before
I was standing in front of my mirror later that night after the play, using a makeup wipe to scrub away the eyeliner and eyeshadow dusted across my face to look like soot, when my phone dinged. I had tossed it onto my bed after checking a text Bex sent me, asking about that hug she'd seen Griffin giving me earlier. There was a winking emoji in lieu of a question mark. I rolled my eyes when I read it, but I also felt a tiny glimmer of hope because it wasn't just me noticing it, thinking about it, and about him and me, anymore. Other people saw it too.
I was aggressively cleaning off my left eye as I opened the message, my heart racing as I read it and realized it wasn't from Bex.
Meet me outside in five. Please?
Griffin
The wet grass prickled against my bare feet as I stood in the backyard, droplets of water falling from the roof and plinking onto our patio. It was dark outside but the moon and the streetlights kept everything dimly lit as I waited for Griffin. I had changed out of my pajamas and into a pair of shorts and a camisole, quickly swiping a tinted lip balm over my lips and ruffling my hair.
My mind raced as I remembered how he'd lifted me off the ground earlier that night and how close he'd stood to me even after placing me down, whispering Cinderella in my ear. A little secret just between us. Now he wanted to see me again, after midnight.
There was a rustling in the distance, footsteps, and then I was blinded by the glare of the motion-sensor light as Griffin Tomlin climbed over our fence, landing on the grass near my dad's vegetable garden. He squinted at me, bringing his forearm over his face to shield his eyes from the glare.
I darted to the other side of the yard. The odor of the rain and freshly cut grass was heavy in the charged air but still, I could've sworn I smelled the scent of his soap as he smiled at me, bringing his arm down as the motion light flicked off and it was just us, alone in the dark and the rain.
"Hey," I whispered.
As I looked at him, a raindrop fell on the curve of his cheekbone, rolling down his face until it landed on his shirt, but he didn't seem to notice. He was only looking at me, and that felt both wonderful and terrifying at the same time.
"So, um," I said, feeling the fragile wings of butterflies grazing my rib cage as my heart expanded, "did you need to talk to me or something?"
"No," he said, tilting his head to the side. "I didn't need to or anything. But I wanted to."
I wasn't sure what that was supposed to mean. Maybe it would've been obvious to either Emily or Bex that he was flirting, but it wasn't to me. Because he was Griffin Tomlin and I was Clara Porterfield, in the same galaxy but never in the same orbit. It just felt so impossible to think that someone I wanted could actually want me back.
"Okay," I breathed. "About what?"
Something filled his eyes, something that looked so sincere and inviting and kind. If his eyes were really the ocean, and if he had asked me to jump, I probably wouldn't have thought twice about squeezing my eyes shut and diving right in, right into him.
"You. How I kind of want to kiss you right now." Then, before I had a chance to react, I felt the warmth of his hands on either side of my face, fingertips in the strands of my hair, and his lips against my own.
I closed my eyes.
When he pulled away from me, his lips, the lips I had just kissed, curved into a smile. You just did that, I thought, and it was all I could think. Griffin Tomlin had really kissed me, and it wasn't a dream or a fantasy or anything, but real.
"I didn't think you were going to do that," I finally whispered after a moment.
"Well, I did want to do more than just talk," he told me. Then he glanced away from me, over to one of our neighbors' houses. "It sounds like someone's outside. I should probably go." He kissed me again, so quickly I only realized he'd done it when he pulled away. "I'll text you again, soon."
I was still so stunned—Griffin Tomlin kissed me—that all I did was nod, barely even registering his words and swift movement as he ran across the lawn and over the fence, waving, just like he had earlier that night, until he was out of sight.
The next day, I thought he would call me or run through the backyard again in the middle of the night, like it was our thing, dark-backyard kissing. But he never called me or texted me. I even left the light on in my room until almost three in the morning so he wouldn't think I was asleep, but it was Saturday. Maybe he was really busy on Saturdays. Maybe he had baseball practice or was working, or, or, or. But then Sunday came and went, and there was nothing. I told Bex to call me to make sure that my phone was still working, but of course, it was. It was only Sunday, though. Maybe he had baseball practice or was working.
Or, or, or.
On Monday, I decided to find his locker between classes, hoping that he might be there. I was also hoping that when he saw me coming around the corner, he would hesitate a little, as if he were just as stunned as I was that he'd kissed me. Then maybe he would smile at me before giving me a totally believable reason for why he hadn't called me all weekend and then kiss me again, for the third time. Then we would go to class, and Bex would notice my smudged lipstick, and mouth something like, "Did you just make out?" and I would nod, because, yeah, I'd just made out with Griffin Tomlin.
When I turned the hall corner, he was standing at his locker, but he wasn't alone. He was standing in front of a girl with red hair that curled around her shoulders, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Griffin looked almost—maybe—annoyed with her as she spoke, a crease forming between his eyebrows. He shrugged in response to whatever she said and tilted his head to the side, looking away from her.
He looked almost . . . defensive.
A second went by before she tightened her arms around her chest and shrugged too, appearing defeated in some way. He mumbled something I couldn't hear before he grabbed his backpack and swung it over his shoulder, walking away from her and right past me.
Without even noticing me standing there.
It had been almost two weeks since Griffin kissed me. And it had been about a week and a half since I'd seen him standing in front of his locker with that girl. I kept wondering what they were talking about and why he'd never reached out to me after our kiss. The pieces didn't fit, and the ones that did were ones I didn't want to think about. The picture was twisting into something else when I wanted it to stay just me and Griffin, in my backyard, in the rain, our lips meeting.
It wasn't until I was working at Scoops! that I saw him again. I was sitting behind the counter, slouching in a metal chair with an old, dog-eared copy of a magazine, the air warm and sticky. Even though it was October, it was hot. I had rubber-banded a small, mechanical fan to another chair and aimed it in my direction.
Scoops! was a smaller parlor, with only three booths in the corner, each with cracks like spiderwebs across their vinyl covers. Fuchsia-and-white checkered tiles stretched out over the floor.
All the tables and counters were painted teal, and abstract artwork from the owner's daughter decorated the walls.
"If the parlor was only for scoops of ice cream, why isn't it called that? Instead it's called 'Scoops!' Like, as in scoops of frozen yogurt." I looked over my shoulder at Bex, who was standing at the counter with an ice cream scooper in her hand and a pained expression on her face. She'd just informed a red-faced woman that we did not serve frozen yogurt. Twice.
I could tell Bex was stifling the urge to critique her logic before gesturing to the selection of ice cream tubs in front of her. "I'm sorry, but we still only sell ice cream here. And cones, if you want those."
"Who wants an ice cream cone without the ice cream?!"
I was beginning to wonder if I should interject when he came in. A bell rang above his head as he ambled inside, flip-flops smacking against the tiles. When I realized it was him, Griffin, the sound of my heart beating in my ears drowned out the mechanical fans and the huffs of the angry woman.
I approached the counter as he looked down at the ice cream selection. Some of the shallow metal tubs were nearly empty, scraped so that you could see the glint of silver at the bottom. He smiled and said, "Hey," as if his heart was just beating normally instead of going into arrhythmia like mine.
"Hey." I wasn't sure what to do with my hands, so I reached for an ice cream scooper, shaking off the water and acutely aware that Griffin Tomlin was watching me the entire time.
"I didn't know you worked here," he said, turning to the fishbowl we had on the counter, which was filled with strips of folded paper. A pen with a little notepad sat beside it. We had a draw for a free ice cream cone every week. He picked up the pen, but instead of writing down his name and phone number, he tossed it up in the air and caught it.
"Yeah." I nodded. "Since the beginning of the summer."
"It was a pleasant surprise," he said, still looking at the pen, but then he brought his gaze back to me, ocean blue and all. I found myself smiling back because, to Griffin Tomlin, I was a pleasant surprise.
And that wasn't something you said to girls you didn't want to see after kissing them, right?
"Thanks," I said, and there was something in my voice that sounded almost flirty. Not the kind of flirty Bex or Emily were capable of, but something more awkward that seemed to be working because Griffin laughed, like I'd said something funny. "So are you going to put your name in? Winner gets a free ice cream cone."
"A free ice cream cone, huh?"
I suddenly felt brazen, the same rush I'd had when we were in my backyard together, leaning close, radiating through me. "If you want . . ." He looked away from the fishbowl, eyebrows raised, and my heart seized for a split second before I continued. "I mean, if you want, I could put your name in twice."
"Isn't there a law against that or something?" Griffin whispered, glancing quickly at Bex.
"No, there's not." I took in a breath, heart hammering, going on. "If you win, someone—and by someone, I-I mean me—will call you to let you know." When he stared at me, still smiling but not saying anything, I added quickly, "Or we could email you. Whichever."
I hadn't realized my glasses had slid down my nose until Griffin reached over the counter and pushed them up with his fingertip.
"Or," he said, reaching for my hand and turning it palm-up before uncapping the pen with his teeth, "I could just give you my new number and skip the free ice cream."
He started to write the first digit, a seven, the tip of the pen tickling against my hand, and I had to resist the urge to wiggle away from it. I was both eager and terrified. "No one really turns down free ice cream around here."
Griffin laughed as he wrote the next number, a two, his thumb stroking the back of my hand as he wrote. "My old phone died," he explained. "That's why I haven't texted or anything."
I smiled, hoping my relief wasn't as obvious as it felt, bursting through my chest. But then, just over Griffin's shoulder, I noticed someone standing behind the front window of the parlor. A hoodie was pulled over her face, but I recognized my sister's strawberry blond hair, the same color as mine, draped over her chest. Her green painted nails were knocking softly on the window, over the painted Scoops! sign.
Griffin had just written the dash over my palm when I slowly withdrew my hand. "Griffin, c-can you wait just a minute? Please." I tried to ignore the slightest trace of hurt flashing over his
face as he nodded, capping the pen. "Sure, no problem."
I walked around the counter and headed outside, catching a glimpse of the first half of his phone number on my palm when I turned to Emily and threw up my hands, asking, "What?"
She was sniffling as she grabbed the back of the hoodie, yanking it down and away from her face. I let out a gasp as the sunlight fell over her eye, the skin around it swollen and dark, glistening from her tears. Her chin was trembling as she asked me, quietly with a shuddering voice, "Can you take me somewhere? Please, Clara."
I reached a hand out to her, but she took a step away from me, almost cowering. "What happened? Emily, seriously. What happened?"
She shook her head, crossing her arms. "Please let's just go, okay? Please. Clara."
I hesitated before I reached over and pulled open the front door, calling out, "Bex, I have to go!"
Emily scurried toward the Mini Cooper and yanked open the passenger side door. For a moment, I just stood there, unsure of what to do. Even though I knew she probably couldn't hear me, I asked, "Do you want me to call Mom?"
Instead of responding, she got into the car and slammed the door.
I looked behind me, my gaze penetrating through the painted glass of the window and into the ice cream parlor. Griffin was still leaning over the counter, and I remembered half of his phone number was written on my palm. He stared out at me, confused, the pen still in his hand. Behind me, Emily tapped on the horn.
I sighed, pressing my fingers into the number, and mouthed to Griffin, Sorry.
He nodded, setting the pen back down in front of the fishbowl. Sorry, I wanted to say again, and again, and again.
Sorry.
We drove around for nearly forty minutes, taking turns I had never taken before and pulling onto roads I had never driven before. I rolled down the front windows so the rushing of the air would drown out Emily's sniffling, her breath hiccupping as if she just couldn't catch it.
"Where are we going?" I finally asked.
"Just keep going," she told me, before reaching forward and pressing play on the CD player, the chords of country music filling the car.
So I did.
Eventually, after almost two hours of just driving, I pulled into a roadside gas station. "If we're going to keep driving around, I don't want to run out of gas in the middle of nowhere," I told her as I parked alongside a pump—but really, I wanted out of that car with Carrie Underwood crooning through the speakers in the back seat, and Emily's sniffling and bruised eye. It felt confining, like the air was being sucked out through the open windows.
I pumped in a little gas before jogging into the convenience. I got us some cherry and coke slushies, a bag of mini peanut butter cups, and a box of bandages. I didn't really think you were supposed to put a bandage over a bruise, but all of the ice packs were warm, and I couldn't think of anything else.
We sat in the parking lot for a few minutes and quietly sipped our slushies, occasionally grabbing a handful of peanut butter cups from the console between us. She had pulled her hood down, the glow of the convenience store's sign falling over her features. The greenish hue made the bruise look even worse. Sometimes she would lift the slushie to the side of her face and close her eyes, the evening air ruffling her hair.
"Emily," I said. "What happened? Did you hit your head or something?"
I knew this wasn't it, but there was a part of me that wanted to believe this was all somehow an accident. That my thoughts were worse than what had actually happened, even though I knew that couldn't possibly be true.
"Wilson," she said. "We got into a fight, a stupid fight. It was over this girl, one of his friends' sisters, I don't know. I saw a picture of them together on his phone, doing this really stupid looking selfie." She grabbed another handful of candies and rolled her eyes—or one of them anyway. The other one was too swollen to tell. "And I got mad. I mean, my boyfriend takes a picture with a slut, I can get mad, right?"
I nodded, somewhat slowly. I felt a little thrown hearing her use the word slut, practically spitting it out of her mouth like it had a bitter taste.
"He thought I was being unreasonable, and he was, like, You're always doing this. You're always asking me if I'm with other girls when I'm not. And then I brought up this other time a few months ago because I was trying to prove to him it wasn't my fault I was saying this stuff! You know, maybe if he kept it in his pants, then I wouldn't always be asking him if he was sleeping around."
She laughed ruefully around a mouthful of peanut butter cups. Then her face softened slightly, the tremble creasing her chin again.
"But he got angry. Like, really angry. And the next thing I know . . ." She gestured vaguely to her face, to her swollen eye. A thick teardrop slid over her purplish bruise as it went down her cheek. "He just hit me."
"Emily," I whispered.
"But then he got really apologetic, you know? He said he was sorry so many times, and then he started crying." She reached for her slushy and brought it back to her bruise, closing her eyes as she sighed shakily. "I just wanted to get away. So I did."
I wasn't sure of what else to say, so instead I just murmured, "Emily," again as the neon lights from the convenience store sign flickered over her face, reflecting against her glistening cheeks, and she nodded back. Like she didn't know what else to say either.