all about that stuff from personal experience.
He goes, “No.”
So I sit. I can see this is going to be a challenge, but I knew that before I came over here so it’s all good.
I decide to start with, “I’m Nicole.”
He’s like, “I know. We introduced ourselves the first day.”
“Yeah, um, I remember that? But see, lots of people forget names and then they’re too afraid to ask. And then like all of a sudden it’s the last class and people still don’t know everyone’s name and they’re still too afraid to ask. And by that time it’s way embarrassing, because then you’re admitting you didn’t know their name this whole time, you know?”
Quiet Guy just chews his crust.
“Yeah, so . . . hi, and I’m Nicole, and I’m not embarrassed to admit that I don’t remember your name.”
“Max.”
“Hey, Max.”
And then he chews more crust.
I’m all, “I can’t believe this class is over already. It’s so weird. It went really fast, right?”
But Max just grunts noncommittally. I have no idea why I feel the need to talk to him. I just have this really intuitive feeling that something’s there. So I keep trying. I ramble about what my favorite parts of the class were and stuff about the screenplay I’m writing, and then my favorite directors come up. So then I ramble about movies I love, and that actually gets Max talking. It turns out we have the same taste in film. So I tell him how I passed Todd Solondz on the street a few months ago.
Max goes, “You saw Todd Solondz?” All fixated.
And I’m like, “Yeah. He walked right by me.” All nonchalant.
Max says, “Dude. He’s one of my favorite directors.”
So I’m like, “I know! And I touched his sweater.”
Max goes, “What?”
“Yeah. He was wearing this ratty old sweater with a hole in the shoulder? And so I asked him if I could touch his hole.”
“Are you making this up?”
“No!”
“So he just . . . let you touch it?”
“Yeah. He was like, ‘If it pleases you.’ So I put my finger through it.”
“Whoa.”
“Totally.”
“Where?”
“I told you. On his shoulder.”
“No, where was this?”
“Oh. Near my school, up on West Tenth.”
“You go to Eames Academy?”
“Yeah. You know it?”
“My brother goes there.”
“Who’s your brother?”
“Brad Tropper.”
“No way !” That’s so weird! This whole time I’ve been in class with this guy and I didn’t even know he was Brad’s brother.
“You know him?”
“Totally! I mean, I’m not exactly friends with him, but I’m good friends with Sheila.”
And right after I say that, Max shuts down with the barricaded attitude again. It’s like he’s all storm clouds and despair.
He’s like, “You should tell her not to go home with Brad anymore.”
So I ask why, but Max doesn’t say anything. He just starts crumpling up our paper plates and cups.
I touch his arm and he stops crumpling and gives me this strong look. And I go, “Please tell me why you said that.”
And Max says, “I think you know.”
Obviously, he knows that I know what’s happening to Sheila because anyone can see it. But he means something else. Because that look on his face looks like fear.
Max leans closer to me and says, “Look. There’s more to this than you probably know. Just . . . warn Sheila, okay? She could get hurt worse if she keeps going over there. But don’t tell her you talked to me.”
And then he gets up to go, so I grab him and I’m like, “Wait!” But he walks right out the door. I could run after him and find out what he means, but if he wanted to tell me more he would have.
Anyway, there’s something about that scared look he had that’s familiar. It’s probably the same look I get when people try and force me to talk about things I wish I could just forget.
I get my iPod and turn the light off. This is my favorite part of the day, either just before I fall asleep or just lying here like this, listening to songs that remind
He goes, “No.”
So I sit. I can see this is going to be a challenge, but I knew that before I came over here so it’s all good.
I decide to start with, “I’m Nicole.”
He’s like, “I know. We introduced ourselves the first day.”
“Yeah, um, I remember that? But see, lots of people forget names and then they’re too afraid to ask. And then like all of a sudden it’s the last class and people still don’t know everyone’s name and they’re still too afraid to ask. And by that time it’s way embarrassing, because then you’re admitting you didn’t know their name this whole time, you know?”
Quiet Guy just chews his crust.
“Yeah, so . . . hi, and I’m Nicole, and I’m not embarrassed to admit that I don’t remember your name.”
“Max.”
“Hey, Max.”
And then he chews more crust.
I’m all, “I can’t believe this class is over already. It’s so weird. It went really fast, right?”
But Max just grunts noncommittally. I have no idea why I feel the need to talk to him. I just have this really intuitive feeling that something’s there. So I keep trying. I ramble about what my favorite parts of the class were and stuff about the screenplay I’m writing, and then my favorite directors come up. So then I ramble about movies I love, and that actually gets Max talking. It turns out we have the same taste in film. So I tell him how I passed Todd Solondz on the street a few months ago.
Max goes, “You saw Todd Solondz?” All fixated.
And I’m like, “Yeah. He walked right by me.” All nonchalant.
Max says, “Dude. He’s one of my favorite directors.”
So I’m like, “I know! And I touched his sweater.”
Max goes, “What?”
“Yeah. He was wearing this ratty old sweater with a hole in the shoulder? And so I asked him if I could touch his hole.”
“Are you making this up?”
“No!”
“So he just . . . let you touch it?”
“Yeah. He was like, ‘If it pleases you.’ So I put my finger through it.”
“Whoa.”
“Totally.”
“Where?”
“I told you. On his shoulder.”
“No, where was this?”
“Oh. Near my school, up on West Tenth.”
“You go to Eames Academy?”
“Yeah. You know it?”
“My brother goes there.”
“Who’s your brother?”
“Brad Tropper.”
“No way !” That’s so weird! This whole time I’ve been in class with this guy and I didn’t even know he was Brad’s brother.
“You know him?”
“Totally! I mean, I’m not exactly friends with him, but I’m good friends with Sheila.”
And right after I say that, Max shuts down with the barricaded attitude again. It’s like he’s all storm clouds and despair.
He’s like, “You should tell her not to go home with Brad anymore.”
So I ask why, but Max doesn’t say anything. He just starts crumpling up our paper plates and cups.
I touch his arm and he stops crumpling and gives me this strong look. And I go, “Please tell me why you said that.”
And Max says, “I think you know.”
Obviously, he knows that I know what’s happening to Sheila because anyone can see it. But he means something else. Because that look on his face looks like fear.
Max leans closer to me and says, “Look. There’s more to this than you probably know. Just . . . warn Sheila, okay? She could get hurt worse if she keeps going over there. But don’t tell her you talked to me.”
And then he gets up to go, so I grab him and I’m like, “Wait!” But he walks right out the door. I could run after him and find out what he means, but if he wanted to tell me more he would have.
Anyway, there’s something about that scared look he had that’s familiar. It’s probably the same look I get when people try and force me to talk about things I wish I could just forget.
I get my iPod and turn the light off. This is my favorite part of the day, either just before I fall asleep or just lying here like this, listening to songs that remind
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