You Know Me Well (6 page)

It looks like a flower.

Slowly, we approach it, side by side.

A rose.

Of course.

Bright red. Like the circus tent in the photograph, like the lipstick I was told to reapply for her. I reach carefully and pick it up between two fingers. She removed all the thorns. I could hold it tight in my fist if I wanted to.

“What does it mean?” I whisper. “That she would leave it here? Was she throwing it away?”

“She might have been,” Mark whispers back. “But maybe not. Maybe it was an act of hope, like when you make a wish, send it out into the world.”

“You hope it finds its way back to you,” I say.

“Yeah.”

“If she wanted to throw it away, she would have put it in the trash or dropped it on the ground, not set it here where it wouldn’t get stepped on.”

I say it with a certainty that I wish I could feel, but as I speak the words, they make sense. So I hold the rose’s thornless stem tightly. We climb into the Jeep and I set it on my lap because I am a cautious driver who keeps both hands on the wheel, but I want to keep this flower close to me. To part with it feels like bad luck.

And now we are on the on-ramp and officially leaving the city. Unlike our drive here, nothing about being on the bridge fills me with awe. There is nothing beautiful about it. We’re on the lower deck, surrounded by no one because it is only midnight and no respectable party would be even remotely close to over. I keep thinking,
How could we have missed her?

“But how did we end up at this party?” Mark asks, bringing me back to our plan. “Maybe some painting connection of yours? Like, have you ever had any cool art teachers or something?”

I shake my head. It’s true—how would Mark and I ever end up at a party like that? This was a bad idea. No one will believe us, and the more we plan, the more distance we cover, the farther we get from the city, from Ryan, from Violet, from all my friends who might not even be my friends anymore, from the electric current of the night and the possibility that my life might change.

“Actually,” Mark says. “I totally know how we could have ended up at a party like that.”

And then he pulls a business card out of his wallet and tells me about this world-famous photographer who just happened to ask him if he modeled and also
took his picture
and gave him his card.

“How
on earth
was this not the first thing you told me tonight?”

“Everything was such a blur,” he says. “And, you know, I’ve been kind of preoccupied. But I should text this guy and find out if he really is at a party, because it would suck if we used him as an excuse and it turned out Ryan saw him somewhere else.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Good call.”

Mark sends him the world’s longest text, reintroducing himself, providing some distinguishing characteristics to remind the guy in case he’s taken pictures of quite a few could-be models tonight, saying that the night has stalled out, and asking if there’s anything cool going on.

“If he writes back I’ll just say that we’ll try to make it. And then I can tell him that it didn’t work out.”

“Good plan,” I say, but as I say it I glide over two lanes and slow to take the narrow, curving exit onto Treasure Island.

“Where are we going?” Mark asks me, and the truth is that I don’t know. But it isn’t home. Not yet. As I pull onto the side of the road, the awe is officially back. The city glows so close in front of us. I can almost hear the voices of hundreds of thousands of celebrating people.

“Hand me the phone,” I say.

He doesn’t ask me why; he just does it.

I find his recent calls and tap
Home
.

“What’s your mom’s name?”

“Becca,” he says. “But, to be honest, I don’t think—”

“Becca!” I say to the voice that answers. “This is Kate Cleary. I’m a senior in Mark’s Calc class, and I also happen to be his chaperone this evening. I’m calling to touch base with you about our plans.”

“Are you the person who is supposed to be driving him home right now?” Becca asks me. Her voice is so familiar even though I’ve never heard it. It’s the stern but kind voice of a TV mom. I don’t yet know her, but I
know
her. And so I carry on.

“Yes,” I say. “And, in fact, we are in the car now, and we will absolutely keep driving home if that’s what you need. But I have to say that the night is young, Becca, and we are, too.”

“Is this on speaker?”

“Just a second. Now it is.”

“Hey, Mom.”

“Mark?”

“Yeah, Mom.”

“You remember your SAT workshop starts tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“I want you to get the most out of it.”

“Yeah, I will.”

“Kate, how did you do on your SATs?”

“All right.”

“Where are you going for college?”

“UCLA.”

“Oh,” she says. “Wow. And
what
class are you in with Mark?”

“Calculus. I got into their art program. There was a portfolio review, so the SAT scores matter less. But they were fine; they were decent.”

“Maybe you could help Mark this summer.”

“Mom.”

“Vocabulary drills, maybe?”

“I’d love to,” I say.

“Mom,”
Mark says.

Becca sighs.

“So what do you think?” I ask. “We don’t even have any plans. We’re just enjoying the energy. It’s extra celebratory this year. Any chance we could get an extension on the evening? Just a
few
hours?”

“Normally I would say no to this. It’s already so late and you
snuck out,
Mark.”

“You snuck out?” I shake my head at him in mock disappointment.

“Sorry,” he says into the phone. “You know. Desperate times? Or something?”

“Wait,” she says. “Where’s Ryan?”

“He, um…” Mark is searching for an answer and I don’t want him to get himself into even more trouble by covering for his sometimes-secret-boyfriend, other times heartbreaker-of-a-best-friend. But it’s his call, not mine.

“He’s asleep in the back,” he finally says. “It’s just Katie and me awake now.”

“Okay. You can have a little more time. But
only
if you stay together.”

“I’m the ride,” I remind her. “So he’s stuck with me.”

“Two hours from now at the latest. And that is firm.”

Mark’s jaw drops.

“Awesome. Thanks so much, Becca!”

“Okay, Kate. Come around the house soon so we can meet in person. Mark, have fun and be safe. I love you.”

We hang up, and Mark says, “Two hours from now? Are you my fairy godmother? Is this Jeep actually a pumpkin? I didn’t even know my mother was capable of establishing this kind of curfew. I wasn’t sure this hour was a time she knew existed. Like, maybe theoretically she knew, but I certainly didn’t think she would know from experience, like from actually looking at a clock and seeing that it was
this late
and she was still awake.”

“Don’t underestimate your mother.”

We both look out at the city. All of those lights, all of that darkness. I touch one of the rose’s petals. Violet is out there, somewhere.

“So,” Mark says. “I’m pretty sure you’re babysitting me.”

“Yeah. I wasn’t going to say anything about it, but that’s definitely the impression I got.”

“That’s kind of fucked up. Thanks, Mom. Thanks so much.”

“Well. Desperate measures, I guess.”

“So what now?” he asks, and right then his phone lights up.

“The photographer?”

He nods.

“He’s at a friend’s party in Russian Hill.” He turns to me and swallows, a grin spreading across his face. “He gave me the address.”

MONDAY

5

MARK

It takes a day for it to hit. I guess people are tired or something.

But when it hits, it
hits
.

By Monday morning, it feels like everyone in school has seen. Or at least the people who care about such things. Which includes Ryan.

The blog—the gossip one that everyone reads—calls me an It Boy. The life of the party.

This is open to interpretation. Some of the interpretations include:

I never realized how hot he is.

I heard he’s on drugs.

He must be dating that photographer.

He must be sleeping with that photographer. After all, they’re both gay.

You’d never guess that such a quiet guy parties so hard.

It’s too bad he isn’t straight—I’d date THAT in a second.

Even I can acknowledge that the photo’s amazing. I can say this objectively because I can’t really believe it’s me.

Everybody wants to know the details about what happened or what didn’t happen to It Boy and Rising Art Star.

I don’t know if Ryan finds the link on his own or if someone forwards it to him early Monday morning, knowing we’re friends. I do know, however, exactly when Ryan first sees it, because a few seconds later I get a text from him:

WTF? I think there are some things you have to tell me.

As if he’s told me anything about his weekend. As if I heard from him at all on Sunday.

I’ll see you at school,
I text back.

But at school it’s not Ryan I’m looking for—it’s Katie. It’s so strange to think that she’s been here the whole time, walking the same linoleum halls, without me ever really knowing her. I wonder if she’s a member of the GSA, or if there are invisible pockets of lesbians who meet in empty classrooms throughout the school, under the radar of gay boys who are too caught up in their own drama to notice. I myself have never been to a GSA meeting, partly because it wasn’t something I could do with Ryan and partly because I usually had practice at the same time.

I guess Katie and I have formed our own rainbow alliance. It feels like she’s something I’ve always wanted but didn’t know I wanted until I got it: a partner in crime.

In all the craziness of Saturday night, I didn’t think to get her number and put it in my phone. I don’t even know where her locker is. But when Sara Smith comes up to me and says, “You two. Wow, you two,” I know she isn’t talking about me and Ryan. I ask her if she’s seen Katie, and she points vaguely over her left shoulder, which is enough to guide me.

Katie looks to be at the same level of surprise I am—something short of shocked but far past surreal.

“This is insane,” I tell her. “I mean, the plan was to get to Ryan and Violet. But now everyone else is a part of it. Sort of.”

“Have you heard from him?”

“Sort of. Have you heard from her?”

“No. Just Lehna. Who’s livid. She actually called me
ungrateful
.”

“Did she ask you what really happened?”

Katie shakes her head. We swore that we would only tell them what really happened if they thought to ask.

We’re betting on the fact that they won’t. And living on the hope that they will.

“May I make a confession?” I ask, even though I would never say such a thing if I didn’t already know the answer was
yes
.

“Please,” Katie says.

“I would just like to state for the record that I wish you could stay at my side all day, so we could go through this together. Whatever this ends up being.”

Katie looks at me with what I think is amusement.

“What?” I ask.

“It’s just that you’re such a softie. I never would have called that.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re on the baseball team? Because we’ve never said three words to each other until this past weekend? Because, in general, I’ve gotten a bro vibe from you whenever I’ve seen you in the halls.”

“You’ve seen me in the halls?”

“You see,
that
was more the kind of comment I would have expected you to make. A small masterpiece of handcrafted obliviousness, delivered with sincerity.”

She’s saying this, but she’s not saying it critically. I think.

She looks at my expression and chuckles. Then she pats me on the arm.

“Don’t worry. I’d love for you to ride shotgun with me, too. But I’d also like to graduate, and that makes class attendance mandatory. I’ll see you in Calc, though. Think you can fend off the paparazzi ’til then?”

“I guess I’ll have to get used to having my picture taken.”

She gives me another brief pat on the arm, then heads off to first period. I feel a little more alone without her, which is strange.

I catch some people looking at me during Spanish, but mostly it feels like things are returning to normal. But then second period is study hall, and that’s where I know I’m going to see Ryan. It’s one of the parts of the day that I’ve always designated as our time—all we have to do is tell Mr. Peterson that we’re going to the library and he’ll let us leave; the fewer kids he has to watch over, the happier he is. Sometimes Ryan and I ask for permission at the same time, but mostly we space it out. He doesn’t want it to seem like we’re running off together. And as long as the end result is us running off together, I never mind.

It isn’t completely out of the question for us to head to the library. We’d sit across from each other, and the tension there made everything—even a pencil sliding from my side of the table to his—seem powerful and ours. Other times, we’d break free from the building and walk through the woods or the playing fields. If it was absolutely quiet—if there was absolutely no one around—I could usually get him to make out with me a little. And when it was done, he’d smile and start talking again as if nothing had happened, as if other people were around, even when they weren’t. Everyone knew we were friends, so we acted like friends. But that’s never what it felt like, not if I was being honest with myself. I wanted him more than that. I needed him more than that.

By the time I get to the room, he’s already got the pass in his hand. He winks at me and steps into the hall. I go to Mr. Peterson and ask for a pass of my own. He actually questions me about why I need to go to the library.
Of all days, why do you have to start being skeptical now?
I think. But I also answer quickly, invent a report on Sylvia Plath that I’m researching. He grunts at the mention of Sylvia Plath, as if she’s an ex-girlfriend of his. But he lets me go.