So Much Closer (11 page)

And now we’re friends. We sit together in class. I can talk to him whenever I want.

The second Scott got to class, I knew he was having another one of his bad days. I wanted to ask him what was wrong right away, but I didn’t want to freak him out by knowing something was wrong just from looking at him. I have to say something, though. It’s breaking my heart to see him like this. I consider taking a humorous approach. John would probably say, “Sounds like somebody’s got a case of the Mondays!” which is this line from
Office Space
. Something tells me Scott wouldn’t think it’s as funny.

We walk out together after class.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“No.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

Leslie is waiting for Scott across the street again. Since that psycho confrontation at Joe, she hasn’t bothered me. Except for the way she watches Scott and me when we walk out together, like I have no right to be here.

“Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me,” I say. I also know where to find him. Because of course I searched for Scott all those nights and then we ended up going by his place after our sandwich-shop interlude. I love knowing exactly where he lives. I love that he’s close to me.

Attempting my homework is pointless. Not because it’s hard. It never is. Although I have to say, things are more challenging here. These teachers clearly put a lot of time into their lessons and homework, whereas my old teachers would hand out copies of some ancient worksheet and call it a day. The homework trauma I’m currently experiencing is that I can’t concentrate on anything long enough to finish it. All I can think about is Scott. Wondering what’s wrong with him. Wondering if I can help.

Maybe I should write him a warm fuzzy.

When Sadie told me about warm fuzzies, she sounded like one of those delusional idealists who think they can change the world. But I’m realizing that doing something nice for someone could be all about them. That’s what it means to care about someone, even someone you don’t know.

I call April and tell her about the warm-fuzzy thing.

“So do you think I should write Scott one?” I say.

“I don’t see why not. It would be cute!”

“Are you sure it wouldn’t be dorky?”

“Cute annihilates dorky.”

“So it
is
dorky.”

“Since when do you worry so much about what anyone thinks? The Brooke I know does her own thing, no matter what.”

The Old Me that April knows is stuck back in New Jersey, longing for a better life. The New Me in New York is making that life happen. I’m taking more risks. I’m putting myself out there. There’s a lot more to worry about.

“Did I tell you I turned down Robby Miller?” April says.

“No! When?”

“Yesterday.”

How could she not have told me this yesterday? We always tell each other everything right away.

“What did you say?” I ask.

“Just that I’m not in a dating space right now.”

“What’s a
dating space
?”

“Something I made up so I wouldn’t sound like a horrible person?”

“You’re not horrible.”

“Oh, no? Tell that to Robby Miller.”

“We can’t help who we like. Or don’t like.”

“I’m never going to have a boyfriend.” April sounds defeated.

“Of course you will,” I assure her. “You’re just surrounded by idiots is all. It has nothing to do with you.”

“Blerg. Mom’s shouting at me to set the table. I better go.”

“Okay. Don’t worry about Robby. He’ll get over it. When he’s, like, thirty.”

“Write that warm fuzzy already!”

April is right. It’s time to stop thinking and start doing.

Walking down Scott’s street is so much better now that I know where I’m going. I tape the warm fuzzy under his doorbell. Then I practically run home so I can’t change my mind about leaving it. I used this piece of cherry-red stationery I found mixed in with all my other paper. I can’t remember where it came from. It’s like that red paper was waiting for the day when it would serve a vital purpose. I used a black metallic pen to write:

I really wanted to write “Love, Brooke
,
” but that might have scared him off. I considered using a cute “xo” like Sadie does. That didn’t seem to fit, either. In the end I just signed my name, hoping Scott wouldn’t think I’m a total dork.

Scott doesn’t think I’m a total dork. Or if he does, he’s hiding it well.

“It was really nice of you to leave that note,” he says in class the next day. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. It’s this random acts of kindness thing I’m doing with Sadie.” Okay, where did that come from? The goal was for Scott to think I’m
not
a dork.

Note to self: invent verbal delete button.

Scott opens his Dunder Mifflin notebook. But we don’t need to take notes today because we have a sub. Mr. Peterson left some fun optical-illusion stuff we’re supposed to work on in pairs.

Scott and I scrunch our desks closer. We finish the sheet in fifteen minutes. Then we have the rest of the class free.

“Can you make a dragon?” Scott says.

“What?”

“An origami dragon.”

“Please. Give me something hard to make.” I rummage through the papers stuck in Scott’s notebook until I find a bowling-team flyer. “Can I use this?”

“You can rip out a new sheet.”

“I only use found paper. It’s more challenging that way.”

“Didn’t you use a new sheet when you made that cup?”

“Only because he was drinking from it.”

Scott watches as I fold the paper into a dragon. Dragons are a lot easier to make than they look. You’re supposed to glue the head on at the end. Instead, I get some tape from Mr. Peterson’s desk. The sub barely notices, immersed in
People
.

“How did you do that?” Scott says when I present his dragon. “You didn’t even need a diagram.”

“I’ve seen the diagram.”

“But how can you remember everything?”

I’m not about to tell him how. That’s one secret I’m determined to keep.

“I just do,” I say. “What are you naming him?”

“Snuffleupagus.”

“Good one.”

“We had a dog named Snuffleupagus.”

“Did you name him?”

“Yeah. We had to put him down.”

“Aw.”

“It was a long time ago. I was seven.”

I push the dragon across Scott’s notebook.

“Is he going to start breathing fire?” he asks.

“No. He’s a friendly dragon.”

“A friendly dragon. I like those.”

“I knew you did, so ...”

“Can you teach me how to make one?”

“Have you done origami before?”

“Never.”

“Well, then we should probably start with a crane.”

“Cranes are good.”

“But only if you teach me how to do that flippy-twirly thing you do with your pen.”

Scott laughs. He’s laughing because I made him laugh.

That’s hot.

“Deal,” he says.

I teach Scott a few basic folds. He’s already lost. I try to show him the crane, but it’s hard for him. He keeps making these uneven folds, like he can’t tell where the crease divisions should go.

“No worries,” I say. “It took me forever to learn.” This is not true. Origami came naturally to me.

“Moving on!” Scott grabs his pen. “The secret? Is all in the thumb.”

It must be a pretty big secret. Because after Scott patiently demonstrates his technique and I fling my pen across the room twice, it becomes glaringly obvious that I’m not going to get how to do the flippy-twirly thing anytime soon. The second penflinging incident is particularly alarming. I’m trying to twirl my pen using the same smooth, quick motion that Scott uses, when it suddenly zings all the way over to Mr. Peterson’s desk, narrowly missing the sub’s leg. She looks up from her magazine all dazed, as if she forgot that she was, in fact, in a classroom surrounded by students.

I decide it might be better to practice at home.

It’s interesting how something that comes so easily to one person can be so impossible for someone else. Not that I’m surprised anymore. I’ve seen it my whole life. I knew I was different from the other kids all the way back in kindergarten. This psychologist used to take me into another room so she could “get to know me.” Even though I was only four, I knew that was code for being tested. There were some logic problems and inkblot interpretations and a bunch of other tests I don’t remember. Every time she came to get me, I was reminded of how different I was. All I wanted to do was fit in. Even back then I downplayed my capabilities, trying to hide who I really was from the other kids so they’d like me.

Of course people found out eventually. You can’t keep your true self hidden forever, no matter how hard you try. I don’t think any of it ever registered with Scott. Our school was enormous and we only had one class together. By that point I excelled at being invisible. Teachers were so disappointed with me that they didn’t bother saying anything in class. They’d try to talk to me privately and then get discouraged when I didn’t respond the way they wanted. But in elementary school, teachers would make comments about how smart I was and suddenly the whole class would be staring at me. They all had the same expression. Part intimidation, part jealousy. But mostly they were freaked out.

I never want anyone to look at me that way again. If it means trying to hide who I am, I can live with that. Blending in is way easier than dealing with the consequences.

Espresso Boy is
staring at me again.

He doesn’t want me to know this. Every time I catch him looking at me, he looks away. Or he pretends that he’s looking at the Joe shirts on the wall behind me.

He’s kind of cute. I might even go talk to him if I were interested. In my experience, it pays to be straightforward. Guys get totally flattered when they know you like them. Only, he’s not the one I want to flatter.

Sadie told me she’d meet me here after school. She’s late. I’ve been trying to avoid eye contact with Espresso Boy for longer than I care to admit. He’s making it impossible for me to read my book. Either I feel him staring at me or I’m paranoid that he might be staring at me. When I go up to the counter for a snack, he’s clearly not focused on his laptop the way he’s pretending to be.

Right when I’m about to call Sadie, my phone rings.

“I’m
so
sorry,” Sadie goes. “Mr. Peterson caught me before I left and would not stop talking. I’m on my way.”

“Actually, can we meet somewhere else?”

“Why?”

“He’s here again,” I whisper.

“Espresso Boy?”

“Yes.”

“Could he be any more obvious?”

“Not really, no. Where are you?”

It’s amazing how much my attitude toward Sadie has changed in only three weeks. I went from thinking we could never be friends to hanging out after school with her. We mostly talked about tutoring at first, but I can already feel a shift in our conversations. It started the day Sadie avoided Carlos at Rite Aid. Something about sharing her secret made us instantly closer. Part of me is relieved to have a friend here, even though I wasn’t looking for one.

Fifteen minutes later, we meet up on the corner of Greenwich and Charles streets. We’ve already dumped our bags at home so they won’t weigh us down.

“This,” Sadie says, “is my favorite walk.” We go down Charles Street on Sadie’s preferred side. It’s a route that’s already familiar to me. When I go to the park by myself, I usually chill in the Zen garden or just watch the city lights. But this time, we turn left and keep walking along the river.

“Mr. Peterson loves you,” she says. “You’re like all he could talk about.”