My eyebrows almost evacuate my face entirely; I can literally feel them packing their bags and hitting the road. “You’re inviting me to a party?” I can’t help but ask.
Clayton tilts his head to the side, looking at me a little oddly. “I mean, why not?” he asks, like it’s just that simple. “Is that okay?”
“Yeah, no, it’s fine, I just—” I break off, imagining it in spite of myself: the crush of people and the sour reek of beer, the noisy assault on my nervous system.
The weight of Clayton’s arm slung around my shoulders. The press of that soft, plush-looking mouth against mine.
I’m about to tell him maybe—holy crap, am I really about to tell him maybe?—when the glass door to the restaurant opens, the chimes above it breaking a spell like a hypnotist pulling a volunteer from a trance. “Clay,” Bethany calls—her tone impatient as she leans in through the doorway, slinky as a wildcat in a white T-shirt that makes her peachy skin look impossibly tan. “You coming or what?” Her gaze flicks to me, back to Clayton. “Everything okay?”
“We’re good,” Clayton promises. “I’ll be right there.”
Bethany eyes us for another minute, unconvinced. “Okay, but hurry up,” is all she says.
Once she’s gone again, I shake my head, good sense flooding back in all at once like a dam breaking. What exactly was I about to get myself into?
“I have to work tonight,” I lie, shrugging and crinkling my nose like I’m disappointed—and I am, a little bit, though I don’t know if I could explain exactly why. “Thanks for the invite, though.”
“Yeah, no problem,” Clayton says, like it’s no skin off his back either way—and it isn’t, most likely. He probably walks around inviting people to parties everywhere he goes. He probably invited his mailman. It doesn’t mean anything. “He lives on Lilac Court, if you change your mind.”
“I know,” I blurt out, then shake my head. God, could I be more of a weirdo? “I mean—”
“It’s cool, Rach,” Clayton says, shaking his head and smiling again, saving me from myself. “Have a good night.”
“You too,” I manage—at least, I think I do; I’m too distracted by that Rach to know for sure. I stand in the doorway of the restaurant for a long time after Clayton heads out into the parking lot, watching the summer breeze rustle the leafy green trees on the other side of the glass.
* * *
Here is what I know: Clayton is, at the very least, still hanging out with Bethany. There’s a very real possibility that they’re together. But also, Clayton definitely invited me to Spencer Thomas’s party. Right?
My plan was to spend tonight Netflix and chilling—there’s a documentary about rescue workers in Syria that’s been on my radar forever—but even propped up in bed with a to-go container of leftover garlic knots, I can’t relax. My bedroom feels overstuffed all of a sudden, the various flotsam of my life closing in and making me claustrophobic: the first-place science fair ribbon pinned to the corkboard. The National Honor Society T-shirt slung over the chair. Evidence of everything I’ve done—and everything I haven’t—surrounding me on all four sides.
All at once, I climb out of bed and start pulling every piece of clothing I own from the closet, sorting it all into two giant keep-or-toss piles on the carpet. I do school papers next, then makeup. I’ve just started on books when Mom taps two fingers against my doorframe, an expression on her face that suggests she’s been watching me for a while. “I hope you’re thanking everything for its service,” she teases, coming into the room and surveying the damage.
“Obviously,” I say with a smile. “I’m also folding my socks into origami swans.”
“You can do mine next, how about.” She checks her watch. “Thrift store should be open for another couple of hours,” she reports. “Want to go do a drop, maybe get some ice cream at Moxie’s on the way back?”
“I’ll have to check my very busy calendar,” I say. “Oh look. It’s wide open.”
Mom smiles, but there’s this weird sadness behind it that I can’t tell if I’m imagining or not. I guess I can’t really blame her: After all, her seventeen-year-old daughter is spending her first Saturday night after high school graduation Marie Kondo-ing her bedroom. “Let me know when you’re ready to go,” is all she says.
I was invited to a party tonight! I almost call down the hallway behind her. By Clayton Carville!
I just…decided not to go.
I turn back to my overstuffed bookshelves, keeping Emma Straub and Alice Walker and tossing a Jonathan Franzen that my ill-advised AP LitComp teacher tried to convince me I might enjoy, before reaching a yellowing paperback I don’t immediately recognize: A Season of Yes! by Dr. Paula Prescott. The cover shows a woman with feathered hair, blue eye shadow, and a pair of oversized turquoise glasses that scream 1982, blithely resting her chin on her hand.
I pick it up, turning it over to peer at the back copy. Who in their right mind would ever take advice from this woman?
Still, flipping through the first few pages, I see that entire paragraphs have been underlined and the margins are filled up with notes. “Trust the freedom!” is there in Nonna’s tight penmanship. Well, there’s my answer, I guess. I’m about to chuck it aside into the return-to-the-living-room pile when an underlined passage catches my eye: The freedom to say “Yes!” to your own life is also the freedom to embrace your true self. If you’re feeling stuck, if you’re feeling stagnant, if you’re feeling like your potential is being wasted, then this book is for you.
Dr. Paula outlines a three-step plan for success with her process, but essentially it seems to boil down to this: We are, as Aristotle said, what we repeatedly do. Therefore, if we repeatedly say yes to opportunities, people, and experiences, we will become our truest, fullest selves.
I think about that for a moment, sitting down on the edge of the mattress. About the last four years, and the thirteen that came before them. Sure, the process I adopted for myself of saying no to basically everything earned me the title of valedictorian and admission to my dream school. But it also got me…here.
Alone.
I fan through the pages with one thumb—breathing in the old-book smell of them, debating. What if Dr. Paula is right?
What if just once I said…yes?
I dig my phone out of my pocket and frown at the clock on the screen. It’s only seven now. I could go with my mom to the thrift store, get a scoop of double chocolate from Moxie’s, and settle in with my Syria documentary.