Part 17 (1/2)

”I'm coming, just a sec.” Taylor rolls his eyes at me. ”Clearly, I gotta go, but yes. Whatever you want to do. I'll see you fourth period. You can tell me the specifics.”

3.

I don't know what to wear to the play, so I show up at Dylan's house with a sackful of options. I lay them out on Dylan's bed and she stands with her hip jutting out, her hand on her chin, deciding.

”It's a school play, so it shouldn't be that dressy. But it is is in the city, and also it's opening night, so it isn't totally casual, either. Plus it's a date,” she says. ”Right?” in the city, and also it's opening night, so it isn't totally casual, either. Plus it's a date,” she says. ”Right?”

”Kind of,” I say. ”At least I think so.”

She nods. ”I think so, too.”

She's wearing black as usual, but a more dressed-up version. Her pants are tight and kind of s.h.i.+ny and her tank top scoops down in the front and in the back, revealing her shoulder blades and the back of her neck as she leans over to examine the pattern on one of the s.h.i.+rt options I brought.

”This skirt,” she says. ”And that sweater.” She pivots toward her closet. ”And I have a belt for you.”

I grab the clothes she chose and head into the bathroom.

”Oh,” she says. ”And the orange scarf. The orange scarf is adorable.”

”Okay,” I say, and shut the door.

Inside the bathroom, I look into Dylan's mirror. I want to look the opposite of adorable. I want to walk up Eighteenth Street tonight and look like I belong walking next to Dylan, like I know my way around the city the way she does. But then I think of me in the photograph that Ingrid took, the one that won the prize. Ms. Delani was right: I did look interesting. And I was just sitting in my room, looking like myself.

I slip off my pants and step into the green skirt that Dylan chose. It doesn't fit me the way it used to. It hangs a little. I guess I've been subst.i.tuting Popsicles for too many meals lately. I take off my s.h.i.+rt, pull on a dark brown sweater that I took from my mom's closet. It's made out of this really soft, thin fabric. The faint outline of my bra shows through it. Last, I buckle Dylan's wide, tan belt over the skirt. It's covered with little bronze studs and makes the whole outfit work, makes it just the slightest bit tough like I wanted it.

”You look great,” Dylan says when I come out of the bathroom. I feel her eyes scanning my body, wonder if I can really pull this sweater off.

”Really great,” she says.

”Thanks,” I mumble, and don't make eye contact. ”But I really don't. Look at the way this skirt bunches.”

”Fine,” Dylan says. ”Be difficult. All I'm saying is Taylor's gonna think you look gorgeous when he gets here.”

Taylor shows up five minutes early, and we climb into his yellow Datsun and head onto the main road. Before we get on the freeway, we have to stop so Dylan can get a coffee, and then after we're over the bridge and finally find parking in the Mission, we go into the Dolores Park Cafe to get another one. This time Taylor and I order, too, and he insists on paying for all three of us.

”What a gentleman,” Dylan says, grinning at him.

He turns to me. ”Caitlin, did you hear that? She thinks I'm a gentleman.”

The barista calls Taylor's name. I grab my coffee and go over to the bar to add sugar, hoping that if it's sweet enough, it won't be as bitter as it was when I had a macchiato with Dylan and Maddy.

”Caitlin?” It's a guy's voice, but it isn't Taylor's. I turn around to look.

Davey and Amanda are filling their coffees up right beside me. Davey's grown an Abe Lincoln beard, the kind with no mustache. Amanda's cut her hair short. Instantly, I feel a little dizzy. My head buzzes.

”Oh my G.o.d,” Amanda gasps. ”Caitlin.” ”Caitlin.”

She takes a small step toward me but stops there. They used to hug me every time we saw one another, so now the s.p.a.ce between us feels a million times longer than it actually is.

”Hi,” I manage.

They seem just as startled as I feel. Amanda looks like she's trying not to cry. Davey stands completely still, like he's in shock.

”Look at you,” he finally says. ”You look . . .” But he doesn't finish.

”You look grown up,” Amanda says.

When Davey finally moves, he reaches out, touches my shoulder light and fast.

”I'm sorry,” he says. ”This is hard, isn't it? But, s.h.i.+t, it's so good to see you. Are those your friends?” He gestures out the window, to where Dylan and Taylor are leaning against a pole, talking.

I don't know what to say. How can I say yes without making it seem like I've completely moved on from Ingrid? But there's no other way I can answer.

”Yeah.”

Neither of them looks mad.

”What are you here for?” Amanda asks.

”We're going to a play.”

”You should come see us sometime.”

”Okay,” I say, wondering if I will.

”That would be great,” Davey says, and he seems so eager.

”Yeah, it would,” I say. ”I will.”

I'm not sure how to end this conversation, and they don't seem to know how to, either. I take a step backward, toward the door.

”I still listen to that tape you made me. Like all the time all the time.”

”You do?” Davey asks.

”Yeah.”

I look at Amanda. ”And I listen to the Cure CD practically every night.”