Abigail ignores Bryan, stares me down. “I told Cam you were BFFs with Zee now and he wants you to fix their friendship and you better or I’ll go back to hating you.”
Cam mumbles under his breath to Abigail, “You didn’t tell me Bryan would be here.” And Cam can’t even look our way. Never seen him this fidgety.
Abigail’s so confused she starts wiggling her hips like she’s stuck in cement. “Do you and Bryan have some thing I don’t know about?”
And because I feel abandoned by Zee (and because I love drama!), I say, “Yes, back in grade school Cam was a bully who used to call Bryan the f-slur and then Bryan beat him up.”
“He didn’t beat me up!” Cam cries out like, seriously, a girl.
“OH, YOU KNOW I COULD HAVE, BITCH!” Bryan shouts, fists clenched, and I have to admit that the use of “bitch” in this instance is quite brilliant.
“I was eleven, Bryan!” Cam says, and it’s so, so, so weird seeing six-foot-four Captain Sports look so, so, so small.
“And I was ten!” Bryan says, and his tough exterior is melding with his quivering interior. This is tense! Cam, the childhood bully, being confronted six years later by Bryan, the victim, except the victim beat him up, and to be honest, I’d still put my money on Bryan.
Abigail doesn’t know what to do, and I know I have to be the mature one even though I find this whole scene fascinating. So I say, as I stand up from the table, and I’m serious because I always know when it’s time to be serious, “Cam, I’ll help you fix things with Zee, but first you have to fix things with Bryan.” Maybe I should be president of Earth.
And, again, there’s this silence. Bryan standing beside me, hands still clenched, and Cam hiding behind Abigail, not able to look our way. For a moment, I think Cam is going to leave. But instead he takes two steps toward us and looks toward Bryan, even if he can’t quite look him in the eye, and then Cam says, “I’m sorry, okay?”
Bryan waits. Good for him.
Cam continues, “I was dumb and insecure and I picked on you ’cuz it made me feel better about myself, which is even dumber.” Deep breath. He finally meets Bryan’s eyes as he says a final “I’m sorry.”
“Okay,” Bryan says after the world starts spinning again and then he says, “I have to go,” and he takes a wide path around all of us and out of Ben & Jerry’s.
* * *
“I’ll be right back,” I say to both Abigail and Cam, and I run and catch Bryan by the arm out on the sidewalk.
“I’M FINE, ART! I’M FINE!” Bryan yells, tiny tears trapped in the corners of his eyes.
“You were amazing,” I say, and hug him.
“I always am.” He goes soft, lays his forehead on my shoulder for a moment, then pulls back. “Go tell Cam now that’s he’s apologized that when he comes out of the closet, I’ll be waiting for him.”
“You think…?”
“No, not at all, but I like to torture myself by finding unavailable boys attractive.” And he punches me in the shoulder—not that softly!—and walks on.
I watch him for a couple seconds and can’t decide if our friendship has taken an evolutionary leap or I’m just feeling the effects of Zee withdrawal. Then I turn back toward the store and try to determine just how helpful I want to be in mending the Cam-Zee friendship.
I mean, she might love me for making things great between them again, right?
But, ugh, what if I make things so right—because I’m brilliant—that Cam dumps my sister and falls in love with Zee and I lose my One True Love to a boy who wears black socks with brown shoes? This would be a disaster. And when I say “disaster,” I mean it would probably be the worst thing that happened in human history.
ZEE
—I call her.
Psycho me calls my dead mother’s cell phone.
But it’s a dead number. Dead like her. Michael cut it off. Asshole. Not as big of an asshole as my dad, but an asshole.
Need. I need. What do I need? “I NEED TO BLOW UP THE FUCKING PLANET!” I laugh. I’m so nuts.
* * *
I kill time listening to sports radio until CrossFit starts. Taylor goes back to forgetting I exist, Glen flirts with some new girl who will never come again, and Bill doesn’t even show up to class. Know who does show up? Bryan. And he kicks my ass.
Fuck him,
fuck boys,
fuck Art,
fuck everyone.
art
After I babble on and on to Cam (and Abigail) about how Zee isn’t ready to meet with him right now, which is a lie even if it might be true, Cam asks, “Can I see her today?” because he clearly hasn’t listened to a word I’ve said.
I say, “Not today, Cam. But I’ll ask her tonight when she might be ready to consider seeing you.” This is a lie because Zee hasn’t texted me in over fourteen hours and that’s way, way, way, way, way, way, way too long.
Abigail does what she does best and butts in. “But you’re going to make this happen soon, right? Cam is super depressed about it.”
“I’m not super depressed…” he starts.
“Baby, you never want to see me, and when you do, you never want to do anything besides watch TV.”
“Babe, we see each other like every day—”
“We didn’t see each other yesterday!”
“But every day before that!”
Fight, drama, action! “I’m gonna go,” I say, and leave them to do their dysfunctional relationship thing.
* * *
Once I’m out of Ben & Jerry’s and walking to work—STILL NO RAIN!—I text Zee because I have no self-control:
ME
Ran into Cam and Abigail and Cam really
misses you. I didn’t tell him anything
but let me know if you want me to.
And as soon as I hit send, I’m sort of sure Zee will hate me for talking to Cam about her, and I’m suddenly, absolutely, one billion percent sure that I have literally no idea what I’m doing.
YES, LITERALLY.
Actually, I literally don’t even know if I know what “literally” means anymore.
ZEE
When I drive home from the gym, I see Michael’s BMW, and I want to scream my fucking head off demanding he give me the letter back except Michael’s right, isn’t he? My dad’s a bigger asshole than he is. Maybe the biggest asshole ever born. But it only makes me hate Michael more that he’s right. No way I can go into his house, maybe ever again.
So I’m in my truck in workout clothes with a sweat that’s cooling fast. I have no idea what to do or where to go. Then my phone beeps and it’s—fucking of course—a text from Art.
He saw Cam.
Says Cam misses me.
Every feeling (and I hate that word!) that I’ve ever felt about Cam since sixth grade forces itself down my throat and into my gut. Only I want to be angry, not sad, so I start wondering why Cam would have told Art that he misses me unless Cam knows I’ve been hanging out with Art and suddenly I feel like Art’s sabotaging my entire life. I’m about to rage-text the kid when I remember he’s working and so—
art
After I close my last tab at just past ten p.m., I turn my phone back on—OH, PLEASE, TEXTING GODS, LET THERE BE SOMETHING FROM ZEE—but no … nothing … I contemplate moving to South America (probably Uruguay since that’s the best name of a country ever) but the only reason to move would be to make Zee miss me and the only reason to make her miss me is so I could see how much she misses me but how can I see that if I’m in Uruguay?
There is a stupid text from Abigail and then a message from an unknown number:
UNKNOWN NUMBER
Art, this is Jayden. Carolina gave me
your number and said you were the only
interesting person in all of Chicago
so i am writing to find out if this is true.
Oh, well, guess I’m not going to get away without having to meet Carolina’s friend’s brother. He did win points with his better-than-boring text me
ssage introduction but my brain can’t engage in any non-Zee conversations right now, so I ignore it.
And guess what?
It finally starts raining!
Right as I have to leave the restaurant and walk to the bus stop!
I’m going to get soaked!
My life is a disaster!
But then—oh, yes, but then—when I walk out of Fridays, into the downpour, and toward the bus stop, I see her leaning against her truck.
* * *
If I ever claim that I was happier than I was when I saw Zee in the parking lot, call me a liar because I don’t care what happens for the next billion years, I’ll never be happier than seeing the love of my infinite lives at that moment.
She’s here.
Here.
Here for me, to see me, standing in the rain, and she’s wearing a white sports bra and black shorts and she’s even more rippling with muscles than yesterday and the sight of her is making my body tingle everywhere. And the way she’s leaning against the truck in the rain! It’s so intense, and so confident, and so … oh, my, I’m soooooooo in love.
* * *
So I, of course, smile and start moving fast toward Zee—I almost run because I’m that excited, but then I decide I should pretend to be as cool as her, so I walk but walk super fast (and also in slow motion! I know that’s impossible but it happens)—and then she steps toward me and I see the fire in her eyes.
Oh no.
Not a good fire. Not an “I yearn for Art as much as Art yearns for me!” fire. No, not even close. This was more like an “If I had X-ray vision, your face would have a big, burning hole through the center and you’d be dead!” fire.
She tries not to yell, but her whole body is screaming, so I feel her words pound into me. “How does Cam know we are hanging out, Art? Did you tell him? After all that bullshit that you said about not causing me drama? Was it all an act? WERE YOU LYING TO ME THE WHOLE TIME?”
I’m a small child, and my dad’s yelling at me for pouring the dishwasher detergent on the kitchen floor in my attempt to emulate Olympic ice skaters on the tile.
But also …
I’m turned on. My penis … is excited. Zee is yelling, and yelling, my great love hates me greatly, and I’m sexually aroused.… Why would her yelling at me make me more physically attracted to her?! That’s so confusing! I feel so pathetic, so gross, and my body is even more confused than I am and she keeps yelling—
“WHY ARE YOU JUST STANDING THERE, ART? JUST TELL ME HOW CAM KNOWS WE HAVE BEEN HANGING OUT!”
* * *
Remember when I said seeing Zee leaning against her truck outside of TGI Fridays was the happiest moment of my life? Well, this is now the worst moment of my life.
ZEE
And the kid’s crying. Crying! I want to scream, I’m glad you’re crying! but, fuck me, I can’t even stay mad at him for a second longer so I say, “Fuck you,” and pull him against me for a hug and then I smell the lotion, and now the memory of my mom is in my nose, and all that crap today with Arshad and Michael is in my brain. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“I’m sorry,” he manages through tiny sobs, “I thought I could help you and Cam be friends, maybe … I don’t know … I’m so sorry, Zee.…”
* * *
He babbles on, burying his face into my shoulder, so I just hold him tighter.
It feels good to hold him against me. To let him cry. The chill from the rain and my cold sweat fades from the warmth of his body, and that warmth from Art is making me … I don’t know. Listen. I’m feeling …
For some reason, the image of Cam picking up Abigail and twirling her at the pizzeria flashes through me. That’s what I should want. Right? I want to be twirled. Right? I’m a girl—girls want to be twirled. Girls want to be held, not do the holding. Not be consoling some crying, pretty kid in the rain in a TGI Fridays parking lot.
But my body is vibrating, with adrenaline and … lust? I don’t even … Maybe I’m just alone. Yeah. I’m so alone and I’m so tired of being alone and …
… and then I feel him. His penis. It’s hard. Against me. He’s turned on too. What a fucking pair we are.
“Let’s get out of here,” I whisper when he’s stopped talking. He nods. I take him by the hand, walk him to the passenger door, and help him into the cab.
art
I start saying “Sorry” again as Zee drives out of the parking lot, but as soon as I begin, she says, “Let’s not talk about it. Not now. We’re drenched, we’re freezing. We need to get dry and warm.”
“Okay,” I say, because she’s in charge and I like her being in charge. Zee’s eyes have transformed from rage to … oh-my-god, I can’t even say it …
“We can’t go to my house. Michael and I are fighting and I don’t know if I can ever go back there … and we can’t go to your house. I can’t deal with Abigail and Cam tonight.”
“Cam and Abigail went to the Cubs game—”
“How do you know?” She hates hearing this. “Never mind.”
“And Abigail texted me they were going to stay downtown at my sister Alice’s place, so we could go to my house.”
She thinks. But my Zee doesn’t just think, she broods, and when my Zee broods, she’s radiant. Her short wet hair is slicked back, and raindrops dot her exposed skin, and the tiny shiver in her body makes every inch of her taut and vibrant.
* * *
I should kiss her!
No, absolutely not!
Yes, absolutely yes!
Your lips will not magically make her love you instead of Cam!
Of course they will!
I’m so confused!
I know!
* * *
“Okay,” she says.
We don’t say anything on the drive to my house. Me not talking is totally normal. So normal. And when I say that, I mean that I have no idea what alien has taken control of my body and insisted on bathing in all this silent tension in the truck. Oh, my gosh, it’s unbearable. I’m going to explode. But maybe in a good way.
I tell Zee to park down the block just in case Abigail and Cam get in a big fight (or something) and come home. After I make sure my dad is passed out in front of the television, we sneak up the stairs on our toes even though we could play trumpets and my dad wouldn’t budge.
I lead her into my room and I close the door and—
ZEE
His room has two single beds. On the walls above the bed with the navy-blue blanket are posters of Michael Jordan and Derrick Rose. Then pinned brochures of Lamborghinis and Porsches. And a five-year-old swimsuit model calendar. It screams Typical American Teenage Boy, and I have half that crap up on my walls.
The other half of the room looks like a showroom for Restoration Hardware, pristine whites, grays, and ivory. Framed magazine covers of GQ and Vanity Fair on the wall in two columns next to the closet. Above the headboard is a poster of a kitten in a pink tie and black sunglasses, a quote underneath reads, I’m Everything I Pretend to Be. This side of the room doesn’t just scream Art; it broadcasts it.
If the chill from the three-hour-old sweat and recent rain wasn’t shaking my bones, I might have been able to ask myself, Why the fuck aren’t you with the boy with sports posters and swimsuit models on his walls?
And then, as Art lights a scented candle on his nightstand, he says, “You’re probably wishing I liked sports like my older brother.…” Further confirmation the kid can read my brain.
“I don’t care.” I don’t? I do. Maybe. I don’t even know. What I know is I need—
“Oh-my-god, you’re shaking. Let’s get you in the shower. Here—” He grabs a clean towel from his closet, hugs me, rubbing his hands against my back to warm me a bit, and then leads us to the bathroom. It’s tiny. And making it feel even smaller is all the crap crammed in here. Lotion crap. Makeup crap. Feminine crap. On the sink counter, top of the toilet, windowsill. “I just want you to know, only the stuff in here is mine.” He opens the cupboard under the s
ink, where two rows of products are neatly lined up. “The rest of this madness is Abigail’s.”
“I wouldn’t know what to do with half this shit.”
“You don’t need it because you’re naturally gorgeous.” And he holds his eyes on mine. We’re a foot apart because it’s impossible to be farther apart in this bathroom.
* * *
I have a weird fucking thought.
I want to take a shower with him.
Not in a sexual way.
I don’t think.
More like girlfriends might take a shower together. Just to be together. I’ve never done that because I’ve never had a girlfriend close enough that I would even think about doing it with. But I’ve seen it on television.
But it’s just a stupid thought. Weird and stupid and—
art
“What?” I ask because Zee has the weirdest look in her eyes.
“Nothing.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.” She’s lying. Ugh.
So I pretend I don’t know she’s lying and say, “Water takes forever to warm up. But it gets hot, I promise, and then after you’re done, I’ll have some clothes picked out that you can wear.” I turn around to start the shower, maybe just to escape her gaze—it might swallow me, I swear!—but when I spin back to face her, those eyes of hers are still pulsating with so much intensity that my lungs cease to function properly. “Oh-my-god, tell me what you’re thinking or I’ll die,” I say, and I didn’t mean to say that out loud even though I always mean to say things out loud.
“You…” she starts. She’s nervous. If she only knew that I worship every word that comes out of her mouth, she’d never be nervous around me again. “… should probably shower too.”
“Yes, but you first. You’re shivering and—”
“We could shower together,” Zee says. She said that. She totally did, didn’t she? Am I nodding? I think I am. I totally am. I can’t speak.
I can’t speak.
The Handsome Girl & Her Beautiful Boy Page 10
