Leah on the Offbeat
Page 29

Immediately, a dad jumps in with a slew of rapid-fire questions about his son’s dietary restrictions. Fatima is unfazed. “The dining halls can absolutely accommodate students with food allergies,” she begins.
“Well, my daughter is vegan,” a mom chimes in, glaring up at Fatima like she’s issuing a challenge.
“Totally fine. There are lots of vegan options—”
The mom cuts her off. “I’d appreciate something a little more specific than ‘lots of vegan options.’” She makes air quotes as she says this. The vegan daughter in question shrinks into her seat, like she’s trying to disappear.
“Now you know why I didn’t want my parents here,” Abby mutters.
“No kidding.”
“I guarantee, right now my dad would be asking how they’re going to gender segregate the dorms.”
“Um . . . they’re not?” I say, lips tugging upward. “Because it’s college?”
“Yeah, he missed that memo.”
I mean, that’s the way to keep people from hooking up, Mr. Suso. Totally foolproof, except for the fact that gay people exist. How can Abby’s dad not realize that? Seriously, how can a person with a lesbian sister not even consider that as a possibility?
Not that it is a possibility. Not for Abby anyway. Because Abby’s as straight as a Popsicle stick.
Hours later, I’m in Caitlin’s bathroom, attempting eyeliner. I’ve already given up on my hair. My hair is an asshole.
“Shit.”
“You okay?” Abby asks, peeking in through the doorway.
“Eyeliner injury.”
“Been there.” She grimaces. “Hey, can I join you?”
“Sure.” I step sideways, making room. She sets a bottle of goopy white stuff next to the sink and starts wetting her hair. “What’s that?” I ask.
“Curl milk,” she says. Then she squirts some into her hand. “Keeps the curls popping.”
I really love your hair, I think.
“Good to know,” I say.
“What do you think you’re going to wear?” she asks, threading her hands through her hair.
“Um. This? And my combat boots? I didn’t bring extra clothes.”
“That works.”
“Did you?”
I see her smiling in the mirror.
“Look at you, all prepared.” I uncap my mascara.
She watches me for a moment. “Your eyes are so green.”
I flush. “It’s the lighting.”
“Mmhmm. They’re really pretty.”
There’s a hiccup in my stomach. I try to focus on my eyelashes. Which are nothing like Abby’s eyelashes. Abby’s eyelashes should have their own zip code.
She leaves, and then returns with a makeup bag. I wasn’t sure she even wore makeup. As far as I can tell, she doesn’t usually, at least not in school. But she knows what she’s doing—dusting and blending until her skin glows and her eyes are wide and soft.
“This will be fun, right?” she says, glancing at me.
“If you say so.”
She meets my eyes in the mirror and smiles before heading to the bedroom to change.
The party starts at eight thirty, but Abby won’t let us head down until after nine. “We really don’t want to be the first ones there,” she says.
We take selfies while we wait—and it takes approximately a thousand tries before we get one that satisfies Abby. That’s strangely reassuring. I always figured magical girls like Abby get their selfies right on the first try. She sends it to Simon, and he writes back immediately.
Wow.
With a period. And it’s weird how the period makes it feel like he really means it. I stare at my knees.
Abby nudges me, grinning. “Should we head down there?”
“Sure.”
We walk out to the elevators—and Abby grabs my hand, squeezing it quickly, before pressing the button for the fifth floor. It feels strange and surreal to be here, to be doing this. It’s like a tiny trip through time. This could be us next year, wandering into Tuesday-night parties off campus.
I’m not 100 percent sure how I feel about that.
Or how I feel about the fact that she’s still holding my hand. Why do straight girls do that? How do I interpret that?
She checks the room number one more time and then knocks on the door.
It swings open right away. “Abby!” says Caitlin. She’s holding a drink—something pink in a clear plastic cup. “Guys, come meet Abby and Leah! They’re friends with my brother.”
“Just so you know, I’ve literally never met Caitlin’s brother,” Abby murmurs, a breath away from my ear. I follow her into the apartment, heart pounding in my chest.
The layout is identical to Caitlin’s—same floor plan, same chrome appliances—but the décor is so different, it’s almost disorienting. The room is lit only by dim floor lamps and a jumble of hanging Christmas lights. There’s a giant red-and-purple batik tapestry draped across one wall and woven throw pillows on every surface. I’m pretty sure there’s no TV.
There are only eight or nine people here besides us, packed onto the couch and around the kitchen table. A guy with a beard plays guitar while two girls sing along in harmony. We meet Eva, who is stop-you-in-your-tracks gorgeous—tall, sort of androgynous, with light brown skin and closely cropped hair. Caitlin rests a hand on each of our shoulders and asks if we want drinks.
Abby says yes, and I guess that sort of bugs me. Sometimes I think I’m the only person in the world who doesn’t drink.
“Oh, Abby, I love your little boots!” Caitlin says, returning moments later with a plastic cup. We all settle in cross-legged on the floor.
Abby’s wearing the ankle boots she bought yesterday and a short patterned skirt, and the effect is disarming. She’s just so fucking wholesome. It almost pisses me off.
“Yo.” Abby pokes me. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?” Holy. Fuck. My cheeks are burning.
“Like you want to kill me.”
For a moment, I’m speechless. I’ve never been so grateful for my resting bitch face. Ever.
Eva sinks down beside me. “So, Caitlin says you’re a drummer.”
“Kind of.”
“Kind of?” Abby shoves me lightly. “She’s an amazing drummer. Like, amazing.”
“Huh,” Eva says, turning to the guitarist on the couch. “Tom, Caitlin’s friend is a drummer.”
“No way,” says the bearded guy.
“Way,” Eva says. Then they turn back to me. “So, I don’t know if Cait mentioned this, but they’re going to need a new drummer after I graduate. You’re going to be a freshman, right?”
I nod.
“Interesting,” says Eva.
Meanwhile, Tom and the harmonizing girls have wandered over. The girls introduce themselves as Victoria and Nodoka, and they hug me like it’s nothing. Like it’s a handshake. They hug Abby, too.
It’s as if someone unhooked my brain from my body. I’m here, but I’m not here. Smiling like it’s a reflex. Nodding without knowing why.
“No pressure though,” Nodoka says.
I look up with a start and realize everyone’s looking at me.
“I’m . . .”
“Have you ever used an e-kit before?” asks Eva. “Took some getting used to, but now I’m a convert.”
“Nick’s kit is electric, right?” Abby says.
I nod slowly.
“Well, if you’re up for it, we’d love to hear you play,” Tom says.
“Right now?”
“Sure.”
“Okay.” I feel dazed. Like, holy shit. I’m at a college party full of gorgeous people, and I think I’ve just been invited to try out for a band.
“Let me dig out my headphones,” says Eva.
Five minutes later, I’m perched on a drum stool in Eva’s bedroom while Abby tucks into the desk chair, arms wrapped around her knees. Meanwhile, Eva, Nodoka, Tom, and Victoria sprawl out on the bed. My heart thuds against my rib cage. I don’t know why I even bother drumming. I could just stick a microphone next to my chest.