The Secrets of Attraction (18 page)

“Go ahead.”

Moments later Paul's favorite was playing in the dining room, singing a song about Atlantic City. Paul hummed along in between loud, crunchy bites of his Granny Smith. It wasn't a particularly romantic song but it took on new meaning to me every time I heard the chorus. Did it mean anything to Paul when he heard it? Did he think about winning at craps, a night with my mother?
Ick.
My cheeks grew warm. With Jesse into grunge or punk, or “grunk”, I was sure listening to this must have been like nails across a chalkboard to him.

“Sorry for the, um, oldies,” I said, working the dye into his hair.

“It's fine, he's cool. My dad listens to Springsteen all the time.”

He smiled again. It was a smile I could trust.

“Mine too,” I whispered.

“Jess, my god, you have the patience of a two-year-old—sit still,” I said.

We'd moved up to my bathroom to let Paul begin his culinary genius while I dried Jesse's hair. I'd made him sit on my fuzzy pink toilet cover, facing the tank so he couldn't look in the mirror. He kept squirming, trying to sneak a peek. I wanted the look to be complete before the final reveal. It came out pretty hot, if I did say so myself. His blue eyes stood out in contrast to his dark hair. I'd shaped his long bangs with jagged edges, so he looked a little like a manga character. He would be irresistible onstage.

“You know I pretty much run a towel across my head, no muss, no fuss.”

“Even when you play?”

“Yep.”

“No mousse, gel?”

“No and no. Just falls flat in my face after two minutes of playing, anyway.”

“Well, you might want to change that; I can recommend something,” I said, turning off the hair dryer.

“I'm playing a bar in Hoboken, not the Garden.”

“You gotta start somewhere. Okay, get up,” I said, covering his eyes with my hands.

“Is this really necessary,” he said, rising up. He was tall and lean and deceptively muscular, not in a Zach way, but still, in a way.

My head reached a good two inches below his shoulders, and I had to stand on tiptoe to keep my hands over his eyes, my body brushing his back. We shuffled so we both faced forward. For a split second, I regretted that I hadn't cleaned my vanity and felt a wave of embarrassment at the sheer amount of product that littered it—the blob of dried toothpaste on the edge of the sink, an open tube of liquid base makeup, an oversize can of hairspray, the Hello Kitty gel cling that had been stuck to my mirror since I was eight years old. Then I remembered his smile. Even if he thought it was messy, I didn't think he'd care.

“Okay, one, two, three.” I slid my hands off his eyes.

He clamped his hands over his mouth as he stared at his reflection.

“Holy shit,” he said.

“Is that good?”

He whistled and moved his head from side to side to check out each angle.

“Holeeeey shit,” he said again, louder. “Tanner is going to be relentless.”

“You don't like it?”

“No,” he laughed, “I mean, yeah, I like it, just have to get used to it.”

“I think it looks great.”

We stood side by side, looking at each other in the mirror. I still couldn't believe he let me talk him into doing his hair. I'm not sure what had possessed me to ask, either. I only knew I'd wanted him to hang out with me longer than saying, “I like this logo, see ya.” He bent down bit, putting his head next to mine.

“We're like opposites now.”

“Now?”

We stayed cheek-to-cheek for a long moment, like we were sitting in a photo booth about to get our picture taken. That's when it came into focus—we looked really
good
together. My heart surged hot with the realization. Had he put two and two together at all—that I could have easily sent him the logo files in an email? That there was no real need for us to get together other than I simply wanted to see him outside of ordering a hot drink?

Ever since I'd cropped that photo, I'd built up some imagined personal history of Jesse. I kept working on the sketch, refining his features. What would he do if he knew I was drawing a picture of him? It made me wonder about him, how he spent his time other than making coffee and band practice. Did he have any siblings? Did he have a girlfriend?

“Anyone hungry?” Paul called up the stairs.

“Ah, be right down.” I stepped away from Jesse, occupied myself with unplugging the hair dryer and rolling up the cord. He slid his hands into his back pockets.

“Um, let me put those logo files on a flash drive for you, that way you can do what you want.” I stowed the dryer away, stood up to face him. There was another beat where he didn't move, looked like he wanted to say something, but then he shifted, and I walked past him to the door.

“Yeah, cool, I'll show them to the guys,” he said, thumping down the stairs behind me. “I'll let you know which one we go with.”

Paul was at the dining room table, plate of steaming veggies and the newspaper spread out in front of him. My laptop was opened to the logos. I grabbed my extra flash drive and plugged it into the computer.

Paul looked up. “Wow, interesting.”

Jesse ran a hand over his hair and grinned. “Yeah, I like it.”

“He's a rock star, Paul, has to look the part.”

“Really?”

“No, just a guitar player.”

“What sort of music?”

They spoke about their musical likes and dislikes as the files downloaded, strangely enough finding some common ground with the Stones and Pink Floyd. Jesse looked so animated when he told Paul about playing at Whiskey Business. I knew I'd said I'd think about going to see him, but hearing him talk about it again made me want to be there even more. The eighteen-and-over thing could be a problem, but I figured since Gray was in the band, Wren would definitely be going too, underage or not. We'd put our heads together and figure something out.

“You sure you don't want any stir-fry? There's plenty,” Paul said.

“No thanks, I have to get going,” Jesse said, grabbing his jacket.

I handed him the flash drive. “I'll walk you out.”

Paul raised his eyebrows in approval at me. I shook my head and threw my jacket over my shoulders, ushering Jesse out the door and onto the porch.

“You don't have to walk me out, it's cold,” he said.

“I'm fine. You sure you like your hair? Because if for any—”

“It's great. Only I think I miss getting a root beer lollipop from Vito.”

“Well, no lollipops here, only stir-fry.”

He laughed and juggled the flash drive in his palm.

“Madison, are you sure I don't owe you anything for this? This is a lot, the hair, the logo—I just--”

“No, really, I was happy to do it, and the hair was just a bonus. It's what friends do, right?”

“Yeah, but maybe I'll have to throw a couple of free chais your way.”

“Now you have me figured out.”

We laughed, our breath disappearing in cold, white wisps. Jesse's eyes were on mine, intent. He chuckled, shrugged his shoulders to his ears, and all at once something shifted—I had the feeling he was thinking of kissing me because I was thinking of kissing him, how easy it would be just to reach up and brush my mouth across his. The moment passed, and he took a step back.

“Thank you,” he said. “I guess I'll see you at Mugshot.”

“See ya,” I said, waiting until he got to the foot of the stairs to go inside.

I was about to head upstairs, but stopped short. Something in the way Paul was just sitting alone in the dining room nagged at me. This was the first time we were together without Mom in the house. I went out to the kitchen and grabbed a small bowl of stir-fry, then took a seat at the dining room table. A happier, more upbeat Springsteen song played in the background.

“Seems like a nice kid,” he said, turning a page of his newspaper. “I like him better than the shirtless guy, that one seemed like, what do you say, a player?”

I nearly choked on my brown rice. “Zach? He's not a player. He plays soccer, but that's about it.”

“Is Zach your boyfriend?”

“Um, maybe we can talk about something other than my love life?”

“Awkward?” he finished.

“Yeah,” I said.

“What should we talk about?”

“Maybe how weird it is to think about things we
should talk about
?”

“Maddie, I'm trying here. I mean, I'm still me and you're still you, we've never had trouble talking before.”

He was right.

“Okay, tell me something a father would tell his kid,” I said.

“That seems deep. Like what?”

“Favorite color?”

“Blue.”

“Robin's egg or periwinkle? There's lots of different shades.”

“Sky blue.”

“Okay there's a start.”

“What is it that you like about art?” he asked me.

“That's that's a pretty complex one,” I said.

“Not really.”

“I love creating something where there was nothing before. A sketch, a design on my hand Who knows, someday a building, maybe?”

“Is that why you want to go to design camp?”

“You know about that?”

“Your mother told me about your summer plans. Where are you applying again?”

They'd talked about me? I wondered if it had been before or after.

“New Jersey Design Institute—it's a two-week thing. You study all different areas but the focus is on architecture and building up your portfolio. They have dorms, and field trips. I'm applying for a scholarship.”

“I'd like to help.”

At first I didn't understand what he meant. Help how? Drive me there? Then I realized he was talking about money. The funny thing was, if Paul had told me two weeks ago that he wanted to help, I would have been thrilled. Now I wondered if there was more to it. Did he feel like he
had
to help me? Or did he
want
to help me?

“You don't have to do that.”

He took his time folding the paper, then tucked it next to his empty plate and sat back in his chair, arms folded.

“I want to do it, Madison. You're talented. Your sketches—”

“You've seen my sketchpad?”

“It was on the dining room table. I may have peeked. I'm sorry if I wasn't supposed to.”

“No, no, that's okay,” I said.

“Look, I have the money, and even if you weren't my daughter, I'd want to do this. If you have a hard time thinking of me as your father, think of me as, let's say, a benefactor. Someone who wants to see you succeed.”

Benefactor
sounded stranger than father.

“Why didn't you say something sooner?”

Jazz had convinced Wren and me to go on a slow run with her. I'd thought it would be a great time to tell them about my father news and it mostly was, except for the small problem of not being able to form words. Jazz sounded like she could have belted out a power anthem while Wren and I were chugging air. We were also on recon to casually run (or pass out) by St. Gabriel's lacrosse practice to stalk Logan. Sweaty, gross, and looking like someone had slapped my face several times was not the way I usually wanted to look in the presence of St. Gabe's boys, but for Jazz I made an exception.

“Wow . . . that's . . . a . . . to . . . tal . . . mind . . . fuck,” Wren said between gasps for air.

I wanted to say,
YES!
Mindfuck
is the perfect word!
But one word was all I could manage.

“Yup.”

“How are you handling it?”

I shrugged.

“I just can't believe you didn't tell us this before.” Jazz didn't miss a beat, her bright purple sneakers barely making a sound as she jogged gracefully along the tree-lined trail. I stopped short, put my hands on my knees and my head down, trying to get my breathing back to normal.

“If you want the story . . . ,” I said, “then . . . how about . . . a slow walk?”

“YES,” Wren said, stopping too.

Jazz kept going until she realized we weren't with her, then jogged back with a grin.

“Geez, guys, prom season is, like, two months away, I thought we were going to keep each other motivated.”

“I'll eat fewer peanut butter cups,” Wren said.

“Ditto,” I said.

Jazz stood there, hands on her hips, and waited for us to catch our breath, then we continued to walk as I told them about Paul. How I found out the morning after the dance. That I'd wanted to tell them about him but couldn't find the right time. What my mother said about Atlantic City. How Paul wanted to be my
benefactor.

“Wow, Mads. I look at my sister, and how much support she has around her—Junior isn't even here and I'm lined up for babysitting this summer. I can't imagine Brooke doing it all on her own. That must have been tough.”

“I know, but still—why keep it from me all this time? I don't know if that's something I can get past. One minute everything's okay and I think I have a handle on it, then I get pissed about it again. She kept saying that Paul was different, that he might not have wanted to support her. I can't imagine that—he seems pretty generous now.”

“You need to think about it differently. I mean, he's your father, he should give you some financial support—especially if he wants to,” Jazz said.

“The benefactor thing seems weird—but it might be nice to just sit back and enjoy the free ride. It'd be crazy not to, right?”

Even as the words came out of my mouth it felt like I was trying too hard to talk myself into it. My mom always stressed the importance of being independent. She lived it. Even if it seemed like it was to a fault at the moment.

When we got closer to the lacrosse fields, Jazz motioned for us to stop.

“Okay, here's what we're going to do,” she said. “Once we hit the bottom of the hill, we'll start jogging—there's some bleachers next to the practice field and we can stop and stretch there. And then maybe I'll just kind of wave. How's that?”