Know Not Why: A Novel (8 page)

I pretend to pay attention instead. Write my
name a couple of times on the empty page in front of me. Scribble
it out, hard.

+

Kissing’s pretty much kissing, right? A mouth’s
a mouth. It doesn’t really matter who it’s attached to. It’s a
universal body part. It’s like an elbow.

It’s like my elbow bumped into his elbow.

It’s not like that’s even a deal, right?

Who even pays attention to that?

It’s just elbows, man. Chillax.

It’s like that.

And if it didn’t completely gross me out … well,
it’s not like that’s a big deal. It’s human instinct at work. When
your eyes are shut, you can’t get freaked out by eyelashes or
wiry-but-inarguable masculinity.

I’m not saying I
liked
it. I’m just
saying I’ve had worse.

I wouldn’t put it past Artie to wear girly
chapstick. Maybe that’s why I didn’t react as fast as I should
have, didn’t ninja-leap right the fuck outta there. I mean, it’s
not like I’m gonna judge a guy for chapstick use in general. But
maybe Artie goes for the strawberry flavor. Hell, maybe he even
splurges on that Burt’s Bees stuff – maybe he’s got
girl
lips, soft vanilla honey flavor lips, and what’s a guy gonna do
with that? If he’s caught off-guard, if he’s got his eyes shut and
all of a sudden he’s being kissed by this
girl mouth
…
reflexes are bound to slow down a little, you know?

Exactly. Exactly.

So. Problem solved. For me, anyway. If Arthur’s
stressing about this right now, if he’s really beating himself up
over it, well, then,
good
. He should be. It was his whole
thing. He’s the one who wears girl chapstick. Probably.

Me? I’m just an innocent bystander.

+

My mom asks me to do some grocery shopping, so I
do. Normal weekend, normal stuff. Amber and Mitch come along. It’s
just the three of us, a shopping list, and aisle upon aisle of
purchasable perishables. Good times. Good, boring, normal weekend
times for my good, boring, normal weekend.

“Jesus, how old are you, five?” Amber demands of
Mitch, who’s gleefully pushing the shopping cart forward and then
leaping up onto it, rolling down the aisles.

Mitch puts his feet down early, bringing the
cart to a screeching stop. He looks back at us, not the slightest
bit shamed. Mitch doesn’t really do shame. “You wanna try?”

Amber rolls her eyes. “No.”

“You could get inside and I could push you,”
Mitch persists.

Amber stares at him for a really long time. His
enthusiasm doesn’t even flicker.

“Maybe you’re four,” she concludes with a
sigh.

“You’re no fun,” Mitch says good-naturedly.

“Weirdo,” Amber dubs him, then turns her
attention to me. “Did she say what kind of spaghetti sauce?”

“Nope,” I report.

“Huh.” We contemplate the shelf in front of us.
So many jars. So much red. Choosing seems hard. Unnaturally hard.
And me, I want to do this right. I want to put everything I’ve got
into this damn shopping trip. I want quality food at a reasonable
price; I want to be a savvy saver. If anything tries to make this
shopping trip less than motherflipping ideal, I will
eff it
up
. You wanna test me on that one? Really? Really, friend?

I notice that I’m drumming my fingers against
the shopping list in a spastic beat, and I force myself to stop.
Good, boring, normal weekend.

“Go Ragu,” Mitch says with a decisive nod.
“Definitely. Ragu’s
boss
.”

Amber defiantly grabs a jar of Prego. Mitch is
dismayed.

“Ambie, you’re missing out. Seriously.”

“Mitchell Ballard, you do not get to call me
Ambie,” Amber snaps. “That’s not going to become a legitimate
thing, not
ever
, okay?”

“Okay,” Mitch agrees easily. He waits like two
seconds, then throws in a mumbled, “Ambie.”

We sneak a discreet fist bump. Amber scoffs in
disgust, then takes over shopping cart duty.

“Am
berrrr.
”

“Your privileges are officially revoked, Mitchy
Mitch.” She turns to me. “What next?”

I check the list. Don’t drum on the list. Just
check the list. “Cereal.”

“What kind?” Amber asks.

And it’s just, I don’t know, it suddenly seems
like this incredibly good question
.

“I don’t know,” I reply, staring down at my
mom’s messy cursive. It’s like it’s mocking me with its vagueness.
Cereal.
“She didn’t say. I guess she expects me to be
psychic.”

“Or maybe she’s just not feeling picky,” Amber
counters.

“Still,” I say, and god
dammit
, I really
want to drum my stupid fingers against the stupid list. “She could
have at least specified. ‘Cereal’ – what is that? That could mean
anything! That could mean Cheerios, that could mean Captain
Crunch—”

“
Nice.
” (Mitch.)

“—that could mean Malto-frickin’-Meal.”

“Or Poptarts.” (Still Mitch.)

“Poptarts aren’t a cereal, Mitchell.”

“Yeah, but—”

“No. They’re just
not
.”

“Oh, fine.”

Amber looks at me with her most piercing of
gazes. “What’s up with you today?”

Right. Maybe that got a little weird. Maybe
people aren’t usually so passionate about cereal. In an ideal
world, they would be. Cereal matters. Balanced breakfasts
matter
. But apparently it’s uncool to show any sort of
concern about this very real issue, because Amber’s looking at me
like she knows something’s up, and while Freaking Out About Cereal
doesn’t lead one right to Yesterday I Had An Encounter With A Guy
That Was Maybe A Little Unusual, I still realize I need to chill.
And so I set the list down in the shopping cart, right on the
little baby seat, and I ask, “Whaddya mean?”

“You’re acting really weird,” Amber says. “Ever
since you picked me up. You’re all high-strung.”

“I’m not high-strung,” I protest.

“You are,” Amber insists. Why is she my friend
again? “You seem like you’re going to start freaking out all over
the place any second.”

“I do not,” I say, looking to Mitch for
solidarity.
Hos be crazy, brutha,
that whole thing.

But then what Mitch does is squint thoughtfully
at me and say, “Yeah, sort of.”

What?
What
? Et tu, Mitchman.

“Spill,” Amber orders, forgetting our quest for
cereal. “Did something else happen with Kristy?” There’s a pause,
just long enough for her expression to turn horrified. “You didn’t
try something with her anyway, did you? God, Howie—”

“No! What do you think I am, nuts?”

“Yeah,” Amber replies, not even trying to be
delicate about it. “That’s why we’re having this conversation. Are
you still upset about it, then? Is that it?”

“No,” I reply, and it’s almost like I’m not even
lying. “I’m over it.”

“Clearly you’re not.”

Seriously, what does she want from me??

“Okay, fine,” I say sharply. “I’m not over it.
I’m still really pissed off. I thought she was great, I thought she
was this really great, hot girl, and I thought I was gonna get to
have sex with her, and I didn’t, and I never get to, and that
sucks. Because I really just wanted to tap that like a spine. And
now I can’t. So. Yeah. I’m having some feelings.”

Amber’s quiet for a really long time.

“Tap that like a spine,” she repeats,
doubtful.

“I said what I said,” I reply obstinately.

“Tough luck, man,” Mitch says. He gives me a
reassuring knock on the shoulder. “Let’s go get some Poptarts.”

“Poptarts are not the answer to our horny, sick,
sad friend’s problems,” Amber says, admonishing Mitch with a Level
3 Amber Glare. A normal person would be driven to shudder in fear;
Mitch kinda just looks at her.

“Amber,” he says imploringly, “the
s’more
kind
.”

Amber eyes me, this ‘there’s no way you’re gonna
fall for this, right?’ look.

I stare back, then conclude, truthfully,
“Poptarts are awesome.”

“Okay,” Amber says, pushing the cart forward
with sudden, scary fervor. “You guys are idiots.”

I’m feeling a little better as we make our way
over to the cereal aisle, watching Amber power on with her special
brand of cart-pushing fury while we amble behind her. This is cool.
Grocery shopping’s cool. My friends are cool. My life is pretty
good, just the way it is.

“I think my mom likes Raisin Bran,” I remember
aloud. “Hey, do you guys think the generic brand is—”

“Oh my God,” Amber says, hushed. “Is that – oh
my God, it is!”

I look over to where she’s staring, at the other
end of the aisle. There, mid-reach for a carton of oatmeal, is
Arthur.

Every piece of me – every nerve, every hair,
every damn cell – sings out one matching song in perfect harmony,
and that song is
FUUUUUUUCK.

“That’s him!” Amber exclaims softly. “That’s
Arthur Kraft!”

“Really?” Mitch asks, interested and way too
loud.

I’m frozen. I can’t do anything.

“Go say hi,” Amber whispers, clutching my arm.
“I dare you.”

Why does she think this is funny? This isn’t
funny. This is sick. Meanwhile, Arthur inspects the oatmeal and
doesn’t seem to find it to his liking, because he puts it back. Oh,
God, Kraft, pick some oatmeal and
scram
, what is your
problem
.

But nope, he’s still there. He doesn’t look
casual or relaxed, not even a little bit weekendy. He’s wearing a
scarf and this nice black peacoat, he’s wearing a
peacoat
,
he’s one of those guys who wears a peacoat, like, what is this,
Vermont? You gonna go to a bed ‘n breakfast next, Artie? Have some
… leaves … fall on you? … I’m realizing I don’t know a whole lot
about Vermont. Point is, who is he trying to kid with the peacoat?
And
he’s carrying a six pack of that natural soda stuff that
costs like two times as much as a twelve-pack of something normal.
He’s standing there, picking out oatmeal. Being Arthur.

It’s weird and terrible, just fucking terrible
to be looking at him. It’s almost like I convinced myself he didn’t
exist, after … after what happened, and all of a sudden it’s like,
here he is, in the flesh, he’s still a flesh-type creature that
exists, and it’s flesh that’s been in contact with
my
flesh,
I wish I would stop thinking the word ‘flesh,’ you know what’s a
gross, creepy, weird word? ‘Flesh.’ I think my brain is melting. I
think I’m having a stroke. Or a coronary. Or porphyria. I KNEW HE
WOULD GIVE ME PORPHYRIA.

“Howie?” Oh, yeah, Amber. Amber exists. And
she’s looking up at me, smile falling off her face.

“Hey, let’s go,” I say, trying to sound
normal.

“Oh, come on, just go say hi—”

“I’m not saying hi.”

“Come on, I want to see if he acts as weird as
you say he does—”

“He does, let’s – hey, juice, we have to go get
juice.” Mighty list, you are my salvation.

“It’ll take like two seconds—”

“JUICE, AMBER.”

God, if he looks over here, I don’t know what
I’ll do. I’ll fuck shit up. That’s what I’ll do.

I take off, because I’m not willing to chance
it. I fucking
fly
to the juice aisle, and I don’t bother to
look back and see if Amber and Mitch are keeping up. They can deal
with Artie if they want to. Me, I’m getting out and I’m getting out
now.

I don’t slow down until I’m staring at a carton
of Tropicana. It’s like a beacon of hope. A really citrusy
beacon.

“What the hell was that?”

I turn around to see Amber and Mitch
approaching. In the frenzy, Mitch regained control of the shopping
cart.

“I just don’t want to deal with that guy,” I
say, sounding weirdly out of breath. But that’s okay, because it’s
not like they could ever guess why. Never in a million years could
they guess. “I see him enough during the week.”

“Okay,” Amber says. “Well, I’m
disappointed.”

“Too bad,” I say, grabbing my hope-affirming
carton of Tropicana.

“Duuuude,” Mitch says, “come on. Minute
Maid.”

“You know,” Amber says thoughtfully, “he got
hot.”

What now??

“
Artie
?” I repeat incredulously.

“Yeah,” Amber says, like it’s no big deal, like
it’s an acceptable choice, as a human being, to find The Second in
any way attractive. “He’s kind of rocking the whole smart-sexy
vibe.”

Does not compute.

“Are you sure?” I ask lamely.

“No, I’m just making it up,” Amber deadpans.

“I dunno,” I say, trying to tread carefully. So
super-carefully. “I think he just seems dweeby.”

“In high school he was dweeby,” Amber replies,
matter-of-fact. “Now he’s definitely good-looking.”

“You only saw him for like five seconds,” I
protest. “And it was just his side. Maybe he just looks good on
that side.”

“Or maybe he
looks good
.”

“I don’t know, I think he’s weird-looking. He’s
all tall and skinny and like – tall, right?? Don’t you think he’s
like offensively tall?”

Amber’s staring at me like I’m nuts. “Not even a
little bit.”

I feel stupidly flustered right now. “Okay,
well, he’s still just like – and then there’s his friggin’
eyelashes—”

“You noticed his eyelashes?” Amber asks, like
it’s weird to do.

It
is
, I realize with a horrible sinking
feeling. It’s weird to notice somebody’s eyelashes.

“Anyone would notice his eyelashes,” I say,
trying valiantly to fight my way out of this hole and losing,
losing. “They do that thing. You know, that thing that you hate and
always rant about.” She stares blankly at me, like she hasn’t
subjected me to that rant
five billion times.
“Where he
looks like he’s wearing mascara, but he’s not – or, actually, you
know what, I don’t know, he’s a weird-ass freak. Maybe he does wear
mascara. It’s like, you can’t not look at them. It’s not like I was
looking at his eyelashes. I just … I saw his eyelashes.”