So Much Closer
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Acknowledgements
VIKING Published by Penguin Group
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First published in the U.S.A. by Viking, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2010
Copyright © Susane Colasanti, 2011
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To my beloved city
of New York,
then, now, and always
One
Today I’m telling Scott Abrams that I’m in love with him.
Sometimes I think that if he knew, he would admit he feels the same way. Other times I think he would laugh in my face so hard I would never get over it.
But.
It could be so easy. Just go up to him, tell him, and see what happens. Put it all out there. Finally know how he feels about me.
It would probably be easier if he knew I existed.
The hope that Scott Abrams could like me back has kept me going for two years. It’s like this energy I live on. The idea of being with him is almost more exciting than being with him for real. But of course I want to turn this fantasy into reality.
The thing is, he’s never noticed me. Saying sorry because he accidentally bumped into me in the hall last year doesn’t count. So telling him that I know we belong together is probably a crazy thing to do.
I guess I’m crazy then. Because I’m doing it anyway.
“You can’t do that,” April said.
Telling Scott was never some big plan or anything. I mean, yeah, I thought about it every day. I imagined how amazing it would be to let someone in. To trust someone completely. I just never thought I’d actually tell him. So it stayed a fantasy.
Then April and I were blowing up balloons for the junior picnic yesterday (she’s more of a joiner; I thought it would be ironic) when it hit me. I would tell him at the junior picnic. It would probably be the last day we’d see each other until senior year. Plus, it would be the perfect time to start going out, with the whole summer ahead of us. The combination of being with Scott Abrams and two months of freedom would be the ultimate.
April didn’t agree.
“Why not?” I said.
“Think, Brooke.” April let the air out of a partially inflated red balloon. “What do you think he’d say if you told him?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I haven’t told him yet.”
“How many times have we gone over this?”
April had a point. She’d been hearing me obsess over Scott Abrams for two years. She was more than ready for a subject change.
“But you’re assuming he doesn’t like me just because he’s never talked to me,” I went. “We don’t know that for sure.”
“You’re seriously going to do this?”
“Yes.”
“After everything we’ve talked about?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you care that—”
“No,” I said. “I don’t care if he tells the whole school. And I’ll even tell Candice that I like him. I can’t keep pretending we don’t belong together.”
“But how—”
“I just know.”
I can’t explain The Knowing. It’s something I’ve had for as long as I can remember. There are certain things I just know, like when something crucial is about to change my life. It’s only happened to me a few times, but when it happens it’s undeniable. I’ll get this intense feeling of clarity that forces everything else into the background. The Knowing is not supported by logic or factual information. But The Knowing is always right.
You’d think April would be less skeptical about The Knowing by now. We’ve been friends since eighth grade. She’s been there. Well, she wasn’t there for the hardest parts, but those things happened before we were friends.
Anyway. That’s how I know Scott and I are supposed to be together. I’ve never been so sure about anything in my entire life.
There’s always drama at the junior picnic.
For the past three years, major spectacles have occurred. Not major as in epic and intense. Major as in horrifying and wrong. Last year, Gina Valento went into labor reaching for a burger bun. Her water broke all over Mr. Feinburg’s nasty man-sandals. The year before, some kid broke this other boy’s nose for keying his car. And the year before that, Ms. Richter’s pants ripped open along the back seam. Like, a lot.
I really hope I’m not going to be part of the major junior picnic scandal everyone gossips about next year.
Scott Abrams is over with some other boys from the lacrosse team. He’s not like them. I mean, Scott has straight, sandy-blond hair and very light-blue eyes and he’s six feet tall, so he instantly fits in with any group of physically privileged boys. But I’ve been watching Scott long enough to know who he really is. He listens closely when people talk to him. He radiates confidence in a way that makes you want to be his friend. And he’s really
smart.
If you saw my report card, you wouldn’t think I’m smart at all. But if school actually interested me enough to care about getting decent grades, things might be different. Mom always says how smart I am. This is usually followed by a rant about how I should be doing better in school or how I’m lazy or how I’m throwing my life away by “not working to my full potential.” So the part where she says I’m smart gets annihilated.
Mom wasn’t always this harsh with me. Before Dad moved out, she was much easier to get along with. Everything changed when he left us. It’s like he was the glue holding us together. He moved out when I was eleven. It’s been six long years of a strained relationship with my mom, which I don’t think we’ll ever be able to fix.
He ruined everything.
April pokes me.
Was I staring again? I was probably staring again.
Note to self: stop staring at Scott Abrams.
“Are you still going to do it?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“Do what?” Candice says. “Here’s your lemonade.”
“Oh, thanks,” I say, taking the cup from her. “Um—”
April flashes me a look. “Brooke was just saying how she’s getting that bag she wants,” she tells Candice.
“The one from Mandee?” Candice goes.
“The one and only,” I confirm. “We belong together.”
“Is it on sale?”
“No, but there are only two left and I know if I don’t get it I’ll be mad at myself.” I’ve been watching this bag for a few weeks now, waiting for it to go on sale. It’s black with silver trim. Those are my colors.
“Oh, there’s Jill—let’s go ask her about next week,” April says to Candice. I know what April’s thinking. The threat of leaving me alone to make a fool of myself in front of Scott is less serious than the threat of me telling Candice that I like him. So April drags her away, glancing back at me with pleading eyes like, Don’t do it!
Scott is still hanging out with the lacrosse team. I don’t know how I’m going to get him alone. When I suddenly decided to tell him yesterday, my decision didn’t come with instructions.
Then Scott goes over to the drinks table.
Alone.
This is my chance. I’m almost too nervous to take it. The thing is, it might be the only chance I get all day, and if I don’t take it I might not see him until next year. So I force myself to go over to him.
He’s rummaging through a cooler.
“Seen any Mountain Dew?” he says.
I turn around to see who he’s talking to.
We’re the only ones here.
Scott Abrams is talking to me.
“Um.” I scan the soda cans. “No. Sorry.”
He grabs a ginger ale.
Whenever I’m near Scott, he has this extreme power over me. He doesn’t even have to be within visual range for me to get all flushed. Just knowing he’s in the same building reduces me to a jangle of nerves. Being this close to him makes every cell in my body twang with anticipation.
He’s holding the cooler lid open. “Did you want one?”
“Oh! Yeah, right. Sorry.”
Note to self: stop apologizing.
“This is pretty lame,” Scott says. Which means he’s talking to me some more.
“Totally.” I’m the one who’s lame. For some stupid reason I will never figure out, I’m still staring into the cooler trying to decide which drink I want. Which is apparently impossible to do while the boy I’m in love with is watching me.
Focus. Should I just come right out and tell him? Or should I ask if he can talk later?
“You do origami, right?” Scott says.
Wait. How can he possibly know that? I’ve been folding paper for years. My origami fascination started in seventh grade when Mrs. Cadwallader taught us how to make paper cups. I went on to master the penguin, the dinosaur, and the elephant. I’m currently working on a family of octopi.
“Yeah.” I select a ginger ale. Scott closes the cooler. “How do you know that?”
“I’ve noticed you,” he says.
“You have?”
“Didn’t you do those ornaments for Ms. Litchfield last year?”
“Yeah.”
“Those were awesome.”
“Thanks.”
I cannot believe he remembers that. And what did he mean by “I’ve noticed you”? I’ve noticed how ordinary you are? Or I’ve noticed you because I’m in love with you, too?
With all the possible things I could talk to Scott Abrams about and all the backup scenarios I’d planned in case an opportunity like this ever came up, I can’t think of one single thing that would keep him interested in this conversation.
It’s time to take a chance.
“Scott, I—”
“Yo, Abrams, pass me a Dew!” Chad yells.
“All out!” Scott yells back.
“Pass me a Sprite!”
Scott throws him one. Of course the throw is perfect. And of course Chad snatches the can out of the air like it’s the easiest thing. These boys aren’t standard jock types, but they have this sporty/preppy physical language I will never be fluent in. I don’t suck at sports, though. I’m flexible and I can run pretty fast. I even went running with my dad a few times, and that was back when I was a lot younger. Some of my mom’s friends describe me as “wiry.” I’m just not team-sports material. You have to trust people to be part of a team.
“Yeah?” Scott goes.
“What?”
“You were saying ... ?”
“Oh no, just ...” What was I thinking? I can’t tell him here. Someone could come over any second. But it’s not like I can ask Scott if he wants to go for a walk or something. That would be weird. This is the first conversation we’ve ever had. If you could even call it that.
“Nothing,” I conclude.
He looks at me. He says, “Too bad we never talked before.”
“We always have next year.”
“No we don’t. Well, you do. I’m moving.”
Stop.
Scott Abrams is moving?
Heart.
In.
Pieces.
“You’re ... moving?”
“To New York. I hate that I won’t be here next year, but my dad’s job relocated him.”
“When?”
“About three months ago they told him—”
“No, when are you moving?”
“Next week.”
A bunch of kids race by, spraying Super Soakers at each other. My shirt is immediately drenched.
“Bummer,” Scott says, looking at my shirt.
All I can say back is, “You have no idea.”
Two
Dad went above and beyond.
“I can’t believe it.” I gawk at the room. “This is unreal.”
“So you like it?” Dad asks.
“Are you kidding? I love it.” Dad was somehow able to get this room set up for me in a week. Apparently, it was his home office before. Now it’s my new room.
In New York City.
The only thing I could think about all summer was Scott moving away. How he’d never know what he means to me. How he’d never realize that we belong together.
How I’d never find out if he feels the same way.
I keep replaying the things he said at the picnic. I’ve noticed you. Too bad we never talked before. A person doesn’t say things like that if they’re not at least a little bit interested in you. And the way he kept looking at me, like he was trying to tell me something. Something I’d want to hear.
I see the potential of us. I see what we could be together. If only I had one more chance.
When my dad left, he bought a two-bedroom apartment in Greenwich Village. I’d never been there, but I’d heard the neighborhood was amazing. It sounded like the kind of place I belong. Even though the New York City skyline was close to my South Jersey town, it still felt so far away. Living in New York had been my dream fo
r a really long time. I always hoped that I’d get to live there eventually, when my real life started. This was a chance for my real life to start way sooner.
It mattered to me so much that I called my dad.
That was a big deal. I hadn’t talked to him since he left. Naturally, he was surprised to hear from me. He tried to keep me in his life when he left, but I didn’t want any part of it. I didn’t return his calls or visit him when he invited me. After a while, he gave up.
Which is why he couldn’t believe I was calling.
“I’m so glad you called,” Dad said. “I’ve missed you.”
“Well ... I know it was a long time ago, but you know how you told Mom I could stay with you?”
“Yep.”
“Is the offer still good?”
“Anytime.”
Of course I didn’t tell him about Scott. Just how I needed a change and how a better school would motivate me academically.
“I really want to transfer schools,” I told him. “I’ve already looked into West Village Community online.”
“It’s one of the best schools in the city.”
“I know.”
“I’d love having you here,” Dad said, all excited.
When forces beyond your control take over, they make you do stupid things. Or crazy things, like the way love was making me twist my whole life around. It felt amazing to even be thinking about moving. I also felt bad, though. I was lying about the whole school thing. Like I care where I go. But it was the only way to convince Dad that I had a valid reason for moving.
And it was the only way to convince Mom to let me go.
“What’s this about?” Mom said, flopping down on the couch. I remembered when Dad used to flop on that same couch, exhausted from his long day at work and hectic commute home. It’s still so weird to be in the same house with the same stuff, without Dad.
I had too much nervous energy to sit. I stayed near the coffee table, swaying a little.