And even Jessie waffled for a few days and finally canceled, saying Niko preferred to go to the lake house, and anyway she needed to support Avani.
So now I was going to spend this Saturday with my ex-boyfriend at a dance where I’d have no friends.
Dave and I hadn’t even spoken since that afternoon when he cornered me and ripped me open, telling me he knew exactly how petty and stupid I was. But I had to text him and tell him that Avani was out.
Dave: So do you still want to go?
Me: Hen really wants us to. Is that okay?
Dave: Of course. We should support him.
20
I WOKE UP ON THE day of homecoming with my arms and legs weighed down by a sense of dread. At ten o’clock, Dave texted me to plan the day. He asked if he could come over beforehand to change, and I said, “Sure,” thinking he meant, like, a half hour early. But instead he came a full three hours ahead of time, and we sat across from each other at the kitchen table. Luckily my mom did most of the talking, asking Dave all about his schoolwork and his college visits, and she acted so happy that I couldn’t remember if I’d told her yet that we were broken up.
We went into my room to hang up his suit, and he said, “You know, we could still hook up. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”
After that, I felt an obligation, so I kissed him, and I fumbled at his belt, and my whole body crawled, repulsed by his smell and his touch—I went out of myself, observing the whole thing as if it were a movie—and so I was grateful when my phone lit up with a text message.
“Hen found a date,” I said. “Can I see if they want to come over for a while?”
“Sure. Who is it?”
“I don’t know. But it’s probably really awkward, considering they’re just meeting for the first time today.”
Hen’s response was instant.
Henry: Thank God!
Henry: Yes. Yes. A thousand times yes.
Henry: How soon can we come over?
I showed Dave the text, and he laughed. We were next to each other on the bed.
“Glad we can rescue him,” Dave said.
In the silence that came after, Dave inched toward me again, and I said, “You know, I don’t think we should do this anymore.”
He nodded. “Okay, yeah. Sure. I just . . .” His fist opened and closed.
Looking at my movie posters on the wall, I said, “I can’t believe you’re not madder at me.”
“What? Why would I be mad?” he said.
“Because I’m awful. I broke up with you.”
“So?”
“People get mad.”
“But you don’t like guys. It’s no reason to be angry. I mean, well, I don’t really believe you, but it’s still okay.” Now his fingertips were a half inch from mine. I moved away slightly, and he took back his arm and rubbed his elbow.
Hen’s date was a college guy, a student at Santa Clara University, who had dark hair and a full beard and looked slightly rumpled in his pin-striped suit. He didn’t look at all white, and if his name hadn’t been Kendall, I would’ve said he was Indian.
“Yes, like Kendall Jenner,” he said.
“Cool.”
We sat in my kitchen. Kendall was quiet and self-conscious about his quietness: he kept apologizing for not talking more. This was where Pothan or Avani would’ve normally stepped up and taken charge, but I wasn’t slick enough to do it. My mom could have possibly found something to say, but she’d left an hour ago for a hair appointment. The day outside was cold and rainy. And my apartment was dark and unstylish, with bare white walls and blue carpet. We had no music. Everything was drab and forbidding, and we sat on four folding chairs around the card table where my mom and I ate breakfast most days.
“Err, how did you guys meet?” I asked.
Kendall flashed a quick look at Hen.
“What was that?” I said.
“Huh?” Kendall’s dark brow came together.
“You guys distinctly looked at each other,” I said.
“We met online,” Hen said.
“Wait . . . like . . . on Grindr?”
“No!” Hen said. “On Pinterest.”
“Excuse me? People don’t meet in person off of Pinterest, do they?”
“We are part of a very close-knit subculture,” Kendall said.
My eyes went wide, and I felt Dave tense up, as he telepathically told me, Don’t get too excited. They’re probably talking about something completely normal.
“Wha-wha-what subculture? Are you . . . I can’t even imagine.”
“We like trains,