The Girl Who Invented Romance (13 page)

Oh, was I sorry I had said that. Now I couldn’t even wallow in my own disaster. I had to think of my parents’ misery as well.

“Sweetie, I learned a lot in those eight years with Ellen,” said my father after a long pause. “You know I’m addicted to buying stuff. I just love to give presents. If I’m working all day, and the day is hard and rotten and I had to be nice to people I despise or work on a project I think is pointless or finish one I think needs another six weeks—well, it’s so nice to do one thing right. Buy a long-stemmed red rose, hand it to your mother and see her light up. And I found out from Ellen that you can run a long, long time on romance. It can fuel years of dating.”

The last thing I wanted was a heart-to-heart talk about Ellen. I wanted to talk about me. Was that so selfish? Once in sixteen years? To have the focus on me?

“But it can’t supply love,” my father finished.

Had Daddy bought Ellen? The way Blaize bought me? Flowers and music and great cars? And had Ellen let it go on for eight years because she liked dating, she liked attention—but she didn’t love him and never had?

Incredibly, it was Ellen I agreed with. I wanted to flirt and be liked and have presents and dance gracefully with the handsome boy. I hadn’t asked Blaize to love me, just have fun being with me.

And he couldn’t be bothered. I wasn’t worth his time. I was worth nothing.

I began crying horribly.

“You matter to me,” said Daddy.

Every father in the world, and every mother, has tried to end a talk with that line. You matter to
me
, dear.
I
love you. So what if there’s not a boy on earth who does? Your old daddy loves you and that’s what counts, huh?

“You just have to get through it, Kell,” he said, hugging me fiercely. “You’ll feel better eventually and manage to be happy and there will be somebody there for you. I guarantee it.”

“But, Daddy, some girls never find anybody. I don’t want to be like them. I don’t want to be a loser.”

“Of course not. Everybody hates being a loser.”

“It’s worse than that. Everybody hates the loser, too. They don’t associate with her and then she’s even more of a loser.”

The kitchen clock chimed the hour. My father’s breathing was regular. He was all but asleep. The tears had dried on my cheeks and their tracks were itchy. “I’m stiff, Dad. I’m wrinkling Megan’s dress. I’m going to bed.”

He tilted the recliner forward so fast it flung me onto my feet. “I didn’t have any words of wisdom, did I?” said my father sadly. “I’m sorry. I wanted to help.”

“The only thing that could help right now is my phone ringing and some terrific boy telling me he adores me and he can’t go another twenty-four hours without seeing me.”

My father was laughing. “I could pay somebody off.”

“That’s like Megan fixing me up. I want it just to come. Like a door opening. Fireworks exploding.” I could see it so well.

The door—a glimpse into an unknown room at the unknown boy who would love me.

The fireworks—seeing this unknown boy, feeling explosions and fire and laughter and joy.

“You are so like your mother,” said my father, exasperated and affectionate.

Me? Eternally anxious? Hiding from reality? Busying myself with nothing much? Only smiling when Dad smiled first? Me?

“Kelly,” said my father softly, “it’s okay to be needy. It’s okay to need love. You don’t have to be sorry you need it. You don’t have to fight back.”

“K
elly,” said Megan, “you are blind. You need a guide dog for dating.”

At least she didn’t tell me I’m the dog, I thought.

I washed my hands. There’s gray soap in the high school girls’ rooms. I don’t think a person can get clean with gray soap. It’s a contradiction.

Megan sagged down the wall of the girls’ room, sinking dramatically onto the tile floor. Her hair draped over some obscene graffiti.

“Don’t do that,” said Faith crossly. “They haven’t mopped in here since Carter was president.” Faith brushed her hair with such vigor that I cringed. If I were that rough, I’d be bald along with my other troubles. Faith never even notices the handfuls of
hair she loses; she just fills the wastebaskets and moans about humidity and in the morning she has even more hair.

“Here I knock myself out to arrange the perfect evening for you, Kelly, with Blaize, who is also perfect, and you goof up.”

“Oh, Megan, don’t yell at me,” I said, fighting tears. “Don’t tell me I goofed up. Say we just weren’t right for each other.”

Megan drummed her heels against the tiles. She was wearing good shoes with tiny sharp metal points on the high heels. She lifted her knees ever so slightly and accomplished a sitting-down tap dance. I was filled with admiration for her coordination. “Kelly, you should not get so emotional. It was only a date. You should have laughed your way through a great evening. You’re too intense. You cannot cannot cannot be intense about boys.”

Then what’s the point? I thought. Who needs romance if it’s not intense?

Faith said mournfully, “I’m awfully emotional about Angie. Do you think that’s why he doesn’t respond? We had such fun at lunch!” A lunch that had to have been a month ago. “We flirted and giggled and joked and it was perfect. So why won’t he ask me out?”

Megan heaved a huge sigh and began explaining in detail why Faith and I were failures at love. At first I listened, because I really wanted to know, but about ten syllables in, I saw that it was going to be too depressing, so I checked out. Megan punctuated her lecture with heel taps. She was ruining her shoes, getting scuff marks all over them. She didn’t care. No boy would care either.

I stared at myself in the mirror. All bathrooms at Cummington High are gray like their soap. There was probably some huge sale on gray tiles and gray sinks when they were building the school. I was happy they had saved all that money, but tired of so much grim, dark, sad gray in my life.

I was even wearing gray. My oldest sweatshirt, the baggy one with words so faded that even I am not sure what they say. My oldest jeans, so pale they’ve become a reflection of my personality: pretend jeans covering a pretend girl.

If we stay in this bathroom much longer, I thought, I’m going to have a nervous breakdown. Maybe I’m already having a nervous breakdown.

“I’m having a nervous breakdown over Angie,” said Faith, “and he doesn’t even know it. I think of him every minute. Setting the table, doing math, watching TV, practicing the flute, and Angie is part of it. It’s as if his invisible clone stuck to me with some terrible glue I can’t melt.”

I should add those to my board game, I thought.
Pointless Crush. Total Obsession. Unrequited Love
.

Megan took about fifteen paper towels to dry her hands. One high school junior cleans up and the trash overflows.

“It’s my name,” said Faith glumly. “I have this overwhelming need to be faithful. To have one guy in my life and love him forever.”

Megan shuddered. “You’re right. You’re doomed.
They’ll
never feel that way. If
you
do, it’s over.” She made it sound as if boys wanted paper dolls, one dimension.

“Let’s go,” said Faith. “Sociology next. We don’t want to be late. Maybe Angie will ask me for lunch again today.”

Perhaps it was Angie who was one-dimensional. His attitudes never changed; his charm never dwindled. But what was inside? Anything? Was Faith in love with nothing?

But in a really gray mood, you know that even love itself might be nothing.

The other two hurtled toward class. I trudged. I hadn’t seen Will since the dance with Blaize. Now I knew that love was nothing, boys were paper dolls and I needed a guide dog. I certainly wouldn’t have a crush on Will. I probably wouldn’t even recognize Will.

That made me feel better. Strong. Independent. Calm. Poised.

In the doorway of the classroom stood Will.

The face that had seemed bony was now full of interesting angles and planes.

The eyebrows that usually expressed only conceit seemed inquisitive.

The face that was so snobbish had a stranded expression—one of somebody needing a friend.

Will looked at us.

Vibrant Megan. Faith radiating her crush on Angie. And me in my sloppiest sweatshirt with my grayest emotions.

“Hey, Kelly, how are you?” said Will, as if Megan and Faith were invisible.

“William, William, you’re blocking the road,” said
Megan, who cannot bear to be ignored and certainly not by a boy she herself just ignored.

“Fine, thanks, Will,” I told him.

He nodded and went to his desk.

Only people who have suffered from really serious crushes—terminal crushes—know that a person can be wafted off for an entire class on “How are you?” and a nod.

I was wearing one nice thing: my gold chain with the eighth-note gold charm. I fingered it while I looked at Will, hoping for a glance or smile to confirm his interest. To prove he wasn’t snubbing Megan, but was crazy about me. Will’s interest, however, was in the lecture. He took notes. He did not look up.

I really care, I thought. Not so much about Will. Will and Blaize themselves hardly matter. I just want somebody to like me. I don’t care anymore who does the liking. I am desperate.

What a terrible word in a girl’s vocabulary.

“… to be special,” squeaked Ms. Simms. “You do library work, in your language arts classes and history. You translate paragraphs in foreign languages and attempt lab research in biology or chemistry. But for your sociology project, I want something special. Anything to do with the way one person interacts with another.”

“The way boy interacts with girl?” piped up Angie.

“Of course. Male-female relationships are complex. Any data you can supply to help us understand will be greatly appreciated.”

Angie beamed. “Then my project’s finished. I’ve been working on it since my thirteenth birthday and I’ve already—”

“I think not, Angelo,” said Ms. Simms. “Sexual expertise or the complete lack of it will not be considered.”

Angie’s all show! I thought. He fooled everyone but Ms. Simms. It’s not that the girls don’t measure up to Angie’s standards; it’s that Angie doesn’t know what to do next and he won’t risk mistakes. Complete lack of expertise defines Angie.

“Project ideas must be submitted within two weeks. If you are late, the grade will drop ten percent.”

Lots of people take sociology as an easy A to prop their grade point average up. Now they’d have to exert themselves, which caused classwide groaning. Even Wendy whined. “But Ms. Simms, I do so much creative stuff already. I don’t have time to think up something
else
that’s special and wonderful.”

This time Will looked my way and we rolled our eyes at each other. Did Wendy Newcombe have a high opinion of herself or what?

Jeep spoke up on Wendy’s behalf, wanting Wendy to be exempt from the project, or be allowed to submit a soap script.

Parker would have done that too, I thought. He’s still on Wendy’s team, even though I don’t think she has a team. She’s captain, but for herself alone.

I should put that on my board: a square to show that
sometimes you love a person for what doesn’t exist. You’d have to pay a big penalty for that. Of course, you didn’t need a board game to pay penalties. All you had to do was fall in love.

Romance
was such a soft and beautiful word. In it were such hard and cruel divisions.

And suddenly I was laughing, almost exulting. My romance game would be my sociology project. Not only a class activity, but one about male-female relationships and the complexity thereof. Ms. Simms would love it.

The bell rang, the class vanished and I struggled to my feet. Skinny as I am, I should come out of a school desk like a trout through water, but I must have the wrong proportions. Never once have I stood up gracefully in school.

“I am dying to know what you’re thinking,” said Will, standing next to me. “The expressions that have been crossing your face in the last five minutes have been priceless. The trouble is, I didn’t figure out a single one.”

I blushed. “Hard to explain,” I mumbled. Oh, no, I thought. I sound as if I don’t want to share my thoughts with him. Megan’s right. I do need a guide dog for romance.

“Wendy’s kind of a jerk, isn’t she?” observed Will, going with me to the door.

“I love hearing you say that!” I exclaimed. “You’re so removed and objective. If you say she’s a jerk, then she is.”

“Me? Removed?”

We reached the hall.

“I’m sure your expressions meant something interesting,” said Will. “Would you tell me over a Coke? This afternoon?”

A
soda with Will.

If only I had on decent clothes.

Of course I was in my worst sweatshirt and my oldest jeans for my first date. (I wasn’t counting Blaize as a first date. He was a punishment.)

I dawdled, because I was afraid of Will. I had known him most of my life. Watched him in sports, where conceit serves him so well, and disliked him in class, where conceit is infuriating. What was there to be afraid of?