Eight
The next day, I’m back at the mall. I while away the hours checking out the occasional flip-flop customer and bouncing a light-up volleyball between my register and Ethan’s. The soundtrack is a nice mix of pop remixes and cheery oldies like “Walking on Sunshine” and “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough.” Overall, it’s a boring morning, but I leave in good spirits and stop by the food court to buy a blue raspberry ICEE . Then I settle on one of the benches outside Macy’s to read through a series of texts Thom sent during my shift.
As it turns out, my “reading you loud and clear” text did not bring about eternal shame and mortification. Thom just replied with an innocuous “ AWESOME ,” and somehow we ended up on the topic of food and beverages. At the moment, Thom is espousing the merits of bubble tea, and he’s flabbergasted I’ve never tried it before.
It’s shocking, Tash. Totally shocking.
You’re only half a person until you’ve burst a tapioca bubble in your mouth.
I didn’t think Kentucky was THAT backwards.
That last text makes me indignant. I know Thom is joking around (or flirting?), but I take offense whenever anyone makes a slight about where I live. Like I reside deep in the woods and wear a coonskin cap and talk like one of those crazy hunters on Duck Dynasty . Yes, Thom is from L.A., and yes that makes him somewhat cool, but it’s not like we live in the year 1805, when hip new developments took decades to reach the landlocked states. We live in the brave new twenty-first century, where the trends in Lexington are now only a season behind the big cities and everyone is learning to talk in the standardized Midwestern accent all the newscasters use.
I text back, Bubble tea has been out for ages, and I KNOW WHAT IT IS . I just never ask for it when I go to coffee shops.
Then I add, I go for the frappes.
Just in case Thom wants to buy me one when we meet up one day. Not that I’ve pictured that scenario at all. Not that I’ve imagined Thom taking me to Starbucks, where we’ll get lost in conversation for five whole hours. Or how he will slurp the last bit of his iced coffee, but in a cute way. Or how, when we finally leave the store because they’re closing, he will casually drape his arm around my shoulders and whisper, “I’m so glad you’re here.”
Like I would imagine that. Ha.
My heart peps up when I see that Thom is texting back.
Uuuuugh, he replies. Seriously? Frappes? They are like the Appletinis of the coffee world.
I text, What do you have then? I bet you’re a purist. I bet you only order triple espresso shots.
Thom texts, It’s an acquired taste. Don’t worry, you’ll grow into it.
I frown, both at the text and the brain freeze I’ve brought on with an extra long slurp of ICEE .
Maybe Thom is just flirting, but if this is flirting, I’m not a fan. I don’t feel like defending my beverage choices, and I don’t like Thom treating me like I’m naive. It’s not attractive; it’s something an annoying older brother would do.
Though not an older brother like Paul. He and Jack fight, but I’ve never once heard him tease her. I think this has to do with the fact that Paul was bullied a lot in elementary school. In the end, it got so bad that Mr. and Mrs. Harlow held Paul back in the fifth grade, because of the bullying and his trouble in classes.
Paul.
I want to talk to him about Klaudie. I called Jack expecting sympathy, which was stupid of me. Jack doesn’t do sympathy, but Paul does. Paul does it very well. I decide I’ll go over to the Harlows’ later today, after I film the vlog announcing my hiatus. Jack will be working her shift at Petco then, so I can have Paul all to myself for a few hours. It’s been a while since we’ve hung out, just the two of us.
I also decide not to reply to Thom’s text. At least, not right away.
• • •
“Hey, everybody! So, I know this video is late, and I apologize profusely. As most of you probably know, our web series Unhappy Families got a big signal boost last week, and things have been hectic over here. But the good kind of hectic! Because Jack and I want to provide you guys with only the best content, I’ve decided to put Teatime with Tash on hiatus so I can focus more energy on Unhappy Families . I’m going to miss sharing tea and talk of dashing young gents with you all, but I hope to be back with brand-new episodes this fall, after we’ve wrapped up filming for . . .”
I grimace. I feel like I’m saying “Unhappy Families” too often over such a short period of time. I reach behind the camera and jab the record button, putting an effective end to this take. Maybe I can say “wrapped up filming the web series .” That sounds cleaner.
This video is necessary. I can’t abandon my vlog without a reason why, or else our subscribers will think Jack and I aren’t devoted to our projects. But deep down, I wonder if anyone will care. All anybody seems interested in nowadays is Unhappy Families and the Kitty + Levin OTP . I expect things to go crazy tomorrow, when Jack uploads the Scrabble episode. My hiatus announcement will probably be lost in the hullabaloo.
It’s not like I’m jealous of my own web series. I just really enjoy filming Teatime with Tash . It’s simple and kind of superficial, yeah, but that’s what makes it fun. I don’t have to shoot a scene fifteen times to get the actors’ tones and the lighting and the camera angle perfect. All I have to do is sit down in my desk chair, framed by a backdrop of powder blue bunting and a stack of my favorite books, and talk . Drink a new flavor of loose-leaf. Gush about JJ Feild as Mr. Tilney in the underrated ITV adaptation of Northanger Abbey . It’s the easiest thing in the world. It’s just me being me , talking about something I love.
Unhappy Families requires a lot more time and effort and planning. I’m not afraid of planning; I love it, and I’m a pro. I just like, on occasion, to do something effortless .
I remind myself that there are at least a few people out there who like my vlog. They were leaving encouraging comments way before that Taylor Mears video. At least a few viewers will miss me. A few viewers will be happy when I resume the vlog. And I will resume the vlog. Just after this fame explosion dies down.
I lean back to check my reflection in the closet mirror. I sweep away an errant smudge of eyeliner, then tuck a stray shoot of hair back into my messy brunette bun. I take a few deep breaths, then vibrate my lips together the way I’ve seen Serena and Jay warm up before speaking their lines.
Settled back into position, I press the record button once more.
“Hey, everybody! So, I know this video is late . . .”
When I’ve wrapped up filming, I text Paul, Can I come over?
Paul texts back immediately, Thought you’d never ask.
Grinning, I slip on a pair of ballet flats and head out, going through the kitchen so I can snag a box of bite-size white chocolate macadamia nut cookies. Paul will probably need sustenance. Jack is always complaining that Mr. Harlow and Paul would starve if she didn’t force them to eat dinner on nights when Mrs. Harlow is away on business—and that’s about half the nights every month. They both get so wrapped up in whatever they’re doing they forget to eat, which I can maybe understand for Mr. Harlow, but aren’t teenage guys like Paul capable of inhaling extra large pizzas without thinking twice? Paul claims he did all his growing when he was seventeen, which might be true. The way I remember it, I started sophomore year several inches taller than Paul and ended it a full foot shorter. Jack and I used to joke that there were fissures in Paul’s skin from having to accommodate such a sudden stretch.
When I reach the Harlows’, I go around back. The house is a split-level, and I get in using the basement’s sliding door. From the patio, through the glass, I see Paul smushed into a beanbag, playing a video game. I stop a few feet from the door and, for a moment, just watch.
I will never tell Paul this, because there’s no way to say it without sounding creepy, but I love his face when he’s playing video games. It’s all tensed muscle and set jaw. The brightness, the sheer earnestness in his eyes is unsettling. Like that, Paul looks ageless—like he could just as well be battling in the Trojan War, or on the fields of Gettysburg. It’s a face that makes me weirdly proud of him, that makes me want to shout, “This is my friend, who is fully human and so alive, and he deserves an epic poem or at least a mural.”
It’s a face that frightens me a little too. Maybe for the same reason: because Paul is so alive.
I slide open the door and am hit with the sounds of trumpets and clanging metal. Paul looks to me, pauses the game, and tosses the controller aside.
“Thank God you’re here,” he says. “I’m sucking so bad right now. I’m about to bleed out.”
“This shall restore you, soldier,” I say, shaking the box of cookies.
I edge my butt onto the beanbag and rip open the box, then the aluminum bag inside. Paul promptly extracts a handful of cookies and shoves them into his mouth, chewing noisily. I roll my eyes. In just a minute, he has gone from demigod to uncouth slob. So strange and changeable. So, so alive.
Paul grabs the remote wedged under his thigh and turns off the television.
“You can keep playing,” I say, slipping an arm behind his back as he throws one over my shoulder.
“I was mostly dead, anyway.”
“No, you’re just being polite.”
Paul inhales another handful of cookies. “Polite?” he says, when his mouth is at its fullest. He grins at his magnificent rebuttal.
“I mean, playing host. You never keep the TV on when I’m here.”
“Well, it’s rude,” says Paul.
“Which makes you polite.”
Paul tries to look annoyed, which does strange things to his cheeks. “Hey, stop throwing that word around. I have a reputation to protect.”
“Hmph,” I reply.
“I need to redeem myself.” Paul gets up, dusting off the fine layer of cookie crumbs that has collected on his T-shirt. “C’mon, we’re gonna play some Ping-Pong.”
“How is that redeeming yourself?” I ask, following him from the entertainment room to the game room. (The Harlow basement has such exciting room names. We Zelenkas don’t even have a basement, just an eensy cellar we use during tornado warnings.)
“Because I am going to whoop your ass,” says Paul, “and hosts generally let their guests win games.”
“That’s a stupid rule. And you are not going to whoop my ass.”
He is, actually. Paul is way better than I am at anything requiring hand-eye coordination. Still, I like playing Ping-Pong with him, because I’m good enough to make the game interesting, not humiliating.
The Harlows’ Ping-Pong table is University of Kentucky blue. The paddles are two-toned—blue and white. The balls are white with tiny blue UK logos. The walls of the game room are covered in old posters boasting about national championships and broken records. (Example: UK2K! for the first NCAA basketball team to reach two thousand wins. Yeah. UK fans are that obnoxious.)
“Ready?” Paul asks, picking up a paddle and tossing one to me. I catch it by the handle, and Paul grins, clearly impressed. I grin, clearly proud.
I say, “Let’s get this thing started.”
Paul starts off with an inhumanly rapid serve that flies off my side of the table before I can even think to make a lunge for it. I’m not too worried, though. He is undoubtedly going to beat me, but I’ll sneak in a few points by the end; Paul always gets lazy after a few rounds. In the minutes that follow, the room fills with cheers of victory, screeches of defeat, commiserative laughter, and, under all of it, the unsteady pit-pat of the Ping-Pong ball. After five rounds, Paul remains the undefeated champion.
I lose my last point by raising my paddle over my head and crying, “You’re rude and a terrible host, okay?”
Paul takes a bow. Then, maybe because I’m woozy with adrenaline, I climb atop the table and lie out diagonally. Deeming this a good plan, Paul does the same on his end of the table. I glance over and snicker at how awkward a sight it is—Paul’s legs hanging a good two feet off the edge. He wriggles around, trying to get more comfortable, and eventually settles on pulling up his knees.
It’s quiet for a while. I turn toward Paul again, squinting through the netting in an attempt to get a better look at his face.
“You okay?”
Paul laughs.
I prop myself up on an elbow. “Paul?”
“I’m fine . God, Tash, you freak out every time I’m quiet for more than fifteen seconds.”
“That’s not true.”
Silence.
More silence.
“Okay, fine,” I admit.
“So let’s talk about you,” says Paul. “Tash Zelenka, how are you handling fame?”
I wince. “It’s very surreal and kind of annoying.”
“Oh yeah? I thought you were loving it.”
“No, I am. It’s awesome. All the comments and, oh my God, someone posted this fan art of Kevin yesterday that was, like, breathtaking.”
“Who’s Kevin?”
“Too late,” I say. “Jack already told me you tried that on her. You did know what a ship name was before that, didn’t you? Please. It’s important for me to hear that you knew this.”
“Yeah, yeah, I knew. I’d have to be really dense not to catch that after hanging around you guys so long. Denser than usual, anyway.”
I chuck the Ping-Pong ball I’m holding at Paul’s face.
“Ow! What was that for?”
“You’re doing it again,” I say.
“What?”
“Cutting yourself down. Stop it.”
“What are you, my guidance counselor?”
“You’re smart, Paul. You’re really smart.”
Paul doesn’t respond to that. Instead, he says, “Jack told me about Klaudie quitting. Sorry. That sucks.”
I don’t like him changing topics, but this particular topic is something I really want to talk about.
“She totally blindsided me,” I say. “Getting all this attention has been stressful enough, and now I have to figure out how to rewrite the rest of the script.”
“Guess there’s not a guidebook for how to handle fame and its complications, huh?”
“Nope.”
As an afterthought, I say, “Maybe Thom would have some good advice. . . .”
Paul is quiet for a moment. Then he asks, “Who’s Thom?”
“I’ve mentioned him before.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Oh. It must’ve been to Jack.”
“Sooo, who’s Thom?”
“Well, first off, to give you a better visualization, it’s Thom with an ‘h.’ ”
Paul horks out a laugh. “That’s horrible. What a pretentious-ass name.”
“No, it’s not,” I say crossly. “It’s short for Thomas, so it’s more . . . accurate. He’s a vlogger, like me. That’s how we met. We’ve been friends for a while now.”
“Internet friends?”
“Yes, Paul. Internet friends. Real friends who happen to use the Internet. It’s not that weird.”
“Have you met him in person?”
“No.”
“Do you talk on the phone?”
“No.” I quickly add, “But we text and e-mail, and I know he’s not some elaborate hoax or serial killer because I watch his vlogs every week. He’s totally normal.”
“Is he hot?”
Silence. I’m at a loss for words.
“Shit,” says Paul. “I didn’t mean—”
“No, it’s fine. He’s nice to look at.”
“Really?”
The table creaks. Paul’s curious face edges into view.
I look him in the eye. “I can find people attractive without wanting to see them naked, you know.”
Paul nods slowly. “Sorry. I didn’t know. I mean, after what you . . . Sorry. I just assumed.”
A memory blooms and hangs over us—a conversation from several months back that feels just as fresh and awkward as though it took place an hour ago. But I don’t want to remember it, and I don’t want to talk about it now.
So I say, “You don’t have to say ‘sorry.’ ”
“Um. So. Sorry, but do you like him?”
I’m pretty sure there is boiling sludge, not blood, beneath my cheeks. “Um. I guess. But not . . . I mean, not like . . .”
“Right, right. Okay.”
“Anyway.” I wince at how tense I sound.
“Hmm. Thom. ” Paul tests out the name with an audible smile, wheezing the h .
I wish I had another Ping-Pong ball to throw at him. “Your name isn’t any better.”
“I never said it was.”
I feel a sudden pressure and release on my head. Paul is tapping me with his Ping-Pong paddle.
“What?” I ask.
“I’m challenging you to another game,” he says. “You were close to winning that last one.”
“Only because you were soft on me.”
“That is insulting. I was giving it my all.”
I rise to a sit, shaking my head. “You just want an ego boost.”
“Maybe.”
“So pathetic,” I say, swinging my legs off the table.
An almighty cracking sound rings through the room. I lose my balance, suddenly and inexplicably off-kilter. I’m sliding downward, along the table, but at an angle I don’t understand. I hear Paul shout just before I crash into him, and a sharp pain slices across my leg.
It takes a few stunned moments to piece together what’s happened.
When I do, I burst into tear-filled laughter.
“Holy crap,” I say. “We broke Ping-Pong.”