chapter fourteen

Sebastian

Saanvi must open the message right when I do—a new Instagram group chat, with me, her, and Harrison, of all people. Her response is immediate.

HarrisMcC'mon: hey guys, there's a party at Elana Doorsey's tonight if y'all wanna come

saanvigaddaaaam: I mean, I'm not doing anything

My head flies up. "Saanvi, what?"

She shrugs at me. "What? I'm not. You're not. We could totally go."

"Since when have you wanted to go to a party with Harrison McCammon?"

"Um, maybe since he valiantly sprinted across Lake Franz to go rescue you from your weird, concerning cliff yoga?"

"You make him sound like Jesus when you put it like that."

"Or a common basilisk."

I blink. "Saanvi, you're gonna need to translate that one for me."

"They're lizards that run across water. You really need to fall down more internet rabbit holes, my friend. Also, don't change the subject."

"I'm not changing the subject. Please explain how I am attempting to change the subject."

"A-ha-ha." My phone buzzes with a new message, very much possibly from Harris, but I don't answer. Neither does Saanvi. "Seb, let's just go. We always talked about going to more parties after high school. Soon, we'll be several states away from each other, and I'll only get to bother you when it's snowing outside. So can we please just go?"

Her eyes are pleading. It's impossible to say no to her when she's like this, so I sigh, shoulders slumping in defeat. "Fine, fine. We can go."

She squeals, launching herself across the bed to wrap her arms around me. "You're the best! I love you so much, you stupid little poopy head."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. You make me wish I were straight."

"Stop, I'll cry." She squeezes me. "You make me wish I were a stocky little Midwestern boy with an off-putting obsession with flannel and Nike shorts."

"Shut up."

"Oh absolutely not. Never."

—

My parents are home earlier than I'd anticipated them to be. They were at a book club at one of the two cafes on Main Street, although I can never remember which one. They're still arguing—perpetually arguing, I swear—about some plot point when Saanvi and I come downstairs.

I don't miss the knowing look they cast at each other. I think they used to be uneasy when Saanvi and I would spend so much time alone when freshman year started. Although we'd been best friends since Saanvi moved here at age seven, when we entered high school, a girl and a boy being friends was suddenly a cause for concern. But I kind of got it. My parents were high school sweethearts, after all. They've always assumed Saanvi and I are secretly the same thing. If only they knew my real secret—that Saanvi and I could never secretly date. (Shocker, I know.)

Over the years, they've become more and more used to me spending time around Saanvi. I'm guessing it's probably because we never changed in the way we treated each other. We've always been more like siblings than anything else. And Saanvi's parents have a strict no-dating rule, one which she only ever defied once in our sophomore year. I helped her sneak out on one date to Paco's, and she decided that she hated the guy so much that she was just going to wait until either a "smoking hot bad boy boxer with a heart of gold" transferred to our high school, or college.

My parents break the knowing look and glance back at us. "What were you guys up to?"

"Nothing much," I say, then wait for Saanvi to take point. She always does; she's a significantly better liar than me. It's one of the most beautiful perks of our friendship.

"We're headed to a friend's little get-together tonight," she says. "I'm dragging Seb to my house so I can change, and then we'll be on our way."

"Which friend is it?" my dad asks. He's got my same dark, crazy hair as me, but that's where the similarity ends. He's incredibly short, for starters, and he's got inexplicably bronzey-olive skin, of such a pigmentation that I could never hope to achieve it, even with a summer on the Mediterranean coast or something. I'm paler than my mother as well—probably the result of frequently staying indoors and studying instead of doing anything productive that doesn't involve four air-conditioned walls and a roof.

"We're going with Harrison McCammon," Saanvi says, like it's a name they ought to know already. "His mom is Dr. McCammon?"

"I know his mom." Judging by my mom's tone, I can't tell if that's a good thing or a bad thing. "She was Aunt Sarah's classmate."

"Which one?" Dad asks, furrowing his brow. That's another thing we share: crazy brows. I shape mine in secret, but Dad's nearly reach his hairline. They give him this perpetually angry look, which is especially unfortunate when paired with his rosacea.

Mom frowns. Potentially bad. "Oh, y'know, the one who got pregnant right before med school? No one knows the father except her?"

"Ohhhh," Dad says. "The Mama Mia lady. So her son is the one who...."

Before he can say anything bad, I interject with, "The track and cross-country captain? Remember, he got a big scholarship to a state school?"

There. This seems to appease my parents. "Oh, good for him," my mom says, giving me the same smile she normally reserves for her young kindergartners. I try my best not to feel at least a little bit patronized. "He's the one that broke the state record for the four-hundred meter dash, right?"

Relief floods my veins. If there's one thing my parents appreciate, it's hard work and talent. "Yep," Saanvi says, smiling too wide, "that's him."

"Who else will be there?" Dad asks, but Mom places a hand on his arm.

"Well, go have fun," she says. "You deserve to, after all the work you've been putting in this year. Just remember to be safe, and be responsible. You can lose your scholarship at any time, hon."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," I say, smiling. "I'm just gonna go change shirts and I'll be right down."

"I'll be here," Saanvi says, tight-smiled.

I skip to stairs at a time, all the way up to my room, then throw on a green-on-green striped shirt. I walk back to the mirror hanging on the back of my door and try to smooth back my hair with my hands.

Fuck. I look like the guy from Blue's Clues. That's awful. I take off the shirt and switch it out for a white and blue-striped one, which, okay, why are the only shirts I own striped? Also, this is giving Evan Hansen, and I'm not here for it.

I end up settling on something that feels almost too formal, but I don't know what else I could do. A black button-up shirt with blue jeans is such a hodgepodge of fashion sensibilities that I kinda want to puke in my mouth, just a little bit, but after I add a tiny bit of gel to my hair to not tame it, not entirely, but instead to give it more of a sense of direction, it just might work. My cheeks are sallow, and my brow seems darker than usual. Maybe Saanvi will have an idea of what to do with the rest of this, but if I come downstairs looking too good, my parents will be way too freaked out to let me leave.

Thankfully, when I get downstairs, they must have left to go watch TV in their bedroom or something, while Saanvi is sitting alone on the couch, playing Fruit Ninja on her phone with her back to me.

I put my hand on her shoulder and she jolts, whipping around. Her mouth falls open.

"I'm sorry, but why do you look kind of hot right now?" she asks, her eyes melodramatically raking up and down my body. "Holy shit, Seb, all this for little old Harrison? Dayum, sis."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I feel like a disphit."

"That's because you are a dipshit. But also, this could work. Do you have a gold chain or anything?"

"Do I look like I own a gold chain, Saanvi?"

"Yeah, alright." She frowns up at me. "Alright, what if we did a little bit of makeup?"

"Umm, I don't think makeup is my vibe either. Also, do you have anything for my skintone?"

She waves me off. "It wouldn't have been a full face, but you're fine. That's the only idea I would have had for you, so—"

"Shoes? Are my shoes okay?"

"Seb." She puts her hands on my upper arms. "You look fine. You're literally okay. Actually, if you had any makeup on, you'd probably look like a Walmart Billie Joe Armstrong, if he didn't leave the house for twelve years."

"Thanks?"

"I'm not helping."

"You are so not helping."

"Just, urgh!" She tosses her hands in the air, her hands claw-like in her exasperation. "You. Look. Good. Okay? Can you just take my word on this, this once?"

She's glaring up at me, her eyebrows contorted into a pleading stare. I smile. "Yeah, yeah, yeah, fine. I look good."

"Fuck yeah you do. Fucking bitch."

A/N - I MOVED TODAY