The do over, p.2
The Do-Over, page 2
The police officer got there quickly after the firemen and was relatively nice as he wrote me the citation that was sure to get me grounded.
Ugh.
Nick looked at me as the tow truck disappeared with my van. “You want a ride? I mean, we’re going to the same place and you’re dressed like that.”
I looked down at my bare legs and brown leather booties, clenching my teeth to keep them from chattering. “Like what?”
“Ridiculously.”
“Hey.”
He actually grinned at my expression. “I wasn’t impugning your fashion choices—you look very, um, polo player’s girlfriend, don’t worry. I was merely referring to your bare legs and the fact that it’s, like, twenty degrees outside. Ride? Yes?”
I swallowed and buried my frozen nose in the coat collar. It smelled like cold and motor oil. “Um, yeah. I guess.”
“You mean thank you?”
That actually made me smile a little. “Thank you so much, my amazing savior.”
“That’s more like it.”
I climbed into his truck, slammed the heavy door, and buckled my seat belt. It rumbled to a loud start before he turned off his flashers and headed in the direction of the school. Whatever angry band he had blaring from that antiquated stereo system was atrocious and way too loud.
“What is this?” I turned down the garbage music and held my frozen fingers in front of the vents that were haltingly blowing out warm air.
“If you’re referring to the music, it’s Metallica. How do you not know that?”
“Um, because I have taste and I’m not a hundred?”
That made his mouth slide into a smirk. “What is your go-to driving album, then, lab partner?”
I was currently super into Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours album but I shrugged and said, “I kind of just listen to the radio.”
“You poor, quality-music-starved girl.”
“In this instance it would be poor, unintelligible-barking-starved girl.”
“Just listen.” He cranked it back up and smiled over at me. “Their rage feels good, doesn’t it? Feel it, Bunson Burner—breathe it in.”
“I’m good.” Bunson Burner. I shook my head but couldn’t hold in the smile as the word “blackened” was grunted out by Metallica all over his truck. “I’ll just snort my own rage, thank you.”
After a minute he turned the music back down and hit his blinker as the high school approached. He moved the shifter next to the steering wheel, popping it into second gear for the turn, and I think I sounded a little too excited when I said, “This truck is three-on-the-tree?”
He crinkled his brows together. “How do you know about three-on-the-tree?”
I crossed my arms and felt kind of cool. “I know lots of things.”
His mouth went into a filthy smile. “Well, that is certainly nice to know.”
Did he think I was flirting? “I didn’t mean it like that.”
He chuckled a little huh-huh-huh laugh that was deep and rumbly.
My cheeks were burning and I said, “My dad had a car with that. Forget it.”
He pulled around to the junior parking lot. “Did he teach you how to drive it?”
“What?” I reached down and pulled my lip gloss out of my backpack.
“The car with standard transmission on the column. Did your dad teach you to drive it?”
“Nope.” I pulled down his visor and ran the wand over my mouth, remembering all the times my dad had promised to teach me but ended up getting too busy with work and the twins to actually follow through on his word.
“That’s a shame.” His truck fishtailed as he turned at the end of the first row. “Everyone should know how to drive a manual transmission.”
Yeah, they should. I flipped the visor back up and pictured the stick shift in my dad’s Porsche, the decades-old project car he’d always said would be mine when he finished it.
He’d finished it three years ago.
“By the way, did you tell your parents that your machine burned down?” He gave my phone a sideways glance, like he was waiting for me to start texting.
I looked out the window. The fact that neither of my parents had called back was nice in a way, as it postponed the immense amount of trouble I was about to be in. But it also stung a bit that they weren’t concerned about why I was contacting them when I should have been at school. Instead of explaining all those complicated emotions, I said, “No, I thought I’d save it as a surprise.”
“Good call.” He slid into a snow-packed spot, and I reminded myself that it was still Valentine’s Day. I may have lost my car and would soon be destroyed by my parents, but in a few minutes I’d be with Josh. He’d read me poetry, give me my present, I would say those magical three words, and everything else would melt away.
“Well,” I said, opening the door after he pulled to a stop and cut the engine. “Have a happy Valentine’s Day.”
“Fuck that,” Nick said, biting out the words as if I’d wished him a happy castration as he got out and slammed his door. “I fucking hate this day.”
I stepped out of the truck, took off his coat, and held it out to him when he came around. “Well, then, just have a day, I guess.”
“Sure,” he said, tossing the coat into the back of the vehicle. “Thanks.”
CONFESSION #2
I once pulled a hotel’s fire alarm because my parents were sleeping in and I wanted to get to Disneyland before there was a line to see Belle.
“Emilie, I have a note here that says you need to go to the office.” Mr. Seward, my second-hour teacher, waved a hall pass in front of his face.
“Oh.” I put down the book I wasn’t supposed to be reading, stood and grabbed my bag from the floor beside me. I’d been in the middle of a fairly intense sex scene, so my cheeks instantly got hot as I felt porn-busted.
“Oooh—Emmie’s in trouble.”
I smiled at Noah, Josh’s best friend. He was a tennis player who’d never said a single word to me until I started dating Josh. Who, coincidentally, I missed this morning because Nick and I got into school just in time for first hour. So far, this day was not going how it was supposed to.
“You know me,” I said to Noah as I shoved my book in my bag, grabbed the pass, and exited the classroom. I missed Nick Stark’s oversized jacket as I walked down the empty hallway. I’d been frozen solid since the minute I’d handed it back to him in the parking lot. I knew Josh wouldn’t have anything that utilitarian in his locker—his light-knit navy cardigan was as warm as it’d get—but I was so cold that I’d probably swing by to pick it up.
I looked down at my phone, but the only message I had was from my awful boss at work, trying to get me to come in when I wasn’t scheduled.
Not on Valentine’s Day, sir. Or Stankbreath, which is what I referred to him in my head.
Which sounded mean, but he really was awful. He’d been known to clip his fingernails in the break room, scroll through Tinder while working even though he was married, and he’d never heard of the term “personal space.” How else would I know so much about his breath?
I put the phone in my dress pocket and wondered what the office summoning was about, but I wasn’t worried. I’d just been notified the previous week that I’d won the Alice P. Hardy Excellence in Journalism High School Fellowship, so it was probably about that.
I still had to pinch myself over that one. Not only had I been accepted into the prestigious summer journalism program, where I’d get to stay in an apartment in Chicago and work alongside fifty other high school students for an entire month, but it was going to be 100 percent paid for.
I was beyond excited for the work, but even more thrilled about how good it would look on my college applications. Most of my friends didn’t care about that yet, but I was going to make sure I got into the college of my choice if it killed me.
“Hi, Emilie.” Mrs. Svoboda, the school secretary, smiled and gestured for me to go to the counseling office. “Go on back to Mr. Kessler’s office. He’s waiting for you.”
“Thanks.” I went back and lifted my hand to knock on the counselor’s half-closed office door when he bellowed, “Here she is now. Come in, Emilie.”
I walked into his office and saw the woman who’d interviewed me for the fellowship. She was sitting in a chair, holding a cup of coffee and giving me hard-core eye contact.
“Oh. Um, hi.” I hadn’t expected to see her, but I quickly recovered and went in for a firm handshake. “Nice to see you again.”
The woman—Mrs. Bowen—fumbled for my hand and looked shocked by the shake. “You too, though I wish we were meeting under better circumstances.”
Even with that warning, I didn’t expect something bad bad. I expected her to say I needed one more reference, or perhaps that it was imperative they get a headshot from me stat.
I perched on the edge of the chair in the corner. “Oh?”
“Unfortunately there was an error in the scoring of fellowship applications. It has come to our attention that some numbers were added incorrectly.”
My heartbeat picked up a little. “Which means…?”
“Which means that you actually didn’t win a fellowship.”
It sounds cliché, but I felt the blood drain from my face. Like, I felt it. I saw sparkly stars in front of my eyes and my hearing turned furry as the ramifications of her statement sunk in.
No getting far away for the summer.
No prestigious program to list on my college applications.
Being left behind while Josh attended his prestigious summer program.
No Northwestern.
“Emilie?” Mr. Kessler narrowed his eyes and looked like he was afraid I was going to faint. As if. There were a hundred things I felt like doing at that moment—most of them violent—and fainting wasn’t one of them.
I tucked my hair behind my ears and worked for a polite smile. “So that’s the final and confirmed tally, then?”
Mrs. Bowen’s lips turned down and she nodded. “We are so terribly sorry.”
“Well.” I shrugged and smiled. “What can you do, right? These things happen. I appreciate the opportunity.”
The woman tilted her head, like she couldn’t believe I wasn’t freaking out. Trust me, lady, I’ve learned that freaking out never changes a thing. She added, “I just cannot apologize enough, Emilie.”
“I understand.” I cleared my throat and stood. “Thank you for letting me know.”
I left with my head held high and went straight to the bathroom. I hated crying, but there was a huge ball of devastation sitting right on top of my sternum that threatened to knock me over if I didn’t take a minute.
I texted both of my parents and neither of them responded.
It was so undignified, sitting fully clothed on a toilet and crying, but it was just such a blow. Everything I’d been working toward might’ve just been ripped out of my hands.
Because when the topic of college was first broached after the divorce, my parents were very clear that if I planned on going away to school, I was going to have to find scholarships. The dissolution of their marriage had apparently wreaked havoc on their savings, what with all the fighting through lawyers and such, so there was nothing set aside for my education.
I’d taken that to heart and dedicated myself to educational excellence. Since that fateful conversation, I’d earned all As, thrown myself into writing for the school newspaper, and I’d taken the ACT five times even though my score had been exemplary the first time.
Every little point counted, after all.
But in order to go somewhere like Northwestern—my dream school—without my parents bankrolling the excursion, I needed perfection. Impeccable extracurriculars, letters of recommendation, a plethora of volunteer hours. I needed everything.
And even with those, I might still fall short.
The other thing that I didn’t like to admit to myself was that I didn’t want Josh to beat me. We had the same GPA—the same weighted 4.4 GPA—and it irked me when he pulled ahead. I couldn’t stand the smug look that crossed his face when he was winning, and if Josh was doing better than me, affection was not the feels coming over me.
I spent a few more minutes getting control of my emotions before I wiped at my eyes and stood. It was Valentine’s Day, dammit. I was going to soak up every glorious minute of that and not think about the rest until tomorrow.
There were two more written-in-red events left on my to-do list—gift exchange and saying those three big words. I was going to throw myself into checking off those boxes and forgetting the rest.
CONFESSION #3
I have a perfect fake ID.
Between classes, I stopped at Josh’s friend Blake’s locker to ask if he’d seen my boyfriend. I’d yet to connect with him in person on Valentine’s Day, and I desperately needed to see his face. There was no way for us to have the perfect day I’d planned if we weren’t together.
Blake was leaning against the wall and texting when I said, “Have you seen Josh? He’s usually hanging out in the commons between classes but I don’t see him anywhere.”
“Nah.” He looked over my head, appearing—as always—like he didn’t even see me. I’d never figured out if Blake hated me or if I scared him, and it drove me to distraction. Chris always said I had serious issues with needing people to like me, and I always considered him to be wrong except for when I was in the presence of Blake.
He said, “No idea where he is.”
“Oh. Well, thanks.” I turned away and felt silly just for existing. Blake was one of those guys that made you feel that way.
I first met Josh when we were both selected to be tutors for the Math Lab. We showed up in the counselors’ office at the exact same minute, and I almost swallowed my tongue when he smiled and held the door for me. I knew who he was, but then again, who didn’t?
Josh was the It boy of the educational excellence crowd.
Not only was he a ringer for that swoony actor whose name was spelled Timothee with two Es, but he had his life together. Debate, DECA, Mock Trial—he wasn’t just in those activities, he was the best at them.
And he knew it.
Josh had the confident swagger of one who was wholly positive that he knew more than everyone else in the room. He casually referenced Shakespeare and Steinbeck while discussing daily nothings, he could often be found conversing with teachers in empty classrooms during passing periods, and he dressed like he was already a college professor, right down to the good leather accessories.
I’d been sucked in by his smile, but it was his ability to thoroughly analyze Titus Andronicus that made me fall for him. Most people hadn’t read my favorite (and most brutal) Shakespearian play, but it was his favorite as well. We bantered for a solid twenty minutes about Titus and Tamorah and the hellscape that’d been patriarchal Rome, and he’d been so perfectly perfect for me that I’d gone for it. I’d smiled and asked him if he wanted to study with me after school at Starbucks.
I’d had to call in sick to work in order to make it happen for us, but I’d known it would be worth it. Because, in every way, Josh was the perfect guy for me.
I was moping my way to my locker when I had an idea. What if I left Josh’s gift on the front seat of his car? Mr. Carson usually let him ditch study hall to go on a coffee run next period, so this way I wouldn’t have to stand there feeling awkward while he opened it because I wouldn’t be there. And once he saw my amazing present for him, he would rush to find me and give me mine.
I snuck out the side door and headed for his car, a 1959 MG coupe that he’d restored with his dad and loved more than life itself. Made him feel very James Bond. Only when I got close, close enough to touch the hood ornament, I saw—
What? I squinted into the bright February sun and looked through his windshield. Josh was in his car, sitting behind the steering wheel. But he wasn’t alone.
He was facing someone on the passenger seat. All I could see through the windowed reflection was long blond hair. Which happened to be the defining feature of Macy Goldman, the stunningly beautiful girl he’d gone out with before me. The engine turned on and made me literally jump as I stood there staring.
My stomach felt heavy, even as I told myself they were just friends. He was going on a coffee run, and she probably wanted coffee too, and was riding along to help him bring it all back.
I was about to walk over and knock on the window when it happened. I was standing there with that box in my hand, that box wrapped up in bright red heart wrapping paper, when she leaned closer to him and brought her hands up to his face.
Frozen, I watched as she held his cheeks in her palms, and then kissed him. My breath stopped in my chest as the moment held—Push her away, push her away, please, Josh—and then.
Then.
As I stood there in the freezing parking lot, gripping Josh’s present, he kissed Macy back.
“NO!”
I hadn’t realized I’d said it out loud until their heads jerked apart and they both looked at me. Josh immediately threw open his door, but I wasn’t sticking around to talk. I turned and headed back toward the building.
“Em, wait!”
I could hear his footsteps, and then his hand was on my arm, stopping me. He turned me around, and I blinked back tears and managed to say, “What?”
Josh ran a hand through his hair, looking confused. “She kissed me, Em!” His breath puffed in front of his face as he spoke quickly. “I’m sure it looked awful, but I swear on my life. She kissed me.”
He had tears in his eyes, too, and I wanted to punch him in the mouth. I was supposed to be saying I love you, yet her lip gloss was on his mouth.
“You have to believe me, Em.”
“Get away from me,” I said through gritted teeth, turning and leaving him behind in the parking lot.
CONFESSION #4
I once stuck a flyswatter into a neighbor’s oscillating fan, just to see what would happen. It blew apart.
