There’s no way I can go home without seeing her.
I park in front of her house on the street. Not in the driveway, because that would be like saying I planned to come. Parking on the street means I just happened to be driving by and think of her on a whim. Which is exactly what I did.
I walk up the drive, knock on the door, not too loud. I don’t have a clue what I’m going to say to her, but I’ll come up with something.
A moment later, Grace opens it.
Let me tell you about Grace. She’s got a hot body, although she doesn’t act like it. She doesn’t throw her hair around and giggle, like some horses—I mean people. She’s got hair that’s great, it’s really truly blond, and soft and straight, and her eyes are a clear green that’s so pale it’s almost like there’s a light behind them, making them glow. And her skin is like—well, I don’t know what it’s like, but it’s clear and white, because Grace doesn’t tan, she burns. So she stays out of the sun and her skin is smooth like she’s got no pores. Well, that doesn’t sound right, but it’s true anyway. Grace has never had a zit in her life.
And her attitude is this: She doesn’t know how beautiful she is, but she knows about a lot of other stuff. If there’s something you wonder about, like why is the sky blue, Grace knows the answer. That’s why she has this walk, like I Know Something. She doesn’t walk like Silver walks, like Look At Me! Grace is just Grace, and anybody can tell she’s comfortable being that way.
And when she opens that door, it’s like my head’s going to split in half with a smile that I can’t stop.
“Who is it?” I hear her mother call.
“It’s Colt,” Grace calls back. She doesn’t sound mad. She doesn’t roll her eyes or make my name sound like something disgusting.
I did the right thing, coming here.
“We’re making candy,” Grace tells me, with a glance over her shoulder.
“I just wanted to talk to you for a second.”
She just looks at me for a moment, and God! It’s been so long since I’ve been able to look into her eyes, it’s like electricity zapping me back to life, even though I didn’t know I was dead.
She’s got to feel it too; she steps out onto the porch beside me and shuts the door behind her.
Now all I’ve got to do is not blow it.
“I miss you,” I blurt.
Majorly uncool—but it’s the honest truth. “Listen. I was wanting to tell you. I really did like that poem. I don’t know how it got under my Coke can. I should have put it back in my folder, but I wanted to read it again, so I guess I left it out.”
She sighs. “Forget it.”
“No, really. I did like it. I liked the metaphor.” I don’t even miss a beat. Metaphor is the one word you need to know if you want to BS about poetry. You don’t have to remember what it means. You just have to be able to pronounce it. “I thought you really captured something there.” I nod twice, slowly, so I’ll look wise. It’s my wise nod, and I’m good at it. “Yeah, I thought you pretty much hit the nail on the head. And I really am sorry about the Coke thing—because, you know, I was just about to ask if I could make a copy to keep.”
She’s frowning down at her feet.
“Hey,” I tell her, “I just wanted you to know.”
Silence. But she doesn’t move to leave. That’s good. I want to tell her why else she shouldn’t be mad at me, but any other chance at making sense has been sucked into the black hole that is my brain.
“I’ve been doing some thinking,” Grace says, and she looks up at me in that way she has. Which means Buckle In and Prepare for a Serious Discussion. “It wasn’t right for me to blame you for getting carried away in the car, when I did the same thing.”
I’m not sure what she’s talking about—she didn’t do much in the car but sit there and breathe heavy when I touched her.
“I’m very attracted to you, physically,” Grace tells me. “I think that’s why it gets confusing sometimes.”
“I get confused too,” I tell her quickly. “You’re smart, and beautiful, and I get confused, and then I do things without thinking first and that’s not good, that’s not right. You’re just so…so…I know I’m no Prince Charming—more like the Beast. You know that movie, well maybe you don’t, but you’re Beauty and I’m the Beast—”
“You’re not a beast,” she interrupts. “Look. Things were getting kind of passionate. Probably at that moment you really did think you loved me.”
I didn’t think so—I did love her. I do love her—but I’m not going to argue about it since she’s actually speaking to me.
“But there’s something that bothers me,” she continues. “It seems like if this was the real thing, we wouldn’t have to work at it. It seems like I’d be more…swept away. Like we’d just click. A relationship ought to just happen, it ought to be natural and effortless….”
Oh no, I think. And sure enough she’s off on the usual, emotional connection and meeting of the minds and blah blah blah versus physical attraction blah blah blah.
“…but it’s all very confusing, Colt,” Grace finishes. “Because I’m really attracted to you. And I miss you when you’re not around.”
I feel light, like I’m about to float off smiling into the air. She missed me! So what if she says it like it’s some math problem she’s got to figure out?
“I really do miss you,” Grace says softly, almost to herself, and she’s got that little line along the inside of one eyebrow that means she’s thinking hard, trying to understand. “I guess it’s because you help me lighten up; you keep me from thinking too much. From taking things too seriously.”
“I don’t drain your brain,” I tell her, and it’s a joke, but inside I feel this sudden pain, like some little guy in there just jabbed me with a tiny knife. Moron!
Grace smiles up at me. “You’re good for me, Colt,” she says. Like I’m some goddamn vitamin. “And I’m good for you, too, because I get you to think about things you normally wouldn’t think about.”
“Like poetry,” I agree. That almost sounds wise, and I’ve got to say something so I’ll forget the little knife jab.
“There’s just something about you. You can be incredibly sweet. And you try so hard. Deep down you’re very different from the person you try to project. You practically reek of self-confidence—but I can see this scared little boy peeking out.”
The thing I wish about Grace is that she’d quit throwing words around all the time. Just once I wish she’d stop talking and just kiss, or get drunk, or laugh like hell.
But I can hear that she’s starting to feel sorry for me. So I say “Yeah,” real pitiful. Grace has this social worker side, where she likes to fix people. I can’t complain—it’s the main thing that keeps her from dumping me every time she gets mad.
“The physical stuff…it’s just happening too fast. Faster than the emotional part. I’m not ready for…I think…” She takes a deep breath. “I just think we’re moving too quickly.”
Too quickly? If I went any slower, we’d be going backward!
“What I’d like…what I want…” Her voice gets so low, I have to lean closer to hear. “…is to just back off on some of the physical stuff for a while.” She doesn’t look super-intelligent right now; she looks shy. “I mean, we can still go out and everything. Just not…you know.”
“No. I don’t know. What do you mean—I can’t touch you?”
“I don’t mean that. We can kiss and stuff.”
“Stuff?”
Grace is real big on using the exact perfect dictionary word—except when it comes to sex. Then she doesn’t like to even admit people have parts.
Grace has always been a little uptight.
“I don’t know. I just want to feel more in control.”
What? She just said she wanted to be swept away!
Okay, okay. I already knew she’s afraid of sex. She’s not only afraid of sex, she’s afraid because I make her want to have sex. And I do make her want
to have sex. I know I do.
Okay. Same old same old. She’s just innocent, that’s all. She’s a virgin. So am I. This is good. Isn’t it?
Can we take it slower? God!—even slower than we have been? Is that possible? But no, I can do it. Right? I love her. I can’t stand being without her. I can do this.
Can’t I?
She’s looking up at me, waiting. It’s my cue.
Even just being with her, I feel like something has loosened. I realize that I’m breathing again, nice and deep. That my breath has been caught in my chest for two days—I can’t even breathe right unless I have her.
“We won’t do anything you don’t want to do,” I agree. “You’re the boss.”
I’m looking down at her, and her eyes are locked onto mine, a little worried, and she doesn’t know what to do either, I can tell. God! I want to kiss her. Is that okay? Probably. Is it? Tongues? Maybe. Should I lean in?
“You got new cologne,” Grace says into the silence. It’s a hint to get closer.
But holy crap! I’m not wearing any cologne.
What she smells is Silver’s perfume.
“Um. Thanks,” I say, taking a step backward. “It’s not really mine. It’s a sample. I got it in the mail.”
The door opens behind her, and Mrs. Garcetti pokes her head out. “Grace, I need you to stir! Colt?” her mother’s head adds. “We’re making candy. Want to help?”
“Um, no. No thanks. I’ve got to go. I’ve got…homework.” Mrs. Garcetti smiles. “Can’t you—” She breaks off, sniffing. “Uh-oh!” she says, and her head disappears, and as the door shuts again, I smell a funny smell coming from inside, like charcoal and syrup.
“So. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow,” I tell Grace.
“Tomorrow,” Grace echoes. And after another second where I don’t know what to do and she’s just standing there, she turns and walks back inside.
The glass storm door shuts behind her. Her back is straight, her hair’s silk or whatever that shiny stuff is that prom dresses are made of, and it swings a little with each step, brushing the back of her neck. Her rear end sways too, back and forth. Her waist swoops in and then out again, and her jeans are old and soft-looking. They follow every curve and valley, over her hips, down and around and between her legs.
This is how you know when you’re really messed up. When the girl you love thinks you’re a moron, is afraid of having sex with you, and you still can’t stop wanting her.
WEEK TWO
CHAPTER THREE
Balls of Steel
My sister once made cupcakes that looked like breasts.
She didn’t notice that they looked like breasts, but boy, did I. Each one had white icing, and a cherry on top. Cass made them for some party she was going to, and she said I couldn’t have any.
I wasn’t in the mood to fight about it, so I waited till Cass was busy getting ready for her party, and I took a cupcake and ate it. I figured once it was gone, there was nothing she could do about it.
That’s what’s going to happen with Grace. It’s what always happens. I don’t fight and argue and toss a bunch of words back and forth about how uptight she is. I just wait till things are getting really hot, and she forgets to worry and be uptight. It always works, up to a point. And every time, it works closer and closer to the point. One of these days it’s going to work beyond the point. That’s just the way the world works—you want something bad enough, you eventually get it.
And you know, with Cass and the cupcakes, she never even noticed one was missing. She just grabbed up the tray and ran out the door, and never even looked. Girls are like that—they get all freaked out in advance over something that once it happens, it’s going to be in the past anyway. Know what I mean?
One of the few things I’ve always liked about school is how everybody knows where they fit. You can take one look at somebody and know who they are. You can’t get that kind of order anywhere else. Not at the mall, not at the movies—you can’t even really count on it at home. Just at school. It’s got nothing to do with getting As or understanding poetry, it’s got to do with where you belong in everybody else’s eyes.
I belong at the top, and everybody knows it. Every day I walk to our spot in the front foyer like I always do, passing all the regular people and the hangers-on. There’s a bunch of us who’ve been in the same crowd since middle school, except for temporary additions like Whorey Dori and a couple of permanent additions who came over from St. Andrew’s in the ninth grade already knowing the right people.
The circle’s already gathering. Me, and of course Eric and Patrick, and Preston McGowan’s there, and Cara Weston. Morgan, who if you ask me is in PMS mode about ninety-nine percent of the time. Stephanie, who would probably be better for me than Grace, because she’s more into partying. I just can’t see any point in being attached to Stephanie, though. This summer she dated some kid a year behind us, for cripe’s sake.
Looking around, I see that Grace and I are pretty much the top of the top, the cream.
Grace. I step into the circle beside her. She doesn’t see me; she’s got this look on her face, like she smells something bad.
Right away I know why. It’s because McGowan is speaking. Grace, the animal lover, can’t stand McGowan ever since one time he told everybody how his kid brother took their hamster for a swim in the toilet, and then accidentally flushed it. That got him on Grace’s bad side, and then what really cooked her was that he laughed about it. I almost laughed, but just in the nick of time I saw how Grace’s eyes were starting to tear up in hamster sympathy. So I wiped that smile off damn quick.
McGowan stops talking, and Grace’s face smooths out. She’s got her hair hanging down loose today, all straight and shining—no clips, just one side tucked behind her ear, and she’s got on some tiny little earring that sparkles, and she’s wearing that pale-green blouse that matches her eyes exactly. But she still doesn’t see me, because she’s waving to someone walking past.
I check to see who it is, because it’d better not be a guy.
It’s not. It’s a girl. Alicia Doggett, the chihuahua-headed loser.
Grace is a terrific person, but she works a little too hard at being nice, if you ask me. Like waving hello to someone like Alicia Doghead.
Grace has always been that way, never any common sense. It’s another of the things we’d always be fighting about, if I didn’t keep my mouth shut—the way she has this idea that everybody in the world should be treated equal. Grace has never seen that other people have to be and dress and act a certain way, or else…well, they just do.
But I don’t want to fight. We’re back together, so I’m not going to make a deal over it. And it’s worth it; when she notices I’m there in the circle, a smile breaks out on her face.
I know that smile. It’s the kind you have when you’re just so glad to see someone, the happiness has to bust out all over the place.
When I get to biology I have to go by Alicia Doggett on the way to my seat, so I make a little “arf” noise as I walk by. I’m feeling pretty good. I don’t bother to see if she cringes or not.
In my seat I look up to the front of the room to see that we’ve got a substitute—the Fossil.
He’s one of the regulars, one of the subs you see in the halls every day of the week. Normally I doze through anything he teaches. The man’s about a thousand years old and all his sentences are about a thousand words long. He always comes with a briefcase full of Xeroxed sheets in case the teacher didn’t leave a lesson plan. Which Ms. Keller didn’t.
I’m having a good morning, and I can’t stand ruining it by being bored to death. I’m not tired, I couldn’t sleep if the Fossil handed out sleeping pills instead of those goddamn Xeroxes. Even though the only thing I’ve got to do today is be counted present—which I have been.
I sit there and actually try to work a stupid crossword puzzle, although I really don’t want to be in here at all. I need to be doing something physical, not sitting a
t a lab table where I can’t talk or stretch or hardly even move.
It occurs to me that I could easily—easily—make up a story that would make the Fossil give me a pass out of here. At the same time I know I really—really—ought to buckle down and work hard and stop messing around. In this state they have a no-pass, no-play rule. That means if I don’t make at least a C in all my classes the six weeks before the season starts, I don’t get to play ball.
So I really—really—need to start taking it more seriously. By the end of December, anyway.
“Mr. Fozzeltini.” Haley behind me is waving her hand. “Can I open a window? It’s stuffy in here.”
It’s always stuffy in here. This is one of the old rooms, where the thermostat is set on bake.
The Fossil thinks about it. “Yes,” he finally says, and then adds in his usual long-winded way, “I think that would be acceptable.”
Haley gets up and opens the window right next to me. In the old rooms the windows slide straight up, not like the newer ones that just push open at an angle.
It looks pretty nice outside, for October. It looks almost summery. Blue, blue skies. Just a few wisps of cloud.
I put my pencil down. The biology classroom is one of two that looks out over the baseball fields. I see—guess who?—Jordan Palmer and Max Gutterson, hitting some balls. Seniors don’t have to take a first period if they don’t need the credits.
What I wouldn’t give to be out there.
A gust of fresh air blows in. It brushes right past the smell of Xeroxed sheets, and lab chemicals, and Formica or formalda or whatever it is that you pickle dead things in.
And then that fresh air touches my nose.
It smells like outside.
I stick my pencil down in the pocket of my folder and shut it. I stack the folder and my book on the table in front of me. I’m ready to think up my lie.
The Fossil’s up front, his back to me. He’s writing a bunch of letters on the board, under the word Unscramble.
Out of Order Page 5
