A Taxonomy of Love

by Rachael Allen

Mimi acts mock-offended. “Well, of course it was. I’m a nice person.”

  “I guess I’ve always kind of thought you didn’t like Pam.”

  Mimi puts her arm around me. “I didn’t at first. But it takes a special kind of person to love someone else’s children like that.”

  My grandma doesn’t often let her soft underbelly show, especially where Pam is concerned. I kind of just stare at her, stunned.

  “She still can’t make sweet tea worth a damn.”

  There’s the Mimi I know and love.

  “Get your brother and get to the store.”

  Oh heck no. “I’ll just go by myself.”

  “Oh, no, you will not. Dean, get up here!”

  Dean and I haven’t been alone together since three days ago when I saw Hope crawl through his window, I’ve made sure of it. I suspect Mimi has noticed and this is part of one of her plots.

  My brother emerges from the basement with video-game haze in his eyes.

  “Dean, you and Spencer are going to the store to get more rolls.”

  “Yeah, okay. I feel like I haven’t seen you all break, man.”

  I start to protest, but she grabs him with one hand and me with the other and pushes us together. “You’re going or you’re not getting any pie.” She pokes me in the back with her finger. “And smile,” she whispers.

  I really do try to smile during the car trip. It feels like my face is doing a bench press.

  Dean makes small talk about college. Mostly about all the girls he’s hooking up with. I stop bench-press smiling and consider punching him in the face. Luckily, we are already in the grocery-store parking lot.

  “I’ll get the bread. Don’t bother parking,” I say, and then practically tuck and roll out of the truck.

  The rolls are easy to find and not sold out, which means I definitely have something to be thankful for today. I feel less thankful when I get back in the truck with Dean’s ugly face. At least this time he takes the hint and stops trying to talk to me.

  Then we get home, and Pam hugs us and tells us what wonderful boys we are and almost cries again. And then, The Eating. And it is some oh-so-wonderful eating. I almost forget how pissed I am at Dean. Almost. I still remember to “forget” to pass him the mashed potatoes until the third time he asks, and I also make sure to give him the stink eye and accidentally kick him under the table at regular intervals. But it’s when we get up for second helpings of pie and I cut in front of him for a piece of chocolate-pecan that the shit really hits the fan.

  “What the hell is your problem?” he hisses.

  I peek over my shoulder to make sure the rest of the family is still at the table.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Um. You’ve been acting like a little punk all day, but okay, sure, nothing’s wrong.” And then he picks up my piece of pie (MY PIE) and starts walking back to the table.

  And I am just so damn sick of him taking everything from everyone and never thinking about how his actions affect other people that I snap.

  “YOU.”

  He turns. So do the heads of everyone currently enjoying Thanksgiving dinner (now with a show!).

  I lower my voice. “You’re my problem.”

  He rolls his eyes and grabs me by the elbow. “Spencer and I need to talk about something downstairs. We’ll be right back.”

  He frog-marches me down and then sits on the couch. “Well? Let’s do this, drama king.” He takes a bite of my pie. Dean knows how to push all my buttons—he’s the one who installed them.

  “You’re an asshole,” I say. “I know you hooked up with her in your room this week, and you don’t even care about her, and you’re screwing around with all these girls at school, and you’re an asshole.”

  “You said that already.” Dean sets the pie on the coffee table, and at least has the decency to look ashamed. “And I really am sorry about that. I don’t know what she told you, but I—”

  I stamp my foot like a toddler. I am livid, and this rage fountain is coming out, sorry excuses or no. “How could you do this to me? How could you? Anyone else but her.”

  Dean throws his hands in the air. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I didn’t do anything.”

  The memories of that day flood back, and I let them. I take a fucking misery bath in them. “Liar. I saw her sneaking in your window.”

  My brother makes a stupider face than usual. “Wait, who are we talking about?”

  And I say, “Hope,” just as he says, “Jayla, right?”

  There are three seconds of silence that feel like standing on the lid of a dormant volcano.

  “Wait, Jayla? You had sex with Jayla, too?” BOOM.

  “No, I didn’t have sex with Jayla. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. We walked home from Ethan’s party together, and she said you guys had broken up, and you wouldn’t even care if we hooked up because you were so into Hope. And out of respect for you, I asked her to put her shirt back on and took her home. Which wasn’t easy because I actually think we’d be great together.”

  I can barely process the words that are coming out of his mouth.

  “And just so we’re clear, Hope was my girlfriend. You were the one pining over my girlfriend for years.”

  “I liked her first!”

  “She’s a person. You can’t call dibs on a person.”

  He’s right. But if someone you care about loves someone else, and it’s in your power not to crush that? I mean, you shouldn’t, right?

  “I love her,” I say quietly. “I’ve always loved her.”

  He sighs. “I care about her, too, Spence.”

  Her in his bedroom. Her after he dumped her. “You.” I point my finger in his face. “You almost broke her.” I snatch the plate with my motherfucking pie and sit in my dad’s chair. “And she’s the only one who gets to call me Spence.”

  Dean rolls his eyes. “She’s not that great, man. I mean, yeah, she’s fun and intoxicating and all that, but then something bad happens, and that’s it. She’s out. And it’s all your fault. None of it’s hers. It’s just not worth it.”

  I’m up, and I’m fighting mad, and the pie is on the floor, and it’s a damn shame there’s a coffee table in between us. “Her sister died.”

  “I know. And that’s really sad—”

  “No, you don’t know.” I push him in the chest. “All you can see is how she relates to you. But she has her own life. Her own stuff. And she’s amazing.” I wipe my cheeks. Not that I’m crying. “But you’ll never get to know it—about her or any other girl—because all you ever see them as is something to make you happy or inspire you or cheer you on.”

  I sink into the floor and rest my head against my knees.

  Dean sits beside me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to talk about Hope like that.” He pauses for a long moment. “And maybe you’re right. Yeah, I’ve had a ton of girlfriends or whatever, but it’s not like what you guys have. I get that.” It hurts him a lot to tell me this. I can see it. “We didn’t hook up this week, when she came into my room. She was asking for my blessing.”

  My brain is going to be mush before the end of the day. It’s incorporating new facts and building new life knowledge like so many busy ants digging a network of tunnels.

  “For what?”

  He pushes me. “For you, doofus. She was asking for my blessing to date you.”

  Me. Blessing. What?

  “I told her it was fine, and then we hugged it out. I’m really kind of surprised you guys haven’t started dating already.” He pushes me one last time before he heads upstairs. “It’s probably because you’re such a doofus.”

  How does it feel when it happens?

  Like your heart is a firework and someone just lit the fuse.

  Like all the colors in the world are brighter, and there are more of them, ones I would swear didn’t exist yesterday.

  And the air is filled with chances. They’re just floating there like specks of dust. An
d I get the idea that they’ve always been there, a flurry of chances following me around, only now I can see them. Now I can take them.

  I could do any bold, reckless thing, like hang glide off a mountain or talk to Hope.

  Hope.

  I have to see her.

  I can’t.

  Because A) she probably hates me, and B) I’m probably not allowed. It’s bad enough that Dean and I got up in the middle of Thanksgiving dinner to “brawl like heathens” in the basement. There is no way Pam will let me interrupt this meal a second time.

  Turns out Thanksgiving dinners last a freaking long time when everybody keeps going back for seconds and thirds and fourths and just one last sliver of pie.

  Finally, I feel like I can ask, “May I be excused?” Before Pam can answer, I add, “Dinner was really delicious. Thanks.”

  She smiles. “Thank you, sweetie. Of course you can.”

  I calmly get up from the table, calmly walk out the front door. But as soon as it’s closed, I run/limp across the yard and up Hope’s steps, and I rap that anchor-shaped door knocker for all it’s worth.

  No one answers. I knock again. It occurs to me that the lights are out and a car is missing from the Birdsongs’ driveway. The trip. They’ve already left. I try calling, but it goes straight to voicemail, so I put my phone back in my pocket and sit on her welcome mat and lean my head against the door. I feel like I’ve swallowed a firework.

  I’m in trouble. I’m standing on the regulation, approved-by-officials-and-the-wrestling-gods scale, and I am 4.2 pounds overweight. I wish I could say going out in a blaze of tryptophan glory was worth it, but really, I just feel guilty and kind of like a screw-up. I’m not the only one. Today’s tournament is the first one since Thanksgiving, and even though we’ve had nine whole days to burn off the sins of one afternoon of pie-filled bliss, and even though they give you a bonus pound because it’s post-holiday, people are struggling. Luckily, this is just the pre-official, how-am-I-doing weigh-in. The real weigh-in won’t take place for two more hours. Which means now is the time we step away from the judgment of the scale and choose our poison: running, stationary bike, or laxatives. (I do not recommend that last one.)

  Me, I’m a runner. I put on two pairs of sweats, a smaller pair that really hugs me, and then a normal-size pair. I add a knit cap and a hoodie, too. And now, dressed like the kid from A Christmas Story and with my stomach completely empty of breakfast or even water, I will run until I sweat off 4.2 pounds.

  I wait for a minute to see if any of my teammates will be running with me. Jackson walks over. No surprises there—the dude always has trouble making 160. But then . . . Paul?

  I look at him in disbelief. “You’re over?”

  I don’t think this has ever happened before.

  He rolls his head around on his shoulders. “I know. I know. I may have eaten an entire honey-baked ham for Thanksgiving.”

  “By yourself?”

  “Well, my mom bought it for me, and she was like, ‘Just take a slice whenever you get hungry.’ So, I did. And then it was gone.”

  I mean, what do you even say to that?

  “I’m only two over. I got this,” says Paul defensively.

  “Hey, I’m not judging. Just trying to figure out how someone your size put away an entire ham.”

  The three of us go outside and take off running, and because tournament days always feel a little bit like Christmas morning, we are all acting like really big dorks. We talk about Thanksgiving-food binges and video-game binges and staying-up-late-talking-to-your-new-girlfriend binges. Well, actually, Paul is the only one who has anything to say about that last one.

  “I still can’t believe you’re dating a girl as hot as Eva,” says Jackson.

  “I know!” says Paul, with this ridiculous grin.

  I force my legs to push harder even though my empty stomach is eating itself. My ankle twinges, but only a little. “I can’t believe you had the balls to ask her out when she was leaving in a few weeks.”

  Paul puts a hand to his chest. “When you’ve got a chance at a girl like Eva, you have to seize the moment.” He says this like he is some kind of expert on love, and between the three of us, maybe he is.

  “And speaking of.” He nudges me.

  “What?”

  “You know what.”

  “She’s not even on this continent.”

  “Wait. What?” Paul is breathing heavy and sweating like a fiend.

  “She’s in South Africa.” I don’t have the breath to explain why. Running on an empty stomach is hard. Running on an empty stomach while talking is damn near impossible.

  “No, she’s not. I saw her getting out of their van on my way to school just now.”

  “She’s back?”

  Ohmygosh, she’s back. I think about Paul and Eva and chances. I think about Hope. Every time I think it’s really over, every time I think we’ve had our last chance, we find one more last chance to give each other. Maybe love means never running out.

  I don’t know if it’s because I’m light-headed from the run, but a plan starts to take shape. We’re not too far from our street. I could be there in a few minutes.

  I sprint ahead and veer off to the left.

  “Dude, where are you going?” yells Paul.

  “To Hope’s,” I holler back. “I gotta seize my moment.”

  They don’t say anything. Or laugh. I hear their footsteps behind me. Did they make the turn, too? I glance over my shoulder.

  “We’re coming with you!” says Paul.

  It should feel weird, maybe, that they’re coming. It doesn’t, though. It just feels really good.

  I bolt up the stairs of Hope’s front porch like every second matters. I’m knocking on her door, and it is so, so urgent. Eponine barks shrilly from inside—dogs can sense these things.

  Hope’s mom answers.

  “Hi, Mrs. Birdsong. Is Hope here?”

  “She just ran to the store to get some stuff to make cupcakes to bring over to Ashley’s.”

  “Oh.” I shuffle my feet around on the welcome mat. It really didn’t occur to me that she might not be here. My friends have caught up and are doing jumping jacks in Hope’s front yard to keep their heart rates up. The weirdness? It has made an appearance. “Do you know when she’ll be back?”

  “I don’t know. An hour, maybe?”

  Crap. I can’t wait that long. I have to get back before weigh-ins.

  Mrs. Birdsong cocks her head in concern. “Do you want me to give her a message for you?”

  “Oh. Um.” I look over my shoulder like I can make her appear in the driveway through the very act of looking. (Spoiler alert: It doesn’t work.) “No, that’s okay. Thanks.”

  I jog back to the guys, and they give me some super manly back claps, and we head back to school. Okay, so I can’t see her right now. But I can call her. Yeah, that’s a great idea. Almost as good as seeing her in person. But maybe I’ll wait until I’m not running full speed in three layers of sweaty clothes. Yep. That is probably a great idea, too.

  We make it back in plenty of time. I would kill for a sip of water right now, but I have to wait. I think about waiting to call her until after the weigh-ins, too, so I won’t have a creepy, parched voice or whatever, but in the end, I simply don’t have the willpower. I whip out my phone and scroll for her name. My stomach flips when I press send. If that girl answers her phone right now, I’m going to marry her someday.

  Except she doesn’t. So I leave her a message. Which, honestly? Kind of sucks. Because A) this is just not the kind of thing you want to pour out after a disembodied beep. And B) I’m going to sound like a complete tool, I just know it.

  But this is too important to wait, and I need her to know RIGHT NOW, so message it is.

  “Hey, Hope, it’s Spencer. Well, I guess you already know that. Anyway, I’m sorry. All that terrible stuff I said to you, well, I only said it because I saw you hugging Dean and got the wrong idea. I should have asked you
what happened, and I didn’t. I was pissed off, and I acted like a total dick, and I’m sorry. Really sorry. Did I mention I’m sorry? I really hope you can forgive me. Actually, I’m hoping for a whole lot more than that.” I take a deep breath. Putting my entire heart on the line in three, two, one. “Because I like you. I really, really like you.” Love you. I am head over heels in love with you. “And I hope you like me. I mean, really like me and want to date me and stuff.” And by stuff, I mean spend every day together for the rest of our lives. “I understand if you don’t. There’s a lot that’s happened. It’s okay if you don’t want to talk to me anymore.” Except, no. Please, please, no. “So, okay. I want you. I’m in. And if you’re still in, could you maybe come to my wrestling tournament today? If you don’t show, I’ll know you’re not interested, but if you do? Um, well, that would be really great.” And we can make out until the sun comes up tomorrow. “So, okay, I guess I’ll talk to you later or something. Bye.” Somebody kill me before I die of embarrassment.

  I hang up the phone just in time for weigh-ins to start. I wait my turn to get officially weighed and also to get officially inspected for ringworm/molluscum/shingles because that is a thing that happens before wrestling meets (the mats—they’re like petri dishes). I take off all my clothes because you never know when underwear could ruin everything, and then I step on the scale and close my eyes and think skinny thoughts and pray for 139.

  The scale says 138.6.

  I just lost 4.6 pounds in two hours. I made weight, people! But it’s not just my body. Everything else feels lighter, too.

  Bananas are the greatest. I eat two of them and pound a blue Powerade for good measure. Then I start in on the bagels and Powerade number two. Gotta replenish all those electrolytes I lost. Paul is replenishing right next to me without even bothering to chew.

  My eyes flit from match to match. This is a pretty big tournament, so there are mats set up all over the gym. Sixteen different schools and at least half of them are 4A or better. Peach Valley’s only 3A, and I’ll be honest, we probably won’t be winning this thing as a team, but Coach seems to think I’ve got a shot at 138. The bananas shift uncomfortably in my belly. Some guys get really, really nervous before a match—some of them even have to go throw up in a trash can—but not me. I mean, sure, I get a little jittery and have to take a giant poop half an hour before like clockwork, but I’m not nervous. I just eat a lot of fiber.