“You leave me no choice,” she says, letting Gibson off his leash before reaching into her pocket.
We watch as Gibson darts over to the other dogs. Then I feel her hand press in between my shoulder blades, and suddenly I’m standing inside the invisible line and all the dogs—every single one of them—has stopped to stare at me.
I look back and see Sloane blowing into a small rod, but there’s no sound coming out. The silence is overcome by the thudding of paws on dirt and barking and squealing as I’m bombarded with fur and fluff and licks and paws pressing into my stomach.
“Dog whistle.” Sloane smiles at me, giving me a wink.
She quickly puts it away as a few owners run over to get control of their dogs. Without her whistling anymore, most of the dogs are released from the spell. A few take their turns to sniff me before running back over to their owners or the other dogs they were originally playing with.
I watch as Gibson lumbers alongside a Great Dane. They both gallop in this awkward funny way where their back legs don’t seem to keep up with the front ones. A few dogs join them, one of them being the pit bull that was walking with Ben. I scan the other side of the park, praying that he’s still all the way over there, but I don’t see him.
“Mia Hubbard?”
I clip the poop bags to the scrunchie around my wrist and try to discreetly tuck the front of my sweater into my skirt so that I don’t look so shapeless. Then I turn around and see said man of my dreams closing the last few steps between my imagination and our shared toes-nearly-touching reality.
“Hey.” I try to act surprised, not like I scoped him out the second I got here. “What’s up?”
“Not much, just here with Carly.” He points to the pit, who is now running with a different group of dogs.
“Nice.” My mind blanks and I stare off in the distance to hide the heat rising in my face. I knew Ben had a dog because he’s posted about her on his Instagram a few times. I don’t remember seeing her name, and considering the amount of times I check his Instagram feed, I think if he’d mentioned it, I would remember.
“I didn’t know you have a dog. I’ve never seen you here before,” he says, looking across the field.
I spot Gibson and point him out. “Yup, that’s… my… Gibson,” I say, already wondering how I’m going to explain him away later if Ben ever comes over to my house and sees it spotless, furless, and Gibson-less. I think to maybe correct myself and say I dog sit, but Ben has already moved on.
“How old is he?” Ben asks, watching as Gibson tries to mount the Great Dane. Thankfully she’s too tall, but Gibson doesn’t stop trying.
“Uh, like, a year old?” I say, not sure if he’s supposed to do that. The other dog doesn’t seem to mind, but I turn back to Ben to see his reaction.
“He’s cute,” Ben says, laughing a little. Right. If it’s funny that he’s humping a dog, then I shouldn’t panic, not yet at least.
Ben starts walking, and I fall in step with him. I try not to notice the fact that I’m walking with Ben Vasquez. Side by side, both of our hands dangling at our hips, empty. We keep to the edge of the park, having a lot more privacy away from the other owners. He breaks the silence to tell me to watch out for some poop someone didn’t pick up. I don’t see it at first, and he quickly pulls me out of the way. When he lets go, my arms still feel the sensation of his hands gripping me.
“Thanks,” I say, just about ready to pass out.
We fall silent again, and I look down to make sure I don’t step in anything. Ben’s wearing his Nike running shoes. He wears the same pair of sneakers every day. Luckily for him, they pretty much go with everything he wears.
I try to think of non-math-related things to talk about. I already know that he finds Taylor series challenging, and graphing logs on his calculator to be oddly satisfying. Like Sloane said, I’ve definitely given thought to what it might be like to have a real talk with Ben. But in my head it always starts out with, Gosh, Mia, you’re so smart and beautiful. I don’t know why it never occurred to me before that you’re really cool. And then I’d say something like, It’s okay, Ben. I mean, I wasn’t very forward myself. At least we’ve made it here now. “Now” being the moment in which we are sitting side by side on some daydream bench by the beach, waves crashing, the warm sand between our toes. In my dreams he leans in first, and I close the rest of the way, and his lips are everything… just, everything.
But now that I’m actually here, I can’t remember all of the meaningful things I want to know about him. Slowly questions come to me, one at a time.
“Have you decided where you’re going to school next year?” I ask.
“Not yet. There’s only one place that I want to go, but I’m still waiting to hear back.”
“What school is that?”
“Vanderbilt. Everyone on my dad’s side of the family has gone there. My older brother graduated from there last year. I want to be next,” he says, looking down at me.
I can see that his eyes are hazel with flecks of brown. There’s stubble on his chin, making his jawline softer.
“What are you going to study?” I ask.
“I’m torn between pharmacy and psychology,” he admits. “Pharmacy would give me a stable job in the future, but I really like psychology and I feel like I’m already so good at reading people.”
I want to tell him that he can feel free to read me, but I stop myself.
“Can you start off in classes for both and decide later?”
Ben chuckles, looking away for a moment. I watch as he stops and searches for his dog in the park, before resuming our walk. I spot Gibson easily, peeing on a tree with his best friend, the Great Dane.
“I have to get in first,” he finally says.
“Are you worried that you won’t?”
“I don’t know, honestly.”
I want to tell him that he shouldn’t have anything to worry about. He’s captain of the math team. He comes from a long line of Vanderbilt men, and I feel like a school like that is into that sort of thing. Plus, I know from his Facebook page that he’s been doing volunteer work since he was in middle school, going to the synagogue with his mom on weekends to help in the kitchen or to sort clothing donations. I stop myself because I realize listing all of his admirable attributes will either make it obvious that I pay a lot of attention to him, or it’ll look like I’m trying to impress him.
“When will you know?” I ask, trying to keep the conversation going.
“Early in December.”
I try to think of something encouraging but not overly excited to say.
“What about you?” he asks, nudging me with his elbow to get me to look up.
When my eyes meet his, I get that faint feeling again. “What about me?”
“You’re a junior. You must have some idea of where you want to go.”
He’s right. I should already have a sense of where I want to go after high school, what I want to study, and what I might want to do with the rest of my life. But I don’t. I’ve tried giving it some thought, but I keep coming up with nothing. I don’t like math. I’m on math team because it’s the perfect extra credit to boost my grade and give me extra practice. I figure getting a high score on the AP exam both junior and senior years might save me some gen-ed credits wherever I decide to go—at least, that’s what Sam told me. That way, it’ll cross one uninteresting topic off my list. Still, I don’t like history or science or writing. I’m not an artist, not by a long shot. I’ve never been able to play an instrument, and even though I’ve done drama club, I’m not on the path to Broadway by any means. I definitely like the idea of making something, and it would be purposeful if the something could help other people.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“Oh, come on. There must be some school that you like. Some subject that you’re into more than others?”
His interest makes me want to be interesting. I wish I could tell him that biology makes me want to study microbiology
. Or that I loved environmental science and I want to become a zoologist. But those would be lies.
“I like the idea of Princeton. I visited there when my sister was looking into schools, and I really like the campus. They call themselves the liberal arts Ivy, which sounds promising… but I don’t think I’m Ivy material.”
“Anyone who doesn’t think they’re Ivy material isn’t Ivy material,” Ben says, laughing a little. He stares at me, probably reading through all my thoughts, all the times Sam told me I needed to do better in school and grow up and focus. “Believe in yourself as much as the rest of us, Mia.”
“Who is ‘us’?” I ask curiously.
“Your family, your friends… me, even.”
“You even,” I say, teasing even though I’m elated that he said he believes in me.
“I think you have what it takes. You’re great in math club. And, I’m not going to lie, when Mr. B. was reviewing report cards to make sure everyone was allowed to participate, I snuck a peek. You’re basically a genius.”
“I wouldn’t call myself a genius,” I say, blushing.
“Don’t tell anyone, but your GPA is higher than mine.”
“You’re kidding.” I gape at him, feeling the entire surface of my body tingle. He nods and assures me that it’s true. I’m smarter than Ben Vasquez.
“Okay, so maybe I’ll apply to Princeton. But I still have no idea what I want to study,” I relent.
“You might want to figure that out before you start paying Princeton tuition,” he advises as we complete our lap around the park. “Especially because they rarely give out scholarships. If you’re going to invest in Princeton, you need to know why.”
I spot Sloane leaning against a tree near the entrance to the park. She waves to me and then holds up five fingers. I check my watch and realize I have to leave soon if I want to catch a ride with my mom to the garden.
“Will you let me know when you get into Vanderbilt?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Ben says, smiling. I catch the slightest red tint in his cheeks and realize that he’s blushing. I made Ben Vasquez blush!
“Will you text me?” I ask, hopeful.
“Yeah, sure, but I don’t think I have your number,” he says, his brow wrinkling. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, and I grab mine.
I unlock it and hand it to him to add his number, and he does the same for me. I create my contact and add a smiley face at the end of my name.
As he’s handing his phone back to me, we hear a commotion and turn to see two owners running over to their dogs. The two are so tangled, they look like one dog, rolling around, growling and barking and paws flying.
“That doesn’t look good,” Ben says, his eyes darting around.
I see Gibson running toward the action and call out to him. When he doesn’t look my way, I cup my hands and shout louder, but it doesn’t seem to grab his attention. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a small brown dog darting in the direction of the dogs fighting, and Ben sees it too.
“Carly, no!” he shouts.
We both take off running, Ben calling Carly’s name over and over. When we’re closer, he does three short whistles and snaps his fingers twice. This finally gets Carly to come, walking slowly with her tail between her legs.
Gibson, on the other hand, is jumping over the two dogs fighting, trying to get in between.
“Gibson, come on,” I plead, but he doesn’t even turn in my direction.
I look back toward the entrance of the park, but I don’t see Sloane anywhere.
“What do I do?” I ask Ben while he struggles to keep a grip on Carly’s collar.
“What do you mean? Get your dog!”
One of the fighting dogs turns to Gibson, and Gibson starts snarling and baring his teeth.
“Gibson!” I shout.
“Mia, get your dog!” Ben shouts when Gibson starts snapping at the collie that had been under the other dog.
I feel tears prickling in my eyes, and I turn to look back at Ben again. His blushing smile is long gone, and I feel his annoyance pierce through me. He tells Carly to stay and lets go of her. He takes Gibson by the collar and jerks him out of the fight, apologizing to the collie’s owner before dragging Gibson over to me.
“Have you never been to a dog park before? How do you not know how to control him? You shouldn’t bring him here if you can’t control him.”
“He’s not my dog, okay?” I blurt, holding on to Gibson’s collar. He starts pulling in the direction of Carly, and I have to plant my feet and lean in the opposite direction with all my strength to keep him still.
“What?” Ben snaps, pulling Carly back.
I feel so stupid. My nerves make my entire body shake, and I feel my nose start to run as a few tears slip out of my eyes. I can feel the other dog owners staring at us, and I wish Sloane would come step in front of me and pull me out of here, but she’s still nowhere.
“He’s not my dog,” I repeat.
Gibson finally gives in, and I start dragging him out of the park. I hear Ben mumble something under his breath; the word “crazy” hits my ears clearly.
I find Sloane’s car when I get back to the parking lot. I throw open the back door and grit my teeth at Gibson, telling him to get in, and he does so immediately.
“I hate this stupid dog. I hate this stupid park. And I hate this stupid plan,” I grumble as I buckle my seat belt.
“What—”
“No, we’re not talking about it. Just take me home—” My voice breaks and my nerves melt away into full-blown sobs. My embarrassment comes over my body like a blanket around my shoulders, and I let myself sag into the seat. “Please just take me home.”
CHAPTER TEN
You’re going to be so surprised,” Mom tells me later, on the way to the community garden.
“By what?” I ask, still turned away from her, face puffy, looking out the passenger window.
On the way home from the dog park, I had to fan my eyes to keep them from getting red. The last thing I need is for Mom to ask me what’s wrong.
“Gavin has done so much with the greenhouse. It’s amazing what he’s been able to accomplish each week.” Gavin, like Mom, goes to the garden almost every day, with Gloria. Only, he goes after school and has to work fast in dying daylight. I didn’t realize how much there is to do at the garden until Mom started describing the town’s vision to me. They’re working to refurbish troughs so that they can start growing flowers that they’ll sell in the spring. Once the greenhouse is repaired, they’ll be able to grow and sell vegetables. And Mom has her own private plot that she pays for to grow specific flowers. She’s even started a small lemon tree that she’s hoping will hold up.
“What has he done?” I ask, humoring her even though I wish we could just ride in silence for a while.
She goes on to explain how since he started, it’s like he’s taken on the greenhouse as his own project. She doesn’t want to go into specifics because she wants me to be surprised, but she does tell me that it’s neat that I help him when I can—meaning only on Fridays, instead of fighting to dedicate every bit of my spare time.
“I wonder what he’s going to have you do today,” she says as we pull into the parking lot.
Same as last week, there are people coming and going from the garden; on their way in, their clothes and hands are clean and ready to work, and on their way out, dirt stains their clothes and skin. They’ve traded their bucket hats for knit hats since the temperature has been dropping, and all of them share a tired smile with my mom as we head down the rest of the walkway.
“He’s not going to have me do anything,” I tell her. “He’s not my supervisor.”
“Oh, that’s not what I meant, Peach,” Mom says.
The spot where the gravel turns into grass serves as the threshold between the rest of the world and the garden. When we pass over and the ground softens under our feet, we’ve officially arrived. Gloria’s head snaps around, as if now that we’re standing on the
grass, we actually exist.
“Thank goodness,” she huffs, leaving the worktable she was standing over with a few other volunteers. She comes straight to me and takes me by the shoulder. “Gavin needs an extra set of hands for the next part of the greenhouse, and he’s refused to work with any of the other volunteers.”
I want to say something snarky like You’re kidding or Yeah right, but Gloria is so intimidating. The bone structure in her face is all hard angles and set lines; her light blue eyes are staring into my soul. I can’t look away; all I can do is nod.
“Right over there. He’s somewhere inside,” she says, pointing at the greenhouse.
I glance at Mom before speed walking over to the greenhouse. I figure regular walking is too slow for Gloria’s agenda. Mom just gives me that I’m sorry but good luck full-surrender expression that always makes me feel like she’s not trying hard enough.
Nevertheless, I figure it can’t be that bad working with Gavin again. As I get closer to the greenhouse, I start seeing the changes Mom was telling me about. He reinforced some of the molded parts of the wood frame and repainted it all with a fresh coat of white. The overgrown walkway leading up to the greenhouse is now freshly turned soil. Instead of going inside, I go around the side of the greenhouse to where we worked last week and see that he replanted the rest of the baby’s breath with fertilizer, and planted them closer together. At the back of the house he pulled all the weeds and turned all the soil, and did the same along the outside of the opposite edge of the house.
Inside I find him with his back to me crouched over one of the irrigation pipes that used to hang from the ceiling. He hasn’t painted the inside of the greenhouse, but he has managed to finish fixing the broken windows. A ray of sunlight slants through the greenhouse, highlighting the sweat beading on the back of his neck and bouncing off the moisture from the oil in his hair.
“What’s on the agenda for today?” I ask.
His shoulder blades pinch together and he pitches forward. I hear him mutter a profanity before turning around.
“I honestly wasn’t trying to scare you,” I say, laughing.
The Meet-Cute Project Page 11