Love in the Time of Cynicism (26 page)

“What do you mean?” His brows knit together as we cross the school’s threshold and go in the direction of Lord of the Fries.

It’s hard to put into words, so I begin awkwardly, “It’s, like… Okay. For me, ‘I love you’ has always been this intense, intimate phrase. Even as a kid, we never really said it. Only my parents say it these days and Trent, when he’s too high for his own good. But now I know you and I completely understand why, once those words come out once, they never quite stop.”

“Like an addiction,” he says softly. Then, stumbling over his words as my ears turn pink, he amends, “A good one, though. I get what you’re saying, I mean. ‘I love you’ makes everything so much more personal. Every time I think about you, touching you or kissing you-” I bite my lip and he chuckles at the nervous gesture “-there’s more than the physical, I guess. It’s never been like that.”

“Why not?” We’re half way to the chain and I slow our pace so this conversation doesn’t run out.

“Well.” Rhett starts, stops. Starts again. “She was the Prom Queen type and I got the sense she only wanted to be with me so she’d have someone to run for homecoming queen with.”

“You?” I scoff, “A homecoming king?”

“I know,” he agrees. “But at fifteen, I didn’t mind being used by someone who looked like her. Not at all. The ‘emotional intimacy,’ as my mother would call it, wasn’t there and didn’t matter to me. With you, everything so much more…” He trails off and I wait patiently for him to find the right words. “Complicated, but in a good way. Like these parts of a relationship I always thought were separate are jumbled together and completely intensified. It’s insane.”

“Insane,” I concur with a nod. “But awesome.”

He laughs. “The awesome kind of insane. Exactly.”

Then we’re in front of Lord of the Fries and I can
feel
the soccer moms in there. It’s despicable.

Before we go in, Rhett loops his forearm behind my back and waits a moment. I push myself onto my tip toes and press my body to his, kissing him intently. His hands fall to my hips and my back arches. We’re in public and I remember my twelve year old self proclaiming that PDA was gross and nobody should ever kiss out in the open, but now…well.

Suddenly Sky pushes my back and my teeth click against Rhett’s. He bursts out laughing in a very typical Rhett fashion as my best friend links our elbows and says, “Shall we?”

Rhett open the door for us and we sit down at one of the tables by the window. It’s small and circular like the ones you see at Starbucks but definitely not at a burger joint. Four chairs ring the table and, unsurprisingly, Sky chooses the one where her back’s to the outside world. She likes to be in a position of prominence in the rare event someone from school waltzes in searching for the homecoming queen’s autograph or hand in marriage. Rhett and I poise ourselves on either side of her like bodyguards and face each other. A magazine rack looms behind Rhett and he leafs through some pink, celebrity-stricken preteen monstrosity even Tannis wouldn’t be caught dead reading. As for me, once we’ve got our food I take out the Baylor application and glare at it.

“Is he boyfriend material?” Sky reads from the cover of the Pop Scene Rhett’s laughing at. “You should definitely take that, Tressler. Make sure you’re up for the challenge.”

While I suck an uncomfortably sized strawberry lump from my milkshake, Rhett slips through the magazine and puts on his best Tannis impression. “What does he think is the best way to a girl’s heart?”

“Punching through her ribcage?” I suggest as my pen lingers on the third question on Baylor’s application: father’s full name. No idea.

“Though I appreciate your blatant disregard for the holy institution of Pop Scene Magazine, I’m going to have to pick C: introduce her to your urologist as a fun first date!”

I snort and have to reign myself back from spewing strawberry. “You’re an idiot.”

He shrugs modestly. “I ranked top of my class in idiocy, you?”

“No, I flunked out of Blank Stares 101 and couldn’t handle the workload of Douchebag Mannerisms.”

“Ouch.” Rhett clutches a hand to his heart in mock pain.

Sky chimes in, “Want a swig of my milkshake to cool that burn?”

He rolls his eyes and continues, “Question two: do your friends think you should hold him tight or drop him like a hot potato?”

His questioning gaze turns to Sky, who contemplates this seriously and replies, “Definitely the latter.”

“Harsh.” Rhett nods thoughtfully. “Fair, though, as I clearly fall into the category of hot potato.”

Sky and I groan in tandem. Then, out of nowhere, my best friend grabs my head as well as Rhett’s and forces us, with her intense cheerleading muscles, to duck our heads against the table. “Oh Mylanta, it’s Brian Ward. Nobody look!”

Translation: the newest (and most shocking) object of Sky’s desire has come into Lord of the Fries like a miracle sent from the romance gods. I’ve never seen Sky so interested in someone before, and it’s almost hilarious enough to put up with having my cheek pressed against a ratchet table. Almost.

I sigh with her hand on my right cheek, forcing me to stare directly at Brian Ward himself. He’s watching us discreetly because,
obviously
, she’s caused quite a commotion by shouting and using physical force. “Sky, this tactic only works in booths. Plus, he’s already looking.”

“Are you serious?” She’s shielding her face (unsuccessfully) and ducking low.

“Wait,” Rhett interrupts as he wriggles from under her grip, “you’re interested in Brian?”

Sky’s face lights up. “You know him?”

She’s let go of me, too, so I wait for Rhett to respond.

“Yeah. He works at the library.” Rhett elaborates at our tilted heads, “I’m down there at least once a week to get poems. We’ve had some intelligent conversations on a few occasions. I’d even dare to call us friendly acquaintances, if not friends. I could talk you up.”

Sky turns to me excitedly. “Del, is it okay if I use your boyfriend as my wingman?”

“By all means,” I laugh. She’s so pumped it’s comical. Sky hasn’t gone into full-on crush mode since we were kids, and even then it was on popular boys. Brian’s president of the engineering club, wears thick-rimmed glasses un-ironically, and throws parties where the main event is a model plane that goes (what a time to be alive) five miles an hour. In other words, he’s not exactly Sky’s usual type. Frankly, I’m intrigued to see where this goes.

I sit at our table with a smirk on as Rhett stands and greets Brian with a dude handshake. They talk for a minute as Sky sits nervously next to me, clutching my arm with her clawed fingernails.

Then, after a brief deliberation, the boys come our table and Rhett gestures at Sky. “Brian, this is Sky. I have this strange, sudden feeling that the two of you would get along quite well; would you like to join the three of us for lunch?”

Brian shrugs but smiles quickly. “Um, sure.”

I shift over so he can sit next to Sky and listen casually to their conversation for a minute before Rhett settles in next to me. My pen’s still scratching heavily over the Baylor application when Rhett frowns deeply at me.

He chastises, “When are you planning on telling Michael about your after-school plans again?”

“This afternoon,” I sigh.

“Good.” Then Rhett reaches across the table and scoops up the four page application. “Then let me handle this.”

“What, you’re going to apply to Baylor for me?”

“Nope,” he snickers. Then he rips the packet in half before I can snatch it back. The shredding of paper continues until he’s satisfied and crumples them into the trash. “There. You’re free.”

“Sure. Great way to deal with your problems. Rip them up.”

“It’s always worked for me. Give it a try.”

“Why’d you do that, anyway?” My voice drops as the words spoken between Sky and Brian come faster and louder. “Why do you care if I go to Baylor?”

Instead of responding, he asks, “You have a pen?”

I roll my eyes and rummage in my bag until I find one. Rhett pulls a napkin from the dispenser on the table next to ours and begins scribbling line after line. I can’t read it upside-down so I have to wait patiently for him to finish. When he slides the napkin over to me, he explains, “That’s why.” My eyes scan over the sloppy, slanted, scrawled words as he says them aloud. “You do not have to be good/ you do not have to walk on your knees/for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting/you only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves/tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine/meanwhile the world goes on.” He stops, shakes out his perfect curls, and says, “That’s what I remember. First poem I ever had to memorize:
Wild Geese
by Mary Oliver. The reason I don’t believe in half-assing your way through life. You shouldn’t either.”

And I hold the napkin to my chest like nothing more important has ever touched me. The coarse fiber feels like permission to my itching fingers, a ‘yes’ amidst a world shouting ‘no.’

When Rhett’s fingers find mine over the table, my heart’s beating faster. He leans close and whispers to my neck, “You are worth so much more than those who want you to squander your dreams would have you believe. Don’t ever forget it.”

Chapter Fifteen – The Revolutionary Notion of Thinking for Myself

When we walk back into school and to anthropology, we’re eight minutes late. With Rhett’s napkin poem shoved carefully into my pocket, I’m starting to think maybe, in the grand scheme of things, my being late to class doesn’t actually matter. There’s more to life than the constructs of high school.

Dr. Sullivan apparently doesn’t agree with this notion. When Rhett and I quietly open the door and take our seats during a round of independent work, Sullivan beckons for me to join him in the hall. Standing, I sigh and relinquish thoughts of freedom. He collects a stack of papers and opens the door for me. We stand on the opposite side of the hall from the door and a quick panic rises inside of me; Sullivan’s my favorite teacher and the last person in this building I want to disappoint.

Then, as I’m waiting for him to deliver a two detentions fate, a smile spreads across his lips. His eyes light up in a way I’m not sure is normal for a man who spends every day reading anthropological papers with phrases like ‘the ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant’ or ‘her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.’

After a moment of this surprising smile, Sullivan holds out an envelope to me. Confused and fascinated, I take it and clumsily rip it open with my index finger. The letter inside is crisp and folded in three, with
The New Yorker
stamped in the upper left corner. An unknown, befuddled excitement ripples inside of me; I’ve got no idea what’s going on, but Sullivan’s smile and the professional look of this letter have made me oddly enthusiastic.

Ms. Cordelia Kane,

As Senior Editor here at The
New Yorker
, I must tell you that receiving your application to a staff writer position was a shock. Normally, I would not have given it a second glance before throwing it in the trash, but I was struck by your shameless audacity. A high school student from a tiny, conservative town in Texas with almost no experience outside of school newspapers applying to one of New York’s, and, if I may be biased, the world’s greatest satirical magazine. Imagine my surprise.

Then, as I flipped through the attached letters of recommendation and previous works, I happened upon the name of a man who spent a few years in college with me, the very same man who convinced me to give up studying law and go into the field I have always loved. Now that I’m relatively established in the anthropological literary world, I think of this man with great esteem. As I assume he’s reading this over your shoulder right now, Dr. William Sullivan has been a great influence on my life and choices and we’ve corresponded at great length through the years since our days in college. His beaming letter was what put me over the edge.

So, if you’re still interested in the staff writer position by the end of your Senior year and still have ‘absolutely no desire or plan to attend a college,’ as William put it,
The New Yorker
would consider inviting you to our team on an internship under our head writer, Ms. Rachel Bates, starting on June 18
th
, though I would encourage you to consider attendance at a local school in Manhattan during your time here. Know that I am taking a huge risk merely in sending you this letter but am legitimately interested in your writing and the potential of working with you.

I understand that this is a huge commitment for you to think over. All I ask is for you to respond by November 31
st
with a letter of confirmation or denial addressed directly to my office.

Regards,

Oliver North

Senior Editor,
The New Yorker

My drift slowly up to Sullivan’s grin as bewilderment has settled against my throat, clogging it so only a few words can escape. “But…I would never have applied…”

“I know.” Sullivan claps a hand on my shoulder and replies, “That’s why I sent in an application for you. I hope you’ll forgive me, but I had to access your files for some of the questions. So, are you going to respond to them?”