Leah on the Offbeat by Becky Albertalli
“So, Burke.” Garrett nudges me. “I’m guessing you need a ride home.”
“Oh. I guess.”
“Cool.” He nods. “I’ve got you covered.”
I feel awkward all of a sudden—heavy-limbed and tongue-tied. “Thanks,” I manage. Yesterday it was Garrett’s sweatshirt. Today he’s giving me a ride home. It’s like the universe is trying to make him my boyfriend, which is messed up. Even if a tiny weird part of me wonders what it would be like to kiss him. It probably wouldn’t be awful. Technically, he’s cute. He has very blue eyes. And everyone thinks athletes are hot. Is Garrett hot?
He could be.
Though the idea of objective hotness fucks me up a little. The idea that certain arrangements of facial features are automatically superior. It’s like someone woke up one day with a boner for big-eyed, soft-lipped, tight-bodied cheekbone people, and we all just decided to go along with that.
The doors to the back hallway swing open, and the cast and crew start to trickle into the lobby. But Garrett rests his hand on my arm.
“Okay, what does the average University of Georgia student get on the SAT?” Garrett asks.
“I don’t know.”
“Drool.”
“Haha.”
He pokes my arm. “You’re smiling.”
I snort and look away, my eyes drifting toward the Spiers. Nick’s parents are there, too—Abby’s mom is chatting with them while her dad and brother check their phones. And even though I’ve never met Abby’s dad, there’s no question: he’s a middle-aged male version of Abby, eyelashes and all. Which is super disorienting. I turn quickly away, and my eyes fall on Mom.
Mom, as in my mom, dressed in work clothes and looking slightly out of place. I had no idea she was coming. I guess she snuck in through the back. She’s standing a few feet away from the other adults. To be honest, she’s always been weird around my friends’ parents. Maybe because she’s the youngest, by over a decade. I think she’s paranoid that they secretly disapprove of her.
She shoots me an awkward wave, and I start walking toward her—but I’m intercepted by Alice Spier.
“Leah! I love your boots.”
I look down and shrug, smiling. “How long are you in town?” I ask.
“Not much longer. I’m actually driving up, so I’m leaving tomorrow and picking up my boyfriend in New Jersey.” She checks her watch. “Okay, Simon, where are you?”
“He just texted me. They’re coming out now,” Bram says.
Moments later, Simon, Nick, and Abby slip in through the side door, out of costume but still in makeup. For once, Nick and Abby aren’t holding hands. Actually, Abby’s holding Simon’s hand, with Nick trailing behind them. People keep stopping him to talk, and every single time, he looks sheepish and uncomfortable. Nick Eisner is truly an awkward cinnamon roll of a leading man.
Simon spots the cake box immediately. “Is this cake? You got me a cake?” Garrett nods and starts to pop the box open, but Simon’s beaming too hard at Bram to notice.
“Actually,” Bram starts to say, but Simon kisses him on the cheek before he can get the word out.
“Dude, it’s from me. Where’s my kiss?” Garrett says.
I look at him. “Wow.”
“Okay, Burke.” He grins and digs for his keys. “You ready to roll?”
I point out my mom, and Garrett’s entire face falls.
“I guess you don’t need a ride anymore.”
“I guess not.”
He lingers, holding his car keys, and he doesn’t say a word for what feels like an hour. I sense my mom watching us with interest.
“So . . . ,” I say finally.
“Right. Hey.” He clears his throat. “So, I was wondering. Do you want to come to the game tomorrow?”
“The game?” I glance at him.
“Have you ever seen us play?”
I nod. It’s funny—soccer’s the one Creekwood sport I’ve actually watched. I even used to enjoy it, back in sophomore year, when I had a crush on Nick. And it wasn’t just about staring at his ass. It was weird. I started caring about the game, to the point that Simon used to call me an undercover jock.
“It’s against North Creek,” Garrett adds. “It should be a pretty sweet game.”
“Oh. Um.” I glance back over my shoulder. I really don’t want to talk to Garrett in front of my mom right now.
He’s still talking. “I’m sure you’re busy, though. That’s totally cool. You’re probably going to the Saturday matinee of the play, right? Seriously, no worries.”
“No, I’ll come,” I say quickly.
He looks startled. “To the game?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh. Okay. Sweet.” He grins, and my stomach twists weakly.
“So, what was that about?” Mom asks, voice lilting, as we walk to the car. Even in the darkness, I can see that she’s smiling.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? Are we sure?”
“Mom. Stop.” I sink into the passenger seat, turning quickly toward the window.
For a moment, we’re both quiet. The parking lot is clogged with traffic and pedestrians, and Mom drums her hands on the steering wheel. “That was such an awesome play.”
I grin. “It was the blizz.”
“I still can’t believe Nick’s voice. And you know who’s adorable?”
“Who?”
“Abby Suso.”
I almost choke.
“That girl is pure charisma,” Mom barrels on. “And she just seems like a total sweetheart. Like, I’d honestly love to see you with someone like her.”
“Mom.”
“You don’t think she’s cute?”
“She’s Nick’s girlfriend.”
“I know that. I’m just saying. Hypothetically.”
“I’m not talking about this.”
Mom raises her eyebrows.
“Oh, hey.” Her tone is suddenly cautious. “Question for you.”
“Okay.”
“So, Wells’s birthday is tomorrow.”
“Is that the question?”
“No.” Mom laughs. “Okay. So, I was thinking the three of us could grab brunch together? He has a golf thing in the afternoon, so maybe late morning.”
I gape at her. Birthday brunch. With Mom’s boyfriend. I don’t know, maybe this is normal for some families, but Mom never makes me get brunch with the boyfriends. And yet, here she is, just casually presenting it as if it’s just another fun family Saturday. With Wells, of all people.
“Um. I’m going to Bram and Garrett’s soccer game, so . . .” I shrug. “Sorry.”
I stare out the window, eyes tracing the curve of the sidewalk. There’s hardly anyone on the road tonight. You wouldn’t think that would make a car feel smaller, but it does. And even though we aren’t looking at each other, I feel Mom’s eyes on me.
“I wish you’d give him a shot.”
“Who, Garrett?” I ask, my voice jumping half an octave.
“Wells.”
My face burns. “Oh.”
I glance at Mom, who’s sitting rigidly straight, chewing on her lip. She looks vaguely distraught. I don’t entirely know what to make of it.
She sighs. “Okay, what if—”
“I’m not getting brunch with your boyfriend.”
“Leah, don’t be like this.”
“Don’t be like what?” I narrow my eyes. “How are we at the family brunch stage? You’ve been dating him for, what, three months?”
“Six months.”
“Okay, you’ve literally been dating him for a shorter time than Simon and Bram. I know people who had longer relationships than that in middle school. Simon and Anna dated longer than that.”
Mom shakes her head slowly. “You know, you’d never talk to one of your friends the way you talk to me. Can you imagine if you went up to Simon and said stuff like this about Bram?”
“Okay, that’s—”
“You wouldn’t. You would never do that. S
I roll my eyes so hard my eyebrows hurt. “Oh, okay, now you’re going to make this about Simon and Bram?”
“You’re the one who brought them up!”
“Yeah, well.” I throw my hands up. “Simon and Bram are actually legit. They are literally so in love. How could you even compare that to Wells?”
“You know what? Just stop talking,” she snaps.
For a minute, it throws me. My mom’s normally so mellow. I sputter, “Yeah, well—”
“No. Just stop. Okay? I don’t want to hear it.”
For a minute, it’s silent. Then Mom turns on NPR and pulls onto Roswell Road. I lean back against the headrest and tilt my head toward the window. Then I squeeze my eyes shut.
7
I WAKE UP TO A blast of overhead lights. Mom pries the pillow off my face.
“What day is it?” I mumble.
“Saturday. Come on. Wells is on his way.”
“What?” I sit up straight, pillow sliding to the floor. “I said no to that.”
“I know. But I looked up the soccer schedule, and we’ll be back by then anyway. Wells has tee time at two.”
“What the fuck is tee time?” I rub my face and tug my phone out of the charger. “It’s not even ten a.m.”
Mom sits on the edge of my bed, and I tuck my legs up instantly, hugging them.
“I’m not going,” I tell her.
“Leah, this isn’t a question. I want you to do this. It would mean a lot to him.”
“I don’t care.”
“Well, it would mean a lot to me, too.”
I glare up at her.
She puts her hands up. “Look, okay. I don’t know what to tell you. He’s coming over. It’s his birthday, and I already made the reservation. So you can start by putting on a bra.”
I flop backward on my bed, yanking the pillow back over my face.
An hour later, I’m tucked into a booth at a steakhouse in Buckhead, next to Mom and across from Wells. A steakhouse. It’s not even noon.
We put in our drink order, and Wells jumps right into the forced small talk. “So, your mom tells me you’re in a band.”
“Yup.”
“Nice. I used to play the clarinet.” He nods eagerly. “Good times, good times.”
I don’t even know how to respond to that. Like, I’m in an actual band, Wells. I’m not saying we’re the Beatles, but we’re not exactly honking our way through “Hot Cross Buns” in the school auditorium.
“Wells is a huge music fan,” Mom says, patting his arm. I cringe every time she touches him. “What’s the name of that singer you like?” Mom asks him. “The one from American Idol?”
“Oh, you mean Daughtry?”
Daughtry. I’m not even surprised. But wow—Mom should know better. If she wants me to respect this guy, she should have kept that detail under wraps.
“Have you heard of Oh Wonder?” I ask, even though I know he hasn’t. It is physically, chemically impossible for a person who likes Daughtry to have heard of Oh Wonder. But I want to see if he’ll admit it. Maybe I’m a dick, but this is how I test people. I never judge someone for not knowing a band. I only judge the ones who try to fake it.
“No, I haven’t. Is that a band or a singer?” He pulls out his phone. “I’ll write that down. Oh Wonder—two words?”
So he’s honest. I guess that’s something.
“They’re a band.”
“Are they anything like Stevie Wonder?”
I bite back a laugh. “Not really.” I glance up at Mom and catch her smiling.
Confession: I think Stevie Wonder rules. That’s probably not cool to admit, but whatever. Apparently, my parents used to play me “Signed, Sealed, Delivered (I’m Yours)” on their old-timey CD player, even before I was born. I think my mom read somewhere that I’d be able to hear it in utero. And I guess it worked, because I used to sing it around the house and in the grocery store. And even now, that song makes me calm in a way I can’t explain. My mom said they picked it because it was the one song she and my dad agreed they’d be willing to listen to over and over, every day, for the rest of their lives.
The rest of their lives. Look how quickly that blew up in their faces. Just thinking about it hurts in a way I can’t quite pinpoint.
We split a massive pile of designer tortilla chips with spinach and queso, and everything’s sort of okay for a minute. Mom and Wells are talking about work, so I pull out my phone. I’ve missed a few texts.
From Anna: Ugh, so Morgan’s REALLY upset.
From Garrett: You should totally wear this today. Laughing-crying emoji. He’s attached a picture of a girl wearing what appears to be a helmet cut out of a soccer ball. With holes on the sides. And pigtails. Through the holes.
Obviously happening, I reply.
Then I turn back to Anna’s text. I guess I’m kind of at a loss. Like, I don’t want to be a negligent friend, but I don’t know how to help Morgan if I can’t even talk to her. I think I hate the concept of needing space. What it really means is that the person’s mad at you, or hates you, or doesn’t give a shit about you. They just don’t want to admit it. Like my dad. That’s just how he put it. He needed space from my mom. And now here we are, almost seven years later, at a steakhouse with fucking Wells.
Show her the video where the dog’s owner dresses like Gumby, I write finally.
GENIUS, Anna replies.
“Sweetie, put your phone away, please. We’re in a restaurant.”
“Seriously?” I point my chin toward Wells. “He’s literally on his phone right now.”
Mom narrows her eyes. “He’s confirming his tee time.”
“Oh, right. So it’s like a golf emergency.”
“Leah.”
“I mean, clearly, it’s so urgent, or he wouldn’t be—gasp—on his phone in a restaurant.”
“Don’t be an asshole,” she hisses, leaning toward me. “It’s his birthday.”
I shrug and press my lips together like I don’t give any shits at all, but there’s this tug in my chest. Because birthdays are sort of sacred, and maybe I really am an asshole. I’d been thinking of Wells as the interloper, busting in on my Mom brunch with his tiny ears and his Daughtry love. But maybe I’m the one crashing the party.
Wells ends the call, turns to Mom, and starts babbling about handicaps on the birdie par or some other golfy bullshit. I let my eyes drift shut.
I mean, parents sometimes date people. I know this. Moms are technically human beings, and human beings are allowed to have romantic lives. But I have this feeling, suddenly, that I’m on a too-fast treadmill—like things are moving so quickly, I might slide off the back end. I never imagined I could be bumped out of my own family. I feel knocked down.
I feel demoted.
And the thought makes me so tired, I can barely sit upright. Like, even the thought of walking to the car feels like prepping for a marathon. And it’s barely past noon. All I want is to collapse on my bed. Possibly with music. Definitely not with real pants on.
I can’t go to the game. Not feeling the way I feel right now. I can’t deal with Garrett and his try-hard, dudebro act. Like, we all know you’re secretly a dreamy-eyed piano kid, so stop pretending to be a douchebag. And stop messing with my head. Either flirt with me or don’t. Either be cute or not.
I don’t know. I don’t have the energy for Garrett. That probably makes me a jerk, and I should clearly text him an excuse, but I don’t even know what I’d say. Sorry to miss the game, Garrett. Turns out, you’re confusing and annoying and I kind of can’t deal with your face. I just can’t. Not today.
Mom asks me, hours later, if I need a ride to the game.
I say no.
Then I ignore six texts in a row, all from Garrett.
8
I DESTROY THINGS IN MY dreams.
I scream and argue until everyone hates me, then I wake up in tears from how real it feels. Sunday morning is like
Hey, you up there somewhere? I don’t see you!
Yo, are you in the parking lot or something
Where are you?
Ok Greenfeld and I are heading to WaHo with Spier and everyone. You should come!
Oh man, I don’t know how I missed you today. I feel bad.
Oh well, I hope you enjoyed the game anyway. Next time, stick around okay lol. Are you going to the play tomorrow?
Holy shit. I’m the worst.
Garrett thinks I was there. At the game, in the bleachers, probably wearing a homemade soccer ball helmet. As opposed to moping around my bedroom, ignoring his texts.
I am such a dick. Like, I’m an actual flaccid penis of a person.
And now I want to lock myself in my room all over again, but I can’t miss the last performance of the play. I’m not that big of an asshole. I don’t even mind the idea of hanging out with Garrett, in theory. But I don’t want to face him. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s apologies. I don’t like getting them. I really don’t like making them.
I think it’s unavoidable.
I dress myself carefully, like I’m going into battle. I feel stronger when I look cute. I zip into my universe dress—the greatest thrift store find of my entire life. It’s cotton, blue and black, sprinkled with stars and galaxies across my chest. My boobs are literally out of this world. Then I muss up my hair so it’s just a little wavy and spend twenty minutes giving myself flawless winged eyeliner. It makes my eyes look super green in a way that almost catches me off guard.
Mom needs the car, so she drops me off at school. I’m early. Early is good. I pick a seat near the front, but I can’t stop turning toward the entrance—and every time the auditorium door opens, my heart jumps into my throat. I have this feeling that as soon as Garrett sees me, he’ll know I was lying. And then he and the guys will be pissed, and it will be this whole big thing, and our whole friend group will implode. Because of me.
There’s a tap on my shoulder, and I almost fall out of my seat.
But it’s just Anna. “Can we sit here?”