But I don’t. I don’t even text her back until Gwen’s safely tucked into her car seat and I’m loading groceries into the back-end of the van.
On our way now.
While I’m waiting for the light to change so we can leave the parking lot, I glance into the rear view mirror and find Gwen’s blue raspberry-chocolate stained face slumped into her shoulder, her wispy blond curls damp with sweat. It’s a ten minute drive back to the house and she’ll be wide awake and monstrous for the rest of the day.
But hey, he knows my name now. He gave my sister a cookie and he smiled at me. I guess it was all worth it, right?
SEVEN
I find a lot of reasons to go to the grocery store now that I know he works there. Okay, I guess it’s a little on the disturbing side, but how else are you supposed to get closer to someone you want to get closer to? There are probably easier ways, but for the life of me I haven’t thought of any yet.
Listening to him play guitar from my bedroom every night while cursing the fact that we still don’t have an Internet connection isn’t exactly the best lead-in for conversation, and when he passes me on his way to work every morning I try really hard to be inconspicuous, which obviously isn’t working since he thinks of me as ‘the running girl’.
I mean, I could just walk across the street one night when he’s out on the porch and strike up a conversation, but even despite that he’s playing so the whole neighborhood can hear him, it feels intensely private, like he doesn’t want to be bothered. So I just listen and occasionally sneak peeks at him and pretend I’m not really a total creeper.
The first couple times I go to the store I don’t see him at all, but the third time he’s stocking canned veggies in aisle four and I scan the very short list on my phone to see if there’s anything on there that might require me to go down that aisle and accidentally bump into him on purpose.
These things are always much more graceful when I imagine doing them. I look cool in my head, calm, collected…
“Oh, hey, fancy meeting you here. I’m looking for creamed corn.”
Casual, nonchalant, not trembling or sweating at all.
The reality is nothing like that at all. I have Art with me, not my idea, but Mom insisted. She claims he was driving her nuts, and the only way Dad can hook up the Xbox so Art has something to do in his over-abundant spare time is if I take him away from the house for at least twenty minutes.
He’s already embarrassing me, kicking a sweet tart from the bubble gum machines through the store like a tiny hockey puck, and no matter how many times I tell him I’m going to pick it up off the floor and choke him with it if he doesn’t stop, he just keeps kicking it.
His next kick sends it whizzing down aisle four. It pings off Nate’s shoe, cracks into the metal shelving and sends tarty bits of candy flying everywhere.
“Art!” I sink my fingers into his shoulder and squeeze so hard it’s gonna leave bruises. “I told you to stop. Do you want to go wait in the car.”
“You can’t leave me in the car. It’s against the law. I’ll suffocate in this heat and die.” With a smug grin he sneers up at me and asks, “Don’t you know anything?”
“Technically,” Nate says, pushing up from where he was crouched in front of canned green beans and potatoes, “it’s only illegal if you’re a dog.” Pieces of sugar crunch beneath his black sneakers, and before Smarty Art can throw back sass, he adds, “Or if she leaves you in there with the windows up and you’re not old enough or smart enough to roll them down yourself.”
“Yes,” I swallow hard, “that. What he said. Now cut it out, or you’re going out in the car to suffocate.”
Insolence is Art’s middle name, I swear, and in a huff he informs me he’s going to look at ice cream because Mom told him he was in charge of picking out a flavor. His immediate departure is both a blessing and a curse. I’m alone with Nate in aisle four and I’M ALONE WITH NATE IN AISLE FOUR!
“I hear there’s a petition in Pennsylvania right now that’ll make it legal to murder siblings if they give you just cause.”
The look on his face is so serious, but there’s a shimmer in his eye, and even though I know there’s no way he’s telling the truth I start to open my mouth to say, “Really?” but stop myself before achieving total annihilation.
Instead, I shrug with as much nonchalance as I can muster and say, “I’d sign that petition. Twice.”
“Brothers are jerks, or so Delilah tells me at least twelve times a day.”
I can’t imagine any scenario in which he’d be a jerk, but that’s probably my hormones talking. “Yeah, he’s definitely a jerk. And he’s bored half to death, so that just makes it worse.”
“Ah,” he nods understanding. “The torture for entertainment racket.”
“Pretty much.”
Nate chuckles, the dimple in his right cheek deepening before he asks, “Did you need help finding something?”
Oh, right. I’m here shopping.
“Uh, creamed corn?”
He leans forward, reaching past me and swiping a can off the shelf over my head. He’s so close I catch the barest hint of body wash and fabric softener, and as the two mingle I think it’s quite possibly the most wonderful combination of smells I’ve ever breathed. Dropping back onto his heels, he deposits the can into my little red plastic basket, leaning in close as he says, “There you go. Creamed corn.”
“Thanks.” I lift the basket, feeling like Little Red Riding Hood in the company of the daring, Big Bad Wolf.
Now there’s nothing left to talk about, and I know I probably shouldn’t leave Art in the frozen food section by himself for too long. There’s no telling what he might do to embarrass me more than he already has. I start to back away and I’m about halfway into a turn toward the end of the aisle when Nate says, “Hey, Tali, do you have any plans tonight?”
“Um…”
“This is probably going to sound super creepy, but some people are hanging out down at the river lot tonight. I know you barely know me, and by barely I pretty much mean not at all, but I uh… I sort of hate going to stuff like that. Even more when I’m by myself, so…”
Oh. My. God.
Did he seriously just ask me out?
No. He didn’t. He just said he doesn’t like going by himself. He never finishes his thought, and he’s just sort of standing there like he’s waiting for me to make the suggestion of coming along. Under normal circumstances, I would totally jump forward and offer myself as tribute, but something’s happening to me. Fate is turning me into this weird, awkward girl I don’t even recognize. Suddenly it’s like I’m shy, and that’s never happened to me before so I don’t even know how to deal with it. I can’t make my tongue work. I swear it’s swelling in my mouth, and my throat is closing off and I’m just standing there dumbfounded in the middle of the canned goods aisle wondering why I’m going into anaphylactic shock.
My lack of response seems to deter him for a minute. He glances back over his shoulder and then shrugs it off, asking, “So do you think you might want to come along?”
“Uh,” I stammer, “I…”
Of course I want to come along, so why can’t I just say it.
“If you can’t, it’s cool. I just thought since you were new and all you might want to… I don’t know… make friends.”
I force the word out in a rush of air that pretty much makes me look like I’m having a seizure. “Yes!”
Why don’t I just tell him I’d love to? Ask him if there will be making out and maybe a few other bad decisions while we’re at it.
If he notices how overzealous my answer was, he doesn’t let on. Instead he nods once, offers a half-smile and says, “Cool. I’ll pick you up around seven.”
“Seven. Sounds good.”
I don’t realize I’m still standing there, furthering my humiliation, until he says, “All right. See you then.”
He turns and walks toward the opposite end of the aisle. He doesn’t look back, lik
e he’s playing it cool on purpose, and I’m kind of glad because I shouldn’t be staring at his ass like I am, but damn those jeans are delicious, and the last thing in the world I need right now is to get caught in the act of admiring them.
I grab another can of creamed corn off the shelf, spin around and almost forget what else I’ve come in for. Sadly, I did not forget about Art, though I wish I had. He is waffling between some nasty candy-flavored ice cream that I know is going to make me barf if it comes anywhere near my mouth and those chocolate-covered waffle cone taco ice cream things.
“You know that guy who works here?” he asks as I make the decision for him and toss a box of dessert tacos into the basket before steering him toward the self-checkout registers.
“He’s our neighbor.”
“The porch guitar guy you’re always swooning over? Delilah’s brother?”
“I don’t swoon over anyone.”
“Yeah right. Every time I come to tell you it’s time to eat you’re standing at the window staring down at him with googley eyes, probably thinking about kissing him and all that other nasty stuff.”
“Hey, isn’t it almost your birthday?” I change the subject.
“Um, duh!”
“Right, you wanna live to see twelve?”
He shuts up after that, for there is no threat taken more seriously than the one that steals your birthday. On the ride home he mostly talks about how much easier his life’s going to be when he can get back to Assassin’s Creed, and I can’t help but agree. It’s been so long since I’ve seen the pixelated avatars of my friends I almost forget what they look like.
I wonder if Nate games, and imagine as I sail through the green light that he’d be really into single player fantasy rpgs—the lone wolf, destined to save whatever world he’s traipsing through, rarely thanked for his kindness or his deeds. He’s an Elder Scrolls kind of guy, I’ll bet. The rebel with a dark past… I’m reaching, and I know it, but it’s fun to fantasize and I’m already imagining how to broach the subject on our date tonight when I have to stop and ask myself if it’s really even a date.
He said he thought I might want to meet some people, make friends since I was new in town. He never called it a date, just asked if I wanted to come along.
God, I am not this awkward. I’ve always been outgoing, friendly, easy to talk to. I’m a conversation starter, and when I want to know someone, I go out and meet them. But this… I don’t know what this is I’m doing with Neighbor Nate. Spying on him in secret, losing myself in the very idea of him and then choking the minute he’s actually right in front of me and trying to have a conversation.
This is not who I am, and I resolve as I pull in to park in front of the garage that tonight when he picks me up I’m going to be me. The same me I’ve been my entire life. No stammering, no whirlwind of butterflies. No face plants on the pavement and spending the rest of my night wondering if I was replaced by a pod person.
Just me.
And if it turns out Nate doesn’t like me for who I am, well, that’ll be his problem, not mine.
EIGHT
It’s so much easier to say you’re going to do something than it actually is to follow through with said thing.
I dated lots of guys back in Austin, some of them really hot and others turned out to be really great friends, but never in my life have I felt so nervous about going somewhere with someone of the opposite gender as I do right now. I don’t know what it is about this guy, but he’s gotten to me in ways no one else ever has before and we’ve only spoken a grand total of twice.
By six-thirty I feel like an absolute mental patient. My skin itches with invisible hives and my stomach hasn’t stopped rolling like an ocean inside me since three o’clock. Even my hands are shaking when I stand in front of the sliver of glass I’m calling a bathroom mirror to put on makeup. My first attempt at eyeliner is so thick I have to wash my face and try again, which does nothing but piss me off.
The whole thing is really starting to get on my nerves.
Mom and Dad don’t care if I go out. In fact, they’re both excited to see I’m already making friends. Good old Tali—she’s fabulous at socializing—but little do they know I’m freaking out about this, and it’s only making the whole thing worse.
Every few minutes I peek out my bedroom window to see if he’s coming. I don’t know if he’s going to drive, or just walk across the street and knock on the door, and the fact that I’m contemplating it as hard as I am is just messed up. It doesn’t matter how he shows up, just so long as he shows up, right?
Returning to the mirror sliver, I look myself in the eyes, watch my nostrils flare a little and say, “You need to chill out, girl. Seriously.”
He’s just a guy, and mirror Tali looks cool as a cucumber. Honestly, she doesn’t know what my problem is. I narrow my eyes at her; she’s playing a real good game of deception just now. At least she looks cute, and in a moment of bravado I reach out and boop her nose before spiraling away from the mirror and turning off the light.
Art hasn’t moved from the XBox since we came home from the grocery store, save for the ten minutes he spent shoveling dinner into his mouth. He barely looks up as I pass through the parlor room, where Dad’s got the TV set up. He’s sitting on the arm of the couch with his arms crossed, staring intently at Art’s assassin sneaking through tumbleweeds, but when he sees me he grins.
“So, who is this guy you’re going out with?”
“He plays guitar,” Art announces without even looking up. “And he works at the grocery store.”
The fact that he barely even bats an eyelash is a sure sign he doesn’t realize how quickly I can dispose of his body if necessary.
“I’m not going out with him. We’re just going out.”
“Same thing,” Dad shrugs. “And you still didn’t answer my question.”
“His name’s Nate and he lives across the street.”
“Nate,” he bobs his head, his lips pinched like a duck as he contemplates. “And he plays guitar and works at the grocery store. Where are you going again?”
“He said the river lot.”
“Will there be drinking?”
“I have no idea, Dad. I just met him and I don’t know any of his friends.”
“Well, you know…”
“Yes, I know. No riding with drunkards. I’ve got my phone. Fully charged.” I pat the side of my purse to reassure him. “If anyone tries to give me a ride home after drinking and I can’t get their keys away from them, I will call you to come and get me.”
“I don’t care if it’s…”
“Three o’clock in the morning, right. I got it, Dad.”
“Just so long as we’re clear.”
“Stop hounding her, Chas.” Mom swoops in with Gwen tucked under her arm, her bath-wet curls flopping around her clean, pink face. She looks like a little angel, so happy and carefree, and even though I know she’s really a demon in disguise I can’t help but smile at her before reaching out to swipe the hair off her forehead. “Tali’s a good girl. She knows the rules.”
“Good girl, Tali!” Gwen congratulates me.
“Yeah, Dad,” I stick my tongue out playfully. “I’m a good girl.”
He squints, his narrowed eyes passing over me above the rim of his glasses before yielding, “I know you’re a good girl. It’s other people’s kids I don’t trust.”
“Why does Tali get to stay out until three o’clock in the morning?” Art doesn’t draw his eyes away from the screen.
“Because Tali’s cool like that,” I smirk.
“Because Tali is an adult now,” Mom confirms with less flare. “Even though she doesn’t always act like one. She’s eighteen, and planning for college, and she knows what it means to be responsible. That there are consequences to her every action.”
“So, what does that mean? She gets to drink beer and stay out until the sun comes up?”
“Tali does not drink beer,” I inform him. “But she does like to
watch the sun come up.”
“It’s because Tali doesn’t drink beer that she’s allowed to stay out so late.”
“I’d come home early if it meant I could drink beer,” Art announces.
“Arthur!” Mom’s tone prods a deviant grin from my brother’s face.
“Dad lets me drink his beer sometimes.”
“A sip here and there,” Dad defends.
“Beer tastes like ass.”
“Language, Tali.”
But it’s too late. My little angel of a mockingbird is already repeating me, and even though a stranger would barely understand the jumble of words she’s spitting out, we all know what she’s saying, and Mom’s glare is sharp enough to cut glass. Fortunately for me there’s a knock on the front door and I’m saved the lengthy lecture on why it’s important to mind what I say in front of my siblings.
Everyone in the living room grows quiet. Even Art pauses his game for the first time since supper, as if he’s expecting the Spanish Inquisition. I level every single one of them with a look that promises instant death if they embarrass me, and then duck out into the hallway leading to the foyer to answer the door.
My hands are shaking as I work the deadbolt lock, and when I twist the knob and pull it sticks because of the humidity. By the time I wrench it open I’m sure he’s already left because he got tired of waiting, but he’s standing on the other side of the screen door, hands in the pockets of a black pair of jeans and staring down at his Chucks. His hair’s loose, freshly washed judging from the wavy dampness he reaches up to tuck behind his ear.
“Hey, Tali.”
“Hey.”
“Tali?” Dad bellows from the other room. “Who is it?”
He knows damn well who it is. This is just his subtle way of letting me know that I may be an adult, but no boy’s going to speed away with his daughter riding shotgun without at least introducing himself.
“You want to come in and meet my people?”
Shrugging his left shoulder, he says, “Sure,” and I open the screen door to let him in.
Boys Don't Cry Page 5
