I think that’s what happened with us.
It’s been different this time around, since he spent that night next to my bed, watching over me. I’m not sure what would have happened if he hadn’t been there. All I know is I’m really glad he was. Now, for the first time ever, things are easy between us. Normal. We call each other. We talk. We go out and do things. We stay in and watch movies and he chats up my mother so that she feels okay about the fact that we’re seeing each other again.
When we’re together—physically—he treats me like I’ll break if he makes any sudden moves or takes things even a step beyond where they are. I guess he’s leaving it up to me to move things forward. At some point, I’ll work up the courage to do something about that. But for now, the important thing is, our relationship feels real. I didn’t think that was possible with Jamie, but it is.
It’s strange to feel good right now.
I only watched the video that one time before it was taken down, but it made everything raw again, and sometimes I’m wary, like nothing—no one—can be trusted because nothing lasts. But while part of me is having this crisis about the untrustworthiness of humanity, another part of me is happy.
It’s weirdly hard for me to be happy. It’s not that I think I should still be mourning because I know my dad wouldn’t want that—in fact, he probably never wanted me to waste a second with that. I imagine that’s true of most dead people. The last thing they want is for the people who love them to stop living. If anything, they want them to live better, harder, more than before.
I already know how short life can be. As depressing as that is, it’s not an entirely bad perspective.
The curtain is closing—I realize I spaced out for the last part of the show. We stand up to applaud, crushing discarded programs beneath our feet. All shows at Union High get standing ovations, even the ones that make you want to drive splinters under your fingernails—it’s part of the whole everyone-gets-a-trophy thing that is ruining my generation.
I don’t look at Cal as Robert stares at Holly throughout the entire curtain call. Then the three of us go out to the hallway between the auditorium and the dressing room, and we wait with theatergoers bused in from the senior center in their holiday sweaters, teachers, parents, middle-schoolers who pretend they hated the show and elementary-schoolers who still do musicals in their bedrooms. I hope against hope that Robert has the good sense not to come out of the dressing room with Holly.
When she does come out, everybody cheers and claps. Cal hustles to the front of the crowd and presents her with flowers, which makes the crowd clap harder. He does a little bow, somehow managing to claim her applause for himself. I feel a spike of irritation that I try to ignore. Holly gives him a quick kiss, then makes a beeline for me, taking my arm and whispering, “Let’s go before Robert’s done.”
We try to leave but Holly, in her infinite politeness, gets stuck talking to the adoring crowd that wants to tell her how great she is. I’ve gotten used to this. Wherever we are, people gravitate to Holly. I used to think it was because her father is famous, but it happens even if they have no idea who her father is—she just has that thing that some people have, and most people don’t. She glows from the inside, and people who are paying attention can tell that there’s something special about her beyond her beauty. They want to connect with her. It’s kind of cool, actually.
The downside is that we are never on time for anything, ever. And we can never make a quick getaway.
“Hol!” calls Robert as he comes out of the dressing room.
“Uh-oh,” Holly mutters under her breath, extracting herself from a gaggle of older ladies who are telling her that they think she could be the next Elizabeth Taylor even though her eyes are brown, not violet. “This isn’t going to be good.”
As Robert gets closer, Cal steps in front of Holly to block his access to her, like a bodyguard. It’s an extreme move, and Robert is pissed instantly. He looks past Cal and holds up Holly’s scarf. “You dropped this,” he says drily.
Holly gently nudges Cal out of the way. “Thanks,” she says, keeping her voice normal, as if it weren’t obvious to everyone that Cal and Robert are itching to beat the crap out of each other.
“Jamie, you and Rose want to get a slice at Naples with us?” Cal asks, looking straight at Robert.
I can tell Jamie knows what Cal is doing. Jamie and Robert have never been huge fans of each other, but I know Jamie doesn’t appreciate Cal using him to twist the knife that’s already in Robert’s heart.
There’s an awkward pause as Jamie just looks at Cal, feeling no need to confirm the plan that we already agreed to when Robert wasn’t standing right in front of us. Then Holly says, “See you tomorrow, Robert. Good show.”
“Yeah. You too.” Robert’s eyes shift to me.
I know he wants me to invite him along out of loyalty, in return for all the nice, thoughtful, kind things he’s done for me since 6th grade, but I don’t—I can’t. My hands are tied, though I’m sure he doesn’t see it that way.
As Cal throws an arm possessively around Holly’s shoulders and leads her down the hall, Robert pointedly adds, “Have a good time tonight, Rose.”
Translation: Et tu, Brute? He thinks I betrayed him. And I did. I didn’t mean to, but I did.
“You were great tonight,” I say, casting around for something to help with the guilt of leaving a friend twisting in the wind.
He turns away without saying anything.
*
There’s something perfect about being in the high-backed dark booth at Naples with Jamie, two tray stands on the table, waiting for our thin-crust pies to arrive. It’s the ultimate date for a girl raised on New Haven pizza.
The world divides into people who have had New Haven pizza, and people who haven’t. Since I was raised on it, I can’t eat pizza anywhere else because it tastes inferior to me. I’ve had New York pizza—even from the famous places in Brooklyn—and it comes really close, but it’s not New Haven pizza. It’s just not.
This date is everything I want it to be.
Until Cal says, “Hey, Rachel!”
I look up just in time to see Cargo Pants, who was on her way out, turn around and take in the four of us. She tells her friends to go ahead without her, and she strolls over to our booth.
Jamie’s hand disappears from where it was resting on my leg. Not quickly, not as if he got caught doing something he shouldn’t be doing, but it does disappear. I feel the absence the moment after I notice her presence, and I can’t help but make a connection. Where before there was contact, there is now distance.
Distance, thy name, apparently, is Rachel.
“What’s up, Raych?” Cal asks, his voice higher than usual as he stands, leaning over all of us to give her a lame high-five. I wonder if Rachel has been declared hottest girl on campus or something.
“Hey, Cal,” Rachel says, taking in Holly with a smile and clearly enjoying herself. Holly is looking at Cal for some sort of explanation, or perhaps just an introduction. She gets neither. “Night off tonight, Jame?” Rachel asks.
Apparently we’re using nicknames this evening.
Jamie nods. “Yeah. You heading over there?”
She shakes her head. “I can’t. Finals.”
“This is Rose—” Jamie starts.
“I know,” she says, turning her smile on me. “He’s told me all about you. Nice to finally meet you.”
I’m completely shocked. The weirdest thing is, it sounds like she actually means it. I feel relieved and concerned simultaneously, and then, as if there were any doubt in my mind, I know I’m outplayed. This girl has moves I didn’t even know existed, never mind knew how to use.
“Wait,” Cal says, confused. “You know him?”
There’s an uncomfortable silence as we all process Cal’s tone, which just made clear exactly what he thinks of Jamie. I wondered once or twice before. Now I don’t have to wonder anymore.
Holly is still looking at Cal, who is
looking back and forth between Rachel and Jamie, a hint of astonishment in his eyes. He’s trying to process the fact that Rachel knows—and likes—Jamie, which confirms my suspicion that Rachel enjoys some sort of high status on campus. It also confirms another suspicion that has been forming in my mind lately—that Cal is not the guy Holly thinks he is.
Maybe it wouldn’t be wrong to help Robert with his mission after all.
“We know each other from Dizzy’s,” Jamie explains, and Rachel, still smiling, tosses her long, shiny hair over one shoulder.
Holly extends her hand. “I’m Holly.”
Rachel shakes Holly’s hand, and I notice she’s got paint on her forearms again. “Holly,” she repeats. I can tell Rachel is scanning her mental address book—it’s not often she’s confronted by someone who is prettier than she is. “Do you go to school here? I don’t think I’ve seen you around.”
Cal jumps in. “Are you studying for the Western Civ final tonight?”
Obviously Cal can’t have Rachel knowing he’s dating a high school girl. Holly catches my eye as Rachel says, “I’m finishing my art final. Actually, we’re having a studio show next weekend. You guys should all come. You like art, right, Jamie?”
It’s the condescending way she asks that makes me say, “Jamie’s an artist too.”
Jamie doesn’t even have to look at me to convey his anger—it electrifies the air around us instantly.
Rachel’s eyes light up. “What kind of artist are you?”
“Not an artist,” he growls.
“Architectural rendering,” I say, digging the hole deeper. Now Jamie does look at me—like I’m crazy.
“I’d love to see your stuff sometime.”
Jamie barely opens his mouth to speak. “I don’t show it to people.”
She laughs like this is the funniest thing she’s ever heard. “Definitely come to the show,” she says to him, and only him. “You’ll like it.”
“We’ll be there,” says Cal with a stupid grin, his voice still weird.
“Nice to meet you, girls.” Rachel gives us a little wave over her shoulder as she leaves, her gaze lingering on Jamie.
I’m unclear about whether or not the wave was ironic, but I’m certain the way she was looking at Jamie was not.
*
The wipers thump across Jamie’s windshield, fighting the snow and ice. They are the only soundtrack for our slow, cautious drive home—there has been no music, and no conversation.
I know what I want to ask, but I’m not sure what it says about me if I ask it. I don’t like being the jealous girlfriend—I’ve already played that role with Jamie, thanks to Regina. But historically, Jamie and I have our most important conversations in this old green car. Plus, honesty and saying what you feel—those are the keys to a good relationship, right?
As I’m trying to figure all this out, my phone rings. I look down to see Robert’s name on the screen. I start to ask Jamie if he minds but I can tell by the look on his face that he doesn’t really care what I do right now.
Maybe I should have asked him before I started telling people about his drawings.
I answer Robert’s call with, “Cal’s a total jerk and Holly deserves better.”
Robert is too surprised to talk for a second. “I was going to give you shit about tonight, but now I want to know what the hell happened at Naples.”
“Let’s just say Cal showed his true colors.”
“I knew it. I knew he wasn’t right for her.” It sounds like Robert is trying not to jump up and down with glee. “If you help me get her away from him, it’ll almost make up for you ditching me.” He’s trying to joke about it, but I can tell he’s hurt. I can also tell he’s not just talking about tonight.
“Come on,” I say, “you know this has been weird for me.”
“So what happened?” he asks, obviously not interested in acknowledging that I’ve been stuck between a rock and a hard place.
I look over at Jamie. “I’ll tell you about it later.”
“But you’ll help me, right? Because, I mean, he doesn’t get her the way that I—”
“I’ll try, Robert, okay? I gotta go.”
“All right. Hey,” he says. “Thanks, Rosie. Thanks a lot.”
It’s nice to hear Robert call me Rosie. It’s been a while.
Silence fills the car again—just the thumping of the wipers, the ice pinging off the windshield. It isn’t until right before Jamie drops me off that I decide to ask him. It’s better than spending an entire week agonizing over it.
“So what’s the deal with that girl anyway?”
Most guys would act like they have no idea what I’m talking about, but Jamie has never even come close to being most guys. “She wants to hook up,” he replies without commenting on what he’s saying one way or the other.
I attempt the same kind of neutrality. “Did you, over the summer?” I ask.
“No.”
“Why not? She’s hot.” The insecurity in my voice gives away the fact that I’m anything but cool with this—so much for neutrality. “Plus, I know she was texting you.” He looks confused. “The night I showed up at the bar and then at your house. Wasn’t that her, texting you while we were trying to talk?”
“I don’t know,” he says, like he can’t remember and it doesn’t matter anyway. “She’s not my type.”
A grin steals across my face. “So…what’s your type?”
He answers without missing a beat. “High school juniors with blue eyes who make shit up.”
“Huh. I don’t know who that could be…”
“‘Architectural rendering’? Come on.”
“What?” I say as innocently as I can. “If that girl can be an artist—with all that paint on her hands and arms that you know she put there purposely so everyone will look at her and think, ‘Ooh, she paints, isn’t that cool’—then you’re an artist too.” He doesn’t answer as we pull up to my house. “You think ‘artist’ is just for fancy, smart girls at Ivy League schools? Because it’s not. It’s for anybody who creates.”
He puts the car in park. “Not anybody.”
“Anybody with talent. I’ve seen your sketches.”
“How?” He sounds mildly annoyed.
I look at him, astonished. “Seriously? Are you being serious right now?”
He half-smiles. “No.”
I roll my eyes and slide over toward him, sensing that this is my moment to get back in his good graces. My hands find their way inside his army jacket and around his waist. Something in his inner jacket pocket clanks against my arm. “What’s that?”
He reaches in and pulls out a small flask without any fanfare.
“Wait. You carry a flask now?”
“Only when I go to musicals.”
“Ha ha,” I say. He goes to put it away, and I take it from him and open it. I inhale, but I can’t smell anything. And then, for reasons I can’t entirely explain, I take a sip. He raises an eyebrow. I keep my eyes on his, unsure what I’m trying to prove as my mouth and then my throat burn. “What is that?” I ask, my voice raspy.
“Vodka. You like it?”
I scrunch up my nose. “Not really.”
“Good,” he says, taking the flask back from me and putting it in his pocket.
“Good? Why?”
“You’re sixteen.”
“You’re not of age, either,” I point out, though it’s dumb to say this to someone who works in bar. I think back to the night I was waiting for him at his house, and how he barely made it into the driveway. I asked him about his drinking that night but maybe it’s time to have a more sober version of the conversation. “You’re not drinking when you have to drive, are you?”
“I wouldn’t put you in danger.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“No, I’m not.” He points to the clock on his dash. “You gotta go.”
I know he’s using my curfew to get rid of me, but instead of calling him on it, I kiss him goodni
ght. As I go up the walk, digging my keys out of my bag, I still feel the burn of the vodka in my mouth and wonder if it’s normal for a guy his age—a guy any age—to carry a flask.
I’m pretty confident that it’s not, and that Peter would back me up on that. But if I learned anything from therapy during my brother’s year of rehab, it’s that it’s not my place to diagnose Jamie or tell him he has a problem.
Still, as I unlock the front door and turn to wave, I feel like I’m taking the easy way out.
“Unkind,” The Double Cross, Sloan
_______________________
Chapter 8
Rachel’s show is in a studio with work by two other students. Some kind of avant-garde classical musical plays that is making me grind my teeth, and waiters circulate with plastic glasses of wine, handing them out to whoever wants one. Jamie takes a glass so I do, too, and then we help ourselves to bizarrely bright yellow squares of cheese and matching crackers. The wine tastes like vinegary water but I’m no connoisseur.
To say that we stand out here would be an understatement.
I look around for Holly and Cal who were supposed to meet us here, but I don’t see them. The studio is packed with a crowd of people that could give the U.N. a run for its money on the diversity front. We walk through the first gallery, which has huge comic-book-style panels telling the story of a kid crossing the southern border into the U.S. while gigantic beasts try to eat him and supersized Mexican wrestlers try to kill the beasts. The artist, who looks a lot like a grownup version of the kid in the paintings, stands nervously in the corner, fielding questions as best he can but basically looking like the whole situation is torture for him. I’m guessing he’d be happy spending his life alone in a studio and not having to answer questions about his work.
The second gallery is photographs of body parts, I think—the subjects in the pictures are so close I can’t tell what I’m looking at, but I think that’s partly the point. I don’t always understand art, but I notice when something affects me. My parents took my brother and me to a museum in upstate New York one summer, and I went into this gigantic, rusty, maze-like structure expecting to find art in the middle of it. It was so peaceful and beautiful in there, I wanted to move in. That’s when I realized that the structure was the art.
No More Confessions Page 6
