Anything to Have You

“Basically you are. Because it was James ‘the Dickwad’ Reed, and I’m pretty sure anyone who hooks up with him is entitled to be in denial about doing so.”

“Truth. But still. I’m not looking for someone to hook up with. And even if I was, I am not going to meet him at a Bethesda bar. Plus it’s creepy. If a guy is old enough to drink legally and wants to hook up with me, he’s weird already. I’m not into pedophiles.”

“Oh, really, you’re not into—Natalie, come on. This is a three-to four-year difference I’m talking about here!”

“Eh. Still.”

“Look, I know you’re into being all independent and everything, with your reading and listening to records while you knit scarves or whatever you do instead of having a social life—”

“I don’t knit. I just can knit.”

“In an argument where you’re trying to say that you don’t need to be more social, do you really think the sentence ‘I just can knit’ is going to win?”

“I am social! I’m out right now!”

“Nat...you know I don’t count. It was only about a month ago that I invited you to a party and you said you couldn’t come because you were busy, and I came over to force you, and I found you in an apron, cooking...whatever it was called.”

“Coq au vin. It was delicious, thank you very much. And as you pointed out, winter is cold. Coq au vin is hot.”

“You’re basically a middle-aged woman. Worse than that, you’re like a middle-aged woman suffering from empty-nest syndrome. You are too young, Natalie, to be spending your nights working your way through Julia Child’s cookbook.”

I shrugged. “What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to say that you will make an effort for the next few months. Not only is it senior year, but it’s our last opportunity to do this stuff together. I don’t know where either one of us is going to be next year for sure—I’ll probably be in stupid Pennsylvania—but I know we won’t be together. And I really miss my partner in crime.”

I had nothing to say back. Brooke was rarely affectionate or sweet, and these were not the moments to argue with her.

“Especially prom,” she added, grabbing my wrist and shaking it. “Prom, prom, prom. You haven’t been to homecoming or prom since sophomore year, and I admit that it was lame that year.”

“Brooke, are you asking me to prom?” I smiled wryly at her. “The answer is yes, a million times yes!”

Instead of laughing, she looked sad. “Look, it’s not only about you having the high school experience. It’s also that mine isn’t complete without you there. Please come out more.”

In a way, I knew she was right. I should go to events like prom and all that...but I never fit in at any of those must-do high school events. I used to go to big parties, and for me the experience was uncomfortable. All the girls waltzing around in too much makeup and crop-tops they couldn’t pull off because of the beer gut they already had, and the guys flexing their arm muscles and puffing out their chests. People either acted drunker than they were, or they’d had way too much and were trying to seem sober. Any conversation you had would likely be forgotten by the morning, and any hookup you had you’d hope to forget by then. There had been a brief moment where I didn’t hate it, but I’d walked away from my Reed mistake and suddenly had seen it all with new eyes.

The top five things you hear at a party:

1. “I am so fucked up.”

2. “Who brought her?”

3. “I think I’m gonna vomit.”

4. “I am way too high right now. No, seriously, I think I’m having a heart attack.”

a) Fun subcomment: “Can I get in trouble if I’m high and go to the emergency room?”

5. “Ugh, I’m gonna be so hungover.”

And then a lot of happy squealing matched only by weepy couple-fights.

But I did miss hanging out with Brooke. We used to have fun at some of those parties together.

“Fine.”

“You mean it?” Her face lit up.

“Yes, but you’re not She’s All That–ing me and taking off my glasses, straightening my hair and putting me in your clothes.”

“Of course not.”

“And you’re not going to then stand back, cross your arms and nod while the guy of my dreams double-takes at how gorgeous I’ve become.”

“I know,” she said, patting my back and leading me into the restaurant.

“Because in the end, it will turn out he liked me best before I got the makeover, anyway, so it’s really a waste of time.”

She shook her head, smiling. “You’re lucky you’re so attractive already, because you are a freaking weirdo.”

CHAPTER TWO

IT WAS AN awful, bright kind of cold out today, only made worse by the sea of red and pink that I had been swimming in. I know it tends to be mostly bitter people who say they don’t care about Valentine’s Day, but I...really don’t. It’s dumb. I’ll take burgers and fireworks over heart-shaped candies and roses any day.

I sat on a table outside of school at the end of the day, wearing no color that came close to pink, and checked the time on my phone. Fifteen minutes since the bell rang. I’d known I would be waiting, so I already had headphones in and was listening to my fifties doo-wop playlist. I sighed and sipped from the aluminum water bottle I had filled up.

I felt a tap on my shoulder and nearly spat the water out.

I turned to see Aiden Macmillan, Brooke’s long-term, for-serious, if-they-get-married-they’ll-be-the-definition-of-high-school-sweethearts boyfriend. The one with whom she considered herself to be in a “stale” relationship.

I took out my earbuds and scooted over. “Aiden, hi, sorry.”

“It’s all good. What are you listening to?”

“Um, the Fleetwoods right now.”

“Ah, your doo-wop playlist.”

“That’s the one.”

“That kinda day, I guess.”

“Yes, the doo-wop in the temperature put me in the mood.” I nudged him with my elbow.

“Oh, man,” he said. “That was bad even for you.”

“Shut up!”

“Just kidding. No Valentine’s roses today?”