Read Between the Lines

by Jo Knowles

  “It’s funny,” he says, “how alike you and I are.”

  I reach for his hand out of habit. It’s cold.

  “Almost perfect,” he says.

  “Nearly,” I agree.

  We sit quietly, letting the truth settle in.

  “I guess this is where we break up,” I say.

  He lets go of my hand so that he can put his arm around me.

  “I love you,” he says. “It’s so messed up. I know I love you. But . . . I can’t . . .”

  “Be with me.”

  I want to tell him I love him too. But I don’t really know if I do anymore. I love his hair. I love his dimples. I love his strong jawline. I love his hand in mine. I love watching him play basketball, and I love sitting here with him, like we are king and queen.

  But I don’t know if I love him.

  I rest my head on his shoulder, where it fits so perfectly. So temporarily.

  “You cheated on me,” I tell him.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I know.”

  I feel something wet on my face and wipe it off. A tear.

  “I’m so screwed up,” he says.

  I reach up and erase the wet trail of tears on his cheek with my thumb.

  “You can’t help it,” I say. I know this is true. My uncle is gay and he told me all about what it was like for him, denying it for so long. Now he’s married and has two kids. He’s happy. His husband, my other uncle, is hot. Kind of like Ben. Everything turned out all right for him.

  That’s what I hope for Ben. I feel it now. That hope. Deep in my heart. So maybe I love him after all.

  “This isn’t the end of the world,” I tell him.

  “Why does it feel like it?”

  “My sister would say because you’re self-centered.” I smile so he knows I don’t mean it in a bad way.

  He squeezes me tighter. “Your sister is such a little bitch.”

  “I know. I wish I could be more like her, though.”

  “I like you just the way you are.”

  “Too bad I’m not a boy.”

  He stiffens next to me.

  “C’mon,” I say. “We can talk about it.”

  He doesn’t say anything.

  “I’m not going to tell anyone,” I say. “But I won’t be your fake girlfriend, either.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry I disappointed you.”

  “You didn’t disappoint me. You hurt me.”

  “I’m sorry for that too.”

  “What will you do now? Will you keep pretending?”

  I stare at his shadow lashes. Blinking away tears again.

  “I don’t know what to do,” he says. “I don’t know who I am. I know it sounds so pathetic, but, Grace, I really am confused. I don’t want to be like this. I don’t want to have feelings for . . . anyone but you. But I can’t help it. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  “Nothing’s wrong with you, Ben. Being gay isn’t wrong.”

  “I’m not gay!”

  “Then how do you explain Stephen?”

  “I don’t know! Maybe it’s just Stephen, you know? I don’t feel the way I feel about him with anyone else.”

  “I’m not an expert,” I tell him. “Maybe you’re bi?”

  He sits forward and covers his face with his hands. “I hate this. I hate it! I just want to go back to the way things were.”

  I’m about to say me too, but the more I think about it, the more I know that’s not true. I don’t think I ever believed Ben was really into me. He was always tentative. Always kind of fake. This is the most I’ve ever felt him want to touch me at all. Because it’s safe now. He knows I don’t expect more than a hug and holding hands. He’ll never have to force himself to kiss me again.

  “I just want to be normal,” he says sadly.

  “There’s no such thing,” I answer.

  I smooth his jacket over my legs. I touch the fuzzy letter I. The pins he’s earned for varsity and captain. This is what we care about. How many pins we have. We want to be MVPs. The most valuable of all.

  What’s so wrong with that?

  It’s stupid, Beth would say. That’s what’s wrong with it.

  I stand and turn to him. “I should take you home now,” I say.

  I reach out my hand and he takes it. I pull him up. We stand for a minute, under the light. It flickers and makes a zapping sound, as if it’s about to go out. But for now, I imagine it’s a spotlight shining down on us. The king and queen’s last appearance.

  We both seem to be drinking it in, this last time together. Then we step down into the dark.

  When I pull into the driveway at Ben’s, the light is still on in Lacy’s room. I cringe, thinking how I used her to get to Ben. It’s all true. But she’s a friend now, and that’s what counts. I hope. I haven’t been the greatest friend to anyone since I started dating Ben, come to think of it. Especially poor Claire. God. The boy really has made me a little crazy.

  “I guess this is it?” Ben asks.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I guess so.”

  He leans over and hugs me, but this time his arms feel awkward and clumsy with the steering wheel in the way.

  “Good luck with everything,” I say. “You’re going to be OK.”

  He nods. “You too.”

  It’s funny, and this is going to sound annoying, but I never doubted that.

  I drive away before he gets to the front door. I can’t stand watching him walk away from me one more time.

  I turn on the radio and blast the volume as I drive home.

  At the traffic light just before my house, I see someone staggering down the middle of the road toward me. When the light turns green, he trips into the intersection and stretches out his arms, beckoning me forward.

  I flash my lights at him to signal for him to get out of the way, but instead he starts screaming at me.

  “Hit me! Just do it!”

  I don’t move. It’s late and there aren’t any cars on the road. I don’t know if I should honk my horn. I reach over to my armrest and press the button that locks all the doors. My broken heart races to life.

  “Dooooo it!” the guy yells again.

  The light turns red. The guy walks closer to my car. I still don’t know what to do, so I stay put. I grip the steering wheel more tightly with my shaking hands.

  Then the guy’s standing right in front of me. He starts pounding on the hood of the car.

  “Hit me, goddamn it!”

  I press the horn and he jumps back, then laughs. He’s either drunk or insane.

  I inch the car forward a foot. He runs toward me and slams his fists against the front of the car again. I honk several times.

  “Bitch!” he yells.

  He gives me the finger and laughs.

  What the hell? I feel a jolt of anger mix with the adrenaline already coursing through me. I roll my window down just a crack.

  “Hey!” I yell. No one calls me a bitch, and definitely no one gives me the finger. “Get out of the way!”

  I realize this is incredibly stupid behavior on my part. My heart is pounding in a way it never has. It makes me feel alive in some new way I can’t name. I should be terrified, but instead I suddenly feel . . . powerful. Like my heart is pumping some kind of new wild energy through my body.

  “Make me!” he slurs.

  Oh, please. “I have had a crappy day!” I yell. “So you better move it!”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve had a crappy life! So whuddayou think about that?”

  “That’s not my fault!”

  He walks over to my window. I think we recognize each other at the same time. It’s Mr. French, the janitor from school.

  “You,” he says, staggering back.

  Oh my God. I just got in a fight with the janitor?

  “Mr. French?” I ask. “Are you OK?” He’s always so nice at school, I can’t believe he’s the same guy.

  “You!” he yells again. “Little Miss Perfect.”
<
br />   I don’t believe this.

  “What so wrong with being perfect?” I call through my window. All this time, I thought he liked me.

  Now that he’s not in front of the car, I can easily pull through the light and get away. But the light turned red again. Figures. Little Miss Perfect does not run the light.

  “Think you’re better than everyone!” he slurs.

  “No, I don’t,” I say.

  He presses his hands against my window. One of them is bleeding.

  “Are you all right?” I ask again.

  “Whuddayoucare?”

  “You’re bleeding.”

  “So what?”

  “Do you want me to call nine-one-one?”

  He waves his hand at me. “Who cares? No one.”

  “I care,” I say. “What happened to you?”

  He puts his face up to the crack. “Everything. Everything happened to me, OK?”

  The light turns green.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I have to go.”

  I inch forward, hoping he’ll step away, but he runs in front of the car again.

  “Please move,” I say. “Or let me call for help.”

  “Just listen,” he says. “Just listen to me.”

  “OK.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says.

  “It’s OK,” I tell him.

  “No, it’s not. I . . . I . . . I can’t. I did something.”

  “You’re hurt,” I say.

  “No. I hit this deer. A long time ago. And then today I . . .”

  Blue lights flash behind us. It’s a police car. Mr. French swears and runs away, into the dark. One police officer jumps out of the car and takes off after him. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do, so I pull through the intersection and next to the curb. The cruiser follows me and the driver gets out. I feel like I’m going to throw up.

  The cop shines a flashlight into my car as he approaches. I roll down the window.

  “Sorry,” I say. “That guy kept jumping in front of the car when I tried to go through the light.”

  He shines his flashlight in my face, then down my body. “Cheerleader?” he asks.

  I nod. What does he think, I was at a costume party?

  “I’m driving home from our game,” I say.

  “You win?”

  “No.”

  “You know that guy?”

  I’m about to say yes, but then I just . . . don’t. I know Mr. French is usually really nice. And he seemed so upset. “No,” I lie. “Just some crazy guy, I guess.”

  “You shouldn’t drive alone at night.”

  “I live really close.”

  “That obviously doesn’t mean anything.”

  “I guess.”

  “Did that guy do anything to you?”

  “No. Just . . . got blood on the window. I think he’s suicidal. I — I’m worried about him.”

  “You sure you don’t know him?”

  “Not really,” I say. “No.”

  He looks at me funny. “Well, you better get home. I’ll follow to see you get there safely.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “But I’m going to.”

  He walks back to his cruiser and says something on his radio. Slowly, I pull back onto the road and creep along all the way home, terrified to go over the speed limit. As soon as I pull into our driveway and open the garage door, I feel an overwhelming sense of relief and dread. I press the garage remote and close the door, leaving the cop to drive away.

  I sit and wait for my heart to stop racing before getting out of the car and going inside. Even when I calm down, my heart still doesn’t feel right. It feels like it’s been punched around and now it is bruised and aching. And tired. Can a heart feel tired? I don’t know. Maybe it’s just worn out.

  Inside, the house is quiet and warm. My parents are in the living room staring at their laptops and drinking wine. I say hi but don’t stop to chat. They don’t ask me about the game or who won. They never do.

  I walk slowly down the hall and stop at Beth’s door. There’s a giant sign on it. She always makes signs for her door. Little messages or warnings for me. Passive-aggressive notes for me to digest. My parents love the cleverness of it all. My door is blank. I don’t like clutter. I don’t like posters. I don’t like messages. I don’t need them.

  I stand outside the door and read Beth’s latest note for me. The paper is blue and the lettering is bright yellow. There are stars all around the message, which reads: “STAY GOLD.”

  I don’t know what it means. But it seems like the most positive thing she’s ever left for me. Stay gold. Stay. She thinks I’m gold? What does that even mean?

  I tap on her door.

  “Who is it?” she sings, knowing full well.

  “Me,” I say.

  I hear her jump off her bed and bound across the room. She opens the door and beams up at me.

  “Do you like my message?”

  She has her hair in babyish pigtails. One is dyed blue and one red. She’s wearing too much blush. Sometimes I think she believes she’s still five and not eleven. Her tininess doesn’t help.

  “I don’t know what it means,” I say. “Explain.”

  “Enter.”

  I follow her in and sit on the edge of her bed.

  She plops down beside me, then scooches back so she can sit cross-legged. I move back and do the same so we’re facing each other.

  “I can see your underwear,” she tells me.

  I push my skirt down between my legs.

  “You smell like a boy,” she says.

  I roll my eyes.

  “I hate Ben’s cologne.”

  “Well, you’ll never have to smell it again. We broke up.”

  Instead of clapping, she sighs thoughtfully.

  “Well, it was bound to happen,” she says matter-of-factly.

  “Why do you say that?” I ask.

  She props her elbow on her knee and rests her chin in the cup of her hand. A classic Beth pose. She studies me.

  “You really are very pretty,” she says. “Mom and Dad don’t know where the heck you came from.”

  “Maybe I’m adopted.”

  “No. You have Dad’s eyes and Mom’s mouth and nose. They just look better on you.”

  “Thanks. And don’t say that in front of them.”

  She wrinkles her own nose. “I don’t have to. They know it already.”

  She squinches up the rest of her face. “I used to hate you for it.”

  This surprises me. “Really?”

  She half shrugs. “Who wouldn’t? Look at me.”

  I look. She is not much to look at, if I’m going to be completely honest. She has my parents’ features, too, but not the right ones. My dad’s square jaw would look OK if Beth was a boy. And my mom’s small mouth would look pretty and doll-like except not so much matched with that jaw. Poor Beth.

  “Are you going to explain the gold?” I ask to change the subject.

  She nods. “It’s from a book I read. The Outsiders.”

  I laugh. “That makes sense,” I say sarcastically. “I never was one to fit in.”

  “No, see. There’s this part in the book about staying who you are, no matter what. That’s what Ponyboy, the main character, and his best friend Johnny tell each other. ‘Stay gold.’ It’s from a Robert Frost poem.”

  “Well, aren’t you literary.”

  She smiles.

  “Anyway. You know who you are, Grace. You’re Grace! You don’t change for anyone. I think that’s why you’re so popular. You know who you want to be. You don’t try to be someone you’re not. You’re gold.”

  “I may be the popular girl,” I say. “But I don’t think people like me very much.” Is that true? Has that been my fear all along?

  Beth tilts her head and squints her eyes at me. “That’s dumb. You know they do. You’re just feeling insecure right now because of Ben.”

  “What do you know?” I say. I feel like cryin
g but not in front of her.

  “Trust me. I know what it’s like when people really don’t like you. I’m a freak. Only Mom and Dad appreciate my finer qualities. Everyone else just thinks I’m annoying.”

  “I don’t,” I say.

  “Liar.”

  “Well, I don’t anymore. Now that you think I’m gold.” I smile to let her know I’m mostly joking.

  “We’ve never had very strong sister powers,” she says. “But I think that could change.”

  “Why now?”

  “Why not now?” She motions for me to turn around so my back is facing her.

  She gently reaches for my braids and pulls the ties off them. She slowly runs her fingers through my hair to unplait it. I used to do this to her when she was little. I loved to braid her hair and practice different kinds of updos. I’d make her look like a child beauty-pageant contestant. My parents hated it, which, I admit, was my motivation to do it in the first place. I don’t know why I have to push their buttons. I guess because they’re always pushing mine.

  “You have the prettiest hair,” she tells me. “If you look closely, it’s not just all blond. There are flecks of orange and red and gold. Especially gold.”

  She tilts my head back and begins to brush it. I can’t remember the last time someone brushed my hair for me. My mom or dad must have when I was little, but I don’t have any memory of it. They wouldn’t have spent this much time if they did. They’d probably do just enough to get the tangles out.

  “Remember when you used to dress me up?” Beth asks.

  I nod.

  “I miss that, I guess,” she tells me. “Even though you always tugged on my hair too hard.”

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “It’s the only way to get a flawless braid.”

  “Why did you care so much if there was a flaw? It was my hair, not yours.”

  I smile even though she can’t see me. “I know this is going to come as a shock to you, but I’m kind of a perfectionist.”

  She yanks my hair playfully.

  “I guess there’s nothing too wrong with wanting to be perfect,” she says.

  “Little Miss Perfect,” I say quietly.

  “What?”

  “Oh, nothing,” I say.

  “When I finish, you do me, OK?”

  “Sure,” I say. “And, Beth?”

  “Yeah?”