Cherry (18 page)

“Yeah. You're super weird about expectations.”

“To be fair, I'm super weird about a lot of things, but, in particular,
yes
, expectations freak me out.” Emma got lost for a moment in all of the thoughts swirling around her head. She didn't know
why
expectations freaked her out so much or if Nick's expectations were actually real or if she was just projecting her own feelings onto him or whether it was normal for high school kids to think about “projecting their feelings” or if that was only something Emma thought about because her father was a therapist . . . and all her thoughts started to blend together until Emma couldn't tell where one stopped and the next one began . . .

Finally, Savannah's smile caught her eye.

“What?” Emma asked uncertainly.

“Just trying to figure out how many thoughts you're having at the same time. I can practically see all the gears moving in that pretty little head of yours.”

“Then you must know that the inside of my head is anything but pretty . . .”

“Well, aesthetically speaking, the brains and blood are rather gross, but they're also incredibly complex and beautiful, so I think ‘pretty' is a totally accurate description.”

“Twelve,” Emma answered. “I think it's safe to say that I'm
always having twelve distinct thoughts at any one time, give or take.”

“I'll take it,” Savannah said, still smiling.

Good
, Emma thought.

She'd take it too. Whatever
it
was.

LAYLA
had never been particularly good at falling asleep.

Once she fell asleep, she had no problem staying there, but turning her brain off in the first place was nearly impossible. This past week had been even more problematic than usual. She simply could not keep her head in the moment. Her thoughts would get so far ahead of her actual life, racing into the future, that she constantly had to remind herself to return to reality . . .

Her phone buzzed.

There was a new text from Logan
: 4 DAYS!!!!

Four was Layla's lucky number, and their V-card/V-day date was now only four days away.

Under normal circumstances, Layla would've loved everything about the text message: the number, the symbolism, the way Logan used the appropriate number of exclamation points. But tonight all her thoughts and fears and hopes and dreams were running on overdrive.

She didn't
know what to text back exactly, but she wanted to say
something
, so she responded with a red heart emoji. Normally, Layla didn't like emojis, because she thought they were easily misinterpreted, but in this moment she could see the upside to ambiguity, to allowing the other person to interpret the communication in their own way.

Can't. Wait.
He texted back
Can't stop thinking about it . . .

Layla couldn't stop thinking about it either, but she was pretty sure that her thoughts and Logan's were remarkably different.

She was thinking about emotions and logistics and rami­fications.

Last time I fingered you, you got so wet . . .
Logan texted.

Clearly, he was thinking about that.

Layla couldn't exactly blame him.

She realized it might've been stranger if he
weren't
thinking about that sort of thing . . . but it made her realize that all the sex stuff was just different for boys.

Logan imagined it would feel good.

Layla was worried it would hurt.

Logan had good reason to assume that there would be fireworks.

Layla had already lowered her expectations accordingly.

Logan knew his friends would be impressed that he finally did it.

Luckily, Layla knew that her friends would be supportive of her, too, but if any of the other kids at school heard about it, they'd
probably look at them both differently, even though they were doing the exact same thing together at the exact same time.

You're the hottest and the best and I love you!!
Logan texted when Layla didn't respond to his last message about the last time he fingered her.

Same and same and I love you too!!!
Layla texted back, adding a bunch of exclamation points—but not so many as to look like she was overcompensating. Layla obviously spent a ton of time thinking about anything and everything, but she laughed at herself as she tried to calculate what percentage of that thinking time was dedicated to typing and/or analyzing her text message conversations. Far too much, she concluded.

Then Logan texted that he was going to sleep.

Layla wished she could say and do the same, but her brain still wasn't tired yet.

Actually, her brain was
exhausted
, but it wasn't ready to turn off. Layla couldn't stop thinking about the importance of the number four and the V-card/V-day and the sex and the fireworks and how those last two thoughts were very much not the same thing. And
then
all she could think about was how her first time was going to be anticlimactic and firework-less, which was an extremely unhelpful and unsexy thought to be having before it even happened.

It was literally the opposite of orgasmic.

Layla knew that the odds of setting off fireworks the very first time she had sex were about as likely as spotting a unicorn in the wild, but she still hated the unwavering
feeling that the outcome had already been decided for her. Like, no matter what happened, no matter what she did or what Logan did or what they managed to do together, it wouldn't be as good as she wanted it to be. Not even close.

Maybe the truth was that
nothing
would ever be as good as she wanted it to be—but that couldn't possibly mean that she shouldn't try. And Layla wasn't just thinking about sex, of course. Life was full of expectations and failures, but Layla knew she still had to try.

But, at the very same time, she also had to be prepared to fail and try again and fail again no matter what she was doing or when she was doing it . . . and then just like that, as always, her thoughts were racing off into the future.

She was powerless to stop them.

She could barely even keep up with them.

ZOE
hadn't spoken to Dylan since he saw her in her bra that night at the party.

He'd been sick, apparently, and going to bed early, and she'd been distracted by Austin, but that didn't mean she didn't want to talk to Dylan, too. She couldn't remember the last time they'd had a real phonefall. “Why aren't we talking?” Zoe asked Wednesday night once she finally managed to get Dylan on the phone.

“What? We're talking. We're literally talking right now.”

“I mean, for real. The phonefalls . . .”

“Oh. I don't know . . . ,” Dylan said as if he hadn't even noticed. But Zoe was sure he had. The last time she saw him, she had only been wearing a bra, and she was very sure he'd noticed
that
as well. “I don't want to get in Austin's way,” Dylan added.

“You're not. I swear. He goes to sleep early. And I really don't think he would care anyway.” Dylan didn't
respond right away. “What am I missing?” Zoe pushed again. “How many girlfriends have you had since Chem? Six? Seven?”

“Five.”

“Five, right, and I—
we
—outlasted all of them.” Dylan didn't respond to that right away either. “You had no problem making me talk to you then—”

“Okay, Zoe, I'm so sorry I
made
you talk to me—”

“Stop it. You know that's not what I'm saying—”

“I don't, actually . . .”

Zoe took a breath, forcing herself to pause for a second. “Look. I like falling asleep on the phone with you. And maybe
that's
weird, but it's how we've always been. Ever since we became friends. And that doesn't have to do with Austin. Or it shouldn't, anyway. But if you don't want to do this anymore . . . I mean, obviously you're
allowed
to say that—”

“Am I? Thank you for the permission,” Dylan said, sounding like an asshole.

“Whatever, Dylan. I'm just saying, be honest with me—”

“I am being honest—”

“No, you're not. You're blaming Austin. You're blaming me. If
you
don't want to talk to me in bed anymore, then you need to just say that.”

“I don't want to talk to you in bed anymore.”

Dylan's words were quick and sharp. Zoe let them hang on the phone line for a moment, engulfing the entire conversation in silence. But it wasn't their normal, comfortable
kind of silence. This felt decidedly different, and Zoe didn't like it at all.

“Why not?” she asked, even though she could sense that Dylan wasn't ready to answer that. “Is it just because I have a boyfriend?”

“I don't know.” Zoe could hear the honesty in Dylan's voice. He was just as confused as she was, but it still hurt. “But I know I don't want to do this right now,” he added.

And that hurt even more.

“Okay,” was all Zoe could manage to say before she hung up the phone.

She didn't give Dylan a chance to backtrack or say “sorry” or even just soften the blow. She knew him well enough to know that he wasn't going to, and she didn't want to waste any more time waiting for him to say something she wanted to hear.

She'd spent too many years doing that already.

LAYLA
was in charge of the senior class's red carnation table.

Every year the student council sold red carnations on Valentine's Day in order to raise money for a local food pantry. Each flower cost a dollar. Students could buy as many flowers as they wanted, and then student council members would deliver them to the lucky recipients in their classes throughout the day. The whole thing was a giant undertaking requiring lots of organization and careful planning. Basically, it was Layla's dream come true.

Layla spotted Zoe as she got off the school bus. Zoe waved at Layla but seemed hesitant to come over to the carnation table and actually say hi. Layla knew why. Zoe wasn't a big fan of Valentine's Day. She was scared from too many years of adolescent disappointment. Too many years of not having a valentine. But Layla already knew that this year was going to be different.

“What's up, Zo?”
she asked loudly, giving Zoe no choice but to head over. As Zoe approached, Layla held up one red carnation. “For you . . .”

“Aw,” Zoe said, mimicking Layla's standard response to anything even mildly cute or sentimental. “You shouldn't have.”

“I didn't. There's no pink slip, but it's not from me, I swear.”

Whenever someone bought a flower, they had the option of filling out a pink slip of paper to go along with it. They could write a note, simply sign their name, or choose to remain anonymous. Most people went the anonymous route. Layla wasn't going to break protocol, not even for Zoe, but she hoped Zoe would suddenly be able to read her mind and figure it out.

Zoe's entire face lit up as she realized that—for the very first time—a boy had sent her a Valentine's Day carnation. “Thanks, Lay!” Zoe cradled the flower and ran off.

“Don't thank me . . . ,” Layla called after her, knowing Zoe would think it was from Austin.

Layla glanced over at the crew of water polo players sitting at a nearby table. She wanted to make sure Dylan saw Zoe get the flower.

His
flower.

A few minutes later, as Dylan walked by on his way to his first period class, he nodded at Layla as if to acknowledge what had happened. Layla could tell that he wanted to keep walking, but she couldn't keep quiet. “You should've written her a card.”

“I'
m not really a writer . . .”

“Just a late night phone talker?”

That made Dylan stop in front of her table. This was already the longest conversation they'd ever had, but Layla already felt like she knew him because she'd been hearing about him from Zoe for years.

“I just remember how bummed she was last year when she didn't get a flower. It's been bothering me, so . . .” Dylan trailed off.

“But you don't want her to know?” Layla wasn't just talking about the flower.

“As long as she's happy, mission accomplished . . .”

Layla didn't realize Dylan cared quite so much.

  *  *  *  

ALEX
jogged down the hallway carrying two
dozen
red carnations.

She appreciated all the Valentine's Day love, but now having all these flowers just felt excessive, especially since they were slowing her down as she hustled through the crowd on her way to class. She turned a corner and ran smack into Oliver, who had been racing in the other direction with his gym bag on his shoulder. The impact caused Alex to drop all of her flowers, which made it look like a small garden had sprouted on the tiled floor.

“Sorry,” he said with a grin.

“No,
I'm
sorry. It's not like you have a big game tonight or anything . . .”

The boys' varsity basketball team was playing in the first round of CIF playoffs against a school up in Santa
Barbara. It was a big win-or-go-home kind of game.

“Yeah, no pressure,” Oliver said as he bent down to help Alex pick up her flowers. “Wow, you must be breaking records with all of these . . .”

“How many are from you?”

“I can't take any credit.”

Alex raised an eyebrow. She could've sworn at least
one
flower would be from him.

“Don't take it personally. I didn't throw any to anybody,” he added, clocking her facial expression. “Besides, Campbell, you can't just put charm points or, you know, like,
flowers
, into a girl's kindness machine and just expect sex to fall out.”