Page 42 of Level Up
“What? I’m just saying you have good taste,” Gram replies, oblivious to everyone else’s disinterest. “My sister always went for the skinny boys, but not me. Wall of muscle, that’s what I want in a man.”
“No one cares what you want in a man, Gram,” I say, picking at my sad broccoli.
“And what do you want in a man, dear?” she asks me, and I’m taken aback by the directness of the question. “Or woman. It’s the twentieth century, after all.”
Marie and I exchange a look of disbelief—with a mix of bemused horror and thinly veiled mirth—across the table, and for a minute it feels like we’re actually sisters again. I almost laugh out loud as she pinches her mouth tight to keep from smiling, and I wish it could always be like this.
We’ve only ever had snippets like this, though—there was never a time when I felt like I could turn to her, no matter what. Audrey Grace and MarieWagner-Grace were onlyhalf-sisters after all, which apparently wasn’t enough for Marie. Especially not when she was so perfect and I was anything but.
“Probably someone who spends all his time playing video games,” Mom says offhand, and I’m immediately reminded of the fact that Damien says he doesn’t date much because he’d rather be playing video games—or chatting with me while playing video games.
“Are you still obsessed with that one game?” Marie asks, a hint of condescension in her voice. “With the magic rocks andthat guy—the one with the hair? He sort of looks like a jacked-up, forty-something, alternate universe Harry Styles.”
“Hadley,” I reply flatly, although that’s not at all how I would describe him. “And yeah, I still play sometimes. Though a new one in the series just came out.”
“She has a newgamerfriend, too,” Mom supplies, and I don’t think she’s mocking me but there is a teasing lilt in her voice that sets me on edge. “They chat while they play separate games. Did you know N64 isvintagenow?”
Marie blinks at her, clearly puzzled by the sudden topic change, and then returns her attention to me. “Not the one in Sweden?”
“Finland,” I correct her impatiently. “And no. Anewfriend, she said.”
Her lip juts out in a pout, like she’s considering this for a moment, and then she shrugs. “That’s cool.”
“It’s ahe-friend,” Mom adds, barely able to contain her giddiness at the chance to make fun of me in front of someone else for a change.
“A what?”
“A friend who happens to be a guy,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Which doesn’t mean anything, but Mom won’t let it go.”
Marie’s gaze intensifies on me, and I can feel her scrutinizing my face before her eyelids flare. “Is this the guy you want to have sex with?”
I suddenly find myself a beacon for Mom’s attention, while Gram continues to ignore the rest of us as she struggles to get a single bite of macaroni.
“What’s all this about?” Mom asks eagerly.
“Nothing.” I shovel a forkful of neon orange noodles into my mouth, grimacing.
“She was talking to Victory earlier,” Marie explains to her smugly. “And I overheard her saying that she wants to have sex with some guy?—”
“I specifically said that I donotwant to have sex with him!” A noodle flies out of my mouth in my outrage.
Marie smirks at me, like she’s won some sort of competition I didn’t know we were in. “In real life,” she says, quoting me. “Is this what you ‘chat’ about, then? While ‘playing games’—”
“Why are you here?” I spit at her, longing for that moment, mere minutes ago, when we were sharing a conspiratorial look, like the sisters I always wished we could be.
Her expression goes blank. “It’s Thanksgiving.”
“It’sWednesday.”
“I thought you’d be happy to see me,” she says, and there’s a quiver in her voice that tells me I’ve somehow hurt her without meaning to.
I stare down at the mess of orange goop on my plate that I’ve been stirring around this whole time. “I am,” I mutter, though I’m not entirely sure how I feel about it.
“We always love when you visit,” Mom says to her, putting a hand on her arm. “Maybe we can all watch a movie tonight?—”
“NotEnola Holmesagain,” Marie groans, and I almost want to laugh. Sometimes we can be so alike, but most of the time…
“I can’t tonight,” I say, setting down my fork. “I have a stream.”
