Chapter 24
FELIX
There appears to be something wrong with me.
I can’t say for sure what, but if I had to guess…
The flu. Maybe. Or pneumonia. Or clinical anxiety?
I grimace, rubbing my sternum and taking a deep breath. Of all of those, anxiety feels the most accurate.
But then how to explain the hot flashes and cold sweats I’ve been experiencing all day? The bouts of feeling like I’m going to throw up mixed with that nagging feeling that there’s something I’m forgetting to do—like turn the stove off?
I like you.
More nausea—and I fight the urge to dive for the nearest trash can, because I know it will pass in a second. So I lower myself to the ground instead of crouching like I’ve been doing for the last hour. I settle on the ugly Berber carpet and sit like I’m in kindergarten, criss-cross-applesauce style, letting my head hang until my chin rests against my chest.
It’s cool back here, in the storage room Herb has the audacity to call an archive. The rows of metal shelves lined with filing boxes provide a wall for me to hide behind, and for a moment, I let myself take advantage of that.
Because more than any other feeling—nausea, anxiety, hot flashes, cold sweats—I’m battling the urge to hide . To run.
I like you.
It’s not India I want to run from, necessarily. It’s not her confession, which admittedly knocked my planet right off its axis. No, the part I want to run from is how I felt right after she said it.
It was messy. A tangled knot of emotions that will be impossible to sort out, even if I try. A jubilant burst of confetti somewhere deep, deep down; a fervent string of expletives at the realization that Cyrus was right and I’d now have to deal with the consequences; the inexplicable desire to defend myself when she said she wasn’t surprised I didn’t know how I felt.
There was also a twinge of insecurity as I looked back at my dating record and wondered if I was even capable of something real with someone real.
Because whatever else India is, she’s real. She’s real, and she’s close in a way that I don’t usually let people get. I’ve hidden nothing from her, given her nothing fake, because I’ve never been trying to impress her.
I like you.
A smile tugs at my lips, completely inappropriate and out of place. I shouldn’t be happy she likes me. I have no idea how I want to move forward with this situation. So I rub my hand over my face, trying to get rid of that smile, but it stubbornly refuses to leave.
I take another deep breath and then stand up, returning to the box I was going through. I’ll just have to work with a smile for a bit, I guess. Veronda and Herb are all pistons firing about this TV spot we have in a few weeks, and they won’t be happy if they find me slacking off. I’m supposed to be pulling articles related to our forever-ago coverage of Lucky’s first mayor, which is less than thrilling, but Veronda insisted.
At the reminder of Veronda, though, my smile finally fades. She’s still hoping to get footage from the Bicentennial Pageant, and at this point, it’s out of my hands, because I used one of Herb’s old digital cameras back then. If he can find it, they’ll use it for the program.
She sounded like she was saying goodbye.
The thought pops into my head uninvited, and I swallow the fresh wave of anxiety that washes over me.
“Don’t be stupid,” I mutter to myself. “She wasn’t saying goodbye. You’re still friends.”
No matter what I tell myself, though, it doesn’t feel right. Something feels different, in a way I can’t describe.
I just need to talk to her. So, pushing down the nausea in my gut, I pull my phone out and call her, riffling through the box in front of me halfheartedly with my other hand. Someone really needs to digitize all this.
The call rings for almost thirty seconds before India finally answers, and I’m so excited—or maybe so startled—that I jump, hitting my head on the metal shelf above my head as I hunch over the box.
“Ow,” I say with a hiss of pain. I scoot back and straighten up, my lower back thanking me, and then I say, “Hey. Hi.”
“Hi,” she says. “Are you okay? Did I hear you say ow? ”
“You did hear me say that, yes,” I say, rubbing the top of my head. “But I’m fine.” I hesitate for a second, unsure of how to go on. “How are you?”
“I’m fine,” she says, and she sounds fine, too—like everything is totally normal, like she didn’t tell me she likes me. “I can’t talk long, though, so what’s up?”
“Uh, nothing,” I say, pacing back and forth in the row of shelves. “Just—wanted to make sure everything is fine.”
I could not sound stupider if I tried, and for some reason I suddenly care about that.
“Well, I’m fine,” she says, her voice cheerful. “I do need to go, though. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
“I—okay,” I say lamely. “Bye.”
“Bye!” she says, and then she hangs up.
And I feel exactly zero percent better than I did before I called.
I can’t call her again. I can’t talk to her, apparently. But I’m left feeling empty for her in a way I don’t understand.
I drift aimlessly up and down the row, barely paying attention, until I find the box half of my brain is looking for. I slide the lid off and set it carelessly on the floor in the aisle. Then I begin to flip through the contents—slowly at first, and then with more vigor, because that sick feeling is back. I flip and I flip—and I flip so fast, in fact, that I almost miss it.
A byline, filed under Marigold, India.
“Found you,” I whisper, my fingers tugging the folder out before I can even question whether it’s a good idea.
Because I know, in the back of my mind, that she probably wouldn’t want me to read whatever she wrote. She didn’t tell me she’d interned here. She never mentioned writing anything. And now she’s told me she has feelings for me. I’m an idiot about a lot of things, but I can put two and two together.
I tug the clipping out anyway, the paper whispering delicately into my hands, and I begin to read.
How to Get Over a Playboy
(After You’ve Already Wasted Too Much Time)
by India Marigold
So you met the man of your dreams…and the man of her dreams…and the man of her dreams, too. What do you do when your heart is set on forever with someone who has no intention of settling down?
This author decided to do a bit of research in hopes of leaving behind her very own playboy crush. You know the type—gorgeous, flirtatious, a smile for every woman he meets.
Is he fun, witty, charming? Definitely. But is he going to stick around forever? Definitely not.
So what’s a lovesick girl to do?
I’ll tell you. You ditch him, of course. You don’t need a garbage, scummy commitment-phobe in your life. Try these four easy steps to get over him and get on with meeting someone new!
Step 1: Be a little mean.
Hear us out! Is your playboy the worst person in the world? No, probably not. Most likely he’s just not the one for you. But if you need to think of him scathingly for a while, just until you move on, allow yourself to acknowledge his faults and shortcomings—privately or not-so-privately. You might feel better if you tell him to his face, and he might even deserve it. We’ll let you make that call.
Step 2: Get rid of all reminders of him.
The old photo of the two of you? Burn it. The sample of his cologne you keep under your pillow? Toss it. If he’s not going to be a part of your life, his belongings don’t need to be either.
Step 3: Keep yourself busy.
Go out with your girlfriends. Try a new book, or even a new genre. Learn a new skill, like how to drive a motorcycle. Dive into all the things that will (safely) take your mind off him.
Step 4: Do not let him back into your life—unless you’re prepared to be hurt all over again.
“Things will be different this time,” you say. “I’m over him by now.”
Well, you might be right. But you might also be wrong. So if he comes knocking in the future, ask yourself these questions: Has he changed? Have I ? Am I ready to be heartbroken again? Can I handle the pain if our relationship goes poorly?
Only you can determine if a relationship is right for you. But remember this: If you’ve made him your choice while he’s only made you an option, you can probably find someone better suited to you. After all, the best way to avoid getting hurt by a playboy is to avoid falling for one in the first place!
Best of luck from your friends at the Gazette!
I stare, dumbstruck, as my mind reels and spins and whatever else frazzled brains do. India Marigold wrote this— this brutal indictment against time-wasting men, a blatant condemnation of anyone who likes to play the field. I have to say, it’s a little hurtful.
Except…
A shadow of something heavy and thick gloops at my insides. It’s the same feeling I had at the store when she reminded me what I’d said about her not being my type; it’s similar, too, to the discomfort I had at Crow Point when she was talking about love, or the way I felt when she wasn’t surprised I didn’t know how I felt. My eyes dart back over the article and catch on one word:
Scummy .
That’s how I feel. Scummy, and gross, and maybe even guilty.
I swallow, trying to get rid of that emotion, at least for now—because I’m at work, and I don’t have time to soul-search, even if it’s something that probably needs to happen.
Move on for now. Just move on.
So I tear my eyes away from that word and look at the rest of the article instead, searching for India’s telltale voice, for the wit I know so well, the dry sense of humor.
And a snort of laughter escapes my lips as I shake my head. Commitment-phobe, playboy. She didn’t hold back. And maybe it’s my arrogance talking—maybe it’s just a self-centered thought from the mind of a playboy— but I kind of, sort of, maybe think this article is referring to me.
Right? I check the date and then line up everything I’ve heard her say—and it fits. Didn’t she say she studied communications because I loved it so much, because I made it seem exciting and fun?
She did. She definitely did. My grin widens.
That little?—
“Felix?” The voice pulls me out of my spinning thoughts.
“Huh?” I say vaguely. Then, in full defiance of all rules, I fold India’s article up and tuck it into my back pocket.
“Uh, I think we’re meeting up to go over a few things,” a very nervous Donnie says.
“Be there in a second,” I say. I massage my lower back and then replace the lids on the cardboard boxes I’ve been digging through—unsuccessfully, except for finding India’s article.
I hear Donnie scurry out of the room again, and I follow. Everyone is gathered around the table in the meeting room, and Herb is gesticulating with great enthusiasm. There’s a projector set up, I see, the kind we used in school when I was a kid, and I approach with interest. I sit down, squeezed between Veronda and a forever-employee named Merle. “Merle,” I say, nodding to him. He grunts a greeting back to me.
My interest turns to lead in my stomach, though, when Veronda looks right at me, her eyes shining with excitement.
“I found the footage,” she says. She taps the projector on her other side, and I notice for the first time that there’s an old digital camera propped on top, with an ancient-looking wire plugged in to one side.
“The footage,” I repeat dumbly as I pray fervently that she’s not talking about what I think she’s talking about.
“From the Bicentennial!” she says, swatting my arm playfully.
“The Bicentennial,” Bob says from the other end of the table. His voice is musing. “That poor kid in the pageant dance, right?”
A murmur goes around the table, and Veronda nods.
“That’s the one,” she says. “And I honestly have you to thank,” she says to me. “Until I heard that conversation of yours, I wouldn’t have thought of it. But this is probably footage you took,” she says, nodding at the digital camera. “Do you remember?”
“I was an intern,” I say as prickling discomfort crawls over my skin. “It was a long time ago. I didn’t film the whole thing, and I wasn’t the only person there. So I really don’t know.”
Except I do know. I know in my gut, the way I know Cyrus will punch me if he finds out India likes me—the way I know he’ll punch me twice if he finds out how I feel about her. I know that footage is the footage I took of the Peter and the Wolf performance, and I know everyone is about to see India Marigold lose her clothing.
The sound in my ears isn’t normal. It’s a low-grade buzzing, something I’ve never experienced before, and the volume seems to be directly proportional to how close Herb’s hand is to the Play button of that camera.
“Boy, do we have a treat for you,” he says loudly, adjusting his suspenders and guffawing like he can’t believe his good luck. “I’d given up hope of finding this puppy, but here she is—in the bottom of the storeroom filing cabinet, if you can believe it.” He shakes his head, still happy as a clam. “This is footage from our Bicentennial celebration, some…gosh. Seven or eight years ago.”
The buzzing sound is louder now, a hovering wasp gorging itself on my anxiety. I watch as Herb’s pudgy finger approaches the camera, closer and closer and closer. He presses the Play button and turns toward the screen.
And there it is—the infamous performance, the one that went down as the worst case of public, accidental, partial nudity Lucky has ever seen. I recognize the grainy quality, the faint strains of music, the leaping dancers dressed as different forest animals, until?—
There she is. The dancer I know to be a high-school India, dressed in a full-body fox costume. She twirls with the doe in front of her and the rabbit behind her, twirls and twirls, and then— rrriiipppppp.
The sound isn’t audible, but somehow I hear it all the same as the rabbit steps on India’s fox tail—why was the tail so long?—and the entire back side of the costume rips away, revealing a black leotard, pale legs, and—I grimace—an unmistakable wedgie.
One of my colleagues gives a snort of good-natured laughter, but my heart sinks as precious India freezes, reaches around her backside, finds her costume missing, and then darts frantically off stage.
How mortified must she have been? It was a jerk move, even pretending I might tell people that was her.
Veronda stops the video and turns to look at me; I see it out of the corner of my eye, but my attention is still focused on the screen, where India has just disappeared from view.
“Now look, Felix,” Veronda says, her voice hedging. “I hate to put you on the spot. But I think you know who this was.” She points at the video. “And we were wondering”—she shares an excited glance with Herb, who nods enthusiastically—“we were wondering if you think this person would be willing to do an interview. We could even block her identity,” she goes on quickly. “So that no one knows who it was. But we’d love to get her thoughts and feelings now, after the fact, on one of Lucky’s most infamous moments.”
My mind is racing. So is my heart. And my brain clearly isn’t working properly. But all I can think about, for some reason, is the memory of India, sobbing at my kitchen table—tenderhearted India who was so traumatized by the brief fear that she’d accidentally killed someone.
And something rises in my chest then, something steely and protective, something that has me gritting my teeth against my sudden irritation.
No. Absolutely not. I will not let them bring her into this, no matter how well-meaning they might be.
My mouth opens without my permission, and words have sprung to my lips before I can stop them. “His,” I say.
Next to me, Veronda frowns. So does Herb.
“Sorry?” he says, his lined brow wrinkling even more.
“ His thoughts,” I say. I nod to the screen. “You’d love to get his thoughts.” I force my curled fists to relax and then go on, telling reckless stories for reasons I’m only now beginning to understand.
And it’s an absurd claim, full of plot holes. Not little plot holes, either, but the giant, gaping kind that you could trip over and break your neck. Still, I think I can explain those away.
I have to.
So even though my mother raised me to be an honest man—even though I try not to lie—I keep going. I spit out one of the biggest falsehoods I’ve ever told.
“The person in that costume, Veronda,” I say. I straighten up and look her right in the eye. “It was me.”