“THIS CAME FOR YOU,” MOM says, handing me an envelope as soon I come down for breakfast on Thursday.
It’s from the University of Georgia—the return address is printed with their logo. It’s not a big envelope like my admissions packet. Just a random letter-sized envelope, the perfect size for a letter from the dean retracting my scholarship and reversing my acceptance. We are writing to notify you that your acceptance to the University of Georgia Honors Program was, in fact, a clerical error. Our records show that our department intended to admit some other Leah Burke who isn’t a steaming hot mess. We apologize for any inconvenience.
“Are you going to open it?” Mom asks, leaning against the counter. She’s wearing eye makeup, like she does for work sometimes, and she looks obnoxiously beautiful. Her eyes look electric green. I should say, for the record, that having a mother who’s hotter than you sucks balls.
I take a deep breath and open it. Mom peers at me while I read. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, totally.” I feel myself relax. “It’s just a bunch of info about tours and accepted students day.”
“We should probably do that, huh?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
I mean, it can’t matter. Because my mom isn’t Simon’s mom or Nick’s mom. She can’t randomly take off work for a campus visit. I can’t even picture my mom on one of those tours. I’ve never actually been on one, but Simon says it’s just a flock of mortified kids cringing while their parents ask questions. Apparently, Simon’s dad asked the tour guide at Duke to “please elaborate on the campus gay scene.”
“I wanted to fucking die,” Simon told me.
Pretty sure if my mom were on that tour, she’d be snickering in the back, rolling her eyes at all the other parents. She’d probably get hit on by frat dudes, too.
“Seriously, it’s fine.”
She smiles. “I really do think you should sign up for this, though. Let me just sort things out with work, and we can make a whole day of it. And actually, Wells has family in Athens, so—”
I laugh incredulously. “I’m not doing my college tour with Wells.”
She flicks my arm. “We can discuss this later. Do you want a yogurt?”
“Yeah.” I scrape my hair back. “Anyway, I’ll just see when Morgan’s going. I can pretend to be a Hirsch.”
“That’s an idea,” Mom says. “And you could wear a Tech jersey to mess with them.”
“Totally, Mom. I’ll be so popular on campus.”
My phone buzzes with a text from Simon. Fuck. My. Life. Leah. Oh God.
“Okay, I better go,” Mom says, setting my yogurt down. “Have fun today.”
I say good-bye to her and turn back to my phone. I can’t fuck your life, I’m monogamously fucking my own life.
Okay, that’s funny, Simon writes, but seriously.
What happened?
Three dots.
And then: My voice keeps cracking!
What?
When I sing.
That’s really cute. Emoji with heart eyes. I take a bite of yogurt.
LEAH, IT’S NOT CUTE. IT’S ALMOST OPENING NIGHT. THE SCHOOL PERFORMANCES ARE LIKE RIGHT NOW.
I think you’re nervous
YOUR nervous.
*You’re. Holy shit I can’t believe I just did that. And I capitalized it, ugh, don’t tell Bram AHHHHHHHHHHHH FUCK I’M DONE
Simon. You’re okay. I throw away my yogurt cup and toss my spoon into the sink. Eight fifteen. Time to get to the bus stop. Even though it’s mega cold. Even though my texting fingers are going to hate me.
Also he’s never heard me sing and he’s going to break up with me.
I laugh. Bram’s going to break up with you when he hears you sing?
Yes, Simon writes. I can picture him: pacing backstage, costume half assembled. The school performances are technically dress rehearsals, but everyone misses class to watch them. Seniors don’t even have to check into first period. I want to get there early to claim a seat in the front, where I can heckle Simon and Nick. But naturally, my bus is late. It happens every time it’s cold out.
He really hasn’t heard you sing? I write.
I DON’T SING. And, without missing a beat, he adds, But seriously, what if my voice cracks and everyone throws tomatoes and then they pull me off the stage with an old-timey hook??
If that happens, I write, I will film it.
Nora’s waiting for me when I step off the bus.
“Thank God you’re here. What are you doing right now?” She rakes a hand through her curls. I’ve honestly never seen her look so freaked out. And that includes the time classy eleven-year-old Simon molded brownies to look like actual shit and then proudly ate them in front of us.
I look at her. “What’s going on?”
“Martin Addison has a cold,” she says slowly, blinking like she can’t quite believe it.
“Noted. I won’t make out with him.”
I don’t even think she hears me. “So he’s staying home to rest his voice for tomorrow, but now we don’t have a Reuben, and we’re supposed to start, like, now. So I was wondering . . .”
“I can’t play Reuben.”
“Right.” She presses her lips together.
“I’m the worst singer, Nora. You know that.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m not . . . ugh.” She laughs nervously. “Cal’s filling in for Martin, so now I’m Cal, and I need you to be me.”
“To be you?”
“Assistant stage manager.”
“Oh.” I pause. “What does that mean?”
She starts walking, briskly, which is so unlike her. I have to hop to catch up. “Okay, well, I’m going to be on headset calling the cues,” she says. “So I need you to keep track of the actors and make sure everyone’s where they need to be, and help flip the sets, and just basically put out fires. You can do that, right? Just yell at people. You’ll be good at it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“But.” She stops short, appraising me. “Crap. Do you have anything black to wear? Or navy? Like a hoodie or something.”
“I . . . not with me.” I look down, taking in my outfit. Mint-green sundress, dark green cardigan, gray tights, and my gold combat boots. I mean, what else was I going to wear on Saint Patrick’s Day?
“Okay.” Nora rubs her cheek. “Okay, I’ll find something. Just head backstage for now, and somebody will set you up. Thank you so much for agreeing to do this.”
I’m not sure I did agree to do this. But Nora shoots off down the hallway again, and suddenly I’m standing outside the backstage door. So. Assistant stage manager. I guess this is happening.
I slip backstage, and it’s total chaos. I don’t know, maybe Cal’s secretly a hardcore strict mega bitch, because apparently shit falls apart when he’s off duty. There are freshmen battling with shepherds’ crooks from the prop table, which—I’m not going to lie—look exactly like the old-timey hooks from Simon’s nightmares. Two Hairy Ishmaelites are making out between the curtains, and Taylor’s sitting on the floor with her eyes closed. I think she might be meditating.
I peek through the curtains, and it’s a sea of bleary-eyed freshmen and seniors. Right away, I see my squad in the front row: Bram, Garrett, Morgan, and Anna. And an empty seat in the middle—clearly mine. I feel weirdly touched by that.
“Hey.” Nora appears, handing me an armload of fabric. “This is Garrett’s, so it should cover most of your dress. Sorry if it smells.”
I unbunch it slowly, holding it at arm’s length. It’s a navy hoodie with a tiny embroidered yellow jacket on the chest. A Georgia fucking Tech hoodie. But Garrett’s tall and bulky, so it actually fits me, and Nora’s right—it smells. But not badly. It just smells like Old Spice deodorant, which is how Garrett smells. And now I feel like some 1950s cheerleader wearing her boyfriend’s letter jacket. Like I’ve been claimed.
I try not to think about it. Instead, I weave through the backstage shitshow behind Nora, who has somehow become Badass Take-No-Prisoners Nora right before my eyes. This girl is normally such a little peanut, but wow. She’s throwing down the stink-eye and calling actors out, and people are actually starting to pull their shit together. Finally, Nora settles in at Cal’s usual desk in the wings, securing her headset and flipping through his binder. I watch her for a moment, and then I wander over to the prop table, where literally everything is out of place. There are sunglasses and handcuffs and all kinds of things on the floor, so I scoop them up and set them on the table.
“Five minutes, everyone,” Ms. Albright calls, poking her head around the curtain.
Simon appears beside me in the wings. “Leah, why are you wearing a Tech sweatshirt?”
“It’s Garrett’s.” His eyes get huge. “Yeah. Wow. Not what you’re thinking. Your sister’s making me wear it.”
“I’m so confused.”
“Don’t worry about it.” I smile at him. “Feeling any better?”
He shakes his head. “Nope.”
“Hey.”
He looks up.
“You’re going to be amazing, okay?”
For a minute, he just looks at me, like he doesn’t believe I just said that. God, am I that big of an asshole? He has to know I love him to pieces, right? But maybe I don’t say it enough. I don’t exactly walk around giving little earnest speeches about how deeply and sincerely I appreciate my friends. I’m not Abby. But I figured Simon knows how awesome I think he is. How could he not? I mean, I was half in love with that kid for most of middle school. True story. Those wolf T-shirts? Weirdly sexy.
He blinks and adjusts his glasses, and then he breaks into one of those face-lighting Simon grins. “I love you, Leah.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“I love you, too, Simon,” he adds in a high voice.
“I love you, too, Simon,” I echo, rolling my eyes.
“Simeon,” he corrects. And the overture starts to rise.
Cal Price can’t act for shit.
Thankfully, he has the whole play memorized, but he plays the part of Reuben like a soft-spoken elderly accountant. And he’s a terrible singer—just cringingly, comically bad. But he’s so sweet and self-conscious out there, you just want to poke him in the face. He’s the personification of a preschool dance recital. D-minus for talent, but A-plus for adorableness.
In any case, it’s not the cast’s best performance, but it’s not a total mess. Taylor sounds amazing, and Simon’s voice doesn’t crack, and I’m not going to lie: Nick is hot as fuck in that dreamcoat.
When it’s over, I catch Simon by the edge of his robe and surprise him with a hug. “You were perfect,” I say, and he actually blushes. Then he takes both my hands and claps them together. For a minute, he just looks at me, smiling.
“You’re a really awesome friend,” he says finally.
It’s so soft and sincere that it catches me off guard.
The actors trail back to the dressing rooms to change—they’re not allowed to have lunch in their costumes. But Cal walks straight to Nora, and she slides off her headset to hug him. And it’s quite a hug: full body, no space between them, Cal whispering something in her ear the whole time. I don’t think they see me watching. But when he finally leaves for the dressing room, I lean my elbows on her desk.
“So.” I grin. “You and Cal.”
“Shut up.”
“That is so fucking cute.”
“There’s no that. Nothing’s happening.”
“Okay, but I just got a boner watching you hug, so.”
“Leah!”
“I’m just saying.”
She groans and buries her face in her arms, but she’s smiling.
“Hey.” I feel a soft kick on the heel of my shoe. I peek behind me, and it’s Bram. “We’re grabbing lunch off campus somewhere. Do y’all want to come?”
Nora shakes her head. “I’m not supposed to leave. We have another performance in forty-five minutes.”
“Ah, okay.”
“Who’s going?”
“Just Garrett, Morgan, Anna, and me.”
“Leah, you should go,” Nora says.
“I don’t want to ditch you guys.”
She smiles. “You can ditch us. Cal’s getting demoted back to stage manager.”
“Oh man. Who’s playing Reuben?”
“Ms. Albright.”
“I bet she looks great in a beard.”
Bram just looks at us, smiling faintly. “So, you’re coming?”
“I guess so.” I shrug and clasp my hands, feeling suddenly small in Garrett’s hoodie. It’s that girlfriend feeling again, not that I’ve ever been anyone’s girlfriend. But I imagine it feels like this. Like I’m this tiny precious wanted thing. I can’t decide if I feel gross about that, or if I only think I should feel gross about it.
By now, Simon and the rest of the cast are holed up in the dressing rooms, so I say good-bye to Nora and follow Bram out through the atrium. Anna’s sitting on the ledge by the carpool circle, and Garrett’s gesturing emphatically to Morgan. But he catches my eye and grins, and when Bram and I walk over, he tugs my sleeve. “So, I see you’re a Tech fan.”
“Fuck you.” I grin back at him. And then it occurs to me that there’s absolutely no reason for me to still be wearing Garrett Laughlin’s hoodie. “Guess you probably want this back.”
“But you look so comfy,” he says.
“Um.”
His cheeks flush softly. “Not comfy.” He swallows. “It looks nice on you.”
I narrow my eyes. “It looks nice?”
“Yes.”
I tug the sweatshirt over my head and bunch it up in my arms, handing it back to him. “You are so full of shit, Garrett.”
He takes it and smiles at me, scrunching up his nose. And I have to admit, he’s not terrible-looking. He’s got blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a sprinkling of freckles on his nose. Just a few, not like me. I’ve got freckles all across my cheekbones. But it’s cute and surprising and weirdly endearing, and now I’m thinking about the fact that Garrett plays piano. It’s funny—his fingers don’t look like piano fingers. They’re long, but kind of meaty, and now they’re wrapped around his sweatshirt like he’s trying to choke it.
“What are you looking at?” he says nervously.
I look up. “Nothing. I’m not.”
Bram clears his throat. “Okay, so do we want to go to Rio Bravo?”
“Fuck yes,” says Garrett. But then he pauses, glancing at me. “Is that where you want to go?”
“Sure.”
“Let’s just go. Come on. I’ll drive.” Morgan links her arm through mine, and I link mine through Anna’s, and I have to admit, I feel pretty lucky. I love Simon and Nick and all the other guys to pieces, but there’s something about Morgan and Anna. They just get it. I’m not saying we agree on everything. Morgan likes dubbed anime, which is basically blasphemy, and Anna once described Chiba Mamoru as “barely attractive.” But other times, it’s as if we read each other’s minds. Like, if Taylor’s being a diva at a rehearsal, we don’t even have to look at each other. It’s as if this secret cosmic eye roll passes among our three brains. One week in seventh grade, we tried to convince people we were sisters, even though Anna’s half Chinese, Morgan’s Jewish, and I’m basically the size of both of them combined.
But what it really comes down to is that they always have my back. And vice versa. Like, when Anna got the norovirus last year, Morgan and I reenacted the fight she missed in the lunchroom. In seventh grade, I drew fifty-six posters to help Morgan protest the school’s racist Thanksgiving play. And when Simon and Nick disappear into boyfriend- and girlfriend-land, Morgan and Anna are there to be cynical assholes with me. I don’t even care if they like Journey. They’re the best squad in the world.
“Leah, where’s your backpack?” Morgan asks suddenly.
“In my locker?”
“Do you need to go grab it?”
I look at her. “Are we . . . not coming back?”
Here’s a confession: I’ve never actually skipped school. I mean, there was a week last year where I was pissed at Simon and Nick, and I might have spent a few class periods in the music room storage closet. But I’ve never left campus. Don’t get me wrong, people do it all the time. But I’m sort of squeamish about the idea of getting in trouble. Partially because I don’t want to jeopardize my scholarship, but also—I don’t know. Maybe I’m just a giant nerd.
“Leah, it’s fine, okay?” says Morgan. “I’ve done this before. Even Bram has done this before.”
I glance back at Bram, and he smiles sheepishly.
I mean, if I’m going to skip school, today’s the day. My teachers will assume I’m missing third and fourth period for the play. Come to think of it, I actually would be missing class for the play if Nora still needed me—if Cal hadn’t been such an adorable disaster onstage.
“You okay?” Morgan asks.
I nod.
“Good. Let’s roll.”
Morgan drives a shiny, fancy Jetta with seats that smell brand-new. Her parents bought it for her eighteenth birthday and had it equipped with GPS, satellite radio, and a little video screen that shows when you’re about to hit something in reverse. Already, there’s a UGA cling sticker on the back windshield.
I take shotgun, even though Garrett’s six foot two, and I’m pretty sure that makes me an asshole. But he’s totally unfazed. He sits in the middle of the backseat, leaning forward, a hand on each of the headrests. My hair is basically draped over his arm. Sometimes I think Garrett calculates the exact most awkward way to position his body in any given moment, and then he just goes for it.
“Okay, you just have to smile and wave at the security guard,” he says. “Act like you’re allowed to leave.”
“Garrett, seniors are allowed to leave.”
“Wait, really?” He looks amazed.
Morgan inches toward the exit. She’s always driven like a terrified alien dropped on a new planet. She moves so slowly she’s practically rolling, and every traffic light and stop sign seem to surprise her. I turn up the music—a moody folk song I don’t recognize. I think I like it. I think I really like it. It’s somehow both sweet and wrenching, and the singer sings it like she means it.
“Who is this?” I ask after a moment.
Ahead, the light turns red, and Morgan crawls to a stop. “Rebecca Loebe. My new fave.” Considering yesterday’s fave was “Don’t Stop Believin’,” I’d call this the biggest level-up in the history of music.
“Morgan, you have officially redeemed yourself.”
We pull into Rio Bravo and pile out of the car, and I stand a little straighter when we step into the restaurant. Not that anyone cares. But I don’t want to look like some high school kid skipping third period—even though that’s totally, 100 percent exactly what I am. The hostess leads us to a big booth in the back, and a waiter stops by right away to drop off tortilla chips and take our drink orders. Garrett leans toward me. “Let me guess. Coke.”
“Maybe.” I smile. Bram and Anna exchange glances.
“She’ll have a Coke,” Garrett says.
“Excuse me, I can order for myself.” I smile brightly at the waiter. “I’ll have a Coke, please.” I don’t mean it as a joke—not at all—but everyone laughs, even Garrett.
“You’re funny, Burke,” he says.
I blush and turn to Morgan. “Hey, I was wondering—are you doing the campus tour and info session thing?”
Morgan grins. “I was just going to ask you. So, Abby and I were discussing it, and we were thinking maybe all three of us could go together over spring break. Did she talk to you about it yet?”
Ah. So, Abby’s question. The thing she kind of wanted to ask me. I swallow. “Pretty sure your parents will want to go to that, Morgan.”
“I know. But I’ll go twice. I don’t care.”
“You guys and Abby?” asks Anna. “Since when are you friends with Abby?”
Morgan looks confused. “We’ve always been friends with Abby.”
“Yeah, but not like that. Not like spring break road trip besties,” Anna says, pursing her lips. I shift slightly in my seat. Anna gets weird when we talk about college, and I never know what to say. On one hand, I get it. She’s the odd woman out. But on the other hand, I don’t even think she ended up applying to Georgia. She’s been obsessed with Duke since sophomore year.
“Anna Banana, we’re not replacing you,” I say.
She wrinkles her nose. “You just had to pick the girl with a four-letter A name.”
“Yeah, but she’s not you.” Morgan hugs her around the shoulders.
And it’s true. Abby could never be inner circle. Maybe once upon a time, I thought she could be. Here’s the thing: right after Abby moved here, she and I hung out a lot. Like, a lot a lot. To the point where my mom started getting twinkly-eyed and asking lots of questions. And obviously, it wasn’t like that. For one thing, Abby’s embarrassingly hetero. She’s the type who’d watch all of Sailor Moon and come away thinking Haruka and Michiru were just good friends. She probably thinks Troye Sivan’s songs are about girls.
Not that I need to be thinking about Abby right now. I stare at the chip bowl. “So what are we doing after this?”
“Well, I have a project,” says Bram.
“What kind of project?”
Bram blushes, mouth quirking upward. “I’m kind of working on a promposal.”
Ninety minutes later, Morgan, Anna, and Garrett are watching anime in Morgan’s living room, and I’m eating microwave s’mores at the kitchen table with Bram. “So you inspired me,” he says.
“Me?”
He nods toward my phone. “With the picture you showed me.”
“Are you doing a Morgan’s bat mitzvah–themed promposal? Because that would be epic.”
“Good guess.” He grins. “But no. I mean, I don’t know. I think I need to pick your brain for a minute.”
“About what?”
“I need all your embarrassing Simon stories.” He takes a bite of s’more and smiles. There’s a tiny blob of marshmallow stuck to his lip.
“You realize this could take all day, right?” I say.
He laughs. “I’m here for it.”
“Also, totally unrelated, but I have to know. Did Baby Bram call graham crackers—”
“Bram crackers?” He smiles. “Maybe. Definitely.”
“That’s amazing.”
“I’m making another. You want one?” He stands.
“Obviously.” I tuck my chin into my hand. “Okay, so Simon.”
“Simon.”
There’s this tug in my chest. Because when Bram says Simon’s name, he pronounces every part of it. Like it’s worth being careful over. It’s really sweet and everything, but wow. I get so jealous sometimes. It’s obviously not just Simon and Bram. It’s couples in general. And it’s not about the kissing stuff. It’s just—imagine being Simon. Imagine going about your day knowing someone’s carrying you in their mind. That has to be the best part of being in love—the feeling of having a home in someone else’s brain.
I push away the thought. “All right. So I assume you’ve seen the jean shorts picture?”
“The one on their mantel?” He grins back at me from across the kitchen.
“Yup. Okay, what about when he puked in the wax hand?”
“He actually told me that himself.”
“Yeah, he’s probably proud of that one.” I bite my lip. “Huh. Like, it really shouldn’t be this hard to think of embarrassing Simon stories.”
“You would think,” Bram says. The microwave beeps, and I watch for a minute as he carefully presses the s’mores together. Only Bram could wrangle a giant puffed-up marshmallow so neatly. He carries the s’mores back to the table and slides the plate in front of me. And I’m just about to grab one, but I’m suddenly inspired.
“Wait, do you know about his thing with Love Actually?”
“I know his parents make him watch it every Christmas, and he hates it.”
“Yeah. He doesn’t hate it.” I take a giant bite of s’more, peeking up at him with my widest, most innocent eyes.
Bram grins. “It sounds like there’s a story here.”
“Oh, there’s a story. Simon wrote the story.”
Bram opens his mouth to reply, but then Garrett pops his head up over the back of the couch. “Hey, Burke. Question. So, I’m trying to figure out the plan for tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“The play,” calls Morgan from the armchair.
“Oh, I knew that.”
“Are you going?” Garrett asks.
“I was planning on it.”
Bram and Garrett glance at each other quickly, whatever that means. “Want to come with us?” Bram asks. “We want to get there early and get good seats.”
“In other words, Greenfeld wants an unobstructed view of his boyfriend’s ass.”
Bram shakes his head, smiling.
“Maybe we can grab dinner or something beforehand,” Garrett adds.
“I guess so.”
“You guess so? Leah. Leah.” Garrett shakes his head.
I force a giant, cheesy smile. “Oh. My. God. I can’t wait!”
“Better,” he says, sinking back into the couch.
But all night, at home, I’m not thinking about the play. I collapse onto the couch with a Coke, feeling edgy and restless. My mind keeps drifting back to what Morgan said at Rio Bravo. Abby wants to tour UGA with us. It’s not like it’s totally out of left field. We’re technically friends. But probably a hundred people from our grade applied to Georgia, and Abby’s friends with all of them. She’s friends with everyone. So it’s a little bit surprising that she’d want to go with us.
My phone buzzes on the table, and my heart just swoops.
But it’s Garrett.
Hey I’m glad you’re coming to the play tomorrow, should be really fun.
I curl back onto the couch, staring at it. Garrett does this sometimes. He sends me these texts out of nowhere with no real opening for a conversation. Just a statement. And I never know how to respond. To be honest, I get this vibe sometimes that Garrett likes me. I mean, I’m probably imagining it, and Garrett’s probably just really awkward. But sometimes I wonder.
Me too! I start to type. But it reads a little too much like OMG GARRETT I LOVE YOU PLS KISS ME. So I delete it, and then stare at my phone, and then retype it without the exclamation point, and then delete it again, until I finally give up and turn on Fruits Basket. This is what a mess I am. I can’t write a two-word text without losing my shit. And I’m not even particularly attracted to this boy. If I were, I’d be dead. RIP Leah Burke. She died of acute awkwardosis.
I need a distraction. God knows TV isn’t enough. I pull up some random fanfic on my phone, and then I take it down the hall. I can’t read Drarry in the living room, even when my mom’s not home. Drarry belongs in my bedroom. I don’t care if that sounds dirty.
But I can’t focus. It isn’t the fic’s fault. It’s well written, and Draco has some bite to him, which is refreshing. I hate when writers make Draco sweet. Sorry, but Draco’s a bitch. Own it. I mean, yeah, he’s a ball of mush underneath, but you have to earn it with him.
I guess that speaks to me, somehow.
But the distraction’s not working, so I shut it down. I stick my phone into its charger and then wiggle it around for a minute to trick it into actually charging. My phone’s a piece of shit. I crank up Spotify and log onto my art Tumblr, scrolling through my archives. I should upload something new. Or even one of my more decent older pieces. I have a whole bunch I’ve photographed and saved on my phone. All my ships, straight-up kissing: Inej and Nina, Percabeth, a few original characters. Plus a few random portraits of my friends, not that I ever plan on showing those to anyone. I did that once. Huge fucking mistake.
I scroll quickly past them, landing instead on a pencil sketch of Bellatrix Lestrange. It’s not the most polished thing I’ve drawn, but I sort of love her facial expression. And I don’t mind it being a little sloppy, since my Tumblr page is anonymous. If people think I’m a shitty artist, so be it. As least they don’t know I’m me.