All I Need, Page 3

  “Dillon’s crazy about you,” I say.

  “And I’d be crazy not to keep it that way,” Kara says.

  “What about that idea you had last night?” I ask. “Getting backstage passes for Residue?”

  “You guys talked last night?” Jocelyn interjects. “I was waiting for you to call me back.”

  “Sorry,” I tell her. “I fell asleep on my English essay.”

  Jocelyn picks up her cookie. She immediately puts it back down.

  “You should go talk to Luke,” Kara tells Jocelyn. Jocelyn has been crushing on Luke since last year. But she’s too shy to talk to him. We’re all about following your heart, so she must really be afraid of rejection. I agree with Kara that Jocelyn should face her fear. She looks adorable today in her floaty Anthropologie dress and floral blazer. I’m sure Luke would think she’s sweet.

  “I’m not going back in until we have to,” Jocelyn says.

  “Luke’s not in the caf. He’s right over there.”

  “Oh my god he’s out here?” Jocelyn ducks down as if expecting an air raid. “Why is he out here? He’s never out here.”

  “Guess he heard you were out here,” Kara says. “Ooh.” She takes out her mini cam to film something for A Day in the Life, her website that has a huge following. Half the time I never know what she’s filming until I see her new videos. A Day in the Life isn’t about any one thing. It’s kind of about everything. In the past few weeks, Kara has done videos on:

  the world’s largest paper clip collection

  academic inequality in areas of the world where girls aren’t allowed to attend school

  why no two snowflakes are exactly alike

  our lacking health care system

  the search for the ultimate cheesecake

  the prevalence of impostor tomatoes that look perfect but taste horrible

  teens who knit

  Whatever Kara thinks is interesting enough to show, she shows it. Her videos have deeper messages. Like the one featuring little dogs from around town. You could watch it purely for the smiles. Or you could reflect on the bond we share with our pets and how they’re like family members. It was all in the way Kara blended the music with clips of people hugging their dogs at the end.

  “You’re filming him?” Jocelyn is incredulous.

  “Of course not. I’m filming Connor’s candy bar. My next video’s on old-school candy. Remember Sky Bars from when we were little? Whatever happened to them?”

  “Is he looking?” Jocelyn asks me.

  “Just go over and say hey,” Kara tells her. “Pretend you’re getting a drink or something. His table is on the way.”

  “The last thing I need is more cookie temptation.”

  Jocelyn is amazing. She’s the sweetest person I know. She rocks killer looks every single day, organizes donations for homeless shelters in New York City, and volunteers for One World with me. That’s our school’s environmental club. But Jocelyn has a weird obsession with celebrity diets. For some reason, she thinks she’s fat. Which is ridiculous.

  “How do you expect something to happen with Luke if you’re not even on his radar?” Kara asks.

  “I was hoping he’d notice me without having to make a spectacle of myself.”

  “Going up to him for two seconds is not making a spectacle. It’s what people do.”

  Jocelyn picks up her cookie again. “Why did I buy this?” She puts the cookie down on its mini plastic tray, shoves it across the table, and says, “Get this thing away from me.”

  Kara breaks off a piece of the cookie. “Chocolate peanut-butter chip?”

  Jocelyn nods.

  “I love these.”

  Jocelyn watches Kara chew.

  “Um, I know we’ve gone over this like a million times,” I say, “but can we revisit the Seth thing again?”

  “You weren’t the only one who felt it,” Jocelyn reiterates. “Seth was totally into you.”

  “Then why didn’t he show up the next day?”

  “Anything could have happened. If there was a way for him to be there, he would have been there.”

  “What was the point of it all? Why string someone along like that just to have it go nowhere?”

  “He wasn’t stringing you along.”

  “Why are boys like this?”

  “Because they can be,” Kara explains. “They can be manipulative asses and play as many mind games as they want and there will always be some girl desperate enough to fall for it. Boys are, like, rewarded for being scumbags.”

  “But I know we connected,” I insist. “We had so much fun, you guys. Why would he kiss me if he didn’t like me?”

  “If he felt the same way, he would have been there,” Kara says. The first time she said this was when I called her that day Seth didn’t show. It was really harsh to hear. But now I’m starting to believe that Kara is right. Only . . . Seth felt like a soul mate. How could I have been the only one to feel it?

  “He totally liked you,” Jocelyn says. “I’m telling you, something happened and he couldn’t meet up. There could be a million reasons why.”

  Kara shakes her head. “When you’re trying to figure out why some boy acted like a dumbass? The most obvious answer is usually the right one.”

  “Which is?” Jocelyn asks. She throws the half of her lunch she didn’t eat back into her lunch bag.

  “He was just having fun,” Kara says. “Girls always read way more into these things. Just because it felt all intense to her doesn’t mean it was for him.”

  “Don’t hold back,” I say. “Tell us how you really feel.”

  Kara’s face softens. “Sorry, Skye. I know you really liked Seth. I just hate to see you obsess over him when there are so many boys here dying to go out with you.”

  Been there. Over that. I’ve gone out with some of these boys. Those relationships didn’t last long enough to mean much. The kind of connection I so desperately wanted never happened. It was like I was forcing myself to act happy instead of actually being happy. I was starting to think I was being an impossible romantic. That maybe what I wanted didn’t exist in real life. But after this summer, I know it does. How it felt to be with Seth was undeniable. After experiencing how amazing that immediate attraction was, there’s no going back to mediocrity. Why should I have to settle for someone who doesn’t understand me the way Seth did?

  “Hey, Skye,” Ben says, passing our table. He sits next to me in English. I’m getting to know him better since he’s been talking to me a lot more this year. We were only acquaintances before.

  “Hey,” I say back.

  “Did you finish that essay?”

  “Yeah, at like three in the morning.”

  “I didn’t even go to sleep.”

  “Impressive.”

  “You too. Way to show the last minute who’s boss.”

  I smile halfheartedly. Ben tries to be funny. He doesn’t quite pull it off.

  Kara is probably right. It’s only something real if both people feel it. Even so, I have my half of our photo-booth picture strip taped up in my locker. Just in case.

  six

  Seth

  you can’t always get what you want

  IT WOULD probably be a lot easier to work on this huge collage in one of the art studios. Those studios are sick. All that space and natural light. But you have to take an art class to use studio space. Which my business major doesn’t allow. Fall semester of freshman year is notoriously jammed with general requirements.

  Good thing I lucked out getting this suite instead of a double. Our room is big enough for me to set up an easel on my side. Which Grant doesn’t hesitate to crash into on a consistent basis. It’s much easier to work with big pieces of wood I snag from construction site Dumpsters or reclaimed plastic parts this way.

  Reggatta de Blanc is playing for inspiration. Before Sting went solo, he was the lead singer of The Police. Before that, he was Gordon Sumner, history teacher. Sting’s passion for history is why so many of
his songs have a political message. I want to make art that means something, too.

  I step back from the canvas to evaluate my progress. This is crap. What am I even doing? Hanging pieces of glass tied with twine all over a statement about post-college life in these harsh economic times seemed like a good metaphor. But now it just looks busted. If I was trying to make a statement, the only statement I’ve made is “I am a failure.”

  The inspiration is gone.

  Grant comes banging in. He face-plants on his bed.

  “Is he here?” Grant muffles.

  “Negative.”

  He sticks up a power fist.

  A bathroom connects our room to the other room of our suite. Tim and Dorian are in the other room. Tim is cool. But Dorian needs to get a life. He’s a hardcore gamer. Dorian is so hardcore that he’s failing his classes because he can’t stop gaming. He stays up until three or four in the morning, sometimes later. Grant’s bed is up against the wall that has Dorian’s TV on the other side. A very thin wall. A wall so thin it sounded like Modern Warfare was breaking out in our room every night for the first two weeks of class. Grant swears he’s been shaken awake by vibrations from the game’s explosions. We told Dorian to turn it down.

  Dorian kept saying he would.

  Modern Warfare kept breaking out in our room.

  Grant and I had no choice. We reported Dorian to the RA. Now he has to use a headset. Oh, and he hates us. Dorian enjoys demonstrating his hatred by “forgetting” to use his headset sometimes. Like last night. Grant and I were up until five.

  “We need to talk to him again,” I say.

  Grant turns over on his side, kicking his sneakers off. “You talk. I’ll sleep.”

  “How does Tim ever sleep?”

  “He’s never there.”

  The man has a point. Tim was sexiled from his room our third night here. We were scandalized by the fact that Dorian managed to score with a girl so quickly. Tim spends a lot of time over here. But being sexiled gave him courage to talk to girls. If Dorian could do it, Tim knew he definitely could. Now he’s friends with a few girls who let him sleep in their rooms. I guess they feel sorry for him.

  Music starts blasting from the guys across the hall.

  “Seriously?” Grant asks the door. He mashes the pillow over his head. “Freaks.”

  College is awesome in so many ways. The freedom. The new people. Getting to know yourself in a way that’s impossible in high school. It’s even better if you go to college in an interesting place. Penn is the best of both worlds—I’m getting an excellent education in an amazing city. It’s just a short walk over the bridge to Center City, the coolest part of Philly. I’ll bring my sketchbook and hang out at Rittenhouse Square or a coffeehouse. Or I’ll explore. I’ve gotten tons of new artwork ideas just from walking around. Inspiration is everywhere. The energy feeds my soul.

  But one way college sucks is that you’re forced to live with people you don’t know. Grant is kind of pretentious. His personality can be summed up by this Kierkegaard quote on the poster taped over his bed: “PEOPLE UNDERSTAND ME SO POORLY THAT THEY DON’T EVEN UNDERSTAND MY COMPLAINT ABOUT THEM NOT UNDERSTANDING ME.” Grant is a philosophy major. He is always philosophizing. His personal philosophy apparently includes a reverence of entropy, because his side of the room is disgusting. I’m not saying I wash my sheets often enough. But I don’t think Grant has washed his sheets ever. There are used bowls with mold growing in them on his desk. Dirty clothes are heaped all around. He never helps clean the bathroom. Ironically, Grant’s lack of interest in decreasing his gross-out factor does not prevent him from believing he’s better than everyone else.

  The guys across the hall turn their music up.

  “I have to get out of here,” Grant says. He sits up and puts his shoes back on. “Want to grab dinner?”

  “Yeah.” Grant might not be my favorite person, but other than Tim he’s pretty much the only friend I have here. And I need real food. This girl Karen from my economics class gave me some cookies she made today. The tin is already half empty.

  We grab the elevator. Just as the doors are closing, someone yells, “Hold it!” A hand reaches in to force the doors open. Two guys from our floor get on. “Hey, Grant,” one of them says.

  “Hey.”

  “How’s that philosophy major working out for you?”

  “Probably better than ignorance is working out for you.”

  “Oooh, burn!” taunts the guy’s friend. “You just got schooled.”

  “Let’s see who gets schooled ten years from now when I’m a CEO and this loser’s washing my car.” The guys pound fists.

  Grant doesn’t have a comeback. He doesn’t feel the need to have one. He’s entirely confident about being a philosophy major.

  As we cross High Rise Field, Grant asks me why I’m not an art major. He’s recently taken an interest in my collages.

  “It’s not realistic,” I say.

  “How so?”

  “You can’t make a living as an artist.”

  “What do you think all the artists making a living as artists are doing?”

  “Representing an extremely small percentage of the population.”

  “Ah, so you admit it is realistic,” Grant counters in his irritating philosophy-snob tone.

  “No, it’s not. What are you going to do with a philosophy major?”

  “Irrelevant. I’m living in the Now. The Now is all we ever have.”

  “Well, some of us have to make a living in the Later.”

  “Doesn’t it bother you that the only reason you’re a business major is for the money?”

  “Of course it does. I hate it. If I start acting like the douches in my classes, you have permission to kill me.”

  “Then why are you torturing yourself?”

  “Because I don’t have a choice!” I snap. In an ideal world, I’d be studying what I care about. That’s what would make me happy. But not everyone gets to be happy. Some of us have to put other people first. Like my mom. She used to be an administrative assistant for a construction contractor. Then she started having serious health problems. None of the doctors could figure out what was wrong with her. She was exhausted all the time, her stomach hurt, and she kept throwing up. One doctor who actually took the time to talk with her for more than three seconds referred her to an excellent specialist. They never figured out exactly what was wrong. She took too many sick days and lost her job. Now she’s feeling a little better, but she hasn’t been able to find a new job. Who’s going to take care of her when she’s old with Dad out of the picture?

  Grant can piss away his entire college education. He doesn’t have to worry about the future. His parents are loaded. Most of the kids at Penn come from rich families. They probably all have summer houses like those insane ones in Sea Bright.

  Sea Bright. The last time I was truly happy.

  I can’t believe how epically I fucked that up.

  My mom came to pick me up super early the morning I was supposed to meet up with Skye. Mom didn’t even tell me her doctor’s appointment got switched. I begged her to let me stay. I promised that Dad would drive me home. But she couldn’t wait to get us out of there. I left a note at the seagull statue where I was supposed to meet Skye. There wasn’t anywhere to wedge it. I would have given anything for a freaking piece of tape. All I could do was prop the note up against the bottom of the seagull. It had all my contact info.

  I guess Skye never found it.

  Stupid. I was so stupid not to get her info the night we met. But it never even occurred to me as a remote possibility that I wouldn’t see her the next day. We don’t even know each others’ last names. There’s no way to search for her online.

  I asked Nick if he knew Skye. He didn’t. Not that it matters. I couldn’t go there anyway.

  I loved Chloe. Chloe loved me. If a girl I loved who loved me back could just walk away like what we had was nothing, if my dad could abandon my mom after everything they’
d been through, couldn’t anyone?

  Then what’s the point?

  seven

  Skye

  dreams, they complicate my life

  THE BEST dreams are those really intense romantic ones where the dream still lingers for hours after you wake up. If you are very lucky, the dream lingers for days. I had one of those dreams last night.

  About Seth.

  I remember how it felt to be with him so clearly. As if it was just yesterday instead of six months ago.

  I’ve been wondering what it will be like going back to Sea Bright this summer. What it will be like to see Seth again. But I don’t even know if he’ll be there. And summer is forever away.

  “You’re dripping,” Jocelyn notifies me.

  Earth to Skye: pay attention. You’re at a One World meeting. We’re all painting banners for our new green living initiative. The “green” part of “go green” should be painted green. Not green with blue blobs.

  “Unless you’re going for an Earth effect,” Jocelyn says.

  “No. I was . . . thinking about last summer.”

  “Another Seth dream?”

  “Oh yeah.” This isn’t the first time I’ve had a lingering dream about Seth. They’ve been happening more frequently for some reason.

  As I’m blotting up the blue blobs, Kara comes over to where Jocelyn and I are painting our banner on the floor.

  “Can we leave at four thirty instead of four?” she asks. “I want to film drama, but they don’t start rehearsing until four. I’m doing a segment on their adaptation of Grease.”

  “That’s cool,” I say. “It’ll give me more time to wreck another banner.”

  “Hey, congrats on hitting a hundred thousand!” Jocelyn tells Kara. “That’s awesome.”

  “Thanks,” Kara says flatly.

  Getting 100,000 subscribers for A Day in the Life had been Kara’s goal for a really long time. She was obsessed, actually. It was like hitting that number was going to make her feel way more important on top of already having tons of adoring fans. But as soon as she hit it, she immediately started talking about hitting 150. It doesn’t seem like she’s even appreciating this achievement she worked so hard for. Or maybe she’s just in a bad mood about Dillon.