No, please don’t let it be that. I’ve withstood enough lately. Oliver Kimball feeling bad for me might just break me. “I’m going to join.”
“Join what?”
“Pep club.”
“ You want to join pep club.”
Oliver punches his arm in the air like a cheerleader. “What, you don’t think I have enough pep?”
“I would be surprised to learn that you’re pro-pep.”
“I’m going to take that as a compliment.” He brushes his fingers across his lips, rubbing the half smile away. “But seriously. You’re going to need people with experience in the spirit business.”
“You don’t need to campaign.” I hoist up my backpack on my shoulder. “The club is open membership.”
“And I’d like to be vice president, if that’s okay,” he says. “I won’t lie—I need to pad my résumé if I’m going to get into Stanford. I’ll help you with your presidential duties as much as I can. Here, why don’t you give me your cell and we can figure out logistics?”
“I don’t have a cell.”
He gives me a sympathetic look. “Did your parents take it away?”
We’ve already gotten into the breakup. I don’t need to explain my tech fast. It’s a personal, private decision, like being a vegetarian, or joining some New Age Hollywood religion.
“No. I don’t believe in them. Too obvious.”
He laughs, a surprised, rich burst that feels earned. “That was really funny.”
“That’s usually the reason people laugh.”
“No, it’s not.” Oliver leans against the wall in that effortless way that good-looking people do. He’s not worried that his cardigan will snag on a nail, or he’ll slide down, or that his thigh looks big smooshed against a flat surface. I would have to practice wall leaning in front of a full-length mirror for months to achieve his cool. “People laugh because they’re nervous, or to cover up tension, or to flirt, or because there’s some instant applause meter in their head telling them that it’s the socially acceptable thing to do. Genuine laughter, I don’t even think that happens daily.”
I almost laugh at this, but I would just be proving his point,because it wouldn’t be a laugh of humor, but a laugh to ward off his crazy. “Laughter is the most natural thing on Earth. Babies laugh.”
“Because they’re trained to.”
“Because it’s in our genetic makeup!”
“So then it’s a reflex,” Oliver says.
“Remind me not to make any more jokes around you.” I see why he drives Jeremy bonkers. Jeremy invented the status quo, or the upper status quo, whatever it is everyone else wants to be. And Oliver’s sitting in the back of the theater, dissecting the laugh tracks like an overthinking freak. “Look, Oliver. You’re right. This group is going to need leadership and you have leader written all over you. So I’ll do you one better. You can be the president, but I need to be secretary.”
“Secretary?” He knits his eyebrows together. “Why secretary?”
“Why pep club? I’m full of mystery. Are you in?”
“President. I like it.” He folds his arm over his chest and looks off in the distance, like he’s striking a pose for a magazine announcing his new title. Then he breaks into that halfway grin and says, “Can you tell me one more thing?”
“What?”
“I know I’m not going to get the truth from him, so I’ll ask you. Why did you break up with my cousin?”
My voice catches in my throat. It’s not the question I expected. This whole conversation is not what I expected. I didn’t even expect a conversation period . “How do you know I broke up with him?”
“Five minutes of talking to you is more entertaining than a lifetime knowing Jeremy. So either you came to your senses, or he did something stupid.”
Door number two. “I’ll see you at pep club, Oliver.” I turn and walk down the hallway. Five minutes of what? That was just me being me. He’s never noticed me, never talked to me. You can’t just go around laughing a special laugh and
“Join what?”
“Pep club.”
“ You want to join pep club.”
Oliver punches his arm in the air like a cheerleader. “What, you don’t think I have enough pep?”
“I would be surprised to learn that you’re pro-pep.”
“I’m going to take that as a compliment.” He brushes his fingers across his lips, rubbing the half smile away. “But seriously. You’re going to need people with experience in the spirit business.”
“You don’t need to campaign.” I hoist up my backpack on my shoulder. “The club is open membership.”
“And I’d like to be vice president, if that’s okay,” he says. “I won’t lie—I need to pad my résumé if I’m going to get into Stanford. I’ll help you with your presidential duties as much as I can. Here, why don’t you give me your cell and we can figure out logistics?”
“I don’t have a cell.”
He gives me a sympathetic look. “Did your parents take it away?”
We’ve already gotten into the breakup. I don’t need to explain my tech fast. It’s a personal, private decision, like being a vegetarian, or joining some New Age Hollywood religion.
“No. I don’t believe in them. Too obvious.”
He laughs, a surprised, rich burst that feels earned. “That was really funny.”
“That’s usually the reason people laugh.”
“No, it’s not.” Oliver leans against the wall in that effortless way that good-looking people do. He’s not worried that his cardigan will snag on a nail, or he’ll slide down, or that his thigh looks big smooshed against a flat surface. I would have to practice wall leaning in front of a full-length mirror for months to achieve his cool. “People laugh because they’re nervous, or to cover up tension, or to flirt, or because there’s some instant applause meter in their head telling them that it’s the socially acceptable thing to do. Genuine laughter, I don’t even think that happens daily.”
I almost laugh at this, but I would just be proving his point,because it wouldn’t be a laugh of humor, but a laugh to ward off his crazy. “Laughter is the most natural thing on Earth. Babies laugh.”
“Because they’re trained to.”
“Because it’s in our genetic makeup!”
“So then it’s a reflex,” Oliver says.
“Remind me not to make any more jokes around you.” I see why he drives Jeremy bonkers. Jeremy invented the status quo, or the upper status quo, whatever it is everyone else wants to be. And Oliver’s sitting in the back of the theater, dissecting the laugh tracks like an overthinking freak. “Look, Oliver. You’re right. This group is going to need leadership and you have leader written all over you. So I’ll do you one better. You can be the president, but I need to be secretary.”
“Secretary?” He knits his eyebrows together. “Why secretary?”
“Why pep club? I’m full of mystery. Are you in?”
“President. I like it.” He folds his arm over his chest and looks off in the distance, like he’s striking a pose for a magazine announcing his new title. Then he breaks into that halfway grin and says, “Can you tell me one more thing?”
“What?”
“I know I’m not going to get the truth from him, so I’ll ask you. Why did you break up with my cousin?”
My voice catches in my throat. It’s not the question I expected. This whole conversation is not what I expected. I didn’t even expect a conversation period . “How do you know I broke up with him?”
“Five minutes of talking to you is more entertaining than a lifetime knowing Jeremy. So either you came to your senses, or he did something stupid.”
Door number two. “I’ll see you at pep club, Oliver.” I turn and walk down the hallway. Five minutes of what? That was just me being me. He’s never noticed me, never talked to me. You can’t just go around laughing a special laugh and
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