Know Not Why: A Novel (16 page)

“I would never say ‘pussy’ to my mother.”

I glare at him. I think I’m out of words.

“And that was a terrible response,” Arthur adds,
sighing slightly.

“No, that’s cool,” I say. I kind of feel like
shit. “I’m just … going completely friggin’ nuts all over the
place, it’s okay, I’m getting used to it. ’Night, man. See you
tomorrow.”

I take three steps, and then I get—

“I hate going to the dentist.”

I stop. “Everybody hates going to the
dentist.”

“I suppose so,” he agrees, sounding
discouraged.

It’s nice that he tried.

I take another step away.

And then, with renewed fervor: “But I
hate
going to the dentist. I really do. I find it degrading
and filthy and … and frankly a bit sickening.”

All right, fine. I’m intrigued. I turn
around.

“How is it filthy?” I ask. “They’re cleaning
your teeth.”

“Yes, yes, they’re cleaning your teeth,” he says
dismissively. “That doesn’t mean it isn’t terrible. It is. I find
it terrible.”

I smile a little. “Okay.”

“They poke at you,” he continues, making a tiny,
spastic hand gesture, “with those terrible little instruments –
it’s like something you’d find in some sort of torture chamber. I’m
fairly convinced it’s inhumane. And then the sound – ughh, the
sound
of the metal against your teeth, like fingernails on a
blackboard but worse, and your
gums
! Surely they must
understand that it’s unpleasant to get poked in the gums by a sharp
metal object, but that certainly doesn’t stop them, does it?” By
God, he’s into it. It’s stunning.

“Sure doesn’t,” I agree, grinning now.

“Not to mention that they always talk to you as
they’re doing it. And they don’t even have the decency to make it a
one-sided conversation – they always ask you questions! Horribly
insensitive, if you ask me! It’s not as though you’re in the
position to answer. It’s inevitable you’ll sound like an idiot if
you do. And the toothpaste is gritty and disgusting, and the
toothbrush – the horrible electric toothbrush, just the sound of
it, that mechanical
hiss
. Right there, against your teeth.
The way it feels. It’s deplorable, all of it. You’re left
completely stripped of your dignity, spitting all over yourself and
wearing a
paper bib
, for God’s sake. You might as well be an
infant
– you’re just, just composed of drool and the
inability to speak. And then, you can’t even eat for a half hour
afterward. I
hate
that.”

He finishes, breath coming out in puffs, looking
sort of surprised at himself for spewing out so much
bitterness.

It’s kinda sweet.

I don’t stop to think, but I don’t make the
effort not to think either. I just step forward, getting rid of the
distance between us, and I kiss him on the cheek. The slightest
beginnings of stubble tickle against my mouth. That should weird me
out. It doesn’t. His face is cold, but so are my lips, so it’s not
like it makes any difference.

After a few seconds, he turns his face to meet
mine, and we kiss. It’s not much like the first time – it’s not all
desperate and hungry, not exactly mind-blowing stuff, but it’s
calm. Serene, sort of. It feels like being where you’re supposed to
be.

When we pull apart, he smiles, but he’s got this
slightly wary look to him, too, like he’s expecting me to lose
it.

I stay put, and I smile back.

“That chapstick that you’re wearing,” Arthur
says after a few seconds, his smile broadening, “is that pink
banana?”

“Fuck you,” I reply, but I laugh. This one, he
can be funny when he wants to be, the sneaky bastard.

He laughs too, this wonderful warm sound.
“Goodnight, Howie.”

“’Night,” I say, and it’s weird to hear me
sounding, I dunno. Happy, I guess.

Chapter Twelve

“You know,” Kristy says the next morning, out of
nowhere (the kind of nowhere, in case you’re curious, where she’s
been staring at me for the past ten minutes, all sly and sneaky and
– bless her blonde, bouncy heart – super-friggin’-obvious),
“someone was talking to me about you yesterday.”

She waits, mighty pleased with herself. Like I’m
immediately going to start falling all over myself, begging to know
exactly
who!
this mysterious someone is and
why!
they
were talking about me and
what!
it was they said.

Real cute, Kris. Real tricky. Guess what? I’m
not fallin’ for it.

Anyway, it’s obvious she means Arthur.

… Hey, she means
Arthur
.

“Oh yeah?” I am so fucking casual in this
moment. Not, like, desperate, or wild with curiosity, or anything
like that. Some people might be eager to hear what gets said about
them after they happen to kiss somebody by quasi-accident. Not me.
I’m cool. I’m like thirty-two flippin’ degrees of cool. I’m
freezing
. Ice motherfuckin’ ice, baby. “What’d they
say?”

“That you’re cute,” Kristy informs me, all
playful, dragging her words out.

Oh, jeez. He thinks I’m cute. Am I cute? I
dunno, I guess the whole messy-hair thing could lend me a certain
disheveled charm, but cute? Full-scale cute, for real? He should
have told that to some of the girls in high school, because they
sure as hell needed to have that little knowledge bomb dropped on
‘em. And
how
cute are we talking, exactly?

“—aaand that she’d really like to hang out with
you sometime.”

All lame-ass pondering of the word ‘cute’
immediately fizzles and dies.

“She?” I repeat without thinking about it. Then
I really wanna just kick myself or something, because as far as the
whole rest of the world knows? I’m straight! And, you know, as far
as
I
know, I’m straight, too. I’m just having a slight
man-digging episode.

I’m not the only one who sucks at preserving the
illusion (or, not illusion, but …
whatever
) of my
heterosexuality, though. Kristy actually snaps her fingers and
says, “Darnit!”

So she wanted me to think it was Arthur. Jesus
Christ. I’m starting to feel like Artie and I are the ‘rents in the
world’s gayest
Parent Trap
, and Kristy and Cora are twins.
Really fraternal twins.

“Who’s this she?” I ask, because wow, is it
subject-changin’ time.

“Nikki,” Kristy reports.

My mind immediately drifts back to her – or what
I can remember of her, which, honestly, isn’t a lot. I dunno, my
brain was a lot of places that night, but a
focusing-on-Kristy’s-roommate place wasn’t really one of them. I
vaguely remember reddish-blonde hair, but in terms of a face? Nope.
I’m fairly certain that she was hot, though. Almost-but-not-quite
Kristy hot.

An almost-but-not-quite-Kristy-hot girl thinks
I’m
cute?

It might be like an actual Christmas
miracle.

“If you’re interested, I can give you her
number,” Kristy continues, sounding real cheery. “She’d be really
happy to hear from you.”

“Oh,” I say.

And that’s all I can really come up with at the
moment.

It’s just – this, this right here is a weird,
unforeseen turn of events. Because I think … Jesus, I think it
worked
. I got a job at an arts and crafts store. Now, thanks
to a series of events that occurred
solely because
I got
aforementioned job at aforementioned arts and crafts store, a hot
girl is interested. In
me
.

Wow.

The only thing I’m sure of in this moment –
like, the only thing about which I am really for real concretely
certain – is that Amber is going to get one hell of an “In your
face
, woman” the next time I see her. Maybe I’ll even spin
something about how if Alexander Graham Bell could be here on this
momentous occasion, he’d be proud. Glad to see that a fellow bold
imaginer, a taker of risks, a planner of strange and glorious plans
has triumphed at last. Telephone; cleverly concocted scheme
resulting in the getting of mucho action … It’s guys like us who
change the world.

But then, well, Nikki, Nikki herself, the actual
hot girl in question—

I think about Arthur. Not on purpose, or
anything; all of a sudden he’s just there in my head. It still
seems really vivid, the way he looked last night standing there in
the parking lot, drenched in shitty light. Smiling at me.

Kristy’s looking at me expectantly.
Knowingly.

“Uh—” I begin.

“Hey.” Arthur comes in, showing off his crazy
good timing. When he meets my eye, something about his face lights
up a little. I don’t hate that. “Can I talk to you for a few
minutes?”

“Yeah,” I reply, “totally. Um.” I turn to
Kristy. “I’ll get back to you on that.”

“Okay.” She’s practically floating on air just
looking at the two of us. She’s like a mom who wants to snap our
picture together before we take off for the school dance.

“What were you two talking about?” Arthur asks
as we head back to the kitchen.

And, well, jeez, should Kristy’s roommate pining
after me (or, fine, being slightly interested) be the sort of thing
I discuss with my man Artie here?

Not, like,
my
-my man. That was fully
sarcastic.

“Why?”

“You look thoughtful.”

“I’m not thoughtful,” I protest at once. Then I
realize that this is a dumbass answer, and Artie, he probably
doesn’t waste a whole lot of his time on dumbasses. He seems like
more of a smartass kind of guy. “I mean,” I quickly correct, “no
more so than usual. Like, I do have thoughts, but it’s not like
they’re gonna erect a sculpture of me anytime soon.”

Oh, shit. Freudian word choice attack. Is it
even possible to erect a sculpture? Is that what you do with
sculptures? Why are my fuckin’ brain and my fuckin’ mouth locked in
this perpetual
duel
? Or maybe they’re working together,
because honestly, at this point, I don’t even know which one to
blame.

Fortunately, Arthur doesn’t seem to think I’m
verbally sexually harassing him or whatever. “Okay,” he says
easily.

Then I realize that maybe, as far as witticisms
go, that could very well have been way too vague. Like, there are
lots of sculptures.

“I meant, like, The Thinker,” I throw in, and
strike a thoughtful fist-to-chin pose. Because I am a moron.

“Yeah, I got it,” Arthur replies. He doesn’t
seem too repulsed by my lameness, though. In fact, he’s smiling a
little, like he might even be charmed.

“Cool,” I say, pleased. Then, because I figure
he’s earned himself an explanation (and maybe because I’m a little
curious about his reaction)— “Kristy’s roommate thinks I’m cute. Is
what we were talking about.”

“I see.”

“Kristy said so, anyway,” I add, because I don’t
want it to sound like I’m bragging.

“That’s nice,” Arthur replies. He’s all cool and
inscrutable. It’s really friggin’ frustrating. “She’s very
pretty.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “Yeah, she is.” Is he supposed
to seem this chill with this? Isn’t he supposed to … react a little
more? I mean, it’s not like I want him to go into some jealous
frenzy, or anything. Because that would be unnecessary. But, I
dunno. Something would be nice. A slightly worried eye twitch,
maybe. Doesn’t seem like too much to ask. “And how are you … this
morning?”

“I’m very well,” he replies. He sounds all
sincere and jaunty.

“That’s cool. Grammatically correct, too.”

“I do my best.” We step into the kitchen. He
shuts the door behind us. Maybe it gets my heart thumping a little
harder. It’s just, hey there, privacy. “Actually, I wanted to talk
to you. About us.”

“Us.” Whoa. We’re an us now? Does kissing twice
equal ushood? I try to decide whether I hate it. “Okay, sure.”

He sits down at the table. So do I. For awhile,
we just stare at each other in silence; my nerves get more and more
on edge with every second that passes, but at the same time, I
can’t tell if it’s necessarily
bad
. Just charged. Finally,
he asks, “What’s going on, exactly?”

“I don’t know,” I reply. I can’t help laughing a
little, because ain’t that the question of the hour? But he just
keeps on looking at me, like I’ll magically come up with something
better than that. Not frickin’ likely, bro. “Honestly, tales of
dentistry just tend to get me going,” I toss in. Take
that
,
silence. “Va-va-voom.”

He stops looking so serious; smirks a little.
“Oh really?”

“Yeah, totally. Little Shop of Horrors? Forget
about it. I’m gone.”

“I don’t really know what that is.”

“Of course you don’t.” I kick his foot under the
table. “Weirdo.”

Somehow, my little act of violence turns into my
foot resting against his. Neither of us moves away.

“What are we doing here, Howie?” Arthur asks at
last. He doesn’t sound accusatory or anything – just like he really
wants to know. Gotta say, I am so mighty acquainted with that
feeling.

That doesn’t mean I know how to answer.

For a second, I think about getting up and
walking out – like, claiming I have super-hearing, that I can
detect a serious puff paint emergency going on out front, that I
can’t in good conscience leave Kristy to deal with it all on her
own. But, damn it, he keeps on
looking
at me in this
way
with his
eyes
, and I just … I don’t want to bail
on him. I owe him more than bailing.

And so I move my foot back into the safe,
non-Arthur-touching zone, and I force myself to start talking. “I …
have no idea. I think I just like specialize in confusing myself
lately. I’ve got no friggin’ clue what …” Yeah, this is going about
as well as I expected. “You know what, I’m figuring things out.
Let’s put it like that.”

“All right.” Well, gee, thanks for that
vagueness.