Skin (10 page)

I look at my watch. “It’s late. And, anyway, everyone I know is at a party. No one’s going to send me a message.”

“Let’s make a bet.”

“What kind of bet?”

“If you got a message, I get to stay up till midnight.”

“Midnight? Sarah, have you ever been up till midnight?”

“I took a nap today. So I can stay up.”

“I didn’t get a message. I’m sure of it.”

“Yes you did.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw.”

“What did you see?”

“Your cell lit up.”

Oh. So that’s where she went when I was emptying the tub. I should explain to her that making a bet when you know the answer already is cheating. But first I want to see who sent a message. I go out to the living room with Sarah at my heels.

It’s Joshua Winer. “where r u?”

The jitters come so hard, I practically drop the phone.

“I told you.” Sarah points. “Is it Devin?”

“No.”

“Can I answer for you?”

“No.”

“Can I play more?”

“Yes. At Legos. Where I can see you.”

Sarah sits back down with the Legos.

I type: “babysitting. where r u?”

“ur there! finally. address?”

Address?

I type: “Y?”

“dont u want me 2 stop by?”

I hug myself. I don’t even know him. Well, what a stupid thought. Of course I know him. But the him I know is six years younger. All I know of this him is that we talked two days at lunch. We texted once. That’s the sum total. And that’s nothing.

I stare at the words. They’re bold. All at once I’m mad. “do u want 2?”

“y not?”

There are tons of reasons why not. I type: “Im busy.”

“r u mad at me?”

Yeah. Yeah, I’m mad at Joshua Winer. And at Dr. Ratner. And at my parents. And at the whole world. I’m about to turn off the cell, when another message comes.

“I didnt mean to act dumb. Sorry. Im no good at this. Look, I want to come. But if you dont, thats cool.”

There’s something dear about the way he wrote that. Direct and open. No bullshit. And he used ordinary typing, like in a real letter or something just without the apostrophes—he hasn’t done that in his other texting. He’s still Joshua, and I like Joshua. I like him a lot. I type fast before I have time to think better of it: “244 Lincoln. 2 houses down from mine.” I send it, then wonder for a second if he remembers where my house is. There’s no way I would forget where his is.

“See you soon.”

He remembers.

Of course he remembers. He texted me—that means he kept my phone number all these years. What an idiot I am.

I hug myself again. And I rock back and forth on the couch. I check my watch.

I sit on the floor and build with Sarah. I don’t even know what I’m building. Maybe it’s a never-ending wall. Lego after Lego snaps into place and moves off toward infinity. We build forever.

The doorbell rings.

“Hey.” Joshua Winer stands there with his hands in his jacket pockets. It’s not cool enough for a jacket, even a light one like that. And I realize he’s always got a jacket on.
He started that in middle school—when he got popular. Maybe that’s his Mr. Cool badge. “It’s been a while,” he says.

“Twelve minutes.”

He blinks. “Is that how long I’m allowed?”

“That’s how long it took you to get here.”

“You’re not Devin,” says Sarah, coming up beside me.

“I’m Joshua. Who are you?”

“Sarah. This is my house.”

“Then I’ll do what you say.”

“Watch
Jeopardy
with Sep.”

“All right, Boss.”

“I’m Sarah.”

“All right, Sarah.”

Sarah points and we sit on the couch obediently.

I watch TV but I don’t see anything. Maybe I’m going blind instead of deaf. This is a very bad idea. I should have never given him the address. “Why…?” I can’t finish.

“Why what?”

I have to blink back tears. “Just why.”

“I take it this isn’t a huge philosophical question.”

I shake my head.

“So… you’re asking about… right now?”

“You’re here. Why?”

Joshua nods his head slowly. “I wanted to see you.”

“Why?”

I see his Adam’s apple move as he swallows. “I don’t know.” He looks sideways at me. Then he turns to look at me head-on, shifting so one leg rests, knee cocked, between us. “I wanted to… I don’t know… I wanted to get to know you. Like we used to.”

“Why?” I manage to say it without my voice cracking.

He blinks. “You haven’t changed that much, I guess. You never made anything easy.”

“Nothing is easy.”

He scratches his temple with just one finger. He looks so puzzled, I actually feel sorry for him. But I need to know. I don’t want to be miserable, and I’m pretty sure that Joshua Winer could make me miserable if I let myself fall for him. He wouldn’t mean to—I can bet that—but it would happen anyway.

He drops his hand. It falls in his lap on top of his other hand with a little smack. I flinch at this proof of the weight of him, the physicality. A sharp smell hangs on him. Aftershave? It kind of zings me. I sit taller. His nose is straight and long. His eyebrows are dark brown, like his hair. It’s not as dark as mine, but it’s close.

I realize he’s looking at me looking at him. But he’s not challenging me. His eyes are just nice. Easy. I like their light, flickering color. I swallow again and I’m pretty sure I’m not going to cry now. That’s passed, at least.

“Blue lipstick,” he says at last. “Are you going to experiment with every color?”

“I’m trying to hide white.”

“There’s nothing wrong with white.”

“How do you know?”

“Sep, I have no idea what we’re talking about.”

All over again I’m on the verge of tears. This is so stupid. He’s here. I might as well try to have a nice time. “What would you like to talk about?” I ask.

“Something I know.”

“Something you know?”

“Yeah. That way I can be sure to have something to say.”

“How’s football?”

“Good. That I can talk about. Sure.”

“Want to take your jacket off first? You know, stay a while?”

He throws his jacket over the back of the couch. And he talks. About practice every day. About the game tomorrow night. About the lineup and where he fits and what he wants to achieve this fall. He’s totally into it and his hands move as he talks. Big, wide hands. There’s a scar on his right palm. I don’t remember that scar.

Now he’s smiling at me.

“What?” I say.

“You haven’t said a word. That’s not like the Sep I knew.”

“I’ve been listening. I didn’t know you were so… loquacious. You didn’t use to be. Or am I remembering wrong?”

“Tell me about you.”

I open my mouth and dance comes out. I hadn’t planned that, but somehow it just fits with all Joshua’s talk about football. I tell about Ms. Martin and Jazz Dance Club and how sometimes when she talks about wings I feel like I have them. And then I stop. I don’t want to be talking anymore. “That’s all. That’s all I have to say.”

“Nice.” Joshua bobs his head in agreement. “Hey, where’s the kid? Sarah?”

Oh my God, I forgot about Sarah. “Sarah?”

“Quiet,” calls Sarah from the kitchen.

I go in with Joshua at my side.

Sarah’s sitting on the floor. There’s an open egg carton on the stool. And a broken egg on the floor beside her. “Shhhh!” she says.

“What are you doing?” I whisper.

“Sitting.”

“Why is there a broken egg on the floor?”

“It had a bad shell.”

“Did you smash it?”

“I sat on it.”

“Why?”

“So it would hatch.”

I’m getting it. “Are you sitting on an egg now?”

“Yes.”

“Is it broken?”

“I don’t know. My bottoms are wet from the last egg.”

“Hens sit on eggs, not people. People crush eggs.”

“Not good eggs. Good eggs are strong.”

“Get up, Sarah. Please.”

Sarah stands up. The egg is whole. Is it made of marble?

“That’s a good egg,” says Sarah.

“That’s an amazing egg,” says Joshua.

“All right. I’ll put an X on it. With this pencil. And tomorrow, when your mother is home, you can ask her if you can sit on it more. But for now, it’s going in the refrigerator and you’re going back in the tub.”

She doesn’t fight me. This is weird. Sarah typically fights on principle. I get her washed up and into fresh pj’s and back in bed with Howl Doo under her arm.

“I want to say good night to Joshua.”

“All right.” I go to the door and call Joshua.

He comes padding down the hall quickly, eyes wide, like an obedient but bewildered dog wondering what he’ll have to do to please the master.

“Sarah wants to say good night to you.”

Joshua goes to stand at the side of Sarah’s bed. “Good night, Sport.”

“I’m Sarah.”

“Good night, Sarah.”

“You’re big.”

“I play football.”

“Daddy watches football on TV.”

“You have a smart daddy. And a nice dog there.”

“He’s a wolf.” She holds up Howl Doo. “His name is Howl Doo.”

“He’s terrific.”

“If you like him so much, you can join his fan club on Facebook.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Good night, Joshua,” says Sarah.

I leave with Joshua at my heels, and head for the kitchen to clean the floor, but Joshua’s already taken care of that. “Thanks.”

He shrugs, but I can see he’s proud of himself. “She’s fun.”

“I’ll give her mother your number.”

He laughs. “Not that much fun.”

“I’m hungry. Want to watch me raid the refrigerator?”

“Won’t Sarah’s parents get mad?”

“You’ve never babysat before, have you?”

“How could you tell?”

“It’s the job of the babysitter to scarf down anything good. You hungry?”

“Always.” He opens a cupboard.

“Look for nuts.”

“You like nuts?”

“They have copper. Only it might make me schizo. Oh, look, here’s some good ham.”

“I’m Jewish, remember?”

And of course I remember. But I don’t ever remember him refusing food before. If anything, he was a pig when he was little. “So you don’t eat pork?”

He grins. “Sure I eat it. But if you’re allowed to say schizo when there’s no real connection, I’m allowed to say Jewish.”

“But you are Jewish. So does that mean you think I’m schizo?”

He looks at my face for a moment. Almost appraisingly. “You really are different from how you used to be.”

“You mean when we were in fifth grade?”

“Well, that, sure. But last year, too.”

Last year? He noticed me last year? “Really?”

“I don’t know. You look different.”

I’m not about to touch that one. “Want pickle slices in your sandwich?”

“Does the Pope have a big nose?”

“I think it’s supposed to be ‘Is the Pope Catholic?’—but it doesn’t matter anyway, because I don’t know anything about the Pope. I’m not Catholic.”

“Your mom’s Italian and you’re not Catholic?”

“Mamma’s not really Italian.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t treat me like I’m a stranger. She was born in Italy. You showed me on a map exactly where.”

“She left more than twenty years ago. If you look at the way she dresses, you know she’s not Italian. Italian women have style.” I finish making the sandwich and push the plate along the counter toward him. “Eat.”

He takes a bite. “Spicy mustard. Good.”

“Where were you at lunch on Thursday?” There. I asked it.

“The team ate together. We had a few things to figure out before practice.” He takes another bite and talks with his mouth full: “Where were you at lunch today?”

He looked for me today? I gag on a bite. “I had to go to the library. I skipped lunch.”

“That’s why you’re so hungry.”

“And dinner.”

“You skipped dinner, too?” He sounds appalled. “Want me to make you a second sandwich?”

“This is enough.”

“I saw a box of cookies in the cupboard,” he says.

“I hate junk food. I always have.” I jut my chin out at him. “You’re the one who used to munch chips all the time.”

“Not anymore. It ruins my game. No junk food. No alcohol. No drugs.”

“You’re like an ad.”

“I’m trying to be.”

My cheeks burn. He’s so earnest. And I realize he was like that in fifth grade, too. Everyone was sort of earnest in those days—but he was extreme. We had that in common. We understood each other somehow.

We finish and wash everything and put it away. All the evidence gone.

“I’ll be back.” I go to the bathroom and check my lipstick. It’s still okay. I take toilet paper and blot it—something I read about online. Nothing comes off. Maybe this lipstick has become a permanent stain.

When I come out, Joshua is sitting on the couch again. He’s big and quiet. He has thin cheeks. Thin cheeks look good on him. Thin cheeks look fantastic on him.

I walk over and stand there looking down at him and feeling like a stupid blob.

He pats the cushion beside him.

I refuse to think. I refuse to hope. I sit down.

His lip twitches like he almost smiled. But nicely. Everything he does is so nice. He pats closer to him.

I move closer. I’m breathing hard.

His face comes close to mine. The scent of spicy mustard is strong. But we share it—we smell the same. Spicy mustard can be “our” scent—like some couples have a song. What would he say if I suggested it?

We’re not a couple.

I look down at the back of my hand. At the white spot that I’ve checked at least nine hundred times since I first saw it. It’s bigger than a nickel now. White lips and one spot on a hand. Not so bad. But it could be so much more, so soon. It could be horrific.

“Will you look at me?”

I look at him, feeling stupid.

His face comes closer. But slowly. Very, very slowly. As though he isn’t really moving.

“Are you okay?” His breath stirs the little hairs above my lip.

He’s like a curve on a graph. Like in geometry. And I’m like an asymptote. A line he approaches. I’m his limit. Has he stopped? I can feel his body heat. And all I know is that I want. I want so much. This is unbearable. I may die. I know this is a mess. I know this is bad timing. Vitiligo
vitiligo vitiligo. But can’t I have just a little something good first? Just a kiss? One kiss? “You get closer and closer,” I whisper, “but you never get there.”