Page 94 of The Two of Us

21

THEN (AGE 17)

“Dear graduates. I don’t know what to say. High school was a bitch and I’m pretty sure the real world won’t be any different…”

I can’t help laughing. “Thank god you aren’t valedictorian.”

Cat slurps down the rest of her smoothie. “I could have been. If I cared enough.” She’s right—she’s not being egotistical. She’s one of the smartest people in our class, but she prefers to put her efforts elsewhere.

“You only want to be valedictorian so you can do the speech. Trust me, you’ll have plenty of stage time on Broadway.” I do a little shimmy in excitement. Cat got into the theater program at NYU, and I received my acceptance into their film school. My dream is to work on film adaptations of my favorite books. It’s the marriage of my two favorite things in the world. We’re posted up at Groovy Smoothie, writing down all the things we need to buy for our new apartment in the city. The apartment we don’t have yet.

The way the market works, we can’t even look until a handful of weeks out. So, in the meantime, we discuss wallpaper options and the best methods of lugging our laundry onto the subway. We’re also trying to figure out a way to schmooze Cat’s parents, so they’ll be willing to sign on as our guarantors. Requiring tenants to make forty times the rent price is absolutely absurd and Cat’s convinced it’s a cover-up for money laundering. Ever since we both got our acceptance letters, my body has been humming with energy. I’m ready to start this new chapter.

“Do you think we should get a dog?”

I shake my head. “With the rent we’ll be paying, we won’t be able to afford a dog.”

“A cat?”

I chew on my lip in thought. “I could bring Cheddar.”

“Never mind…” Cat says, averting her eyes to the bottom of her empty cup.

I choke on a laugh. “What’s wrong with Cheddar?”

“Nothing’s wrong with him, Sally. He’s just… old. He’s more like a fifty-year-aged cheddar now. I think the city might scare a few lives out of him.”

I love my cat, but she isn’t wrong. Cheddar groans the way a senior citizen does every time their back gives out and as much as I’d love for him to join us in the move, it just isn’t feasible.

Changing subjects, Cat reaches for my smoothie, helping herself. “So, the thing is…”

When I attempt to reclaim it, she snatches it away with a look of contempt in her eyes. As if I should be ashamed for not wanting to share. I roll my eyes. “There’s a thing?”

“You and Ambrose.”

If my drink was still in my possession, I’d have choked on it. But Cat is currently chugging it down, so I choke on the air instead. There’s no me and Ambrose. There’s no Ambrose and me. There’s no sentence that should ever incorporate the two of us so closely together. I express as much to Cat.

“Listen,” she says. “All I’m saying is, the last couple of times you two have been around each other, there’s been a certain… tension in the air.” She wriggles her fingers in the air and I scrunch my nose.

I begin ripping my straw wrapper into a million tiny pieces. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Cat hums in thought. “Yeah, I’m not too sure about that. And if you want to know what I think—” Maitland, bless his soul, suddenly appears behind Cat and throws his hands over her eyes. He doesn’t know it, but he’s let me off the hook. For now.

“Guess who?” he sings.

Cat crinkles her nose. “I don’t know, but whoever you are, you smell hot. Like Sandalwood and bad decisions. Don’t tell my boyfriend.”

Maitland growls playfully and showers Cat with kisses and tickles until she screeches like a hyena.

“Are you ladies coming out with us tonight?”

He’s referring to the bonfire. It’s a tradition all the seniors take part in every year, much like senior skip day. They hike through the woods for about an hour to Penny Lake and make a five-foot bonfire. It used to be taller, but there was an incident in the ’90s where the fire got out of hand. These days, seniors play it safe. There’s music and dancing and alcohol, but the part of the tradition that sticks out to me the most is the wish burning. Every senior writes down a wish they have for the start of their post–high school life and throws it in the fire. It’s the only aspect of the night that intrigues me.

“I don’t know, are you going to carry me?” Cat rejects anything physical unless it’s cheerleading or exercising her arms by reaching to the bottom of a bag of chips. I’m no better.

Maitland laughs. “I’ll always carry you, babe.”

I clear my throat and Maitland must think I’m inquiring about who will carry me because he says, “Jensen Martinelli is coming too. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind having you over his shoulder, Mar.”

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