He blinks but doesn’t say anything right away.
One benefit of being in the passenger’s seat is that I get the opportunity to ogle his side profile whenever I want, but he doesn’t get that luxury. Once we idle at a red light, he studies me.
“Is this about the track and field spread in the yearbook?” James asks. “Because it was all Lyla’s idea, not mine.”
I pause. “What about it?” I ask slowly.
“Nothing,” he says too innocently for me to believe that he’s telling the truth.
“James.”
“It’s really nothing. Just an idea she had, and I thought it sounded like a good one.”
I glare at him.
“She’s going to talk to you about it tomorrow,” he explains. “I don’t want to butcher her vision by trying to explain it to you now.”
“Her vision?” I balk. “Let me guess. She wants to do a big story on you with a full photoshoot where you’re indoors but somehow replicating your running moves in a studio?”
He looks sheepish when I put it plainly. “Well, yeah, kind of.”
She had the same idea for whatever wrestler she was seeing in December. I hated it then, and it’s not going to fly now. It’ll totally disrupt the theme, and I don’t need whatever she considers cool to be in the pages of something I’ve had vision boards for since eighth grade.
“And this definitely doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that she’s looking for an excuse to pick up where you guys left off freshman year? Or last summer behind Dairy Queen between your shifts? Because as my best friend, you certainly wouldn't be happy to use this as an excuse to get in her pants?”
“Definitely not,” he quips.
James is the first to admit that he has a blind spot for my feelings sometimes, and this has been a hell of a day for it.
“No, James,” I say bitterly, “this has nothing to do with why I’m going to drive myself to school from now on.”
I turn up the music and force my stare out the window.
He doesn’t fight me on the issue, and I’m both relieved and disappointed by it.
Maybe Dylan was right; I do need some independence, which is a painful realization on so many levels.
The rest of the ride home drags on, and by the time James pulls in his driveway, I’m fidgeting to get out.
“You’ll still come to my meet next week, right?” James calls to me as I walk toward the front door.
My back is to him, so he doesn’t see the pinched expression on my face.
“Of course,” I say evenly.
I’ve never missed one. I still went even when we were in a huge fight for a week of sophomore year over some stupid Chemistry presentation we partnered up on.
I suppose that’s part of life with someone—fighting, making up, moving on, but keeping it a part of the shared history between us. I already know that part of life with James means we’re going to have one thousand more moments like this, but it’s worth it.
At least, I hope it is.
When I glance over my shoulder, James smiles at me.
It’s one of his heart-stopping, half-shy smiles that morphs into a grin that goes all the way up to his eyes.
Usually, it makes me weak at the knees, but something about it feels hollow today.
I tear my eyes away and head inside.
Thankfully, the next few hours are uneventful. I do homework until it’s time for spaghetti dinner with my parents.
We all fill each other in on what has happened in the past twenty-four hours since we last sat down together and laugh collectively at the texts Audrey sends us during the day.
As far as parents go, mine are good ones—they’re involved in my life but not overly so.
It’s the exact opposite of James’s parents. His mom makes him share the location of his phone with her so he can be accessible at all times. Once he and I made a wrong turn while trying to find a new coffee shop, and she called us within five minutes to ask why we weren’t on the way home.
James is an only child and their one chance at doing it right. My parents got all of their overprotective tendencies out on Audrey, who rebelled enough for the both of us.
Sometimes I think my parents are genuinely surprised that I don’t go out and find trouble for myself.
Last fall during their anniversary weekend trip, they made a joke about how it was a rite of passage to throw a rager when you’re home alone. James and I split a wine cooler, ordered pizza, and watched old episodes of The Office.
I’m pretty sure the house was cleaner when they arrived than when they left.
My dad swirls the pasta on his fork, trying and failing to set himself up for a manageable bite. “How’s your essay coming along, H?”
“Same as yesterday,” I tell him.
I aggressively smush the soft piece of garlic bread into the red sauce in my bowl, taking out my frustration on delicious carbohydrates.
The Pittsburgh Press, a small local publishing company, is hosting a writing contest for all high school seniors in the area.
Entering it alone is a great opportunity to get my name and writing in front of professional writers and editors, but winning comes with the option to intern with them next summer.
My reputation as an overachiever is falling short on this one.
I have grandiose dreams about being able to sit down and write the most amazing, witty, but not condescending, essay that will guarantee a win, but when I actually try to make it happen, I overthink it to the point of stifling myself.
I know exactly what I want to say, but it gets lost in the process. When I try to write it down, it’s too cheesy or melodramatic, and I end up tossing it aside.
I’m running out of time, though.
The deadline is approaching quickly—of course, it’s already blocked out on my planner. If I don’t come up with something soon to write about, I’m going to miss out on a huge opportunity.
I wish the prompt was something easier that I could write after some research or inspiration, but it’s a personal essay, sharing the story of your life.
I’m supposed to sum everything up in under one thousand words, but the only problem is that I can barely get two paragraphs in before I’ve run out of material. It’s exceedingly frustrating for someone who is accustomed to turning in papers that are twice the requested word length in school.
I live in my own head, not through action. I’m starting to realize that is definitely going to be a problem.
“It’ll come together soon,” my mother attempts to reassure me.
I give up on the rest of my dinner, brushing the crumbs from my hand back into the bowl.
My dad jumps in. “And it’s totally fine if not. Lord knows you put enough pressure on yourself, Miss Valedictorian. You’re allowed to give yourself a break.”
“Yeah,” I say, not totally committing to it.
“There will be plenty of other contests and internships.”
I hope so, but this would be huge for me, being able to get experience here in Pittsburgh over the summer, rent-free. This city isn’t exactly a hotbed for publishing and writing jobs, so securing this one now would be one less thing to worry about in the future.
I have an innate ability to lose sleep over something that’s months or even years away from happening. I get ahead of myself, I know this. My obsession with organization and planning has been good to me so far, but I curse it during the nights I toss and turn.