Leah on the Offbeat by Becky Albertalli
“ARE THERE ANY SEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEENIORS IN THE HOWOWOWOWOWSE?”
“YES, WE’RE SENIORS!” Abby yells. Then she catches me looking and shoots me a bashful grin.
The song changes again, the beat thumping softly, and everyone crowds in a little closer. Simon grabs my hand and lifts it, and suddenly, I’m stretching both arms skyward, smiling with my eyes closed. And it’s exactly the feeling I get when I’m drumming. I’m caught up in the music—just totally lost to it. I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt so weightless.
Until it smacks me like a cannonball: all of this is ending.
Holy shit. We’re graduating. We have—what—five weeks of normalcy, and then the whole world resets. Intellectually, I’ve always known things would be different after graduation. That’s just life.
But I guess it’s finally hitting me—the magnitude of this change. I don’t think I’ve looked it in the eye until this moment.
“I miss you,” I say to Simon.
“WHAT?”
“I MISS YOU!”
I mean. Fuck everything. I already miss them. I miss Simon and Bram and Nick and Garrett and Nora and Anna and even Morgan. It already hurts.
“GOD, I MISS YOU, TOO,” Simon yells, smiling—and just when I think he doesn’t get it at all, he flings his arms around me tightly and leans close to my ear. “You know I’m going to lose my mind without you, right?”
“Me too,” I say softly, leaning into his chest.
33
BUT HERE’S THE WEIRD THING: I’ve barely seen Nick all night. And normally, I wouldn’t think twice about it, but this isn’t regular Nick—this is Sad Drunk Nick. So, I have to assume he’s either vomiting in the butterfly house or passed out next to the vulture enclosure.
Or he’s fine. He’s probably fine. Even though he’s not replying to any of my texts. Maybe he’s fine, and he just hates me. In his position, I’d hate me. Maybe Abby said something to him. Or maybe my stupid Abby crush is written plainly all over my face.
I try to shake the thought from my mind, but I can’t help peering around the edges of the space. For the record, finding a particular boy in a dimly lit, crowded pavilion is pretty near fucking impossible. The kid is wearing a black tuxedo in a sea of black tuxedos. For a moment, Martin Addison’s wardrobe choices make a twisted kind of sense.
Except then Nick whirls in out of nowhere, flushed and beaming. “Hey!” I start to say—but he cuts me off with a quick, tight hug and a wet smacking kiss on the cheek.
“Um. Are you—”
He pokes me in the nose. “Leah Burke, you’re about to have your mind blown.”
Okay, so now I’m slightly terrified.
Nick crosses the dance floor with actual swagger. This is something I’ve never before witnessed in my years of friendship with Nick Eisner. He reaches the deejay table and leans forward to say something, and then the deejay nods, and they bump fists.
“Are you watching this?” Simon asks, leaning in close.
“You mean Nick?”
Simon nods. “What do you think he’s scheming?”
“No idea.” But as soon as I say it, I catch a glimpse of Abby, her blue skirt flaring as she spins around with Nora. “Unless . . .”
Simon follows my gaze. “Oh God. Do you think he’s planning some big gesture to win her back?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.” I press my lips together. “Or it could be a revenge thing.”
“Like Nick taking revenge on Abby?” Simon laughs incredulously.
“Maybe something to embarrass her.”
Simon shakes his head. “Nick wouldn’t do that.”
“I don’t know. He’s acting really weird.”
“Yeah, but this is Nick,” Simon insists, though I catch a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. “He wouldn’t.”
For a moment, we just look at each other.
“I think we should talk to him,” I say finally.
“Yeah. Okay.” Simon nods. “Let’s just . . . see what he’s thinking.”
Simon grabs my hand, and we weave through the crowd on the dance floor. Nick is in a crowd of soccer guys at the very edge of the pavilion, his arms flung around Garrett’s and Bram’s shoulders. Which is reassuring, I think. If Bram’s involved—even if Garrett’s involved—there’s no way Nick is planning anything cruel. I mean, unless Bram and Garrett don’t know about the plan.
God, how do I even word this? Hey, Nick. I think you’re amazing and I totally adore you, and I just wanted to quickly confirm that you’re not a giant living, breathing human phallus.
Simon squeezes my hand and tugs me forward, inhaling sharply. “Hey, guys,” he says in his patented I’m-Simon-Spier-and-I’m-so-casual-I’m-hardly-even-squeaking voice. “Uh, Nick, can we talk to you for a sec?”
“Yeah, what’s up?” Nick smiles expectantly. But when I look over his shoulder, I see a dozen other soccer guys, also smiling expectantly.
“In private,” I add.
“Uh-oh, Eisner.” A random soccer bro ruffles Nick’s hair. “She looks pissed.”
I roll my eyes—but Nick extracts himself from the guys and follows Simon and me onto the porch. I feel instantly calmer—even though the porch is attached to the pavilion, and the music’s still loud, and there are still people everywhere. But it’s nice that the porch is totally uncovered, except for a few strings of twinkle lights. There’s a railing all around it, and beyond that, a clear, tree-lined lake. I hang my arms over the railing’s edge and take a deep breath.
“Nick, what’s going on?”
“What do you mean?” He grins.
“You’re acting weird.”
“Why did you talk to the deejay?” asks Simon.
“Aha.” Nick’s smile widens. “All will be revealed.”
Simon glances at me nervously.
I look Nick dead on. “Just tell me this. Is it Abby-related?”
He opens his mouth to reply—but then the song switches, and his whole demeanor changes. He pats us each on the shoulder before jogging back to the soccer boys as Simon and I watch, agape.
“Fuck,” Simon mutters, but it just sort of hangs there.
Because I’m staring at the boys as they assemble themselves into a triangle formation. Nick’s at the front, flanked by Bram and Garrett, with the rest of the soccer boys fanning out behind them. Music blasts from the speakers.
CH-ch-ch-ch, ch-ch-CH-ch-ch ERM. CH-ch-ch-ch, ch-ch-CH-ch-ch ERM.
Moving in unison, they sway rhythmically from side to side, and then suddenly freeze. Then Nick thrusts his hips out, and the other guys follow—and then they all kick their legs out, and they’re off.
Holy shit.
It’s the choreographed prom moment, straight out of a teen movie.
Suddenly, we’re surrounded by people, cheering and singing along to a song I’ve never heard before, about a girl being poison.
I lean toward Simon. “Is this . . . about Abby?”
“I mean, it’s a real song . . . ,” Simon starts to say, but he trails off, staring at Bram. I can’t even blame him. There is so much gyration happening right before our eyes. I didn’t even think boys knew about hips. I definitely didn’t think Bram and Nick knew about them.
“ARE THERE ANY SENIORS IN THE HOUSE?” the emcee yells.
Nick falls to his knees, head thrust backward for the grand finale. I turn to gape at Simon—but he’s disappeared, and all of a sudden, I find myself standing next to Abby. She smiles faintly.
“So, this is awkward,” I murmur.
She nods. “Yup.”
“I guess he’s making a statement.”
“Well, it’s funny.” She leans toward me. “They’ve been working on the choreography for months. I actually knew they were planning this.”
“Are you serious? With that song choice?”
Abby laughs flatly. “Just a coincidence. They didn’t know I was poison yet.”
“You’re not . . . ,” I start to say, but my eyes drift ba
It’s the theater boys—Simon, Martin, Cal, and a few others—and they’re doing what appears to be a country western line dance. To the poison song.
Abby shakes her head slowly. “Okay, that’s definitely one of their dances from the play.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“And they’re doing it to ‘Poison.’”
“Yes. Yes they are.” I murmur while Simon and Martin do-si-do in their tuxes. “I’m just.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m so confused.”
Abby takes my hand, and leans in closer. “I think we’re witnessing a dance battle,” she whispers, threading her fingers through mine.
My heart slams in my chest. This can’t actually be happening. I’m next to Abby, who’s dressed like Cinderella, and we’re literally just standing here holding hands. Watching a dance battle, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. I think I’ve forgotten how to breathe.
“You okay?” she asks, peering at me.
I nod quickly.
She keeps peering. I rack my brain for something to say. Don’t mention the hands. Don’t mention the kiss. Don’t mention Nick—
“Nick should be dancing with them. He’s a theater boy now,” I say.
Awesome. My brain actually hates me.
But Abby just grins. “Well, his character’s dead in this song. Kind of.”
“Oh, so it’s a fuck you, Nick song.”
“Basically, yeah.”
But Nick’s laughing so hard, he can’t even stand up straight. He’s literally leaning into Bram’s shoulder, head buried in the folds of his jacket. Meanwhile, the theater guys have assembled into their final pose, complete with jazz hands.
Someone starts a slow clap, and Abby untangles our hands to join in. I feel a tiny punch of disappointment. My hand feels so useless now.
“That was amazing,” Abby says as soon as Simon wanders back to us. “Ten out of ten, would recommend.”
Simon beams. “Obviously, I had to defend your honor.”
“Because I’m the poison girl.”
“No way,” he says. “I mean, kind of. But you’re not.”
Abby raises her eyebrows.
“Do you want to dance?” Simon blurts.
There’s a slow song playing—I think it’s Ed Sheeran. Simon tugs my hair, and then takes Abby’s hand. She smiles at me over her shoulder as he leads her to the dance floor.
For a minute, I stand there, watching them. Simon’s actually a decent slow dancer. Somehow, he knows to hold Abby’s hand up, like grandparents do. I bet he practiced with his mom. It’s funny how ten seconds ago, he was tiny Simon Spier in a wolf shirt—and suddenly, out of nowhere, he’s this dapper guy in a tux. How did we get so old?
“Why, hello, Burke.” I look up, and it’s Garrett, hands clasped behind his back.
“Hey.” I tear my eyes away from Abby and Simon. “So, who knew you were this amazing dancer?”
He smiles, just a little. “You thought I was amazing?”
“I mean, you weren’t terrible.”
“Oh my God. You loved it. What did you love most? Was it this move?” He thrusts his pelvis three times, in rapid succession.
“Definitely that one.”
“Or was it this one?” He shoots his hands up, like he’s holding on to monkey bars. Then he swivels his hips in circles.
“Yes. All of the above.”
“Damn.” He grins. “So that’s what it takes to impress you, huh?”
I shrug and smile vaguely. God, I’m such a shitty person. I should shut this down. Right now. I’m just going to spit it out, really nicely, so we’re all on the same page and no one gets their hopes up. I shut my eyes and take a deep breath, and then we both speak at once.
It comes out in a jumble. “You go first,” I say quickly.
“Okay.” Garrett inhales. “Do you want to dance?”
And . . . fuck.
I just stand there. “Sure,” I say finally.
I mean. He’s my date. We should dance. It’s not even a question.
We walk hand in hand to the dance floor, and then Garrett pauses, facing me. “So, should we just . . .”
His hands fall to my waist, and I wrap mine around his shoulders. And we sway. He tugs me closer—so close that our chests are mashed together, which is actually pretty unnerving. I think I’m radiating awkwardness—like it’s some sort of gaseous substance, rolling off me in waves.
And the thing that freaks me out most is that Garrett hasn’t said a word. He’s just looking at me with this sweetly dopey expression, and I feel like the biggest asshole on earth.
I am very much not in love with Garrett Laughlin. And he probably deserves to know that. But when I open my mouth, all that comes out is “What happens when they’re seventy?”
“What?”
“In the song. He says he’ll love this girl until they’re seventy. But then what? He’s just like, peace, I’m out?”
“Wow,” Garrett says, laughing. “You are the actual least romantic person on earth.”
Not true, I think. Case in point: at this very moment, it’s taking every ounce of self-control not to stare wistfully at Abby.
Instead, I peer over Garrett’s shoulder and gasp. “Are you kidding me?”
Garrett furrows his brow.
“Turn around sideways.”
Because, holy shit. It’s Nick. Dancing with Taylor Metternich. But not just dancing. Their hands are everywhere. Nick’s fingers trail down the back of Taylor’s Kate Middleton wedding bodice, way too close to her ass, and there isn’t an inch of space between them anywhere.
Except their mouths. There’s just about an inch there.
My eyes fall immediately to Abby, who’s six feet away, watching this shitshow unfold. I mean, of course she’s watching. Simon is, too. They’re both frozen in place, eyebrows raised to the moon.
“He just kissed her. They’re kissing,” Garrett murmurs. “Daaaamn.”
Holy mother of God. What’s even happening right now? Nick is kissing a girl on the dance floor, right in front of Abby, and the girl is Taylor Metternich. And yes, if they have babies one day, those babies will have awesome singing voices, but in the meantime: WHAT?
I glance back at Abby, and this time, she’s looking straight at me, her expression unreadable. I catch her gaze, and she shoots me this sad half smile.
God. She’s so. I don’t even know what.
I shouldn’t stare.
And I definitely shouldn’t gaze longingly. Like, holy shit, Leah. Cool your jets. This is not a fucking teen movie.
I turn away quickly, tuning back in to the soft-core porn channel that is Taylor and Nick. And wow. That is some sloppy kissing. Are all the chaperones high right now? Are they dead? Because I’m pretty sure I’m about to watch Nick get Taylor pregnant, right here on the dance floor.
Right in front of Nick’s ex-girlfriend.
Except.
When my eyes flick back just a minute or two later, Simon’s standing beneath the edge of the pavilion, alone. And Abby’s gone.
34
I HEAD STRAIGHT FOR SIMON as soon as the song ends. By then, he’s found a table with Bram, and they’ve both draped their tux jackets over their chairs.
“Did Abby leave?” I ask, settling in beside Bram.
Simon nods, leaning forward. “Yeah, right in the middle of the dance. She said she wanted to be alone.”
“Really?”
“Okay, that’s weird, right? I mean, it’s weird for Abby?”
“Is she upset?”
“I don’t know.” Simon looks slightly distraught. “I guess so. I mean, I wouldn’t blame her.”
“God.” I close my eyes. “Yeah.”
Bram bites his lip and nods.
“I should have gone with her,” Simon says, rubbing his forehead. “Ugh. Now she probably thinks she’s kicked out of our squad. Like, we’re going to replace her with Taylor.”
“Maybe I’ll text her,” I say, and I promptly start blushing. Way to be mega obvious, Leah. I might as well whip out my heart and set it on the table for the boys to examine.
But Simon just nods eagerly. “Yeah, that’s a good idea.”
And it is. It’s a great idea, and I should totally text her. Nothing weird about that. I’m a friend. I’m checking in.
Hey, are you okay?
I stare at my phone for a moment, but there’s nothing. No dots. She’s not typing.
Nick’s an asshole, I add.
“Did she write back?” Simon asks.
I shake my head slowly. God. I don’t know why this is making me so antsy. She’s probably not even looking at her phone. Or maybe she just wants some space, for once. I should leave her alone. And I shouldn’t even care. Really, I shouldn’t.
But—okay. I guess it kind of bothers me. Just the thought of her off crying somewhere over Nick. Like, I get it. Believe me. I know exactly how it feels to be out-of-your-mind in love with someone. And I know exactly how it feels to watch them kiss someone else.
My heart flips in my chest. There’s this awful part of me that thinks she deserves this. Just a little taste of what last year was like for me. But another part of me wants to punch Nick in the face.
And then, as if I’ve conjured him myself, Nick appears at our table. He’s alone—Taylor seems to have disappeared. But he’s not looking for Taylor.
“Abby’s gone.” He slides into the seat next to Simon. His lips are puffy, and his eyes are like glass. “Shit. I fucked up. I shouldn’t have—”
“Made out with Taylor right in front of her?” I raise my eyebrows.
“Am I the biggest asshole?” He buries his head in his hands and groans. “She probably hates me. Fuck. I have to find her.”
“I don’t think you should do that.”
“Do you know which way she went?” Nick stares past my shoulder, into the distance.
Simon frowns. “I’m not sure. It looked like she turned left.”