Authors: Emily Franklin
“So basically, I have to come clean is what you’re saying.” I secure the plastic lid and sip my latte, dread building inside where only yesterday I had felt pure excitement.
“I can’t tell you what to do.” Hanna shrugs. “But I can tell you this: no real friendship or relationship can survive too much deceit.” She pauses. “And in light of that, I should tell you that I didn’t make that up. It’s an old
Life’s a Beach
line.” She grins apologetically. “I still know the scripts. Sorry.”
“Hey,” I say back as I’m halfway out the door, “even the best of us use other people’s words.”
As if on cue, I get to the
Word
office (eight minutes late, which for a normal person is okay but for me, hyper-vigilant and punctual Cyrie, is way off base) just in time to hear Mr. Reynolds give his monthly warnings about plagiarizing.
“All I can say is—don’t!” He glances at me and then at the clock as I slide into a seat across from Leyla, who kicks me under the table as a welcome back. Linus signs
hi
and I nod to him, wondering if his crush is still intact or if he’s thought better of it by now. If someone isn’t returning your affections, how long do you let it go on, really?
“So, in closing, quote where you need to, and be original in both your wording and your choice of subject matter, and you’ll be well on your way toward the journalistic greatness we strive for.”
For which we strive,
I think, placing the preposition where it’s meant (according to my sources) to go.
The meeting continues with a rundown of all the things I’ve missed, and the spread for the week. Leyla’s voice bubbles with pride. “It’s all done. The paper’s complete. I did the layout and worked on some of the photo captions.” She looks at me, and I realize she wants my opinion.
“That’s great,” I tell her and study the pictures. She’s done exactly as she should—clear captions, names spelled correctly, exciting leads. All without my help. I swallow hard. “You’re really … you did it.” My voice lacks luster, but not because there’s anything wrong with what she’s done.
“You don’t like it?” Her face is worried.
I stand up and force myself to sound enthusiastic, when all I can do I wish I’d never turned on my computer and started the marathon back-and-forth with Eddie. Not that I started it. He did. Only, I answered. “No, no. It’s really good, Leyla. Seriously. You are really capable.”
Satisfaction spreads across her face. “Thanks.”
“Yeah, she totally pulled everything together this week.” Linus hands me a piece of paper. “That’s the printout that went home with every Weston student a few days ago. See? It even mentions the make-your-own-mix for the grab bag. We’ll email a reminder to everyone, too. But some people like to have paper, you know …” He stutters for a second and looks at me.
Is he nervous? I try to remain professional despite the myriad issues brewing. “Well, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate all the help.” I make my voice louder so everyone in the room will hear. “I hate being sick. And, well, just thanks for all the efforts to make this office run smoothly while I was gone.”
“It wasn’t easy,” Mr. Reynolds acknowledges. “What with you and Rox away.”
Hearing the mention of his name brings back his emails …
everything I’ve ever looked for, can’t you feel it? … you make me smile even when I’m sleeping.
I do my best to put on a good face.
Jill Carnegie, making one of her rare appearances, interrupts my attempts by saying, “I’m still waiting for one last, donation. Cyrie—this one might interest you.”
I turn to her as the rest of the room shuffles about their business. “Oh yeah? We could use another vacation spot.” I think about Wendy’s lakeside cabin, how pristine it is, how much I’ve always wanted to go. How I probably never will.
“This is way better than Wendy’s.” Jill smirks at me and lowers her voice just enough that she doesn’t draw attention to our conversation. She tilts her head and gives a fake smile. “The medical offices at Pinehurst—you know the ones, right?” She doesn’t wait for me to nod, but of course I do know the ones, since that’s where Dr. Schnoz is located. “Well, my father golfs with one of the dentists there …” Phew, dentists. Teeth. “And, long story short—we might get a free nose job for the auction!”
This last part she squeals out with excitement—loud enough that everyone turns to hear her, to see me hear the news—and, just as this scene is unfolding, who should walk in, just in time to take it all in, but Eddie.
Crouched over the computer screen with Linus, Leyla doesn’t see him come in, but when Mr. Reynolds calls, “Rox! Back so soon?” Leyla turns to see him. He stands there, torn, it seems, between helping me out of my jam with Jill (whose smirk is enough to warrant an anvil dropped on her head) and waltzing over to Leyla. He looks back and forth between us.
Finally, I take matters into my own hands—or mouth. “Jill, why don’t you see if you can get the doctors’ offices to donate shrink time, and that way you can bid on it and see if perhaps double sessions a week might undo some of the damage your psyche sustained when your dad decided long ago to spend more time on the golf course than with his own daughter.”
Jill’s face crumbles. Defeat. Match point—me.
Except, as soon as I’ve accomplished this, Eddie turns away from me, toward Leyla. She manages to hug him without barfing, or the aid of a ghost sheet, and then walks over to me, calling for a conference in The Heap.
“He’s back?” I ask as we huddle amidst the papers and old coffee mugs while Eddie confers with Mr. Reynolds.
She lowers her eyes and voice. “He missed me.”
He missed her. He missed her because of me. “Don’t sound so thrilled,” I tell her. I want to offer her comfort, but I can’t take my eyes off Eddie. He looks different. Not entirely changed, but something in his walk. Maybe just being apart from him makes me see him differently. Or maybe it was our exchange of words. I look at Leyla. “What?”
“You keep staring at him,” she says. She picks at her cuticles and bites a nail.
“No. It’s just—why’d … um … it’s just an adjustment being back after missing so many days.”
Leyla crosses her arms, watching me, and then watching the rest of the room. Linus calls over to her, “What do you want to do about that last piece?”
Leyla touches my shoulder. “Look, I gotta finish this. But … just talk to him, okay?”
My worry about all the emails combines with anger. “What now?”
“Jeez—don’t be so pissy. I’m covering for you,” Leyla motions to the paper. “You cover for me. Just for now.”
“What exactly am I meant to say this time?” I ask. I want the security of my warm bed, the even warmer words rolling back and forth between us.
Leyla sees Eddie look over at us and blushes. “Just tell him …” She looks at me as my own face reddens. His words. His letters. Already I know I will stay up way too late rereading everything we’ve written, stashing everything in an “old drafts” file that Leyla will never look at. I will say how I missed him, too. How she did. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
The truth is, I have lots to say to Eddie—but not as Leyla. Just as myself. And I have lots to say to Leyla, but I can’t. I’m caught in the editorial position of having expressed myself so much that I can’t edit it off the page. As Leyla catches me looking at Eddie and Linus stares at me over the top of the screen, I wonder if maybe I’m better off saying—and doing—nothing.
Luckily, the bell rings, and we are herded out of the room and off on our separate ways to class.
“S
O YOU STILL HAVEN’T
said anything?” Hanna holds thick brown paper over the windows of Any Time Now and waves her hand so I’ll give her the masking tape.
“You’re changing the decor again? So soon?” I ask, avoiding her question. I haven’t said or done anything about the “situation,” as I’ve come to think of it. Yesterday, in my last consultation with Dr. Schnoz before the big session in January, I was so distracted that I didn’t even ask to try on the latest Hollywood nose—a perfectly angled slope with tapered nostrils.
“You know what word I hate?” I continue, handing her the tape. Hanna queries me with her eyebrows.
“Nostrils,”
I tell her. “It’s such an odd sound.” She looks at me as though I’m speaking gibberish, and I shrug, distracted yet again.
Two weeks have come and gone in a muddle of homework, yoga sessions with my parents to get them off my back about said “situation” (I’ve only said that I feel “plagued” by the last of my college essay questions), and a few scattered conversations with Leyla. She’s been busy with SATs and the paper, and Linus and I have only been signing across the room. And though I’ve managed to control myself, I did check the Sumbodee email account (twice—okay, three times) and there’s nothing new there. As for Eddie, I’ve seen him around a little, and even went for an impromptu run around the track with him. With just our footsteps pounding and our breaths coming in jagged, cold bursts, it was easy to imagine that I could tell him. Admit everything. But I didn’t. We’d ended the run with a sweaty hug, but in the cold air, the heat soon turned to a chill.
“How come you’re not sticking with all the hair band fun of the late 1980s?”
“Bored with it. I need inspiration for an audition.” Hanna papers the window and the room darkens. Tables are upended, chairs stacked, props boxed up for storage.
“You’re auditioning?”
She shrugs. “No biggie. Just a pilot.”
“But you said you were done with acting—”
“And I was. Until now. At some point you gotta just come out of hiding.” She stands on a chair and looks down at me. “Which brings me back to my first question.”
“Okay, no. I didn’t say anything. I wanted to. Leyla’s just … she seems confused, too. Or maybe distracted by all her work. Did I tell you she got promoted at the paper? After I was absent she took on more responsibility. Mr. Reynolds decided she should have more control, so she’s a staff writer and head of layout.”
Hanna hops down, wearing the roll of masking tape as a bracelet. “Which is great for her. Maybe she’ll use her journalistic persona to—” she puts on a voice-over drama voice “—uncover the truth about what’s really happening at Weston High.”
“Nothing’s been happening. I mean, Leyla’s been doing her thing, I’ve been working on applications, and Eddie’s been …” I breathe in, thinking of his voice, his latest funny improv in Drama. “It’s been normal. Ish.”
“Ish.”
“Except for the fact that Leyla and Eddie hold hands in the hallways and I want to die looking at them.” I feel tears start. They well up in my eyes, but don’t spill over.
“It should be you, huh?” Hanna’s voice is soothing, her face kind.
I nod, admitting it all. “He’s in love with me.” I let out one sob. “He just thinks it’s her.” The dim light echoes in my insides. “And I just … I can’t deal with either of them because of it. I’m terrible.”
“You’re not terrible. You’re flawed. Like we all are.” Hanna nods in the paper-darkened room. “Looks like you have a chance to say something right now, if you want.”
Outside the glass front door of Any Time Now, her face blocked by the
closed
sign, is Leyla. I recognize her flats and the pink scarf that dangles down to her knees.
The pretty fall is gone now, and the cold, depressing fall is left in its place … the short days, the end of something. When I open the door and see Leyla’s face, I feel nervous.
“Hey, come on in.” Hanna leaves us to sit on two bright orange plastic chairs while she goes into the back to keep packing things up. Who knows what theme will come out next, what time period will strike her fancy.
Leyla and I sit with our feet propped on the metal railing that rims the room, carefully tilting back in our chairs. “You know I’m gonna wind up on my butt,” she says, and laughs.
“Don’t worry,” I tell her. “I’ll help you up.”
We sit in semi-comfortable quiet until Leyla puts her chair flat on the floor and sighs. “Actually, I think you’ve done that enough.”
I keep tilting, daring myself back, and look at her. “What do you mean?”
Leyla stands up, pacing. I stay seated, watching her. “The thing is … it’s just …” Her shoulders slump; she turns her face toward the floor, her voice warbling. “You did so much for me, you know? And I wish …”
I stand up, my stomach churning. Did she say something to Eddie? Of course I figured he’d mention the emails to her, but I figured she’d just assume he meant the old ones. But as I think this, I realize that maybe Leyla’s not the one who’s being slow to catch on—maybe it’s me. Maybe Leyla does read the sent messages, or the files on the account. I’m so caught up in my own feelings that I’ve underestimated the area in which she excels—knowing me.
“It’s pretty obvious.” Leyla turns to face me, her arms across her chest.
“What is?” I ask, playing dumb.
She stomps her foot. “Don’t, Cyrie.”
I pretend to study the wall, the empty spaces where the Wham! and Duran Duran posters used to be. “Just to be clear, we’re talking about—”
“You like Rox.”
“Eddie,” I say automatically, and then really wish I could pull the word back inside my mouth.
Leyla swivels, annoyed. “His name’s Rox. Everyone calls him that and you know it. And you also know by now that we’re breaking up.” Her voice loses its edge.
I watch her face for tears, but none come. “Oh, I’m sorry.” And I really am. “What can I do?”
“That’s what I’m saying,” she tells me. “You did enough. You know, I probably shouldn’t even have been with him in the first place. I mean, it’s not like we have much in common. It’s my own dumb fault for not seeing it before—all of this.”
Listening to her, I assume she means that since she got so nervous around him—nervous enough to vomit—maybe that wasn’t a good omen for a long-term relationship. HOWEVER, I suddenly think in Eddie’s all-caps, if they break up, I won’t have any reason to email Eddie anymore. Everything will go back to the way it was. Except, not. “But you like each other.”
“No,” she eyes me, face-on. “That’s what I’m saying.” She waits and clamps her mouth shut, the seconds ticking by. She points at me, which sets my insides bubbling—this is due to a lifetime of people pointing for only one reason. Leyla is going to bring up my nose, now? I wait, but she doesn’t. Instead, with her finger still outstretched, she says, “
You
like him.”