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Eli holds up his hands. “I didn’t mean anything—I was just surprised, that’s all. It’s not...really something you’d do.”

  I want to tell him he doesn’t know what I’d do, but Dré’s already interjecting with his stupid laugh. “Liv, you refused to wear a costume on Halloween. How the hell are you going to get onstage in one?”

  Eli’s trying to cover up his own laughter, and I just want to die. “He has a point, Liv.”

  Dré slaps Eli on the shoulder. “Dude, she had dance lessons for five years and still won’t dance in front of us.”

  Is this how they think of me? Like a joke? They think I’m just as lame as that bartender did, and worse—Eli’s laughing. I expect Dré to roast me. He drags everybody for just about everything. But Eli’s supposed to be in my corner. I can’t stand that he sees me the same way the world sees me.

  I grind my teeth. “Shut up.”

  Dré’s nudging me. “Don’t be mad. We’re just shocked. It’s cool though.”

  Eli gives me a small smile, but it doesn’t erase the shame in the pit of my stomach. They think I’m incapable of doing anything remotely cool. Their first reaction was to laugh.

  “It is cool.” Eli reaches for the packet and looks it over. They’re both quiet. Trading papers between each other like I’m not sitting in the middle having my personal life victimized.

  “Dude, let’s do it,” Dré says. He looks to Eli for the final answer. Something no one knows, from the outside looking in, is that Dré’s like a puppy on a leash. We do everything Dré wants, but only because we let him drag us around. In the end, Eli pretty much steers our ship.

  Eli looks to me and I shrug, pretending I don’t care. I do. Them doing it, too, means I can’t back out. It also means they’ll be watching me make a fool of myself. They’re the ones used to being in the light, singing and dancing like they don’t care what anyone thinks, not me.

  But because I care way too much what Eli thinks of me, and I want him to think I’m the kind of girl who gets up on the stage, I hold back all my cringing as I say, “Yeah, let’s do it together.”

  * * *

  After the lunch bell, I go to English. We have a substitute, and he puts on Jurassic Park for god knows what reason. I’m glad though, because I can’t focus. I’ve got Eli’s and Dré’s laughter swirling in my head along with yesterday’s debacle that was Halloween.

  Enough is enough. I’ve wanted to try out for a school musical since ninth grade, and every year I’ve made excuses—I’d tell myself I needed more practice, more time to get a singing voice that would make it past auditions, or another year to lose fifteen pounds so that I could fit in whatever costume they gave me.

  I’m not wasting another moment standing on the sidelines.

  I’m not just going to try out. I’m going to say yes to everything that scares me. I’m not gonna let anyone—most of all, myself—punk me anymore.

  On the TV, the T. rex tears up the porta potty, and the girl next to me screams. Everyone’s laughing. I have goose bumps on my arms, and my stomach is on fire. I feel so alive. I feel like this is it. This is my moment. My fork in the road.

  I fish a notebook out of my book bag and make a list:

  1. BE BOLD—DO THE THINGS THAT SCARE ME.

  2. LEARN TO TAKE A COMPLIMENT.

  3. STAND OUT INSTEAD OF BACK.

  I can’t think of anything else, but it’s a big piece of paper and I can always add things as I go. I had an English teacher who always told us to write it down if we meant it, and title it if we planned to do it. I write out, The Year of...

  I meant to write The Year of Yes but—ew. That sounds too much like I’m having a midlife crisis.

  The Year of Balls to the Wall! I’m gagging, that’s so stupid.

  The Year of Free the Tits—that’s not even remotely close to what I’m trying to do.

  YOLO—No. It wasn’t cool when Drake did it; it’s not cool now.

  Maybe this is a sign. I’m not supposed to be wild and free—maybe this neurotic, cares-too-much-what-other-people-think person is me.

  “Fuck it,” I breathe.

  It hits me. Fuck It. This is a Fuck It list. This is the year of giving no fucks. I finish the title and close my notebook as the boy next to me yells about how white people always make the dumbest decisions when it comes to survival. Now the white kids are throwing out that the black guy died first, and the black kid whose name I can never remember is freestyling a comeback and telling people to check out his SoundCloud.

  Honor’s English—you’d never guess it though.

  The sub waves his hand at us, but doesn’t bother to look up from his phone. “Thank you for the hot take, but settle down, everyone.”

  I run my hand over my notebook. The Year of Fuck It.

  * * *

  I spend the rest of the school day doing all my schoolwork and homework. Between finding time to practice my parts for band class and my part-time job at the Park, I don’t have time for homework. I have no idea how I’m going to fit musical auditions in.

  Universal Studios is literally across the street from my school, which leaves no time during the commute for homework. Technically we’re on the back side of the Park and there’s so much foliage that I only notice the Park every now and again when one of the roller coasters shoots a bunch of screamers across the sky. I’m not mad about it today, because being busy distracts me from thinking about my new Fuck It list and Lennox and Dré’s sex scandal, until I’m standing in line for my work uniform and the guy in front of me starts talking about going down on his girlfriend.

  He’s telling the guy in front of him how he likes it; they’re literally debating cunnilingus in public like they’re debating the virtues of being a vegan. The guy who’s totally into his girlfriend’s taco looks back at me. “Ah, shit. Sorry, shorty. I didn’t know you were there.” He elbows the other guy and they change the subject.

  I don’t know if I’m more offended that they were talking about it in the first place or that they stopped after seeing me. Am I not worth talking about sex in front of? Do guys only see me like that? A shorty? It hits me, and I wish I’d never thought it—Dré had sex with a girl like Lennox. I know it’s not rational, obviously she’s active and open about it, but I can’t help but think I’m not the kind of girl he’d be into. Not that I want him to be—but I don’t seem to be the kind of girl any guy is into.

  When I’ve changed into my stiff blue polo and long khaki pants that belong on a flat-assed geriatric man, I head to my gift shop. I don’t work at Hogsmeade or anywhere cool like Ollivander’s Wand Shop; I sell Scooby-Doo plush toys and light-up swords at the store in front of the exit. Which means I just walk around the store fixing everything people keep knocking over and listening to the same thematic music on loop. And every now and again, if I’m lucky, I work in the candy shop, where it’s super cold and management doesn’t bother me.

  Today, despite the turn of events at school, I am lucky. I’m in the candy shop with Al, an old Italian dude from the Sunny Oaks retirement community. He’s working split shifts for something to do besides waiting to die. I like the way he yells at the customers in his thick New York accent when they spill candy on the floor or how he laughs even louder when pretty old ladies stop by. He’s all right.

  “How’s it going, Livia?” He always drops the O. He’s cleaning the window to the candy apple display and stops to smile at an old lady walking by in a dress.

  I can’t tell him I’m depressed because my best friend whom I don’t want to have sex with didn’t have sex with me. First of all, Al’s an old guy, and I’m not going there with him. Second, I’d sound like a lunatic. “It’s all right, Al.”

  He puts the cleaner down and shakes his head. “That’s no good. You’re young. It should be great.”

  “Spoken like an old man who’s forgotten a few things about what it’s lik
e to be young.” He hates it when I call him an old man, so I do it every chance I get. Everyone else tiptoes around Al, because he’s the kind of guy that takes up space. He looks like he’s in charge, and people act like he is—everyone except me. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t call me a pissant kid. He calls me Livia without the O.

  “You’re a pretty girl. What do you have to be sad about? There’s no war. You work at a candy store. You’ve got those rock star friends.” Al knows everything about my life, except the sex stuff; he’s an old guy and I don’t need him all up in my vagina’s nonexistent business. But he knows about my mom and how annoying she is, he knows about Eli and Dré, and yes, even that I had the briefest of crushes on Eli over the summer (that I admit turned into a full-blown crush).

  “Al, we’re at war with like two countries, not to mention all the underground government crap.” We talk about everything. Even politics. He’d be a raging anarchist if he weren’t so Catholic. He says God and the Mother keep him democratic.

  “Okay, but you’re not there. They’ve got drones blowing up stuff now—oh, that’s too depressing. It’s a Thursday, Livia, let’s not talk depressing stuff till Tuesday.” Tuesdays are reserved for topics like death and family members who suck.

  “I didn’t bring up the war, Al.” I sigh. “I’m kinda freaking out over something stupid I’ve decided to do. A musical.” So far, the first thing on my list—be bold—is starting to feel like a dream so vague that it’s unattainable. “I have no idea what I’m doing.” Man, Dré and Eli were right. This is so out of my lane.

  Al frowns but nods his head. It means he’s surprised but interested.

  I explain to him the Shonda Rhimes book (which he’s read and says is A plus—he’s a Grey’s Anatomy fan and enjoyed the references) and my Year of Fuck It. When our assistant manager comes in, we break and pretend we’re restocking the fudge. The assistant manager hates Al with a passion, because Al always shits on his made-up rules about organizing the stockroom.

  “I don’t care for the title but I like your concept. You know, saying yes to opportunities makes room for new ones.” He scratches his short-manicured beard. “Everyone thinks you have to always be doing things. Always creating opportunities for yourself. That’s not how life works, kid.”

  He picks up the glass cleaner and the paper towels. “By simply being open to new experiences, you create opportunity for more. What is it they say? If you’re always looking longingly out the window, you’ll never see the open door next to you. Make sure to see your doors, Livia.”

  I nod, because, jokes aside, the old man knows his stuff—but it’s me, and I can’t let a joke go. “You been reading The Alchemist again?” He gave me a copy over the summer, and—well, I didn’t get it. It’s about a boy looking for treasure and traveling through Spain and North Africa. Honestly, not enough dragons or sexy elves. Al said I’d get it one day, but he’s got more faith in people than we probably deserve.

  “You being a smart ass again?”

  I smile. “Well, when presented an opportunity—” I stop talking when he squirts glass cleaner at me.

  “Listen. Your cousin doesn’t have a monopoly on the theatre. You should do this musical thing,” he says while I start boxing up a slice of cheesecake for a lady decked out in Harry Potter gear. Al doesn’t get the wizard stuff, so he always stares and points like he’s at the zoo: My god, she’s got a broomstick between her legs. This is not appropriate for children.

  “I don’t have a choice anymore—Eli and Dré are going to try out, too. There’s no way they’d let me back out.” I leave out the part where they basically dragged me for stepping out of my comfort zone. Al’s the only person in my life who thinks I’ve got moxie, as he puts it. I can’t ruin that.

  Al scowls. “I don’t like that Eli kid. He doesn’t know his own heart. You’re a woman now, Livia. You need a man who knows his own heart. You hear me?” He thinks Eli’s a punk kid for leading me on, but Al’s old-school and thinks boys always have to take the first step.

  “Jesus, Al.” I sneak a gummy worm from the candy wall. Al’s a romantic. He’s always complaining about how we’re all too loose and disconnected from each other. He thinks people are like swans and mate for life—he was a self-proclaimed swan until Veta, bless her soul, left him three years ago to be with the Father.

  For all Al’s flirting, he talks about Veta like he’s going home to see her every night, and I’m one of those emotional people who gets teary thinking about him sitting home alone reading memoirs and watching Grey’s Anatomy.

  “Don’t be blasphemous.” After a while, he nods his head. “I think this musical stuff will be good for you. And if you need help, ask some of those theatre kids. But don’t do it because of the boys. Do it for you.”

  Al goes back to lady watching and throwing compliments at grandmas leaving the Park. The problem with the old man is he’s right about a lot of things—for example, the forty-year-old lady zooming by on the broomstick really needs a longer skirt. But he’s also wrong—how the hell am I going to ask the competition for help? They don’t even know me.

  I set aside a candy apple to take home, and after we’ve packed up I decide—maybe there is a loophole. Maybe I can ask someone for some help.

  Eli.

  Chapter 5

  I’m home, and after a long shower and washing my hair, I want to sleep. Problem with being a black girl is I have to sit with conditioner in my hair for at least an hour before I can even think about going to bed. I’ve spent way too much time on YouTube learning how to grow my hair past my shoulder blades to mess up now.

  As I secure the plastic shower cap over my curls, lathered in conditioner, I go back to my room and pull out the Othello packet. I can’t believe I’m doing this. It’s a rap musical. I hadn’t noticed that before. I don’t rap—I mean, I can keep rhythm, but I sound stupid as fuck and look possessed doing it. I always get way too into it and shake my head around like I’m Nicki Minaj on too many Red Bulls. It gets a laugh out of my cousins, but I’m not ready for the entire high school to see that—even Dré and Eli haven’t seen my way-too-animated rap game.

  I go to my window and peek through the blinds to see if Eli’s up. His blinds are open and his lights are on. I don’t get why he does that. I have this irrational fear of leaving the blinds open when the lights are on. Actually, I get it from my mom. Whenever we drive home late, she always points at the houses with the blinds open and says, That’s why white people are always getting robbed. They never close the blinds, and then they wonder why Johnny the Criminal is up in there murdering them the next day.

  I don’t even reach my phone before it’s buzzing.

  “Stop spying on me,” Eli says. I can hear him getting up as his bed squeaks.

  “You need to close your blinds.” I’ve told him this a thousand times.

  “The only one looking in my window is you.” He’s laughing. “What’s up?”

  “What makes you think something’s up?” I love that he knows me better than I know me. This has to mean he feels like I do. How else can two people be so connected? We spend most of our time talking around everything that matters and diving deep into things that don’t. And yet, he knows me.

  I can never answer the question Tell us about yourself. I don’t know who I am like that. I look around my room at the white walls with a couple mismatched Harry Potter posters I got from the Park. I’ve got a few pictures of the boys pinned to the wall, too, but honestly, this room could belong to anybody. Well—my dresser is purple and matches my rag rug, and the decorative pillows that have now fallen on my floor are lime green, so it takes a special kind of anybody to exist in all these colors, but anybody nonetheless.

  So. Who am I? I don’t know. Who do I want to be? No clue. A better version of myself...but who is that?

  Yet with Eli, I know I am a thousand things all at once, and sometimes there aren
’t words for that. He makes me feel at home with myself.

  Oh my god. Al’s right, I’m a sucker for this kid.

  “Liv.” Why does he say my name like that? Like he’s saying love. Liv. Love. Liv. Love. I love Liv.

  “What do you really think about this musical stuff?” Most people ask someone what they think because they want their opinion. I ask Eli because he’s got freaky psychic powers. He knows things. Not about trivial stuff, like answers to a test or if I’m in love with him...I think.

  He knows things like whether it will rain if we go to the beach, even if it’s been sunny for days. Or like when Dré’s abuelo died. Or like that time at band camp when he knew I’d get hurt if I went to McDonald’s with the flute section. He didn’t know what was going to happen, but he told me not to get into the car. They crashed, and luckily everyone was safe because they were all wearing seat belts. But there were six of us and five seats and, if I’d gone, I wouldn’t have had a seat belt.

  He knows things.

  “I think you should try out. You can sing. You can dance. You’re funny.”

  Tell me more, sir.

  “I think you’ll regret it if you don’t.”

  Twinks jumps on my bed and drools on my papers as if to say, Dooooooo it. I move the papers and run my fingers over her massive body.

  “Is that Twinks?”

  Did I mention she purrs like a busted lawn mower? Eli and I talk, and as I procrastinate popping my question, our conversation drifts from the musical to him not wanting to do the Battle of the Bands without an actual band. I listen, even though I know he doesn’t want my opinion. He knows I’ll default to talk to Dré about it, because last time I got between them, it turned into World War III, and I honestly don’t know how Switzerland does it.

  We’re still on the phone after I wash the conditioner out of my hair, and he says my name again in that way that makes my whole body warm and my stomach flutter.

  “Eli.” I never know what else to say. Except I know I’m supposed to boss up and make a move. “Help me with auditions?”