Mitch—Mustache—uh, your boyfriend—really upset?”
Alexis shrugs, looks upset in a different way.
“What is it?” I ask kindly.
“He isn’t really talking to me about it.”
“Is everything OK with you guys?”
She shrugs again.
“Is that a no?” I ask.
She nods slightly.
I’m sorry that she’s upset, but I’m also happy she’s confiding in me.
“Alexis, do you wanna talk about this? We could walk home—”
“Adam!” she yells, and jumps up and runs over to him. They talk for a few minutes, heads together, his arm lightly around her shoulder, and then together they leave the cafeteria.
Yeah, that went well.
Gym class is next. “There is a yearbook emergency,” I tell the teacher. She looks at me, trying to figure out who the hell I am.
“I’m Rachel Greenberg. I’m on the yearbook staff, and …”
She nods, says, “Go, go, it’s fine.”
It’s Jake’s lunch period. I go to his locker. He’s closing it when I tap him on the shoulder.
He spins around, sees me, and looks like a criminal caught in the act.
“You’re going to have to talk to me eventually,” I say in my best assertive yet flirty voice.
“Rachel,” he says. “Hello.” He’s looking at me so impersonally, he might as well be saying, Will that be for here or to go?
“OK, what did I do wrong? Why are you ignoring me? Did you decide you don’t like the way I kiss?”
“Shhh …,” he says.
“Why are you shutting me out?” I don’t mean to sound angry, but I do.
“You were in my kitchen,” he says.
This is not what I was expecting him to say.
“Yeah …”
I look at him closely, and I see sadness, fear, hope, all mixed together.
What is going on? And then I know.
Duh.
I am so stupid.
I put my hand on his arm. “Tell me about him,” I say.
“Who? What?” he says angrily.
“Jake,” I say softly, as warmly as I can. “Tell me about your brother.”
“Did my mom tell you?”
So I’m right. “What?”
“That the boy in the pictures was my brother?”
“No. I guessed.”
“Did she tell you anything?”
“No. We didn’t talk about him at all.”
“That’s what she said. I didn’t believe her.”
I’m not completely getting this. “Can we talk, please?”
He shakes his head, seems like he’s about to cry, and looks down at the floor.
Action, action, I say to myself, with a little less certainty. But when I look up at Jake again, he is looking at me, not at the floor.
“Come on, let’s go sit outside.”
He doesn’t say anything.
“Come on.”
Finally he nods, but I have to practically drag him down the hall.
We sit on the steps, off to one side, next to each other—not touching, but very close.
I sigh.
He sighs.
I take his hand. He doesn’t let go.
We sit there for a while, just like that, looking at the street. His hand feels so good. He smells good, too. Lemony shampoo and a faint smell of chlorine.
After a few minutes, I look up at him. He’s still staring off into space. I kiss him, very lightly, on the cheek.
He turns toward me and takes his other hand, the one not holding mine, and strokes my hair, kisses me lightly on the mouth. His lips feel chapped. He starts to kiss me harder, with his tongue exploring … I like it, I love it … but I pull away.
“Let’s talk first,” I say. “Then …”
He looks at me. Shakes his head, turns away.
I nod my head, firmly, and face him. We are still holding hands.
“I want to hear,” I say. “Please.”
His eyes well up, and then he starts talking.
“If we take x and assign it a value of 4.356 …,” Math Teacher drones.
We stayed outside for the whole period, and he told me what is behind his intense, sad eyes.
“The graph this shows us is …”
I can’t believe what he has been through. And he didn’t tell me everything, couldn’t, just skimmed the surface, I’m sure. Why didn’t I ever hear about this? Do my parents know?
All those years ago, after our kindergarten
Alexis shrugs, looks upset in a different way.
“What is it?” I ask kindly.
“He isn’t really talking to me about it.”
“Is everything OK with you guys?”
She shrugs again.
“Is that a no?” I ask.
She nods slightly.
I’m sorry that she’s upset, but I’m also happy she’s confiding in me.
“Alexis, do you wanna talk about this? We could walk home—”
“Adam!” she yells, and jumps up and runs over to him. They talk for a few minutes, heads together, his arm lightly around her shoulder, and then together they leave the cafeteria.
Yeah, that went well.
Gym class is next. “There is a yearbook emergency,” I tell the teacher. She looks at me, trying to figure out who the hell I am.
“I’m Rachel Greenberg. I’m on the yearbook staff, and …”
She nods, says, “Go, go, it’s fine.”
It’s Jake’s lunch period. I go to his locker. He’s closing it when I tap him on the shoulder.
He spins around, sees me, and looks like a criminal caught in the act.
“You’re going to have to talk to me eventually,” I say in my best assertive yet flirty voice.
“Rachel,” he says. “Hello.” He’s looking at me so impersonally, he might as well be saying, Will that be for here or to go?
“OK, what did I do wrong? Why are you ignoring me? Did you decide you don’t like the way I kiss?”
“Shhh …,” he says.
“Why are you shutting me out?” I don’t mean to sound angry, but I do.
“You were in my kitchen,” he says.
This is not what I was expecting him to say.
“Yeah …”
I look at him closely, and I see sadness, fear, hope, all mixed together.
What is going on? And then I know.
Duh.
I am so stupid.
I put my hand on his arm. “Tell me about him,” I say.
“Who? What?” he says angrily.
“Jake,” I say softly, as warmly as I can. “Tell me about your brother.”
“Did my mom tell you?”
So I’m right. “What?”
“That the boy in the pictures was my brother?”
“No. I guessed.”
“Did she tell you anything?”
“No. We didn’t talk about him at all.”
“That’s what she said. I didn’t believe her.”
I’m not completely getting this. “Can we talk, please?”
He shakes his head, seems like he’s about to cry, and looks down at the floor.
Action, action, I say to myself, with a little less certainty. But when I look up at Jake again, he is looking at me, not at the floor.
“Come on, let’s go sit outside.”
He doesn’t say anything.
“Come on.”
Finally he nods, but I have to practically drag him down the hall.
We sit on the steps, off to one side, next to each other—not touching, but very close.
I sigh.
He sighs.
I take his hand. He doesn’t let go.
We sit there for a while, just like that, looking at the street. His hand feels so good. He smells good, too. Lemony shampoo and a faint smell of chlorine.
After a few minutes, I look up at him. He’s still staring off into space. I kiss him, very lightly, on the cheek.
He turns toward me and takes his other hand, the one not holding mine, and strokes my hair, kisses me lightly on the mouth. His lips feel chapped. He starts to kiss me harder, with his tongue exploring … I like it, I love it … but I pull away.
“Let’s talk first,” I say. “Then …”
He looks at me. Shakes his head, turns away.
I nod my head, firmly, and face him. We are still holding hands.
“I want to hear,” I say. “Please.”
His eyes well up, and then he starts talking.
“If we take x and assign it a value of 4.356 …,” Math Teacher drones.
We stayed outside for the whole period, and he told me what is behind his intense, sad eyes.
“The graph this shows us is …”
I can’t believe what he has been through. And he didn’t tell me everything, couldn’t, just skimmed the surface, I’m sure. Why didn’t I ever hear about this? Do my parents know?
All those years ago, after our kindergarten
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