Sophomoric (16 page)

“Do you miss me?” It should have come out bitter, confrontational, anything but the wistful sigh of resignation I uttered. I was out of angry. “Or do you just miss having someone?” Sucked to admit it, but we all had our moments where we didn’t care who we were holding as long as it was warm and body-like with appropriate attachable parts. And I didn’t judge, really. I just wouldn’t be okay with only being Dev’s someone.

He shrugged. “I could get someone. Easy.” Trust him to be ridiculously arrogant, and trust it to still not kill the moment. “But I don’t just want someone, Bizza, I want you. I miss you.”

I had no clue what to do. I wanted to believe him so badly it hurt. But it would hurt even more if this was all his crap attempt to screw with me. Or get screwed.

Or would it? Would it hurt either way? Could I stave off the hurt better, by choosing the one option where it wasn’t completely inevitable? Maybe, just maybe, this was actually happening and he wanted me. Maybe, maybe was enough.”Are you sure?” I didn’t elaborate. He knew what I was asking. It was his way out if his conscience so prompted (and if it was louder than another destination of blood flow). Maybe it was dumb, but I thought it might be.

“Yeah. Come on, Bizza.” The side of his mouth jerked up in that stupid smirk that I wanted to kiss. “Go out with me.”

I couldn’t think of a good reason not to. Other than the not believing problem, but I could probably get over that.

Unfortunately, the R.D. chose that moment to yell at the stragglers on the steps. Promising to continue the conversation on the phone, I slid my fingers out of his as I ran inside. Slumping against the banister of the staircase, I ran a hand through my hair and put my arms through the sleeves of his jacket. For the first time in weeks, I smelled like him. A slow smile threatened to crack my face. Maybe dumbass adrenaline junkie kid didn’t have to apply this time.

After a week of officially dating Dev, I had to come to the unfortunate conclusion that some things didn’t change: as usual, I was late for Acting. By the time I pushed open the heavy auditorium door, there were already nine students sprawling in front of a TV/VCR set older than probably me and Dev. Combined.

The freshmen hadn’t changed either, with their tan limbs, black eyeliner and, mostly, puffed-out chests. Some, though, had started huddling in their oversized navy sweaters. The November cold really did shrink down everything.

Except me, I guess. My whole body was puffed out in three pairs of tights, two shirts, a sweater, and the coat I was leaving on an auditorium seat, along with my backpack. The kilt shifted up with the bag and stuck to my legs as I walked, creating a quandary: if I pulled it down too far, the waist slipped down. I guess the good news was that you couldn’t see anything through my three pairs of tights.

The sole of my right shoe was peeling away, flopping against the carpet as I walked and I had to be careful not to snag it on the edge of the stairs. It was highly possible that I needed new shoes.

I dropped cross-legged next to Dev, pulling the fraying sleeves of a sweater of uncertain ownership over my hands. Definitely not mine—it was too worn. As his arm settled over my shoulders, I remembered my previously held stance against PDA. Now, I was becoming one-half of the nauseatingly sweet couples everyone always complains about making out between classes.

In my defense, I’m positive that, though Dev had never seemed like the nauseatingly sweet kind of guy, it was entirely his fault. There was still conscious effort in my six-minute delays before replying to emails, my after-school plans with Cleo. According to her and Amie and everybody, the chase would keep him longer and now that he was back, I didn’t want to lose him again.

Then again, I couldn’t help worrying that I didn’t want to waste any time I might be lucky enough to get, and it was hard not to worry that it would fall apart or that he would leave again. Alec, Scott and Amie hadn’t said anything when they found out we were back on. Nicky had warned me to be careful, and Cleo was keeping ice cream in the freezer (covered in dire threats against thieves) in the case of what she saw as an inevitable breakup.

There were always moments when I wished I could talk to him about some girl or some rumor. The rumors had picked up again, emphasizing that he never stayed with a girl longer than a month. But I knew that he would just smooth my hair back and kiss me and tell me there was nothing to worry about. And no matter what he said, part of me would still worry, but not enough to make demands or walk away. It made me feel better to remember that all the rumors full of imaginary details about my imaginary sex life were just that.

A freshman giggled behind me. It might have been at me, but I’m pretty sure it was at our drama teacher. Another dependable constant: he was still wearing too-short pants and a flannel shirt, although this one was an ugly faded salmon color.

I unwound my scarf until it was just hanging off my neck, and started fidgeting with the ends. Dev took it out of my hand.

“Be nice to my scarf.”

We don’t get many status symbols in uniform, which I guess is the point. But it meant that little things like scarves spoke volumes. The classic cashmere plaid was all over campus in varying colors, under the collars of pea coats and over our sweaters, even if we weren’t supposed to wear scarves without coats. Which made that a statement in and of itself. Redhead had another popular choice: thin, soft fabric that cozied up to your chin and around your neck in a solid color. Brands, colors, materials spoke volumes in our tiny snow globe school.

Then there were girls like me. It was a lie to say that I just wore Dev’s scarf because it was warm. I did actually own a scarf. But even if his was warmer, it was still the winter uniform equivalent of a varsity jacket, with KENNEDY stitched along one end.

Besides, it smelled like his cologne.

We get wrapped up in our little things. But faced with the decision to worry about what messages people were sending with their scarves or the rumors or the movie version of
Dracula
playing in front of us, I went for d) none of the above.

Two days after we got back together (or just together, depending on who you asked), someone got caught selling Adderall, and his expulsion distracted campus from our relatively minor drama. Then the girlfriend of the hockey team captain found out that her friend who was dating the goalie had been putting the moves on her boyfriend who actually liked a different girl entirely…I couldn’t even keep track of it anymore.

As one more week turned into two and two more weeks turned into three, my maybe started turning into something that maybe wasn’t just a precarious possibility.

Sadly, there is no such thing as perfection. It’s really unfortunate how that always works out. I really didn’t have a right to be complaining. To most people, having to attend a dinner given to the recipients of a full-ride scholarship worth about $35,000 a year is an honor, even a privilege.

I was dreading it. And I felt awful about that, believe me. But the truth was that I was sorely, sorely tempted to lie to Dev about the whole thing. Unfortunately, that was bad for two reasons, the more important of which was that everyone on campus knew the dinner for Ritter Scholars was that night. The other, mushier, holdup was that we had promised not to lie to each other anymore. It was a dumb promise, and I habitually broke it all the time, always about school and home and my vehement verdigris wherever he and freshmen were concerned. But really, those shouldn’t count. Trying to delay the inevitable, I didn’t tell him until the day of, four days before we all left for Thanksgiving break, when he asked me what my plans were for dinner.

My gaze drifted from his face to just over his left ear. “There’s somewhere I need to be.” This was probably a surprise, since I’d been ditching all my other commitments. Swim didn’t officially start until after Thanksgiving. The newspaper thought I had other meetings, so they had me doing layout and editing from my laptop in my room. Peer tutoring I did during my Tuesday and Thursday free periods. Our Relay for Life wasn’t until the spring, and neither was the March of Dimes volunteering I was organizing. Amnesty International was probably the only thing I was going to these days, since Amie and Nicky went every week.

“So you do have a life!” Dev grinned.

I elbowed him. “Asshole.”

He hugged me tighter and kissed the top of my head. “Where you going? Can you skip?”

With a sigh, I leaned my head on his shoulder. “No.” Bending my fingers over, I studied the chipping navy polish on my fingernails. “I’ve got the Rit dinner.” And I waited, hoping this wouldn’t be the thing that melted all the wax off my maybe.

He laughed and my heart sank, waiting for the jibe that I would have to pretend didn’t hurt. “You’re a Rit?”

I nodded into his shoulder. Kind of a useless gesture, since he couldn’t see it.

“I really shouldn’t be surprised.”

I slowly moved my face away from his shoulder. “Why not?” I tried not to make my tone guarded.

He just laughed again, this time kissing my temple. “You’re really smart.”

As I processed his words, my heart sank. He knew and he’d known this whole time, even though I lied about the AP Euro essays and the test scores and the newspaper.

And then I was mostly just confused. Denial was automatic. “No I’m not.”

“Yes you are.” He kissed my nose this time. “It’s hot.”

I was stunned. Smart? Hot? Dev thought… Smart… Hot… What?

By that point, I think I was just staring stupidly at him, which, if you think about it, was kind of ironic. This was absolutely, totally and completely not what I had expected. In my head, it had always been the metaphorical brick or straw or something that would send this all tumbling down. And I had fully expected, once the dust settled, to find myself back at the bottom of the social structure with the unbrushed hair and thick glasses and muffin tops, looking out at everyone else. I had expected, if I was really lucky, to go back to my Sunday morning phone calls.

In an attempt to hide my deer-in-headlights-of-semi expression, I tilted my head up and met his lips for a real kiss. Plus I needed the reassurance.

There was barely enough time to get into formal uniform by the time he dropped me off at my dorm. When I flung open the door of my room, breathing hard after running up the stairs, Josie was studying at her desk, her chemistry book and an Excel spreadsheet open in front of her. The look she gave me was probably supposed to be scathing, probably in disgust that I had somehow stolen a Rit. Either she was getting worse at them or I was so relieved just didn’t care. I even said good-bye when I ran back out the door, still pulling up a knee sock.

The best thing about these dinners was that the presence of donors ensured really good food. After a few months of institutional sustenance, the thought of salmon that you didn’t have to cut with a knife and vegetables that weren’t greasy gained significant appeal. That part I had been looking forward to, even when I dreaded telling Dev.

Name cards strategically interspersed students and donors and I ended up between the female CEO of a major corporation and a quiet balding man who ran his family business, but mostly talked about fly-fishing. The other two students at the table were strangers. One of them was eating his French fries with a spoon.

The CEO and the fly-fisherman asked the right questions and I tried to give the right answers, about extracurricular involvement and academic achievement. It was easier than I expected.

I had never had a problem with anyone over the age of twenty-five acknowledging how smart I was. Their reaction was complimentary and, as my attendance this dinner proved, sometimes rewarding. It was everyone my age who I avoided, people that might find themselves or their friends or their friends’ friends on that curve I always managed to screw up. There were other kids who perched at the top of the curve, but they weren’t usually the most welcoming bunch. Fly-fisherman had a puzzled expression on his face as the junior sitting next to him started talking about ACT and SAT scores and the prep classes he was taking over the summer to improve his.

“Bizza” might have been an awkward nickname, but it was definitely better than being known by your ACT score. This junior was “thirty-four.” Hopefully the kids who got twenty-sevens had skipped this particular trend: it would be difficult to fit on a nametag.

“What are you doing this summer, Elizabeth?” The CEO was good at small talk, which was a relief since everyone else at the table, including myself, was terrible at it.

I shrugged. “I’m not really sure. Probably pouring coffee. I don’t think my parents would pay for me to fulfill my community service requirement in Fiji or something.”

Actually I knew. Erin had asked.

CEO laughed. “A paycheck is always good. I blew my entire first one on a pair of these.” She moved her foot from underneath the table to show off the trademark red sole of a very expensive pair of shoes.

“Wow.” They were beautiful shoes. Plus, it made me feel a little better that somewhere in the world were smart, capable women who brushed their hair, wore heels and still kicked ass.

She looked at me for a second, with a twisted smile. Out of the blue, she lowered her voice. “You know, it gets a lot better.”

I started to pretend I didn’t know what she was talking about, because I was pretty sure she wasn’t just talking about wardrobe options or my sexuality. She cut me off before I could.

“Everyone I know who wasn’t a fan of high school? They’ve had the most fun since.” She smiled, lips that matched the soles of her shoes (I was impressed) pulling back in a smile that made her look much younger, despite the fine wrinkles that appeared around her eyes. Then she turned to the boy seated across the table from her, who had fortunately switched to his fork by now. I didn’t really know what to say. But I smiled, too.

Fortunately, I didn’t need to come up with anything witty: Fly-fisherman talked my ear off about a month-long trip to Montana and Wyoming through the cheesecake and the coffee. Despite learning more than I ever wanted to know about the lifecycle of the Callibaetis Sparkle Dun, we shook hands long enough before Lights Out for me to meet Dev outside. And despite fears that he would change his mind or come to the senses everyone else seemed to share, he kissed me back.