What's Your Status? (10 page)

“Mad,” Dave said quietly, pulling me out of my thoughts. He reached into the drink case, pulled out a Diet Coke, and handed it to me. “Here.” I popped the top and gulped it gratefully. It did seem to help me focus a bit. “Just talk to Nate,” Dave said. “Who knows what the situation is? Brian isn’t exactly known for his great grasp of facts.”

That was true; I’d seen Brian’s last Marine Bio quiz. “I know,” I said. “I just…” I wasn’t sure how to finish the sentence. I hadn’t known how to talk to Nate about my earlier gaffe. And now I was supposed to ask him questions about his past relationship?

“Seriously,” Dave said. “Just talk to him.”

“Right,” I said, trying to smile at him. I glanced up at the clock and realized I should get going as well—the knife was almost on the mushroom. “Thanks, Dave. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I used all my acting skills to make it seem like I had it together, and not betray the fact that my thoughts were spinning and in utter disarray. I walked across the restaurant with my head held high, nodding politely at Little Tony, who was gawking at me.

“Uh, Mad?” Dave called just as I pulled the door open. “You forgot your pizza.”

“What took so long?” Travis said as I entered the kitchen fifteen minutes later. He yanked the pizza box out of my hands and set it on the counter. “I’m starving.”

“Hi, hon,” my mother said, smiling at me as she set the kitchen table. She was still wearing her work clothes—a dark blue skirt-suit and the pearls she almost never took off. “Did you hit traffic?” I nodded mutely, figuring that was easier than telling her what had transpired at Putnam Pizza. “Sorry about that. Go get your father, would you? He’s finishing up a column.”

“Sure,” I said, heading out of the kitchen. My father was the head sportswriter for our local paper, the
Putnam Post,
and worked most days out of his home office. My mother was the CFO of Pilgrim Bank and lately had seemed really stressed out because of some deal with some British people that had taken her to London for a week.

“Thanks, hon,” my mother said. “The table’s set, so—
Travis!
” This last word was very sharp, and directed at my brother, who had taken a slice out of the pizza box and was poised to take a bite, standing at the counter. Lately he was eating everything in sight. And he’d grown about three inches in the past two months, which meant that he was almost my height, something I was not very happy about. However, he didn’t seem to understand how to organize these new inches into coordinated movement, which meant he was falling over a lot, something that I
was
happy about.

I headed to my father’s study, a wood-paneled room covered in sports paraphernalia. His ancient Cubs hat was on, and he was typing furiously, hunched over his laptop. The hat was a sign that he was not to be disturbed, but I knew from experience that food was the exception to this rule. “Hey, Daddy,” I said from the doorway.

My father spun his chair around to face me. “Hey, kid,” he said. “Food?”

“Pizza,” I confirmed. My father stood, stretching out his back, and we headed toward the kitchen.

“I heard a rumor from the office today,” he said to me as we walked, “that a certain production is going to have its review in tomorrow’s paper.”

I turned to look at him as I pulled open the kitchen door. “Really?” I asked, trying to gauge from his expression if it was going to be good or bad. “Um, anything else about it?”

My father shook his head and we all took our seats around the table—Travis and I sitting as far away from
each other as possible, something that had been mandated years ago during a wave of foot-stomping. “Just that it’s going to run tomorrow. But I’m sure it’s going to be a rave.”

I hoped so.
Great Dane: The Musical Tragedy of Hamlet,
our spring musical, had closed the past weekend. It was an original adaptation of the Shakespearean tragedy, set in Denmark, Kansas, in 1929. I had played Felia, the female lead, a doomed farm girl who eventually goes mad and ends up drowning in the cow pond.

We’d had good audiences, and the shows had gone fairly well. But there had been a couple of technical glitches during our last show, and at one point, Mark Rothmann’s English accent—which hadn’t been particularly strong to begin with—took a tour of the British Isles and then lingered in South Africa for a bit before remaining in Australia for the rest of the play. All the theater kids had been waiting for the review to come out, and I had my fingers crossed that the reviewer had ignored these problems.

I grabbed a slice of pizza, thrilled to see that Dave had been able to get me pineapple slices on my fourth. As we ate, my father droned on about the article he was writing. It was about sports betting websites, and it seemed like he’d been working on it—and talking about it—forever. I knew far more about guaranteed return rates than I’d ever wanted to.

“The thing about it,” my father said, “is that it’s easy to tell if these websites are legit. Unless there’s a certain, very high level of player, nobody’s going to make any
money. And those that promise to make you a lot of easy money are the ones to watch out for.”

My father took a bite of pizza, and my mother, maybe seeing the opportunity to change the subject from the over/under, jumped in. “So, we have news,” she said quickly. “Your father and I have been invited to a conference this weekend. It’s for founders of charities that have been performing above expectations. And, happily, Comfort Food fits into that category this year.”

“That’s great,” I said. “Congrats, Mom.” Comfort Food was a charity that my mother had founded several years earlier. It really did a lot of good, bringing meals to the mentally ill. My mother didn’t speak to my father for a week when he suggested she call it Soup to Nuts.

“Yeah,” Travis said, his mouth full. “Nice job, Mom.”

“Thank you,” my mother said. She turned to me with the thoughtful expression that, from long experience, I had come to dread. “You know, Madison,” she said, “you really need to think about doing more charity work.”

This was a new one. “Mom,” I said, “I’m pretty busy as it is. I’m trying to organize the prom at the moment.”

“Which is why,” my mother said, and I could tell from her tone that she wasn’t going to give this up easily, “you should be thinking about those less fortunate than yourself. How many people would love to go to a prom like yours? But they can’t afford tickets, or prom dresses….”

I knew that it was best not to argue, unless I wanted to talk about it for hours. “Right, Mom,” I said, grabbing
a slice of pineapple that I had seen Travis eyeing. “I’ll think about it.”

“Good,” she said, smiling at me. “Because you really need to give back, you know.” She took a sip of water. “Now, the only issue with this conference is the location,” she continued. “It’s being held in South Carolina.” She looked at my father expectantly. Clearly, they’d rehearsed this.

My father jumped in. “We thought about calling someone to stay with you. But we decided that you are old enough to be left on your own for a weekend.” He looked from Travis to me. “What do you two think?”

I tried very, very hard to keep my expression from revealing my utter glee. “I think so,” I said seriously. “Travis?” I asked, looking across the table, as though I cared what my brother thought.

Travis nodded gravely, and I saw that, for once, we were on the same page about how to handle this. “I think we’re ready for that responsibility,” he said.

“Good,” my mother said. “I’m glad to hear it. We’re leaving Saturday morning, and will be back Sunday night—and, of course, will be checking in frequently.”

“Absolutely.” I shot my mother my most trustworthy smile.

“Wait,” Travis said, and I frowned at him, trying mentally to stop him from saying anything that might derail this plan. “How am I supposed to get to the bat mitzvah?”

“Well,” my mother said, pausing and glancing at
my father before continuing—never a good sign—“we thought that maybe Travis could ride in your limo, Madison.”

“What?” I looked up at my mother to see if she was joking. She didn’t appear to be.

“Sweet,” Travis said. “Olivia, too?”

“Wait a second,” I said as I watched Travis take out his phone and start texting. “You want my little brother to come in my prom limo?”

“If it’s a problem,” my father said, “we can have someone come stay with you two and they could drive Travis.”

I could feel myself battling internally. I did
not
want Travis riding along to the prom with all my friends. But I also really, really didn’t want a babysitter. “Fine,” I finally said. “He can come in the limo. But only if he promises not to embarrass me.”

Travis rolled his eyes. “I’m going to be with my girlfriend,” he said. “You better not embarrass
me.
”

“Kids, please,” my mother said placatingly. “I’m glad that’s settled. Now, who wants dessert?”

My phone vibrated with a text, and I looked down at it.

INBOX 1 of 55

From: Nate

Date: 5/20, 7:35
P.M
.

Gelato?

It seemed I hadn’t wrecked things irreparably between us with my stupid innuendo and hand gestures. And now I would have a chance to talk to him about what Brian had told me. I wasn’t sure how I was going to find the courage to do that, but maybe I’d come up with a plan on the drive over. “Dessert!” I said eagerly. “Great idea. I’ll go pick some up.” And then, without waiting for a reply—or, um, permission—I leapt out of my chair and headed for the door.

CHAPTER 6

Song: Us/Regina Spektor

Quote: “Just a boy in a Chevy truck.”

—Taylor Swift

I pulled into the parking lot of Gofer Ice Cream and killed the engine. Gofer was located next to Putnam Pizza and a hair salon that never appeared to have any customers. For years, Gofer had just been the place I’d stopped at for ice cream. But over the past few months, it had become something much more significant, and all because of Nate. I now thought of Gofer as
our
place, as much as the rock wall in Stanwich that we’d gone to on our first date (though Nate and I had a running argument about whether that had counted as our first date, or if our official first date had been when we’d seen
Clue
at the New Canaan Drive-In). We’d had our first real conversation outside of Gofer, and our first kiss, and every time I saw the little patio—even though it was just a few chairs, a bench, and a railing—I still got a little thrill.

I had made it there in record time, but as I got out of my car, I saw that Nate’s red pickup truck was already in the parking lot. I also saw Dave’s BMW and a huge,
somewhat rickety-looking white van with
PUTNAM PIZZA
printed on the side, so it seemed Dave and Little Tony were still working. I didn’t really want to deal with either of them, so I walked around the long way to avoid passing the pizza place’s window. As I headed up the stairs to the patio, Nate stepped out of Gofer, holding a waffle cone in each hand.

“Hi there,” he said, smiling at me.

“Hi,” I said, feeling the flutter I still got in my stomach whenever I saw him. I took advantage of the fact that his hands were full to step between his arms and kiss him, resting my hands on either side of his face. He must have taken a bite of his ice cream already, because he tasted like mint chocolate chip. “I thought it was my treat this time,” I said after a moment, taking my cone from him. I took a small bite and realized he’d gotten me my usual, hazelnut gelato.

“Well, I was here first,” Nate said, leaning down and kissing me again. We lingered there for a moment, and I felt my earlier fears subside a bit. This was
Nate.
Whatever problems we had, we would be able to figure them out together.

We broke apart only when it became clear that we were blocking the doorway and preventing Gofer’s customers from exiting. We crossed to the bench, and Nate stretched his arm over my shoulders. I leaned against him, resting my head back and taking a bite of my gelato.

“So how was the rest of your day?” I asked.

“Oh, you know,” he said, tilting his mint chocolate chip toward me so that I could take a bite. “The ush.” I smiled,
knowing that Nate was making fun of my predilection for TLAs. He filled me in on the meeting with his headmaster. Apparently if any of the “people of interest”—now including Nate—had any other infractions, there would be serious consequences. Nate wouldn’t graduate, and his Yale acceptance would be in jeopardy. For the first time since the prank stuff had begun, Nate looked a little worried. But he didn’t seem to want to talk about it, as he changed the subject quickly, asking me about my day.

After we’d caught up, we just sat there together, finishing our ice cream. As the bug zapper flared to life and cast its fluorescent light over the darkening patio, I pulled my feet up onto the bench, so that my back was resting against Nate’s side, his arm enfolding me. Nate ran his hand over my hair, and I felt him kiss the top of my head. “Listen,” he said. “I wanted to talk to you about what you said earlier.”

I felt my pulse quicken and could feel relief flood through me. The fact that Nate was bringing this up meant that I wouldn’t have to find a way to do so myself. “Yes?” I asked, and held my breath.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” Nate said, twining his fingers through mine.

“Yeah?” I asked, hearing my voice sound a little strangled. This was the moment I would find out what he thought had happened earlier. I realized that I didn’t know what I wanted his answer to be.

“And I think,” Nate said, “that we might be able to have a song together after all.”

The relieved feeling came to a screeching halt.

Instead, the low-grade anxiety that had been plaguing me throughout the day returned and increased, now officially becoming mid-grade. “Oh,” I murmured, trying not to sound disappointed.

“I mean, if we can both agree on a song, that is,” he said. “Because it should be a mutual decision, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely,” I said. A few hours earlier, this would have made me really happy. But that was pre-gaffe. Pre–Brian bombshell.