“I’m into sports,” he said slowly.
“That’s all I meant.”
“You think that makes me a meathead?”
“That’s not‑”
“It’s okay.” He held up his hands, palms toward me. They were huge. “I think we understand each other.”
“I never said that you’re a meathead.”
“I do use silverware,” he said. “At least in public.”
My heart was beating faster. This was a kind of teasing I didn’t like, when boys mocked you in a way that assumed you could not, just as easily, mock them back; they took for granted their own wit, and your squeamishness and passivity.
“I’m literate, too,” he said. “I read the newspaper.”
“Congratulations,” I said. “How about the bathroom? Have you gotten the hang of indoor plumbing?”
We regarded each other. My face was hot.
“I know it can be tricky,” I continued. “But it makes living in a communal environment a lot nicer for everyone.”
Both of us were silent. Then he said, “Well, well, well,” and it was in such a strange voice‑the voice, perhaps, of a high‑spirited Southern grandmother‑that I knew if he was making fun of me, he was also making fun of himself. His goofiness made me forgive him; it was un‑Aultlike. “Indiana, huh?” he said. “What’s Indiana like?”
“There’s a lot of land. You don’t feel crowded. And people are friendly. I know that’s a stereotype about the Midwest, but it’s true.”
“So why did you leave?”
I looked at him quickly, but he seemed only curious this time, not sarcastic. “I don’t know,” I said. Then I said, “I thought my life would be more interesting if I went to Ault.”
“Is it?”
“I guess so. It’s definitely different.” Since arriving at Ault six months before, I hadn’t actually considered this question. In fact, my life at Ault was more interesting than my life at home had been. I was less happy and my life was more interesting. Perhaps that was not the worst trade‑off in the world.
“My life is better here,” Cross said. “I went to an all‑boys’ school in New York, so that completely sucked.”
I laughed. “You like going to school with girls?”
“Sure.”
Then, because I didn’t want him to think I was implying that he liked going to school with me, I said, “You go out with Sophie Thruler, don’t you?”
“Jesus,” he said. “What are you, a spy?”
“But you do, right?”
“Is it the KGB or the FBI that you work for? Just tell me that.”
“It’s the KGB. They’re really, really interested in your love life.”
“Sorry, but you’ll have to tell your apparatchik that you have no news.”
“Why not? I know you’re going out with her.”
“We hang out sometimes.”
“Is it true love? Do you want to marry her?”
He shook his head. “You’re crazy,” he said, but I could tell that there was something about me he didn’t mind.
The waitress set our milkshakes on the table. They came with long spoons, in tall glasses that narrowed at the bottom. Seeing how big they were, I thought that it might take us hours to drink them; perhaps we’d have to stay at the table for the whole afternoon, talking and talking. When I took the first sip, it was frothy and sweet, and I wondered why I never drank milkshakes in my usual life.
“I’m not going to marry Sophie,” Cross said. “And I could tell you why, but then I’d have to kill you.”
“I don’t mean you should get married now,” I said. “But in the future. Reverend Orch could do the ceremony.”
“Sophie and I are never getting married in a million years,” Cross said. He set his spoon on the table, lifted the glass, and tilted it back, and as I watched the milkshake tumble into his mouth, I felt that affection you feel for boys when you see one of the ways they’re different from you that’s not a bad way. When he set the glass back on the table, less than a third remained‑obviously, he did not share my impulse to make our milkshakes last as long as possible‑and a white mustache hung over his upper lip. I felt a quick rise of panic; for Cross to look foolish in front of me seemed a reversal of the world’s natural order. But then he wiped his mouth. Of course he was not the kind of person who unknowingly sat there with food on his face. “Here’s one reason,” he said. “Sophie smokes.”
What I thought immediately was, But that’s against school rules. I bit my tongue.
“Also, when it rains, she won’t go outside because of her hair. She thinks it gets frizzed or something.”
“What if she has class?”
“If she has to, she’ll go out. But she doesn’t like to.” Cross tipped back his glass again and swallowed the rest of his milkshake. “But she can be cool. You know what’s cool about her? Actually, never mind.”
“Oh, come on.”
“You’ll probably be offended.”
“Now you definitely have to tell me.”
“It’s something most girls don’t like.”
“I won’t be offended.”
“She loves giving blow jobs.”
I blinked at him.
“I knew I shouldn’t have told you,” Cross said.
“No.” I looked down. “It’s okay.” In my mind, I had a flash of Sophie kneeling before Cross while he sat on the mattress of a lower bunk, both of them naked. The image seemed so grown‑up, and so foreign. Everything I didn’t understand and wasn’t part of at Ault rose up and loomed over me, like buildings in a city; I felt myself shrink back into a small, hunched figure, walking against the wind. When I looked up again, I knew that my ability to talk to him unguardedly was gone. Who was I to be having a conversation, to be joking, with Cross Sugarman?
“I didn’t‑” he began, and too loudly, I said, “No, no. It’s fine.”
We watched each other for several more seconds. “So what about you?” he said. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
I shook my head quickly.
There was more silence. We seemed trapped inside it.
“Listen,” he finally said. “I was planning to go to this movie. I’m supposed to meet John and Martin, you know those guys?”
I nodded. They were also freshmen, teammates of Cross’s from basketball; John Brindley was in my biology class.
Cross looked at his watch. “I’m kind of late, but‑”
“You should go,” I said. “You definitely should go.” My wish for him to leave felt desperate in its intensity. I did not understand how things had become so abruptly uncomfortable, but I knew it was my fault. And now he would think that I was even weirder than if we’d never spoken, if I’d just been some anonymous girl he passed in the halls of the schoolhouse.
He set a few dollar bills on the table and stood. I looked up at him. Just be normal for one more minute, I thought. Come on, Lee. I tried to smile, and my face felt like a rotting pumpkin. “I hope it’s a good movie,” I said.
“I’ll see you around.” He lifted one hand in the air, as if to wave, but just held it there. Then he was gone.
For the first time, I looked around the restaurant. I saw no other Ault students. Being alone, I felt embarrassed and relieved. When the waitress came back, I thought that I would order more food, a real lunch‑ideally, something huge and numbing, like a hamburger that came with a puffy bun and lots of french fries. I pulled a menu from behind the napkin holder and was trying to decide between a cheeseburger and a ham‑and‑cheese sandwich when Cross reappeared.
“Hey,” he said. “Why don’t you come?”
“What?” I snapped shut the menu.
“Why don’t you come to the movie? You’re just hanging out here, right?”
“Oh, that’s all right. I mean, thanks, but you don’t have to‑”
“No, it’s not like‑”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I hardly even know John and Martin.”
“Lee.”
He stared at me. “It’s just a movie. Come on.” I could feel his sense of hurry‑the movie was about to start, if it hadn’t started already.
“I’m fine.” I gestured around the booth. “I don’t mind being by myself.” I knew right away that this was one protest too many; the amount that I needed him to convince me that it was okay to come, that he wanted me to come, exceeded the amount that he cared. “Actually, wait. I will go.” All I had in my wallet was two ten‑dollar bills, and suddenly the urgency of the movie felt too pressing to allow for getting change. I set a ten on the table next to his one‑dollar bills, and though it occurred to me to take those, it also occurred to me that it could seem chintzy, and then we were leaving the diner and I was skipping to keep up with his long strides. We headed out of the mall, into the rain, then jogged across a parking lot‑normally, I did not like running in the presence of boys, but I knew he wasn’t looking at me‑and ended up in front of the glass windows of the theater. Cross held the door for me as we entered, and I wondered briefly if he would pay for my ticket, but when he didn’t, it seemed stupid that the thought had crossed my mind. The movie had started; I followed him into the darkened theater, the screen bright and loud above us. As we walked down the aisle, someone hissed, “Yo, Sugarman,” and Cross pulled me by the forearm into that row.
After we sat, I was panting slightly, and I could tell he was, too. My clothes were damp from the rain. The image on‑screen‑two men were standing in a seedy kitchen, one of them holding a gun‑seemed incomprehensible and irrelevant. I never arrived at movies after they’d started because it was confusing, plus you missed the previews. But this movie, a movie about mobsters that I wouldn’t have gone to on my own, was beside the point.
While looking straight ahead, I noted each time Cross shifted or sighed, each time he laughed, though his laughter also was subdued; on his other side, John and Martin kept guffawing. Cross smelled like soap, and like the rain we’d come in from, the smell of the earth in spring. Our bodies did not touch at all, but sometimes our clothes did‑our sleeves, the legs of our pants. I didn’t know if this was a thing anyone besides me would notice.
For the whole movie, I had that sense of heightened awareness that is like discomfort but is not discomfort exactly‑a tiring, enjoyable vigilance. I did not get a grasp on the movie’s plot, or the names of any of the characters. Then it was over, and the lights came on, and I felt self‑conscious; in the dark, I could be any girl, crossed legs, shoulder‑length hair, but in the light, blushing and fidgety, I was me. Because I was on the outside of the row, I was in front of the boys walking up the aisle to leave. I hadn’t stood until they were standing, and as we walked, I was afraid to look back to see if they were still behind me. Maybe this was the place Cross and I would part ways, I thought. And maybe we wouldn’t even say good‑bye, now that he was with his friends again; maybe I was just supposed to know.
In the lobby of the theater, I paused at the water fountain and glanced over my shoulder. They were right behind me after all. They kept walking, then stopped perhaps ten feet beyond the fountain, appearing to wait. I swallowed, stood, and approached them slowly.
Martin was reenacting a part from the movie where one guy had strangled another; he was performing the reenactment on John, who was sticking his tongue out and making his eyes bulge. “And then he’s like, ‘Now do you remember? Now do you remember?’ ” Martin said. John gagged noisily, and all three of the guys cracked up. I stood slightly farther away from them than they stood from each other, and tried to seem amused.
“You like that, Lee?” Cross said.
I didn’t know if he meant the whole movie, or the strangling in the movie, or Martin’s rendition of the strangling. “It was pretty good.”
“There were some nasty parts, huh?” John said, and I could tell, by the friendliness of his tone, that my presence was no big deal to him. We had never introduced ourselves, and it was apparent we were not going to now.
“I closed my eyes for the nasty parts,” I said. “The part by the dumpster‑I think I missed most of it.”
“The dumpster scene was awesome,” Martin said. “You should go back and see the next showing right now.”
“You guys hungry?” Cross said. “I’m hungry.”
“I’m starving,” Martin said.
And then we were walking back through the parking lot‑it had stopped raining, though the sky was still low and gray‑to the sub shop, and I was still with them. It seemed fine that I was with them; it didn’t seem like they wondered why I didn’t leave them alone, or why I wasn’t with a group of girls. They all got subs and I got a pack of pretzels. At the table, they kept talking about the movie, repeating lines from it; Martin tried to do the strangling thing on Cross, but Cross laughed and shrugged Martin away. I decided that if Martin wanted to do it on me, I would let him, but he didn’t try.
The next place we went was a video arcade. Walking there, I thought that maybe this was where we’d part ways‑I hardly knew how to play video games‑but then it seemed like it would be weird and formal if I paused to disentangle myself from them. And the arcade had pinball; I knew how to play pinball. We all got quarters, and I stood before the bright, zinging machine, jamming them in whenever I lost a game.
I had just used the flippers to knock the ball all the way back when, beside me, someone said, “Not bad.”
I turned‑it was Cross‑and as I did, I heard the ball roll down the mouth of the machine. “Whoops,” I said. We both looked at the place where the ball had disappeared.
As my points audibly added up, he said, “You might be better at this than I am.”
“I might ?”
“That’s not an insult.”
“I’m sure I’m better than you.” Impulsively, I said, “I’m a state champion.”
He looked at me skeptically.
“I was a prodigy,” I said. “I traveled around the country. But then I burned out.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“It’s how I got into Ault. You know how they love it when you have a special talent?”
“I don’t believe you,” he said, but I knew he did, a little, or he wouldn’t have needed to say so.
“When I was nine, I was crowned Hoosier Pinball Princess,” I said. “My parents were so proud.” As I looked at him, I felt the corners of my mouth pulling up, and then he knocked my head with the palm of his hand, half tap and half rub, and said, “You’re so full of bullshit.”
“But you weren’t sure,” I said.
“I was sure.”
“No, you weren’t. I can tell. You weren’t.”
We grinned at each other. He was so handsome, I thought, and as soon as I thought it, the moment began to crack. Thinking of him as Cross, as part of Ault, was where I ran into problems. It was okay when we were just talking.
I was relieved when Martin came over. “You guys want some pizza?”
“You’re hungry?” I said. “Again?”
They got an extra‑large, and this time I ate some, even though it had pepperoni on it and I hadn’t eaten pepperoni since Dede told me it was smoked with boar semen. Halfway through his fourth slice, Martin set it down on the paper plate and gripped his stomach. “Whose idea was this?” he said.
“It was Lee’s,” Cross said.
“It was not!” In my own voice, I could hear an insincere insistence, that girlish tone of flirtation.
“It was a bad idea, Lee,” Martin said. “A bad fucking idea.”
“You want some Tums, Marty?” John said. Then he said, “Does anyone know what time it is?” We all turned to look at the clock on the wall. It was five to six, and the bus back to school had left at five‑thirty. “Fuck,” John said. “I’m already on Saturday detention for missing chapel twice this week.”
“Do we call Fletcher?” Martin asked.
“We can take a taxi,” Cross said. “It’s not a big deal.” The way he said it, how calm he was, made me wonder if he’d realized al
ready that we’d missed the bus‑if he’d realized it at the time even, and let it happen.
Cross was the one who called, from a pay phone, while the rest of us stood around. Martin was still moaning about how full he was, and John kept saying, “How the fuck did this happen?” I had less than five dollars left in my pocket, and it was a half‑hour ride back to school. But no one else seemed concerned about money, and I said nothing.
“A taxi will meet us outside the movie theater,” Cross said after he’d hung up. When we walked back there, it was sprinkling outside, and the sky was dark. Waiting just inside the theater, no one spoke much, but it felt less like an awkward silence than a tired silence. Girls would still be talking to each other, I thought.
I had been in a taxi only one other time in my life, right after my mother gave birth to my brother Tim, and my brother Joseph and I rode to the hospital to meet up with our parents and see Tim for the first time. It was a sunny afternoon; I was ten years old, and Joseph was seven. For the whole ride, I imagined that the driver was going to kidnap us, and I pictured myself opening the door while the car was in motion, rolling out, and pulling Joseph with me. But then the driver delivered us to the hospital entrance and my father was waiting there to pay him.
In this taxi, I knew we would not be kidnapped‑not just because I was less dumb than I’d been when I was ten but also because there were too many of us to kidnap, and Cross was too tall and strong. It was a maroon taxi. Martin got in the front seat, and John went around to the far side of the back seat, and then Cross opened the door closest to us and climbed in, and I followed him. I was surprised that he sat in the middle; at home, the boys I knew had been calling that the bitch seat since fourth grade.
The seats were blue Naugahyde, and inside the taxi it smelled like stale cigarette smoke and fake‑pine air freshener. A cardboard tree hung from the rearview mirror. The radio was on low, set to a big‑band station, and there was lots of static. The windshield wipers swished back and forth, and in the intervals between swishes, everything out the window turned blurry.
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