The Secrets of Attraction

by Robin Constantine

  “And then the card.”

  I dropped my chin to my chest, staring down at my feet. “It was personalized.”

  “In crayon,” she laughed.

  Hearing it now, I couldn’t deny it had been an idiot move. Why hadn’t I just stopped at Walgreens on the way? Or why hadn’t I bought one weeks before the party? Hannah loved cards. I knew that. Big, glittery, sparkly ones, ones that played music, even the cheap ninety-nine-cent ones for “just because.” I had a shoe box filled with them from her.

  “Daisy helped me, cut me a break, huh,” I said, shouldering my swing into hers gently. Our knees brushed against each other.

  “It was more than the card,” she whispered, sniffling and swiping again.

  “Hannah, I . . .”

  “I love that you love music, Jesse. You’re good—no, better than good, and I know how you get when you practice but . . . I go to all your band stuff: the fall concert, the block party, the time you guys played at the pool. But how many of my volleyball games have you been to? How many times do I give you a pass for being late to something before I look like a complete doormat?”

  “I get it, okay, stop.”

  “Do you, really? Remember in the fall when we took a ride over to the city, I kept thinking, ‘Wow, this is it, we’re finally doing something,’ and we ended up at Sam Ash for two hours. I stared at guitars while you talked to that guy with the dreads about the death of guitar solo and how you wanted to bring it back and—”

  “We went for bubble tea after that. Walked around Times Square.”

  “It’s all about the band. I want something different.”

  “But you’re dating Duncan. He’s in a band.”

  “Duncan plays the drums, Jess, he’s not a drummer. There’s a difference.”

  “And you’d rather be with someone like that?”

  “I’d rather be with someone who wants to spend time with me.”

  “Hannah, I do.”

  She sighed, twisting up the swing again.

  “You just think you do, because you can’t.” She let go and spun around.

  I grabbed the chain of the swing and stopped her, pulled her close to me. Our foreheads touched. I tried to look her in the eyes but it was a distorted, too-close cyclops eye. She didn’t pull away; she leaned into me. A sign. I moved my face toward hers, her mouth a few sweet seconds away.

  “Hannah,” I whispered.

  She turned her head, my lips stranded there in midair.

  “Please, don’t.”

  I leaned away, staring at my feet again.

  “So is this what we needed to talk about?”

  “No, Jesse, I wanted to ask you for a favor.”

  This was getting better and better. I gripped the chains on the swing and pulled myself back to standing. It was fucking freezing out, but suddenly my pits were damp. I put my hood up and turned to her. Waiting.

  “Please, give Duncan the song. He’s really put—”

  “WHAT?” I yelled, arms outstretched. A lady pushing a jogger stroller along the sidewalk in front of the park startled and eyed us through the chain-link face. I shoved my hands into my pockets. “This is what you meant by ‘We need to talk.’”

  “No. Yes. Not exactly. Look, what I just said about Duncan playing the drums . . . this Battle of the Bands thing, it’s important to him. Just, reconsider. You could probably write another song in your sleep.”

  “Did he ask you to do this?”

  “No.”

  Somehow that made me feel worse.

  “I have to go do a few things before work. I’ll catch you around,” I said, walking away.

  “Jesse, the song? Please.”

  I turned toward her. She hopped off the swing.

  “I just—I know this is a mess and I hurt you and I’m sorry,” she said, coming closer, “but I really hope we can be friends. That we all can be friends. He makes me happy.”

  This was it. The end. In a crazy, backward movie reel, our relationship swirled through my head. I’d never be the one to make her laugh so hard, soda shot out of her nose. Or pry her hands from her eyes during The Blair Witch Project. We’d never go on the Zipper at the St. Mary’s carnival so many times in a row we’d want to hurl. Memories. Packed up tight in a little box, shoved away like the cards. Done.

  “I want you to be happy, Hannah. I just don’t want to see it,” I said, backing away. I saw in her eyes this was a direct hit. They sharpened, lost just a bit of their light.

  I resisted the urge to apologize, and left.

  THREE

  MADISON

  YEARBOOK WAS MOSTLY PAINLESS, EXCEPT WHEN we had our bimonthly deadline meetings. Piper Murray, editor in chief, liked to call them “socials” to make them sound more fun, but they were really just deadline check-ins with Chips Ahoy! and Red Bull. The yearbook office was a forgotten room in the basement of Sacred Heart. On any given day, the heat either blasted or was nonexistent, and the awful fluorescent lighting made everyone look like zombie apocalypse survivors. At least we didn’t have to share it with another club.

  We sat around a long table, noshing on cookies and waiting for Piper, who was busy staring at her bulletin board of multicolored Post-its with the same concentration you would expect from a warlord devising a plan of attack. I entertained myself by continuing a mehndi-inspired floral design I’d started earlier in the day on the back of my hand with a dark brown Koh-I-Noor pen.

  I was officially on design staff and didn’t need to be at both monthly editorial meetings, but it was cool hanging out with Jazz and Wren. The three of us were in the running for editor positions next year when we were seniors. Aside from looking excellent on my college app, being in charge of design was something I couldn’t wait to sink my teeth into. I figured an interest in every facet of production would help my cause.

  Piper grabbed a neon-blue Post-it and planted it on the desk next to me.

  It had Sadie Hawkins Dance written in bold letters.

  “What’s this?” I finished the vine on my hand with a spiral and looked up.

  “Marissa Teller was originally supposed to handle the Sadie Hawkins Dance section, but she’s going on a ski trip with her family. I need you to take photos for the layout.”

  Wren covered her mouth but failed to conceal a quickly growing grin.

  “This is your doing,” I said, pointing at her. She had already tried to rally both Jazz and me to go to the dance since she was working it for Spirit Club.

  “No, swear,” she said, raising her right hand. “I’m writing the copy for the section. Although, I thought Jazz could help too—there should be a sidebar with the history of the dance, don’t you think?”

  Jazz glared at Wren over her laptop. Once something was said in front of Piper, there was no turning back.

  “When is this?” I asked.

  “Next Friday.” A chorus of voices around the table answered.

  “I don’t get the whole Sadie Hawkins thing; I mean, technically, since we’re an all-girls school, isn’t every dance a Sadie Hawkins dance?” Jazz asked.

  “True, but still—we need this. Between winter and midterms, this dance is the only social event until prom. It’s way better than some Valentine’s BS with balloon hearts,” Piper said. “Maybe you could somehow work that angle in the copy. Wren, how were you thinking of incorporating the theme?”

  Wren shuffled through a couple of the pages in her notebook, stopped at one and put her finger on it. “I was thinking ‘On the Edge of . . . Romance’?”

  “Too banal,” Piper said, waving her hand. “Dig deeper, what were you going to write about? I want it to be more than just the basic ‘There was a band and cupcakes.’”

  “Of course. I planned on interviewing couples to see how they felt about the dance, if a girl asking a guy to a dance was even that big of a core-shaker anymore. And I know some girls are making it a girls’ night, so that would be interesting to include too.”

  Core-shaker? I mouthed to her
across the table. Wren pretended not to notice so she wouldn’t lose face with Piper, who took the yearbook’s theme, “On the Edge,” seriously. The faculty had given us some trouble, thinking it sounded neurotic or like some veiled drug reference. Piper assured them “On the Edge” was positive and meant being on the forefront. I didn’t always understand Piper’s vision, but the challenge of figuring it out was kind of fun.

  “Cool. I like it. Have it to me the following Wednesday after the dance, right? Jazz, where are we on the Fathers’ Club layout?”

  “Um, well . . . we’re . . . Piper, I have no clue what I’m doing with it yet. Not sure how to make the Fathers’ Club edgy. All I have so far is the fall bowl-a-thon and sponsoring Toys for Tots.”

  Piper knocked on the table. “Anyone have any ideas?”

  Silence. I went back to working on my mehndi design—brainstorming about fathers was something I could thankfully be excluded from. There was a time when it might have made me feel awkward, but I’d grown out of it. When I was in third grade, my mother had explained it very matter-of-factly—my biological father was far out of the picture by the time she realized she was pregnant with me. He hadn’t been the right person, but it was the right time and there was never a doubt in her mind that she wanted me.

  It’s not like I never wondered if he was out there, somewhere . . . but it’s not like I had a gaping hole in my life either. Mom and I were fine; besides, when Wren had sleepovers I lived vicariously with Mr. Caswell doling out Sunday-morning banana pancakes or dousing us with the hose when we sunbathed in the yard. I mean, who wanted to go to some lame-ass fall bowl-a-thon anyhow? Puh-lease.

  “Well, we have time to figure out how to make bowling edgy,” she said, smiling and moving on to another Post-it.

  “So you guys are really going to Sadie Hawkins, right?” Wren asked as we walked to our lockers after the meeting.

  “If it involves me asking someone, then no,” Jazz said.

  “Come on, Zach can—” I began.

  “You don’t need to find me anyone, okay?” She dropped her chem book to the floor and muttered under her breath. Wren and I exchanged puzzled looks.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, crouching down to pick up the book.

  Jazz took the book from my hand and slid it onto the top shelf of her locker. “Nothing, I just hate being put on the spot like that. This ‘On the Edge’ thing is hard.”

  “Yes, but one more year, and then we’ll be running the book. And we can come up with a normal theme but nothing banal,” Wren said, mimicking a Piper hair flip with a smile.

  “You don’t usually get so upset at this stuff,” I said.

  “The meeting ran late and I was supposed to . . . I just missed my run, that’s all,” she said, grabbing her coat.

  “Don’t you usually run with your dad at night?” Wren asked.

  Jazz leaned against her locker and frowned. She looked between us.

  “I really didn’t want to talk about it yet. It’s so new and—”

  “Omigod, just spit it out, Jazzy,” I said.

  “There is someone I wanted to ask to the dance.”

  “Great!” Wren said.

  “No, not great—he’s already going with someone.”

  “Who?”

  “Darby Greene.”

  “No, who were you going to ask?” I was not about to let her off the hook. This was too juicy a development on an otherwise completely boring Wednesday afternoon.

  “This guy I’ve been running with.”

  I motioned for her to go on but she clammed up. “Do you want us to play twenty questions to get it out of you?”

  She laughed, then took a breath. “His name is Logan, remember the guy from—”

  “Andy Foley’s party?” Wren asked. Jazz nodded.

  “What party?”

  “In December, you were puking your brains out and couldn’t go. We went to see Gray in Sticky Wicket. Logan played kings cup with Jazz,” Wren explained.

  “Oh, right. This has been going on since then?”

  “No—I mean, we met that night, but it turns out he runs. I saw him at the park a few weeks back, we got to talking, and, well, we’ve been training together. He says I keep him on pace—we’re both trying to get down to a seven-minute mile.”

  “How romantic,” I said.

  “So, yeah, I’m kind of bummed about it.”

  “No—you need to go to the dance,” Wren said.

  “Absolutely. So he can see you there, realize that his amazing running partner is also scorching, and he will fall head-over-Nikes for you.”

  “Mizunos.”

  “Huh?”

  “He trains in Mizunos.”

  “Whatever—he won’t be wearing running shoes when you train to do something else in seven minutes.”

  Jazz blushed. “Madison, geez.”

  “I’m loving this idea. Come on, Jazz—it’ll be fun.” Wren batted her eyelashes. I put my hands together in prayer. We stared Jazz down until she gave in.

  “Okay, okay, fine—but where will I find a date?”

  “Consider Zach your hookup source.”

  “Who’s the guy who went to the movies with us the last time we all went as a group? Zach’s friend . . . the blond, not the one who smelled like pepperoni.”

  Wren laughed. “The one you sat next to?”

  “Um, Kyle, maybe?” I said.

  “Yeah, we had a great conversation about history mash-ups and movies. He was pretty cool. I could handle, um, being fixed up with him.”

  “I’m seeing Zach later,” I said.

  “No, wait. Just ask Zach if you think Kyle would be into it. Then, I don’t know, get me his number, I’ll call him. That’s how this works, right? Have to get over my nerves somehow.”

  “Consider it done,” I said.

  It was hard to focus on homework across from Zach O’Keefe. We sat at my dining room table—well, I sat; Zach took up two chairs, his legs draped over the seat of one, his body slunk down in the other, the tip of a pencil grazing his bottom lip as he read from his history textbook. Dark curls fell over his forehead. His hair had been short when we first met, close-cropped to keep out of his eyes during fall soccer. I loved the length now, the wildness of it. The way he owned the space around him was distracting.

  While he studied history, I studied him—his angles and edges, the gentle swirls and waves of his hair. How his orange tee fit him just right, not too tight but showed off his chest, his arms. I could spend hours drawing his arms alone, the way his biceps and triceps curved into each other. As a subject, he was captivating.

  I was supposed to be working on a dwelling design for the scholarship portfolio. I’d chosen to put an addition on my house—well, at least to draw the floor plans for it. Something functional and beautiful and congruent with the original house design. Right now, all of those words described Zach. Except, I couldn’t get his nose right. He had a small bump near the bridge that I kept turning into a beak. Noses always gave me trouble.

  Without warning he snatched the sketchbook from me.

  “Hey,” I said. A long, jagged line now went through the picture where my pencil had still been in contact with the paper as he pulled it away. I squirmed in my seat while he looked at the drawing. Zach’s idea of art was the Manchester United flag he had hanging above his bed. I knew he would never say my drawing was total crap—it was of him, after all—but showing it to him made me fidgety.

  “Nice floor plan,” he said, smirking and sliding it back to me.

  “You’re distracting.” I opened up to a fresh page.

  I knew art was a process; trial and error and failing and growing, but anything that came out through my pencil lately looked nothing like the vision in my head. Not being able to translate what was in my brain to paper made me want to hurl my sketchbook across the room.

  “You need to chill, like that little shirtless dude over there,” he said, referring to the new resident of our mantelpiece: a Laughi
ng Buddha statue my mom picked up to help her focus on all the abundance in her life while she meditated.

  “That little shirtless dude is enlightened, so happiness is his natural state—he doesn’t need to earn a scholarship anywhere.”

  “No, I think he’s happy because he’s half-naked.” Zach pulled his shirt off to prove his point. If I thought I could draw his arms for hours, Zach’s torso could keep me occupied for weeks.

  “See, you’re smiling already,” he said. “Stop worrying, it’ll get done.”

  That was Zach. SAT scores? He’d get an athletic scholarship. Backup schools? Without a doubt in his mind he was going to Rutgers. He’d play soccer for four years, and be in TKE like his older brother. And if none of that worked out? Something else would come along. Nothing fazed him. He was spectacularly uncomplicated, a living, breathing chill pill.

  “Please, you have to put your shirt back on. Want a water or something?” I asked, getting up to go to the kitchen. He reached for my hand as I brushed past him, and pulled me onto his lap.

  “I think we can do better than water.”

  My muscles tensed to spring up, but he was so warm . . . and half-naked. Maybe he was right. I needed to loosen up, although the moment his lips grazed my neck every cell in my body snapped to attention. Chillin’ was the last thing on my mind.

  His curls brushed my cheek, then my chin, as he kissed my neck. I traced the curves of his arms with my fingertips, buried my face in his hair. God, he smelled so good. Like mint. Some sulfate-free organic shampoo his mother insisted he use. The day dissolved. What floor plans? What dance?

  “Oh, hey, Zach,” I said, my voice sounding far away to me.

  “Mmmhmm.”

  He lifted his face to mine, planting a kiss on my mouth. He looked sleepy, unconcerned.

  “Yes,” he said, kissing my cheek.

  “What’s Kyle doing next Friday?”

  He stopped, stiffened. “What?”