Free Althea and Oliver by Cristina Moracho Page B

Howard. He even changed the name of the band to Tartar Control,” Valerie says. “Do you think Oliver’s sick again?”
    â€œI don’t know. I haven’t talked to him since the party.”
    â€œI’m sure he’s fine. You’re not worried, are you?”
    Althea considers telling Valerie everything that happened on the walk home. Isn’t that what most girls would do? Unfortunately, Althea is not well versed in sharing anything personal, and Valerie’s the one person even less equipped to give advice about boys. “Not really,” Althea says at last. “Maybe a little.”
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    It’s Nicky, not Oliver, who’s waiting on the porch the next day, confirming what Althea has already surmised, that Oliver is asleep again, Oliver isn’t coming. He misses those cherished last few days when the rigid structure of forty-minute periods erodes into polite anarchy, seniors visiting favorite teachers to say good-bye, other students emptying their lockers into garbage cans and returning overdue books to the library.
    Without Oliver, Althea inhabits an awkward place. Too familiar now with his other friends to remain anonymous in her solitude, she watches from the outskirts of their circle as junior year comes to an end, listening to Minty Fresh and Valerie speak in their own best-friend pidgin while Coby observes her in this freshly vulnerable state. Plans are hatched to drink beer and attend Minty Fresh’s band practice, but when they walk outside, Althea silently heads in the direction of her own car.
    â€œCarter, aren’t you coming?” Coby shouts after her.
    She hates the way he calls her by her surname, that forced intimacy. “I can’t,” she says. Offering no explanation, she turns away.
    It’s Valerie who stops her. “Come on, Althea. It’s the last day of school. You can’t just go home.” Leaning in, she lowers her voice so the others can’t hear. “You know he won’t be there. You might as well come with us.”
    Althea frantically calculates the ramifications of Valerie’s invite. Where is this band practice? How long will this band practice last? To how many hours is she committing if she says yes? What is she supposed to do when she gets there, just sit and watch the band? If so, that might be okay, she could do that, but if not? Then what? Two, three, maybe four hours of beer and conversation—would it be so bad? Absolutely. It sounds profoundly awkward. She wants to go home, return to her sketchbook and her vigil.
    On the other hand, when Oliver wakes up, she could have an actual story to tell him. He’d be so impressed that she’d willingly taken a solo ride on the Non-Stop Party Wagon. She could dazzle him with her newfound social skills; she could be new and improved for him. She thinks of her empty basement and all the time to kill before Oliver returns. Chewing a piece of hair, she watches Coby watching her, waiting for an answer.
    Reaching into his shirt pocket, she pulls out his cigarettes. “Sure. Can I have one of these?”
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    Althea brings two generous slices of Key lime pie out to the gazebo, where Garth is making his way through a pitcher of sweet tea and a mass market paperback, its title spelled out in embossed red letters. A spy novel, not a mystery novel—she can tell by the submarine and the Soviet flag on the cover. He wears a white T-shirt and khakis, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. His left forearm is significantly more tanned than his right from resting on the open window of his car while he drives. His biceps are so white, they gleam.
    â€œGuilty pleasure reading?” she asks.
    â€œI don’t believe in guilty pleasures. If you enjoy something, you just enjoy it. No sense feeling guilty about it. What’s this?” he asks as she hands him a plate.
    â€œIt’s pie.