The Pick-Up, Page 2

  “No, I was joking. We don’t want to be late,” I say.

  As the car begins to move again, I clench my eyes shut. I hit a stranger in the nuts. Isn’t that the worst thing that can happen to a guy? I’m pretty sure it is, based on my self-defense lessons.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say again.

  “Hey, it’s okay,” T.J. says softly. “You didn’t hurt me.”

  I open my eyes to look up at his. “Are you sure?”

  “It was, um…a close call, but I’m fine.” His face is rapidly turning a bright shade of red. He coughs into a fist. “Did I, um, hurt you? You know, your, um, chest?”

  “Dude, you hit her in the boobs?” Tyler shakes his head, covering his eyes.

  “Can you pull over?” T.J. asks the driver. “I’m going to go die now too.”

  That makes me laugh, and he joins in with me. I like his sense of humor.

  He runs a hand through his blond hair, mussing it, then licks his full lips. Again, he peeks at me sideways. He seems like a nice guy. A sweet guy. The kind of guy my friend Rachel would refer to as boyfriend material.

  Me?

  I wouldn’t know.

  T.J.

  Aside from nearly getting hit in the nuts, maybe my luck isn’t that shitty today.

  It was pretty good luck my brother wanted to go eat at this Mexican place he likes on the North Side. Otherwise, we never would’ve caught a Ryde from there. We wouldn’t be in the car with Mari now.

  But will my luck keep?

  I hold my breath, expecting the driver to drop the girls off by Ohio Street Beach, the section of Lake Michigan where people like to cluster their boats in an armada party, so they can drink and dance together.

  But we drive on by.

  Then we pass Navy Pier, where the Ferris wheel sparkles in the early evening sunlight. Both off to the right and dead ahead, skyscrapers loom over us.

  Any minute now, this car is going to leave Mari someplace.

  Maybe she’s going on a date, or to her boyfriend’s place? Maybe she’s on her way to the hospital to visit a sick relative, and I’m the asshole creeping on her.

  I roll my shoulders. What the hell’s wrong with me? I don’t want to be that weird guy in the Ryde.

  But it really doesn’t get weirder than grabbing a girl’s boob, right?

  I groan under my breath. I’ve just decided to put her out of my mind and move on with my life when Sierra speaks.

  “What are you guys doing tonight?”

  Tyler looks over his shoulder. “Going to Lollapalooza. Shit’s gonna get crazy! Wooo!”

  I cringe. I’m beginning to worry Tyler had one too many margaritas when he was pregaming at the Mexican restaurant. He never drinks in front of my parents, so I’ve never been around him while he’s this buzzed before. What if he scares the girls?

  “We’re going to Lollapalooza too,” Mari says, and my pounding heart threatens to rip out of my chest. “I’m in town to see Millie Jade.”

  “Oh.” My voice sounds tiny and disappointed. “So you’re not from Chicago?”

  She shakes her head. “My dad lives here. I’m from Tennessee. I live there with my mom.”

  “Do you visit a lot?”

  “Not as often as she should!” Sierra interjects, and the girls slap each other’s legs and mumble “Stop it!” at each other, and I’m left wondering what that’s all about.

  “How about you?” Mari asks me. “Where do you live?”

  “Madison, Wisconsin, but I’m going to school here in the fall at the University of Chicago.” Her eyes light up at that. I gesture at my brother. “And Tyler lives here now. I’m staying with him for the weekend.”

  Tyler pumps his fist. “It’s our bachelors’ weekend, baby.”

  “Not that kind of bachelors’ weekend,” I add quickly. “I’m not getting married or anything.”

  Sierra pokes her head around Mari to smirk at me. “That’s good news.”

  The two girls elbow each other again, and I have to fight not to grin.

  Our car is getting closer to the music festival in Grant Park.

  I glance down at my phone. According to the Ryde app, we’re about two minutes from our drop-off. This is my last chance to make a move. If I don’t say something now, this will be it. I’ll never see her again.

  My heart pounds in my chest. A buzzing sound fills my ears.

  I give myself a pep talk: What do you have to lose? If she turns you down, it’s not like you’ll be running into her in the lunch line at school while waiting for the mystery meat.

  “Do you, uh, want to walk around at the festival tonight?” I find myself asking.

  Mari lifts her eyebrows. Then she looks at my eyes and tilts her head. “Like hanging out?”

  “Yeah.”

  Considering me, she worries her bottom lip. “Okay, why not?”

  I grin, and start to pump my fist in celebration but stop myself just in time. I don’t want Mari to think I’m a total nerd. I play it cool.

  My brother, however, goes, “Nice one, Teej!”

  And that’s when I die of embarrassment.

  * * *

  The car rolls to a stop near Grant Park. Music blares, and my pulse beats along with the roaring bass.

  Tyler told me lots of different kinds of people come to Lollapalooza. Everybody from metalheads to pop fans. I’m into many kinds of music, especially EDM and metal, the kind that pulses with color. Based on the beats and the excitement outside the car, I can tell I’m going to love this.

  I climb out, then reach back to help Mari up from the back seat. Our eyes meet as she stands, and she gives my hand a little squeeze before dropping it. With a quick glance at me, she adjusts her purse against her hip and pats it.

  Once the car is gone, we move off the sidewalk and onto a patch of grass.

  Tyler is already tapping on his phone. “Should we give that driver a bad rating? Leave a review saying he’s responsible for my brother being unable to have children?”

  Sierra and Mari crack up.

  “Don’t write that,” I tell Tyler. “Give him five stars. I’m happy.”

  Mari’s face blushes. “So my sister’s meeting up with friends from school.”

  “Tyler is too.”

  I still can’t believe Tyler invited me to hang out with him and his friends. This is the first time he’s ever asked me to visit him in Chicago. I’d never say this out loud to him, or to anybody, but hanging out with him is a big deal. He’s, like, my favorite person and everything I want to be.

  We fall into a sea of people waiting to get into the security tent. Electric excitement buzzes around us, as the crowd talks about the festival. Up ahead is an archway, with Lollapalooza painted in bright bubble letters. I glance around to see similar artwork in the distance.

  At some point I’ll have to sneak away from Tyler to check them out. I’ve always enjoyed painting and drawing in art class, making any kind of art with my hands, but graffiti is a new interest of mine. Not that I can tell anyone.

  People don’t generally approve of vandalism. Unless you’re Banksy, and then people are all, Please sir, paint whatever the hell you want on my building.

  First time I thought about it, Dad was driving us home from visiting Grammy in Milwaukee a few months ago. We were driving under an overpass when the sun broke through some clouds. It made me think about aliens transporting down to earth.

  And that started my obsession: I had to go paint a green alien under that overpass.

  My fingers itched. Every time I closed my eyes, I dreamed of him.

  I went to several construction supply stores. Craft stores too. Finally I found the right color of green and bought several cans. Snuck out in the middle of the night, drove to that overpass, and painted my little alien.

  But that was
the one and only time I’ve done it. I scratched the itch. That’s enough, I tell myself.

  What if I did it again and someone caught me? Got arrested? Would the University of Chicago rescind my acceptance and tell me to get lost? Probably.

  But deep down? The itch is still there. Clawing up to the surface. Desperate to shake a bottle of spray paint, uncap it, and fill a blank piece of concrete with my dreams.

  How do you get a gig painting boards at concerts like this? The moment the idea enters my mind, I shove it to the side.

  Art isn’t a real job.

  * * *

  People jostle us as they try to push closer to the front of the line. The hot air reeks of beer, body odor, and weed, but my mouth waters at the smell of pizza that somehow cuts through all the other gross scents.

  I glance down at Mari. She’s several inches shorter than me. It’s cute how she adjusts her glasses, pushing them up on her nose.

  “I don’t know about you,” I say. “But I am dying for some deep-dish.”

  Her nose wrinkles. “I’m more into New York style than Chicago.”

  “How can you not like deep-dish?” I exclaim. “All that gooey cheese? I live for it.”

  “It’s just too heavy for me… Plus, I like being able to fold my pizza in half.” Hearing that makes me smile. “Oh!” she adds. “I can’t wait to get some Garrett’s popcorn. Do you think they’ll be selling it here?”

  I give her a shrug. If they don’t have it, I could easily invite her over to Michigan Avenue to find some, but I don’t want to seem too forward. On the other hand, she did agree to walk around together tonight, so that must mean something, right?

  Tyler reaches into his pocket and pulls out a multi-colored wristband for me that says 3-day pass. He snaps it on my wrist.

  His white wristband shows he’s allowed to drink. I could use one right about now. I invited a girl I don’t know to hang out with me. Now we’re just standing here in line not saying anything, as our siblings play with their phones.

  Speaking of siblings, it’s hard to believe Mari and Sierra are related. Mari is short and slim with dark hair and fair coloring, while Sierra is a blond who looks strong enough to be a Viking, or at least captain of a rowing team. She’s taller than me, and her biceps are cannons. If I challenged her to a push-up contest, I’m not sure I’d win.

  “You and Sierra don’t really look alike,” I say.

  “She’s my stepsister. My dad remarried a couple years ago,” she grumbles.

  She sounds angry. I know how lucky I am that my parents are still together. Several of my friends’ parents are divorced, and they feel caught in the middle.

  “Is it just you and Tyler, or do you have other brothers and sisters?” she asks.

  “Here’s my little brother, Teddy.” I tap my phone screen to show Mari a picture of our dog, a hound mix we adopted from a local shelter.

  “Aww,” she says. “He looks just like you.”

  “Dashingly handsome?”

  Mari laughs. “I bet he’s humble like you too.”

  I take a chance and nudge my shoulder against hers.

  With a quick glance at my face, she swipes a lock of curly hair behind her ear, then checks her phone.

  “What bands and singers are you excited for?” she asks.

  “My favorite band If We Were Giants is here. That’s why Tyler invited me.”

  “I haven’t heard of them.”

  “They’re, like, hardcore metal.”

  “That doesn’t sound like my thing.”

  “Actually, I bet you’d like them a lot. They mix in some electronic club music and do covers of pop songs that are really good. They do one of Taylor Swift’s even.”

  There’s a long pause, and I’m wondering if she’s picturing me differently now that she knows what kind of music I like.

  I hate olives. They’re the worst food ever. I’d rather eat island bugs like people on Survivor, but my mom says there is a variety of olive on earth for everyone. Even though I haven’t found it yet, I keep trying olives to see if I find the one.

  So I get that plenty of people don’t like metal, but I’m convinced there’s a metal song for everyone. Even Tyler, who mostly listens to rap and pop, likes If We Were Giants.

  I played their song “Glad You Came” for him and he said, “This song slams.”

  Only Tyler could say something “slams” and make it sound cool. I was so happy he approved of my favorite band.

  Still, metal might be too much for Mari.

  “Millie Jade, huh?” I say. “Anybody else you’re looking forward to?”

  “Tonight I want to see Shawn Mendes.”

  I crinkle my nose like she did at the idea of deep-dish pizza. “Really?”

  She gives me a little shove. “Yes, really! He may not be as pretty as you, but he has a nice voice.”

  “Me? Pretty?”

  “Oh, please. Look at you. Are you photoshopped?”

  Mari

  Did I really just ask if he’s photoshopped?

  Am I sick? Should I take my temperature?

  When it comes to boys, T.J. seems easy to talk to, and I guess that means I need to be careful when opening my mouth. Lord only knows what might come out next.

  I need to change the subject. “Have you ever been to Lollapalooza before?”

  T.J. shakes his head. “This is the first year my parents have let me come.”

  Sierra looks up from her phone. “Ours too!”

  “My dad says wild things happen here,” I add as the line edges forward. “He said one year a guy walked around naked only wearing a python.”

  “Oh, he heard about my outfit then?” T.J. jokes.

  My face heats up at the idea of him without any clothes.

  “You would not believe what happened to me last year,” Tyler pipes up. “Me and my friends started drinking before noon, and I don’t even remember most of Saturday afternoon. Apparently I drank a little too much and had to go to the med tent, and I slept right through Coldplay, which was the band I wanted to see most.”

  T.J. nods. “Don’t get drunk and sleep through your favorite band. Check.”

  I laugh. “Noted.”

  Moving as fast as turtles, we edge closer and closer to the security tent. Once there, we step through metal detectors. A security guard thoroughly searches my tiny purse, which barely holds my bank card, phone, and lipstick, so I don’t know why they think I could fit a weapon in here.

  Next a festival worker scans my wristband.

  Then we’re finally inside!

  Every summer, a music festival called Bonnaroo descends on my hometown of Manchester. It takes place on a huge piece of farmland only a few miles from my house. Bonnaroo’s always been super crowded, but Lollapalooza feels even more so.

  The crush of concertgoers fans out in all directions away from the entrance and toward the various stages.

  The first thing I see is a massive Lolla Shop tent, because capitalism. The colorful T-shirts on display remind me of my best friend, Austin. No matter where he goes—even like middle-of-nowhere Arkansas—he always has to buy a souvenir tee. He must have hundreds at this point.

  I snap a picture to text him.

  Me: Which shirt should I get you?

  Even though I know Austin’s phone is tethered to his hand at all times, he doesn’t answer immediately. I wait for my cell to beep, but it stays silent. My eyes begin to burn with tears.

  Two minutes later, my heart soars when he finally writes back: Anything’s fine. Pick whatever you want

  I shut my eyes. Before everything changed, he wouldn’t have hesitated to tell me exactly which shirt he wants. Now it’s, like, we’re still friends, but it’s a lot harder to stay close to each other. A wall went up between us. I mean, I get why, but it sucks all the s
ame.

  In elementary school, girls went one way on the playground and boys went the other. Being friends with a boy wasn’t something I’d ever considered.

  Not until him.

  I’ve been friends with him since middle school, when we were assigned to be lab partners in biology class. The first day, he said, “Thank God you’re my partner.”

  I’d raised my eyebrows in response. He always made the honor roll in elementary school. It wasn’t like he needed me to make a good grade.

  “I mean, I’m glad I’m not stuck with a freeloader,” he added, folding his hands behind his head and leaning back on his stool. “You’re better than me at this stuff.”

  I grinned, happy that he wasn’t threatened by me. I’d always had the top math and science scores in our grade and knew from experience that some boys hated when I out-schooled them. I’d been on the receiving end of dirty looks, and other kids called me a “know-it-all teacher’s pet” more than once.

  Every day before class started, Austin and I would sit at our lab table and talk about whatever. Mario Kart. What we ate for dinner the night before. How we both wanted to go to Florida for vacation. Him: baseball spring training. Me: Disney World.

  Talking to Austin was easy. As we grew older, our conversations changed. We talked about what worried us. What scared us. Austin told me how his dad always rode him hard to make better grades already and run faster to first base. I even told Austin what was going on with my parents, how much it hurt when they decided to get divorced.

  He always listened, always cared.

  What I didn’t know was that he liked me as more than a friend.

  One night several months ago, toward the end of junior year, Austin came over to do homework. We were sitting on the living room floor, watching TV and working on calculus, when he suddenly leaned over and kissed my mouth.

  At first, I paused frozen in shock, but then it felt warm, and cozy, so I leaned in and kissed him back. I wasn’t thinking about anything except how nice his mouth felt. When I finally came to my senses and realized I was kissing my best friend, I pulled away and walked him to the front door.

  “Let’s talk tomorrow,” he said with a gentle smile.