Leah on the Offbeat by Becky Albertalli
“Well, good.”
She glances at me sidelong. “But you have to stop being so talented. I can’t handle it.”
“I’m sorry.”
She smiles. “Don’t apologize.”
My heart thuds softly. She’s barely a hand’s width away from me.
“Actually, you should apologize.”
I laugh nervously. “Why?”
“For making me question things.”
I look at her. “Question what?”
“Things.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Let’s just say I really enjoyed watching you play.” She gives the tiniest smile.
“Watching me play made you question things?”
“Yes.” Her eyes flick downward. “So, can I ask you something?”
And just like that, my heart is racing. Something just shifted. I can’t explain it, but I can feel it.
“Okay.”
“I want to know who you like.”
“Trick question. I hate everyone.”
She laughs. “Okay, then who do you hate the least?”
“I don’t want to answer that.”
The corners of her mouth tug up. “Then you have to pick dare.”
“I didn’t realize we were playing Truth or Dare.”
“Of course we are.” She tucks her legs up and turns to face me, looking like she’s about to burst out laughing. But she doesn’t.
My breath hitches.
“I dare you to kiss me,” she says.
20
MY WHOLE BRAIN SHORT-CIRCUITS. I just stare at her, speechless.
“If you want to,” she adds, pressing her lips together.
“Do you want to?”
She nods, smiling faintly.
“Really?”
“Aren’t you curious?”
“I don’t know.” My heart won’t stop skittering. I’ve never kissed anyone before. I’ve spent so many hours worrying about that. Like, I’m going to mess this up. I know I will. I’ll be sloppy or wet or too passive or too eager.
Abby laughs under her breath. “Leah, relax.”
“I am. I’m just—”
All of a sudden, her lips are on mine. And I freeze.
Because.
Holy shit.
This is real. I’m kissing a person, and that person is Abby. It doesn’t compute.
But her fingers graze my jawline, her thumb on my chin. A million details hit me at once. The way our knees touch. The way my lips move against hers. She tastes like fruit punch and vodka. I can’t believe this is happening. My hands find her cheeks, and—
God. What the fuck am I doing? I don’t like Abby. I can’t like Abby, and I definitely can’t kiss Abby. I don’t even want to kiss her. Okay, maybe I used to want to. But that was barely anything. A month out of my life, ages and ages ago. It’s buried. It’s done. And I can’t—
Wow. My heart won’t stop pounding. Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit. Because maybe it wasn’t ages ago. Maybe it’s now. Maybe it’s always.
It’s like a lamp flickering on inside my chest. In my throat. Below my stomach. I don’t know how to explain this. I don’t think my brain’s working.
Abby pulls back from the kiss, sinking into the couch cushions. She seems flustered, almost breathless. For a moment, we just stare at each other.
Then she laughs and says, “We’re pretty good at this for two straight girls.”
“I’m not straight.”
She freezes. “Wait . . . really?”
The air leaks from my lungs.
“Leah.” Abby reaches for my hand, but I jerk it away.
“Don’t.”
“Sorry,” she says quietly, eyes sliding shut. “I—I had no idea.”
“Yeah, well.” I shrug. Like it’s whatever. Like I could care less.
Except suddenly, I’m so angry, I’m shaking. “God, Abby, how dense are you? Seriously? I draw a picture where we’re practically on top of each other, and it didn’t occur to you that maybe, just maybe, I might actually like you?”
She shakes her head. “I didn’t—”
“And then you’re like, oh, I have a secret, I’m so nervous. How was I supposed to interpret that? But it’s not like it matters, because ta-da! Here’s Nick. And now you’re flirting with him. And now you’re dating him. And then the minute you’re single, there you are, hardcore flirting with me again. But of course, it doesn’t mean anything, because you’re so fucking hetero. And then you kiss me?” My voice breaks. “That was my first kiss, Abby.”
Her face crumples. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t care.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “I don’t even care. Just don’t fuck with my head. Please.”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“Then why did you just kiss me?”
“Because I wanted to,” she says. “And I wanted to at Morgan’s house.”
My lungs empty out in a single fierce whoosh. “What?”
“That’s the secret. That’s it. I wanted to kiss you, but I was scared.” Her voice catches. “And I tried to tell you a million times, but I couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because, Leah, you’re terrifying. God. Half the time, I think you hate me.”
I mean, I can’t even look at her. It’s like I’ve been put on lockdown.
Abby’s close to tears. “I just feel so—I don’t know what to do. My cousin Cassie was just talking about how shitty and selfish it is for straight girls to flirt with lesbians because they’re curious or bored—”
“Or because they just broke up with their boyfriends.”
“Or that.” Abby winces. “But I thought you were straight. I swear to God.”
“So you kissed me? That makes no sense.”
“I mean, I thought we were two straight girls experimenting.”
My heart twists. “Well, we’re not.”
“I know.” She sniffs. “I’m so sorry. I just. I don’t want to be this straight girl using you. But then it’s like, maybe I’m not actually straight. I don’t know. I’ve had crushes before, but I’ve never . . .”
“Crushes on girls?”
Abby shrugs.
“So what, now you think you’re bi?”
“You make me think about it.”
My heart skids to a stop.
Abby covers her face with both hands. “I don’t know. It’s just.” She takes a deep breath. “You want to hear about my crushes? You want to know why I kept in touch with Caitlin?”
My heart sinks. “Not really.”
“Leah, it’s not—God. She’s straight, okay? I had a boyfriend, and she has a boyfriend, and she’s straight, and I’m fucking this up. I’m just.” She exhales. “I don’t like Caitlin, okay? I barely know her.”
“Whatever. She’s pretty.”
“So are you,” Abby whispers. I can’t help but sneak a glance at her. She’s hugging her knees, eyelashes thick with tears. “And I want to be friends. Or something. I don’t know. I just hate this.”
She swipes her fingers across her eyes, and my brain just unravels. I can’t deal with this girl. I can’t.
She makes me want to shove my hand into my chest and rip my own heart out.
Abby spends half the night trying to talk me out of sleeping on the couch. “I already feel like a jerk,” she says. “Seriously, take the bed.”
“Oh my God.” I drag a pillow and blanket out to the living room. “It’s fine, okay? Just stop.”
“I’m going to sleep in the chair.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s your choice.”
And I guess we’re both that stubborn, because the bed stays empty all night. I wake up to find Abby in Caitlin’s IKEA chair, head tilted slightly sideways, like she’s sleeping on a plane. For a moment, I just watch her. Maybe that makes me a creepy little vampire, but I can’t help it.
She’s hugging a pillow, her hands clasped against it, and it rises and falls with her chest. Her lips are softly parted. I hav
She wakes up pretty soon after that, and we pack our stuff in silence. I can barely breathe, I feel so tense and awkward. I have this feeling that my skin would crackle if you touched it. I don’t know how we’ll survive the trip home.
Caitlin comes over around ten to get her key and say good-bye, and when I look at her, all I can think about is what Abby said last night. You want to know why I kept in touch with Caitlin?
But I can’t be jealous of Caitlin. I’m not that big of an asshole. This girl gave me an apartment and a parking pass and possibly a new band.
“I’m so excited we’ll get to hang out next year,” she says, hugging us both.
My stomach flips a little. It still catches me off guard that this isn’t some random anomaly of a weekend. This is a preview of real life. These places, these people, this strange shot of freedom.
We arrive at Abby’s car, and Caitlin hugs us each again. “Stay in touch, okay?”
She helps us load our bags and leaves, and I’m alone with Abby all over again. I hover nervously near the trunk. “Do you want me to drive?”
“Oh, don’t worry about it.” But then she hesitates. “Unless you want to, I mean.”
“I don’t care.”
She looks at me.
“Abby, I really don’t care.”
She nods slowly. “Okay.” She smiles slightly. “I’ll drive. You relax.”
I settle into the passenger seat and cue up my playlist while Abby merges onto the highway. Definitely the moody playlist this time: Nick Drake and Driftwood Scarecrow and Sufjan Stevens. For almost twenty minutes, neither of us says a single word. Abby’s clearly in agony. She keeps opening and closing her mouth, eyes flicking toward me. I don’t think Abby Suso is capable of silence.
Sure enough, she breaks it before we’re even out of Watkinsville. “So, do you think you’ll try out for the band?”
“Probably not.”
“Really?” Her brow furrows. “Why not?”
“Because I’m a mediocre drummer.”
“Are you serious?”
I shrug. “I don’t even own a drum kit.”
“So you’ll get one.”
“I can’t afford one.”
Abby squeezes the steering wheel. “How much are they?”
“I don’t know. A couple hundred dollars.”
“Okay, so maybe you could get a job?” Immediately, she winces. “Ugh, that came out sounding really condescending. I don’t mean it like that.”
I shake my head. “It’s fine. But yeah, I don’t have a car, so . . .”
“But next year. We’ll be so close to downtown Athens, or maybe there will be stuff on campus. I’m going to try to work next year.”
“Maybe.” I turn toward the window.
“Or,” she says, and there’s this shift in her voice. “Maybe you could make money with your drawings?”
“Mmm. I don’t think so.”
“I’m serious. Have you ever thought about putting some of them on the internet? Just to see what happens?”
“Abby, I’m on the internet.”
“You have an art blog?”
“I’ll text you the link if you want.”
“I want.” She grins. “Leah, this is perfect.”
“Well, it’s all fandom stuff. I don’t make money off of it.”
She pauses for a moment. “But what about taking commissions?”
It’s funny—I’ve thought about it. Sometimes I even get private messages asking about it. But I’ve never taken the idea all that seriously. It’s just hard to imagine someone could look at my shitty drawings and decide to give me real money.
“Or”—Abby glances at me—“you could set up an online store. Maybe you could upload some designs, and then people could order prints and phone cases and stuff.”
“Mmhmm.”
“I actually think you could make decent money, you know? And then you could spend it on a drum kit. It would be perfect.”
“I’m not sure why you care.”
Her face falls. “Because I do.”
God. I’m such an asshole. I know I am. Abby’s literally just trying to help. And her ideas aren’t even that terrible. I mean, how cool would it be to make money from my art? To actually be able to buy shit for once. Maybe I could even help my mom out after I graduate. It’s not like I’m opposed to what Abby is saying. I just feel like being bitchy to her.
Fucked up, I know. But that’s where we are.
21
WHEN I GET HOME, THERE’S a Nordstrom bag on my bed. My yellow dress. I know before I even look inside. My stomach twists as soon as I see it.
I FaceTime Mom at work. “What the hell is this?”
“Wow. That’s not the reaction I was expecting.”
“We can’t afford this.” My cheeks feel warm. “I’m returning it.”
“Leah.”
“We’re not spending two hundred and fifty dollars on a—”
She cuts me off. “Okay, first of all, it wasn’t two hundred and fifty dollars. It was on sale.”
“I don’t believe you.”
She flips her palms up. “Well, it’s true. It was ten percent off, and then I got another fifteen percent for joining their email list.”
“That’s still almost two hundred dollars.”
“Lee, this isn’t for you to worry about.”
“How can I not worry about it?” There’s a lump forming in my throat. Yet again. This is ridiculous. I’m not even a crier, but now I’m spending half my life on the verge of a breakdown.
“Leah, we’re fine. You know that, right?” She rubs the bridge of her nose. “I’ve got all that overtime from last month, and we’ve got another check coming in from your dad—”
“I don’t want him paying for this.”
“But you’re okay with him paying for your cell phone? Your sketchpads? Lee, that’s how child support works.”
“Well, it’s gross.”
“Okay, you know what? He’s only paying for another two months, and then you can be as financially independent as you want. But for now, can we just say, hey, it’s done? It’s paid for. He can afford it.” She shakes her head. “Do you have to make everything hard?”
“Excuse me?” I say. And for a moment, we just stare at each other.
She exhales, shoulders sinking. “Look, can we talk about this when I get home?”
“Um. If you want.”
“Okay. Good. Sweetie, please don’t worry about the money, okay? We’re fine, I promise.”
I press my lips together.
“Leah, for real. We’re good. I wouldn’t have bought it if we couldn’t afford it. You know that, right?”
“Okay.” I feel myself softening.
“I love you, okay? I’ll be home at six. I can’t wait to hear about your trip.”
“Love you, too,” I mutter. “And thanks for the dress. I guess.”
She snorts. “Keep playing it cool, Leah. And you’re welcome.”
But I’m not cool. Not even close. I practically rip the garment bag open as soon as we hang up. I stare at the dress.
It’s as perfect as I remember. Maybe more perfect. I forgot how badass flowers can look.
I slip out of my jeans and wriggle into the gown, tugging the zipper up in back. The skirt trails on the floor all the way to the bathroom. We’re talking Beauty and the Beast–level gliding. I fucking love it.
I flip on the bathroom light and peer at my reflection. And it’s sort of a miracle: I don’t look like shit. The yellow of the dress makes my skin look creamy, and my hair falls in loose waves past my shoulders. Even my cheeks look apple-round and flushed. Now I want to stare into the mirror until I memorize myself. I want to cast this version of me in every dayd
When I get back to my room, my phone screen lights up with a text. I sink onto the bed, still wearing the dress.
It’s Anna. Are you back?
I want to say no. Maybe I could disappear. Just for the rest of spring break. I could hole up in my bedroom and not talk to anyone and spend the next four days cycling through my ever-expanding repertoire of daydreams. Like the one where I’m drumming under a strobe light, wearing my prom dress, totally nailing it, and then Abby catches my eye from the audience, and the music slows, and she’s smiling that quiet half smile I can only assume she does because she’s literally trying to wreck me.
I miss you! Anna adds. Want to do Starbucks on Friday?
Yeah. So now I feel like a dick, because I haven’t even thought about Anna in days. I barely remembered she existed. And even though I’m mad at Morgan, Anna hasn’t done anything wrong. I’m just a shitty, negligent friend.
Yes! Just us?
She writes back with a smiley emoji.
Luckily, Anna’s an early bird, so I can head straight to Starbucks after dropping Mom off at work. But I forgot what a shitshow this place is on Friday mornings. The line for the drive-through is so long, I can barely get into the parking lot, and I end up having to park in the lot for the gentlemen’s club next door. I’m five minutes early, but Anna’s car is already here, and as soon as I step inside, I see her—dark hair in a neat ponytail, back to the door.
She’s sitting across from Morgan.
I’m so angry, I could vomit. My stomach is actually lurching. Morgan catches my eye and murmurs something to Anna, who twists around to smile at me. She waves me over.
I just stand there, staring.
Anna turns back around, leans toward Morgan, presses her hand down on the table and stands. Then she walks straight toward me.
“Are you kidding me?” I ask her.
“Leah, no. Come on. You guys need to talk.”
“I can’t believe you lied to me.”
Anna winces. “I didn’t lie.”
“You said it was just us.”
“Technically, I replied with a very ambiguous emoji.”
“It was a smiley! That’s not ambiguous.” I glance over her shoulder at Morgan, who gives me a tentative smile. Yeah, no. I turn away from her quickly. “You knew I didn’t want to talk to her.”