Tell Me Three Things (8 page)

“And what?”

“And everything.”

“And everything like…”

“What did he say? What did you say? Can you introduce me? Have you heard his band? Oh. My. God. Orgasmville.”

“Ew,” I say. “I mean, he’s not bad, but really?”

“No, that’s his band’s name. Orgasmville.”

“Seriously?”

“Yup. And he is. That. Cute. You
have
to see him onstage. I’ve been, like, in love with him for forever. He’s never said a word to me. Not one. Until right now.”

“He didn’t technically say anything to you,” Agnes informs her.

“He spoke in my vicinity, which is more than he’s spoken to me in the last two years. I’ll take it,” Dri says, and tightens her grip on my hand. That hurts too. “Eeeeee!”

“He has a girlfriend,” Agnes says, and I wonder about her need to piss all over Dri’s parade. If Pete McManning, the senior Scar was obsessed with all of freshman year, had ever talked within her vicinity, I would have squeed right along with her, even though I never quite got Scar’s interest in him. I can’t handle a wispy mustache, even if it’s for the hipster cause.

“Whatever. Gem can kiss my ass.”

“He’s dating Gem?” I ask, and realize just how much I have to catch up on. I know nothing about this school. Forget the honor code; there should be a book that chronicles all this stuff. So, Liam and Gem. Huh. If I had thought about it, I would have figured Liam might have a girlfriend, but I wouldn’t have paired him with Gem. And not because she’s hot—he’s the type to have a beautiful girlfriend—but because she’s nasty. I had him pegged as better than that.

“I know, right? It’s the only thing I don’t like about him,” Dri says.

“Dri is, like, totally obsessed with him. Literally obsessed. She even took up the ukulele to get him to notice her. Hashtag fail.”

“I went through a twee phase. Whatever,” Dri says to me, and gives me a hug. “Arrgghh! You are now my favorite person in the world.”

I smile. Pretend not to notice Agnes’s dirty look.

D
ri’s plan is to live vicariously through me, which is a first, since no one has ever wanted to be me. Ever. I’ve been told to text if Liam says anything interesting. Actually, anything at all.

“You want to learn via text how to work the cash register?” I asked in all seriousness at the end of last period, just before I jumped into my car to go to my first shift at Book Out Below! I wasn’t sure how deep Dri’s obsession went, but as someone who has had my fair share of crushes, I understand the need for information. Details allow you to pretend that you actually know the person who you obsess over, even though you don’t know them at all.

“You can skip that part. Unless he does something cute while explaining it. Then yes, text away,” Dri said, fortunately understanding that I was not, in fact, making fun of her.

So far, Liam has said nothing worth memorializing, nothing really interesting at all. The cash register is the same model we had at the Smoothie King, so that shouldn’t be a problem. Mostly, my job seems to be to sit behind the counter and stand up when I hear the bell on the front door announce a new customer. Judging by Liam’s quick response time, it’s clear that this will soon become a reflex.

“What kind of music does your band play?” I ask. I purposely don’t say “Orgasmville,” mostly because I don’t think I can do it without blushing. The band’s logo is a big vaginal-looking O, with a tongue through it. The Rolling Stones meets Georgia O’Keeffe. And, of course, the name is trying too hard. I give them no points for subtlety.

“I guess rock. Sort of. You know Lou Reed?” I nod, though I’ve only vaguely heard of him. I’m not one of those people who can play the music game, one-upping people via obscure band references.

“Like him. But modern. And maybe even better,” he says, and smiles so that I know he’s just joking. He’s not cocky, like most of the senior boys, who take up too much space when they walk through the halls—all banging lockers and complicated handshakes and running commentary on the girls who are unlucky enough to pass by. Liam, despite swinging Earl, is a bit more contained, the kind of guy who might ask before kissing you.

“Who are you texting?” Liam asks, and I quickly tuck away my phone. I don’t want to embarrass Dri, though, truth be known, I get the feeling he has no idea who she is.

“My friend Dri. Well, her name is Adrianna. But everyone calls her Dri,” I say. He shrugs. Not interested. “She’s cool. She was sitting at the lunch table when you came up today.”

Again, no reaction. I wonder what he’d say if I told him that she knows his birthday, which colleges he’s applying to, and his favorite cafeteria foods. That in her head, they have a complex and fulfilling relationship. No matter that it’s purely one-sided. I think Dri might even prefer it that way. There are the girls like Gem and Crystal, fearless about guys and orifices and secretions, and there are the girls like Dri and me, who are terrified of rejection and mechanics and unfortunate angles. We realize just how far we still need to go till we can call ourselves women.

I may own my vagina, both in theory and in practice (we are on a first-name basis, Vag and me—Scar’s idea, by the way, not mine; no, not even a little bit mine), but that doesn’t mean I’m not terrified of its appetites. For a moment, I imagine Vag’s almost-blank résumé. Sixteen years: closed for business. Hobbies and interests: cheesy romance novels, collecting information about Ethan, Ethan Marks.

Oddly enough, I have no problem imagining having sex with someone (say, Ethan, Ethan Marks), but it’s not unlike imagining my Academy Awards speech. It’s something I can perform perfectly in my head—with both charm and agility and just the right dose of modesty—but it’s a speech that not only will never be delivered, but maybe shouldn’t be. Will I, one day, be able to sleep with a guy and not feel horribly awkward and tortured and not wonder what it all means? I assume so. But right now, the thought of that sort of exposure seems unimaginable, and mostly, if I’m totally honest, nothing short of terrifying.

“So you’re from Chicago, right?” Liam asks, and I wonder how he knows. We don’t have any classes together, since he’s a senior. Did his mom tell him? Is he Somebody/Nobody?

“Yeah. I just moved here,” I say.

“How do you like it?” he asks. He gathers his hair into a ponytail and then sets it free, again and again. The movements so precisely the same each time, it’s like watching a Vine.

“It’s okay. Still adjusting, I guess,” I say.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I say, and wonder if this counts as a scintillating-enough conversation to be reported to Dri. I wish I had more interesting things to say to Liam. My fear of saying something stupid often leaves me saying almost nothing at all. He doesn’t seem to have much to say himself. “You know, still meeting people.”

“I should introduce you to my girlfriend, Gem. She’s cool as shit. She’s a junior too.”

“Oh, Gem. Yeah, I think we have a few classes together,” I say, and I’m pretty sure I pull off the whole casual
I kinda know who your girlfriend is
thing. What I don’t say:
Your girlfriend sucks.

“Don’t worry. It’ll get easier. It’s always hard to be new,” he says. “Like, you know, my band. They were all together since, like, middle school, and I only joined last year. It was weird at first because of this whole crazy thing. But now they’re like my brothers. You should come hear us play.”

“Totally. Sounds like fun,” I say, and I mean it, if only because I’ll be able to bring Dri along and solidify our friendship.

Not sure how a high school rock band could have a sad story, but I’m sure I’ll hear it in all its glorious detail from Dri later. I feel like the kids at Wood Valley have enough money to be immune from truly sad stories, but of course that isn’t true. Not everything is for sale. I flash to my mom, bald and literally rotting from within, too weak even to squeeze my hand, and a wave of nausea hits me. It’s always been easier to remember her sick, maybe because that was the most recent iteration or, more likely, just the most searing. I blink, and thankfully, the image is gone.

“We’ve got a gig in a few weeks playing a party. It’s not a huge rager or anything. Just a chill time. You should come,” Liam says, and I feel the lightness of anticipation; I may actually have something to do on a Saturday night. It would be fun to get out. “It’s at Gem’s house.”

Oh. Yeah. So not going to happen.

“Is your music the kind of thing people dance to?” I ask Liam, seemingly out of nowhere.

“Huh?”

“Nothing,” I say.

E
than, Ethan Marks is already in the library when I arrive. He’s wearing his Batman T-shirt, of course, and is staring out the window, captivated, though I have no idea by what. All I can see is another cloudless sky, emptiness. His right hand massages his jaw, as if it’s sore from all the talking he refuses to do. I wouldn’t mind touching the rough texture of his cheek, feeling the knot where bone meets bone.

Did I just say that? Seriously? I take it all back. Sure, he’s hot. But he’s also kind of a jerk, and it’s a waste of my time to have a crush on the one guy every girl in school wants. I don’t have a shot.

Let’s get an A in English and move on. I have stuff to do: work, school, PSATs. Things are finally starting to feel under control for the first time since we moved. I have a job, because: money. I have Dri, who is fast becoming a real friend, and SN too, who I IM throughout the day. SN and I mostly “talk” about stupid stuff, but it’s fun having him in my pocket at all times.

“Hey,” I say, and fold my legs under me. Casual, relaxed, as if I don’t feel the least bit awkward. I’m not a terrible actress, it turns out. I almost believe me. When I look down and see a single brown hair sprouting from my ankle, though, it throws me off balance, and it takes all of my self-control not to yank down my jean cuffs.
Chill out. He’s not looking at your ankles. Sudden moves make you look nervous.

“Hey, Jessie.” That smile is back, and his face opens up for just a second before it closes again. “Ready to do this?”

“Sure,” I say, and I wonder if I’ll ever be able to move beyond monosyllabic answers with this guy. Scarlett talks more when she’s nervous—the adrenaline makes her witty, not slow—but my brain gets overwhelmed. Like I’ve stepped outside myself.

Ethan smells like lavender and honey. Fresh too, the opposite of that body spray all the boys in Chicago use, that horrible dome of chemical scent that would linger long after they walked away. Laundry detergent or cologne, I wonder? Does Ethan wash his shirt every night? Most likely he has his own Gloria to do it for him. Or maybe he has a Batman for every day of the week. And yes, I realize I’m starting to sound like Dri and her obsession with Liam, gathering details to mull over later.

Must. Stop. Now. I have a limited number of brain cells, and they’re better saved for my PSAT prep app.

“You read any poetry?” he asks me, but not really. He asks the window. Ethan is looking at the Great Beyond again. He’s somewhere else. Not like me most of the time, outside myself looking in, but outside himself completely. I recognize the look. There but not there. I’ve felt that way before: I’m physically present and accounted for, yet later, when I look back, I realize whole stretches of my day have been stolen. A body without a soul. Not unlike my mother, actually: there, somewhere—physically locatable, buried underground—but not there at all. Marked absent in every way that counts.

“Some,” I say.
A single syllable. Again.
Good thing he’s not listening. “I mean, yeah, I like poetry, and I read ‘The Waste Land’ a while back, but I didn’t really get it, you know? It’s like a mash-up of all these different voices.”

“Totally. I Googled it, and apparently everything alludes to something else. It’s almost like code,” he says, and then looks at me. He’s coming to again. Is he on something? Pot? Coke? Molly? Is that the sort of haze we are dealing with? But then he rubs his face, and I realize it’s just good-old fashioned fatigue. This boy is tired. Why doesn’t he sleep? What happens at night when he closes his eyes?

Stop it, Jessie.

I force myself to focus.

“Okay, let’s start with the very first line: ‘April is the cruellest month, breeding.’ What does that even mean? I know it’s poetic and kind of cool, especially the breeding part, but why April? Why is it crueler than any other month?” I ask.

“I don’t know. But I kind of hate April,” Ethan says, and then stops. He squints at me, almost angry. He didn’t mean to say that. A slip, somehow. But about what? I don’t get it. What does it even mean to hate April? I hated January in Chicago because it was effin’ cold, but we’re not talking about the weather here. He shakes himself out of it. “Do you like to walk? Why don’t we do this walking?”

Ethan doesn’t wait for my agreement, just gathers his books and his laptop, and so I follow him outside.

“I thought people in LA didn’t walk,” I say once I hear the school door close behind me. I always feel relief at that sound, another day done and survived. He slips on sunglasses, Ray-Bans, and now he’s even harder to read because I can’t see his eyes.

“I think better when I’m moving. It wakes me up. Want to hear what else I learned from Google?”

I nod, which is stupid because he’s not looking at me.

“Sure.”

“Eliot didn’t originally start the poem this way. Ezra Pound told him to cut, like, forty-three lines or something. So the whole April thing was supposed to come later. And back then, presumably he had to literally cut and paste, with, like, scissors and stuff.”

I close my eyes for a second and picture it, though I have no idea what T. S. Eliot looked like. But I imagine an old white guy with a monocle, a heavy pair of scissors, and a glue stick.

“I can’t imagine writing without a computer,” I confess. “When I use paper, it feels too…slow or something. My mind is faster than my hands.”

“Yeah, me too. So tell me something else I don’t know about you.” He cocks his head to the side, and this time he is looking at me. I’m grateful for his sunglasses, that extra layer of protection. His gaze is too strong. This, surely, is one of the many things that keeps the girls coming to his chair, these little moments of connection dished out sparingly, like tiny gifts. Maybe he’s intentionally stingy with them; too much and no one would ever leave him alone.

“I don’t know,” I say. “Not much to tell.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Okay, there’s lots to tell, but not so much you would want to hear.”
December, that’s the cruellest month,
I think.
Dead mothers’ birthdays and Christmas cheer. April too. The month of endings. And I like your Batman T-shirt and your scary eyes and I want to know why you don’t sleep enough. When I close my eyes at night, I see last moments, impossible goodbyes.

But I don’t dream anymore. Do you dream? I miss it.

“So, what about you?” I ask.

“ ‘Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing / Memory and desire, stirring / Dull roots with spring rain. / Winter kept us warm, covering / Earth in forgetful snow, feeding / A little life with dried tubers.’ ”

“You memorized ‘The Waste Land’?” I ask. “For real?”

“Most of it, yeah. I read poetry when I can’t sleep. I like to memorize it.”

“Seriously?”

“Now I’m totally embarrassed. Stop looking at me like that,” he says, but I’m the one whose face is red. I’ve been looking at him in, well, wonder. The guy reads poetry. For fun.

Swoon.

“I know it’s weird.”

He smiles, and so, so do I.

“No, that’s really cool.” I resist the urge to touch his shoulder.
Who is he?
I am officially Dri. All I want are more details. “Dried tubers?”

“I know, right? Like what the hell are dried tubers?”

Later, I lie down on my day bed, prop my feet up on its curved edge. IM with SN.

Heh. Apparently my afternoon with Ethan has left me braver. Reckless. When we said goodbye, next to my car, he put his hands in his jeans pocket, rocked back on his heels, and said, “Till next time.” Till next time. Three words that sound good together like that. All in a row. Poetic.

Crap. I did it again. Hit send without thinking. Who do I like? Who is this person? It’s not a lie. I like his words. I spend my day looking forward to writing to him, hearing his thoughts on stuff. But to just come out and say “I like you” without knowing who he is, with this ridiculous imbalance—he knows who I am, probably where I live—is just plain stupid. I’m asking for some sort of cosmic smackdown. Can I take it back? How do I do that? Do I just let it lie, enjoy for a moment that a guy—and yes, I realize I say that hopefully, that he is an actual guy from Wood Valley and not some sort of joke, or something totally weird I hadn’t thought of, like a cop who tries to catch child predators online or something—actually likes me?
Me.
I’m not sure that, other than maybe in sixth grade, when Leo Springer passed me a note that said
Let’s go out!!!
and was then my boyfriend for approximately twenty-two hours because I forgave the excessive punctuation but not his excessive hand sweating, which I later felt bad about when it turned out he had a serious glandular issue, any guy has ever said anything like those words to me: “I like you.” Screw it. I’m going to take a moment to revel.

No. This is too weird. I’m not reveling.

I’m freaking out.

I put my phone down for a second. I’m angry. Deflated. So he doesn’t like me, he just thinks I’m cool. It wasn’t like I was saying he thinks I’m the best thing in the world. It’s just…It felt good to be liked, whatever that means.

A long beat. I wait.

I think about SN’s sister. I don’t know why, but I picture a twelve-year-old girl, pigtails, sick. But of course that’s all in my imagination. I have too many questions: How old was she? How did she die? Then again, she’s no longer here. That’s what matters. The “hows” are, again, mere detail.

Later. Not now. Maybe I’ll ask later.