Crying Laughing

by Lance Rubin

  “That didn’t seem very convincing,” Evan says to Jess, as if she’s supposed to join in on a lively discussion about my movie candy preferences. Good god. He turns back to me. “Goobers, then? Are you a Goobers girl? Heh heh.”

  “There’s a line behind you,” Jess says. I’m trying to steal glances at her when I can, trying to decide for myself how much of a psycho she really is. She actually seems more annoyed than crazy.

  “Buncha Crunch is fine,” I say. “Let’s just do that.”

  “Cool cool,” Evan says, taking out a plastic Pirates of the Caribbean wallet. Of course he has a Pirates of the Caribbean wallet. “One Buncha Crunch.” Jess grabs a box and smacks it down onto the counter. “Anything to drink?” Evan asks me. “I been really into Cherry Coke lately, but—”

  “Sure, great.”

  “How much do you think you’ll drink? So I know what size to get.”

  I’m compelled to look into Evan’s eyes because I’m starting to think this is a bit. It has to be. Why else would he be dragging this out so much?

  I don’t think it’s a bit.

  “All the sizes are huge,” I say. “Just get a small.”

  “Nice. Good point.” He turns back to Jess. “All right, one small Cherry Coke, if you please.”

  As Jess fills a hugely small cup and Evan holds his debit card out in the air, I try to extract myself from the cringiness and get back into the headspace I was in moments ago, on a date with a guy I like who likes me back.

  “Gracias, Jess,” Evan says as he grabs the candy and soda. “Hasta later.”

  “Bye,” I say to Jess without making eye contact and then, more quietly, “Sorry.”

  We step away from the counter, and everything starts to feel better. I look at Evan, at his short-sleeved plaid button-down and tight-ish jeans and his hair that looks shaggy without seeming dirty. He looks really good. “See what I mean?” he says as a short man in a tie rips our tickets. “She’s totally nuts.”

  I want to say “I wouldn’t be happy either if I had to serve snacks to my ex-boyfriend and some new girl,” but instead I just say, “Hmm.”

  “But it’s not even that,” Evan continues. “You’re way funnier than her.”

  Gotta give him credit, he definitely knows the right things to say.

  “I’ve seen her do some funny things,” I say, though, because I don’t want to tear her down entirely.

  “Yeah,” Evan says as we walk into the theater, which is already at least two-thirds full. “But she’s more of an actor than a comedian. And you’re, like, the real deal. Let’s sit up here.”

  We walk up the aisle steps and go into the third row from the back, squishing past a bunch of people before we sit down.

  “Ahhhh.” Evan leans back in his seat—this whole multiplex has those fancy recliner chairs—and pushes the button until he’s in full recline. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about!”

  I push my button a little so I won’t seem like a party pooper, but I don’t really want to lie down. It always makes me sleepy, and I actually want to watch the movie.

  Evan lifts his chair up until it’s exactly parallel to mine.

  “Whaddup,” he says.

  “Nuttin’,” I say.

  “Want a sip?” he asks, pointing the straw in my direction immediately after he’s taken a huge gulp of cherry soda. It occurs to me that sharing a beverage is actually a very intimate act. Putting our mouths on the same piece of plastic. Not that far off from kissing.

  Oh man. We’re probably going to kiss tonight.

  How soon will it happen? Before the movie even starts?

  “No sippy?” Evan asks.

  “Oh sure,” I say, grabbing the cup. All I can think about as I drink is Evan’s mouth and how soon it might be touching mine.

  “It’s better at the movies, right?” Evan asks.

  “Hm?”

  “Cherry Coke. Tastes way better at the movies than anywhere else.”

  It actually tastes bland and watered down. Sometimes people just say things, and I don’t even think they know why they’re saying them.

  “Yeah,” I pretend to agree. “Though I personally think it tastes the best while hunting. Shoot a big deer, then drink a Cherry Coke. Delicious.”

  He laughs at this one. Thank god.

  “You hunting,” he says. “That’s hilarious.”

  “What? I can’t hunt?” I ask, pretending to suddenly get very serious. “I could hunt.”

  “No, sure, yeah,” Evan says, squirming. “Just that you don’t seem like someone who would want to, like, pick up a gun and shoot animals.”

  “That’s sexist.”

  “Ahh, I really didn’t mean it like that, I’m sorry—”

  “Evan,” I say, putting a hand on his arm. “I’m kidding.”

  “What? Oh.” He smiles, radiating relief, like Of course you were.

  “I mean,” I say, “it is kinda sexist, but I also agree that me hunting is hilarious.”

  Evan narrows his eyes at me in this wistful way and puts his mildly clammy hand on mine. “You’re not like other girls.” I recognize the cheese factor—I think he’s literally quoting from some movie—but it’s sweet. Though, when you really think about it, why is that a compliment? I am like other girls. I’m like Leili. I’m like Azadeh. And I’m trying to be like my heroes, almost all of whom were once girls.

  That doesn’t seem like fun first-date banter, though, so instead I say: “Aw shucks.” Evan starts leaning toward me, awkwardly straining over the recliner arm, and I realize the kiss is coming, it’s about to happen. I hope my breath smells all right. I brushed my teeth and everything.

  Just as his mouth comes close to mine, the first preview starts with a shatteringly loud and bass-y explosion and we both startle apart, then laugh at ourselves for startling so much, and even though I think we both still want to kiss each other, the moment is temporarily gone, so we both look at the screen as if our mouths weren’t millimeters apart mere moments ago.

  “That was so loud,” I say, but it’s a trailer for an action movie, so it’s still loud, and Evan doesn’t hear me.

  When the trailer ends, Evan leans into me and says, “That looks sick.”

  I couldn’t agree less. I’ve always hated action movies, especially the humorless kind like the one we just saw four minutes of, all guns and noise and determined faces. I’ve never understood how you could enjoy watching something that has not a single funny moment in it. That’s not like life at all.

  “Meh,” I say to Evan.

  He laughs. “Girls never like action movies.”

  “Not true,” I say, even though, as I’ve just explained, it’s incredibly true for me. But I can’t help but bristle at broad generalizations about an entire gender. “Azadeh loves action movies.”

  Evan laughs again, and I’m about to defend Azadeh until I realize he’s responding to a new trailer that just came on. This one’s a comedy about a dude superhero. Ugh.

  About halfway through it, Evan takes my hand as he guffaws at a woman superhero being thrown into a dumpster. His fingers rub the back of my hand in a way that is not unpleasant. I feel like I’m not entirely in my own body. It’s strange that this boy doesn’t know some very basic things about me—for example, that my dad is so ill he’s had to start walking with a cane. I don’t know how Evan would react, if he’d start to pity me, or, worse, not really care at all.

  Now Evan has moved up from my hand to stroke my forearm. It’s giving me tingles—like, the good kind—so I’m only half aware that the trailer now showing is for the five billionth Transformers sequel. Evan doesn’t seem to care about it either, which is a turn-on. (I find it hard to trust anyone who’s enthusiastic about Transformers movies.) As he’s running his fingers up and down my arm, he inexplicably decides this is
a good moment to open the Buncha Crunch, awkwardly attempting it with his free hand.

  “Do you want me to help you with that?”

  “I got it,” he says, holding the box against his chest and pressing in the cardboard top with his thumb. He pours some out into his mouth, then holds the box toward me. “Crunch?” he asks.

  “I’m good,” I say. I do want some, but then my mouth is going to taste like chocolate when we kiss. Though I guess his is going to too, so it’s probably a moot point. “Yeah, okay, I’ll take some.”

  “Make up your mind already,” he teases, tilting the box down to my open palm. “Geez.”

  The misshapen hunks of chocolate pile up in my hand, and I’m in the middle of contemplating whether I should peck them off one at a time or just hurl the whole lot of them into my mouth when suddenly Evan’s negotiated his way over the recliner arm and his mouth is on mine.

  It’s happening.

  I’m completely caught off guard, so for the first second or two I don’t know how to respond. I don’t pull away, but I don’t kiss back, either.

  “Oh,” I finally say, laughing nervously.

  He pulls his head back. “Was that okay? Sorry, I thought—”

  “No, yeah, it was,” I say. “Just surprised me. I was still thinking about the Buncha Crunch.”

  “Because you know I like you, right?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I mean, I thought so.”

  “I really do,” he says. “I think you’re so cool and funny and pretty.”

  “Thanks,” I say, sure I’m blushing.

  “I mean it. But do you…you know, do you feel the same?”

  Evan’s hazel eyes peer into mine, vulnerable and inquisitive, and even though he seems calm, I can see he has a lot riding on my answer.

  The chocolate is getting all melty in my hand.

  “I do,” I say, and the very nature of it being those two words, so classically connected to wedded bliss, makes it seem weightier than I’d intended it. Because, yes, I do like Evan, but I don’t necessarily feel ready for whatever this is, this dramatic declaration of our feelings.

  “Awesome,” he says. “I thought so.”

  A new trailer has come on, and I hear Kate McKinnon’s voice. Seeing as she’s one of those girls I’m trying to be like, I of course want to turn and look at the screen, but it seems rude.

  I also want to get this gooey Buncha Crunch out of my hand, but it seems like an odd moment to cram them into my mouth.

  “So, can I…?” Evan moves his head toward mine. I answer the question by kissing him, which I’m happy to see catches him off guard. He tastes like chocolate. Or maybe I’m tasting myself.

  “I’ve been wanting to do this for so long,” he says between kisses. I’m into it, even though it’s another line straight out of a movie. So long? He barely knew me until a few weeks ago.

  “Mm,” I say.

  We make out through the next few trailers. I leave my glasses on, in case I’m able to sneak some peeks. Evan’s kisses are a little sloppy but also nice. When the movie finally starts, I panic, as I immediately hear Tiffany Haddish saying something hilarious.

  But then Evan, who still has one hand on my arm, puts his other on my cheek, and all I want to do is kiss him some more. I can see the movie again another time. It’s no big deal, I’ll just come back and see it again.

  I take off my glasses and let my Buncha Crunch pitter-patter to the floor.

  19

  I’m scrolling through Instagram at the kitchen table as I tear through my second bowl of Life when a notification tells me I’ve been tagged. It’s a selfie of me and Evan that he took while the credits were rolling last night, after we’d just made out for approximately two hours. He’s squinting his eyes and sticking out his tongue. I’m smiling and looking dazed. The caption reads:

  me and my gurl #moviesarekool #evenwhenyoubarelywatch them

  His gurl.

  He’s telling the world I’m his gurl.

  Kissing him for two hours was pretty kool. Sure, I wished I could have done that and also watched the movie, but at least I heard a lot of it. About halfway through, Evan slid his hands down to my chest, which was a little surprising, but I didn’t actually stop him until he tried to go under my shirt. I whispered that I wasn’t ready for that yet, and I thought maybe he’d get angry, but he didn’t; he said he completely understood.

  I’m not sure how I feel about his hashtags, broadcasting to everyone that we were too busy hooking up to watch the movie. Jess is going to hate this post in a profound way. And I hope Evan’s parents aren’t on Instagram. (Thank god mine aren’t. Dad used to be, but now he just sticks to Facebook and Twitter, which he loves because it’s “a great place to workshop jokes.”)

  “Everything okay?” Mom says as she walks in wearing an old ratty T-shirt of Dad’s and purple pajama pants, making a beeline for the coffee machine.

  “Oh yeah. Why?”

  “You’re staring at your phone so intensely.”

  “Oh no, just Instagram.”

  “I swear, those phones are going to be the end of civilization,” Mom says. It’s a regular refrain. “No one notices anything going on around them because they’re looking at pictures of what’s going on around other people.”

  “Not true,” I say. “People do notice things…if those things will make for good Instagram photos.”

  “Blech,” Mom says. The coffee machine gurgles behind her. I don’t like coffee, but I’m comforted by the sound of its creation. “How was your date last night?”

  “Pretty good,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant.

  “Was the movie worth seeing? It looks kinda stupid.”

  Mom thinks most comedies look stupid, so I know lying to her about how it was will be easy. I don’t even have to fully lie: I just sort of shrug my shoulders and move my head side to side while saying, “Ehhh.”

  “Yeah, I figured,” Mom says. “All those movies are the same after a while.”

  It was much harder to lie to Dad last night. He was the one who picked me and Evan up, which he was happy to do since it’s an activity that didn’t require his cane. I sat in the front seat because, unlike Evan’s mom, Dad didn’t “want to feel like a chauffeur.” I also think it was sort of a power move for his first time meeting Evan.

  “How was the movie?” Dad said moments after we pulled away from Bricktown Multiplex.

  “Good,” I answered quickly, sounding guilty. “Funny.”

  Dad knew immediately—I know he did from the way he smiled at my answer—so he proceeded to grill Evan instead. “What’d you think, Evan?” he asked into the rearview.

  “Yeah, same,” Evan answered, unfazed. “Some funny parts, but kind of a weak story.”

  “Right, yeah,” Dad said, “that’s what I’ve read in some reviews.” I couldn’t tell if this was meant to be confirmation that he thought Evan’s opinion was legit or if he was suggesting that Evan had only read the reviews.

  “Maybe I should be a movie critic,” Evan said, smiling goofily, trying to share a gentle laugh with Dad, who wasn’t having it.

  “Well, Winnie already is,” Dad said. “You think you’ll review this one for the school paper, Win?”

  “Oh,” I said, not expecting to be back in the hot seat. “Uh, maybe. Probably. Yeah. Three stars out of five, I think.”

  Dad grinned. “Hey, Evan, what’d you think of the supporting cast?” He was truly enjoying this.

  “Oh,” Evan said. “Really solid.”

  “Who was your favorite?”

  “Um…” Evan definitely had no idea who was in the movie besides Tiffany and Will. Aidy Bryant, I thought as loudly as I could, hoping he’d be able to pick up my brain waves. “I liked all of them, really.”

  “Great,” Dad said, subtly sarcastic. “Great.�
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  I was surprised by this protectiveness, but I’ve never had a boyfriend for him to meet before.

  Is Evan my boyfriend?

  That’s a strange thought.

  And Mom somehow has it at the exact same time. “So, is this Evan, like, your…boyfriend?” She sips her coffee right after, as if that makes it seem like a more casual question than it actually is.

  “Mom, I don’t know,” I say, surprising myself with how annoyed I sound. “It was just one date.”

  “Okay, okay,” Mom says, her hand in the air, “I’m not trying to pry. Just want to know if my little girl has a boyfriend or not.”

  No one wants to be referred to as little girl. Even actual little girls. “I’ll let you know once I have official confirmation.”

  “Will you, though?” Mom says, almost to herself, as she slices a grapefruit in half and plops it onto a plate.

  “Do you have a fax machine?” I ask.

  “Hmm?”

  “The official confirmation only comes through fax.”

  “Oh,” Mom says, smiling. “That’s funny, Win.”

  Mom gets most of my jokes, and I do think she appreciates them, but she never joins in the way Dad does. More often, it’s what just happened, a kind acknowledgment that I’ve said something humorous.

  “Hey, how’s improv going, by the way?”

  I’m somehow both happy and annoyed that she asked. “Um, it’s good. I mean, I don’t fully have the hang of it yet. Like, at all. But.”

  “Well, of course not, you just started. I remember doing a little improv in one of my acting classes. It was so much harder than I thought it would be.”

  “Yeah, right?”

  Mom nods. “Definitely. I’d take sketch comedy over that any day. At least you know what you’re going to say. You’d be really good at sketch, too, I think.”

  “Oh, maybe,” I say, both flattered and secretly judging her for not being able to stick with improv the way Dad did.

  “So…” Mom sits down across from me at the kitchen table, serrated grapefruit spoon in hand. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

  It’s impossible not to feel freaked out by that sentence. Doesn’t even matter who says it; if it weren’t intended to startle, upset, or destroy, they would have just said the thing instead of prefacing it like that.