You and Me and Him (8 page)

“Look, if you don’t want to do this . . .” She looks down and starts fishing for something in her bag.

I don’t want to be mean, and I’m beginning to think, even hope, maybe there’s more to Kayla’s invitation than a power play to get near Tom. “No, wait,” I say, putting my hand on her arm. “I didn’t say I didn’t want to do this. But you have to admit: it’s a little out of the blue. I’m just trying to figure out the motivation.”

She looks at her coffee cup. “I guess,” she starts. “I guess I look around at my friends sometimes and get a little bored. And then I see other people, like you.” She glances up. “People who have been around but background noise, you know? And I begin to think I’m missing out.”

“Background noise? That’s flattering.”

“I didn’t mean . . .” She starts to apologize, but then she sets her mouth in a tight little line. “Isn’t that what my friends and I are to you and Nash? Background noise? You don’t know anything more about me or my life than I do about you and yours.”

I start pushing at the skin around my cuticles, then rip off a hangnail on my thumb. It starts to ooze blood, so I put it in my mouth and suck on it, tasting the sour tang. Kayla’s still waiting for an answer. “Okay,” I say, taking the thumb out of my mouth. “Fair enough. Things have changed for both of us since elementary school.”

She stares into her coffee like it’s some kind of crystal ball. “But we did have some fun back then, didn’t we?”

“We did,” I say. “At least I did.”

“I did too. Sometimes I feel like those last couple years of grade school were as good as life gets. Before things got . . . complicated.”

“But we’re not eleven anymore. It can’t all be about Barbies and board games.”

“I know. But when we ended up in a couple classes this year, I remembered . . . Well, I thought maybe we could, you know, be friends. Again.” She picks at a flaw in the glaze of her cup.

Sitting there, I remember what it was like to be Kayla’s friend, remember what it was like before things like perfect teeth and plus-size jeans mattered. She laughed at my jokes. She listened.

“So,” I say. “Where do you see this relationship going?”

She laughs.

“Too soon?”

“Too soon,” she says. “No agenda. Let’s talk, and if we bond, we’ll go from there. If there’s no bonding, we’ve at least removed a little bit of the background noise.”

So we talk. For about an hour: the basics, what Nash would call first-date material. I’m surprised she had a horseback-riding phase in middle school, although I remember that she used to have a collection of those Breyer Horses (me too).

She’s surprised I watch documentaries and hate strawberry ice cream (her favorite). We are still going strong when I plead homework and have to go home.

“Thanks for this,” Kayla says, and I think she means it.

“Thank you,” I say. “I’m a little low on female interaction in my life.”

“Yeah, it seems like most of your friends are guys, but I wasn’t sure.”

“Yep. Mostly guys. And I keep adding to the club.”

“Some girls would love to be surrounded by guys all the time.” Kayla fidgets with her cup, turning it in circles. “I noticed you were getting pretty tight with Tom.”

“I’ve only known him a little over a week, but he’s a decent addition to the Cedar Ridge universe, I think.”

“We had fun last night,” Kayla says. “There were a bunch of us for dinner, but everyone else had homework, so it was just me and Tom for the movie.”

That almost sounds like a real date. I don’t really want to know if Tom’s the kind of guy who would rather hang out with Kayla and her friends than Nash and me.

“I got pretty nervous on the way home,” she says. “He’s kind of adorable.”

“Yep, pretty cute,” I say, smiling.

“And I thought I was good at flirting? Tom is a master.”

“I’ve noticed he has some pretty potent skills in that area.” I think about the hike and the drive home afterward. I think about Tom’s low laugh and the electric current when he touched my hand in the car. But then I think of Nash, and I remember who I’m talking to. “I don’t mean he was flirting with me. It seems like he’s like that with everyone. He and I are just friends. Obviously.”

“Why ‘obviously’?”

Irritation tightens the skin around my eyes. She has to know that Tom plus Maggie does not compute.

“That’s how it is. Me being who I am, him being who he is.”

Kayla looks at me, waiting.

“Well, anyway, he’s nice. And he’s new. You should get to know him better.”

“That’s the plan,” she says.

“Sure,” I say. “He’s going to need more friends than just Nash and me.” Did I just encourage one of the most beautiful and popular girls at Cedar Ridge to pursue Tom? But Kayla didn’t seem to need much encouragement. Whatever. Hanging out with Kayla has been nice, but I’ve had my quota of female bonding for now.

“I gotta go, Kayla. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I turn and go through the door and out into the brisk fall night. Being with Kayla was easier, more familiar, than I expected. And it was nice to talk to a girl for a change. There has been entirely too much testosterone in my life lately.

Since Tom hasn’t actually spent any time in Seattle, Nash is planning a dawn-until-dark sort of excursion. All the pieces of Nash’s itinerary are falling into place. As chauffeur, I have no say in where we go, but I don’t mind. We are finalizing plans at lunch on Friday when Cece comes by.

She rests her lunch box on the table but seems unsure about actually sitting down. “So, what are you all doing for the long weekend?”

I look sideways at Nash and Tom. Monday is their deal, so I know I can’t invite Cece.

“The usual—you know.” Nash fidgets, eyes on his sandwich. “How about you?”

“Mostly homework,” she says. Cece’s the one fidgeting now. “But I have tickets to the modernist exhibit at the art museum in Seattle. I was wondering if you’d like to go with me on Monday, Nash?” Cece pushes this last bit out of her mouth in one quick rush, so quickly in fact that it takes us a few seconds to catch up with her. Cece’s whole face flushes bright red as she waits for his answer.

I marvel at her courage and blind persistence. Tom and I both look at Nash.

“You have tickets for that? I have been dying to go,” Nash says.

“My mom got them for me.” Cece still isn’t meeting Nash’s eyes. “I figured you’d be the perfect person to go with. You know so much about art.”

“There’s supposed to be a Warhol and a Pollock. I would do anything to see that.”

Cece’s face breaks into a wide smile. “Great. We can go early and—”

“But I can’t Monday.”

Cece’s features fall back into a disappointment that’s hard for me to look at.

Tom catches my eye, and I can see he feels the same way.

“Oh, okay,” she says. “I’ll . . . that’s fine. Thanks.” She turns to walk away.

“Eat lunch with us,” Nash says, throwing her a bone.

She turns toward us. Her smile is back, although not as wide as it was a moment before. She slides into a seat next to Tom, and we spend the rest of lunch talking about what animals our teachers would be if they were animals, smoothing over Cece’s hurt feelings. Just before the bell rings, Nash presents Cece with a sketch he did while we were talking. It’s Cece, arm outstretched, with a snowy owl perched on her arm.

“You’d be an owl,” Nash says. “Get it? Because you’re so smart.”

Cece takes the sketch, holding it like he’s just presented her with a diamond. “Thank you, Nash. It’s beautiful.”

Tom asks about it while we’re walking to biology. “So Cece?”

I nod. “Cece has a mad crush on Nash. For, like, two years.”

“And does she know . . . ?” Tom says.

“Does she know what?”

“That he’s gay?”

I look at Tom. This is the closest we’ve gotten to this topic, and I want to just ask Tom if he likes guys, likes Nash in particular. But I’m also worried about his answer and about finding out something that will burst Nash’s bubble. I want us all to be able to enjoy the not-knowing just a little bit longer. “She does and she doesn’t,” I say. “She knows, but that doesn’t keep her from liking him.”

“Ouch,” Tom says. “Rough.”

“Yeah. I never know what to say. Do I do the tough love thing and tell her, ‘Nash will never like you that way’? Or do I let her like him and wait for her to figure it out on her own? A day like today, I feel like I should slap her upside the head. Keep her from humiliating herself.” We walk in silence for a bit before Tom speaks.

“I don’t think she’s humiliated,” he says. “Not in the way you think. When you like someone, you do what you have to do. I think what she did was brave in a way.”

“Yep, the girl has guts,” I say. “I don’t think I could ever put myself out there like that, not without some guarantees.”

“Hormones win every time.”

“So you think it’s all just physical?”

“No. But we don’t get to choose who we fall for.”

“Nash said that same thing the other night,” I say.

“Nash is a smart guy.”

Since we didn’t get to finalize all the plans at lunch on Friday, Nash is frantic all weekend. He texts me repeatedly about the schedule, his wardrobe, where we should eat, where we should park. He’s in full cruise-director mode, trying to anticipate every detail. Nash is both adorable and exasperating when he has a crush. The whole world becomes about setting up a series of encounters that happen accidentally on purpose. Some of the guys never even realize they’re being stalked, and most of the ones who do freak out.

So Nash is putting a lot of eggs in this Seattle trip basket. In a way it’s Tom’s own fault. Most guys would have blown Nash off by now. They become either consciously or unconsciously uncomfortable with his attentions and push him away or run in the other direction. Tom just keeps hanging out like it’s no issue at all. He must have some idea how Nash feels, but Tom is so friendly all the damn time; it’s hard to tell what he’s thinking. He’s given Nash the only thing a crush feeds on, the only thing that keeps a crush from dying: hope.

Late Sunday night, Nash calls for what I sincerely hope will be the last time.

“Okay,” he says without saying hello. “I have a checklist.”

I yawn, trying to communicate how completely not interested I am in this final neurotic manifestation of Nash’s nerves.

“You ready?”

“Yep,” I say.

“Gas in car,” Nash says.

“Check.”

“Kick-ass playlists for trip.”

“Check.”

“Are you sure?” Nash sounds skeptical. “None of your indie-folk-sensitive this-is-the-soundtrack-of-my-life kind of playlists. I’m talking about really cool stuff.”

“Check!” I say, a little louder.

“Money?”

“Check.” I yawn again. “Wait, money for me, or do you need me to bring money for you, too?”

“Both?” Nash says. “Pretty please?”

“Yes, check.” I can raid my piggy bank and pay it back out of my next paycheck.

“Thanks, Mags,” he says. “I want it all to be . . .”

“It’s going to be great, Nash,” I say. “He’s going to have a great day. We’re all going to have a great day.”

“Okay, you’re right. I know,” Nash says. “I just really, really want this to be special.”

“It will be special, Nash. But if I don’t get some sleep, it will be special because we all die in a fiery car crash when I fall asleep at the wheel. Now, good night.”

“Good night, Mags.”

I hang up the phone. I try to read, but my mind keeps wandering back to Seattle and Nash’s plans. All the questions I have about Tom and Nash and whether my best friend has a chance in hell are front and center, making me restless.

The image of a soft, sweet comforting Twinkie pops into my head, and I wonder briefly if my dad still has some stashed in the garage near his workbench. When my tendency toward tubbiness made itself clear, Mom banned all junk food from the house. No chips, candy, ice cream, and definitely no delicious, spongy, cream-filled snack cakes. Twinkies have always been Dad’s favorite, his kryptonite. But our house has been a Hostess-free zone for about six years now. Except for, I discovered one day when I was thirteen, my dad’s workshop. There, in a toolbox shoved under the workbench, he kept a few choice snack foods that would make Ms. Perry squirm. And I know for a fact that he stocked up when they briefly stopped making Twinkies a couple years ago, although I have no idea where he’s hiding that mother lode.

The promise of some sponge cake to distract me from tomorrow’s anxieties propels me into action. I slide off the bed and into my slippers, easing my door open. I pad dowstairs and past the living room, where Dad is watching some gruesome forensics show while Mom grades papers next to him on the couch. When I get into the garage, I grab the flashlight next to the door so I don’t have to turn on the overhead light. The cylinder of yellow light makes the darkness around it seem denser somehow. Swinging the beam to the workbench, I bend a little until I find the red steel of the toolbox underneath. I hold the flashlight under my arm, open the box, and there before me are a half-dozen plastic-wrapped packages of emotion-numbing fat and sugar. I grab an individually wrapped Twinkie and then a mini-sleeve of Oreos for good measure.

Back in the house, I slip the packages up the sleeves of my flannel pajamas, hiding them in case my parents look up as I’m walking past. I do not want to have a conversation with my mother about the evils of junk food or my unrealized potential right now. Nor do I want to rat out my dad’s secret stash. I’m almost past the door of the living room when Mom looks up.

“Hi, honey. What are you doing?” she asks.

“Nothing, um, just taking my vitamins. I forgot this morning.” I keep my arms and snack foods resting quietly at my sides so the plastic wrappers won’t crinkle and give me away.

“Good. You should take those every day, especially the calcium.”

“Yep. That’s why I came downstairs. Thanks, Mom.” I high-tail it past the living room and back to the privacy of my bedroom, where I can enjoy my junk food in peace.

Pushing the door closed, I plug in my iPod. I find a mellow playlist and start the music. Then I circle my bed and wedge myself between the bed and the wall on the floor. I open the Oreos first, delaying my Twinkie bliss for a few more minutes. The crunchy creaminess and bitter chocolate dull my anxiety a little, and by the time the sleeve is empty, I am ready for the pure pillowy comfort of sponge cake and chemical sweet cream. I go through my ritual, eating the Twinkie from the inside out. And after I have dissected and devoured, I am calmer.