by Jen Klein
He disappears into the crowd and—even though I’m mad about the song—I’m kind of bummed to see him go.
• • •
Itch and I are sitting on the swings at Cherry Hill Park, not far from my house. I asked if he would drive me home and he said yes, even though things have been a little tense since the weekend. We were quiet the whole way here. I was thinking about how to say it, and about what it would mean, and even about what I wanted it to mean. I kept going back to the thing Oliver had said, how things are supposed to be. How do I want things to be with Itch?
It sleeted this afternoon and now everything is gray and dank. The seat of the swing was spotted with water when I sat on it, but I already felt so damp that I didn’t care. Now I’m regretting that decision as the temperature drops even more and I’m shivery everywhere.
“So what’s up?” Itch says.
A nervous knot gathers in the pit of my stomach. Earlier, I thought of several ways to broach the topic but now I’ve forgotten all of them. “I have to tell you something.”
“Go ahead.” His voice is more even than usual.
I twist the swing to face him. “Remember how you said we should be open to dating other people this summer?”
“Yes.”
I suddenly have an attack of the nerves so strong that I have to jerk out of my swing and stand up. I squeeze my thumbs inside my mittens, take a deep breath, and spit it out: “I kissed someone.”
I wait. Itch digs his toes into the pebbles to bring his swing to stillness. He gazes up at me for a moment, a long moment during which I try to understand his expression, but I can’t find anything in it. No anger or sadness or jealousy. Either I don’t know how to read him, or those emotions really aren’t there. I can’t tell.
And then Itch’s mouth tilts up into his lopsided grin. “Is that all?” I nod and he gets to his feet. He sets his hands on my shoulders. “Me too, June. It’s okay.”
I freeze—what?—before pulling back. I’m not jealous but I’m…I don’t know what I am. I’m surprised. I’m something. “Who was she?”
A line deepens between Itch’s eyebrows. “Just a couple Florida girls.”
“A couple?”
“Maybe three. None of them meant anything.”
“Did you have sex?” I ask, and he shakes his head violently.
“Not even close,” he says. “I’m telling you, it was nothing.”
And I have to believe him. I have to understand, because that’s what it felt like with Ethan in the 7-Eleven parking lot. It felt like nothing, like it could have been anyone’s mouth and anyone’s hands. It was a time killer. A space filler. It wasn’t fair and I’m not proud…but that’s what it was.
Itch reaches out to me again, and this time I let him pull me in, let him wrap his arms around me and stroke my hair. “We weren’t together,” he murmurs in my ear. “Now we are. It’s all good.”
I nod against him, relieved.
And—somehow—also disappointed.
• • •
Oliver doesn’t even turn on the playlist when I climb into the car. He just pulls out into the street before flipping a look at me. “Did you do it?”
“Yes.”
“You told him?”
“Yes.”
Silence for at least a full minute. I know Oliver is waiting for me to talk, but there’s really nothing to say. Finally, he can’t take it anymore. “How’d it go?”
“Fine.” I scrunch down in my seat and stare out the window. “It went fine.”
Itch must have conned his way out of second period a few minutes early, because he’s already waiting in the hallway when I exit environmental sciences. “My parents are going out of town this weekend,” he says.
“For Thanksgiving?”
“No, right after. On Friday. Can you tell your mom you’re staying at Lily’s?”
I’m about to answer when an overgrown Saint Bernard bounds down the hallway and nearly barrels over us. It’s Oliver, wearing an apron and carrying a bowl. “It worked! It didn’t collapse!” He whips out a spoon and scoops a soft pile of brown onto it. “Chocolate soufflé. Here!”
I am hyperaware of Itch standing silently by my side, but I open my mouth so Oliver can feed me the bite and…
Sweet silky heaven.
“Wow,” I say after I’ve swallowed. “That’s incredible.”
“I know, right?” Oliver turns to Itch—“Want a bite?”—but Itch shakes his head.
Oliver doesn’t appear to be bothered. His eyes focus on someone down the hall behind us and he calls out, “Lisa, Yana! Wait up!” He bounds away, waving his spoon.
“You’re still wearing your apron!” I shout after him, but he doesn’t hear me. That’s Oliver in a nutshell. Exuberant and passionate and generous.
“Hey.” Itch nudges me and I suddenly realize I have a goofy smile across my face. I wipe it away. “So can you tell your mom you’re sleeping at Lily’s?”
“Maybe,” I say, my eyes still on Oliver.
• • •
Itch has to buy some things, so I let him take me to the mall after school. First we get smoothies, and then I end up holding his cup while he browses JCPenney’s selection of boxers. I watch him, wondering when our relationship devolved to the point of purchasing undergarments together. Maybe it would be all right if I chose for him, if we were being sexy or romantic or if it was a joke or maybe if he was getting the kind stamped with little hearts or…or…
Or anything but this. This is just me acting as Itch’s beverage stand while he tries to choose between large-patterned plaid or small-patterned plaid.
This is killing me.
I flash back to Mom’s Deep Thought, about how sometimes things need to get messy before they can be good. Maybe that’s what Itch and I need. Some messiness.
“That was nice of Oliver, don’t you think?” I say it casually.
“What?” Itch drapes a pair of red-and-blue boxers (small-patterned) over his left arm and moves to a new rack.
“How he offered you some of that soufflé he made. It’s not like you guys know each other that well or anything.”
“Sure.”
“It was really good.”
“Cool.”
“Shockingly good.” Itch starts checking out the boxer briefs and I switch tactics. “You know what I appreciate about Oliver?”
“Nope.”
“How he can just run up to anyone, to any group of people at school. Other jocks, artists, geeks, stoners, anyone. I don’t ever see him being mean to anyone, you know?”
“Yup.” Itch selects a four-pack of navy cotton undies.
I decide to bump things up, just a touch. “I like being friends with him.”
“Great.” Itch holds out his hand and it takes me a second to realize he’s reaching for his smoothie. I give it to him and follow him toward the register, assessing the situation as we go.
My boyfriend isn’t annoyed by my friendship with our school’s hottest guy. He’s not jealous. He’s not worried.
That’s the problem, I suddenly recognize. Itch doesn’t get jealous or worried or passionate or…
Or anything.
He’s a flat line.
I stand, watching him pay for his underwear, and I feel flat, too. No, worse than flat.
I feel nothing at all.
• • •
“Maybe he’s gay.”
It’s four days later, and Shaun is hacking at a particularly sturdy buckthorn plant with a pair of red-handled clippers.
“Itch isn’t gay,” I tell him. “I have hard proof of that.”
“Ha-ha, you said ‘hard.’ ”
“You are a child. Here, give me those.” I take the clippers and use them to grasp the buckthorn’s woody base. “You have to grab and twist to pull the roots all the way out.”
Shaun straightens with a groan. “I think the only thing I’m pulling out is my back.” He rubs his hands together. “And my fingers might have frostbi
te.”
“Don’t be a baby. You’re helping Mother Earth.”
“I hate it.”
“Hush,” I tell him. “Find your Zen.”
We’re at the Ives Road Fen Preserve. Thirty miles south of Ann Arbor, it’s a huge preserve with a wetlands area that is rare for this part of Michigan. I love it for its raw beauty and all the things that look like they’ve never been touched by people. Silver maples tower over acres of prairie dropseed grass. There are tree frogs and cricket frogs and shy, colorful birds. This is the real deal.
Ever since working at the nature center this summer, I’ve wanted to sign up for one of Ives Road’s volunteer days, but this is the first time I’ve convinced someone to join me (and drive us there). To be fair, it’s tough work. We’ve been at it for over three hours and my back hurts, too.
I tried to get Itch to come, but he declined even though his parents are out of town and it’s not like he has anything important going on. He’s probably pouting because I refused to lie to Mom.
Except I forgot: Itch doesn’t pout. Itch doesn’t do anything.
“It just seems like he doesn’t care,” I tell Shaun.
“About you?”
“About anything.”
Shaun points at a small green patch. “That’s not poison ivy, is it?”
“That’s grass, Shaun.”
He drops onto it with a sigh and falls backward, arms outstretched. “What’s the worst thing that could happen if I fell asleep right here?”
“You could be eaten.”
“By a wolverine?” He sounds almost hopeful.
“By mosquitoes.” I twist another shiny buckthorn from the dirt before plopping beside him.
“It’s too cold for mosquitoes,” Shaun tells me. “Which means it’s too cold for humans. Cuddle me.”
He grabs the back of my jacket and pulls me down to rest against him. I place my head on his chest and wrap an arm around him.
“Just a like a real boy,” he says.
“You’re just like a real boy,” I retort.
“So what are you going to do about Itch?”
“Nothing.” Shaun doesn’t say anything in return, so I elaborate. “I don’t want to break up with him. I like being his girlfriend.”
“Maybe you just like being a girlfriend.”
The thing is, I do like being a girlfriend. I like belonging to someone in an official capacity. I like saying “my boyfriend.” I like knowing that if I want a date, I have one.
Since none of those seem like really great things to admit, I change the subject. “How’s Kirk?”
“Too far away.”
“Chicago is drivable.”
“My parents don’t think so,” says Shaun. “But even if they did, I don’t know if I would go. Kirk isn’t out to his dad yet. It would be weird.”
“I’m sorry.” My relationships are complicated enough without the extra baggage that Shaun has to deal with. “Are you going to break up with him?”
“I don’t even know if I have to,” says Shaun. “It doesn’t feel like we’re dating anymore.”
“I know what you mean.”
“Hey, lovebirds!” A deep voice with a strong New York accent startles us into sitting upright. It’s an older man wearing gloves and work boots that mark him as a volunteer. “What do you think this is: Inspiration Point? Get the hell up and get to work!”
Shaun and I turn to look at each other, slow grins spreading over our faces. “I love you,” Shaun says loudly so the man will definitely hear.
“I love you, too,” I tell him. The man grumbles something under his breath and marches away. I stand and pull Shaun to his feet. “Just a few more buckthorns and then we can go home.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Itch finds me between Spanish III and calculus class. I lean up to kiss him, but he pulls away. “Where were you at lunch?” he asks. “Wait, let me guess. North Hall.”
“It’s warm there.”
“The cafeteria is warm. And it’s not riddled with cheerleaders.”
Annoying.
“They’re not cockroaches, Itch. They’re people. When did you get so judgy?” He scowls at me and I hold up a finger before he can say anything else. “Besides, I texted you. I told you Ainsley wanted to hang.” It wasn’t 100 percent true, but it also wasn’t a lie, since she did tell me I was always invited.
“Again,” says Itch.
“You’re invited, Itch! You’re always invited.”
“Lucky me.”
Annoying and rude.
“How do you think it feels to have to make excuses for you every single time?” I ask him. “Just once, couldn’t you make an effort to break out of your social circle and talk to someone new?”
“I like my social circle. You’re in my social circle and get this: I actually like you.”
“Really?” My voice scales up and a small pack of underclassmen turns to see what’s going on. “You don’t act that way.”
“I don’t act that way?” Itch shakes his head. “Priceless.”
My heart speeds up and blood rushes to my cheeks. We’ve had little spats before—like the one in Rite Aid—but this time, it feels different. This time, I feel different.
Like I want to fight.
“You know what I have to say to my friends, Itch? ‘Sorry. My boyfriend’s not a joiner.’ It’s such an obvious lie. They all know it’s code for ‘he just doesn’t like you.’ ”
“They’re snotty,” says Itch. “They’re pretentious.”
“Calling them pretentious is pretentious!” I snap, and remember that it was Oliver who first said that to me. “They’re fun, Itch. They laugh and they have a good time.”
“Yeah, I know all about their ‘good times.’ ”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I’m furious now, revved up for a full-out battle. Itch folds his arms across his chest and glares. A split second before the bell rings, I realize the hall has cleared.
We’re late for class.
“Shit,” says Itch. He turns and stalks away. I watch him go all the way to the end of the hall and turn the corner.
He never looks back.
• • •
Lily has a three-hour violin practice, and Darbs had to take her youngest brother to Chuck E. Cheese’s, and Shaun isn’t answering my texts, so I have no one to call for a good Itch Bitch. Instead, I’m lying across my bed, listening to the Dead Kennedys and throwing paper clips into my metal wastebasket. I only make every third toss or so.
Suddenly, I pause. The tiny metal clicks aren’t the only staccato sounds in the room. I wait and hear it again: a soft scatter shot against the window. I hop up and look outside to see that Itch is standing there, far below. As I watch, he tosses another handful of pebbles. I wave so he’ll stop, and I point to the front of the house.
When I open the door, he’s already standing on the welcome mat. “Let me in,” he says. “It’s freezing out here.”
I step back so he can enter, and as I close the door, Mom calls from the kitchen. “Is someone here, June?”
“It’s Itch,” I call back. “He won’t stay long.”
“Hi, Itch!” calls my mom.
“Hi,” he calls to her.
Now that all the calling back and forth is over, I put my hands on my hips and look up at him. “Pebbles against the window? Really?”
“It’s a grand romantic gesture. I thought you would like it.”
I’m pissed off and I don’t want to give an inch. “You could have knocked at the door.”
“That is neither grand nor romantic,” he informs me, reaching for my hand. I pull away, so he sighs and takes a step backward, running his fingers through his hair. “June, I’m sorry.”
I know it would be gracious to accept his apology, but I feel hard and angry and nowhere near forgiveness. “I don’t know if sorry is enough. I don’t know if anything is enough.”
“I used to be a joiner,” he s
ays. “At my old school.”
That’s new information. “What kind of joiner?”
“The kind who did all the same things as Oliver and Ainsley and everyone else.”
I blink. “Did you play sports?”
“No, but I hung out with the kids who did. The ones who were popular and partied a lot.”
“Did you…party?” He knows I don’t use that word as a verb.
“I had to. Back there, that was how you stayed on top. We didn’t have any Shauns bouncing from group to group. We didn’t even have any Olivers, who have an all-access pass by virtue of being at the top of the food chain. At my old school, you were either on the top or you were on the bottom. No middle ground.”
I stare at him, trying to picture Itch joining things, playing along. “But you hate that.”
“It used to be normal.” He stops, biting his lip.
I’ve never seen him do that before and—although I don’t know why—the hottest part of my anger melts away. “What happened?” I ask, because something had to have happened.
“It was my friend Xavier.” Itch takes a deep breath. “We called him X. Really funny guy. Smart, too. Played guitar. All the girls loved him.”
“He sounds like your worst nightmare.” I say it to lighten the mood, but I only earn the smallest lip twitch from Itch.
“It was a party after a football game. One of those parties like all the other parties, except this time X snagged something from his aunt’s medicine cabinet. I don’t even know what it was, but June—” He looks into my eyes. “Any other night, I probably would have taken some, too, because that’s the way it worked. If X was offering, you took it. But I had to get up early the next morning to drive my parents to the airport. I didn’t want to pass out and forget to show up or something, so I said no.”
“What happened?” I ask in a small voice.
“The same thing that always happened,” Itch says. “Everyone drank and got stupid and had a good time. Except in the middle of it all, X had a seizure and fell through a glass-topped coffee table.”
A gasp comes out of me before I can stop it.
“Everyone screamed. There was a lot of blood and he kept seizing, but we were all drunk. And scared, I think. Scared of our parents and the cops and getting busted. I tried to help stop the bleeding, but I wasn’t exactly sober, either, and someone finally called 911. It was—” He stops for a second, and I reach for his hands. I hold them between my own. “It was the worst night of my life.”
