Real Live Boyfriends (3 page)

I banged on Mom’s door so she knew I was
home, then climbed out on the porch roof
outside my bedroom window. Tried to stealth it
down the rose trellis. Figured I’d sneak back out
and see you again because: all of a sudden I
missed you like a complete sap. Even though I
just saw you
.

Planned the grand romantic gesture
.

Nearly died trying to climb down rose trellis
.

Really. Nearly died
.

Seriously
.

Okay, didn’t nearly die. But did scrape my arm
on some thorns
.

The need for Band-Aids trumped my plan to
sneak up to your bedroom window and throw
pebbles until you saw me standing there in the
moonlight
.

Grand romantic gesture crashes and burns
.

Bright side: I did use the bacon Band-Aids you
got me. There are three on my arm with actual
blood soaking through
.

In the moonlight
,

Noel

Even though I know there is no such thing as a happy ending7, a little part of me thought I had found one.

Even though some people hated Noel and me being together.

Even though having a real live boyfriend didn’t solve my mental problems or fix my family.

Even though life wasn’t a movie.

It still
felt
like a happy ending. It did.

Until eight weeks later.

1
Scamming mate: You fool around, but
you don’t hang out. Ever
.

2
Friend with benefits: You fool around, and
you do hang out, but you are not
going
out
.

3
Kind-of, sort-of, it’s-all-very-confusing
boyfriend: Self-explanatory
.

4
Polka-dot is a harlequin Great Dane,
spotted like a dalmatian. He is
not
a
reasonable dog to have living with me, my
mom and my dad in a tiny houseboat
.

But then, nothing about my life is
reasonable
.

5
Greg is my dad’s friend who has panic
attacks so bad he never leaves his home.

Which is completely what will happen to
me if I don’t get a handle on the panic
badness that happens to me ever since
the debacles of sophomore year. If you
want to see Greg, you have to go over to
his garbage-y, plant-filled apartment and
bring him Chinese food. It is deeply pitiful
.

6
“Keep On Loving You”: Retro power
ballad by REO Speedwagon. Dad is
obsessed with retro metal. I think it makes
him feel like he’s still seventeen. Though
why anyone would
want
to feel like they’re
seventeen I have no idea
.

7
You can’t have an ending. It’s impossible.

Because unlike in the movies, life goes on.

You’re never at the end until you die
.

Panic Attacks and Rabbit Fever!

an unedited video clip:

Blurry images. Green stuff. Flowers. The focus locks on a very small greenhouse filled with rare blooms grown in containers.

Outside the glass walls, a warm July drizzle over the lake.

Inside, Roo and Noel sit together on a wooden crate too small to hold both their butts.

Roo wears her new rhinestone-studded glasses and a T-shirt of Noel’s that reads DEATH: OUR NATION’S

NUMBER ONE KILLER. The gap between her two front teeth keeps showing because she’s smiling so much.

Noel’s hair has too much gell in it and his arms look scrawny. His eyes are laughing.

Roo: The inauguration of my digital video
camera
.

Noel: (doesn’t say anything; looks at his
hands)

Roo: I bought it this morning with money I
made mucking out stalls at the zoo and
selling Birkenstocks to people with
disgusting feet
.

Noel: (stares like a deer at the camera)
Roo: (turning) Are you going to say
something?

Noel: I feel dumb. The camera makes
everything seem fake, suddenly
.

Roo: I feel dumb too. But let’s shoot some
footage so I can practice editing
.

Noel: Okay
.

Roo: Just get past the dumb
.

Noel: You got it
.

Roo: Today is July eighteenth, I think.

We’re sitting in my dad’s greenhouse
and …

Noel: (starts kissing Roo on the neck)
Roo: (laughing) What are you doing?

Noel: You said ignore the dumb
.

Roo: Yeah, but—

Noel: And you said you wanted to practice
editing
.

Roo: So?

Noel: (still kissing) So I’m ignoring the
dumb and giving you something to edit out
.

I spent a lot of time at Noel’s place that summer. He lived with his mom and stepdad in a Victorian-style house in Madrona. He had two little half sisters and his folks were always around, cooking or scolding or complaining about the clutter. It was a nice place to be. Mrs. DuBoise told me flat out I could stay for dinner any night I wanted.

Noel didn’t have a summer job1, but he was expected to take charge of his little sisters two days a week. He’d bring them to the zoo while I was working for the landscape gardener there. They would bring spearmint jelly candies and feed them to me ’cause my hands would be covered in soil. Then when I got off work I’d take them to the Family Farm area and lift the little girls up to pet the ll amas and feed the goats.

One day, when Noel went off to buy juice for us all, I helped the girls write notes on zoo stationery to Robespierre, my favorite pygmy goat. We stuck our letters in the bright blue box marked WRITE TO OUR FARM

ANIMALS.

Dear Robespierre
,

You are a nice goat. I did not know goats
were so hairy as you. I thought you would
have more like fur
.

Love, Sydonie

Dear Robespierre
,

Why am I not allowed to feed you my
apple? I want to feed you my apple and see
you eat it up
.

From, Marie

Dear Robespierre
,

That was my real live boyfriend, Noel!

Did you see him? Did you?

Don’t be jealous. You are a pygmy goat
and I am a human. It could never have
progressed beyond ear scratching, you and
me. Besides, you have Imelda and Mata
Hari, both of whom obviously prefer you to
that scraggly little pretender of a goat,
Kaczynski
.

When you write back, please tell me: Do
you think it’s all going to come crashing
down? Do you think this is real life? Can I
be this happy?

Love, Ruby

Love, Ruby

After my shift ended, Noel would usually drive me back to his place. I’d take a shower there and change into normal clothes.

Like I belonged in his house.

With him.

And it was just right.

I was in love.

In love. Yes.

It wasn’t anything we said to each other, but it was how I felt.

And how I
thought
he felt.

I even told my shrink.

Just in case you haven’t familiarized yourself with the painful chronicles of my high school career, I have a shrink because sophomore year—after Jackson broke my heart and Kim and all my other friends ditched me—I nearly went insane. I have managed to reach my senior year alive only because it turns out you can’t
actually die
from embarrassment and misery. You just start having these awful, can’t-breathe, heart-exploding episodes. Panic attacks.2

Now I have to go to therapy once a week.3

“
Love
is a big word,” said Doctor Z when I told her about Noel. She popped a piece of Nicorette and waggled her Birkenstock off the end of her foot.

I played with the frayed hem of my jeans and didn’t answer.

“This is the same Noel who hid his asthma from you, am I right?” she went on.

“Not his asthma. The fact that he hadn’t been taking
care
of his asthma.”

“And the same guy who wouldn’t let you explain about the incident in the library? You two weren’t speaking for a while?”

I sighed. “Same guy.”

I hate it when Doctor Z asks questions that roundabout way. It’s so shrinky-shrinky.

What she really meant was: Do you honestly think this Noel is going to be a good boyfriend? Because he already has an iffy track record. And you, Ruby Oliver, can hardly afford to risk your precarious mental health for a guy who might turn out to be a jerk.

“It’s the same guy who gave me his hoodie when my clothes got soaked in chemistry class,” I told her.

“Same guy who took me home from the Spring Fling when no one else would give me a ride. Same guy who made me a valentine. And baked me chocolate croissants. And said he knew all the gossip about me wasn’t true.”

Doctor Z didn’t answer. She just blinked her big brown eyes at me.

“You’re thinking I’m too defensive now,” I said.

Again, no answer.

“Now you’re thinking I’m getting all cranked over a silly high school thing, making it sound important, like some big romance, when in the larger scheme of my whole entire life, none of this will really matter,” I said.

More silence.

“And you’re gonna say I’m too boy-oriented, and I should be focusing on developing my friendships and not have Rabbit Fever all the time.”4

Doctor Z recrossed her legs and straightened her orange chenil e poncho. But still, she said nothing.

“I’ve been in therapy a year and a half now,” I told her. “I know how it works. I know what you’re going to say before you say it.”

“I’m not saying anything, Ruby.”

“You’re
thinking
it.”

Doctor Z paused. “Maybe
you
are thinking it,” she offered.

Here’s

Doctor

Z:

African

American.

Fortysomething. Seriously fashion-challenged to the point of wearing horrible crocheted ponchos and patchwork skirts. Cozy office in a generic office building. Mistress of the shrinky silence. Nicotine fiend.

Here’s me: Caucasian. Nearly seventeen. Vintage dresses, fishnet stockings and Converse. Suffering from panic attacks and Rabbit Fever. Plus a general inability to relate to other human beings in a way that leads to happiness.

Here’s what we have in common: We both wear glasses. We both live in Seattle. And we sit in this room together every week, discussing my problems.

Therapy is deeply weird. You talk and talk and someone else listens. This grown-up your parents pay money to, who has never met your friends, never been to your house, never seen your school—in other words, a person who’s had no contact whatsoever with any of the things that are giving you angst.

You tell that person everything. And she listens.

“I ran into Nora the other day at Pagliacci’s,” I said, to change the subject.

“Oh?”

“Ever since I supposedly stole Noel from her, we just avoid one another. But two days ago I saw her and her brother getting pizza.”

“Her brother Gideon?”

Doctor Z knows all about Gideon. He is superhot in a bohemian, necklace-wearing way, and I used to love him in sixth grade. Also, last spring his leg touched mine when we were watching a movie at Nora’s house. And once, inexplicably, he came over to my house and helped me make doughnuts.

“That’s the only brother she has,” I said.

“What happened at Pagliacci’s?”

“I was standing in line to pay for my pizza and the two of them came up behind me.”

“Did you talk to them?”

“Gideon said hi. He’s obviously ignorant that Nora now considers me a backstabbing, Noel-stealing slut.

Or he pretended to be ignorant.”

“What did Nora do?”

“She acted really, really interested in some Chap Stick she found in her bag.”

“What did
you
do?” asked Doctor Z.

“I kept talking.”

“What about?”

“Canned mushrooms: Are they a valid topping with a flavor of their own, like canned black olives? Or are they just rubbery disgustingness? Blah blah blah.

Finally the guy in front of me paid, and I asked to get my food to go just so I wouldn’t have to sit in the same restaurant with Nora. I can’t eat with someone hating me.”

Doctor Z didn’t say anything in response. She just looked at me in her gentle way.

“I wish I could forget about Nora and how she won’t forgive me when I abject begged her to,” I went on.

“The only time I don’t think about it is when I’m with Noel.”

“How so?”

I paused, looking for the right words. “When Noel’s voice is on the phone,” I said, “or his name is in my e-mail, or his hand is holding mine—I feel this full out, flat-on
happiness
. It’s like he cancels out all the badness from the past two years at school, like he cancels out all my hateful thoughts and neuroses, like he’s my flashlight in a dark city.”