“We’re almost done,” Stacia says, adding fullness to the mane. The eyes are bold and daring, peering at me from between the slatted breaks of Avery’s tan lines. This is a strange yet divine kind of affection. “Cool, right?”
“Very,” I say, realizing we’ve never had any real interactions outside the brief moments on the way in and out of the Cat’s Pajamas. In the light of day, she has shaggy blond hair, a slender nose, and cheekbones that are so high and sharp they could be used for cosmetology class demonstrations.
“Is Mateo here?” I ask.
Avery sighs. “He packed up a bigger bag and is permanently staying with Brandon until, and I quote, ‘the ogre that lives on the other side of the wall grows a pair and apologizes.’”
I expected as much.
“You could always do what I did—take him out for iced matcha lattes and then let him sing through his entire audition book for you,” Avery says.
“The entire thing?”
“We made it toSfor Sondheim, ‘Being Alive’ I think, but he got all weirded out and said his instrument was tired. Granted, I’d heard eighteen letters’ worth of sixteen-bar cuts already, but that’s beside the point.”
“‘Being Alive’ is fromCompany. It’s Bobby’s big song,” I say for Avery’s benefit and for my own waterlogged brain. That’s one of the cast albums we attempted to learn to beat Mateo at his board game. I shake my head at my own nearsightedness. “He must still be upset about not getting the part. God, maybe I have been an ogre. I never even asked about it.”
Consumed by reviving the lot and falling for Derick, I’ve let my friends take a back seat when they’ve always been my copilots, my ride or dies, my grab-the-keys-and-go buddies. I may have been right to let Mateo go, but I shouldn’t have blown up about it the way I did—and I really shouldn’t have let my own crap get in the way of our friendship.
“I’ll make it up to him.” Though, I don’t have the mental stamina to sort that out right now.
“How are you feeling?” Avery asks. Stacia tosses her the maroon, scoop-neck shirt she was wearing. Without interrupting the conversation, she takes photos of her artistic work on her phone. She readjusts the crisscrossing back straps to make it look like the lion is stalking its prey from behind the brush of fabric. “Derick texted me a few times asking if you were okay, but I wasn’t sure what you wanted me to tell him, so I just said you were safe and wanted space.”
“What I want is the ability to time travel back to when I told you I wasn’t working at Wiley’s this summer. I should’ve taken the film studies office job. At least the only hurt I would’ve experienced digitizing the archives was the occasional paper cut.” I roll my eyes, but a sharp sting hits me. I remember Derick’s paper cut from the night he held up the admission line. Every memory of us from this summer is now singed at the edges like I took a lighter to the Polaroids for the sickening pleasure of watching them burn.
Stacia shoves her pen into her pocket and says, “I’m going to give you two some privacy. Mind if I take this?” Avery shakes her head and hands her the journal. She gives me a sweet smile before closing the door behind her.
“What’s in the book?”
“Oh, I wrote a poem based on the creature she drew behind my ear and sent it to her on a whim. She gushed over it and asked if I’d do more for others she did. Now she’s thinking she might want to make an artists’ account where we post the drawings beside the text of my poems. Or maybe some videos where she draws on my body while I read the poem aloud? We’re not sure exactly what it could be yet, but it could be cool.”
I beam at her as I sit down on the bed. “That’s awesome.” That’s all Avery has ever wanted in a partner: someone who takes her art seriously, who doesn’t think writing is a wasted pursuit. Even if this is a temporary fling, she’ll have something to take with her when it’s over.
“Did you need something?” she asks, nodding down toward the crumpled napkin in my hand.
“Your dad knows someone at the Historic Review Board, right?”
“Yeah, I think someone from our synagogue is on it. I can call him and ask. Why? What are you thinking?”
I hand her the napkin and let Alice and my brainstorming do all the talking.
***
“What are you doing here, kid?” asks Earl, concerned, as soon as he spies Alice and me rushing across the sidewalk outside the municipal building. We’re already late. Alice gets ready to leave the house like a teenager getting ready for school, begrudgingly and with little urgency.
“You gotta dress for the part you want. Not the part you got,” she scoffed when I mentioned this, and then she shooed me out into the car as if I had been holding us up.
“I could ask you the same thing.” I stop in front of him. “Shouldn’t you be inside assuring that monster gets you your historic marker? That’s the least he can do.” My will to fight has been amplifying the whole drive over. Even if Earl’s called it quits, that doesn’t mean I will.
Avery came through on the official time and location of the meeting. On the public agenda was Mr. Haverford’s COA request for the demolition of Wiley’s. The conversation with Goldie reminded me that Willow Valley has had a historic district for a few decades now. We learned about Act 167 of 1961 in Derick’s and my high school honors history class. Wiley’s falls within its parameters.
There’s still hope the board will refuse Mr. Haverford’s plans.
But then, I notice the thin, off-white handkerchief in Earl’s hand and his bloodshot eyes. He’s been crying. “It was too hard to hear, kid. I thought I could handle it, all that talk of wrecking balls or what have you, but I can’t.”
Earl’s never been one for displays of emotion, preferring the sweep-it-under-the-rug method. “I didn’t want to disrupt the meeting with my sniveling.” If he thinks his half-dry face issniveling, he should’ve seen me on the Fourth of July.
“What’s happening? Are they siding with him?” I ask, heart sinking.
