The Handsome Girl & Her Beautiful Boy
Page 8
ZEE
The workout is “Diane” (all famous CrossFit workouts have names), which is twenty-one deadlifts, then twenty-one handstand push-ups, then fifteen of each, then nine of each. I’ve got the gym record, so it’s one of my faves.
Art’s a mess but he’s making jokes about it, so hopefully he doesn’t stress the f out and have a heart attack. Dish is making him do a super-modified version of just deadlifting an empty bar and then doing five-pound dumbbell presses instead of the handstand push-ups he refused to even attempt.
Bryan (who knew?) is doing the Rx weight, which is 225 for boys and no joke. And he’s been giving me this look while we are loading our bars. He thinks he can beat me, doesn’t he? Then, right before we start, he says, “Winner gets Art?”
No, but whatever, so I say, “Sure.” I mean, there’s no way Bryan’s going to beat me …
… but then it’s a go and he’s done with his twenty-one deadlifts faster than me and no one’s ever faster than me. I’m better than him at handstand push-ups, so I catch and pass him heading into the middle round. He flies through the deadlifts again and, fuck, even though I don’t want Art, I don’t want to lose him to Bryan.
We’re even again as we start into the last round. He’s breathing like a speared bull. It’s a bit intimidating. And inspiring. Art’s not even doing the workout anymore, just cheering us on as Bryan and I hit the wall for the handstand push-ups. My arms are noodles but, fuck it, I find a gear I didn’t know I had. Emit grunts I didn’t know I had either. Beat Bryan by three seconds. Not my best time ever but close.
We’re on our backs next to each other, lungs bursting. Dish comes over, slaps fives with us. “That was an outstanding display of athleticism!” Which she says every class and I love it every time.
Bryan manages to get out between gasps, “I usually want to murder anyone who beats me at anything, but I don’t want to murder you. I don’t know what that means.”
I try to laugh but my lungs feel charcoaled, so I say, “I bet you’d beat me if we did it again.”
“Yes, I would.” He shoves me. Friendly, but not softly. “Not bad for a chubby gay kid, huh?”
“Not bad for a fucking Olympian, Bryan.”
He laughs.
“You really should play football or wrestle or something. You’re a stud.”
“I don’t know, it’s too late now. I’m going to be a junior. Everyone’s already all friends and teammates and all that.”
“I could…” I start. Was going to say, I could talk to Cam about walking on for the football team this fall, but Cam and I aren’t friends anymore. Wow, that sucks to finally admit. Before I can get too depressed, Art leaps onto the ground between Bryan and me, and yells out:
“You two were incredible! You’re like superheroes!”
Bryan says, “Since Zee won, you’re her responsibility now.”
“WAIT!” Art yells even louder. “You were competing for me? For meeeee?” He’s giddy.
“No,” I say, because I wasn’t. I don’t think.
“Yes,” Bryan says.
Art looks at me and knows the truth because he always does. Then he does his Art nuttiness and says, “So does this mean you’ll never tell me we need to spend a few days apart ever again?”
“Sure,” I say, because I don’t think I can handle my mom being dead and my dad being alive and Art withdrawal all at the same time.
art
I am gifted by the gods of love about five seconds to bask in the return of Zee’s affections before one of the other CrossFit people—Taylor, with his black hair and smoldering Eurasian eyes—walks past us and says, “Welcome back, Zee, and welcome to class, boys. Bryan, you were incredible.” Then he walks out and both Zee and Bryan gaze after him like he’s some kind of Greek god. Ugh.
She whispers to us, “If he asked me out, I wouldn’t say no.”
* * *
Sorry. Let me pause time and cry for a year. Thank you.
* * *
“Yeah, he’s hot,” Bryan says, but in this uncomfortable way.
“He’s fine,” I say to Zee, “but he’s not your type.”
She says, “Taylor’s like a more ripped Cam. With a dash of Spanish and Filipino.”
“Cam’s not your type either.”
“I’m gonna go.”
“I was kidding!”
“I know, kid. I’ll text ya later.” Then she just walks away as if each good-bye isn’t a steak knife through my ribs.
* * *
Once Bryan and I are in his car, he says, “You still have the worst gaydar.”
“Zee is not a lesbian.”
“Well, that’s debatable. She does have the lesbian Bieber haircut.”
“I have no idea what you’re referring to, and I know everything.”
“Never mind Zee, Art! I’m talking about Taylor.”
“He’s gay? Really?”
“Absolutely.”
“How do you know?”
“I know.”
“Well, I hope you’re right because all I can imagine right now is Zee and him sweaty together.”
Then he asks, “We’re going back tomorrow, right?”
“I’d rather be eaten alive by rats.”
“I’m going back.”
“You better not be falling in love with Zee too. I saw her first.”
“You’re a moron. Half that class is gay guys, and I’m going to lose my virginity to one of them.”
“Half that class is not gay! They were all muscly jocks!”
“Art, for being so smart, you are so dumb. Your ability to recognize obvious gay people is astronomically bad.”
“It is not,” I say, because I never admit to flaws. But, actually, Bryan’s right. My gaydar is terrible. Which is so not fair! I should have the best gaydar on the planet! But maybe it’s because I think people’s hearts shouldn’t be pigeonholed. Yes. I like this excuse and am embracing it.
ZEE
On the drive home from CrossFit, I’m trying to figure out why I was so determined to win Art from Bryan. And then, five minutes later, throw my attraction to Taylor into Art’s face. This is probably why girls have chick friends. Maybe I should have given Pen my number. But she mentioned Iris, didn’t she? And didn’t Iris sort of secretly date Stacy Ashton? Yeah, so really Pen thinks I’m a lesbian and is trying to set me up with Iris. Why does everyone think I’m secretly gay except Art, who is probably secretly gay himself?!
* * *
Once I’m back at the house, I go up to my room and find Michael in there.
In my room.
While I’m not home.
What the fuck. Which I don’t need to say because my face is screaming, “WHAT THE FUCK, MICHAEL!”
So he looks up, down, everywhere but me. Then he says, “I was thinking of having the house painted. What color would you like your room?”
I don’t respond because this is more than a little creepy. It’s a lot creepy.
He says, “Think about it and let me know,” to my silence, then leaves. I lock the door and know I need to get the hell out of this house. I’m about to call Art, when I see my bottom drawer slightly ajar. The dress drawer. The letter drawer.
I’m on the floor, yanking it open, and I know before I know. It’s gone. The letter’s gone. Michael took it. He fucking stole it. Before I ever read it.
art
On my bus ride to Fridays I get a Facebook invite from Penelope (the hostess at the pizzeria) for a back-to-school party at her boyfriend’s house. Oh-my-god, was I getting invited to a popular upperclassman’s party?
Art Adams’s time has come!
Except Pen isn’t really popular anymore now that she’s dating Benedict the Nerd and I guess I’m a junior now, so that means I’m an upperclassman too, and there are a lot of juniors invited besides me, like Carolina, who I should probably text since I’ve been a bad text friend to her most of the summer, but STILL, history should note today just because.
Anyway:
ME
How’s my favorite person named Carolina
at least until I meet a second Carolina
and then she’ll still be at least in my top two?
CAROLINA
:)
Trevor texted me he missed me but then Kendra
saw him at Midnight Dogs with some new girl:(
That was like five new girlfriends for Trevor since Carolina and him broke up. I’d applaud him if it wasn’t my duty to hate him for Carolina.
ME
He’s just desperate to distract himself
from accepting he’s destined to be with you
CAROLINA
I love you;) How’s Zee Kendrick?
ME
Desperate to distract herself from accepting
she’s destined to be with me. Ha.
I thought I had done my duty as Carolina’s text BFF, but then my phone rings and, oh-my-god, who actually makes phone calls. (Besides me to Zee, but that’s different, ha.)
But I answer because I love vintage things like telephone conversations.
Carolina jumps right in. “So there’s a girl on my travel soccer team who just moved to Winnetka from New York…”
As she starts, I’m thinking, Is Carolina trying to set me up on a date with her friend because she’s sure Zee will end up with Cam?
But then she continues, “… and they go to New Trier, which is even more uppity than Riverbend, and her brother Jayden is having a hard time making friends. I met him, and he’s super interesting and reminded me of you and I thought maybe you could meet him for coffee and just tell him suburban Chicago isn’t the worst place ever?”
“Of course,” I say, because I’m awesome, but I also have to ask, “Carolina, is Jayden gay?”
“Um, uh…” Caught her! “Maybe. Probably. Definitely. But I’m not trying to set you up, I promise, I know you like girls…” She doesn’t believe that at all. “… I just think you two would get along. He’s super interesting and amazing like you.” “Amazing” is Carolina’s favorite word, and I blame her for my overuse of it.
“But not as super interesting and amazing as me, right?”
“That would be impossible, Art.” Get my sense of humor = I love you.
“Okay, Carolina, you can give him my number.” And, anyway, the way these things work, I seriously doubt I’ll ever hear from this Jayden boy.
ZEE
I stomp down the stairs toward the kitchen because I want Michael to hear me coming. He’s standing two feet in front of his projection television, flipping through channels as if he didn’t just hear me approach like King Fucking Kong. I seethe, “Where’s the letter?”
He says, “What letter?” without even looking up from the remote. And, fuck it, let’s do this:
“Give. Me. The. Letter.”
“Your mom—”
“Do not bring my mom into this. I want the letter.”
He finally turns away from the TV, tries to pretend he’s a real man. “If you’re going to live in my house, you have to allow me to protect you as I feel is best.”
I want to laugh because he’s so fucking creepy and pathetic, but I’m too fucking angry, so I say, “How do I get my money?”
He wasn’t ready for me knowing about that.
I make it fucking clear: “The money my mom left me. She said you knew the details. How do I get it?”
He hasn’t witnessed this side of me before. The anger monster my mom pacified long ago is back and she’s fucking ready to blow. Michael’s whole body does this tiny, nervous shake. He’s terrified of me. He should be. “Rebecca, you’re being incredibly disrespectful and rude right now. I refuse to speak to you until you have apologized.”
“I want the letter and my money fucking now.” Just a matter of time until blastoff—
“I wanted to get that letter so that we could talk about your dad, but it’s obvious you’re already talking to him. Did he tell you to get the money so he could steal it? There’s things I know about your dad—”
And bringing up “Dad” does it. Boom: “WHERE’S THE FUCKING MONEY, MICHAEL?!”
“Your mom instructed me to keep that money in a secure account so that you weren’t irresponsible with it.”
“BULLSHIT! Mom would NEVER have said that! You’re a FUCKING LIAR, Michael!”
“YOU’RE A SPOILED LITTLE BRAT!”
* * *
And I’m gone. Upstairs, locked in my bedroom. I want to throw my bed through the window and blow up this fucking house, but instead I’m about to text Art—what, I don’t know—when I see his text.
Arshad.
What kind of name is Arshad anyway?
It’s the kind of name my father has.
A sensation pulses in my gut, then builds, rises fast up through me. I’m up on my feet and I’m typing a text:
ME
This is Zee.
art
When I get home after work, Abigail’s bedroom door is open and her light is on, which usually means she’s feeling sorry for herself, and I try to do charity work at least once a week.
“Hi,” I say, walking into her room and sitting down on her desk chair. She’s lying on her stomach on her bed, feet in the air, flipping through a magazine. Abigail doesn’t even look up.
“Cam hates me,” she says.
I’m already bored, but that’s why they call it charity work, so I ask, “What happened?”
“He saw you and Zee at the pizzeria last night.”
Uh-oh.
“Art, oh-my-god, if you are stalking Zee, I will castrate you.”
“I’m not. At all … stalking her.” See what I did there? I’m terrible. Terribly awesome.
Abigail’s nonchalant cool changes to the psycho channel as she spins to her butt, onto her feet, and then lunges with her finger in my face. “OH-MY-GOD, ART! YOU’RE GOING TO MAKE CAM HATE ME!”
“How is my hanging out with Zee going to make Cam hate you?” This is a legitimate question but only to a non-crazy person. Abigail is not a non-crazy person.
Abigail paces in tiny circles and cries out to the corners of her ceiling as she rants, “Because he already feels like he screwed up his friendship with her by not being there after her mom died and he’ll think you’re taking his place and then he’ll blame me for you taking his place and then he’ll break up with me and I’ll get fat.” All of Abigail’s tragic nightmares end with her getting fat.
But, ugh, her stress is real. Time to be a good brother and not just a smart-ass. So I hold open my arms and let her fall fast into my hug.
She says, sniffling, “Cam is the only thing I have, Art.… You have all your creativity and stuff, but he’s all I have.”
“That’s not true, you have…” I need to come up with something that at least sounds true in like two seconds so, “… you have passion, Abigail.”
“You mean I’m crazy.” Which is mostly true, but I say,
“You’re not crazy.… Your passion just hasn’t found the right way to express itself.” This is even more true.
“Thanks, Art,” she says as she nestles her head tighter against my shoulder. “This feels weird, but I don’t hate you that much right now.”
“I promise to forget you ever said that.” Abigail laughs at my joke, which she never does, and then starts in on a whole new round of sobs and sniffles.
* * *
When I’m back in my room, I text Zee, So tomorrow … movie? because you know why.
But Zee doesn’t text back and I try to fall asleep imagining myself scaling a castle tower to rescue her except she’s probably the only one of us that could climb anything so then I imagine her rescuing me from the tower but no fairy tales ever end with the girl rescuing the guy because of how witty and fashionable he is.
ZEE
The nanosecond after I send that text to my dad, I throw the phone on the bed as if it’s on fire.
Can texts be unsent? That must be possible, right?
/> And
then
my
phone
starts
ringing.
It’s him.
Screw that. Fuck that.
Gonna let it go to voice mail.
* * *
Zee?
Yes, Mom?
If you’re so busy being angry, how are you going to look for things that might make you happy?
* * *
Phone. Hand. Answer. Ear.
“Hello…” I say. I think.
“Zee, it’s Arshad.…” His voice is soft, weathered, distant. Like from another planet. He speaks again to my silence, “Thank you for getting back to me.”
“Yeah…” What does he want me to say? Who the hell is this person? I should hang up. THIS IS SO UNFAIR, MOM!
“I…” he starts, yeah, and you better say something great or I’m gone, “… am sorry to hear about your mom. She was a special person.”
Nope. Not doing this. “This is weird. I have to go.” And I hang up.
* * *
And then I can breathe again, which is better than not breathing, but I feel like hell. I’m a bitch to everyone. To Art. To Michael (even if he deserved it). To this stranger who knocked up my mom seventeen years ago.
A beep. A text.
FATHER PERSON
Zee … I shouldn’t have called without
asking if this was a good time. I apologize.
Yeah. And I’m a bitch. We’re even. Except we’re not. Because you abandoned us. But whatever.
FATHER PERSON
Let me know when a better time might be.
Or we can meet.
Whatever is best for you.
Take your time.
Forever. That’s how long I’m going to take. Forever.
But instead I text:
ME
Okay.
I don’t know what I mean by that. Hopefully he can figure out what I mean by that.