No, the worst part is a pain beyond humiliation. I was actually falling for her.
My nature has always been to fight. My faith forces me to forgive.
But I don’t need either to know that I’m finished with Kate Monrovi.
KATE
I stare at my face in my bathroom mirror as I get ready for school.
What does he see when he looks at me? What do I see—just a face, another face among millions? Sometimes I look like a stranger even to myself.
Maybe Monica was right, and a guy like Ted is the only kind of guy who would really appreciate me. Of course other guys want me . . . but love me?
Caleb hasn’t sent a text back to me. I sent him a note asking if he needed any help on day two. I’ve checked my phone a dozen times, jumping at the sound of other people’s words, meaningless words that fill a meaningless in-box.
The slight frizz in my hair tells me it’s going to rain today. Humidity always brings stray curls rising from my usual smooth waves. I blow my hair out and use some product. I pull a few sections out and weave three tiny braids on each side, pulling them back on the sides. The finished result reminds me a little of something Greek or medieval. I choose a canary-yellow chiffon dress with soft long sleeves, some long necklaces, a red belt, beige sweater, and my tall brown Prada boots.
It’s a rare non-uniform day. We get one a month to Gaitlin to encourage self-expression. Today, I want to look pretty. Not stunning or chic or casual—but pretty, more sweet and feminine than usual. The idea of dressing nice today just sounded like a good idea. It’s not for him, I tell myself. Again and again.
Perhaps I’m longing for sweet simplicity. The noise of school and life are getting too loud. I can’t think straight lately. I can’t figure anything out. It’s like trying to make a toothpick structure while riding on a rollercoaster. The toothpicks all just fly away.
My fingers feel cold as I touch my skin—the fact that it’s clear and soft is evidence of my day and night cleansing routines. Does he want to touch my face? Does he want to kiss me? That dance, walking barefoot in the dark in my prom dress, planting an apple tree, riding to Portland in the jeep with the music pounding our backs and the wind in our hair, sitting shoulder to shoulder at church as we sang to someone greater than both of us . . . that all feels like a dream. And those things are not my reality. I go to parties for debutants, charity balls, political events, and international socials. I don’t think love works once the real living comes at it. Isn’t that what I’ve believed for so long?
“Kate,” Mom says, knocking lightly on my bedroom door. I walk out of the bathroom.
“Yeah?” I say in as normal a voice as I can muster.
“You look so beautiful,” she says softly, then her expression changes to concern. “Is something wrong, honey?”
I want to crawl onto her lap and cry on her shoulder.
“No, just got an eyelash.”
“Well, you need to get to school.”
I nod. “Thanks, Mom.”
Once again I stare at the girl in the mirror. Mom said beautiful, but something in the girl I see appears lost, or maybe phony. Sometimes I wish I could go off to one of those silent retreats at a monastery or some Indian ashram. Then I could sort everything out, I could hear God telling me what to do with my life, I could feel God in a new and magnificent way. I’ve been a Christian since I was a little girl. But my Christianity is a muddy mess of thoughts and opinions and making God into what works for me—like going shopping at the mall and picking out whatever I want, putting together faith like I would an outfit. Somehow I don’t think the Creator, the I AM, the Savior of the world is something we can mix and match to our liking.
Monica’s eyebrows pinch together when she sees me walking toward the quad at school. “Did I miss the memo about Renaissance Day?”
“Shakespeare Night has turned into Shakespeare month.”
“Darn, missed that. I could’ve worn my corset and bowler hat.”
Suddenly I feel self-conscious. This is why I don’t experiment; I usually go with whatever the new season’s favorites are. And of course, we usually wear our school uniforms.
“You look great, it’s just not like you to break out of the box.”
“I have my Abercrombie T-Shirt and jeans in the car.”
“No way.” She leans back and gives me the once-over. “This is really a great outfit—everyone will think it’s a new designer, just wait and see.”
“Promise?” I ask and look toward the parking lot. Caleb still hasn’t arrived. The sky rolls gray with the promise of the rain I expected. Maybe he drove a car I’m not familiar with.
“Why don’t you talk to me, instead of looking for him?”
“That obvious?” I feel myself blush.
Someone wraps his arms around me. At first I think it’s Oliver, and I reach back to mess up his hair. That’s not Oliver’s hair.
Ted smiles like he’s won an election, and I push him away. He laughs and then pauses as he looks me over. “Impressive. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so . . .”
I turn away, not wanting to even ask what. Too much attention is worse than no attention at all.
I don’t see Caleb anywhere. “Gotta go,” I say to escape Ted and get to first period on time. Maybe Caleb is sick or something. What if he’s decided not to attend school here? What if he got hurt yesterday on his bike? No one would tell me. A panic bubbles in my chest as I wonder whom I’d even call. I tell myself to calm down, he’s probably already in class.
“Adorable outfit,” Lily says during Women & Literature. “Who is it?”
“New designer,” Monica answers as she sits beside me.
“Really?” A few other girls turn to find out the name, but Ms. Landreth starts right in on our poetry segment. She lists the names of the “young women” who will present their poems about love in the next two weeks. She’s divided several of our assignments this way so that every few weeks we have something due. Those who already presented their love poems have something else due now and vice versa. Volunteers get extra points. I tense and then relax when she doesn’t call my name. “You ladies will present on Monday,” Ms. Landreth informs the class.
This poem has been one of the toughest for me to write. I don’t know what I believe about love. Before the prom, I couldn’t think of much to write. Since prom, I feel completely confused by it all. Maybe that should be my poem’s theme: “Love is Confusing.”
Between second and third period, Katherine careens up to me. “Hey, I know I’ve been avoiding you. I was so embarrassed about the prom.”
We walk through the quad with my eyes studying the crowd. I still haven’t seen Caleb, but Susanne answered my text and said that he was in class.
“Don’t worry about it, Kath, it’ll be one of those stories to laugh about years from now.”
And then I see a jet-black head of hair among the other faces of people who are dull and uninteresting. My eyes try to find his face through the crowd.
“I guess so. Maybe we can hang out soon.” There is an edge of vulnerability in Katherine’s voice that I should pay attention to, I know this, but I’m also wary of being the person everybody leans on. My friends always think I have it more together than they do. My stable home life, good parents, a faith that appears steadfast . . . these create the illusion. They want to use me as an anchor. Don’t they know I feel unanchored half the time myself ?
My phone beeps, but I ignore it.
He’s coming toward me. He walks down the corridor with a backpack slung over his shoulder.
“Oh, there’s Caleb. I’ve been wanting to talk to him. You two are friends, right?” Katherine says under her breath, but I barely hear her.
My eyes meet his and I can’t move, then we are nearly face-to-face, and I try to ask him what’s happening by my expression. He gives me an empty stare and then he’s gone.
“Kate?” I realize Katherine has been talking. “Oh.”
“What
?” I say, after a too-long delay. I force myself not to turn and look at Caleb, but I can’t help it. I turn nonchalantly and see the back of him walking away. He doesn’t turn back. “Sorry, what did you say?”
I look beside me, but Katherine isn’t there. She’s stopped a few feet behind, and I hadn’t even noticed. She stares at me with a mixture of a smile and dismay. “So it’s like that, is it?”
“What are you talking about?” I use my best innocent tone, washing my expression clean of any guilt.
“I wondered. But then everyone said you weren’t interested in him. But that was an I’m-falling-helplessly-in-love look if I’ve ever seen one—and I’m not sure I have until just now.”
I take her arm and pull her along toward class. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Katherine laughs. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
I want to deny everything—because what is there to deny or not deny? Caleb and I spent one night and one afternoon and evening together. We’ve not confessed any feelings. There is just time shared—and for me, a connection that is terrifying. What if I dared to believe in the fairy tale? There’s something about Caleb. He could shatter my heart.
Katherine stands with her hands on her hips simply daring me to deny it.
“You like him. You like him a lot.”
I look around, but no one is overhearing us. “You cannot say anything to anyone.”
“I can keep a secret. I kept lots of secrets.”
I stare at her curiously.
“I can’t tell you any of them because I keep secrets.”
That makes me smile. “Okay, but there’s really no secret to keep. I just don’t want this going around.”
“I want to know everything,” she says with a smile that makes her cheeks pink. “I know I’ve been wrapped up in my own drama with Blake for a long time, but that guy is hot and looks like bad news. He’s perfect for you—for right now anyway.”
I bite my lip, wondering how to describe Caleb.
“He’s not like that. He’s just . . . different.”
Katherine shakes her head, holding her forehead. “Oh boy. You’ve got it bad. What are we going to do about this?”
“What do you mean?”
“You and Caleb are like oil and water. People are going to freak out. Parents will come talk to your parents. This is serious.”
“Kath, it’s nothing. A little crush on my part, that’s it,” I say, clearly annoyed. What people think about us is the least of my concerns. Right now, I want to know why he ignored me. I don’t know how to act around him at school. What is this between us? Is it friendship? Something more? Or is it less than I thought?
He arrives at class after I’m in my seat. His seat is a few rows ahead of mine and he slides into his place with only a few seconds before class begins. He doesn’t raise his eyes toward me even once.
He’s really a stranger, I remind myself as I study the back of his neck. His skin there is even darker, probably from days spent out on the water, and I realize his skin isn’t just brown, but a sort of deep bronze. I stare at the line of his thick black hair against his neck. This is all driving me a little mad.
There’s something about Caleb that feels as if I’ve known him for years. Except I haven’t. But from that first night at prom, or maybe even when I saw him leaving the parking lot, I have a sense that I know him.
What should I do about it?
Class ends and I realize that I heard nothing. Didn’t take notes; I don’t even know what the assignment is. Caleb scoops up his books and slides them into his backpack. Rachelle sits on the edge of his desk and is asking him something, but I can’t hear because everyone else is talking and leaving class.
He moves away fast, leaving Rachelle sitting on his desk. I have to hurry to catch up with him.
“Hey,” I say.
He glances at me.
“Hey.” He keeps walking.
“How do you like Gaitlin?”
“It’s fine.”
“Is it very different from what you’re used to?”
He shrugs and looks distracted.
“Caleb. What’s wrong?” I ask, taking his arm to stop him.
He stares at me, pausing, uncertain. Something’s up for sure. “Please. Did something happen? Did I do something?”
“It doesn’t matter, Kate. This thing . . . you and I . . . we’re just better off living our own lives. We can’t really offer each other anything.”
My mouth opens, and that intense attraction pulsing through me switches to a fear. He’s pulling away. I shouldn’t care.
“We can’t really offer each other anything.” I repeat his statement. People are passing us, glancing our way again, but I don’t care. “Why would you say that?”
“It’s true, wouldn’t you say? What do you want from me? What do you want from this?” He motions from me to him and back.
“Friendship, I suppose. We go to school together, we work together—”
“You don’t work there. You volunteer or hang out ’cause you’re bored.”
“I’m not bored. I’m overwhelmed with everything I’m expected to do.”
“You’re bored with everything you do. You’re basically the same as everyone here, but worse. You have no passion, no direction—you don’t even know what you like, yet you come off like you have it all together.”
I take a step back. “I’m not like everyone here.”
“Whatever you say.” He stares at me with a cold, empty expression. “I just think it’s best if we stay away from each other.”
He hesitates slightly, or maybe I imagined it, and then he walks away.
Chapter Nine
Better a witty fool than a foolish wit.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Twelfth Night (Act 1, Scene 5)
CALEB
My hands push into the gloves, I touch the punching bag once and hit play on my iPod, sending a metal band blaring through my ears.
I hit the bag, jabbing right, then left. I push the power through my shoulders and arms into each impact. Before long, the sweat gathers on my forehead and my muscles ache, but still I hit the bag.
Some people don’t fight with guilt like I do. At times, I wish I could be like Finn or half the guys I knew in Hawaii. They could lie, cheat, drop the same lines to a dozen girls, and they never seemed remorseful, never cared at all.
I’ve always been one of those guilt-ridden kids. As a boy, I stomped on a line of ants and then cried for ten minutes, thinking about how they were just out on a nice afternoon, gathering food for their family, until my shoe dropped from the sky like a nuclear bomb. It’s probably my mother’s fault. She ingrained in me that guilt was God’s way of telling me something.
But God isn’t telling me anything about Kate. I haven’t done anything to be guilty about. What’s wrong with staying away from someone?
I step back from the bag and pull off my T-shirt, which is soaked and stuck to my back. I stretch my arms out and face the bag again. Images keep coming that I force to the surface and then pound out.
Today at school, Ted walked by and said loudly to his sidekick, “Can’t go, man. I’m taking Kate out Friday night.”
I picture Ted as the punching bag. Anger management, that’s what this is. My muscles ache as I punch again, harder, faster, feign, jab, hit, right, left, step back, feign left, upper cut, left, and round-about kick.
Now I see Kate at the hotel. As I was fixing a sprinkler along a row of hedges, she walked by, didn’t see me as she was giving an elderly couple a tour of the grounds. The couple was complaining. No matter what Kate did or said, they had something to say about it.
The back of the old lady’s dress was folded up, revealing her thick pantyhose—an alarming sight. My thought was, Ha, serves the old grouch right. When Kate noticed it, she carefully reached over just as the woman said, “At the Hilton . . .” and smoothed out the dress. The old lady was completely unaware. The coup
le left their empty drinks on a stone ledge and Kate returned after their tour to clean up the mess. Traits of kindness. Proof that she wasn’t the stereotype I wanted to put her in.
Harder and harder, I pound the bag, willing the images of Kate out of my head. She won’t go, I can’t get her out.
Words whisper through the pounding and the music. I should pay attention to them, not just rely on my own plan. I want what God wants, eventually.
I want to hate her. Darn if my faith doesn’t mess me up sometimes.
KATE
A week and a half passes, and Caleb continues to walk by as if he barely knows me. At the hotel he treats me the same. When I’ve come up with some random reason to talk to him, he’s treated me politely like he would any other person at the inn.
I’ve given up hoping he’ll text me. Very soon, I’ll confront him. As soon as I have the right opportunity—and the guts.
I want to say so many things to him. I want to tell him I’m sorry about Ted and for wealthy people everywhere who act like him. But how do I actually say something like that? I want to apologize for being awkward. Trying to blend him with my normal life is strange, unsettling, uncharted water for me. Even dealing with whatever it is I feel for him is strange and confusing.
When I’ve seen Caleb, he’s mostly been walking around alone, looking completely comfortable and at ease as always. I hear through the vine that at lunch he has a group that’s formed around him—not that brought him in, but was created by mutineers leaving and coming to sit with him. He’s teaching a group of them how to surf when the weather warms up, and they’re planning a trip to Hawaii. A jab of jealousy strikes through me every time someone brings this up. There’s an ownership like he somehow belongs to me, but of course, he doesn’t. I suddenly understand better how people go crazy when they’re in love. I’m not even in love and my emotions and thoughts are seriously out of control.
We see one another every fourth period. Caleb is usually there first and I have to pass him. I glance at him every time, but he doesn’t look at me at all. He leaves before I’m out of my seat.
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