Are You Mine?

by N. K. Smith

  When the host sees Fox, her whole face lights up, but then she sees me and her happy expression falls into one of confusion. Like she can’t quite figure out what he’s doing with me. I just stare at her as she approaches and gives Fox a good long hug like they’ve been best friends since birth.

  “What’s up, Jordan?” he asks once she lets go.

  “Nothing. Working. You know.”

  “Yeah. Me, too. Crazy, right?”

  “Oh my, God, I know, right? Like real life and everything.”

  I want to get sick at the scene. I mean, really? Real life? We haven’t been out of high school for more than a few days, and she’s already acting as though her real life of part-time restaurant work is killing her. Fox points to the menus and says, “We just need two.”

  Again, Jordan looks at me like I’ve got something gross growing out of my skull. Maybe Fox can draw a character like that for Myka’s book. Like a proper Victorian lady with some kind of cactus emerging from the crown of her head. I don’t know what purpose it’d serve, but it’d be a neat visual.

  At our table, any ease of conversation we had on the way here dries up, at least on my end. The interaction with the host is a reminder of where we stand in the world. I mean, I’m smarter than he is, but it seems he can talk to anybody. In the cafeteria at lunch, I’d see him just floating around, going from table to table to catch up with everyone he knew, which was probably the whole damn school.

  I don’t get how or why some people are blessed with amazing social skills and others go without. Likewise, why am I blessed with a sharp mind and Fox isn’t?

  But he’s not stupid. I know he has a sharp mind. Why was he held back twice?

  “What’s that look?”

  I glance up and realize he’s asking about what I assume is my expression of concentration. “Oh. Um, nothing.”

  “It’s something. Spill your thoughts, or I’ll reach across the table and poke you in the cheek until you do.”

  Sure enough, when I don’t say anything, he rises halfway out of his chair and uses his index finger to jab at my cheek over and over again. “Annoying yet?”

  I laugh and bat his hand away. When he sits back down, I twist my face up and let out a deep breath. “Don’t take this question the wrong way.”

  He holds up his hand. “I swear, if you don’t ask it the wrong way, I won’t take it wrong.”

  Now the pressure to ask it perfectly is on me. I guess it’s only fair, but now I have to reassess how I’m going to do it. I start playing with my hair, pulling it all to one side and braiding it. I focus on the thick locks as I try to think of a way to phrase the question that will avoid conflict or make Fox feel bad.

  “What’s up!”

  Fox’s booming Mr. Popular voice startles me, and I bring my eyes up to see him standing, shaking Alex Alexander’s hand. Just knowing his parents actually named him that leaves no question in my mind that he’s a class-A douchebag, but knowing he’s the captain of the varsity basketball team, and the guy who took sole responsibility for sneaking into the school library afterhours and rearranging the books, leaves no doubt that he’s not my kind of person. It took forever for Mr. Welsh to realize what happened, then it took him and a team of volunteers, including me, a day to re-shelve everything properly.

  I fold my hands in my lap and stare off into space, but when I hear my name, I can no longer ignore Fox’s friend. “Hey, Saige. What’s up?”

  Although I will myself to just smile and nod because I know that’ll end the awkwardness quicker than anything else, I say, “The sky, clouds, stars, the sun, the moon, birds, airplanes.”

  “What?” Alex asks, but then retrains his focus onto Fox. He probably only acknowledged me out of respect for Fox.

  As if it couldn’t get any worse, Bree Howerton comes up. Like Jordan, she gives Fox a hug. I try to ignore her, but she says my name, too. “Wow, Saige, how’s it going? It’s been forever!”

  “Nope. Just since graduation.”

  I tune out the vapid conversation I’m sure they’re having. Even after high school is over, I can’t seem to get away from these people. California will be so much nicer. I won’t know anyone, and this awkward crap will never happen.

  Finally, Alex and Bree go over to a corner table filled with kids from my high school, including Kaitlyn Bryer, Robbie Winter, and Fat Cody Hayes. When Fox sits back down, he’s quiet, but the way he’s looking at me makes me uncomfortable.

  “Why are you staring at me?”

  “Just trying to figure out what you have against people.”

  “I don’t have anything against people. Those particular people just aren’t my type to—”

  “How do you know?”

  I fold the paper napkin and wonder when the damn server is going to come to take our orders. The sooner the food comes, the sooner I can get out of here. “I just know.”

  “Is that your scientific process? Just knowing? I mean you’re sort of a logical person, so I can’t imagine you’re satisfied with just knowing.”

  “I don’t have the energy to test every hypothesis I have about individual people. But I have tested out my theories of people in general.”

  “And they are?”

  “People can choose whether they want to hang with me. I don’t have a choice. I’m stuck. I can never leave myself, so I might as well settle in and like all the rough little edges of who I am.”

  Fox frowns.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You can leave yourself. It can happen. It’s messy and. . .and. . .” He can’t think of the word, so he stops. “How do crazy people go through the forest?” Fox doesn’t wait for me to respond. “They take the Psycho path.”

  I groan. “You better be glad I don’t have any mental illness. I’d be offended at that joke.”

  The light comes back into his eyes when he says, “It’s not offensive to say the word crazy or psycho.”

  “Have you asked any people with mental illnesses if it offends them?”

  Fox runs his hand through his hair, uses his nails to scratch his scalp as he turns his eyes toward his group of friends in the corner. “Not everything has to be so serious, Saige.”

  “Not everything has to be a joke, Fox.”

  After what seems like three hours at this table, we finally place our orders. As soon as the server walks away, Fox sits up straight. “So you were going to ask something before. What was it?”

  Again, I take a minute to collect my thoughts, but I can’t figure out the best way to phrase it, so I just ask it. “Why were you held back in third grade? I mean, it’s third grade, not—”

  He doesn’t let me finish, which is a good thing because I was about to say something that could be heard as rude. “I just couldn’t fake it anymore.”

  “Fake what?”

  “That I didn’t have dyslexia.”

  I stop mid-sip of my water, swallow, and set the glass down. “You have dyslexia?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s why you’ve been held back twice?”

  “Yep.” He doesn’t seem uncomfortable, but he does seem like he’d rather be talking about something else.

  “So, are you good at math then?”

  “Nope.”

  “I thought dyslexia screws up letters and stuff.”

  “It does, but mine also screws up numbers, so to be honest, I hate math. I hate numbers in general. Thank God for my cell phone because I’d never be able to repeat people’s phone numbers.”

  “Why?”

  He shakes his head. “They transpose in my brain. Like even when they’re written down and I’m just reading them, it’ll come out wrong. The number might be eight hundred and twenty-seven, and I’ll know that, but when I say it, it comes out as eight hundred and seventy-two.”

  “But can’t you, like, I don’t know, go somewhere to make it better?”

  He laughs like my question is childish, but his expression doesn’t hold judgment. “My dad put me in all thos
e programs when I was little, and they gave me a bunch of tools to help me function within the framework of my mind, but there’s no magic way of getting better. All I can do is try to train myself to work hard.”

  “And do you? Work hard?”

  “I think so. I think I work harder than all those guys,” he says as he points a subtle finger toward his friends. “But it doesn’t matter if I study more and put more energy into it, I still can’t make my mind produce the results they do. Or you do. I’m sure academic stuff is easy for you, but I’m horrible at tests. No matter what I do, I’m not going to get the A, so why put everything into it?”

  “So you give up?”

  “I don’t give up. I just don’t give everything I have to get a B when a C is passing.”

  “But what about goals? Even if you’re not giving up, you’re not giving your all to—”

  “My goals aren’t academic, Saige. I mean, I’m sure you’re all set to go to college at some awesome Ivy League school, and that’s great for you, but I’ve never wanted that.”

  He’s wrong, but I don’t choose to focus on it. “So what are your goals?”

  Fox shrugs. “Well, I’m planning a trip to England at the end of the summer to watch a Liverpool football game.”

  “Liverpool football?”

  “Yeah, soccer. It’s been a dream of mine to sit at Anfield and sing “You’ll Never Walk Alone” and watch Steven Gerrard kick in a goal. When I was a kid, I wanted to be an English footballer.”

  The conversation pauses as our food arrives. He starts digging into his, but I pick the topic back up. “So your earliest dream was to be an English soccer player? When did you realize you’re not English?”

  He chuckles and swallows his bite. “Americans can play English football.”

  “So that’s it? That’s your dream? Watching a—”

  Fox interrupts me again, and I’m beginning to see that it’s a character trait of his. An annoying character trait. “Well, it’s not the only one. I’ve got another one that I’ve been working on. I’m about a half of the way to the finish point, and now that it’s summer, I’ll be able to work a bit faster.”

  “So what’s this one?”

  “You’ll think it’s stupid.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because you think everything’s stupid.” He points to my food. “What’s wrong with it?”

  I look down. “Nothing.”

  “So eat.” When I don’t, he says, “What? Do you have the unfortunate condition of dropping food all over you when you eat? Hate using utensils; love eating with your hands? Afraid you’ll end up with green stuff stuck in your teeth? Worried about all those starving people around the world? Just don’t like your dinner selection?”

  “Shut it.”

  “None of the above, huh?” he says with a smirk and a raised eyebrow. “You’re not one of those girls who see a fat girl in the mirror when really you could stand to gain a few pounds, are you?”

  With wide eyes, I stare at him. I would never in a million years say something like that to someone, and I’m supposed to be the callous one. “No!”

  “Then eat.” When I still don’t, he puts his fork down. “Do I make you nervous or something?” He puts his hand up. “I swear to God, I won’t judge you for eating. I won’t even look.”

  “Just shut up about it.”

  Fox puts his hand down but shakes his head. “I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I. It’s just weird to eat in front of other people.”

  For a long second, he studies me, then looks over toward his friends again. “Maybe it’s because you’ve been by yourself for so long.”

  How the hell does he think he can make that kind of comment to me? He doesn’t know me well enough to make those kinds of assumptions. How does he know how long I’ve been alone?

  “Am I wrong about that?”

  He’s not wrong about it, but I can’t bear to tell him that, so instead, I pick up my fork and take an exaggerated bite of my eggplant parmesan. “Happy?”

  “Extremely.”

  But I’m still pissed off about his perceptiveness. “So what’s this goal you think I’ll think is stupid?”

  He washes down some food with water, moves his jaw like he’s cleaning food out from between his teeth and his cheek, then locks his eyes on mine. “I want to tag every bridge from here to Manhattan.”

  “Tag? What’s that mean?”

  “You know, like, mark.”

  “Like graffiti?”

  “Exactly like graffiti.”

  “Like destruction of property?”

  Once again, he laughs at me. “No, like the beautification of otherwise boring concrete.”

  “It’s illegal.”

  “Because those with power and influence can’t see art for what it is.”

  “I’m sorry, but that art on the side of Mr. Baker’s bookstore isn’t the beautification of anything.”

  He nods in agreement. “No, it’s a crude drawing of a penis. I didn’t do that.”

  After another bite of my food, I ask, “What did you do?”

  There is a moment of silence, like he’s trying to decide if he wants to reveal it to me or not, so I try to look like I don’t really care. After a short time, he says, “Have you been on Interstate 80, where 23 goes over it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Those foxes are mine.”

  Instantly, I know what he’s talking about. An unbidden smile curves my lips as I remember when I saw them for the first time. There’s a pair of them, no bodies, just heads. One looks happy, the other sad. Like the old Greek theater masks, comedy and drama. “You did those?”

  He nods, and I don’t know what to say, so for a while we just eat. It’s becoming easier to do so in front of him, especially since every time I peek up at him, he’s not looking at me. When I’ve had enough of the food, I set my fork down, and stare at him as he finishes his meal.

  Myka’s right. He’s cute and as much as I hate to admit it, he’s interesting. “So why are those your goals?”

  “I just want to create something lasting, you know?”

  “And going over the pond to watch a soccer game is lasting?”

  Fox grows serious. “First of all, it’s football, not—”

  “No, the Giants play football. The Patriots—”

  With his hand over his heart, he says, “You wound me, deeply. Second, it’s called a match, not a game. And for future reference, it’s a pitch, not a field. Third, and most important of all, it will last forever. My forever. My dad wanted to see a Liverpool game all his life, but circumstance has made it so he can’t. This is something I can do before life happens and takes away the opportunity. Will it change the world? No, but it’ll change me, and that’s just as important in some ways.”

  “Can’t that be seen as selfish? Shouldn’t some goals and dreams have a global impact?”

  “Maybe when I’m seated in the stands, my added energy helps Liverpool win, which propels them to win the next match, and the next and the next and the next and they become champions again. Isn’t that a global impact?”

  I shrug.

  “So you’re telling me all of your dreams have global impact? Tell me about one of them.”

  Again, I shrug. I feel like a hypocrite because none of my dreams have much impact, on me or on the world at large.

  “Okay, how about college. You’re going to college, right?”

  “I’m signed up for NYU,” I say.

  “So what are you going to do at NYU?”

  “Don’t know. I’m not even sure I want to go. I mean, college will be awesome, I’m sure, I just don’t know that I want to do it right now.”

  “What do you want to do right now?”

  I push my plate away from me, and he does the same. “Don’t know. Be a freelance writer? Write a novel? Move to California? Live on the beach? Stay here? I don’t know?”

  “Huh.”

  There’s so much
in that little noise he just made, but I’m not sure what I should take from it. “What does huh mean?”

  “I just thought you’d be that girl who had her whole life planned out. You seem like you thrive on that. You know, routine and all.”

  I know it’s not what he says, but what I hear is that he thinks I’m boring. “I do like routine, and I can’t help that I’m not spontaneous, but that doesn’t mean I have everything planned out.”

  Fox points a casual finger at me. “You’re a commitment-phobe.”

  “A what?” I ask in a voice that’s half annoyed, and half exasperated.

  “You’re afraid of commitment, right? Because if you pick to go to college, you might miss out on something else going on, and if you pick California, you’ll never know if college was the right thing for you. So instead of making a decision, you just. . . linger.”

  Damn him with his stupid insightfulness. “You don’t know any of that,” I say in defense. “You can’t summarize up how I think after spending a couple days with me, you know? That’s just ridiculous to think that—”

  “It wasn’t meant to piss you off.” His eyes are wide, like he’s really shocked that he has, in fact, pissed me off.

  “While you’re making all these wild assumptions about me, you’re ignoring the facts of your life. You pretend like you don’t care about academics, but I can tell you do. If you really wanted to, you could get into college and make something of yourself.”

  He might be angry at my words, but he doesn’t show it. In fact, he doesn’t even acknowledge my simple assessment of him. Instead, he says, “I’m going to the bathroom. You should order dessert.”

  Fox is gone before I can say anything in reply. When he comes back, I’m ready to apologize because I can’t stand the idea that maybe I’ve either hurt his feelings or that he’s pissed. But he doesn’t look hurt or ticked as he smiles down at me. “No dessert? We can go work on the book for a few hours if you want.”

  I’m thankful the tension seems to be gone, so I follow him out of the restaurant, then remember the bill. “Hey, wait. We have to pay.”