Fan Art (8 page)

and the banter of bilingual breakfast conversations—

none deeper than the contents of the fridge—

and I pray for a passport back to dreamland.

And yet woven into the lilt and trill is a nuance

spoken not out loud—even though we have

two languages and a thousand words and ways

to say it—simply, deeply, profoundly. I love you.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

THIRTEEN

I’m triple-checking the office door to
make sure it’s locked behind me when my cell rings.

The screen says
EDEN
. I answer, “Your number’s in my phone?”

“Yeah,” she says.

I wait for an explanation.

“I messed with it in art. When you were asleep.”

“But—” I start to protest that we weren’t even sitting next to each other yesterday. It’s no use. This is Eden. “Never mind. What’s up?”

“Want to do something?”

“Sure,” I agree.

“Pick me up?”

“When?”

“Whenever.”

I go directly from my mom’s office to Eden’s. The Redneck’s truck is in the driveway when I pull up. I park
in the street. I take a minute to check my hair in the rearview mirror before I ring the doorbell.

A very large man opens the door and stands there, fitting in the frame like a puzzle piece. I see where the Redneck got his build and, at the same time, I wonder why Eden’s so short. She has curves, so she isn’t small everywhere, but she comes up only to my chin.

“Hello, Mr. O’Shea?” It sounds like a question, but really, it’s an answer. An answer to why Eden wanted me to come over—part of her plot to be able to go to prom.

“Yes?” he prompts, as if asking me what I am selling.

“Is Eden home?”

He jerks in surprise, his head brushing the doorframe. When he recovers, he inspects me, tilting his head as he looks at my ears (which aren’t pierced), and then up and down twice as if checking to see if I had somehow sprouted breasts. When he looks certain that I am male, he says, “I believe she is.”

I do my best to smile.

He steps back and invites me in.

Nick is slouched on a plaid sofa in the living room. The TV is on, playing
America’s Funniest Home Videos.

“Eden!” Mr. O’Shea bellows in the direction of the staircase.

On the screen some guy gets hit in the balls with a baseball bat and I can’t help but wince. Nick, on the other hand, lets out an evil-villain chuckle. He seems to notice
me for the first time and looks my way.

I nod hello in his direction.

Nick mouths the words
fag mag.

Eden bounces down the stairs in a skirt and blouse, a cardigan sweater buttoned over the latter. She looks like something straight out of the 1950s. “Hi, James,” she says coyly. “How are you?”

“Fine, thank you,” I reply.

Mr. O’Shea’s eyes volley between us as if he’s a referee waiting for us to slip up.

I don’t dare. “My mother is expecting us,” I say, even though she isn’t.

Eden’s eyebrows pop up.

“For dinner,” I continue, partly because I think this will impress Mr. O’Shea, but also because I’m out of cash after the coffee, muffins, turkey sub, and soda I bought today.

“Oh,” her father says. “Well, you two have a nice time.”

“We will, Daddy,” Eden coos.

“Home by nine,” he says more to me than to her.

“Oh, goody! Thank you, Daddy!” Eden wraps her arms around his barrel chest, presses her face to his shirt, and says good-bye.

I open the passenger-side door for her, walk around, and slide in. “Thanks for the warning,” I say.

“About my dad?” she asks. “He’s a big teddy bear if you’re on his good side.”

“A teddy bear with a shotgun,” I answer.

“No shotgun. He likes you.”

I can finish that sentence. “Because I’m a guy, I suppose.”

“Bingo! If I’m out with you, well, they’re pretty sure they won’t find me sitting in a tree with a girl from church camp.”

“And Nick?”

Eden laughs. “They don’t worry about him. He’s yardstick straight.”

That wasn’t what I was asking. “Not that. Does Nick have a bullet with my name on it?”

“No. Not a bullet, exactly.”

“Comforting.”

“I tried to talk him into retracting his submission to
Gumshoe
.”

“You what?” I ask. “He didn’t want anyone to know he wrote it.”

“Um, yeah.” Eden studies her fingernails. “He kinda said.”

“You explained that it wasn’t my fault, right? That you saw it by accident.”

“Yeah, but, well . . .” She pokes at a cuticle. “He’s still kinda pissed.”

“Great,” I say. “The last thing I need is the Redneck mad at me.”

“Sorry.”

I’d like to say that when I walk into my house with a girl who is dressed suspiciously like she is on a date, that she doesn’t get the once-over. But she does. My mom looks at Eden first, and then at me. The twins hide behind mom’s legs, sans their usual shrieks.

I introduce Eden.

“Eden?” my mom clarifies, as if she was hoping for a “Steven” or an “Adam” or anything but a girl.

“Yeah,” Eden says. “Like the garden.”

Mom nods. “Nice to meet you.”

I point to one wide-eyed twin. “This is Elisabeth, or Ann Marie. I can’t tell them apart when they aren’t talking.”

Eden sinks to her haunches so she’s at twin eye level. “Hey.”

“C’mon, girls,” Mom coaxes. “Say hi to Jamie’s friend.”

“Hi,” the one that must be Elisabeth says. She steps around Mom and sits on her haunches too, her diapered rear sticking out.

“Hi,” Eden echoes.

I sit on the floor and pull Ann Marie onto my lap. She lets out a peal of giggles and a slobbery strand of drool as I inform Eden as to which twin is which.

“So,” Mom says. “Are you two on your way somewhere?”

I shake my head. “I thought we might have dinner here,” I say.

“Oh, um, okay,” Mom says. “There’s probably something in the freezer.”

Like I was expecting anything else.

Eden watches as I pull out frozen pizzas. I let her choose the toppings, and then I put two in the oven. We open cans of soda and sit at the table.

Eden asks about Challis’s graphic short story—apparently Challis hadn’t shared the details with anyone. “You’ve read it, haven’t you?”

I nod.

“So. Is it über-magnificent-amazing?”

“Pretty much.”

“You don’t, by any chance, have it?” Eden asks.

And warning bells ring between my eardrums, an echo of Eden reading her brother’s poem when she shouldn’t have. “Maybe,” I drawl. “But if Challis kept it secret—”

“She would have shown it to me,” Eden reasons. “If Ms. Maude hadn’t started in on her slides.”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t want to give Challis any more reasons to hate me.”

“Puh-leeze,” Eden whines.

“Okay,” I say as if I’m giving in. “I’ll give it back to Challis; then she can show you.”

“No fair.”

“Fair,” I say, and soon we are bickering like kindergarteners.

“So you’ll take it to Game Den tonight?” Eden puts down her deal breaker.

“Game Den?” I ask. I’ve been once or twice, but mostly I play video games at Mason’s.

“Yeah. Everyone’s gonna be there. But my dad doesn’t let me go—especially not with Challis and crew.”

“We’re going to Game Den?” I ask, but I know the answer.

Eden nods. “My treat.”

“You huge-Hoover-vacuum-suck at killing zombies.” Eden slides her hand into mine as we leave Game Den, where we met up with Challis and the art-geek girls for two hours of video game entertainment. We’re walking across the parking lot in search of nourishment because Challis is hungry.

“Hey,” I protest, even though I do suck. “I saved you from a stomper or two.”

“Only because you got in the way.”

“We gotta go,” one of the girls says. “See you in school?”

Challis pouts but gives the group of them hugs. Eden does the same. I just say good night. After they leave, I stop at my car and pull Challis’s folder with her comic out
of my backpack. I give it back to her. “I’m sorry,” I say.

Her face crumples. “Rejected?” she asks.

“Yeah, but I’m going to try again. I got a scan of it.” I attempt to sound positive.

“You think they’ll change their minds?”

“Maybe. Some of the staff really liked it—I know I did.” I tell her, not mentioning why they rejected it.

“You’ll talk to them?” Challis asks, a flicker of hope in her blue eyes.

“I will. Monday.”

She tucks the folder under her arm and leads us in the direction of Mexican fast food. Eden buys a round of sodas, plus a plate of nachos for the three of us to share.

“Wow, thanks!” Challis and I say, practically in unison.

“No problem,” Eden says while she pays. “The least I can do for my two best friends.”

Challis and I exchange glances as if to ask,
We’re her best friends?

I shrug and take the paper cups off the counter. I hand one to Challis and she leads the way to the fountain machine. Like a gentleman, I let her go first. She starts with Mountain Dew and proceeds down the line of levers until her cup is full.

My stomach feels queasy just thinking about the taste of that. I go for a regular old Pepsi before we choose a
booth by the window.

Eden soon joins us with a plate piled high with chips, cheese, and toppings.

We dig in.

“May I read your story?” Eden asks Challis. “I heard it was über-maginificent-amazing.”

Challis shoots me a look, as if she is blaming me for Eden’s interest.

I hold my hands up like a traffic cop.

“Okay, okay,” Challis agrees. “You can read it. Just no greasy fingers.”

Eden beams, wipes her hands on her napkin, and then holds them out for inspection.

Challis nods.

Eden then opens the folder as if the contents were more holy than the Gutenberg Bible and starts to read.

I can tell where she is in the story by the sounds she makes. “Oh no” when Tony is teased; “aw” when he talks to his dad; and a squeal followed by “OMG. They’re sooo cute!” at the end. After which she bounces up and down like she needs a visit the little girls’ room.

“Awesomesauce!” she announces. “It’s really, really good, Challis.”

I think I see a gloss of near tears in Challis’s eyes.

But she just smiles and says, “Thank you.”

Eden turns to me. “Did it get rejected because of the LGBTQueness?”

I process the alphabet soup of her question and admit to half the reason it got rejected. “Sorta. Yeah.”

Challis reaches over and takes the folder back, a muffled string of choice vocabulary spilling from her lips.

“I’m gonna try again,” I say.

“Thanks,” she says weakly, as if she thinks I’m powerless.

“But it’s sooo good,” Eden whines. “Challis, you’re so amazingly talented. . . .” She trails off, thinking. “We could start, like, a petition or something!”

Challis gives me another one of her I-blame-you-for-bringing-this-up looks.

But Eden keeps on babbling, ticking things off on her fingers, “The GSA students, the Mathletes, the Japanese club—” She stops when Challis touches her hand. A blush rises to her cheeks.

“Thanks,” Challis says. “But it’s okay.”

On the way home, Eden points me to a shortcut to her neighborhood. I follow her directions, turning left and right when she tells me to until I recognize her street.

Eden points to a cheery yellow house with lots of lights on. “You know Lia Marcus?” she asks, but doesn’t wait for an answer. “She lives there.”

“Oh,” I say, glancing over at the house.

“We used to be best friends,” Eden tells me. “Sleepovers-every-weekend, finish-each-other’s-sentences best friends.”

“Yeah?”

“We’d walk to each other’s houses and watch soap operas every afternoon.”

“Not anymore?” I look over at her. I’ve noticed that even though she tries to fit in with Challis’s friends, she always seems to be on the outskirts.

But she stares out the window at the porch lights of passing houses. “Not since I came out.”

My gut feels like I swallowed an ice cube. “Ouch.”

“Yeah. At first she pretended to be cool with it—kinda
So you like girls, who cares?
—but I could tell it bothered her because she wouldn’t change her clothes in front of me.”

“People are weird like that,” I say. “If you like girls in general, they think you like them in particular.”

“Ew!” Eden says. “That squicks me out. She was my best friend.”

I might not be on the honor roll, but I get her gist: Kissing your best friend sometimes has the “ew” factor of kissing a sibling. I think of Mason and his slow-motion smile, the shape of his lips. Too bad I didn’t get that brand of squick.