The Truth About Jack (Entangled Crush)

by Gehrman, Jody

  “Your mother is right next door. She’ll storm in here and I’ll be fired for disturbing you. Is that what you want?”

  With a huff of frustration I resume my song. Meanwhile, Attila gets up silently and creeps to the stereo system. He takes my iPhone, plugs it in, then scrolls until he finds the song he wants. Gesturing like a conductor, he cues me to fall silent. Then he pushes a button and “Nocturne in D Flat Major” floods the room, considerably louder than my own version. He scrambles to adjust the volume. I grin as he tiptoes back to the piano bench.

  “What are you grinning at?” he demands, scowling.

  “I’ve just never seen this side of you,” I admit.

  He gazes at the envelope so intently as I tear it open, I suspect he’s as excited as I am about its contents. Who knew my grouchy Romanian tutor would turn out to be a hopeless romantic? I unfold the plain white paper and begin to read.

  Dear Alejandro,

  You have no idea how happy your letter made me. I got it at a time when all the magic in the universe seemed to have drained away, leaving only darkness in its wake. For starters, it’s just the most dazzling coincidence, you being from Barcelona! I’m obsessed with that city! I swear I have an image file on my laptop with like four million Barcelona photos in it! Not to sound all Northern Californian or anything, but seriously, what a twist of fate! I’m using too many exclamation points. Sorry about that.

  I’m embarrassed to admit I had to look up more than one of the words on your list. Sprezzatura for one. Thanks for teaching me such a great new concept. Leave it to the Italians to come up with a word for “making difficult things look easy.” Its closest match in English is probably “insouciance,” which would be on my top seven list for sure.

  Speaking of sprezzatura, I’m impressed with how fluent you are in English! Not just your overall ease with the language, but your apparently effortless comfort with American pop culture. Debby Boone and Justin Bieber? Not bad. Did you grow up in Spain, or have you been here a long time? You said you’re traveling. I’m thinking of traveling myself, so I’d love to know more details about your trip. What are your impressions of this country? Where have you been, and where are you going?

  A little about me: I live in a place called Luna Cove. It’s an artist colony. My dad’s a musician. We also have a writer named Fran who lives in a tree house, a Japanese guy named Tomo who’s a tattoo artist, and a couple named Neville and Jane who are potters. Neville and Jane have a bunch of kids who are just…kids. We all live in our own little spaces. I live in a yurt, which is a round house created by Mongolians and revised by white people who like camping. If a circus tent and a Native American round house had a fling, the yurt would be their love child. Here, it’s probably easier to draw a picture.

  Anyway, I think I’m starting to ramble, so I guess I’ll sign off. Please write me back! Tell me the three things you love best about Barcelona, what sort of weather you’d like to be if you could be any weather, and the most memorable thing that’s happened to you on this trip.

  Oh! And I almost forgot to answer your question. If I could be anything in nature for ten minutes I’d want to try life as a passionflower. They’re so whimsical and outlandish, I just know they have a lot going on inside.

  Also, here’s my email in case you ever need to tell me something in a hurry. I don’t know if you have internet access, but I figured I’d include it just in case. Please don’t stop writing letters, though. Who even does this anymore? It’s a lost art, so retro, like wearing pillbox hats or winding a Victrola.

  Yours,

  Dakota

  I hold the letter closer to my face to study the adorable picture of what must be a yurt. It’s no bigger than a postage stamp, but impossibly detailed. There’s a tiny skylight at the center of the sloping roof. She’s right; it does look a little like a circus tent.

  “Well?” Attila’s impatient voice startles me.

  “Well, what?” I can’t hide my smile.

  “What does she say?”

  I fold the letter carefully and put it back into the envelope. “Oh, you know, this and that.” He is so not going to read my precious letter! I hope he knows that.

  “‘This and that’?” His face twists into a look of such scorn I can’t help but laugh. My chuckle cuts off abruptly when I hear a chair scrape against the floor in the next room.

  “Jack?” Mom calls.

  Attila silently rushes to the stereo. Showing an agility I never knew he possessed, he stops the recording and cues me all at the same time, then he conceals himself behind the sofa with lightning speed. I manage to continue “Nocturne in D Flat Major” seamlessly. When Mom opens the conservatory door, nothing is amiss.

  I glance over my shoulder at her, still playing. “What is it, Mom?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. It sounded like there was someone in here with you.”

  “Nope. Just me.” I dive into the second strophe, furrowing my brow with concentration.

  “My mistake,” she murmurs before closing the door.

  After a moment, Attila pops up from behind the couch and scurries over to the table. He finds a notepad and scribbles something in big, sloppy letters, then holds it up to me. I have to suppress another laugh when I see what he’s written.

  SEBASTOPOL. TOMORROW.

  Chapter Seven

  Dakota

  On Monday morning I run down to the mailbox all excited. My heart flutters like the wings of a caged bird as I open the hinged door, fingers trembling. As I reach in and pull out the stack, I feel almost dizzy with hope. A few seconds of sifting confirms it’s only catalogues and bills though, one postcard for Tomo…nothing for me. It’s too early, I guess. Not enough time for Alejandro’s cousin to forward him my letter and for him to write back. Mail is painfully slow! Raised on email and texts, the pace of regular mail feels torturous.

  Still, if I’m being completely honest, there’s also something delicious about it. Almost sensual. Waiting, trying to imagine what he’ll write next, anticipating when it will arrive. Even the physical reality of a letter feels more gratifying than texts or emails—a tangible weight you can hold in the palm of your hand, a physical object full of possibilities. All the same, I hate getting my hopes up only to have them dashed.

  I tuck the stack under my arm and head back up the dirt road, moving more slowly than I did on the way here. Halfway home, a thought hits me: What if he never writes back? The idea floods me with such panic—more than I would have thought possible. Since when does this guy I’ve never met play such a huge role in my happiness? Am I experiencing some kind of rebound? Is my mysterious message-in-a-bottle guy serving as a surrogate boyfriend, filling the hole Cody and River’s betrayal left behind? After all, I didn’t just lose a guy; I lost my best friend. Maybe someday River and I will get past this, but even if we do, I doubt our friendship will ever be the same. Maybe Alejandro Torres is now my fantasy friend and love interest all in one, a paper boy who does everything right and provides a huge distraction from my achingly empty life.

  As I walk, I alternate between questioning my own motives and entertaining outlandish daydreams: Alejandro’s next letter; Alejandro on the road, thinking of me; Alejandro and I kissing in the Gothic Quarter of Barcelona. I’m definitely using this little pen pal thing as a shiny bauble to distract me from my ugly gaping wounds, but so what? There are a thousand more destructive ways to drown one’s sorrows, after all. I could be smoking crack or shooting heroin. I could be having sex with people like Miles Asher. What’s a little fantasy compared to truly damaging distractions? I’ve pretty much given up on love, so indulging in a little fantasy that will never come true is probably my best option.

  I let myself into the kitchen and stand before the big butcher-block table, sorting the mail. The shower’s running in Dad’s bathroom; I can hear him singing in there, his rich, smoky voice reverberating off the tiled walls. I decide I’ll deliver mail to Tomo and Fran too. Luckily there’s nothing for Jane and Neville t
oday. The longer I can put off a real conversation with them, the better. I’ve seen them in passing, but so far I’ve avoided anything more than polite hellos. I have no idea what River’s told them, if anything. Obviously if we talk they’ll bring her up, though, and I’ll either have to admit what’s going on or pretend everything’s normal, both of which sound ghastly.

  The patter of footsteps makes me look up, startled. A woman I’ve never seen in my life swings around the corner and then lets out a little squeal of surprise. She’s wearing just a towel and her short, dark hair glistens like a seal pelt.

  “Oh God!” she gasps, pressing one hand to her chest. “You scared me!”

  “Sorry,” I mumble, feeling heat rush to my cheeks. Though I don’t know why I’m blushing. She’s the one wearing the towel.

  “I’m Emily. You must be Dakota?” She tries to sound casual, but she’s not pulling it off. She reaches out a hand to shake, and her towel nearly falls off.

  “Yeah. Uh, hi.” Even I can hear how weirded out I sound. “Guess you’re Dad’s friend?”

  “Yeah.” The subtext—Dad’s hookup—hovers in the silence. She clears her throat, pulls her towel a little tighter around her. “I was just going to make some coffee. Do you want some?”

  “Oh, hey Ducky.” Dad suddenly materializes in the doorway, luckily clad in more than a towel.

  “Hi.” We all stand there a moment, looking at one another like characters in a bad sit-com.

  “Guess you two met?” he asks unnecessarily. We both nod.

  “I’d better get dressed,” Emily says, escaping back into the bedroom.

  Dad runs a hand over his face and looks embarrassed. “Sorry about that.”

  “It’s your house. I should have knocked.”

  “You’re not mad?”

  “About what?” It comes out really petulant and childish sounding.

  “I didn’t know Emily was coming over last night, and we haven’t really talked about—”

  “I’m not mad. She seems nice.” The truth is, I’m a little freaked out by the prospect of Dad dating, but I can’t really say this aloud. He hasn’t shown interest in anyone since Mom left. Who can blame him? He and I both found out about Mom’s affair at the same time. She packed up her old life, and both of us with it, like we were totally disposable. Even though it’s been almost five years since she left, I’m leery about letting someone audition for the role of stepmother, or even stepgirlfriend. I don’t want to see him—okay, either of us—get hurt again.

  “Why don’t you stick around?” he says. “I’ll make waffles.”

  “No, thanks. I’m delivering mail.” I hold up the stack of envelopes and catalogues. It sounds way too uncomfortable, sitting with Dad and his one-night stand, trying to find something to talk about. Dad would make a lot of bad jokes in an effort to put us at ease. The whole time I’d be studying Emily’s every move, in case she’s not a one-night stand and he’s actually interested in her long-term. He hasn’t exactly shown stellar judgment so far when it comes to women. I can’t stand the thought of someone screwing him over again.

  “You sure?” he coaxes. “Emily’s been dying to meet you.”

  So, not a one-night stand, then. He looks so hopeful I consider joining them just to make him happy, but the whole scene sounds exhausting. “I’m not hungry. Thanks, though.”

  “Okay,” he says, his voice barely audible. He looks wounded.

  I hold up the stack of mail. “Got to deliver these. See you later.”

  I escape before the situation can get any weirder.

  …

  Jack

  Attila and I went to Sebastopol Sunday but saw no sign of the shiny blond head we were looking for. It occurred to me to have him drive to the address on her letter, but since she lives on a big stretch of land with lots of houses, chances are all we’d find is a private road. It’s one thing to drive by someone’s house, get a glimpse of where she lives, but something else entirely to sneak onto someone’s private property. Besides, with all the pot growers in the hills of West County, we’d probably get shot.

  After a couple hours checking out the herb shop and hanging at the café, I told Attila we should head home. I don’t know who was more disappointed, him or me. I had to take him to the chichi ice cream shop on the corner and buy him a double scoop of caramel swirl to cheer him up. Sometimes I feel like I’m babysitting my chauffeur.

  Monday I get up around nine and practice for five hours. I get totally absorbed in writing a new song. For the first time, I manage to compose something with real yearning in it; each note is elastic with longing. Most of my songs seem to land either on the dirge side of the spectrum, or the “Hokey Pokey” side, both of which make me cringe. At last I’ve started on something that inhabits the in-between: optimistic overall but edged with melancholy. When I leave the conservatory I tell myself I’m in the right frame of mind to write her back. Instead, I find myself stalking the halls, too restless to sit and too aimless to go anywhere. I want this letter to be truly spectacular, off the charts charming without looking like I’m trying too hard. It’s a tall order.

  By five o’clock I’ve got a recycling bin full of crumpled up stationery, each with just a few lines scribbled at the top. I catch sight of Joaquin Ramirez outside helping his dad unload some bags of soil. Joaquin’s around my age. A couple years ago he and his family moved into the little cottage at the back of our property so his dad could manage the migrant workers who pick our grapes. I’ve talked to him a few times here and there. His parents don’t speak much English, but he’s lived here long enough to become fluent. Once or twice I thought about trying to hang out with him, but it always seemed kind of awkward. Where do you start? What do you say?

  I push my chair away from my desk and stand, suddenly feeling the cramped fatigue that comes from sitting all day. The lengthening shadows outside look cool and inviting. I hurry out of my study, down the stairs and outside just as Joaquin and his dad have loaded the last bag of soil into the shed. They both wave, and I wave back. Normally, we’d leave it at that, but on impulse I walk over to Joaquin and try a smile.

  “How’s it going, man?”

  “Okay. You?” He looks a little wary, but I press on.

  “Pretty good.” I try to adopt a chummy, casual tone. “I’ve got a question for you.”

  “Okay.” He wipes a hand over his face, squints at me.

  His dad says something in Spanish. Joaquin answers him quickly, waving him off. Mr. Ramirez climbs into the truck and drives off, powdery dust rising in clouds under the tires.

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” I say, feeling awkward. I don’t even know exactly where I’m going with this. Some vague notions flit around in my brain, but nothing concrete. All I know is I’ve been trying to write a simple letter for two hours, and I’m getting desperate.

  “We were done. What’s up?” He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans and leans back on his heels. Joaquin’s about my height, almost six feet tall, with a buzz cut and black, almond shaped eyes. I think he runs track at the high school; he’s lean and ropey. I find myself thinking this is exactly what Alejandro Torres would look like, if only he existed.

  I swallow hard, unsure of what I want to say. “Okay, this is probably going to sound weird, but I could use your help.”

  “Yeah?” His eyes say and I should care because…?

  “The thing is, there’s this girl…” I trail off.

  The hardness in his face softens. “A girl?” he prompts.

  “I’ve never talked to her. We’ve been”—it sounds so ludicrous I can barely get the words out, but I pick up the pace and forge ahead—“exchanging letters. She thinks I’m from Spain. A few well-placed Spanish words could seriously up my credibility.”

  He smirks. “You told her you’re from Spain?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Jack Sauvage from Spain?” he asks, incredulous.

  “Alejandro Torres from Barcelona,” I mumble,
studying my shoes.

  He leans closer. “What?”

  I jerk my head up and practically shout, “Alejandro Torres from Barcelona!”

  His eyebrows arch and he cracks up. “You even have a fake name?”

  “Never mind.” Suddenly I regret stopping. I should have just waved and kept walking. There’s a reason I haven’t made any real friends since Will died: because people can be such arrogant assholes, especially guys. I start to walk away, but he grabs my arm.

  “No, dude, come on! I’m just giving you shit.”

  “Yeah, well, it was stupid of me to—”

  “Seriously, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t laugh. One time I told a girl Vin Diesel is my cousin.” He spreads out his hands like, What can you do?

  Okay, maybe this guy isn’t so bad. At least he’ll cop to it when he’s crossed a line. “It’s kind of a long story,” I say lamely.

  “Isn’t it always?” He laughs again, and this time I join him.

  Chapter Eight

  Dakota

  Monday night is Bonding Over Food Night at Luna Cove. The acronym, BOF-Night, sounds vaguely obscene, but it’s generally pretty wholesome. It’s not like anyone has to join us; it’s just our tradition. We’ve all got our own little kitchens, so we generally fend for ourselves. Once a week it’s nice to break bread together. I’ve avoided the ritual the last couple of weeks, afraid I’d see Jane and Neville there. Tonight I decide I can’t hide from them forever. Besides, Dad’s barbecuing, and the smell makes my mouth water.

  As I approach the people gathered in a ragged circle around the fire pit, the first person I see is Jane. She’s tied her red hair back with a paisley scarf and she’s wearing a yellow maxi-dress with a huge blue sun silkscreened across her ample chest. I find myself making eye contact without deciding to. She flashes a quick, sad smile that tells me she knows everything. Jane’s like that—omniscient. It surprises me a little that River told her about this thing with Cody, though. Usually River tries to keep the details of her private life carefully hidden from her parents.