I won’t be finding any of those gems today, though. No, today I won’t have much of a choice but to let Jake drag me along with his crew—and Gemma, probably—for lunch. At least it’s Friday, which means half-price milkshakes at Tommy’s. I’ll just drown my lack of conversation skills in a large strawberry with a stubborn straw.
One of the biggest reasons I avoid going out for lunch with Jake is because it is literally the cool thing to do at Oak Forest High. I can count on one hand the number of times my friend has taken his lunch in our school cafeteria since getting his license at the end of our sophomore year. Lucky bastard has a May birthday.
The minute he got access to keys and a credit line from his mom, he declared he would never again eat food off a tray. I hate to break it to him, but every place he jets off to for our forty-minute lunch break serves their meals in bags . . . placed atop trays.
Lunch with Jake is such a popular ticket that his car is typically overcrowded, like beyond the recommended number of passengers. Normally, I end up sandwiched in the back, my knees hiked up to my ears because of the hump seat while two couples make lap seats on either side of me. It’s so uncomfortable that usually people don’t make out at the stoplights—usually.
I got to Jake’s car early today, so I rejoiced internally when I scored shotgun. And then Jake coaxed Gemma onto my lap, insisting we share a seat belt for the drive to Tommy’s. Most guys would probably thank him for being put in this position. Gemma’s hot. Her mom was a model in Ghana, and Gemma is the spitting image of her, all the way down to her long, toned legs.
I remember all the girls were fascinated when her mom came to talk to us for career day in junior high. She brought the replica of her Miss Ghana crown. I was more fascinated with her story of being one of the first women from Sub-Saharan Africa to become the face of several designers in the high-fashion industry.
I’m probably the only seventeen-year-old guy to think about these topics in this situation, and I’m probably nuts for doing so because, back to point A: Gemma is hot. And she’s into Jake. Of course, my other thoughts during our drive are about her trajectory if my best friend has to hit the brakes. My grandfather’s voice plays through my mind for most of the trip.
Jonah, you’re better off walking.
Something about an awkward car ride like that brings people closer, I guess, because ever since we got to Tommy’s, Gemma has been talking to me non-stop. Prior to our commute, I think she thought my name was Jason. It’s funny because I could literally write her short biography. It’s like that for a lot of the people in Jake’s circle, though, and to be fair, I’ve never taken the time to give them my story. I always think mine would be so boring in comparison.
“I hear Elle’s parents are basically at each other’s throats blaming each other. It’s so bad that Morgan had to step in and pretty much be the parent. I heard she’s skipping next semester so she can stay and help at the house, make sure Elle graduates and all that. Morgan and Elle don’t get along, though, and it’s like, this totally wretched vibe. I just . . . I feel so bad, ya know?” Gemma dips one of her fries in ranch then pops it in her mouth, which means I have about eight seconds of silence while she chews. Everyone at the table nods as if she just shared something profound, not a bunch of gossipy-sounding surface-level stuff.
She gets to call her Elle, too. This one doesn’t feel fair.
“The media’s gone,” I add, feeling as though I should.
Everyone nods again, but less interested by my contribution.
“I wonder if her family is going to be on Dateline?” This question, from one of Gemma’s friends, spirals into an entirely new loop.
I take advantage of my distracted company and pull out the notes app on my phone to read through some of the things I copied over from my dad’s notes. Read together, the lines read like a beatnik poem, random phrases linked by nothing more than the fact they’re words. But there’s something about each little line that is somehow really beautiful.
“Whatcha got there, Romeo?” Jake snatches my phone and his eyes rake over the words, his mouth puckering with the need to burst out in laughter at my expense.
“Asshole!” I growl. I’m not very assertive, so this out-of-character move gives Jake enough pause to tone down his volume, but he still keeps my phone, eventually reading one of the lines back to me.
“Face like Milky Way, all lit up with potential.” He spits out a puff of a laugh and I grab my phone back while he’s too busy being a dick.
I push my phone in my back pocket and instantly regret my lifetime of friendship with Jake. I can’t dodge his curious stare, though, so I finally hold out my palms with a “What?”
“You writing her a poem, Jonah?” A divot forms between his brows and his mouth hangs open in anticipation of my answer. He’s dead serious, and because of his reaction I know there is no way I am ever writing a girl anything and sharing it with him.
“They’re things my dad wrote. I copied it from the notebook. Just random stuff in margins and sometimes on receipts.” I shirk off the penetration of his stare because I sense the way it shifts from teasing to pity. He clears his throat after a few seconds and I glance to him, his mouth a tight, apologetic line.
“Sorry, man,” he says, sliding his palm forward a few inches on the table for effect. I shake my head and get to my feet.
“It’s fine,” I say, clearing away my trash.
I decide to pass the last remaining minutes of lunch waiting for the others while sitting on the back of Jake’s car. He doesn’t drive anything fancy. It’s a sedan that only makes the obnoxious noise it does because he talked one of his friends into jacking with the tailpipe, something he has suggested we do to the Bronco a dozen times. He just can’t fathom not wanting attention. Part of why our friendship works is because I gladly give him any that drifts our way. I am happy to not share spotlights.
I’m busy calculating how fast Jake’s going to have to drive to get us back to school on time when a delicate hand slinks up my arm and squeezes at my shoulder. I shiver from it, even in my layered long-sleeved T-shirt and hoodie. I jerk to the side and am met with Gemma’s hand holding out this bright blue and yellow hair tie.
“I’m good. I keep it kinda short,” I joke, running my hand through my hair. When Gemma’s hand lands on top of mine, I tense. No, I petrify.
“It’s a cute length,” she says, a raspy giggle added at the end. I’m starting to see why Jake has become so helpless in her presence. Granted, I’m pretty sure he gets compliments like this on the daily.
I pull my hand out from under hers, which I realize a little too late maybe offended her. It definitely embarrassed her because now she’s sucking in her bottom lip and looking down and off to the side.
“Sorry,” I say at the same exact time she does.
We both breathe out a laugh.
“Here,” she says, handing me the hair tie that started this whole thing.
“Oh-kay?” I take it from her and stretch it out with my fingers, not quite sure what I’m meant to do with it.
“For Elle—Eleanor?”
I nod, but my puckered smile and scrunched eyes must give away how confused I still am. Gemma waggles her head and laughs politely, tugging at the elastic band still in my hand.