You'll Be the Death of Me(11)

I’m still facing Mateo and we exchange looks, briefly united in confusion. “Probably not?” I offer.

    I’m not sure that’s the right answer, because Cal sighs deeply. “We’ll see.”

Mateo drums his fingers restlessly against his knee. “I work near there,” he says.

“You do? Where?” Cal asks.

“Garrett’s. It’s a bar.”

“You can work in a bar when you’re seventeen?” I ask.

“As long as you’re not serving alcohol, yeah.”

“Kind of a hike from Carlton, though, isn’t it?” Cal asks.

Mateo shrugs. “I take the T. And it pays more than anyplace local. It’s worth it.”

Traffic gets more congested as we approach Faneuil Hall, and while Cal concentrates on the road, I covertly study Mateo. He’s wearing a gray Spare Me T-shirt, the logo so faded that I’d never be able to tell what it was if I hadn’t seen it on the side of a building for half my life. My chest constricts, and I wish I hadn’t been so short with him. “How is your family?” I ask. “What’s Autumn up to?”

“Working a lot,” he says.

I’m not sure if that involves college, and I don’t want to ask in case it’s a sore subject. “Is she still going out with…” I blank on the name, even though I can see him clearly in my mind’s eye. He was one of last year’s senior boys who took particular delight in grabbing his crotch every time I walked past him in the hallway after my meltdown at the junior talent show.

“Gabe Prescott?” Mateo looks like he just swallowed a mouthful of rancid meat. “Yeah. Unfortunately.”

“What a weird couple,” Cal says. “Didn’t Gabe get voted Most Likely to Commit a Felony and Not Get Caught?” Carlton High did away with yearbook senior superlatives like Best-Looking and Most Likely to Succeed years ago, deeming them “unhealthy labeling,” so now seniors have their own underground list with categories that change every year. I’m honestly a little afraid of what I might win in the spring. Talk about an unhealthy label.

    “No,” Mateo says. “He got Most Likely to Lose a Reality Show.”

I laugh, because that’s actually a good one and probably accurate. But Mateo’s expression clearly says Next topic, please, so I ask, “And how’s your mom doing?”

“She’s okay. Been better,” he says briefly.

“It really sucks that Spare Me had to close,” Cal says. “My dads thought the DeWitts totally overreacted. Patrick didn’t even break any bones, did he?”

“He dislocated his shoulder,” Mateo says.

“Well, he’s playing lacrosse again,” Cal says, like that settles the matter.

Oh God. I should’ve known this would come up, and it’s the last thing I want to talk about. Before I can think of a subject change, Mateo asks, “How’s Carlton Entertainment Complex coming along, Ivy? The CEC?” His lip curls on the acronym. “That’s what your dad calls it, right?”

New subject. New subject. But my mind is an empty canvas. “Okay, I guess,” I say casually. “I don’t actually hear much about his projects on a day-to-day basis, so…”

“I’ll bet you hear more than I do, though.” Mateo leans forward against his seat belt, dark eyes capturing mine, and I can’t look away. I forgot how penetrating his gaze can be, like he’s staring into depths of your soul you didn’t even know existed. It was unnerving at thirteen, and it’s even worse now.

    Full disclosure: Mateo was my first crush. I spent half of eighth grade desperately mooning over him while pretending not to, positive that he couldn’t possibly feel the same. And then, one time when we were hanging out without Cal, we kissed. Which was the thrill of my life, until we never spoke of it again. I can only assume he regretted it and wanted to go back to being friends, which I tried to tell myself was perfectly fine. But it became miserably awkward pretending not to care, and our trio dissolved for good soon after.

Suddenly, I’d give anything to be sitting in first-period history with Emily, even knowing that Boney’s speech is coming up next. I shift back and forth in my seat, then force myself to sit still. That was a little too close to bouncing, and I don’t want Mateo noticing that this topic sends me into an emotional tailspin. “Probably,” I say. “Is there, um, something in particular you want to know?”

“Not really,” Mateo says, slumping back and flicking his eyes toward the window. The sharp planes of his face, tense a moment ago, settle back into weariness. “It’s not like it would change anything.”

“Oh, sweet,” Cal calls out. “That garage has space. I’m gonna park here.” I can’t tell if he’s ignoring the tension in the car, or if he’s too focused a driver to have picked up on it. I turn to face front, and Mateo and I sit in silence as Cal grabs a ticket at the entrance and makes his way through four levels of the parking garage, finally finding a spot in the open-air top floor. “We can leave our stuff in the trunk if you want,” he says as he cuts the engine and pulls the emergency brake.

I feel nauseated for real now, like I should legitimately be lying in my darkened bedroom taking a sick day. I almost ask Cal if he’d be willing to turn around and take me home, but one look at his hopeful face as he pulls his keys from the ignition squashes that. I’m here, so I might as well grab some coffee before convincing him to cut the day short. “Yeah, okay,” I say, pulling a small cross-body bag from my backpack. I slip my wallet, my phone, and my sunglasses inside, then loop it over my shoulder and open the car door.