Kissing Ezra Holtz (and Other Things I Did for Science)

by Brianna R. Shrum

Lina: “Which I am totally weird for remembering since it was like two years ago.”

  Janelle: “Nah. You’re good. I remember now. We did some exercises together. I always thought you were cute.”

  Lina: “You did?”

  Janelle: “Of course I did. I didn’t say anything because . . . I don’t know; it wasn’t scientifically guaranteed to get me a half decent response. But anyway. Yeah. Shit, the camera; I forgot we were recording. You wanna . . .”

  Janelle glances back at the camera, then at Lina again, a little catlike when she smiles.

  Janelle: “You wanna roll on out of here?”

  Lina, snorting: “Oh no, puns?”

  Janelle: “Oh yes, puns.”

  Lina: “Yeah, I’ll buy you a drink and we’ll fall madly in love over these introductory questions.”

  Janelle: “Sounds like a date.”

  Janelle picks up the phone.

  Janelle: “This, you weirdo voyeurs, you do not get to see. We’re gonna bounce.”

  Lina, waving overenthusiastically, giant exaggerated smile on her face: “This totally isn’t strange and uncomfortable at all!”

  End recording.

  It’s been days and I can’t stop thinking about Ezra. I can’t stop thinking about us lying there on my bedroom floor, staring at each other and whispering like . . . well. Not like friends, exactly. Not like enemies, either, though; we’ve never been enemies.

  We’ve been . . . different. Opposite enough to be irritating. To want to wring each other’s necks. But it’s not like I’ve ever hated him. It’s not like if I had ever seen Rodney Baker screwing with him in the halls in the eighth grade, I would have walked on by. Especially that year. Of all the years to have screwed with Ezra.

  I wouldn’t have left him alone to handle it. I would have stepped in and kicked Rodney’s ass before Ezra got the chance to.

  But either way, not being enemies doesn’t make us friends. We’re not friends. I don’t know how we could be, having next to nothing in common except a mutual not-exactly-hatred.

  So it’s something else, bubbling up in my chest, making it hard to sleep.

  Is it slutty, I wonder, to be lying in bed on a Wednesday evening, daydreaming about kissing a dude you don’t even like? Is it bad that I can’t stop thinking about that break, that tiny nothing of a scar on his chin, the deep brown of his eyes or how resolutely strong his hands look? How they would look wrapped around me?

  It’s weird as hell to me, and it would be weird as hell to anyone else because how anyone makes the leap from Awkward Annoying Kid to suddenly Deadly Hot Annoying GUY is a mystery, but Ezra, by virtue of climbing a rock and lying on my carpet, has made it.

  This is not a crush.

  If he wrote me a note, I’d burn it.

  If he called me on the phone, I would be puzzled, not butterfly-ridden.

  If he . . . I don’t know. Wanted to take me out to dinner and a movie, I would say no, laugh until I cried, then call him back just to say no again.

  No. It’s not a crush.

  This, my friends, is good, old-fashioned lust.

  My phone buzzes and I glance at it, half-hoping it’s a worthwhile distraction, half-sure that basically nothing is going to qualify for that job. It does not. It’s a group text from some of the smokers at school asking me if I’m ever gonna show up at the corner again and trying to figure out who among us has at least marginally decent weed, but no.

  I’m not saying I’m never, ever gonna do it again. I’m not saying I didn’t do it like, two weeks ago, being honest. It’s just that now I really do have to show up for class sometimes. Not blazed.

  I don’t answer. I turn my phone off vibrate so I won’t hear at all if I get any messages and I glance at my door to make sure it’s locked.

  It is, because I locked it the second I shut the door, because let’s be real. I knew exactly what I was planning when I left the dinner table and couldn’t get Ezra Holtz out of my head.

  The lights are all off in the house and it’s like 11:30 p.m. so hopefully everyone’s asleep, but if they’re not, well. Advantages to having an upstairs loft room away from everyone else means it’s probably okay even if they’re up. They probably won’t hear.

  At a certain point, I don’t really care. I care about my hand slipping past the waistband of my underwear—which, why am I wearing these at this point? I kick them off. And I care about lazily messing around until I find that exact spot, the one I am so glad I took the time to find reliably so I didn’t have to wait for any of the people I fooled around with to figure it out on their own.

  I find that place and I think, self-consciously, about Ezra. Ezra and his perfect smile and those little scars that add interest to his face, the kind of scars I would like to draw. The kind of lines I would put on paper to perfect a piece.

  I think about . . . his hands. The surprising callouses, the long strength in his fingers, the veins, I think about what his hands would feel like.

  And Jesus.

  I’m sweating. And I don’t stop at one because why, what’s the point of that? I go a little while longer because I’m allowed to be a little bit greedy, a little bit slutty, in my own bedroom.

  I’m allowed to think about the exquisite failure of my art interlacing with the exquisite ridiculousness of lusting after Ezra all in one confusing masturbatory evening. I can think the word—masturbatory. I don’t know how to think it in conjunction with Ezra Holtz without actually sighing disapprovingly at myself, but I can think it. I can take these things that aren’t mine and jumble them all together in the one thing that is.

  When I finally fall asleep, my heart is still beating a little fast, I’m still a little too hot.

  And Ezra is still not out of my brain.

  I’m actually mad at him when I see him Thursday. Not furious, just annoyed. At his collar buttoned up to his throat and his pleasant greeting face that isn’t quite a smile. It’s too confident, too condescending. Too . . . rehearsed, almost. Like he has a system in place for smiling.

  Ezra glances up at the clock—I’m four minutes late to class. He just slowly raises an eyebrow at me then tips his mouth up, shuffling his papers.

  Teacher’s already lecturing; it’s not a project day. So it’s none of his business whether I’m on time. And honestly it’s four minutes, four minutes.

  I scowl and take my seat, then flip him off.

  His eyebrows crease together.

  Mr. Yeun pauses his lecture to say, “Amalia.”

  My head whirls around so I can look at him, and I immediately rake my hand back over my hair. As though that disguised it; I’m so damn smooth. “Yes?”

  He purses his lips, tips his head at Ezra, then says, “Hands to yourself.”

  A couple snickers from the back of the classroom because that sounded way less appropriate than it should have, and when I glance back at Ezra, I’m blushing. I can feel it in my face. Hands to yourself.

  God, get it together.

  I can barely deal with this ridiculous irritation all through class, with my extremely close proximity to this boy who up until now has been barely a blip on my radar.

  When class ends, I am grateful to the clock.

  Ezra says, “Amalia,” and I just walk out the door.

  I don’t . . . I don’t exactly know what to do; all I know is that what I did last night did not rid this shocking, embarrassing tangle of thoughts from my brain as much as it cemented them there, and now I guess I’m the kind of person who doesn’t know how to be in the same room as a boy.

  Skylar meets me after class to whisk me away to lunch and says, “You look like you’ve had a morning.”

  “Well, Sky. I’ve had a morning.”

  She takes in my mop of hair, the flush on my skin, the probably dark circles under my eyes that say definitively that I am not sleeping especially well, and says, “Come off-campus. Tell me of your woes.”

  “I don’t have woes, seriously. Just. A lot going on.”

&nbs
p; Skylar cocks her head. “What is it?”

  I let out a breath. Glance up at the ceiling tiles in the hall. “It’s nothing. Nothing I want to talk about, okay? Take me to food.”

  “Yeah.” She frowns quickly, like a flash, then says, “Sure. Food. Okay.”

  And we go.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  TEST GROUP PAIR C AND D

  The following is a text log between both Samuel Price (D) and me (C, Riley Greene).

  Sam: So I guess we’re doing this, then.

  Riley: I guess so. Should we get down to business?

  Sam:

  Riley: That’s not what I meant.

  Riley: I’m really doubting this decision already.

  Sam: dude I’m messing with you, chill. We don’t know each other. Shouldn’t we like meet face to face to start this shit up?

  Riley: I’d be much more comfortable getting the preliminaries out of the way digitally if you don’t mind.

  Sam:

  Sam: don’t, don’t, I’m messing with you again, I got you. You know me? Probably do.

  Sam: That makes me sound like a cocky ass, it’s just you know. Swim team and I feel like everyone at this school is obsessed with swim.

  Riley: I know you.

  Riley: Do you shave your legs?

  Sam: well now who’s being weird and PERSONAL, Ri.

  Riley: Sorry.

  Sam: gotta work on your sarcasm radar, my dude. Girl. Person. Well wait, is Riley a girl’s name or a boy’s name? I’ve been kind of operating under the assumption that you were a chick but I’m not like…against the idea if you aren’t one. Don’t let that get around if that’s cool, I don’t even know where I’m at with all of that.

  Sam: that was a lot of information. Sorry.

  Sam: guess it doesn’t hurt to tell you I shave my legs.

  Riley: It’s neither name.

  Sam: well that doesn’t help me out a whole lot. I figure I should be allowed to know your gender?

  Riley: No, I mean, I’m non-binary.

  Sam: crap, obviously. Sorry.

  Sam: I’m reading it over again and it’s totally clear that’s what you meant.

  Sam: yeah, sorry.

  Riley: Sam.

  Sam: yeah?

  Riley: You don’t need to spend the next eighty-four years apologizing to me. Now you know. Is that gonna be cool with you?

  Sam: Yes. I’ve only ever dated girls before but I wrote what I wrote on that app for a reason. So. Yeah.

  Riley: well then. Maybe we should get some of these questions out of the way?

  Sam: like this is an assignment or something lol bet you’re on student council or some shit

  Riley: no

  Riley: . . . model U.N. lolol

  Sam: THERE it is.

  Sam: Have we gotten past some of this awkwardness? You cool to meet me in the hall after swim in two hours? Outside the pool?

  Riley: actually. Yeah. Yeah I think I am.

  Sam: sweet.

  Riley: and sam?

  Sam: yeah?

  Riley: I think it’s kind of cool you shave your legs.

  Skylar and I head over to this little hole-in-the-wall Indian place near campus. We used to come here all the time, but she’s been busy with her girlfriend and with school, and I’ve been weird, so the combination has led to us not being recognized as regulars when we head inside. The host is new, which we would have known a few months ago. He gives us the same forced smile he probably gives all the high school kids who come in here for lunch and don’t tip enough.

  We make sure to tip enough. Always.

  It twinges weirdly, like this is what makes me realize how little Sky and I have actually been hanging out lately. How weird everything feels with this gulf between us that she doesn’t even know about.

  We follow the guy to a two-person booth and neither of us need the menus to order, so we rattle everything off when our server runs over to take our orders. She, at least, is familiar. That settles my stomach somewhat.

  “I’ve kind of been wanting to talk to you?” says Skylar. She’s playing with the ends of her hair, which she only does when she’s super nervous.

  “What, uh, what’s up?”

  Suddenly that little anxious knot is back and I’m pressing my fingers into the table to calm down. There are no worse words in the dictionary than I’ve been wanting to talk.

  “I feel bad. About the other night.”

  The knot untangles. I can breathe.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I say. “Seriously, you’re—”

  “A bitch. I was being a bitch.”

  I roll my eyes. “Don’t talk about my best friend that way.”

  She shakes her head. “No, I was being too harsh like I sometimes am and I should just . . . I shouldn’t direct that at you. You should live your life the way you want to live it, okay? I know you’re not just afraid to choose. You’re gonna pick your school on your own time and go off and be a famous artist and leave me and my glamorless double-bass in the dust.”

  I groan. “Skylar.”

  “What?” She’s smiling.

  “Don’t do that. Don’t make your full-ride scholarship into nothing to make me feel better.”

  She sits up straight. “I’m not. I’m not trying to.”

  “I know,” I say. “It’s just . . . you don’t need to do that, okay? I love you and I support you, and you and your upright bass could never, never be glamorless. Not with those wings.” I tip my chin up at her eyeliner and her mouth curls up in a smile. “I was being weird and sensitive the other night.”

  “Stuff . . . just. Stuff going on,” she says.

  I can tell it’s killing her not to ask, not to pry. Skylar is consistently an open book with me and Ellie, and then there’s me. It’s not that I hide what I’m feeling, I don’t. It’s just that I don’t feel the need to blast every single thing about me at all times, and she tries extremely visibly hard to be cool about this.

  But in her heart, she’s not eight hundred percent cool about this.

  I say, and it’s only a half a lie—an omission, really, which isn’t the same—“It’s just. A boy?”

  Her eyebrows pop up and she says, “Elaborate,” just as our food gets here and we both have to spend the next five minutes shoveling it in to make sizeable enough dents that we have a prayer of making it back to school on time.

  I shrug. “It’s nothing serious. And by that I mean it’s literally nothing. I don’t even really like him, I just . . . can’t stop thinking about kissing him? And . . . other redacted things.”

  Skylar’s grin goes a little lopsided, a little I see what you’re saying. She’s always a bit scandalized by that part of my life, because as far as I know, she’s never gone farther with anyone than she had with me—all above-the-waist stuff. She hasn’t dated a ton of people, of any gender, but yeah, with the few she has—what I’m saying is Skylar has never had sex.

  And I most definitely have.

  “Who do you want to redacted-redacted?”

  I scratch my head too vigorously, kind of wince. “Ezra Holtz?”

  “Ezra Holtz—oh right yeah, valedictorian. Hot as hell. His glasses are . . .” She does a little chef’s kiss. “And his arms, oh my go—wait. Don’t you kind of hate him?”

  “No,” I say. “I don’t. I don’t hate him, we’ve just never gotten along that well. Honestly, it’s not like I know him well enough to hate him.”

  “You just know him well enough that you want to redacted his redacted.”

  I choke as a boy on the baseball team walks by and mutters, “Which could mean she just met him eight minutes ago.” I glance at him and see him mouth, with just enough hiss of breath that I can half-hear it: “Sluuuuuttt.”

  “Excuse me?” I say.

  He throws up his hands. George Edwards. George. Like he’s ninety. He has two English monarch names put together in one deeply frat king concoction of Anglo-Saxon asshattery. “Nothing, Yaabez. I’m just saying, yo
u ever wanna redacted my redacted, you have my number.”

  I do have his number. He’s one of the unfortunate side effects of running around with the cool-ish crowd, and at least half of us feel this way about him, but no one will say anything about it because, I don’t know, high school sucks?

  I grind my teeth and stare at him. I want to come up with something cool, something that shows him I am Just So Unaffected.

  Skylar comes up out of her chair. “Have a seat, you sentient can of Axe body spray. Maybe try not being such a dick?”

  “And what would you know about dicks?” he says, narrowing his eyes. He glances over at me, then smirks at her. “How’s your girlfriend?”

  And heads out the door.

  I clench my jaw and just stare at the table. That’s a thing we get sometimes. Everyone knows we dated before we became friends. And everyone assumes we’re still into each other; we have to be, right? But the thing is, sometimes people are friends and then decide to date. Sometimes people date, then realize they should be friends.

  Skylar and I are allowed that. Not that anyone agrees, not that it’s any of their business.

  Especially with me involved, nah. No one is going to believe that.

  “Amalia—”

  “No,” I say. “No, it’s fine. You okay?”

  Skylar shrugs. “He barely said anything to me. It’s true, I know very little about dicks, all told.”

  I snort.

  “Seriously,” she says. “You sure you’re fine? You want me to slash his tires or something?”

  I take a huge bite of tikka masala. Way too huge since I cranked up the spice. I cough and my eyes start to water. “I think you want me to slash his tires,” I say, gesturing with my fork.

  “That does seem more in character for you.”

  I down half the cup of water in one go and clear my throat. “Don’t worry about it, okay? It’s fine. You should probably text your girlfriend and tell her we’re not making out behind her back.”

  Skylar purses her lips. “Oh, yeah, I’m super concerned. She’s very possessive and has no idea we’re BFFs.”

  “Well,” I say, “I’m just saying. Since I’m a complete slut.”

  Skylar makes an exasperated noise.