by David Lubar
“It was too expensive.”
“I had tickets,” I said.
Her eyes widened, as if I’d told her I’d spotted a unicorn. “How was it?”
“I didn’t go,” I said. “I couldn’t find anyone to go with.”
“I would have gone,” she said.
“Really?” It was more an exclamation than a question.
“But I guess you wouldn’t have had any reason to ask me,” she added.
I felt like someone had taken a high-pressure hose that was hooked up to a tank of new concepts, jammed it straight into my skull, and opened the valve all the way. I had to digest this information. And I had to throttle back my babbling. But there was one thing I needed to know.
“You’d really have gone with me?” I asked, trying not to sound too desperate or needy.
“Sure. Why not?”
Why not?
Two small words never loomed so large.
I didn’t offer an answer. Anything I could think of seemed too dangerous. I was simultaneously kicking myself over the missed opportunity of the concert and embracing the joy of hearing that Jillian, unlike Patricia, saw me as a perfectly acceptable concert companion. I’d been elevated to Why not? status. Maybe it was Patricia, and not me, who was seriously flawed.
“What did you do with the tickets?” Jillian asked.
“Can you keep a secret?”
She nodded. I told her.
“That was sweet,” she said.
“Thanks.” Why not? and sweet. I was rising rapidly in the universe.
“Well, I’d better get to work.” She headed for her easel.
Did I detect the slightest hint of regret in that last statement? She needed to get to work but didn’t want to, because she was enjoying talking with me. Sweet me. I decided to embrace that as a valid theory. Why not?
The instant I got home, I searched online to see if Mack and Mary were playing anywhere near here. I would sell a kidney, if I had to, to get tickets.
No luck. The college had been the last stop on the East Coast leg of their national tour. I checked for other local events. There was a teen concert at the Crab Locker this weekend, featuring some band I’d never heard of, but the idea of taking Jillian to that dance floor, or near that stage, dredged up too many unpleasant memories, even though she didn’t seem like the sort of girl who would dump the guy she went with if a better offer came along.
As I was closing the browser, Dad walked up behind me. “You’re not going to any concerts,” he said. I hated the way he always seemed to be checking on me when I was online or on my phone. “Do you think we have money to throw around?”
“I was just looking,” I said. I’d turned my monitor around several times, so it didn’t face the hall. Each time I’d done that, I came home to find it turned back.
“You are nothing but a drain,” he said. “That’s not going to last forever. You’d better shape up, or the day you turn eighteen, there might be some big changes around here.”
He’d already hinted that he wouldn’t support me if I tried to study art. Now it seemed like he was threatening I’d be on my own as soon as he could legally get rid of me. I couldn’t help picturing myself being literally kicked out of the house with a firm boot in the rear. As the image grew even less grounded in reality, I saw myself flying toward goalposts. I needed to remind my father that I wasn’t some sort of leech, sucking the blood out of the bank account and giving nothing back.
“Hey, I’m working,” I said. “I earn money.”
“You’re working at a crap job for kids,” he said.
“Two jobs,” I said. At least he could show some appreciation that I was working hard.
“Crap times two is still crap,” he said.
Maybe it had been a mistake to mention work. “I’m saving for college.” I figured it wouldn’t hurt to remind him that he’d dipped pretty deeply into my original college funds, and that I was willing to pay for everything myself, if necessary.
“To study what?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
He smirked. “Good plan. You can major in shrugging and maybe minor in dumbfuckery.”
I opened my mouth, then shut it. There wasn’t anything worth saying, and I’d had enough of a smackdown for one day. He shook his head and walked off, leaving me alone with the looming question.
To study what?
I’d love to study art. And then what? Nobody was leaving me a fortune so I could do what I wanted, like Butch’s dad. On top of that, I now had another problem to deal with. I’d accepted that college was going to be rough and slow, and that I’d be working a lot of hours. But until now, it had never occurred to me that I might also end up homeless. I thought about how bad Lucas had looked, and smelled, after less than a week on his own.
The day you turn eighteen …
“He’d never kick me out,” I said. But I didn’t find my reassurances to be very convincing.
* * *
THE NEXT DAY, after Government class ended, I caught up to Jillian in the hall and spoke the words I’d endlessly rehearsed, rethought, and rephrased throughout the day. “Hey, want to get something at the diner?” I might not be able to afford front-section concert tickets, but I could manage to treat us to some fries. Though I’d been careful not to mention any specific food in the invitation, out of fear it might be one she didn’t eat.
Time ticked past in billionth-of-a-second increments. Seven or eight billion ticks later, she said, “Sure.”
Sure? Just like that?
Stay calm. Don’t overreact.
I wondered whether it would be okay to respond with, Great! Maybe that was too enthusiastic. But I couldn’t be too casual about it. I had to let her know I was glad, without stumbling into eager-puppy territory. What about Nice? That was neutral enough. Or was it a little too laid back?
While I was sorting through my choices, Jillian rummaged through her purse, then said, “Wait. I think I left my pen in class. I’ll be right back.”
I watched her disappear inside the classroom. As the door closed on her, it opened onto a painful memory. “She’ll be right back,” I whispered.
A minute crawled by. Then another.
“No way…” I said. But when it came to getting the wrong outcome, my life seemed more filled with “way” than “no way.”
I took a deep breath, which didn’t help at all, then went into the classroom. My eyes fell immediately on the open window. Like before, the half-drawn shade twisted in the breeze.
No way.
No sign of Jillian.
A voice rose from beneath her desk. “Found it!” Jillian popped up, holding her pen.
Stupidly, I pointed at the window and said what was on my mind. “I was afraid you’d bailed on me.…”
“Why would I do that?” she asked.
“I’m kidding.” I tried to install an appropriate lighthearted expression on my face.
“I’m sorry I took so long. I got distracted when I came in.” It was her turn to point at the window.
I went over and looked out. In the front yard of one of the houses across the street, on Vorhees, a boy, maybe two or three years old, was playing with a puppy and laughing hysterically every time he got his face licked. Boy and dog both seemed to be having a ball.
“I can see where you could get lost in time, watching that,” I said. I dragged myself out of the past, closing the door on memories of Maddie. “Ready?”
“Ready.”
My body was next to hers as we walked to the diner after school, but my mind was rocketing all over the place. This would be the first time we’d be face-to-face without the crutch of easels, brushes, or canvases.
What if she hates everything I love? What if she loves everything I hate? What if she’s a whole lot smarter than I am? What if she’s a whole lot less smart?
The tormenting tug-of-war between extreme opposites pulled at my brain all the way to the diner.
“You’re pretty quiet,” Jillian said as I op
ened the door for her. “What’s on your mind?”
I couldn’t tell her, I’m terrified I won’t like you. I gave her the universal answer. “Nothing.”
We sat across from each other. I’d debated that part to death, too, and decided I’d let her sit first, and then look for clues about what she expected me to do. She didn’t slide very far in when Molly led us to the booth, so I took that as a cue to go to the other side.
“Fries and a Coke?” Molly asked, looking at me.
I gestured toward Jillian. “After you.”
“Sounds good,” Jillian said.
“Me, too,” I said. “Thanks, Molly.”
I stared down at the menu in front of me on the table but realized I couldn’t use that as an excuse to delay conversation, since we’d already ordered. “How do you like Rismore?” I asked. That seemed safe.
“It’s nice. But it’s a lot different from Atlanta. I’m still getting used to it. Everyone’s in more of a hurry.”
“You should try New York,” I said. “People in the city are really in a hurry.”
“I haven’t gotten there yet. But I’d like to.”
I was about to offer to take her there, on an adventure, and be her guide, but I realized that would be rushing things. I settled for telling her, “It’s easy to get there. You can take the train. Or a bus.”
After a brief discussion of local transportation options, another silence settled on us. Luckily, as I was struggling to think of a safe topic, Jillian asked, “So, what’s there to do around here for fun?”
I had no trouble answering that. Before I’d exhausted the local highlights, our fries came—hot and crisp like they always are. I owe undying gratitude to whoever came up with the idea of immersing sticks of starch in vats of boiling oil—even if I spend far too much of my time on the frying end of the process. Jillian picked one up, blew on it, and bit off a half-inch piece. She chewed, swallowed, then licked her lips and popped the rest in her mouth. As she looked up, I realized I’d been staring at her mouth. I dragged my eyes away, then realized they’d landed on her breasts. I looked back up as another french fry slipped between her lips. Feeling my face flush, I found safe haven in the tableside jukebox.
I flipped through the listings. “Hey, they have ‘The Riddle Song.’”
“You’re kidding,” she said.
“I am.”
She smiled, and joined me in looking through the songs. We settled on a Beach Boys number, “Surfin’ Safari,” which seemed just right for the retro look of the diner.
We sat, talked, and snacked. She didn’t tell me all that much about herself, and I didn’t want to risk asking personal questions. But to my relief, she also didn’t reveal anything that destroyed my hopes that we would establish some sort of relationship. And she didn’t mention any boyfriends. It was a terrifyingly normal experience in many ways, not counting the thirty conversations I had with myself each time I was about to utter a sentence, and the constant pressure to look at her without staring at her.
After we left the diner, we walked together as far as the Green. “I’m going that way,” Jillian said, pointing south, to West Rismore Avenue. Yeah, I know that doesn’t make sense, but the road runs west after going south for two blocks, and cuts through the western part of town, eventually ending at the community pool.
“I live that way,” I said, pointing in the direction of the high school. “Other side of the football field.”
“Well, bye…” she said.
“Bye…”
Despite telling myself in ten thousand ways not to make too much of one shared meal, I floated home.
Mom was in the kitchen, preparing a chicken casserole for dinner. “You look happy,” she said.
“I treated myself to some french fries.” I glanced over my shoulder to make sure Dad hadn’t heard. He’d yell at me for even this small an indulgence. Especially if he knew I’d picked up the whole tab.
“It’s good to treat yourself once in a while,” Mom said.
“It’s definitely good.” There was something I’d been meaning to ask her. “That Doc Watson album, Southbound, was it yours or Grandpa’s?”
“His,” she said. “I gave it to him for Father’s Day, way back—” She paused and looked off into the distance. “—after my sophomore year in college.”
“Why that album?” I asked.
“A lot of my friends listened to it. Especially the guitar players. Why are you asking about it?”
“Just curious.” I explained about the assignment, but not about the outcome.
“I’m sure it got a lot of attention,” Mom said. “Did your classmates like it?”
“They went wild,” I said. I washed my hands and started peeling carrots. I can’t cook, but I can help out by doing the easy stuff.
It was the start of Memorial Day weekend, which meant I finally had time to finish Geek Love. The story was memorably disturbing in a mind-bending way, based on a staggering concept. If nothing else, it showed me some ways that a father could be a whole lot worse than mine. I’m not going to spoil things by telling you what the guy did. But it was jaw-dropping. And that was just the beginning. Things got even stranger after the opening. I would love to be able to paint something that was as stunningly creative as the ideas in that book.
The long weekend also meant I wouldn’t see Jillian again until Tuesday, unless I got in touch with her, or accidentally wandered over to her house and rang her doorbell. But I didn’t want to rush things. So I settled for spending three days thinking about her during every waking minute. And during some moments when I wasn’t awake.
But one of those waking moments stands out especially in my mind. Monday afternoon, walking home from Cretaro’s, I passed a carnival at Saint Teresa’s, the local Catholic school. I wasn’t hungry—Toby in the deli had slipped me a steady stream of goodies to snack on—but the smell of deep-fried dough and charred sausages was too enticing to resist. As I wandered through the midway, I heard a cry that made me cringe.
“Knock down three, you win!”
I looked over at my old nemeses, the hypernarrow cats. There were no snakes hanging from the sides of the booth. But there were dogs. Really cute husky puppies. I’d bet Jillian would love a dog. She’d spent all that time watching the puppy from the classroom window. My pocket was nicely padded with tip money. I went over and paid for the three balls.
I hit a cat on the first throw.
I hit a cat on the second throw.
I missed the third one by a whisker.
“So close, sport,” the guy said. “Try again. I know you can do it.” He gathered three balls between his hands and held them up.
I was already pulling more money from my pocket when I somehow managed to see myself—really see myself, and what I was about to do.
“No thanks,” I said.
“Tell you what. First one’s on me.” He chucked a ball at a cat right in front of him, knocking it flat. “One down. Two to go. You know you can hit two. You just did it.” He held out a ball in each hand.
“I got lucky.” I turned my back on him.
“You can’t walk away a loser,” the guy said.
“You’re absolutely right,” I said as I walked away.
Maybe there was some hope for me after all.
Sextets and the Single Girl
I DIDN’T HAVE to worry about what to say to Jillian when school started up again. Though I’d narrowed the possibilities down to a mere fifty or sixty topics, all of which were appropriately casual enough to bridge the gap since our time at the diner. She came up to me before Calculus and said, “That was nice, last week.”
“Yeah. We should do that again sometime.” I flinched internally at the “sometime.” Did that make it seem like I could wait? Was it too late to add “soon”? Or to suggest a different outing?
“We should.” She headed for her seat.
I noticed she hadn’t offered any temporal quantifiers, or expressed a desire for an immediat
e replay. I figured I’d hold off asking her out again right away. But we talked for five or ten minutes in Art, mostly about Mack and Mary, before we got to work. I wanted to move my easel over to her table, but I was afraid that would seem pushy. When the bell rang, I thought about walking with her to the cafeteria. I felt I still hadn’t mastered the proper balance of doing nothing. So I waited while she headed out.
But when I reached the cafeteria, Jillian waved at me from her table, then pointed at the empty seat next to her. I took one hand off my tray and pointed toward my friends. She nodded, picked up her tray, and we converged on my usual table.
“It’s about time,” Butch said. “Grab a seat. We’re not physically dangerous.”
“Thanks. I love your hair,” Jillian said.
“I spend hours not doing anything to it,” Butch said. Her smile indicated she appreciated the compliment.
“Wait until you see mine,” Robert said. “It is going to be spectacular. It just needs to get a little longer.”
“Shouldn’t take more than five years,” I said.
“You have an awesome accent,” Jillian told Robert.
“Don’t praise him,” Butch said. “It will only lead to bad things.”
“I have a wonderful ability to accept praise without letting it go to my head,” Robert said.
As Butch seized the opening and veered off into a discussion of what she thought was really in Robert’s head, I introduced Jillian to Jimby and Nicky. I was pleased how well she fit in with my friends.
When lunch ended, Butch pulled me aside. “Much to my amazement and delight, you actually seem to be involved in a normal, healthy boy–girl relationship of some sort.”
“Some sort,” I said. “That’s the problem. I’m not sure how she sees us.”
“You’ve dated, right?”
“Sort of. We went to the diner. But we haven’t done anything that felt like a real date.”
“So ask her out. Formally. Really. Step up to the plate and swing for it,” she said.
“I will. I’m just trying to think up the perfect date.”
“There is no perfect. At this rate, you’ll be asking her out to your retirement party.”
Despite Butch’s Yoda-like observation that there was no “perfect,” I spent the rest of the day trying to come up with the perfect idea. A scary movie would be good, if she was the type to grab an arm for comfort. A dance would be perfect, if I didn’t already know how imperfect a dance could be. A meal? Would a fancy dinner, even if I could afford one, really be that different from the diner? If only Mack and Mary were playing around here. We’d talked enough about music that I knew the other bands Jillian liked. I’d already determined that none of them was touring nearby.
