Chapter Eighteen #2
Up ahead, Julian and Elliott disappear into the large red barn that sits at the entrance to the Kids’ Farm.
We follow them inside, and are met with a sprawling set of interconnected pens.
Alpacas, pigs, cows and goats meander across the grass and dirt, looking endlessly bored by the hordes of kids dangling over the wooden fences.
We wander around so Sam can take selfies with the alpacas.
Only Julian is brave enough to feed the goats, one of which practically bites his finger off in its desperation for a carrot.
At the twenty-minute mark, I realise I haven’t actually eaten my lunch.
While the others get in line to hug a donkey, Sam and Julian arguing in a way that involves way too much playful shoving over which one of them gets to take the first picture, I find a bench cloaked in shade.
My feet ache as I quickly eat the peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich I find squished at the bottom of my backpack.
The sun shines directly over the trees above me, cutting through the branches and leaving dapples of gold along the wooden path.
The sticky remnants of my sandwich coat my fingers, so I fish around for the little rectangle of tissues I keep in my backpack’s front pocket.
But instead of finding the crinkly wrapper, my fingers close around something hard and plastic.
I let go of Avery’s hairclip as though it’s made of burning hot metal.
It’s been in my backpack ever since I thought she might’ve turned and I considered breaking into her house.
Twice, I’ve tried putting the clip in her locker, but both times I couldn’t get past slipping it between the metal slats.
We haven’t spoken since the promposal video, Avery not even texting me to meet up or explain, as though she just assumes I’ll have heard and will be crying myself to sleep somewhere over the loss.
That, or she doesn’t think she owes me an explanation at all.
The hairclip feels like the only concrete proof I have that things were ever different between us, that at one point, I was stupid enough to care about her.
It’s a reminder, and maybe a punishment.
‘Hey.’
Elliott drops on to the bench beside me. I quickly zip up the hairclip in the front pocket of my backpack, as though he can somehow sense my thoughts.
‘You didn’t want to hug the donkey?’ I ask Elliott.
Instead of using tissues, I pour water from my bottle on my palms and rub them together.
Elliott shakes his head. ‘And wait in line with J and Sam while they both invent an insane amount of excuses to touch each other? I’m good.’
I flash him an apologetic grimace that I hope says, That makes two of us.
A family arguing loudly in French stomp along the path in front of us, their smallest child struggling frantically to be let back down on the ground. Elliott shifts on the bench, his lips pursed. The sun slashes across his face, lighting his sharp, pale jaw.
‘So, how’s work been?’ he asks.
I delve into my time at F’resh so far, leaving out the part about getting fired. Elliott listens quietly, his eyes never leaving my face as I recount the time Rick gave us a demonstration on how to mop a floor.
‘And your mom thinks you’re playing with pandas all day?’ he says.
I drop my eyes, guilt pooling in my stomach.
When Julian first got me the job at F’resh, I asked Elliott not to tell his mom or mine, since I was only working because I wanted to save enough money to take her on a trip to Europe next year.
I’ve told so many lies over the last two months, I’m starting to lose track of them all.
‘What about your mom?’ I say, swiftly changing subjects. ‘Has she seen Clown Guy again?’
Elliott tips back his head and groans towards the sky. ‘God, why can’t my mom just have a normal mid-life crisis and cut all her hair off?’
‘Are clown phases not a normal part of a mid-life crisis?’ I say. ‘I always thought it came after getting into Burlesquercise but before plastic surgery.’
He rubs a hand across his forehead and chuckles quietly. ‘I hate you so much,’ he says. ‘If my mom ends up marrying this guy, I swear to God.’
‘Would having a clown for a stepdad be that bad?’
‘Yes, Indie!’ he exclaims, still laughing. ‘Yes! Can you imagine those family photos? First of all, I look horrible in polka dots.’
I lean back against the bench, chuckling too. ‘Why is your mom even dating him?’
Elliott slumps forward so his elbows rest on his knees. ‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘Probably because he’s buff and rich. Clown Guy owns his own luxury car dealership.’
Sam and Julian emerge from the barn, both of them doubled over with laughter.
When she pretends to make a break for the Kunekune pig pen, Julian wraps his arms around her waist and lifts her in the air.
Sam squeals loudly enough that he finally lets her down, but he keeps an arm draped over her shoulders and hugs her to his side.
It’s the kind of thing that, up until a few months ago, I’ve always wanted for Sam, for myself, but that now just leaves me feeling vaguely sick.
‘Oh my God, just ask her to prom already,’ Elliott mutters under his breath.
It’s enough to pull me out of my head. I turn towards him, grateful to have something to look at that’s not my best friend with an actual boy that she actually likes.
‘Have you asked anyone yet?’ I say.
Elliott brushes his floppy hair from his forehead. ‘Nah.’
‘You’re running out of time,’ I say.
He glances over at me with a smirk. ‘I think our moms are still holding out hope you and me are gonna go together.’
The sick feeling in my stomach intensifies, but I swallow hard. This is Elliott. He’s probably right about our moms – in fact, I know he is. But that doesn’t mean anything. It certainly doesn’t mean what Sam would say.
I force a laugh. ‘Well, they can be the latest additions to the list of people I’ve disappointed about prom.’
‘Oh, come on,’ Elliott says. ‘We could do the whole cheesy prom picture, I’ll get you the flower thing.’ He nudges me. ‘It’ll be fun.’
I search his face for the hint of a laugh, but there’s nothing. His eyes are bright. Hopeful? I can’t tell whether or not he’s joking. I know what Sam would say, but she can’t be right. She can’t be.
‘I know it would be, I just …’ I turn my attention back to Sam and Julian. ‘I can’t.’
Especially now that going would mean I’d have to watch Avery dance with Shane freaking Bartley.
‘Fair enough, I guess.’ Elliott drums his hands on his thighs. ‘My mom’s letting me have an afterparty at our house, though. If it’s not too lame for you,’ he cracks a smile, ‘you could at least come to that.’
I try to return the grin, but my face feels cramped. ‘I’ll think about it,’ I say.
As Julian and Sam approach, we push ourselves to our feet.
The three of them start talking about Elliott’s party, about which of their teammates they’ll invite from varsity soccer, about who can be trusted to supply the booze.
Excitement radiates from them, crackling like electricity.
But all I can think about is the fact that if I go, everyone at the party will be celebrating prom, and I’ll be celebrating the fact that it’s over.