Tell Me Three Things (20 page)

“
W
hat?” Ethan asks after he hands me my latte and I haven’t offered to pay, like I practiced in my head. We are sitting on the stuffed chairs at Starbucks, Ethan directly across from me. I’m having trouble forming words, because I’m too busy trying to sort this all out. I feel stupid for assuming SN was Caleb. I don’t want to make the same mistake twice.

“What-what? I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re looking at me funny. Do I have something on my face?” Ethan begins to swat at his lips, which do have a tiny crumb stuck to them from his blueberry muffin, but that’s not why I’m staring.

“Sorry. Just a little out of it today.” I hold on tight to my cup, both hands cradling it like it’s something fragile: an injured baby bird. “I guess I’m tired from the weekend.”

“How was it?” Ethan asks, and smiles, as if he really wants to know. Which makes me think he’s SN, because SN always wants to know everything. And which, of course, also makes me think he’s definitely not SN, because SN already knows how my weekend was.

But most of all, I think he can’t be SN because I want him to be SN, and that’s the quickest way for it to not happen: for me to
want it
badly.

“Great. I mean, a little rocky at first. Long story. But then it was great. It was hard to leave,” I say, which is true and untrue. It was hard to leave and it would have been hard to stay. Not feeling like I belong anywhere has made me crave constant motion; standing still feels risky, like asking to be a target. Maybe that’s why Ethan doesn’t sleep, come to think of it. Eight hours in one place is dangerous.

“Yeah, I bet. Is that sticker new?” Ethan points to my ninja, and I realize that though I’ve had it on my computer all day at school, he’s the first to notice. Even Gem didn’t see it, because her only jab today was to call me “sweaty.” Not that creative, considering it’s ninety degrees in November.

“Yeah. My best friend from home, Scarlett, made it for me. They’re supposed to be like tattoos. I’m kind of in love with them.”

“They’re all really cool. She should sell them, like on Etsy or something.”

“That’s what I said!” I look up, and then, when I catch his eye, I look down again. This is all too much. I just need to fast-forward to Wednesday, meet SN, move on. If he’s not Ethan, I will let go of this silly crush. Theo is right and wrong: this is playing with fire. I like being around him too much.

He too is cradling his coffee cup now. I’ve read somewhere that when someone mirrors your body language, it means they like you. Then again, if that were true, I’d be sitting cross-legged, and I’d have long ago caught Ethan’s nervous habit of rubbing his hair. Instead of mirroring him, I want to crawl into his lap. Rest my head on his chest.

“Great minds, man.”

“Great minds.”

Are you SN?

Why do you wear a Batman T-shirt every day?

Why don’t you sleep?

“Why don’t you sleep?” I ask, because it seems the easiest of my questions. The least invasive, although maybe we’re past all that now. I wish conversations came with traffic lights: a clear signal whether you need to stop or go or proceed with caution.

“I don’t know. I’ve never been particularly good at it, but this past year it’s like sleep is this fast-moving train and it only comes by, like, twice a night or something, and if I don’t run really fast to catch it, I miss it altogether. I know. I’m a weirdo.” He looks out the window, that “weirdo” dropped so casually it could be a reference to our messages, or it could just be that he uses the word “weirdo” too. It’s a common noun. It means nothing.

“That’s very poetic. A train metaphor. Maybe you should take something. I mean, to sleep.”

Ethan looks at me, a question in his eyes, or an answer. Maybe both. “Nah. I don’t like to take anything.”

“Did you really memorize the whole poem?”

“The first section, yeah. I like how it speaks in so many different voices. It’s sort of loud, you know?” I picture Ethan practicing with Oville, strumming his guitar and singing his heart out. Noise as balm. I listen to them on repeat on my headphones after school every day. Try to parse out Ethan’s voice, like a middle schooler obsessed with a boy band. He sounds stronger, rougher than Liam. Gravelly. Equal parts angry and resigned.

“I’m sorry about your brother.” I blurt it out, and he looks as surprised as I am that I have taken the leap and mentioned it. “I mean, I know ‘I’m sorry’ is pretty useless, but I just heard—I’m like a year and a half behind on all things Wood Valley—and like you said a few weeks ago, I didn’t want to be one of those people who didn’t say something just because it’s uncomfortable. Anyhow, it sucks, and nothing I can say will make it better. But yeah, I’m so sorry.”

I stop talking, even though I have more to say. I want to tell him that he will sleep again, that it gets easier, sort of, despite the fact that it will never be okay. That those cards,
time heals all wounds,
start to feel a bit more true and still not true at all. I want to tell him I understand. But I’m pretty sure he already knows.

“Thanks,” he says, again drawn to the window. He’s so far away now, I feel like even if I were to indulge my need to touch him—my hand on his arm, my fingers in his hair, my palm on his cheek—he wouldn’t feel it. “You’re the only person who didn’t know me before. Everyone else assumes I’m just like him or wonders why I can’t just go back to being how I used to be. But I’m not him and I’m not the same me either, you know?”

“Ethan is Ethan is Ethan. Whoever that may be now,” I say.

Ethan’s head snaps back, as if he has again come to, the window forgotten. He looks at me instead; his eyes bore into mine, almost pleading, though I don’t know for what. God, I want to touch him, but I wouldn’t even know where to begin. What if he doesn’t want me to? What if he just needs to occasionally have coffee with a person who didn’t know him before? Maybe that’s all I am.

I can understand that. The idea of leaving Chicago—of not being surrounded every day by the people who had always known me, who expected me to keep on being the same Jessie they had always known—once seemed like the answer, until it turned out it wasn’t.

“Exactly. You get it. I am who I am, whoever that may be now.”

“I wish I could recite ‘The Waste Land,’ because I feel like that would be so appropriate right now.” I smile, which is almost the same as feeling his skin against mine, but no, not the same thing at all.

“Liam’s going to ask you out. I thought you should know that.”

“What?” I heard him, of course I heard him, but I don’t know what to say. Liam has nothing to do with whatever is going on here. I’m still not sure whether Ethan is SN, but I’m also not sure how much that matters. Because Ethan is real and right in front of me, not just carefully written words on a screen.

I was wrong. I will not just let go of this silly crush, because this is not silly. Not even a little bit. Maybe it’s my crush on SN that’s ridiculous. He could be anyone. Typing is easy. But talking like this? This is hard.

Ethan shrugs. He knows I heard him.

“I…I don’t want him to,” I say. Now my eyes are pleading, though again I don’t know for what. For him to touch me?
Please touch me. Your hand is right there.

Ethan’s coffee cup is interesting to him again; he stirs the black. He doesn’t touch me. “Then I think you should say no.”

Later, I lie on my bed and replay the conversation over and over again.
I think you should say no.
I measure the literal space that was between us—no more than a foot, probably less—and wonder how, if, we’ll ever cross it.

Am I dancing around my room right now, rocking out, my whole body smiling? Maybe. Maybe I am.

“
S
o you need to talk to your dad,” Theo says as he throws me a green juice from the fridge before school. I have developed a taste for these potions, though not for juicing as a verb or, come to think of it, as a lifestyle. Unlike Theo, I still require food. Which is why this is not my breakfast; this is my appetizer.

“Why?” We are the only two in the vast kitchen, the only people home. Rachel and my dad both left hours ago. Rachel does prework Pilates. My dad has the early-morning shift. Soon he’ll take his exam, graduate to the position he had in Chicago.

“Because he’s your dad.”

“So?”

“How old are you?”

“Seriously, this coming from Mr. Temper Tantrum?” Turns out Theo did leave a soy sauce stain on the dining chair when he threw his fork. No matter: it is currently being reupholstered.

“One time, dude. I don’t do well with change.”

“Why do you care about me and my dad?” I sip my juice, imagine it cleaning up my insides, like a Clarisonic for my intestines. Yeah, drinking liquefied kale totally makes me smug.

“You’re bringing negative energy into this house. We have enough bad juju as it is.”

“Come on.”

“You don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow. How long they’ll last. You only get two parents, and we’re each down to one. Better to be good to them while you can.” Theo grabs a wooden spoon, drums the counter. He can keep time. I wonder if there is anything he isn’t good at.

“Whatever.”

“Seriously. You’re starting to sound like one of us Wood Valley brats.”

“Fine.” Of course, Theo is right. Just like Scar was. I need to be better, stronger, more courageous. A ninja, but not really, since we need to talk, not fight.

“Fine, what?”

“Fine, I’ll talk to him.”

“Good. Glad we had this chat.” He chucks me under the chin, like this is the 1950s and I’m his son who hit a homer in a Little League game.

“You are a ridiculous human being. Do you know that?” I ask.

“I’ve been called worse.”

And it has come to this: my dad and I need to schedule our make-up. I remember how normal things used to be between us. Not only normal, but natural. Before, you know,
before,
my mom would cook us dinner each night and we’d all sit around the table and chat. We had a game where we’d each share one thing that had happened since the night before, and I remember I used to save up anecdotes—that Mr. Goodman called on me in chem and I didn’t know the answer, that the Smoothie Bandit had come back to the King and nicked some kid’s drink, that Scar and I were partners for the science fair and we wanted to build a volcano because it’s fun to occasionally be cliché. I remember I would sift through my day, like picking a filter for a photo, and choose the story I wanted to present to my parents like an offering. Not unlike SN and our three things, come to think of it.

What would my mom want to know about the last twenty-four hours? Maybe I’d have told her about the kale juice. Or SN’s message this morning, counting the number of minutes till we’re going to meet. Or best of all, Ethan’s
I think you should say no,
which I haven’t stopped replaying on a loop in my head. Six perfect words.

Then again, maybe not. Maybe I’d have kept that nugget just for myself.

“Jessie, you mind staying for a minute?” Mrs. Pollack asks me after English, and my stomach drops. What did I do this time? According to Crystal, Gem’s out with a stomach flu and is “like, you know, puking her guts out, hashtag jealous,” so the day has been uneventful, which is a relief, since I’m in a striped cotton dress that I’m sure would have made me a perfect target. A little girlier than I normally wear, but damn, it’s hot here.

And so I stay in my seat while the rest of the class files out. Ethan gives me a curious glance, and I shrug, and he smiles and mouths
Good luck
on his way out, and I want to pocket that smile and his words, carry them around with me like a talisman. My own goofy smile lingers on my face too long after he has left. Ethan’s fault.

“I just wanted to talk to you about last week. I owe you an apology,” Mrs. Pollack says, and this time she doesn’t sit backward in her chair. She stays behind her desk, like a proper teacher. She has given up the whole buddy-buddy thing, which actually wasn’t the problem. Her blame was. “I spent the whole weekend thinking about our conversation, and I realized I handled it all wrong.”

I stare at her, thinking of the right words to say. “Thank you”? “No problem”? “No big deal”?

“It’s okay. It’s not your fault Gem is a total bitch,” I say, and then look up in horror. I didn’t mean to say that second part out loud. Mrs. Pollack smiles, which is a relief, because I wouldn’t know how to explain to Ethan that we got an F on our “Waste Land” project just because I have a big mouth. Until last week, Mrs. Pollack was my favorite teacher, and not just because I was grateful to her for not making me stand up in front of the class on the first day of school.

“When I was in high school, I wasn’t particularly cool. Actually, that’s a lie,” she says, and shrugs. “I was tortured. Really bullied. And when I saw what happened with Gem, I didn’t know what to say. I just wanted to help.”

Mrs. Pollack looks a little teary. Maybe no one ever gets over high school. She is shiny-haired and beautiful now, a grown-up Gem. It’s hard to believe she ever looked any different.

“I just…anyhow, I just wanted to say sorry. I’ve been watching you, and you so know who you are already. Most girls your age don’t have that comfort-in-their-own-skin thing, and that’s probably what makes you threatening to Gem,” she says, and I wonder what the hell she’s talking about. I don’t know anything about anything. “Anyhow, high school is just…The. Worst.”

“Funny that you became a high school teacher, then,” I say, and she laughs again.

“Something I should talk to my therapist about. Speaking of which, you could speak to the school counselor if you want. We have a psychiatrist on staff. A life coach too.”

“Seriously?”

“I know, right? Finding ways to justify the tuition. Anyhow, if not them, feel free to come talk to me anytime. Students like you are the reason I chose to teach.”

“Thanks.”

“By the way, I look forward to your and Ethan’s ‘Waste Land’ paper. You’re two of my brightest students. I have great expectations.” Dickens is next on the syllabus. A literary pun. No wonder Mrs. Pollack was destroyed in high school.

“We intend to reach wuthering heights,” I say, and as I walk by, she reaches her hand up, and I can’t help it—dorks unite! nerd power!—I give her a high five on my way out.

Later, at Book Out Below!, which is customer-free, I sit behind the counter, message SN. So far, I’ve successfully avoided Liam since I’ve been back from Chicago, and I am relieved that he’s not working today. If he is really planning to ask me out, I have no idea how I’ll say no.

The bell rings; my head lifts up. It’s become Pavlovian.
Please don’t be Liam,
I think.

Fortunately, it’s not.

Unfortunately, it’s my dad.

“So this is where you work,” he says, and looks around, his fingers brushing spines, just like mine do. He isn’t the reader my mom was, but he still appreciates the magic of books. When I was little, he would read to me all the time. He was the one who introduced me to Narnia. “It couldn’t be more perfect. I’m so happy for you.”

“I like it,” I say, and wonder if that’s how we are going to do this. Pretend that we never fought in the first place. That we haven’t gone something like fourteen days without speaking.

“Beats making smoothies, I hope?” My dad’s wearing his plastic tag, his name printed under the words
How may I help you?
The way it dangles on a steel clip makes me feel tender toward him, as if he came in here with a milk mustache.

“Yeah. Though the Smoothie King has Scar. I miss her.” He nods. We haven’t even talked about my trip home. He hasn’t asked—well, that’s not quite true; he texted and I ignored him, and I still haven’t said thank you. Maybe Theo is right: I’m turning more Wood Valley than I realize. I wonder if Scar’s mom called him afterward and reported back. I don’t think she heard me throwing up or knew we were drinking in the basement. The few times I saw her, she gave me big hugs and said, “I missed my other daughter,” which was sweet, so it doesn’t really matter if it was only a tiny bit true.

“I know.” He quickly looks around, sees that we are alone. Nods as if to say
Then we can talk.
“I miss everything.”

“Everything” means my mom. Funny that we can’t just say those words out loud. But we can’t. Some things are harder to say than others, no matter how much truer.

“Can you believe it’s ninety degrees in November here? That’s just not natural,” my dad says, and settles on the floor with his back against the
Get Rich Quick
shelf, his knees bent in front of him. “Never thought I’d miss the cold, and I don’t, really. But this weather is…unsettling. And the pizza sucks. Pizza should not be gluten-free. That’s just wrong.”

“Lots to get used to,” I say. Should I give him more? Should I get this party started? Say:
Dad, you moved us without even asking me. Just plopped me into a new school, a new life, said “Ta-da!” and then abandoned me to the wolves.

I stay quiet. Let him make the first move.

“Listen, I know it’s been hard. And I was so wrapped up in trying to adjust myself, make this work for us, I didn’t do my job as your dad. I thought it would be easier. Everything. I was naive. Or desperate. Yeah, that’s it. Not naive but desperate.” He delivers this to the bookshelf in front of him, the children’s section—which has always seemed a weird arrangement to me and yet so LA, money directly across from the kids. My dad is staring at the cover of a book about crayons going on strike, the primary colors annoyed at being overworked by their owner.

I shrug. I wish we could have this conversation on paper, or better yet, on a screen, in back-and-forth messages like I do with SN. It would be so much easier and cleaner. I’d say exactly what I want to say, and if the words didn’t come out right, I could just edit them until they did.

“Do you want to move back to Chicago? If that’s what you want, we can do it. I wouldn’t want you living at Scar’s. We’d rent a place or something, and you could finish out school, and then I’d move back here when you go to college. If you were okay with that, of course. Rachel and I would figure it out. You’re the most important thing in the world to me. If you’re not happy, then I’m not happy. I know it hasn’t seemed like that the last few months, but it’s true.” I think about last weekend. Scar and Adam, her new life without me. How we’ve all moved on—forward—and how in some ways, moving back would just be moving backward. It’s not like my mom is there, and I guess memories, as much as they can be held on to, are portable. Granted, Chicago would mean never having to feel bullied, a huge bonus, but Gem’s not quite scary enough to make me flee the state.

I think about the life I’ve built here. SN and Ethan, or maybe SN/Ethan, Dri and Agnes, even Theo. Liam too, I guess. How my new English teacher said I’m one of her brightest students, which is a huge compliment, considering I go to a school that sends
five
kids to Harvard each year. How Wood Valley may be filled with rich brats, but it also has a beautiful library, and I get to work in a bookstore, and I’m reading college-level poetry with a boy who can recite it back to me. In a strange way, thanks to Rachel, LA has turned out to be nerd heaven.

I think about Ethan’s smile, how I want to see it every day. No, I don’t want to move back.

“Nah. I mean, I think about Chicago all the time, and for a minute there, all I wanted was to go home, but that’s not what I’m mad about. It’s not like it would even really feel like home, anyway. I just feel, you know—” My eyes fill, and I look at the cash register. The 9 button is wearing thin. I hate that I don’t know how to say what I want to say.

“You know you can talk to me about anything, right? I don’t want you to ever feel alone.” And there, he said it for me, so I can say it out loud now.