Page 43 of The Getaway List
“Well, shit,” says Mariella. And then: “Wait, that’s an actual notification. You’d better get that.”
A cluster of bachelor-party revelers erupts into laughter then, loud enough to make me hightail it out of the hallway before Tom or Mariella notice me lurking in the corner of it. I hadn’t meant to eavesdrop—I’d never know anyone’s gossip if I had my way—but now that I have I feel like the words are ricocheting through my head like a pinball machine.
It isn’t just the question of what Mariella checked, or why Tom would be upset with her for it, but the sense that this is an extension of a conversation they’ve already been having. Something I’ve been kept in the dark about. And while I know I’m not entitled to anyone’s business, I can’t help the uneasy sense that whatever this business is, it’s got something to do with me.
I manage to shake it off by the time I make my way back into the karaoke room, where Jesse’s got the song binder splayed on his lap.
“Okay. Things are weirdly bleak out there,” I report. “We need to liven things up.”
“Well, there goes my plan to make us sing every song from Les Mis in order,” says Jesse. “But don’t worry, I queued up ‘Mr. Brightside’ and ‘Truth Hurts’ and like half of 1989, so we’re good.”
“Excellent. Also I need everyone to agree that when we throw Tom the mic during ‘Let It Go,’ nobody helps him.”
“I’ll be too busy recording it.” Jesse sets down the remote for the song queue and glances at the door. “Actually, I had something to run past you.”
“Yeah?”
Jesse nods, then takes a quick breath like he’s steeling himself and says, “Ever since we broke up, I—”
I don’t even have time to register the surprise of those words before Luca comes back with arms precariously full of soda and wide eyes and says, “Get this—a bunch of Mariella and Tom’s classmates are in the room next to ours. One of them is about to leave for Harvard? They’re, uh, very intimidating.”
Shit. I forgot about the sodas. Also double shit, because if these are the classmates that made Mariella’s life a living hell, her night is only about to get worse.
As soon as Luca’s hands are free of the sodas Jesse gives him the other mic. “Not as intimidating as you’re about to be duetting ‘A Whole New World’ with me.”
I meet Jesse’s eye as he nudges Luca closer to the screen and he shrugs at me like he didn’t just leave a sentence hanging in the most cryptic way possible, but there’s really not much to be done for it anyway, because another few seconds later Tom is walking back into the room frowning at a box in his hand. In the maelstrom of “what is going on with literally every person in our friend group right now,” I almost don’t notice that it’s not just any box.
“Atomic FireBalls!” I blurt. “Where did you find these?”
“I didn’t,” says Tom. “Actually, these were what I was looking for earlier. But someone sent them anonymously just now.”
“Why would someone send you Riley’s birthday candy?” Jesse asks.
This was from a running joke that I’m surprised Jesse remembers, if only because we were so fixated on the singing (and for me, the not crying) that night to remember that there was, in fact, a “theme.” I thought Sweet Sixteen sounded ridiculous so I decided it would be Spicy Sixteen, and we’d all dress in red and orange and eat spicy pepperoni pizza and Atomic FireBalls. It was both a delicious and aesthetically pleasing decision.
“Beats me,” says Tom, handing me the box. “But extremely belated happy birthday.”
As I take it from him I search his face for some remnant of the hallway conversation, but don’t find any. “Where’s Mariella?” I ask.
Right on cue the door swings open and Mariella says, “Well, Gunner and his pack of goons are getting wasted in the room next door. Someone better queue me up Olivia Rodrigo because I’m gonna blast them sky-high.”
I walk over to her and say, “Hey, there are, like, ten bajillion karaoke spots downtown, right? We can always move.”
Mariella grabs a Twizzler from the table and bites into it with her back molar. “Nah. I guess everyone’s all good with me now,” she says with an eye roll. “One of them just tried to hug me. I might need you to check me for fleas.”
Approximately none of this bodes well for the rest of the night, but when I look over at Tom he’s frowning into his phone. I glance back at Mariella, who obtained her own soda, apparently, and is taking a large swig of it, and then back to Luca and Jesse, who are vibing so hard to their fake magic-carpet ride that they’ve each gotten on one knee as if to re-create it in all of its animated glory.
All right, then. The solution is clear. Less talking and more pumping karaoke songs through the speakers, and everyone will loosen up and be just fine.
Sure enough within a half hour we’ve all assumed our various karaoke roles. Jesse serves as the DJ, Tom as the hype man, Luca as the unabashed ham, and Mariella as the actual pipes—Jesse is so impressed that I wouldn’t be entirely surprised if there wasn’t some kind of Walking JED collab proposed by the end of the night. I’m a little bit of everything, joining in on the group numbers, jumping on the adrenaline of our favorite bops and an abundance of Atomic FireBalls, standing on the worn-out couch to get aerial footage of everyone losing their marbles during “Bohemian Rhapsody.”
I flop back at the end of that one, sweaty and exhausted, and give a little “oof” as Tom rocks the couch by flopping directly next to me. We’re both boneless and happy when he turns his head to mine and says, “You better have some energy left for the next number.”
I’m about to declare my plans to burrow into this couch with the open box of Chips Ahoy! for the next five when I hear an electronic piano chime a distinctive few notes. My eyes widen so fast that Tom laughs at me, pulling himself up and wrapping his hands around my forearms to sweep me up to my feet as easily as a gust of wind.
“You can’t be serious,” I say.
Tom hasn’t let me go, squeezing his grip on me, his eyes light with mischief. “Riley Larson. Will you do me the dishonor of this truly horrifying dance?”
