The Handsome Girl & Her Beautiful Boy

by B. T. Gottfred

  I wait by the front window for Zee to arrive. I’m not nervous at all. When I say I’m not nervous at all, what I really mean is that I think every nerve in my body has morphed into a flesh-eating virus and I will be consumed in entirety before she even arrives.

  Maybe breathing might help?

  Yes, breathing is always a good idea.

  ZEE

  As soon as he walks out the door, the hugeness of my mistake hits me. The kid thinks this is a date. He’s dressed like we’re going to see some Broadway play downtown and have dinner on Michigan Avenue. I don’t even …

  Art climbs into the passenger seat, sits, and faces me straight on. He’s 24-7 intense.

  “Hi,” he says, and before I can say hi back, he continues, “First thing. Before we talk about why I’m dressed as if this is a date even though I know it’s not a date or we talk about what movie we’re going to see or anything else, I want you to know if you want to talk about your mom—or how you’re feeling about anything—that that’s the most important thing. If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s also the most important thing. Whatever you want, today and tomorrow and forever.”

  Kid left me speechless per usual.

  Then he says, “Can we hug? Not because we’re sad or we’re in love but because we’re human.”

  Art talked like he watched too many interviews with emo rock stars. But now I have to say, “Sure.” And then Art leans over the center console and pulls me tight against him. Our heads even press against each other. I can smell him for the first time and—

  Uh …

  This is so fucking weird.

  Or depressing.

  Or I don’t even know.

  He smells like my mom. Not like when she wore perfume. But like the lotion she uses. Used. She’ll never use it again because she’s dead. But Art must use it. Or use one that smells the same. And that’s so fucking bizarre! And this is the only hug I’ve really had since the funeral and, truly, the second most intimate hug I’ve ever had with anyone besides my mom. It’s just too fucking much.

  Fuck!

  I start crying and yeah, I try to pull away because this is fucking embarrassing but he can sense I’m trying to pull away so he holds me even tighter and him holding me tighter—

  —for who the hell knows why—

  —makes me cry even more. My chest heaves. I never cry so much my chest starts heaving. Except now. With Art. And so I say, “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry for crying! Crying is pure, it’s real, it’s vulnerable, and being vulnerable is beautiful and strong and I promise I’ll only think how beautiful and brave you are when you cry in front of me and I’ll think the same if you don’t cry too.”

  I don’t try to separate from his hug again until my body calms. I dry my face as best I can with my right sleeve. Then I pull back and this time he lets me. “Thanks,” I say.

  “Thank you,” he says back.

  “So … movie?” And as I say that, I start laughing. Who goes from bawling to asking about a movie so fast? Me. But Art doesn’t care. He laughs with me and says, “So … movie.” He looks at his phone. “Here are the movies starting at the Regal Twelve in the next hour—”

  “I like the AMC at Northbrook Court better. Cool?” I say. He’s gonna know I don’t want other kids from The Bend seeing us, isn’t he? But he doesn’t even take a second to think about why I’d want to drive forty minutes to Northbrook instead of eight minutes to Gladys Park.

  He just bursts out with a big smile and, “Of course! Wherever you like best, I like best.”

  “Great,” I say, turning up the music loud enough that he gets the hint we don’t need to talk on the drive.

  art

  Zee doesn’t want anyone from school to see us together. I’m perfectly at peace with this. And when I say I’m perfectly at peace with this what I mean is my inner child is bawling his eyes out on a leaky raft in the middle of the ocean. Of course I’ll pretend not to know the true reason she wants to go to Northbrook—which is six million hours away!—instead of Gladys Park. I’ve pretended to not know a lot of things in my life. I had to. If my family and friends understood that I understood EVERYTHING, they would realize their souls were naked to my eyes and would flee at the sight of me. So pretend, Art! Pretend you’re clueless so the girl you love doesn’t have to be embarrassed to be seen with you in public! Pretend you’re not the most insightful person she will ever know! Pretend!

  “Zee…”

  “Yeah?”

  “I can’t pretend.”

  “Huh?”

  I turn down the music, begin again, “I wish I could but I can’t pretend I don’t know why you want to go to a movie in Northbrook instead of Gladys Park. I wish I could pretend. But I just can’t.”

  Silence. I get it. She’s the strong, silent type. I’m the strong, say-everything-that-goes-through-my-brain type.

  “You’re afraid kids from Riverbend might see us if we went to a movie at Gladys Park. That’s why we’re driving two hours to see a movie.”

  “It’s forty minutes and…”

  ZEE

  Fuck.

  Two choices.

  Bullshit my way through this, see the movie, and never deal with this kid again?

  Or:

  Turn around, tell him it’s too much for me the first time out after my mom’s death …

  Fuck. That was bullshit too. You want to know what my mom never did? Bullshit. She was so goddamn sincere and straightforward.

  So.

  I pull over, put the truck in park. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, I’m sorry. I should have pretended not to know. I’m being selfish. I don’t care. I care but I don’t care. I wanted you to know I can pretty much figure out what anyone means even when they don’t want people to know. But I shouldn’t have needed you to know that right this second. I’m so excited to see a movie with you, even if we have to drive to Antarctica.”

  And for some reason I make a joke. “They probably don’t have a movie theater in Antarctica.”

  “They do, but they show films in penguin with English subtitles.”

  I laugh. “You’re quick, kid. That was quick.”

  “We have good humor chemistry. This probably means we’ll be good in bed together.”

  I try to smile through that one.

  He says, “Dammit, I just killed our moment by making a sex joke.”

  Time to be clear? It’s time. I say, “So no bullshit, Art, okay?”

  “I never do.”

  “I meant me. I bullshit sometimes. Not all the time. But with other kids at Riverbend. I just don’t relate to many people.… Anyway … yeah, I don’t really want other kids from school seeing us hang out. I don’t even know what I’m doing tonight. You’re the first person I’ve seen from school since the funeral”—don’t cry, you bitch—“but I needed to get out and now I’m out.”

  “And I’m being so high maintenance.”

  “No—”

  “You said no bullshit, Zee.” He nudges my leg.

  “Okay, yeah. You’re a lot to handle. I knew that. I don’t even mind it. I might even need it so I can get out of my own fucking head. But what I don’t need is Cam or Abigail or anyone thinking me and you going to a movie is something that it isn’t and it’s just easier to go somewhere far away from Riverbend to make sure nobody starts any stupid rumors. That make sense?”

  “Yes. I believe you’re saying our affair will be that much more exciting if we keep it a secret.”

  He isn’t kidding. Not entirely. So I say, “Art … what you said about Cam the night we met, you’re right. I am in love with Cam. I’ve been in love with him since sixth grade. And if he’s my type—”

  “And I’m nothing like him, then that means I’m not your type at all.” He’s wounded. Bad.

  “Art…” I start, but before I can bullshit—

  The kid shimmers his body, as if shedding a dramatic cloak for a coat of rainbows. Then, with this
funny glint in his eye, Art says, “So … movie?”

  art

  Once at Northbrook Court, which is a gigantic mall that will surely be used as the last outpost of humanity in the coming zombie apocalypse, we park on the far side from the theaters, which means we have to cross through the mall and past every retail staple of American commerce. Do you know who didn’t want to look into a single store? Like, not even window-shop while walking? Zee. How can you not even be an itsy-bitsy bit curious what Forever 21 or Lululemon has in their display windows this week?

  Bryan would say my love of shopping and style is another checkmark in the “Art Is Gay!” column. (Oh, is that so, Bryan? Well, is your disdain for shopping and anything resembling style a check in the “Bryan Is Straight!” column?)

  * * *

  When I get out money to pay for the movie tickets, Zee says, “Let me buy. You did me a huge favor helping me get out of the house.”

  She’s trying to reinforce that this isn’t a date, so I say, “I started waiting tables at TGI Fridays, which means I’m basically a millionaire now.”

  “Can we at least split it?”

  “You can pay for the tickets for the fifth movie we see.”

  “Art—”

  “Zee.” I nudge her hip with mine. It’s a very understated flirtation. Not like me at all. But I can tell she likes understated flirtation, so I’ll have to use it more often. I’LL STILL BE THE BIGGEST PERSONALITY ON THE PLANET. But a more subtle version sometimes.

  I pay for the popcorn, Diet Coke for me, regular for her. Again, she tries to give me money, so I say, “You can pay for the popcorn every seventh movie we see.”

  “You’re hilarious.”

  “I know.” After we sit down in the theater, I realize I am seeing my first movie with a girl I actually like. Yes, I know, she likes someone else—that’s not relevant information!—and so I turn to look at her and take a mental picture as a memento for this momentous occasion. Zee is watching the pre-movie commercials and aggressively eating the popcorn, and staring at her under the flickering light of the screen reminds me how breathtaking she is … and how I’m the only one who sees it. Cam certainly doesn’t see it. He likes Abigail and her oversugared femininity. No other boy at The Bend sees it or they would have pursued her with the same passion as I have.

  And thus, as the movie starts, I keep stealing glances of beautiful Zee (don’t worry, she doesn’t notice), and my bold new strategy in Operation “Make Zee Fall Madly in Love with Me” begins to crystallize: I’ll have to show her she is a special kind of beautiful. The best kind of beautiful. The kind that is hard to see at first but once seen impossible to unsee.

  I love this plan!

  I know!

  Wait … why do I love this plan?

  Because if you show Zee she’s a special kind of beautiful, maybe she’ll realize it takes a special kind of boy to see it.

  Ooooh.

  I know.

  Wait, who’s the special kind of boy?

  You’re hilarious.

  I know.

  ZEE

  The kid spends more time looking at me than the movie. At first his staring annoys me, but then I just let it go. The kid has a crush. Even if he really is gay and doesn’t know it yet, Art looks at me with more interest than any straight boy has ever looked at me. More than both Bill and Glen from CrossFit and I got naked with both of them. Sure as hell more than Cam. Art’s look feels like more than interest too. It’s … I don’t know … longing. Yeah, that’s what it feels like. And I’ve never felt that from another guy. Ever. So I might even like it.

  * * *

  On the drive home, Art says, “We should stop for frozen yogurt to break up the cross-country road trip.”

  “Sure,” I say, and even laugh. The kid is funny. If he can make me laugh, the least I can do is let him not so subtly have a crush on me.

  He pays again. And again, just like back at the movie theater, I think how Cam has never offered to buy me a thing in his life. I pay for pizza because I work the desk at the gym a couple times a month. I buy him birthday and Christmas presents. I don’t care Cam doesn’t buy me stuff. I really fucking don’t. I’m just saying Art paying was … nice.

  * * *

  As we near his house, Art says, “Drop me off at this corner. I’ll walk the rest of the way.”

  I stop the truck even though I shouldn’t. “It’s six more blocks.…”

  “But Abigail and Cam might be at my house. I don’t want them to see you drop me off.”

  “I feel like such an asshole. I’m sorry. Let me drive you. I don’t care if they see me and you hanging out—”

  “I care…”

  And I’m confused, but Art explains, in this almost wise voice, as if he has matured ten years in ten seconds, “I loved hanging out with you tonight, Zee. Loved it. And I want to hang out again—soon”—he taps my thigh, friendly, sort of flirtatious—“and my expert analysis says the best way to make you want to hang out with me soon is to make sure you feel safe. To make sure there’s no stress. That when you think of me, you’re not thinking, ‘I hope Cam doesn’t get the wrong idea if he sees me with the kid.’ I want you to only be thinking, ‘That Art is so fun, I want to hang out with him all the time.’”

  “You are fun, Art.”

  “I know.”

  “You’re also hilarious—”

  “I know! But nobody else knows this besides you. Which is the real reason I want to hang out all the time. So you can laugh at all my jokes and tell me I’m a comic genius.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “Okay, what?” His excitement boils over into confusion.

  “Let’s hang out all the time.” What the fuck am I saying?

  “Really? Like tomorrow?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. But soon … because this was good for me. I know it already. So thank you.”

  He lights up. The joy inside him practically shoots fireballs out of his eyes. Jesus, the kid feels a lot, doesn’t he? When he manages to contain himself just a bit, he reaches across the console and hugs me. Third hug tonight. This one is more for him than me, but it feels just as good. It feels comfortable this time. Then he kisses me on the cheek and whispers, “Good night, my queen,” before jumping out of my truck, up and onto the sidewalk. He waves once, turns around, and walks on.

  I watch him until the night makes it impossible. Then I say to myself, “Good night, kid.”

  * * *

  A voice from the backseat:

  “Oh-my-god, I think he’s perfect for you! He’s funny and smart and beautiful and has amazing taste in lotion.”

  I look in my rearview mirror.

  She’s so real.

  She’s so there.

  My mom is sitting in the backseat of my truck. Hair in a bun, streetlamp light in her eyes, and wearing her black-and-white-striped dress she wore to my eighth-grade graduation. She’s smiling. Carefree and glowing and so alive. And I try to smile back at her, try not to cry, but my shoulders fold, and my face caves, and the tears are stronger than me. And as the snot is falling and my body is shaking and my vision gets blurry from all the fucking tears, I say to her, “I miss you so much.”

  And she says, “I’m still here, my love. You think dying was going to keep me from watching my daughter grow up?” Always making jokes, and this time my body lets me laugh and she laughs with me. As our laugh fades, so does my crying, and so does she.

  * * *

  I use my hoodie to wipe my mess of a face, put the truck back in drive. Pause. Put it back in park, take out my phone, and text.

  art

  A text beeps on my phone as I walk inside my house:

  ZEE

  good night kid

  After letting my heart soar out of my chest, into space, mate with the brightest star, and return to me, my instinct is to text her back You fell in love with me after all, didn’t you? but I am trying to be understated. So I make myself wait. Which is easy. And when I say it’s eas
y, I would have preferred a rubber band snapped into my eyeball five hundred times.

  * * *

  Cam’s truck is parked in front of our house. Since my dad has taken up permanent residence in the den, their previous make-out headquarters, that means he and Abigail are probably getting naked upstairs in Abigail’s room. And since I have no desire to listen to their sex noises, I have no choice but to watch SportsCenter with my dad. Yay!

  After filling two glasses with water in the kitchen, I push through the swinging door into the den and am immediately gagged by the smell, which has, somehow, reached new heights of disgustingness in the four hours I was gone.

  “Hi, Dad, how was your night?” I ask as I sit down on the chair. He doesn’t move from his horizontal position on the couch, nor look away from the TV, but he does manage a:

  “Hey.”

  “I brought you some water.” I place the second glass on the coffee table so it will at least partially block his view of the television.

  “Christ, Art, I didn’t ask for water.”

  “I thought you might be thirsty.” I also think one glass of water for every two dozen cans of beer might be a good idea. My placement works. He sits up, slowly, kicks the dirty dinner plates he had stacked on the ground to each side of his feet, and gulps down the water.

  I debate telling him about my night with Zee, but I would just be talking to hear myself talk—which I’ve done my whole life, so it wouldn’t be that difficult!—but before I can decide if I need to hear my own voice that badly, he farts. A big, long fart. The mystery of the smell escalation is solved. He says, “Frozen food’s killing my stomach.”

  “Why don’t you come into TGI Fridays tomorrow? I work the lunch shift.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Come on, Dad. It will be fun to have you there. I get free food and you can sit at the bar and watch sports on the TVs there.” I don’t get free food. I get discounted food, which I’d happily pay for. It’s the only way I can make sure he’s going to get anything green and not fried-frozen-microwaved into his body.