Stay (3 page)

potatoes with the back of your spoon, and the way lumberyards

Stay

smelled, and goofy dogs, but that I didn’t know what I wanted to do

when I “grew up.” Something with words like my father, I said to

him in my head, because words were hills and valleys you traveled,

so lovely sometimes that they hurt your eyes. I told him I felt sure

there was a true and right place for me I hadn’t found yet.

I imagined him telling me other things. His first memory.

Who had hurt him and who had loved him best. His dreams. It

was stupid, and I’m not that kind of person, but I even imagined

us living somewhere together. I imagined us traveling to the

place he had come from. We would visit museums with paint-

ings in heavy gold frames or watch the northern lights with wool

mittens on our hands.

I had decided what to wear three days before3*, but once

I had on those jeans and that shirt I decided it looked like I

was trying too hard because I
was
trying too hard, and that

ignited one of those clothes crises that can get a person seri-

ously panicked, where you feel the slick, precarious slope

between having it all together and being completely out of

control. Clothes piled up and I knew I was going to be late, and

finally I put on something I wore all the time—my old jeans

and a soft green shirt, my hair taken from its barrette and worn

straight. Right away I felt better—feeling confident at a time

like that was hard enough without having to get to know some

new outfit, too.

I borrowed Dad’s car, listened to my favorite girl power CD

for a little musical rejection-proofing. I checked my reflection in

3 Okay, I had actually bought something new.

* 15 *

Deb Caletti

the rearview mirror at the stoplights. My stomach felt giddy and

tumbling. All this, and he probably wouldn’t even be there.

The parking lot was packed. I think we were in some sort of

basketball playoffs—I could never quite follow all of the specif-

ics when Shakti told me. It was dark already and there was that

parking lot excitement of a big event, headlights and shouts and

loud laughter, people crossing into the paths of idling cars and

running to the curb. Shakti met me out front by the bike rack, our

usual place. Her eyes were bright in the streetlights.

“This is it,” she said, and gave a little squeal. Shakti wasn’t the

squealing type, and neither was I. She was smart and thoughtful

and dinners at her house were careful and quiet, though the huge

plates of food served by her mother were steaming and delicious

and somehow passionate. Shakti had dreams of medical school

and would no doubt get there, unlike Luke’s friend, Sean Pollard,

who talked about going to Harvard Law School, but who thought

a tort was one of those fancy desserts.

“Is Luke nervous?” I asked.

“Oh, God, Clara, he looked ready to puke. There’s a million

people in there.”

“Poor guy,” I said. But I didn’t
feel
“poor guy.” What I felt was

my own disappointment. A million people. The chances of me

seeing him again in a crowd like that were next to zero.

We squeezed our way through the mob. Our band was

playing a pounding, rousing something, and your ears just

thrummed with
noise.
The blare of contemporary tribal warfare.

Shakti had her place she liked to stand, right near the team

benches, where she could keep an eye on Luke and on the assis-

* 16 *

Stay

tant coach, our old history teacher, Mr. Dutton. Mr. Dutton’s

face showed every emotion, and Shakti was sure she could read

his game plan for Luke in his expressions. This was fine by me.

We’d made an agreement in my head, the boy-from-somewhere-

else and me—we’d meet again in the same spot. It was the only

likely way we’d run in to each other again. I’d walk over to him,

just as I had last time. I had it all planned out for us.

The whistle screeched; the game began. There was the

rumble of running and the slams of the ball being dribbled

down the court. Everyone was shouting. But I was in that

strange place of heightened awareness that makes you feel

both more a part of your surroundings and completely lifted

out from them. The scoreboard was flashing and Shakti

shouted things my way and one of our good friends, Nick

Jakes, came over to stand with us, but I felt only that single

presence in the room somewhere, his eyes on me, that sense

of being watched that makes your every move feel acted out

with a charged self-consciousness. He was in the room, I was

in the room, and we both knew it.

I kept scanning the crowd, looking toward the place he’d

stood with the girl last time. He wasn’t there. He wasn’t any-

where. The first quarter was over. We moved toward the end of

the second. I was starting to lose my energy for this game, the

one I alone was playing. Disappointment and the ways I’d been

foolish were starting to sneak in around the edges of all that hope

and build up. I was beginning to rewrite the whole deal. So, we’d

said a few things to each other, so what. So, it meant more to me,

obviously, than it did to him. That happens, right? No big loss. I

* 17 *

Deb Caletti

was glad I hadn’t worn that other outfit. That outfit would have

felt humiliating as I walked back to the car.

Nick bought Shakti and me a Coke, two sloshy drinks in paper

cups. His fingers passed mine as he handed it to me. I hadn’t

realized it before, but I think Nick liked me. We thanked him.

We stood and yelled stupid jokes about the other team’s mascot,

who wore a costume that looked like a gopher on steroids. I said

something that made Nick laugh, and he put his thumbs through

my belt loops and gave my waist a shake. The clock kept ticking. I

was reluctantly letting go of the stupid fantasy I’d had.

And then I felt a tap on my shoulder, two light hits with a

rolled-up program. I turned my head.

“Still wish you were somewhere else?” he shouted.

My heart, which had slunk off somewhere safe, now had

some catching up to do. It zoomed to its rightful place and started

beating madly. Some people can be disappointing when you see

them again after spending time with them in your imagination.

They can look younger and act it too, or have some strange mole

or weird teeth you wish you were generous enough not to care

about. But he was not disappointing. Not at all. That silky, white-

blond hair, those blue eyes. And he smelled good. Good enough

that the warm buzz began again; it started at my knees, worked

its way up.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi.”

We just looked at each other and grinned as if we’d just

pulled off something great, some great heist or magic trick. Then

he gestured his head toward the door. “Let’s.”

* 18 *

Stay

“I’ll be right back,” I shouted to Shakti and Nick. I still held

that Coke Nick had bought for me. It was now a cup of mixed

emotions with crushed ice. Shakti looked at this stranger and

raised her eyebrows—curious, but also disapproving. We didn’t

know this guy. This wasn’t the kind of thing either of us would

do. Then again, we
had
known Dylan Ricks and look what had

happened there.

I admired him from the back—those broad shoulders, snug

T-shirt, a butt you didn’t mind one bit walking behind. It was

the kind you’d want to put your hands on, let’s just say that. The

gym doors were propped open for air, and outside there was

the sudden freedom of the cold night mingled with the smell

of someone smoking far off. A car engine revved, and a girl

shouted something. Someone laid on their horn, yelled
Fuckers!

and laughed loud.

As we walked toward the track, the pulsing energy and

sounds of the gym fell back. I wasn’t sure who was leading, but it

must have been me. It
was
me. I was leading the whole time, see?

That’s what I’m trying to say. The track bleachers were a good

place to talk. I led him through the dark ticket gate, and we sat

down on a cold metal bleacher seat a few climbs up. He was there

right next to me, after being in my head for weeks. It was hard

to believe. The air smelled like fall—orange leaves piled upon

orange leaves making their own scent that rose up in the October

night. It felt surprising and unreal, one of those times you feel

like you’re in someone else’s body. It wasn’t how I imagined it

going, but it would do just fine. Better.

“You smell really good,” he said. Ah, that voice.

* 19 *

Deb Caletti

“I was thinking the same thing about
you
,” I said. “Clara. We

don’t even know each others’ names. Clara Oates.”

He didn’t ask about my father, as some people did when

I told them who I was. You could tell he hadn’t been here

very long. “Christian Nilsson. Do we shake now?” he teased.

I saw his eyes laughing. I held out my hand to shake, to tease

back, and he took it. Ran a finger down my palm before let-

ting it drop.

It made me shiver. Christian. The name felt surprising.

There was his actual
name
, who he was, a piece of information

that meant there were a thousand other pieces of information

about him I didn’t know yet either. It felt like a door to another

land. “That’s a beautiful name,” I said. My words sounded stupid

to me suddenly, and I felt myself blush. It
was
a beautiful name,

it sounded like a designer scarf, and I was just me, and I hadn’t

come from anywhere special.

“Who was that guy you were with?” he said.

“Nick? Just a friend.”

“Ah,” he said, as if there were likely more to that story, which

there wasn’t. He looked out over the empty track. Dylan Ricks

had been on the lacrosse team. I had sat in that same spot to

watch him play before. “I was hoping you’d be here tonight. I

don’t give a shit about that game.”

He made the word
shit
sound luxuriant and striking, some-

thing you wanted more of, please. If nothing else, you could love

him for that voice.

“I was hoping to see you too,” I said. I was bold. The moon

was big and white. I could hardly believe what was happening.

* 20 *

Stay

Dylan Ricks had been my only boyfriend before this. I’d gone

to the movies with Terrence Hilligan, out for coffee, that kind

of thing, but I hadn’t wanted to kiss him. Harrison Daily for

homecoming. I’d once gone to a movie with Dean Yamaguchi

to be nice. It felt like my life was changing.

“I don’t normally go hunting down girls like this, just so

you know.”

He looked at me expectantly. I knew what I was supposed to

say—that I didn’t do that kind of thing, either. It was the truth,

so it was easy. But I could feel his need to hear it, his need for

my reassurance, and that need made me feel . . . large, maybe. In

a way I hadn’t before. But he didn’t know that. For all he knew,

I was always that large. It felt good. Fun. Unexpectedly large is

sudden, magic levitation—you’re high, an impervious Balloon

of Joy. So instead, I teased. “Well, I don’t go hunting down
girls
,

either. But guys . . .”

“Oh, I see,” he said. “You’re that kind.” He looked at me with

those blue, blue eyes. I kept watching his mouth. You’d want to

bite that bottom lip. I wanted to right then. This was the way I had

never felt about Terrence Hilligan. I don’t think I’d ever felt that

way about Dylan, either.

“Okay, obvious question,” I said. “Where are you from?”

“Texas,” he said. He grinned at me, and I laughed. “No,

Copenhagen. My mother married an American. She was a jour-

nalist. They met here, in California. We moved to the states three

years ago, but my mother hated Los Angeles.”

“Wow,” I said. “I can’t even imagine Copenhagen. But my

father is a writer, too. Novelist. Mysteries, crime . . .”

* 21 *

Deb Caletti

“We don’t read many paperbacks,” he said.

I felt my father’s reputation unfairly plummet, from bestsell-

ing author with countless fans4* to some writer of supermarket

books with gold foil covers, sold used at flea markets for a quarter.

My own defensiveness prickled, and I was about to blow it all by

counting off various honors my father had earned when Christian

took my hand. I could see he didn’t mean anything by his com-

ment. He held my hand in both of his. This wasn’t something boys

here would do either. He held it like something precious.