what life is all about. Changing. Adapting. Moving forward.
“I don’t know. I haven’t really thought that far ahead.”
He nods, still standing awkwardly at the hood of my car, his hands still stuffed into his pockets.
I gesture to the passenger seat. “Do you need a ride home?”
He glances back to the lights of the carnival. The noise of the people and rides and games has faded into a soft din. “Actually, I was thinking maybe we could, you know, like, hang out.”
Jeez, why does Owen sound so freaking edgy? Is this “costume” I’m wearing making him uneasy? The way he’s ducking his head and averting his eyes, you’d think he was asking some girl he’s just met on a date. Not asking his best friend to hang out. And I can’t really tell because it’s so dark, but it almost looks like Owen is blushing.
“Like here? Or back at my house?” I ask, feeling just as awkward. It’s normally so easy between us. There’s no fumbling. No asking. We just, I don’t know, hang out. But this suddenly feels like we’re trying to plan a state dinner or something.
“Here,” he says quickly, like he wants to get the word out before it burns a hole in his cheeks. “At the carnival. It is the last night. You know, with tomorrow being Tuesday and all.”
“Right,” I say haltingly. “Tomorrow. Tuesday. That means no more carnival.”
“Right,” he repeats.
Okay, this is just too much. First he lies to me in the library. Now, we’re standing here bumbling like idiot strangers. I had planned on fixing this weirdness with Owen today. I was going to make things right, but apparently I’ve somehow only managed to make things worse. Owen and I need to return to normalcy, like, stat. I can’t take much more of this awkwardness.
I steal a peek at my phone. Tristan’s sent me two texts. One that says how amazing tonight was, and the other that says he’s heading to Jackson’s to strategize next steps with the band. That means there’s no chance of me bumping into him at the carnival and screwing everything up.
I close the car door with a decisive bang.
“Okay,” I say, trying to sound casual. Nonchalant. Normal. But it comes out way too bubbly. “Let’s go … um”—I point vaguely in the direction of the carnival—“hang out.”
There’s a Moon Out Tonight
8:43 p.m.
The conversation doesn’t get any easier. Owen and I walk around the carnival on Mute, like two strangers who have nothing in common. My mind struggles to make sense of it.
This is Owen! The guy who climbs through my window and makes jokes about my stuffed Hippo.
The guy I used to raid the canteen with at summer camp.
The guy who brings me Benadryl when I accidentally eat almonds.
Why is there suddenly a wall between us? Why has this crazy repetitive day turned us into two people who can’t even find one thing to talk about?
“So do you—”
“Maybe we should—”
We speak at the same time. I chuckle. “You go.”
“I was just going to ask if you wanted to play some carnival games.”
“Yes!” I say with way too much enthusiasm. Anything that will give us something to do but wander around in silence.
“Great!” His enthusiasm sounds about as manufactured as mine.
We head over to the games and Owen stops at the ring toss booth.
“Oh,” I say, remembering the disappointing experience I had last night. “I’m pretty sure this game is rigged.”
Owen confidently slaps a dollar on the counter. “I’ll take my chances.”
The carnival employee places five rings in front of Owen as he flashes a bogus, gold-toothed smile. I give him a guarded look. I trust these guys about as much as I trust the structural integrity of that Ferris wheel.
I tear my eyes from Gold Tooth and turn to Owen. He appears to be in the middle of some very intense preparation routine. He’s stretching his neck from side to side, swinging his arms forward and back, and hopping from foot to foot like a boxer waiting to go into the ring.
“O?” I say cautiously. “What are you doing?”
“Warming up.”
“For what?”
He punches the air. Left. Right. Bam! Bam! “These games are all about muscle memory. I’m warming up my muscles.”
I turn back to the carnival employee. We now share a look of disbelief.
With a clap of his hands, Owen grabs the rings and tosses them one by one toward the bottle necks. His movements are fluid, almost rehearsed. Each fling looks identical to the last, a subtle, yet earnest