"I will?"
"Yes. If you know Shannon, you'll know immediately which necklace she likes."
"Heh-heh. Okay, thanks. Thanks, Mrs. DeWinter."
Either she's screwing with me or she really believes I'll take one look at a necklace in a store window and know that it's meant for Shannon.
***
I cannot tell you how happy I am that Metals has only! one! window!
Houston and I concentrate all available brainpower on analyzing the selection of necklaces.
Gah! There are a million of them. I'm in Necklace Hell! Gold ... silver ... is that bronze? Some with blue stones, some with red stones, some with little diamonds. Real diamonds? Surely Shannon's mom doesn't think I can afford to buy her daughter a diamond necklace. But which one is the one I'm supposed to "know immediately" that she'd like? My eyes jump around in a panic. I start to hyperventilate, fogging up the window.
When I lean my forehead against the glass in despair, I see a necklace near the front corner.
And she's right. Psycho-Mother is right. I look at it, and somehow I know immediately that it will look amazing on Shannon.
It's silver, and it looks gypsyish. Or maybe belly dancer–ish. Tiny silver disks cascading down in links that end in blue teardrop jewels. I can't describe it very well. But I can picture her wearing it, with her blue eyes picking up the color in the jewels.
I cup my hands around my eyes, trying to make out a price. Crap. It's the kind of necklace that doesn't have a price tag on it!
I straighten up. Oh well. At least I found it, I think, heading into the store.
I am the best boyfriend ever.
***
Shannon and I arrange to give each other our presents the night before I'm supposed to leave town. It won't be a full-blown date, more like half an hour at her house, but at least we'll have some time together. Since it's going to be such a short visit, my mom will hang out with the DeWinters while Shannon and I exchange gifts. I can't wait to see her face when she opens my present.
Mom lets me drive the car over to the DeWinters'. She only gasps once on the way. Really, pedestrians should not wander around in the dark without reflective gear.
Shannon opens the door and smiles, inviting us inside. We walk in, and I can smell cinnamon and some other holiday-type spices. Mrs. DeWinter gives me a smile that is less pained than usual; it's on the verge of looking natural. Mr. DeWinter creaks out of his chair for the sole purpose of greeting my mother. I almost expect to see some kind of hydraulic lift maneuver him out of the chair. Then he sinks back down and resumes watching ESPN.
The two moms head off to the kitchen, talking about "mulled wine" or something, and Shannon and I escape to her room.
We crash into each other as soon as we're safe inside her room, staggering in our tight embrace.
"I'm going to miss you so much!" says Shannon.
"Me, too," I say, covering her mouth with mine.
"Blake," she gasps.
"Mm."
"The door." We're pressed against Shannon's closed door.
"Oh, right," I say. With one hand I fumble at the doorknob, locking it.
She giggles into my neck. "Blake. You know my mom will be up in a hot second if I don't open the door."
"Let her try to get in," I say, maneuvering Shannon over to the bed.
She giggles some more, even after I throw her—gently—down on the bed.
"Blake, come onnn."
"As you wish." I lay down on top of her, bracing myself on my arms.
She's not giggling anymore. She's not smiling, either, but the expression on her face is not fear. If I thought she was scared, I would stop. Her eyes bore into mine.
I can feel her heartbeat flutter against my chest. Someday, I think. Someday we won't stop.
After a long moment I move to stand up.
Shannon grabs me and pulls me close. "I love you," she whispers.
"I love you, too," I say. What better time to say it?
There's some kissing, and then I drag myself away from her warm softness with a stifled groan. "Sucks to be fifteen," I grumble, opening her bedroom door.
I pick up her present, which ended up on the floor. "Here. Merry Christmas."
She claps her hands and takes the box from me. "Wait! You first. I'm so excited." She reaches for a flat gift-wrapped present on her desk and hands it to me. "I hope you like it."
It's got to be a book. I hold it up and shake it, pretending to listen for a rattle. "It's not a puzzle," I say. "It's not a chess set. What could it be? A bar of solid gold?" Shannon waits tensely while I tear off the paper.
It is a book. About us. There's a photo of Shannon and me on the front, taken at Ottomans that day we were goofing around with the camera. We look so smiley and cute. I turn the pages slowly. Shannon made this book. She put in pictures of us, and ticket stubs from a movie we went to, and some preserved petals from the corsage I gave her for the homecoming dance, and all kinds of other stuff that is special to us. There are stickers of shooting stars and hearts and captions on all the pages.
"Wow!" I say.
"It's a scrapbook," she says. "Do you like it? Is it lame? Am I such a girl?"
"Shannon," I say, "it's great! I love it. And yes, you're such a girl. That's the thing I like best about you. Now your turn." I point to the present, still in her hand.
She wiggles happily and peels off the wrapping paper. She looks up at me when she sees the velvet jewelry box. "Oooh," she breathes. She opens the box, and I wait for her to shriek and cover me with kisses.
"Ohh!" she says. "How pretty." She lifts the necklace out of the box. "It's beautiful, Blake! Thank you." She kisses me. "Put it on me."
I take the necklace from her, my heart sinking. She didn't react like I thought she would. "Don't you recognize it?"
"What?"
Stupid little ant-size links! I struggle with the clasp, sweat popping out on my forehead. "From Metals? Don't you recognize it?"
"Metals? Oh, that's where I've seen it! I thought it looked familiar."
"Isn't it—?" It's the wrong one, I think. "Never mind." I give up trying to fasten it around her neck. "I can't get this hooked."
"Let's go show my parents!"
"Er!" I jump up, wanting to stop her.
She turns back curiously. Of course she wants to show her parents. I can't hide in here forever.
I got her the wrong damn necklace.
She likes it, but it's not The One. The one I would know immediately was meant for Shannon.
If I knew Shannon.
She skips to the living room to show the parents.
While Mrs. DeWinter fastens the necklace around Shannon's neck, she looks right at me. In her cold eyes I read the judgment, I was right. You don't really know my girl.
I am the worst boyfriend ever.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Your first ten thousand photographs are your worst.
—Henri Cartier-Bresson, French photographer (1908–2004)
I feel like punching something.
Or someone.
It takes all of my concentration to sit politely in the DeWinters' living room and squeeze out words that are not curses. I can't look at Shannon's mom again, or I will shriek, "Bitch! How could you do this to me? Why didn't you just tell me which necklace to buy?"
Maybe she really thought I would know. Maybe she thought I might know, and she wanted to test me. How sick is that?
Well, I hope she's happy now. I fucking failed.
Shannon doesn't know the difference; she's smiling and putting her hand up to touch the necklace every couple of minutes.
But I know the difference.
It's the difference between giving your girlfriend a nice gift—"pretty," she called it—and giving your girlfriend something that would take her breath away and maybe make her so happy that she would remember getting the gift for the rest of her life, because it was something she wanted and you knew!
After a few m
inutes Shannon notices my silence and takes my hand. In front of her parents! Take that, Mrs. DeBitch!
There's more chitchat: flying to New York tomorrow ... Grandma's health issues ... blah blah blah ... do we think it will snow?...what's the forecast in New York ... blah blah blah...
I zone out and focus on caressing Shannon's hand.
When it's time to go, I say goodbye to the Evils, I mean the DeWinters, as quick as I can. I just want to be away from these people.
Then all three parents stare at Shannon and me, waiting to see whether or not we will kiss in front of them.
I move in close and put my arms around my girl and give her a smacking kiss.
Take that, olds!
I stomp down the driveway to the car. I turn back and wave goodbye to Shannon. As soon as she closes the front door, I slap both hands down on the hood of the car as hard as I can. It hurts. I'd like to leave dents.
My mom raises her eyebrows as she approaches. She clicks the remote to unlock the car. "I was going to ask if you wanted to drive home," she says, "but as your father likes to say, 'Don't drive angry.' And you, my friend, seem a little angry."
"You think?" I snarl.
She doesn't react. Of course she doesn't. She's the goddamn expert in tact.
I hurl myself into the car and slam the door. She walks around to the driver's side. I'm shaking by the time she starts the car.
"Drive down the block," I say, and it enrages me even more to hear my voice crack.
I love my mom; she puts the car in gear and drives down the block. She sees an empty spot and pulls over to the curb. She puts the car in park and looks at me.
I slam open the car door and stomp up and down the sidewalk, yelling every curse word I know through my hands, which are clamped over my mouth. I know Mom hears me. But I can't stop. I don't think I've ever felt this mad before.
I kick the tires of the car. I slap my hands down on the hood a few more times, and it hurts every time, and I'm glad. Finally I sink down on my knees in the grass on the parking strip. It's wet and cold, but it feels good. I need to feel the ground so I can come down. I need to feel cold so I can cool down.
My cheeks are wet when I get back in the car.
At some point my mom must have turned off the motor, because it's dark and quiet inside. She waits.
"Sorry," I mumble.
"It's okay, honey," she says.
And I start bawling.
***
You will never believe this in a million years, so I'll just say it: Marissa and her mom are walking up to our house when we get home.
"Jesus!" I yell, and this time Mom speaks up. "That's just about enough, Blake."
"Sorry."
"That's your friend Marissa, isn't it?"
Yes. And her mother."
"Ahh." My mom lifts her hand to acknowledge them. "Looks like they came to pay us a holiday call," she says.
"Effing great," I say.
"I see that you weren't expecting visitors," she says. "But please pull yourself together. I expect my family to be gracious hosts. Always."
"I know."
"Okay. Take a couple of breaths and let's go."
She gets out of the car and heads for the front door, where Marissa and her mom have stopped.
I rub a hand across my face roughly. I hope it doesn't look like I've been crying. I open the car door and head for the house.
My mom is smiling and shaking Marissa's mom's hand. "So nice to meet you, Anne. And it's nice to see you again, Marissa. Please come in." She opens the front door and ushers them inside.
"We shouldn't have come," says Marissa's mom, shrinking inside her coat. "We should have called first. I'm sorry."
"Mom," mutters Marissa. She's holding a wrapped gift.
"No, no. This is perfect timing," says my mom. "We just got back from another visit. I'm so glad you came by tonight. Tomorrow you would have missed us. We're going out of town to visit my parents."
My mom keeps up a soothing flow of words. "Here, let me have your coats. Please make yourselves at home. Isn't it cold out? I wonder if it will snow. Anne, do you like tea or coffee? I have both. Blake, would you find your father and tell him we have visitors?"
"No!" says Marissa's mom.
We all freeze.
"I mean, no, you don't have to find your father," continues Marissa's mom. She flutters a hand up to her mouth. "Sorry. We can't stay. We just came to drop off a present." She pulls her coat closer around her and looks at the floor.
Marissa's face is bright red. "Mom," she says, mortified.
"Oh, dear. Are you sure?" asks my mom.
My heart thumps with pride at my mom's kindness. She pretends that someone yelling no! after an invitation to have tea is perfectly normal. She always makes everyone feel welcome, no matter how strange they are.
"It's really no trouble at all, Anne," continues Mom. "I don't want to keep you if you're on your way somewhere else, but we'd love to visit with you for a few minutes."
Marissa's mom shuffles her feet, still looking at the floor, as if she doesn't know what to say or do.
"Thank you, Mrs. Hewson," says Marissa. "That's really nice of you. We'll just stay for a minute." She takes her mother's arm and steers her into the living room. "Mom," she hisses. "Take off your coat."
Marissa's mom jerks her arm away from Marissa.
I glance at my mom, who is watching them. She doesn't react, except to turn to me and say quietly, "Please go fill the teakettle with water and put it on to boil. Then come back here. You don't have to wait for it to boil."
"Okay." I hurry to the kitchen. As I pick up the shiny kettle, I examine my face in its reflection, looking for signs of my earlier freak-out. My normal face looks back. Maybe a little more stressed than usual. I fill the kettle with water and adjust the gas flame under it. I wonder who the present's for. Me? But why? I didn't get a present for Marissa.
Marissa is smiling and chatting with my mom when I enter the living room. Marissa's mother hunches into the couch cushions, plucking at her hair. Without her coat, she looks frail and cold.
"Here." Marissa hands me the package, which is heavy and flat.
I take the present and hold it uncertainly. "Should I unwrap it now?"
"Yes!"
I pull off the wrapping paper and find a book titled Earth from Above. It's got tons of amazing full-color photos of Earth. From above. "Wow, thanks!" I say. I turn to Marissa's mom and repeat, "Thank you."
"You're welcome," she says. Her eyes flick to the door, almost as if she's thinking, Now can we go?
"Oh, how thoughtful," says my mom. "What a great book." She stands up. "Anne, would you like to help me with the tea while the kids talk photography?"
Marissa's mom stiffens and looks at Marissa.
Marissa nods and kind of cocks her head, like, Go on.
I've never seen anyone act so nervous around my mother. How much more can she do to make this twitchy woman feel welcome?
Marissa's mom exhales loudly, and I get a whiff of her breath. Ugh. Someone should really give her a case of breath mints for Christmas. She stands up and follows my mom into the kitchen.
"Thanks again," I say to Marissa.
"You're welcome. My mom and I just wanted to say thanks again. We owe you a lot."
"Stop it, you don't," I say, embarrassed.
We sit there for a minute.
"How's Shannon?" asks Marissa.
Ohhhh, I groan silently. A visual of Mrs. DeWinter flashes into my mind.
"Fine," I say.
Long pause.
"We just came from there, actually. Shannon's house. I took her a present," I say.
"Oh yeah? How'd she like it?"
"Good, good." I nod. My face hurts from all the fake smiling. What am I doing? I drop my head in my hands. This is Marissa; she's my friend. I don't have to pretend with her.
"Actually," I say, "it sucked reallyreallyreally bad."
"What?"
It's su
ch a relief to tell Marissa everything ... about asking people for ideas ... finally asking Shannon's mother for help ... buying the perfect necklace, or so I thought ... and finding out tonight that it was not the right necklace, it was, in fact, the opposite of the right necklace.
Somewhere along the way I realize Marissa is giggling. I've managed to turn this traumatic event into a funny story. How did I do that?
I'm not sure, but I feel much better.
"You know what?" I say to Marissa.
"What."
"As my man Groucho Marx would say, 'I've had a perfectly lovely evening. But this wasn't it.'"
She laughs.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
After its opening at the Museum of Modern Art in New York in 1955, the
Family of Man exhibit traveled around the world. The selection process took
three years, starting with two million photos. It was winnowed to ten thousand,
with the final 503 shots coming from 273 photographers and 68 countries.
I am so done with New York.
"What's a four-letter word for Mongolian desert?" yells Poppy from the living room. He's a crossword puzzle hound.
"Gobi," yells my brother.
How sad is it that we're reduced to doing crossword puzzles with the grandparents for fun? In New York. The Big Apple, the City That Never Sleeps, the hub of ... something. But you know what? We've already done the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty, the museums, and a Broadway show. Garrett and I even got to go to a Mad Montoya concert for my birthday.
I would have gladly exchanged Mad Montoya for a birthday party with Shannon. You know, a private party? Where she could have given me a very special, once-in-a-lifetime present for my sixteenth birthday?
Well.
It could have happened.
But instead I'm chillin' with the olds.
Plane ticket to New York—four hundred dollars. Combo Christmas/birthday presents for your sixteenth birthday—two hundred and fifty dollars. Missing birthday sex while you hang out with your grandparents—priceless.
"Russ, get in here and wash your breakfast dishes," yells my mom from the kitchen.
"Coming," yells my dad from the living room, where he's lazing on the couch watching CNN and telling Poppy medical examiner horror stories.
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