulls on the door handle but it doesn’t move. “It’s locked.”

  I take a deep breath and type a quick text.

  I’m outside

  We wait just a moment. There’s a clicking sound as the lock slides over and the door opens, and then Dean is illuminated in the door frame. Tonight’s shirt says SPIELBERG. He’s smiling in a relaxed, easy way, and I can tell he’s been drinking. He looks both surprised and happy to see me.

  “You made it!” He brings me into a hug, and I die a little bit at the contact. He holds on a moment too long to be casual, before pulling back and finally noticing the others. “Oh, there are more of you!”

  “Yeah, sorry. I brought friends,” I say, feeling my cheeks warm. “I hope that’s okay.” Why didn’t it occur to me to ask?

  “Yeah, it’s cool. Come in.” He ushers us into the hallway, where it’s bright and warm. There’s a pile of sneakers by the door and I start taking off my heels, thankful I can finally be rid of them, but Danielle gives me a sharp look and continues down the hall, so I leave them on. It smells faintly like stale beer and marijuana smoke, something earthy and rotten, and as we walk, my heels stick to the floor.

  “So I live here with my buddy Cody,” Dean says, turning back to me. “We were in the dorms together freshman year.” He leads us into the living room to where a group of about twenty people are gathered. I realize immediately that we’re wearing the wrong thing. It’s all sweaters, sweatpants, and flannel shirts, like everyone is trying so hard to look like they don’t care. I can see the contempt in their shadowy eyes, pierced lips puckered like something tastes sour. I fold my arms, feeling exposed, wishing I brought a sweater to cover my bare back and shoulders.

  “I thought this is what everybody wears at frat parties,” Hannah hisses under her breath. She’s in a crop top too, showing off her toned stomach.

  “Yeah, well, this isn’t a frat party, is it?” Danielle hisses back. Dean motions us toward a skinny black guy on the couch, who’s rolling a joint on the cover of a History of Film textbook. He has thick horn-rimmed glasses and a knit beanie.

  “Hey, Cody, this is the girl I told you about from work.”

  I feel myself flush, pleased to be referred to in such a way. The girl I told you about.

  “Hey, dude!” Cody says, nodding his head. Dean motions to the girls behind me.

  “And this is . . . well.” He notices Hannah and his eyes brighten. “I know you. You came into the store.”

  “Hannah,” she says, giving a little curtsy. Ava plops down on the couch next to Cody, her skirt riding up as she crosses her legs.

  “I’m Ava. You’re cute.”

  Cody lets out a surprised gust of air, smiling wide to show his teeth.

  “Oh, really? I like you.” He looks back at Dean. “I like her.”

  Danielle grabs Ava’s arm, pulling her back up off the couch. “Don’t be so obvious. Let’s go get a drink. Dean, right?” Danielle gives Dean a glittery smile. “Do you have anything to drink?” It makes me nervous. She’s the one guys are supposed to stare at. Why would Dean want me if he could have her?

  “Yeah, sure,” he says. “Follow me.”

  “Hold up!” Cody puts a finger in the air to pause us, then lifts the joint off the table, rolling it between his fingers. “I’m coming with.”

  Dean walks toward the kitchen and we all follow. He grabs four cans of Bud Light out of the fridge, handing them to each of us. Then he grabs a fifth can and throws it to Cody, who catches it one-handed and cracks open the top with one fluid motion.

  I open my own can and take a hesitant sip, trying not to crinkle my nose at the taste. Like always, it tastes like pee. I wish I’d taken Andrew more seriously when he tried to teach me to drink beer. I wish Andrew were here with me now. I’d definitely be freaking out a lot less.

  Dean turns to me, leaning forward to speak in a soft voice.

  “I have something special for you.” His voice fills me with warmth.

  “Really?”

  He pulls back from my ear and smiles. “Yeah, come to my room for a sec.” Before I can answer, he turns away from the kitchen and heads down the hall. I follow, throwing a glance back to my friends, who are all grinning stupidly. Ava gives me a thumbs-up. Danielle pulls her phone out of her purse and texts something. I feel my phone buzz in my pocket a moment later and glance at it.

  Cool, confident, and experienced, remember? Don’t blow it . . . Or maybe do

  Dean walks through his bedroom door and I follow him in, pocketing my phone before he can see it. His room is pretty bare, just a worn dresser and a bed in one corner, sheets unmade and rumpled. There’s a framed poster of The Bicycle Thief on one wall and a Pink Floyd poster on the other, the one with the row of naked women’s backs. A laundry basket sits in the corner, clothes piling out of it and onto the floor. He walks over to a cabinet in his closet and pulls out a bottle of whiskey. It has a seal of red wax at the top.

  He holds it up for me. “I know you like whiskey.”

  “Oh,” I say, surprised. I clear my throat. “Yeah, I do.” Danielle’s text is etched into my mind: cool, confident, and experienced.

  “This is Maker’s Mark. Each individual bottle is sealed with wax by hand, so they’re all unique.” He moves a finger down the red wax at the top of the bottle. “Pretty cool, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You wanna break it open?”

  He hands me the bottle and I hold it gingerly, afraid I’ll drop it. I have no idea how to break open the wax seal. I reach into the purse hanging from my shoulder and dig around for my house key. Pulling it out, I run the jagged edge down the side of the wax. Dean takes the bottle from me, folding my fingers forward so the key is closed in my palm.

  “There’s a tab,” he explains. “You just pull it.” He grabs ahold of the tab and the wax peels away, exposing a normal bottle top underneath. “That was a diligent effort though.” I feel my cheeks warm and stuff the key back into my bag. He brings the bottle up to his lips and takes a sip, then hands it back over to me. “Cheers, work buddy.”

&nb
sp; I hold my breath and take a small sip. When I breathe out I feel a rush of heat flood my chest. The taste is just as bad as I remember it—sweet and chemical at the same time. Do people actually like the taste of whiskey or is everyone just pretending?

  “So how was your date?” Dean asks once I swallow.

  “My date?” I ask, and then remember the text Danielle sent. “Right, my date.” I take another sip of whiskey just to stall. “I mean, like I said before, it was boring.” I’m trying to think of something to say, but of course I’ve drawn a huge blank. For a second my mind flashes to Andrew, the silly comment I made to him in art class, and then the worst possible answer falls out of my mouth. “He wouldn’t stop talking about . . . cheese.”

  “Cheese,” Dean says, the corner of his mouth turned up. “Really?”

  “Yup. He lives on a cheese farm. I mean . . . dairy farm. I mean, cows. You know how it is around here with all the cows.” Oh my god. My brain is actually malfunctioning. Dean’s eyes are twinkling with amusement and I know he’s enjoying witnessing my slow death. I point at his chest, trying to change the subject. “So what’s the deal with your shirts?”

  He looks down. “They’re all movie directors.”

  “Well, obviously,” I say, glad we’ve moved past my conversational glitch. “I mean, do you make them?”

  “Dress for the job you want, not the job you have,” he answers, which isn’t really an answer at all. But I get what he means.

  “You should make a Hitchcock one,” I say, filled with an overwhelming desire to touch him in some way.

  “He’s your favorite, right?”