Coming Up for Air Read online

  I object. “Um, and why exactly didn’t you invite me?” It’d have felt good to get a little retribution on one of these jerks.

  Remy sounds exasperated. “Yeah, right. Like you would have come.”

  “Of course I would have!”

  “Okay, you’re right, maybe you would’ve. And you’d have taken pictures of us throwing eggs and not lifted a single one yourself.”

  “What?” I look to Judd to defend me, but he puts his hands up.

  “Sorry, but Remy has a point. And then you would have had evidence. Of just us.”

  “I would have totally thrown an egg,” I argue.

  “All right, whatever you say,” Remy says, like she couldn’t believe me less.

  A little pit settles in my stomach. Do they really think I’m that boring?

  Judd adds, “But the pictures definitely would have been dope.”

  Somehow this makes me feel worse. “Well, we’ll never know since you guys went without me.”

  “God, you know, Hads, you are so grouchy this morning. You should try meditating or something,” Remy says.

  * * *

  When I finally walk into my yearbook meeting, nobody’s there. I text our group—Becca, Ty, and Greg—and head to the caf to see if they’re getting breakfast. Ty is sitting alone at the corner of a long table, lost in thought.

  “Hey, Ty.”

  He looks up from his notebook.

  I flop my stuff next to him. “How mad is she?”

  He smirks, still looking a little absent. “She’s not thrilled.”

  “I can’t believe I missed it entirely. I’m going to kill Remy.”

  “Becca will get over it. And you should probably go tell Mr. Patel that you’re still in. Becca’s all freaked that he’ll take our club status away without four people.”

  This summer, Becca went to a two-week leadership camp and came back determined to make our college applications stand out. Which is why when the yearbook club didn’t generate enough student interest this year, Becca suggested the four of us keep it from extinction.

  “Thanks for the heads-up. Where is she?”

  “She took Greg to the library to help him with his Spanish homework. I got your student profile assignment for yearbook, though. Hold on.” Ty turns a page in his notebook. “Here.”

  Tyler’s all-caps handwriting says: BRADEN ROBERTS.

  “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

  “Um, no. Why?” He looks at the name again. “Oh, shit, is that the guy Remy mentioned on Friday?”

  “Yeah. And I met him too. I drove him to some house in your neighborhood, actually. Right before I came over.”

  He looks surprised. “You did?”

  “It’s a long story. Doesn’t matter.” I grab my phone to check the time, but instead notice the date. My heart sinks. No wonder Ty is sitting over here alone. I look at him more closely. He’s picking at the seam of his disposable coffee cup.

  “Ty. It’s your mom’s birthday.” The last one she was alive to celebrate was four years ago, before she unexpectedly passed away from a brain aneurysm. “I’m sorry. I’m such an idiot; I just realized. How are you doing?”

  He takes a deep breath. “I’m all right. Thanks for saying something, though.”

  Which is basically Tyler-speak for Nobody else did. Which, unfortunately, doesn’t shock me. Becca and Greg don’t always pick up on stuff like that. And in their defense, it’s easy to not think about losing a parent. Until it isn’t.

  I try for a happier note. “Remember the day we met?”

  Ty exhales, amused. “When you barged in on me in the nurse’s office?”

  “I was so surprised,” I say, laughing. “I basically jumped out of my skin. It was always empty.”

  “And I thought you were going to apologize, but you were just pissed.”

  I cover my face with my palm. “I know, I was such a mess. I thought the world revolved around me.” I had recently found out that Mom had breast cancer, and the nurse told me that whenever I was upset, I could take a minute in her office. And Ty’s mom had just passed away, and the nurse told him the same thing. He definitely had more of a right to be in there than I did, but he never made me feel bad about it.

  “You know, I kind of liked that you yelled at me,” he says.

  “What? Why?”

  “Yeah, I mean, everybody was treating me like I was made of glass or something.” His lips curve. “Not you.”

  “Not me.” I shake my head, still embarrassed, even though it had been in seventh grade. “I don’t know what I would have done without you that year, Ty.”

  Mom ended up needing a surgery to remove the tumor from her breast, but no chemo or radiation, thank god. She’s been okay since then, but I can’t remember ever being so scared. And those first few weeks of school—when the hallways were filled with shrieks, laughter, and endless gossip about who kissed who over the summer—Ty and I kept finding ourselves alone together in the nurse’s office, quietly bonding over our fear and grief.

  “Cancer, death, yelling,” he teases. “Totally normal way to make friends.”

  I smile. “I’m still not sure why you put up with me.”

  He rubs his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Me either, Butler.”

  “And how’s your dad?” I ask, knowing Ty worries about him during this time of year.

  He shrugs. “It’s kind of hard to tell. He seems the same. You know, tall, serious. Doctor-y.”

  “That’s good, right?” I ask. “That he seems like himself.”

  “Yeah.” Then he sits up straight and his fluid movements go stiff, almost robotic, transforming himself into a goofy version of his dad. “But, Miss Butler, mental health, while often invisible to the outside world, is just as important as physical health.”

  “That was too good,” I say again with a laugh. “Spot-on.”

  He continues in the perfectly articulated Dr. West voice, “I am a man of many, diversified talents.”

  The first bell rings. I have seven minutes to get to first hour, and with my late-rising chauffeur, I’m tardy way too often.

  “Ugh, I’ve got to go. But that second impression got totally creepy, FYI,” I say as I swing my backpack over my shoulder. I still have to get to my locker to ditch it. No bags in class.

  Ty’s voice is mock-serious. “And now she’s insulting me on my dead mom’s birthday. Still as ruthless as you were in seventh grade.”

  I object. “You said you liked it!”

  “Oh, I’m deeply messed up. Mommy issues.”

  “Oh my god, that’s not funny.” I shove him affectionately with my shoulder. “Hey, for real, I hope today doesn’t totally suck, okay?”

  “It’ll be all right.”

  I hold up my phone. “Say the word, and I’ll meet you in the nurse’s office.”

  * * *

  As Ty and I part ways, a voice bellows over the rest. “Hey, Hadley!”

  My stomach drops; with what emotion, I don’t know. I turn and find a way-too-cute guy gesturing with his chin for me to come talk to him.

  “I can’t be late!” I shout in his direction.

  He motions again: come here.

  I know I can’t avoid my assignment forever. I might as well get this over with. In the crowded hallway, walking toward Braden feels like swimming upstream.

  We meet halfway, and he quips, “Funny seeing you like this. Daylight. Me fully clothed.” Even with his jacket on, I can clearly see his shirt clinging tightly to his chest.

  “Yeah,” I answer flatly, “hilarious.” The automatic doors slide open and close as students hurry inside, bringing in the chilly autumn air.

  “Not a morning person, huh?” he asks.

  “That’s what they tell me.”

  “Okay, well,
I’ll keep it short, then, I guess. Coach said you wanted to interview me?”

  Another student rushes by, nearly knocking me over. But Braden steadies me, a firm grip on my elbow. “Oh, um, thanks.” I look down at his hand. It takes up nearly half my arm; probably good for swimming. I push down the thought, and he lets go of me. “Just for the record, I got assigned to interview you.”

  He doesn’t seem to care about the difference.

  I continue, “Look, I don’t want to be late for first hour, so can you just meet me in the library today during study hall? We can do a portrait in the gym? After?” If I get this done right away, maybe Becca will be less mad at me for missing the yearbook meeting.

  “Can’t,” he answers, “I have to make up a test.”

  “Okay, what about tomorrow?”

  “I usually do my homework in study hall.”

  “You don’t do your homework at home?”

  He laughs. “Are we getting this interview thing started early?”

  I look at him, trying not to notice the bold, straight lines of his face. Everywhere except his lips.

  He continues, “I have practice after school. With school and work and swim and everything, my life can be pretty scheduled. It sucks.”

  I force myself back into the present moment. “Okay, well, when, then?”

  “I can meet you at the Starbucks in town tonight? I have, like, an hour after dinner.”

  The warning bell rings—one minute until class starts. “Okay, fine. What time?”

  “Seven-thirty?”

  “See you then.” And before he can say another word, I turn on my heel, determined to stop looking at his freaking face. As I’m frantically shoving my bag into my locker, I have an idea on how to make this interview worth my while.

  * * *

  It’s a quarter to eight, and when I walk into the coffee shop, Braden is already inside. He’s leaning against the cream-and-sugar station, and when he sees me, he stands up straight. “Hey, I already ordered, but I was just thinking I should have waited. Can I get you something?”

  He’s wearing that leather jacket, and I swear to god, it’s like the guy has always just gotten out of the shower; the scent of soap clings heavily to his skin.

  “No, um, thanks.” I shake my head. “I’m good. I’ll get it.”

  I order a mint tea, and when I rejoin him, Braden is holding a frozen drink piled high with whipped cream.

  “What?” he asks.

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  The green straw sits between his teeth. “Tell that to your face.”

  “I just…I think I expected you to get a black coffee.”

  “Gross. Why would I do that?”

  “I don’t know. To be macho or something.”

  He shifts his weight. “You really think you have me figured out, huh?”

  I’m spared from answering because my tea’s ready. When I grab it, Braden starts up the stairs, and we situate ourselves in a back corner near the fireplace.

  “So,” he asks, scooping out whipped cream with the end of his straw, “you have some questions for me?”

  “I do.”

  Because while Braden was allegedly making up a test, I went into the library and looked up different ways to interview people. After some research, I settled on the Proust Questionnaire, because it claims that it reveals the true nature of whoever you interview. And, hopefully, once I see that he’s exactly the kind of guy Remy warned me about, I’ll stop picturing him in that freaking Speedo. Or worse, as a Ryan McGinley photograph. Free and alive and—stop it!

  “You ready?” I ask.

  “Hit me.”

  “Okay, first question: What’s your idea of perfect happiness?”

  He frowns. “What?”

  “Did you not hear me?”

  “No, I heard you, just…um, okay. Perfect happiness?”

  “Yep.” I can’t help the satisfaction at catching him off-guard.

  He rubs at his face. “I guess…a full-ride scholarship to the University of Michigan, for swimming, obviously.” He pauses. “Or, well, actually, if we’re talking perfect happiness, to Stanford—it has the top swim program in the country. And they have even higher academic standards than U of M, which is already hard.”

  I open my mouth to reply, but he shakes his head.

  I watch it occur to him. “Or, no, wait. No, forget school. Perfect happiness would be standing on the top podium at the Olympics. Definitely. Final answer.”

  “Oh.” That’s not exactly revealing. “Um, really?”

  “No,” he says seriously before breaking into a laugh. “What do you mean? Of course, really.”

  “Is that actually a possibility?”

  His gaze holds steady. “Maybe. My times are good. I work hard.”

  Despite myself, I’m kind of impressed. I didn’t know he was that good. “Well, okay, then—a medal at the Olympics,” I repeat as I write it down.

  A flicker of a brow. “Why do you make it sound like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like it’s, I don’t know, not the coolest thing ever? Because the Olympics are literally—”

  I laugh, interrupting. “You don’t have to explain the Olympics to me.”

  “Are you sure?” he teases. “ ’Cause you seem confused. It’s this epic, worldwide—”

  “Okay, okay, I know what the freaking Olympics are. I just…I don’t know. As happiness goes, isn’t it a little…impersonal?”

  He looks baffled. “There’s nothing more personal.”

  I scoff. “How?”

  He sits up straight, leaning closer. “Training your body, mentally pushing yourself as hard as you can—harder, even—to accomplish something great. It’s your whole…self. What could be more personal?” His jacket pulls tight across his shoulders.

  Stop looking at his freaking shoulders. You’re on a mission. Focus.

  I try to think of an answer closer to what I would say. “I don’t know, like…eating dinner with your family? A good conversation with people you love?”

  “Eating dinner with my family? A conversation? Instead of an Olympic medal? Are you serious?” The look he’s giving me is so intensely focused, so perplexed and amused, that I don’t know what to say. When I don’t answer, he continues, “Hadley, okay, if eating dinner with your family is your idea of perfect happiness, let me tell you something: you should think bigger.”

  I defend myself, bristling at his words. “It doesn’t ask what your greatest goal is. It asks about happiness.”

  “Isn’t that the same thing?”

  “No. Not to me.” How are we fighting, already? It’s been less than ten minutes since I walked in. “I don’t know. Whatever.”

  “I stand by it,” he asserts. “Winning a gold medal at the Olympics is definitely my idea of perfect happiness.”

  I fold. “All right, I wrote it down.”

  “Great.”

  “Okay, um, next. What’s your greatest fear?”

  “Losing at the Olympics,” he shoots back without even thinking.

  I drop my pen. “Braden. Your biggest fear, ever, is being talented and dedicated enough to qualify for the ultimate athletic competition.” I notice him smile at my definition of the Olympics. I continue, “But not being one of the top three in the entire world? That’s the scariest thing to you?”

  “Kind of, yeah.”

  “That’s…That can’t be true. What about being murdered? Or death in general?” He doesn’t look convinced. “Or what about, god forbid, not qualifying for the Olympics at all?”

  “These questions are sort of intense.”

  What it sounds like he means is You’re intense. “I went with the Proust Questionnaire,” I reply.

  “Proust?”


  “I don’t know—a French writer.”

  “What does a French writer have to do with anything? Aren’t you going to ask me about my records or the team?”

  “No.”

  “Isn’t that the point of an athlete profile?” he argues.

  “I’m a cofounder of the new yearbook club. I get to decide what the point is.”

  His grin is self-satisfied. “Oh, well, I didn’t realize I was being interviewed by the cofounder.” His whole body loosens up as he teases me.

  “Well, you are.” Trying to move with dignity, I fidget in my seat.

  He bites his straw. “So you did want to interview me for this.”

  “No. I was late for the meeting, and—”

  “Sure, Hadley. But this would be a lot more fun if you could relax a little.”

  And when I see the next question, I find that I do feel more relaxed. All right, Braden, let’s have some fun.

  I read from my notebook: “ ‘What’s the trait you most deplore in yourself?’ ”

  He sets his drink down. “Deplore? You want me to tell you what I hate most about myself so you can put it in the yearbook?”

  I can’t help the small amusement on my face. “I could get you started with some suggestions.”

  “Man, you are ruthless.” But it doesn’t sound like an insult.

  “You’re actually not the first person to call me that today,” I counter, feeling a growing buzz in my stomach.

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “So…?” I ask, having fun for the first time since I got here.

  “So…?” he repeats.

  I do my best impression of Becca. “The student body has a right to know that their star athlete has insecurities too. It’s…humanizing.”

  He meets my eyes for a fraction of a second too long, and a spark jumps between us again. “I guess I could always work on my breath control. Mine’s good, but Coach thinks it could be even better.”

  “That’s not real.”

  “Tell my coach that.”

  “Okay, well, it’s technical. How about something personal?”