meaningful look. What meaning it’s full of I can’t tell exactly. But it means something, I’m sure of it. He goes to the door and leaves, and I watch Mom go into the living room and curl into her chair, exhaling deeply. I stand at my door and wait a few more seconds. I want to get to the bottom of whatever’s going on with those two, but I don’t know how to get on the subject without provoking a lecture on the perils of eavesdropping. A sudden burst of music nearly makes me jump out of my skin, and I grab my phone.
“Hello?” I whisper, ducking back into my room and closing my door quietly.
“Harley?” It’s Jason.
“Oh, uh… yeah?” Great.
“You lied to me,” he says.
I’m not sure how to respond. Is it possible he’s joking?
“Um…” I force a little laugh. “What?”
“You didn’t have cheerleading practice after school.” He sounds annoyed. “And Shelly was in the parking lot looking for you when I left.”
I decide to try innocence. “She was? Hmm. I guess I got my days confused.”
“So how’d you get home?”
“Oh, I walked.” I act like it’s no big deal, but he isn’t backing down.
“Why?”
I bite my lip. The tone in his voice is killing me, but I have to do it now. And at least we’re on the phone, so I don’t have to see his face.
“OK. Well, you see, Jason…” Why is this so hard? “I’m afraid things are changing between us. And that wasn’t part of the deal. Remember?”
“So what do you want to do about it?”
“I don’t know,” I say, rubbing my forehead.
We’re quiet for several seconds.
“Can I come over?” He finally asks, and I imagine his eyebrows coming together over his brown eyes. Yes…
“No,” I say quickly. “I think maybe it’s time we did the whole fake breakup thing.”
“Really?” He sounds frustrated, and the fact that it bothers me is proof I’m right. It’s time.
“Really.”
“Dammit, H.D. Why? We’re not even through the first week.”
“I know, but I was talking to Trent this morning, and I think I overestimated the amount of time it would take.”
“So that’s it?”
“Well… yeah.” I try to make my voice light and friendly. Why does this fake breakup feel so real all of a sudden? “I mean, that was always the deal, right?”
“Right.”
“Okay, then. So no need to pick me up in the morning. I’ll call Shelly.”
“Okay,” he says, and his tone makes me feel awful.
I try again to lighten the mood. “She’ll be thrilled, I’m sure.”
“I’m sure.”
Things are not getting better, and after a few moments of silence, I decide I should let him go.
“Well… ’bye, Jas,” I say quietly.
“’bye.” He says.
We hang up the phone, and I walk over and fall across my bed. My stomach hurts, so I grab my pillow and pull it to me as hard as I can. I have the most overwhelming urge to cry myself to sleep, but that’s silly. This was always the plan.
After a few moments of lying still, listening to myself breathe, I straighten out and reach across the bed to the small drawer under my lamp. It’s the first time I’ve looked at the yellowed sheet of paper in ages, but I need to read it again, to refresh my memory. I carefully unfold the document, and there in my twelve-year-old textbook-cursive is the list.
“My Ideal Husband (a.k.a. Mr. Right)”
#1-A good kisser.
#2-Attends church (without complaining).
#3-Always dresses like a model.
#4-Always polite. (A perfect gentleman.)
#5-Blonde hair and blue eyes.
I close my eyes, and I can still hear Shelly’s mom, my old Sunday school teacher, saying how important it is that we include things like “good communication skills” and “same goals for the future” on our lists. But twelve-year-old boys are not known for their good communication skills, and none of us had any definite goals for our futures at that point. She laughed at all our blank faces staring back at her and said it was okay to include physical traits as well.
“Hello?” I whisper, ducking back into my room and closing my door quietly.
“Harley?” It’s Jason.
“Oh, uh… yeah?” Great.
“You lied to me,” he says.
I’m not sure how to respond. Is it possible he’s joking?
“Um…” I force a little laugh. “What?”
“You didn’t have cheerleading practice after school.” He sounds annoyed. “And Shelly was in the parking lot looking for you when I left.”
I decide to try innocence. “She was? Hmm. I guess I got my days confused.”
“So how’d you get home?”
“Oh, I walked.” I act like it’s no big deal, but he isn’t backing down.
“Why?”
I bite my lip. The tone in his voice is killing me, but I have to do it now. And at least we’re on the phone, so I don’t have to see his face.
“OK. Well, you see, Jason…” Why is this so hard? “I’m afraid things are changing between us. And that wasn’t part of the deal. Remember?”
“So what do you want to do about it?”
“I don’t know,” I say, rubbing my forehead.
We’re quiet for several seconds.
“Can I come over?” He finally asks, and I imagine his eyebrows coming together over his brown eyes. Yes…
“No,” I say quickly. “I think maybe it’s time we did the whole fake breakup thing.”
“Really?” He sounds frustrated, and the fact that it bothers me is proof I’m right. It’s time.
“Really.”
“Dammit, H.D. Why? We’re not even through the first week.”
“I know, but I was talking to Trent this morning, and I think I overestimated the amount of time it would take.”
“So that’s it?”
“Well… yeah.” I try to make my voice light and friendly. Why does this fake breakup feel so real all of a sudden? “I mean, that was always the deal, right?”
“Right.”
“Okay, then. So no need to pick me up in the morning. I’ll call Shelly.”
“Okay,” he says, and his tone makes me feel awful.
I try again to lighten the mood. “She’ll be thrilled, I’m sure.”
“I’m sure.”
Things are not getting better, and after a few moments of silence, I decide I should let him go.
“Well… ’bye, Jas,” I say quietly.
“’bye.” He says.
We hang up the phone, and I walk over and fall across my bed. My stomach hurts, so I grab my pillow and pull it to me as hard as I can. I have the most overwhelming urge to cry myself to sleep, but that’s silly. This was always the plan.
After a few moments of lying still, listening to myself breathe, I straighten out and reach across the bed to the small drawer under my lamp. It’s the first time I’ve looked at the yellowed sheet of paper in ages, but I need to read it again, to refresh my memory. I carefully unfold the document, and there in my twelve-year-old textbook-cursive is the list.
“My Ideal Husband (a.k.a. Mr. Right)”
#1-A good kisser.
#2-Attends church (without complaining).
#3-Always dresses like a model.
#4-Always polite. (A perfect gentleman.)
#5-Blonde hair and blue eyes.
I close my eyes, and I can still hear Shelly’s mom, my old Sunday school teacher, saying how important it is that we include things like “good communication skills” and “same goals for the future” on our lists. But twelve-year-old boys are not known for their good communication skills, and none of us had any definite goals for our futures at that point. She laughed at all our blank faces staring back at her and said it was okay to include physical traits as well.
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