“I’m sure.”
“Okay. I’m just gonna . . .” Abby tips some vodka into a red plastic cup, and then she fills the rest with Coke. She takes a sip and grimaces. “Wow. This is gross.”
“I’m sorry.”
She shrugs. “Am I allowed to bring the cup out? I don’t have to drink this in here, right?”
“I mean, that would be weird.”
“Yeah, but it’s Martin.”
I laugh. “Right.”
I tap the toes of my flats on the tiles, staring down. I feel awkward and strange. This is so unexpected. Alone with Abby Suso in Martin Addison’s bathroom. I sneak a peek at her through my lashes. She’s leaning against the bathtub now, back straight, pretzeled legs. Every time she sips her drink, her nose wrinkles. I’ve never understood the appeal of drinking. It’s not like liquor tastes good. I mean, I know it’s not about that. It’s about feeling loose and light and unstoppable. Simon described it to me once. He said drinking lets you say and do things without filtering or overthinking. But I don’t get how that’s a good thing.
Abby yawns. “It’s like—okay. He didn’t apply anywhere in Georgia. That’s fine. But that’s where I’ll be, and the closest he could be is North Carolina. And I’m sorry, but I don’t want to stay home from parties because I’m expecting a call from my boyfriend. I don’t want to miss out on college, you know?”
Sure, Abby. I totally know. My boyfriends are always trying to call me during parties. So many parties. Which I totally go to, because I love sitting in bathrooms watching other people drink.
I should hate this.
Why don’t I hate this?
Someone bangs on the door, and Abby hops to her feet. “Just a minute!” She chugs her drink. “Oh my God, this is so gross. I’m literally going to vomit.”
I stand abruptly, pushing up the toilet lid.
“Not literally literally. Come on, let’s go.” She takes my hand.
We step out of the bathroom, and there’s Garrett, blue eyes shining. He’s acquired a party hat somehow, which he’s wearing cocked to the side. He stares at our hands and his mouth falls open.
“Oh my God. What. OH MY GOD.”
“Not what you’re thinking, Garrett.”
“Ladies, wow. Okay. Hear me out. I have an idea. Let’s just all go back into the bathroom, and whatever happens . . .”
“Nope,” I say flatly.
Abby releases me and twines both of her hands through Garrett’s, peering up at him with doe eyes. “Garrett, sweetie,” she says, “I will never, ever do that.” Then she tugs her hands away and pats him firmly on his bicep. “In front of you,” she adds quietly, nudging him toward the bathroom.
My stomach swoops.
“WHAT?” Garrett shrieks, eyes darting back and forth between us. “You should. Do that in front of me. Okay? Please. Good. I have to pee.”
“So go pee.”
I think my brain’s made of Jell-O. My thoughts won’t stay in one place. She’d never do that. In front of Garrett. But maybe otherwise?
How am I supposed to interpret that?
We leave around eleven. Garrett’s a drunk mess, so Bram drives him home in the minivan, with Simon following behind. Then we all pile into Simon’s car for a shitshow of a ride. Simon and Bram take the front. Nora and I are basically on top of each other, squished between Nick and Abby, who aren’t talking. It’s the kind of silence that has its own gravity. Black hole silence. Simon tries to fight it with a steady stream of Simon-babble, but after a few minutes, even he stops speaking.
We pull into Bram’s driveway, and Simon leans over the gearshift. They kiss softly and quickly, and Bram mouths something to Simon. Simon shakes his head, grinning. Abby calls shotgun as soon as Bram unbuckles his seat belt.
“You sure you don’t want to spend the night?” Simon asks for the fifth time tonight. And normally I would. I don’t care that it’s Sunday. Simon lives so close to school that it would actually make my morning easier.
But Abby’s sleeping at Simon’s tonight. And I’ve had enough Abby weirdness for one night.
My mind reels through the last few hours. Morgan’s blotchy red anger. Lying to Garrett. Abby kneeling in front of the bathroom sink. Abby taking Garrett’s hands. Abby saying never. But only never in front of Garrett.
And I have no idea if she’s kidding.
10
THE SECOND I STEP OFF the bus on Monday, Abby’s in my face. “Hey,” she says casually, falling into step beside me. “So, last night was weird.”
“Uh, yeah.” I wince as soon as I say it. I have this problem sometimes where I sound bitchier than I mean to, and it’s a thousand times worse when it comes to Abby. Simon once asked me point-blank why I dislike her so much. But here’s the thing: I don’t even dislike Abby. It’s just that my brain doesn’t work right around her.
It doesn’t help that she looks obnoxiously cute—striped shirt tucked into a red skirt over tights, hair clipped back with bobby pins. She covers her mouth, yawning, and then catches my eye and grins.
“Okay, so I have a proposition for you,” she says.
“Oh yeah?”
“Mmhmm.” She tilts her head sideways and her eyes glint like she’s about to make a joke. She’s an inch or two shorter than me, and probably half my weight. Or not. I don’t know. She’s not actually that thin. Just kind of trim and muscular. Mesomorph. That’s the word I know from the magazines Mom leaves in the bathroom.
“So, this campus tour,” she says when we get to my locker. “I’m not going with my parents. Not doing it.”
“Everyone brings their parents.”
She shakes her head. “Not me.”
“You sound very certain about that.” I feel myself smiling.
“Do you want to come with me?” she asks. “Spring break. Any day. I can borrow my mom’s car and drive us up there, and we can stay with my cousin’s friend. It could be like a whole road trip.”
“Like Simon and Nick?”
“Uh, they wish they were coming on our trip. Because we’ll get to go to parties and do whatever we want. It’ll be amazing. We’ll actually get a real idea of what it’s like there.”
I look at her, speechless. Other than Martin Addison’s bathroom, I don’t think we’ve been alone in a room together for over a year. But suddenly Abby’s talking like we’re the kind of friends who go to parties and take selfies and split French fries at midnight. Am I losing my mind?
“Or not,” she adds quickly. “We don’t have to go to parties. I seriously don’t care. Totally up to you.”
“So, you want me to go with you to Athens,” I say slowly. Then I realize my fingers are tapping out a drumbeat. On my locker. I let my hand fall.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean?”
I shake my head quickly, staring at my shoes. “We’re not . . .” I shut my eyes.
I’m not friends with Abby Suso. I’m not anything with Abby Suso. And to be honest, this whole thing is fucking me up a little.
“Obviously, I know you have to ask your mom and everything.”
“I just . . .”
I glance up in time to see Taylor charging toward me, hands clasped together like she means business. “We’ll talk,” Abby says, the palm of her hand grazing my arm. Then she disappears up the stairs, like she was never here at all.
“So?” Taylor says with a big, expectant smile.
My eyes drift toward the staircase. “What’s up?” I say halfheartedly.
“So, what did you think?”
“What did I think?”
“Of the play!”
“Oh,” I say. “It was great. Congrats.”
“Obviously, a few people could benefit from formal training, but overall, it was good, right? And Nick was just so wonderful.” She smiles. “Hey, speaking of Nick . . .”
God, this girl. I don’t think she knows the meaning of the word subtle. Like, if you’re going to bust in talking about Nick and then segue into talking about Nick, it’s going to be pretty goddamn clear that you want to talk about Nick.