Love and Other Theories (9 page)

“Good night,
my
lovelies,” Shelby says well after two a.m., as we lie in the California king-size bed Sandra handed down to Shelby when Phil bought her a new one last year. We laugh at Leila’s expense one last time before drifting off. Right before sleep takes over, I think,
This is what I’m really going to miss when I’m at Barron next year.

“Y
ou look amazing,” Nathan says Monday morning when he passes me in the hall on the way to fourth period.

I
do
look hot—it’s not an accident. Nathan spent an entire weekend away doing God knows what with God knows who—so of course I’m going to remind him of what he’s been missing. Of course.

He stops me and tugs on the bottom of my low-cut shirt that hugs me in all the right places. It’s made of a lace material that no doubt reminds him of lingerie. “I like this.”

“Oh, this old thing?”

Nathan tries to stare back at me, but his eyes drift down. I can’t blame them.

In Drama we sneak away. Mrs. Seymour has left the class to its own devices again, and no one’s in the mood to act. Melvin gave up trying to corral us for a reading of
Hamlet
after Robert Jules asked if we could use the fake blood. The idea of wasting drama supplies seemed to terrify Melvin as much as saying no to Robert Jules. Nathan and I slink backstage and find an old couch shoved into a corner with the rest of the furniture props.

“I had the best weekend,” he tells me. He’s got his arm slung over the back of the couch. I’m tingling because he’s so close, and I don’t want anything to spoil it. I do not want to hear about his weekend.

“Me too,” I say, leaning into him ever so slightly.

Nathan leans into me, too, but then I notice he’s only leaning my way to pull something out of his back pocket.

“This is my best friend, Bobby—it was his birthday,” he says, holding his phone in front of me, scrolling through pictures of his weekend. “Why he wore that stupid crown I don’t know. Must’ve seemed like a good idea after all that gin. . . .”

We flip through several pictures of a redheaded boy with thick-rimmed glasses and a cardboard crown on his head (from Burger King, I guess) smiling ridiculously with Nathan and a slew of other people who Nathan’s more than happy to tell me about. He even lets me hold
the phone and tells me to scroll through the pictures. It’s like he has absolutely nothing to hide.

The photos of Bobby’s party are very different from the photos of any of the parties I’ve gone to with Shelby, Danica, and Melissa. These are the kinds of parties Ella and Marnie—and boys like Ivan Gunderson—attend. Sure, everyone’s having fun. And they’re drinking. They hold up their cups proudly. They stick out their tongues. Their heads are pressed together as if they don’t understand how much of the room the camera actually captures. San Diego is a much larger town, so I expected his parties to reflect that. These photos reveal what I suspected about Nathan. There’s a bottle of gin sitting next to a game of Scrabble. It’s the same eight kids in all the pictures. This confirms that he spent most of his time in high school studying; that when he did hang out—which probably wasn’t often—he did it with only the other AP students. I’m an AP student, and no, I’m not insulting myself—I believe there are exceptions to every rule. The exception for me is that I have Shelby.

Nathan didn’t have anyone to keep him from turning into what Shelby calls “the lame brains.” Nathan didn’t have anyone to take him out of that world. He does now.

He catches me smiling at him. It’s a small smile, but still. I feel so busted.

He tilts his head toward me like he’s got a secret.

“You have to visit sometime,” he says. “You’ve never been, have you?”

I shake my head and try to look bored.

He gives me a sideways smile that makes me want to kiss him. “I told my friends about you. They think I’m making you up.”

He turns the phone on me and I hear a click.

“There,” he says. “Proof.”

Luckily, it’s a good picture. Nathan basically calling me one of a kind shouldn’t surprise me—few girls at Lincoln High are evolved.

He teases me, hovering close and letting his hot breath tickle my lips before he goes in for the kill.

I pull away when I hear my phone buzz and retrieve it from my purse. It’s something I would normally ignore, but if I’ve learned anything, it’s that just the right amount of unavailability has the potential to prolong the typical hookup period.

I stand and walk a few feet away. As though my text message is personal and I have to be alone to read it. Really it’s just an excuse to stand so he’ll have a full view of me. I hear him clear his throat.

The feeling creeps over me—the same feeling I got last year when we first used the theories and they started to really work. Satisfaction and excitement, but also the comfort of knowing that I am in complete control.

Ironic
because the text I receive is from Trip Chapman. The last boy to make me feel like this.

THE TEXT FROM Trip was followed up shortly by a phone call, which I ignored on my way to lunch. No voice mail because Trip has never had the patience to wait through the greeting.

“Trip called?” Shelby is appalled. We’re all at our usual table in the cafeteria at lunchtime.

“The nerve.” I roll my eyes and laugh, but Melissa still gives me a look that’s dripping with sympathy.

“Well, he did pocket-call you in December,” Melissa says. “Oh, and he sent you that ‘Happy New Year’ text.”

“He sent that to all of us,” Shelby says, her mouth full of turkey sandwich.

Before any of them have a chance to think it, I announce, “I’m not going to call him back. I don’t even want to talk to him. I don’t care.”

“What did his text say?” Melissa asks.

I show them.

I’M BACK THIS WEEKEND, COME BY MY HOUSE ON SUNDAY. I WANT TO TALK.

Danica twirls her finger around the straw hanging out of her Diet Coke. “You’re not even a little bit curious about what he wants?”

“We know what he wants.” Shelby sighs and pouts a little. She’s bored with this. “Where’s Nathan? Why
doesn’t he ever eat lunch with us?”

“He’s studying.”

“Laaammmeee,”
Melissa sings.

I’m about to defend him, explain that he partied so hard last weekend that he didn’t study for the Spanish test he has next period—even though that’s not true—but they’ve already switched topics. Not that they would recognize that as a legitimate excuse anyway. Especially not now, with graduation creeping up on us.

I
’m lying on Nathan’s bed, on top of my open physics book, while he kisses me. I stare up at the ceiling. Snow slowly covers the skylight.

“I’ve never met anyone like you,” Nathan says against my cheek.

This makes me smile. I keep my mouth closed, so it comes off looking like more of a smirk. “I’m exactly like you.”

He laughs. “You think so?”

Nathan’s room matches his house. Big. Clean. Dare I say,
lavish
. His bed has actual posts. And a painting of the ocean in a thick brass frame hanging above his desk—a
full-size desk that looks like it belongs in a CEO’s office. But apart from that, his room is exactly like mine. Textbooks littered with Post-its marking the important pages. Highlighters, red pens, pencils. Stacks of note cards. A dictionary and thesaurus piled up next to
The Elements of Style
. A stress-relief ball sitting next to his laptop on the desk. “Yes. Exactly.”

I notice a Barron college sweater hanging on his wall next to his bookshelf. Nathan notices me noticing.

“Both of my parents have PhDs from Barron,” he tells me.

“Impressive.”

He twirls his fingers in a circle on my shoulder, but it’s not romantic, it’s more like a nervous tic.

I turn so I can see him better, careful not to move out of his reach. His grip on me tightens slightly when I shift, as though he thinks I’m going to roll away.

“You don’t seem very excited.”

His lips form the tiniest smile. He stares up at the skylight even though the sky isn’t visible anymore. “I think Barron is what I want.”

He
thinks
. As in, Barron wasn’t his first and only choice. His front-runner goal. The light at the end of the cram-session tunnel. The best alternative for going away to college and not attending one of the two state schools—cleverly referred to by everyone as “State” and “the University,” because this is as creative as it gets
around here. I realize in one horrible second that there seems to be this gaping hole in my college experience when I think about strolling Barron’s campus without the possibility of bumping into Nathan. I’m disgusted with myself for this.

“Why did you decide to go to Barron?” he says, as if Barron was something I chose. As if I didn’t work my ass off so they would choose me.

“Because, it’s Barron.” That should be enough of an explanation for him. It should be enough of an explanation for anyone.

He lowers his eyebrows and nods.

“If not Barron, then where?” I ask. I don’t especially want to know the answer. I don’t understand what the alternative could possibly be.

“I don’t know, really. There are a lot of great schools out there,” he says. His smile widens just slightly and he looks down. “Some of the state universities in California are part of this program that allows engineering students to intern on huge private projects supporting new technology. Plus, not going to Barron is the most efficient way to rebel against my parents.”

He laughs, so I do too—because it is adorable that he’s talking about
efficient rebellion
, especially when I get the sense that skipping school with me is the most he’s ever colored outside the lines.

“Yes, but”—I prop myself up so we’re face-to-face—“why would you ever turn down the opportunity to go to Barron?”

Nathan smiles like he’s amused and pushes my hair behind my ear. “I wouldn’t,” he says, pulling me closer and kissing me until I forget all about Barron.

You have to live moment to moment
, I remind myself.
The theories exist because moments like this are fleeting. And I only get to have this moment because of the theories.
I let myself soak into him.

There’s a noise then, the sound of the door opening. Followed by a woman’s voice.

“Why is this door closed? Nathan, you know the rules.”

Nathan and I both stand. Carefully. I’m at the side of the bed and Nathan’s at the end. Mrs. Diggs is petite, delicate. Short black hair curling at the ends, a peach cardigan draped over her tiny shoulders. She’s looking at me like she’s already offended.

“Who’s this?”

“This is Aubrey, Mom.”

“Pleased to meet you.” She’s not eager to shake my hand, and she’s looking at it like she’s wondering where it’s been.

“We’re studying.” Nathan’s hands are in his pockets, but he nods at the books scattered on the bed. There’s
a piece of paper that crumpled from where my head leaned into it when we were making out, and I want to die. Nathan’s blushing. He’s not at all smooth, though I have to appreciate his embarrassment because sometimes Trip wouldn’t even bother getting off me when his dad walked in.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” she finally says. She even gives me a small smile. “You’re going to Barron.”

I glance at Nathan, who is also smiling. It’s my cue to smile too.

“It’s a great school,” she says. “Nice to meet you.”

I echo this to her, but I end up interrupting her a little.

“Dinner’s at six,” she says to Nathan, and the silence that follows—the place where she doesn’t invite me to join them for dinner—fills the room, so I lie and say, “I have to be home early.” It’s awkward again, and
again
I’m the cause.

“It’s a school night,” she offers before leaving, making a point to keep the door wide open.

“So that was your mother.”

“I didn’t know she would be home so early,” he says. I’m not sure if it’s an apology. He pulls out the desk chair and takes a seat. A proper place to sit. I don’t blame him—I don’t want to go anywhere near the bed either, now that the door’s open and his mother hates me.

It’s when I’m standing there, shifting my weight from one foot to the other and watching Nathan slide his
chair over to the edge of the bed, using the bed like it’s a desk, that I realize none of this is right. I shouldn’t have to worry about impressing Nathan’s mother, or about what I should do to get her to like me, or have to walk on eggshells now that the door is open. Nathan and I are not in a relationship. We’re not falling in love. We just happen to enjoy hanging out and messing around, and there’s really no reason that
his mother’s
opinion should be relevant at all.

If the theories exist to make the boys more comfortable, they also exist to make things more comfortable for us.

I flop down on the bed, lying on my stomach, the same way I was lying side by side with Nathan an hour ago, before he started kissing me. He looks a little surprised to see me sprawled out like this, but I ignore him. I turn my attention back to the theory of relativity and pretend not to notice that now he might be irritated with my lightheartedness and actually care that I failed to impress his mother.

“You’re reading that book at an incredible rate,” Nathan says, noticing that I’m flipping the pages haphazardly before I realize I’m doing it. Apparently I’m no good at fake reading.

“I’m skimming.”

Nathan gives me a kind smile. “She’ll be much better the next time. It just takes her a while to warm to
people . . . to anything new.” His voice is quiet, and I wonder if she’s listening.

I shrug and I mean it. The name of the game is indifference, and Shelby, Danica, Melissa, and I are pros.

“You look comfortable,” he says. He seems amused, and I can’t tell if he’s also hinting at me to change my position, lest his
mother
walk by.

“I am. Thanks.”

I leave at five o’clock because I can’t stand to stay any longer than that.