Love Somebody, page 24
I don’t know what his plan is, but he seems excited, and somehow that makes me even more nervous about going to this assembly. I almost considered hiding in one of the bathrooms until this is over, but he tracked me down before I got the chance. Now, I’m stuck with him—him and that all-American smile that’s tinged with just a little bit of mystery.
He insists we sit at the front of the auditorium. I make him settle for the second row; being front and center for whatever is about to happen is too much for me right now. I’m still ready to fake sick and duck out of here the second it gets to be too much, though; it’s a cruel joke of the universe that this year’s theme is love and that Ros is the one giving the presentation on it after everything that happened.
Mrs. Reagan steps up to the lectern to start the assembly. There’s some very half-hearted applause, and I check out before she even starts speaking. The only thing worthwhile about these assemblies is the student presenter part, and even then, only if you’re the one presenting. The guest speaker comes up to the mic and starts telling some sort of anecdotal story about her life that’s supposed to teach us about the meaning of love, and like most other people in the audience, I bury my face in my phone and ignore her. I’m more than happy to stay that way, too, except all too soon I hear Mrs. Reagan speaking again.
“And now it’s time for a presentation from our student speaker at this event, Miss Rosalyn Shew!”
More half-hearted clapping. My shoulders immediately tense up. I keep my eyes fixed on my phone, but Christian squeezes my forearm. “Sam?”
I look up at him.
He’s smiling, and it’s the same puppy dog look he always uses because he knows it works. “Please watch,” he says. “I think you’ll like it.”
I sigh and force myself to look at the stage. Ros is approaching the center, violin in her hands. Behind her, the projector screen goes blue as the machine starts up. She looks nervous; that’s the first thing I notice. There’s the tiniest shake to her hands that I’ve never seen before. Her dark hair almost covers her face as she checks her violin’s tuning one last time. She doesn’t go over to the lectern; instead, she stands off center stage, letting the projector screen be the focus of attention. It lights up with a still frame, the image of an older guy with curly hair who, if I’m remembering the draft of her presentation right, must be Ros’s dad.
I already know how this goes. I heard the whole thing before, when I was spying on Christian and Ros during their study date. Except, to my right, I can feel Christian grinning at me. Something’s about to happen, but I don’t know what. My heart starts to race.
The image on the screen starts to move, and Ros’s dad looks into the camera. “When I first met my husband,” he says, “before he was my husband, I mean—I didn’t think I’d ever meet someone I’d want to be with. It was barely an option for people like us back then. I’d almost accepted that I would be alone. But these kinds of things always sneak up on you.”
I frown at the screen. This isn’t the way I remember hearing it start.
What’s going on?
“It’s always the person you’re not looking for,” Mr. Shew continues, “the one you’d least expect. But once they’re in your life—well, you can’t imagine it being anyone else.”
I glance over at Christian. He’s grinning up at Ros and at the screen, and when he catches me staring at him, he jerks his head back in that direction. “Keep watching.”
The image on-screen changes. Now it’s not Ros’s dad at all. In fact, it looks like a video of another student. A senior, Hannah Winthrop. She and I have talked a few times, but not enough to say we’re friends. She looks directly into the camera with a smile.
“To me,” she says, “love is something that nobody in this world can live without. It can be any kind of love, not necessarily romantic—love from your parents, your siblings, your friends—but no matter where it comes from, it’s incredibly important.”
A new face pops up. This one is a younger guy I don’t recognize. He says, “Love is sacrificing for the people you care about. It’s giving them your time or your money or something else valuable. Not expecting anything back, because that’s not what it’s about.”
That’s when I realize what this is. These are the speaker proposals—every student who wanted to be where Ros is right now, giving their own presentation, had to send in a video proposal detailing their project idea and explaining what love meant to them personally. How did Ros get ahold of these?
I also realize, then, that Ros has started playing her violin. It’s not the same song I heard over the phone, either. That one had a heavy, somber tone that felt almost too dark for the story her dad was telling. This one feels … romantic. And familiar, though I’m not sure from where.
My friend Aria’s face appears on-screen, and I laugh in surprise. “Love, to me, is being willing to talk,” she says. “You can’t assume the other person loves you and then leave it at that. There has to be communication there. That’s how you make the relationship the best it can be.”
“Amen!” someone shouts from the audience, and a few people laugh. I look over and realize that Aria’s actually sitting in the same row as me, closer to the aisle. She catches my looking at her and winks.
Then there’s a new face on-screen, then another—student after student, all of them explaining what they think love means, while Ros plays. Her eyes are closed in concentration, a frown on her face as she sways slightly to the swell and ebb of the music. It sounds so familiar.
After a few more students, the videos change slightly. These look like more candid interviews, not submissions. Some are teachers, some students, but they’re all still answering the same question.
“Love is something you have to have for yourself, first and foremost,” one of the social studies teachers says.
“Love is being willing to try, again and again,” says Mrs. Reagan.
“Love is putting up with the other person’s crap,” says Monty with a grin.
I hear him whoop from somewhere behind us.
Christian’s little sister beams up at the camera, missing tooth on full display. “Love is liking all the same stuff as somebody else!”
A bunch of people laugh at that, and there’s a couple of scattered awwws. I laugh, too, but as I look back at Ros, Aimee’s words still rattling in my head, I realize something. The music. The reason it sounded so familiar. Lifetimes ago, Christian came over to my house to watch a movie, to do research, because how could he possibly think about dating this girl without knowing about her favorite things first? We barely paid attention, but this … this, I remember.
Ros is playing the theme from Cinema Paradiso.
It feels like a hand closing around my chest. Ros’s dad is back on-screen. He looks teary-eyed. “Losing Charles to cancer wasn’t what either of us had planned for our lives. It wasn’t fair, and I still miss him. I think I’ll always miss him. But because of him, I got to have some of the happiest years of my life. I got to have a daughter. No matter how painful the rest of it was, I’ll never regret any of that.”
The violin music swells. On-screen, new faces pop up, nobody talking, but each with something to share. Two junior students from my year, pride flags wrapped around their shoulders, give each other a sideways hug and grin at the camera. A freshman girl I recognize from drama club holds out her phone, showing an image of her and her little brother. Mrs. Reagan shows off a photograph of her and her husband on their wedding day. Mr. Shew holds up a framed photo, showing him, a man who must be Charles, and a little girl of maybe two years old with dark, curly hair.
Then, suddenly, it’s Christian’s face on-screen. The lighting is bad, and the camerawork is shaky, clearly not taken at the same time as the other clips. He’s sitting on an old, beat-up couch, and in the background, I hear the thump of music.
“What am I supposed to say?” he asks.
“Anything!” Ros’s voice pipes in from behind the camera. “What does love mean to you, Christian?”
Oh.
The Christian sitting next to me puts a hand on my forearm and squeezes. On-screen, the Christian from the night of the party bites his lip. “Uhh … I think it’s like being in the sun, kind of. This person’s light is shining down on you, and it makes you feel warm and happy, and alive in a weird kind of way.”
“Incorrect.” And then there I am, leaning into frame, throwing an arm around his shoulders. “Love is making that light for yourself first and then finding someone else to give it to. Right, Chris?”
I’m used to seeing myself on camera. We don’t get to do much film work in drama club as high schoolers, but it’s happened once or twice, and I’ve taken enough pictures for Instagram to know exactly what I look like through a lens. Usually, though, I have some kind of control over what gets seen by the public. I can make whoever’s looking at the picture think I’m smart, or scary, or gorgeous, or intimidating, or whatever else I want to feel, because I’m the one in charge of who gets to see those sides of me.
This video isn’t that. This video is a random, ridiculous moment I thought would never see the light of day. I wasn’t trying to be anything to anyone—I was just being. And as much as it scares me not to have control over how I’m perceived, in this situation, it almost doesn’t feel so bad.
Is this how Ros sees me?
In the video, I plant a kiss on Christian’s cheek. A few people in the audience whistle. I shove Christian away, and both of us (and Ros, quietly, almost surprised behind the camera) laugh like nothing in the world could ever be wrong again.
Then, the me on the recording turns to the camera, still grinning, and says, “What about you, Ros?”
The image freezes there, on my face, smiling, and very slowly fades into black. The last few notes of Cinema Paradiso hang in the air. Ros lowers her bow and violin, taking a deep breath. There are wet spots on her cheeks. She turns, instrument by her side, to face the audience, and for the first time in several minutes, she opens her eyes.
And looks directly at me.
Around me, the rest of the auditorium applauds. I’m frozen, staring at Ros, at the expression on her face, paralyzed by what I’m starting to realize it means.
Mrs. Reagan walks back onto the stage, still clapping, and congratulates Ros. She breaks eye contact with me, giving a quick smile to the vice principal before nodding out at the crowd and walking offstage. Like a spell has just been broken, I realize I can move again.
Christian nudges my shoulder. “What are you waiting for?”
I stare at him. “What?”
“Go talk to her.”
I glance around at the rest of the auditorium. “But—”
“What, are you scared?” There’s a sparkle in his eyes and an angle to his smile that I know he learned from me. “Get out of here, Sam.”
“Are you sure?”
“Really sure.”
Right at this moment, I am so, so glad he persuaded me to be friends with him. “Thank you, Christian.”
“Don’t worry about it. Go.”
I stand, surprised that my legs still know how to carry me. Mrs. Reagan is giving the closing remarks for the assembly, but it’s easy enough to stand and make my way to the back of the auditorium, whispering an excuse to the teacher who tries to stop me. Once outside, I book it around the corner. I know where the stage doors are. I know my way around. The only thing that could stop me from finding Ros would be if she didn’t want to be found.
And right now, I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.
48
ROS
I know who’s behind me as soon as I hear the footsteps. Turning around almost feels scarier than the performance was, but I do it anyway, and there’s Sam.
She looks like she ran back here. Her hair’s a little wild, and she’s breathing heavily, eyes fixed on me.
The first thing she says is, “I’m sorry.”
“Me too,” I tell her.
“No, seriously, Ros. I’m sorry.” She swallows, takes a deep breath. “It was my idea to try to fool you in the first place. It was a terrible thing to do. You’re right to be angry.”
“I was, and you’re right. You shouldn’t have done it. You made me think I was falling for Christian when really it was somebody else.”
Sam nods, eyes going down to the floor.
“Can I just ask you one thing?” I say softly.
“Sure.”
“Was that you?”
She glances up. “What do you mean?”
“You like to pretend, Sam. Show people what you think they want to see. I saw parts of you through Christian, and bits and pieces whenever the two of us talked. So … was that you?”
Sam looks lost for words for a minute. When she laughs, it’s breathy, like it’s the only sound she can think to make. Her eyes are shining.
“Yeah,” she says. “It was. Maybe not at first, but eventually … it was as real as I know how to be. It’s not much, but I’m trying.”
I nod. “Okay.”
I think Sam expects the conversation to end there, because she nods back and almost turns to leave. She looks surprised when I step forward and say, “Here,” as I reach into my back pocket and pull out a carefully folded piece of old paper.
She doesn’t realize what it is when I first put it in her hand. Once it clicks, though, her head shoots up. “My map.”
“Still want to go on that road trip?” I ask.
“I … yeah, but—”
“Then I’m coming with you.”
“What about—summer work, Ros, and college tours? We’re gonna be seniors next year. There’s so much we need to—”
“Sam.”
I have a whole speech prepared—about how she takes herself too seriously sometimes, about how pointing that out probably makes me a hypocrite but doesn’t change the fact that I’m right—but Sam doesn’t need it. She takes one look at me, and her face splits into a huge smile, even as tears pour down her cheeks. I’m grinning, too, so wide that my cheeks hurt.
She’s the one who pulls me into a hug. I return it as hard as I can, laughing a little even as I feel my own throat start to close up. I don’t think I’ve ever been this close to her before, and I can smell her shampoo and some kind of spicy perfume that she wears. She’s warm and surprisingly soft, and it makes my heart thud hard.
Sam pulls back. “I—sorry, can I kiss you?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
It kind of sounds like she doesn’t believe me, so I close the distance and answer that for her. She gasps against my mouth, hands immediately going up to my face. I can feel her smiling through it, and I’m sure that I am, too. I don’t know who the happy tears on my cheeks belong to anymore.
We pull apart after a few seconds, both of us laughing and crying at the same time, still holding on to each other.
“Is this happening?” Sam says.
“Everything I thought I was in love with Christian for was actually coming from you,” I tell her. “I just panicked when I found out. I’m sorry I didn’t talk about it sooner.”
“But Christian—I mean, is he okay with it?”
“He literally persuaded you to come and see the presentation. He’s okay, Sam, I promise.”
“Right.” She laughs again, louder, wilder. “For some of the smartest girls in the whole school, we’ve really been acting like idiots, huh?”
“I think my GPA’s probably lowered itself in protest at this point.”
“Does that mean I have a shot at valedictorian next year, then?”
“Not on your life, Sam.”
She kisses me again, and distantly, I hear the sounds of more applause and then people getting out of their seats, chatter rising from the hundreds of other students as they’re dismissed for the day.
Sam looks alarmed. “Christian! We should go find him! Thank him, I mean, for—”
“God, you’re right. He helped me put this whole project together.”
“He’s probably waiting to see if we murdered each other or not.”
But Christian isn’t waiting outside the auditorium. I don’t see him in the crowds of other students, and he’s not in one of the hallways nearby. We rush out to the parking lot, but his car is already gone.
“I’ll text him,” Sam says, phone already halfway out of her pocket. She takes one look at the screen, then bursts out laughing. “Oh my God.”
“What?”
“Check your phone.”
I pull out my own and check my messages. There’s just one, from Christian, sent to both of us about five minutes ago.
“He’s quoting my play,” Sam says, grinning. “I guess his memory isn’t that bad after all.”
I wouldn’t have remembered it unless Sam pointed it out, but looking at it now, I see it. Christian’s last line, the one he stumbled on at the performance. The one, Sam explains, he messed up because he was too busy staring at me. But now he’s nowhere in sight, off doing God knows what, and it’s just the two of us standing here, staring down at our phones and smiling.
CHRISTIAN: so long, dum dums
TWO MONTHS LATER
49
ROS
The group meeting is full for the first time in a while. I’m sitting in the same place I usually sit, near the windows that look out onto the park. I can’t help but keep glancing out there every now and then. I catch glimpses of my car in the parking lot a little farther off, waiting for me. I’ve got somewhere to be, but right now—
“Ros?”
I turn my focus back to the rest of the room. Everyone is looking at me, including the people on Zoom. I recognize one of them: Kadan, who I’ve been messaging with online lately. They’ve actually got a pretty similar family situation to mine. Sitting next to the screen is Brooke, and then Victoria on her right. We sometimes get coffee together after meetings. A few seats down from me, Michael is giving me an amused smile. They’ve all caught me daydreaming.
The group leader, May, smiles patiently. “You seem distracted,” she says.
