When Micah pulls up Saturday night, he hands me a single white lily in full bloom. He’s wearing a collared shirt and enough cologne to clear my sinuses.
Not a date, my ass.
“Thank you,” I say before trying to jump into the car he’s driving and get this show on the road, or at least away from my father, who has been informed (by me) that I’m going to a study session.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Isn’t it customary to say hello to the parents?” Micah says, holding out his hand and pulling me back out of the car. I trudge back to the door and call for Dad. He comes out of his office, taking off his reading glasses, clearly in a book daze.
“Micah, Dad. Dad, Micah,” I say.
Micah wipes his hands on his pants—is he sweating?—and reaches out. Dad takes his hand, eyebrows knit together in confusion.
“He’s my partner on the English contest,” I say, jumping in. “For the Berkeley summer program.”
Dad’s eyes go back and forth from me to Micah, and then to the lily in my hand.
“And I know Alice from Fairview,” Micah says. “You’ve raised two amazing daughters.”
“Three, actually,” Dad says, stiffening and crossing his arms over his chest while narrowing his eyes. “So you were at Fairview?”
Micah rakes his fingers through his hair and undoes the top of his button-up shirt.
“Yes, sir.”
A little piece of me wants to die. Two pieces, actually, one for me and one for Micah, who is standing up so straight and smiling so hard that I worry he’ll break his face. Seeing Micah, the boy from the 100-acre-wood who doesn’t give one flying flip what the world thinks, trying to impress my dad makes me want to laugh—or cry, I’m not sure which.
I grab Micah by the arm. “Well, we should go.”
Micah shoves his hand out again. “A pleasure to meet you, sir.”
Dad doesn’t even uncross his arms, just tells Micah I’ll meet him by the car.
“I need a word with my amazing daughter.”
As soon as Micah’s out the door, Dad looks from the lily in my hand to the shirt I’m wearing that shows a little more collarbone than he’s used to, and whispers, “Are you seeing this boy?”
“He’s my partner.”
Dad takes his glasses off and pinches the top of his nose. “How well do you know him?”
“Well enough to know he’s not going to murder me in a dark alley.”
“I’m serious, Lil.” Dad puts his hands on his hips, trying to look stern. It doesn’t suit him.
“Dad,” I say. “Micah’s a good guy. Trust me.”
“Oh, I trust you.”
Margot has heard us whispering and has sidled up next to Dad, along with Staci, who has just come in from teaching yoga.
“Lily has a date,” Dad explains, as if he’s just announced I have leprosy.
“It’s not a date.”
“Oooh…,” Margot coos, not helping at all.
Staci leans in close and whispers to match us. “Last time I checked, Lily was almost an adult who has never given you a reason to worry.”
Dad puts his glasses back on, studying me.
“Well, yes, but—”
“Okay, then,” Staci continues, stroking his arm. “Is it fair to assume she’s going to do something stupid now?”
He shakes his head as Staci’s particular brand of magic works on him, and he gives me a hug and tells me he loves me before going back into his office, where he blatantly opens the blinds to watch Micah.
“Thank you,” I mouth to Staci.
She takes the lily and gives me a hug, whispering, “I’ll stick this in water. If you need anything, anything at all, text me.”
Micah’s waiting by my open car door, staring up at the darkening sky.
“So, your dad hates me.”
“Hate is a strong word.” I duck into the passenger side. “Accurate. But strong.”
Micah slumps into his seat, one hand gripping the wheel so hard, his knuckles turn white. Is he fighting the anger he told me about?
“The Fairview factor strikes again,” he says, more to himself than to me.
He drives in steamy silence down the Pacific Coast Highway. Deadman’s Cliff is a distant silhouette. I wish we were back on it, where we could breathe, pretending our monsters and pasts don’t exist.
He pulls into a parking lot next to a massive warehouse, and sits for a minute, contemplating the steering wheel.
“It’s just, I have this vision, you know? A world where your diagnosis doesn’t define you, and getting help doesn’t make you weak or dangerous or other. And sometimes I forget that the world isn’t there yet.”
“I thought you didn’t care what people think of you.”
“I care what you think about me.” He clears his throat again. “It’s just—I mean, the thing is—it’s important for a partnership. The respect, that is, mutual respect and all.”
He stumbles over his words in such a non-Micah fashion that I can’t help but laugh, and he laughs, too, which breaks up the darkness in his eyes.
“I assume, then, that you give all your project partners flowers on your non-dates?” I ask.
Micah shoots me a serious look. “Partnership bonding is very important.” He walks around and opens my door and offers me his hand. “If you were thinking this was anything more than that, I’m sorry to disappoint you. Tonight is strictly professional.”
Inside, the warehouse is not a warehouse at all but an enormous interactive art display. A rainbow-colored crocheted netting stretches between the walls and all the way to the ceiling, creating geometric shapes and patterns and tunnels in vibrant hues. On the nets, people are walking, crawling, climbing like it’s a massive indoor playground.
“Shoes off,” Micah says, kicking his into one of the cubbies by the door. He has on purple socks with avocados.
“Glad you’re still you under that collar,” I say, and Micah’s off running like a little kid, jumping onto the netting, with me right behind him. It sways beneath my feet, but we keep climbing until we reach a rope tunnel filled with hundreds of plastic white balls. Micah’s pushing through ahead of me and then disappears.
A second later, he pops up by my side. “See—art can be fun!” He laughs, and it’s so infectious, I can’t help laughing, too, as I swim through the balls, slipping and falling every few steps.
“I’ll save you,” he yells with mock heroism. “Hop on.”
I jump onto his back, and he crawls with me through the rest of the tunnel that ends in a large spiderweb. We tightrope-walk on the web’s threads until we reach the center and lie down on what is essentially a huge hammock, and we’re both breathing hard from battling the balls, and his arm is touching mine, and I’m aware of every inch of my skin touching his.
But then he’s up, and he’s pulling me up, and we’re tightrope-walking again and shooting down a slide that empties into a small, quiet room with white walls covered with red-and-white rectangular name tags that say hello i’m. In each blank, people have written words: a superhero, trying my best, hyper, in love, the future.
Micah tosses me a pen and starts writing. I’m—
an artist
a work in progress
alive
And before I can overthink it, I write, too. I’m—
a guerrilla poet
terrified
never enough
He looks at my tags—my confessions—but doesn’t comment, just walks into the next room, and I follow. The dark space is lit only by small white lanterns hanging from the ceiling. As we walk in, other lights blink on—bright, flashing strobe lights—and music plays.
Micah starts dancing around, waving his hands and jumping.
“It’s motion activated!” he says as the electric lights get brighter and faster, flashing reds and blues and purples across the room as the music picks up speed. And before I have time to tell myself how stupid I’ll look, I’m dancing, too. And then Micah is grabbing my hands and we’re moving together in what can only be described as chaotic lurching, and we’re spinning in a circle, daring the lights to keep up with us. But they can’t because we’re moving too fast, and all I can see is Micah’s face illuminated in the darkness, laughing as we spin and spin and spin.
“You’re nuts!” I scream over the sound of the music.
“So they say!”
But then his usual smile fades, and he’s slowing down, and I’m slowing down, and the music quiets and the lights dim, and it’s just me and him and the darkness between us, and we’re swaying to the slowing music, my hands still in his, his body pressed against mine, his chest expanding into me, still breathing hard. My own breath catches inside me because the lights from the hanging lanterns are just bright enough that I can see his eyes, and they’re serious—and looking at my lips. And I think he may kiss me, and, perhaps more alarming, I think I want him to.
He leans his forehead against mine, still swaying.
“Lily,” he says, half question, half declaration, and 100 percent longing, the same kind surging through me that makes me want to erase any sliver of space between us—to know the texture of his lips, the taste of him.
But some kids come in and start jumping around, and the lights flash again, breaking the spell. Micah looks at our intertwined fingers, his jaw muscles clenching and releasing, like he’s trying to say something or trying not to say something. But then, like he’s flipped a switch, he lets go of my hands, and his serious look vanishes along with whatever he was going to say, replaced with his usual, mischievous smile.
“Ready for the second portion of our partnership-bonding non-date?” he says, completely and abruptly brushing over the hand-holding, slow-dancing near kiss.
“There’s more?” I say, following him out of the room while playing along, as if nothing out of the ordinary just happened.
“Oh, there’s more.” Micah slips his shoes back on at the exit. “There’s someone I think you should meet.”
We walk four blocks, the backs of our hands brushing against each other, my mind silently wishing he’d reach out and wrap his fingers around mine again. But he doesn’t, because of course he doesn’t, because I’ve made it very clear I can’t or won’t or shouldn’t go down that path. Except, right now I can’t quite remember why.
We stop in front of a hole-in-the-wall café called Tony’s with a chalkboard sidewalk sign for open mic night! Micah has that look in his eyes, the one that makes his eyebrow arch up and my stomach drop, as he opens the door. We enter a dimly lit space—half bar, half restaurant—that’s loud and what Dad would call artsy-fartsy, with mind-trippy paintings on the walls and disco-style lights hanging from the ceiling. A mix of smoky cigarette stink and sickly sweet vapor hangs in the air where people are packed around square tables, chattering loudly.
And like in the art room, I instantly feel like I don’t belong.
People are staring.
You’re dressed totally wrong.
You are totally wrong.
Micah holds my hand to guide me to a crowded table near the corner.
“This is Lily,” Micah says. “Lily, the gang.”
They say their hellos and ask me how I know Micah, and he jumps in to make it clear we’re just partners on a school project, but he gives me his signature eyebrow lift that undermines his words and takes me right back to the way he exhaled my name in the dark.
“We won’t bite,” Micah says, pulling out a chair for me. “Not hard, anyway.”
His easy, genuine smile keeps me in my body, even though I feel the familiar tingling in my fingertips. Even when, from across the room, fully makeupped and staring at me like I’ve grown a second head, Alice walks right toward us.
