He mimics my gesture.
“Me too,” I say.
“Great, that conversation is done. Moving on. What else should we talk about?”
I laugh so loudly, the woman behind the counter stops talking on the phone for a second.
“Um … so. I want to know why that guy out in the parking lot called you K.O. And if it’s something mean, I’m going to find him and scrape his eyeballs out.”
Jay takes a bite of pizza and stares at the wall behind me.
“I know what you’re thinking,” I say.
“No, you don’t.”
“I do. You’re thinking about how to reattach eyeballs.”
Jay’s mouth drops open.
“See?” I whisper. “I knooowww your thooouuughts.” I make it sound like a ghost. “Tell me why they called you K.O.”
He clears his throat.
“Knock Out. That’s what they called me,” he says. “You know the story. I’m sure Serena told you. About the kid Jeremy Robins?”
I have a vague recollection of Serena telling me something when we first started hanging out with Jay. Something about people thinking he was violent. But Serena had told me it was bullshit and ancient history.
“She told me something about a fight in middle school,” I say. “That it was a pretty bad one, but the other kid had started it and none of it was your fault.”
He smiles a little.
“Glad that’s how she saw it,” he says.
“I would’ve interrogated you a lot sooner if I’d known it was that big a deal or that you got a nickname from it—she made it seem like it wasn’t, or at least that it was so long ago it was all forgotten. So … out with it.”
“In sixth grade, I brought a stethoscope to school to show, um, to show, Serena, actually. It was a real one. My pediatrician gave it to me. Jeremy Robins grabbed it out of my hand and held it up above my head, so I couldn’t get at it.”
“He was holding it above your head?” Jay is six-foot-five, and I know that he’s always been the tallest kid.
“He was the one kid in the grade as tall as me. He bullied everyone, but I guess someone must have told him to pick on someone his own size. He was getting me going, and I was headed toward a meltdown. I had some pretty big meltdowns at home—like I kicked a hole in my wall once—but I’d always been really good at school. That day, though, something about the way Jeremy was teasing me, I couldn’t control myself. So I head-butted him, and he hit the floor. And it knocked him out.”
I choke a little on my soda. “You head-butted him?”
“Yeah,” he says.
“Didn’t it hurt you?”
“What difference does it make whether it hurt me? The point was that I hurt him. Badly.”
I stare at him.
“I was completely, like, in a different zone—so yeah, at first I didn’t feel any pain. Later, when I had this screaming headache, I figured I deserved it.”
“So, what happened to Jeremy?”
“They moved to Boston right after.”
“And that was it?” I ask.
“Not really. For a while, his parents thought that he could have brain damage, since he’d been unconscious for so long. Kyle always joked that they just tried to blame his natural stupidity on me, but I never thought that was funny. They tried to sue us.”
I gasp.
“They lost the suit, but it cost my parents a lot of money, and it was all over the papers and people didn’t want their kids near me.”
“Oh my god,” I say, thinking of poor Jay being treated like a leper.
“Kyle defended me,” he says. “My mom and dad went around talking to parents, making sure they understood that I wasn’t a violent person. I felt bad for them. And then, once we started high school, it kind of blew over. Well, I thought it did anyway. I still think about it sometimes, but I figured no one else does. Sixth grade was a long time ago. But every now and then I hear someone say K.O. or Killer.”
“So who were those guys outside?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I don’t think I’ve seen them before. No idea.”
“Did you ever talk to Jeremy again?” I ask.
“No,” he says.
“Do you ever think about talking to him? To clear your conscience or whatever?”
“Well, the truth is,” he says, “I’d probably want to do the same thing again if it happened today. I mean, I wouldn’t actually do it—but I’d want to head-butt him again. Definitely. I can’t really clear my conscience.”
I think about that for a second. Another reason why I love Jay. Honest. Few regrets.
“So then, why do you think about it at all?”
“I guess because I feel bad I put someone in the hospital, that I hurt him, even though he was an asshole. And I think about how I couldn’t control my meltdown, how after that day …”
He takes a sip of his drink.
“After that day, what?”
He picks up the crumpled napkin next to his plate and puts it down again.
“You were going to say something else,” I say.
He shakes his head and sighs, like I’m driving him crazy with all the questions, but he continues. “I think after that, things changed with my dad. I think he started to be afraid of me or something. It’s never been the same after that. And maybe that’s … maybe that’s why they got divorced. Because of me.”
I laugh. “Classic!”
He looks at me like I’ve slapped him. I stop laughing.
“Come on, Jay. Every kid thinks their parents get divorced because of them,” I say. “It’s classic. It’s cliché. And it’s never true.”
“But in my case, it might be,” he says. “You laughed at me.”
“Sorry. It was a knee-jerk reaction. Maybe I was being spiteful. A defense mechanism, I guess. Maybe you should talk to your dad about how you feel.”
Jay stares out the window.
“See, now you’re mad at me,” I say.
“No, I’m not,” he says. “I’m thinking.”
“About what?”
“About what you said. It’s complicated. I’m trying to figure it out.”
“Do it out loud.” I have to say that to Jay sometimes, or else he’ll just sit there silently staring off into space for eons.
“Fine. You said you were being spiteful, which is confusing since I don’t think you really want me to feel bad, and I was talking about my parents’ divorce, which is pretty personal and difficult for me to talk about.”
Dammit. “Jay—”
“But then you said you were defending yourself. So who are you defending yourself against? Me? I don’t think I did anything for you to defend against.”
I nod. I want to apologize, but I wait.
“So, if you’re not defending yourself against me,” he continues. “And the only other person here is you, it must be you. You’re trying to defend against your own sadness because you don’t have a dad at all. No grandfather, no family other than your mom. No brother, no sister, no cousins. And the way you’re doing that is by getting angry. But maybe that anger is really jealousy. So, you’re jealous of me because I have a family. A brother. Cousins, aunts, uncles. Two parents. Well, three, if you count Gabe, even though he and Mom will probably never actually get married.”
I half-smile, feeling a lump rise in my throat.
“I’m not even sure I knew that’s what I was doing,” I say. “But you’re probably right.”
“It was too harsh, wasn’t it?” he asks.
“No,” I say, but my eyes start to water. “You’re right. I think you nailed it.”
“So, you’re jealous.”
“I guess.”
“You’d rather know your father and have divorced parents than just one parent,” he says.
“I think I would. But, Jay, we don’t have to compare who has the shittier deal.”
“You have the shittier deal,” he says.
“We don’t have to compare.”
“You definitely have the shittier deal.”
“Can I have your pepperoni?” I ask.
“Yes.”
TWENTY-ONE
If you don’t go to a dance, you can never be rejected, but you’ll never get to dance, either.
—Maeve Binchy (writer)
When I get home from school Friday, I realize I’ve survived an entire week of being Serena-less. Every time I caught a glimpse of her in the hallway or heard her voice, I wanted to go to her, to ask her why she’s doing this and when she’ll be done with it, but I didn’t because I have a little bit of pride. Each day she continued to ignore me, I tried to convert my feelings of missing her into anger at her, but it never worked. I just miss her.
I have the house to myself, so it’s the first time I’ve had a chance to check out the box in the garage since I found it. I drop my bag on the kitchen table, find a half-empty can of mixed nuts in the cupboard, and take it into the garage. The sealed box is pushed into the far corner, right where I left it. Mom never comes in here, so I’m not surprised that nothing’s been touched since I found it more than a week ago. I stride over to the box like there’s no reason not to, crouch down, and pull at the flaps until the old packing tape rips free. I cough a little at the musty, dusty smell from inside. On top is a plain envelope with NAOMI written on the front in blue pen. I take it out and hold it, turning it over. It’s sealed, as though it’s never been opened. I peer back into the box. There’s a black Nauset sweatshirt, a few vinyl records—David Bowie, Depeche Mode, Prince—a small stuffed elephant holding out a red heart that says I’M YOURS, and a Ziploc that holds about six Loony Toons character Pez dispensers. I push the sweatshirt aside and underneath is a red leather box, a little smaller than a shoebox. The lid is embossed with the words LOVE NOTES. It’s the kind of thing you’d find in a Hallmark store.
Just as I reach in to get the red box, I hear a car in the driveway.
Quickly, my heart racing, I drop the envelope back on top of everything, close the flaps of the cardboard box, grab the can of nuts, and rush back to the kitchen at the same time Mom opens the front door.
It must be one of her short Fridays. Mom gave one of the other bank tellers some of her hours to help pay for some medical expenses. I’m not sure why she did—it’s not like we don’t need the money. Especially now that I’m using my savings from my job at PJ’s last summer for the garage, I have to depend on Mom for spending money until the restaurant reopens for the season next month.
“Hi,” she says. She looks frazzled. “You have a good day?”
“Kind of boring.” I fill the tea kettle with water. “You?”
“Let’s just say, TGIF, and that it was a short day,” she says, brushing hair out of her eyes.
She walks past me to the garage door, which I’d forgotten to close.
“Why’s this open?” she asks. “You looking for something?”
For a second, I consider lying—“Yeah, I couldn’t find my brown boots, so I thought maybe they’d gone in a donation box by accident.” But I decide to go with the truth. I’ve got to tell her at some point.
“I want to fix up the garage so I can move in,” I say.
Mom doesn’t look at me. She stays quiet, standing in the garage doorway, looking in.
“What?” I ask, finally.
“Why do you want to do that?” Her voice sounds almost hurt.
I shrug. “Just, you know, it’s quieter. And I thought it would be fun, something new. I don’t know.”
“Were you going to check with me?” she asks. Her voice seems curious, though, not angry.
“Of course. That’s what I’m doing now. Is it okay with you?”
She closes the garage door and looks out the back windows to the water. Her eyes are shiny.
“Yes,” she says, quietly. “It’s okay with me.”
“I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean to upset you. It was just an idea that—”
“No, it’s okay. It just hit me that you’ve only got one more year of school and then you might be gone and I just wasn’t ready to think about that.”
“Don’t count on me going anywhere,” I say. “You might have to kick me out, especially once I’m in the garage—it’ll be like my own apartment.”
She smiles. “In that case, let’s make it amazing so you stay forever.”
“Deal,” I say. “I’m using my own money, though.”
She squeezes my shoulder, then goes off to her room to change.
Now that it’s the weekend, she’ll be home and I probably won’t have a chance to look at what’s inside that red box, or that envelope. The thought of waiting until Monday almost hurts.
I call Jay and tell him I need company.
“Come over,” he says.
I hang up and ride my bike over to his house.
When I get there, I go through the kitchen door and basically run right into him. He must have been standing in front of the door, waiting for me. I rest my cheek on his chest, and he puts a hand on top of my head.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I put my arms around his middle and sink into him. He hugs me back then, his arms tight around me. Jay’s hug is so strong and secure, it feels like he’s infusing me with healing.
His brother Kyle comes in from the TV room, and when he sees us, he groans.
“Gawd, get a room,” he says.
We pull apart. Jay’s neck is pink.
After Kyle grabs a bag of chips and returns to the TV room, Jay and I look at each other.
“Do you want to hang out upstairs?” Jay asks.
“Yeah, sure.”
When we get to his room, he closes the door and we stand a few feet apart.
Jay stares straight into my eyes, like he’s asking a question.
“Now?” I whisper.
He shrugs and the corners of his mouth turn up a little.
So, this is it. The point of no return. We are going to kiss.
We walk toward each other, and I know we’re both feeling shy and strange. When we get close enough, I go up on my tip-toes and put my arms around his neck, and he bends way down and puts his around my waist.
“Okay,” he says, his voice shaky.
It was always clear I’d have to be the one to start the kiss.
And so, I kiss him. It’s just one touch of our lips at first. Hesitant. And I know that Jay’s brain is probably on overdrive, and I hope he’s not thinking too much about the mechanics of the whole thing or about what I had to eat or something.
His arms tighten around me, and I’m surprised at how soft his lips are as he presses them against mine a few times, more than pecks but less than making out.
He pulls back a few inches.
“Is this right?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. “Definitely.”
He nods, and we kiss again. And he’s more sure now, and I know he’s figuring this whole thing out. Our lips match and move, press together, pull apart, press together again. Soft, juicy, tingly. And yes, now he’s really figured it out. And when our tongues meet inside our mouths, it’s like—
“Wow,” he whispers.
“I know.”
“It’s …”
“Amazing?” I ask.
“Weird,” he says, at the same time.
I narrow my eyes at him.
“The idea of touching someone else’s tongue with mine has always freaked me out,” he says. “But in reality? It does feel kinda weird, but also really good.”
“Well, but I’m not just someone,” I say, smiling.
“No,” he says. “You’re not.”
He pulls me closer. I think about what he must be noticing—the bumps of my chest against him, my pounding heart, how I have to pant a little for air. That sigh of relief I couldn’t help when I felt how soft his lips were. I know he notices it all.
After a few minutes, my neck hurts from having to reach up so high to kiss him.
“Can we sit on the bed?” I
ask.
He nods and backs up, sits on the edge.
I climb onto his lap.
We go back to kissing and he slides his hand up my shirt, his fingers moving slowly on my bare back. I think about how he must know, biologically, what is happening inside my body that makes me radiate so much heat that I’m almost sweating. I take my shirt off in one quick move and then for a second I just sit there, topless other than a light blue bra. The way he looks at me makes me feel so pretty. I’ve never seen this look on his face—part freaked out, part pleased confidence, and totally absorbed in me. For a second, I picture how I’d feel taking my jeans off, exposing the scars on the backs of my thighs that I keep covered all the time. But I’d be okay. It’s Jay. He knows what they look like already. And he knows how I got them.
He kisses my neck and he’s breathing harder now and it all feels so good. And then he pulls away. He quickly moves his hands from my back to the bed.
“What’s wrong?” I whisper.
“Nothing, I … um … I think we should stop.”
“Did I do something?”
He shakes his head no. “I just think we should stop.”
I look down at his hands on the bed on either side of my legs, and I want to grab them and place them on my back again, but I see that they’re shaking a little. His neck is red. But he doesn’t move.
“Are you okay?” I ask. “Your hands are shaking.”
He balls them into fists.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” But he won’t look at me. “I just … don’t want to do this anymore.”
I unwrap my arms and legs from around him, get off the bed, and stand in front of him. He stares at a point on the floor.
“Oh my god, you don’t want to do this, and I just basically jumped your bones. I’m—I’m sorry. I didn’t—” My voice shakes and my chest hurts in that oh shit, I’m gonna cry way.
“It’s not that I don’t—” he says.
In the years I’ve known him, I’ve gotten to know the complicated way Jay’s mind works pretty well. Except now I have no idea what he’s thinking because this whole kissing thing is new.
I turn away from him and tug my T-shirt over my head. The back-hem catches on the clasp of my bra. I hear Jay shift his weight like maybe he’s going to get up to help me, but I yank the shirt down before he has a chance. He takes a breath the way he does when he’s about to start talking for a long time.
Soulstruck Page 10
