Meant to Be

by Julie Halpern

  I can see the gears in Adam’s head cranking away: Eyes on breast = good, punch in face = bad, spork in nutsack = really bad.

  “So, what you’re saying is: I get to stare at your ti—” he starts in with tits but is immediately halted by my death stare. “… breasts for five seconds?” I wait for him to reiterate the rest of what I said, but he seems finished.

  “You did hear all that about punching you and how from here on out you leave my breasts—and let’s add every other woman you ever meet’s—breasts alone. Unless, perish the thought, they actually want that kind of attention from you. God help Anita Lopez.”

  Adam pauses in thought, then enthusiastically announces, “I accept the challenge!”

  I turn to Luke with a look of disgust on my face. “Do you think he heard me?”

  “It’s hard to say. I think you might have broken him with the prospect of being invited to ogle you.”

  I detect a note of discomfort in Luke’s voice, so I assure him, “I’m not offering up my naked body to him, Luke. I’m wearing clothes. And it’s not sexual because I’m not going to let him do anything more than rest his eyes there for five seconds. Don’t worry. It’ll be like getting a shot: over quickly and not quite as awful as you thought.”

  The end of lunchtime is nigh, so I speed things along. Scooting back my chair, I walk to the other side of the table where Adam sits. “Well,” I say, “here they are. Live the dream.”

  “Now?” he asks, less confident about things now that my breasts are practically in his face.

  “You want me to pencil it into your date book? Yes, now. I want your ogling to be done with. Plus, if you and Anita Lopez get serious, you can’t go around staring down another girl’s boobs, can you? Here, I’ll help.” Before Adam can resist (although I’m guessing he would not) I grip his head on both sides, careful to avoid his hat, and aim it so his eyes have nowhere to look but at my chest of glory. “One, two, three, four, five,” I count. I remove my tainted hands from his clammy face before I think Adam can actually register what has transpired. “Would you look at the time? Lunch is over. Remember our deal, Adam. I will honor it, and I did take self-defense lessons last summer at the JCC.”

  I stride away confidently, laughing to myself as I pat my bravado on the back. Luke trots up next to me as I walk. I’m smiling, but his dimples are nowhere in sight. “I didn’t exactly appreciate what you just did,” Luke offers.

  I’m taken aback that he didn’t think it was as hilarious as I did, albeit I am charmed by his forthrightness. “The boob thing?” I clarify.

  “Yeah,” he says, as though it’s obvious.

  I say, “It’s not exactly yours to appreciate, is it? I did it for me.”

  Luke takes my arm to stop me from walking, and we stand facing each other. I squint at the sun as I look up to his face.

  “How would you feel if I put, say, Keely’s hands here?” He grabs my wrist and places my hand on his pectoral muscle. I know I should be focusing on the seriousness of his tone, but I’m distracted by the comforting feel of his body. God, I’m such a hypocrite.

  “I don’t know. I wouldn’t particularly like the action, but if the intentions were good, like, say, it would stop her from objectifying you and making you feel like a big-breasted monster, then, yeah, I’d be okay with it.”

  “You feel like a big-breasted monster?” Boys are so simple.

  “No. However, I would like to be able to run to the bathroom without having to make sure someone isn’t watching my body parts flop around when all I want to do is take a pee.”

  “Do I have to feel bad that I really, really like your breasts?” It’s amazing how one person can make me feel so icky and another person, this person, can make my entire body rigid and liquefied at the same time.

  I clear my throat. “Only if I have to feel bad that while you’re talking to me, all I can think about is how badly I want to kiss you.”

  The cheesiness of that remark is gloriously washed away by the plushness of Luke’s lips against mine. Maybe I have some control over my life after all.

  CHAPTER 24

  Before the park closes at six, I hold up a piece of paper to Luke reading, PAINT? He takes a minute to scribble something that, when held up from Luke’s distant location, looks like an eye exam I was destined to fail. I throw my hands up in a “huh?” position. He signals with a “one second” finger. During that time, the Devil’s Dinghies come to a stop, and I spend several minutes unhinging seat belts and hoisting children out of the boats. After that, I load another crew into their dinghies, check their seat belts, give the all-clear ride signal to the nonexistent person who doesn’t work with me, and I hit the start button in my booth. Once all this is over, I look to Luke’s position at the Ghoster. He is busy with his own job (the nerve!), so I lean against my booth and hum along to the Devil’s Dinghies ditty. It truly never gets old.

  I feel a nagging tap on my shoulder, and I turn around to find Chaitu, Luke’s right-hand boy. He presents me with a folded-up piece of paper and walks away without a word. Good old Chaitu. I think that’s his name.

  As the Devil’s Dinghies song tootles in the background, I gingerly unfold the note. This must be how kids felt back in the days when they had to pass actual notes in school instead of texts. Like that scene in Sixteen Candles. I love the crinkly sound of the paper.

  Hey Aggy,

  I can only stay an hour. Lots of family still in town for the uncle. Painting sounds fun. I’ll meet you at the cauldron.

  Luke

  Is it my imagination, or did my body react to seeing Luke’s name in print? Like when you think you might be having a heart attack, but it’s more in your elbow so then you realize it’s probably gas although why there’d be gas in your elbow you’ll never understand. Or is that just me? Whatever the feeling, something in my pestering gut is telling me that the feeling was a direct response to the visage of Luke’s name in his own handwriting.

  Or not.

  The annoying part of it all is that instead of being stoked that I will be spending one whole hour in the presence of Luke and his subtly pheromonal man musk, I am now thinking about signatures and Names and, dammit, why is my chestal region itching?

  The Devil’s Dinghies round their final curve out of the terrifying tunnel, and I am able to shake off the mystical weirdness of the last two minutes. Aside from this pestering itch. Seriously, am I the only one who has it this long after the damn thing sprouts?

  I consider inventing a cream specifically for the MTB. I’ll call it Soul Mate Salve. Genius.

  Six o’clock comes relatively quickly, but by the time all the straggling families are ushered out of the park it’s closer to six thirty. This wouldn’t be a big deal except that it cuts my Luke time in half. After I secure the boats underneath the tunnel (that way if it rains, they don’t fill with water) and lock the ride starter, I cross the river to the grassy area with the mural. Very little has changed, what with Luke and I distracting each other last time. I assume tonight will be strictly painting business, as the park still has a lot of team members milling about. I remove the blue plastic tarp Brian provided for the paint cans and pry open the red. After touching up one of the devil’s faces, arms, and hands, I brighten the frothing concoction bubbling over the sides of the cauldron (I like to think it’s a tomato-based stew in which the devils cook the people, not their actual blood. This is a kids’ park, after all). Satisfied with my work, I pop open the cans of black and white. Using a lid as a palette, I mix the two noncolors together to make a gray, brushing it around the base of the cauldron to add depth. If only I had some glitter, I would sprinkle it strategically to spruce up the pitchfork. I make a note to bring some.

  By the time the scene is completed, it’s ten minutes to seven. I was so focused on the painting, I didn’t even notice Luke isn’t here. I’m about to worry that this has something to do with his Empty arriving in an unexpected romantic maneuver when I get a text from Luke.

  Hav
e to leave but want to see you. Meet me at my car?

  Before I overthink it, I type:

  Be right there.

  The paintbrushes resting in the grass, I practically skip all the way to the employee lot.

  Luke leans against his car with the swagger of a 1970s vice cop, and I’m on his lips in a second, standing on full tiptoe. After a beat, Luke leans away and, if I see this correctly, blushes. “That was unexpected.”

  “I thought you wanted me to come to your car,” I note.

  “I did, but because I really have to get going and I didn’t have time to meet you at the Dinghies.”

  I shrink back to my flat-footed size, but Luke doesn’t allow for it. “Hey,” he soothes, squeezing me against him with an arm around my waist. “I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just that my cousins won’t stop texting, and my mom keeps calling. Twenty-five people all need to agree on a restaurant, apparently.”

  “Yeah.” I blandly nod, still slightly embarrassed about my aggressive entrance.

  Luke hugs me, and I lean in while kicking a peeling rubber piece dangling from my gym shoe.

  “Fuck it,” he declares, and somehow my shoes are being lifted off the ground as Luke boosts me into his arms, bridal-style. “Can you reach the door?” he asks, and I grasp at air until I find the handle. Once open, Luke tosses me inside like I’m a bag of feathers and dives in next to me.

  “Are you kidnapping me?” I grin.

  “For five minutes. Or until my mom calls. Whichever comes first.”

  I’m horizontal on the front seat, the gear shift jabbing into my back. Luke balances on his elbows above me as we frantically kiss and grab at each other. I wrap my legs around his torso, pulling him toward me. We’re overeager, not knowing what to touch or take off before our time dwindles down. There’s not enough room, in the car or between us, to easily remove clothes, so we resign ourselves to shimmying hands into each other’s waistbands. It’s a lot of messy stroking and groping, sloppy kisses and missed reaches. I want to suggest the backseat when a tinkling tune plays from Luke’s pocket. He rests on his forearm to tug his phone out of his shorts.

  “It’s my mom,” he tells me, and we separate like we’ve been caught. “Hello?” he answers. I adjust my clothes and place my hands neatly in my lap. Luke’s short call consists of mostly “uh-huhs” and “okays,” and he ends it with “See you in a few minutes. Love you, too.”

  A boy who loves his mother and could bench-press me if the occasion ever arose? How are we not meant-to-be?

  Luke bids me good-bye with two slow kisses and one even longer, lingering kiss. His eyes are hooded when he pulls away. “I wish I didn’t have to go. What are you doing tomorrow after work?” he asks.

  Playing Halo and trying not to open my Chapbook, I think. “Probably nothing. Why?” I look at him coyly.

  “Maybe we can get something to eat and then do the painting I was supposed to help with today.”

  “Sounds fun,” I agree. One last quick kiss, and I exit the car to head back to the Dinghies.

  I spend a few minutes cleaning off brushes and closing paint cans, then I walk to my locker and gather my belongings. Three texts on my phone.

  From Lish:

  Come meet us for dinner tonight! I miss you!

  Us? Ugh.

  From Sahana:

  Board games with the fam tonight if you want to join.

  Maybe …

  From Lish again:

  We’re at the Pie House at 7 if you want to meet us. I have a coupon!

  Board games at Sahana’s house could be fun, if it weren’t for her ultracompetitive twin brothers. Imagine the Weasley twins, but Indian American, and instead of pranksters they’re hard-core studiers who have to out-know every other human on the planet about every subject ever invented.

  Pass.

  It’s hard to deny Lish and her coupon.

  I text her:

  I’m just leaving H.H. Be at the Pie House at 7:30.

  When I get to the Pie House, it’s packed. I forgot it’s Wide Wedge Wednesday, when you get double the amount of pie for the price of a single slice. I spot Lish and Travis sitting side by side at a booth and slide in across from them. Lish whispers, “We had to tell them we weren’t expecting anyone else, or they wouldn’t have seated us.” Then she says loudly, “Agatha! I can’t believe you’re eating here, too! What a surprise! Why don’t you join us?” Lish is so adorable when she’s being a dork.

  I humor her and reply boisterously, “Yes! I was in the neighborhood and thought, I could really use some wide pie! Who would have thought I would run into my best friend, plus guest!”

  No way in hell I’m calling him her boyfriend in my Pie House theater show.

  The waitress takes my order, a tuna melt and fries, and then it’s time for dinner conversation. I wish it didn’t feel like Dinner Conversation; having dinner with one’s best friend should be the easiest, most comfy dining experience available, aside from toast in bed on a sick day off from school. But even that has crumbs. With Travis here, I feel so stunted in my topics of conversation. Talking about Empties is moot because they are obviously never going to side with a person who doesn’t want to believe in the concept of meant-to-be. Talking about Luke is awkward, since he is not my MTB but is certainly more than a boy-slash-friend. I opt for conversation C: “I made a guy at work gawk at my boobs today.” Totally acceptable, right?

  As dinner progresses, I’m pleasantly surprised by how affable Travis is. While initially shocked, he enjoys the boob-leering story (and I don’t get the sense that he enjoyed it too much, if you know what I mean). We were even able to have a real conversation concerning talking to my mom about Australia.

  “As unhappy as she may be at first, you’re an adult, you’ve earned your own money, and you have the right to go where you want,” Travis logically advises.

  “Plus, it’s not like you’re staying out of college forever. It’s temporary. Focus on that, and maybe she won’t freak,” Lish adds.

  “But what if it’s not temporary? What if I fall in love with the country? The continent? And I don’t want to leave?”

  “You could go to college there,” Travis suggests.

  “Tell your mom that! She’s so obsessed with college, maybe that will sell her,” Lish adds.

  “These are good ideas, but I don’t know. I’m still not ready.”

  After dinner, Lish and Travis invite me to see a movie with them, but I decline. I don’t know if I can stomach their hand-holding through the popcorn bucket. Plus, I want to be bright and shiny for work tomorrow. Or more importantly, after work.

  At home Uncle Jim has classical music blasting (if that’s a thing) from the attic, and there’s a note on the kitchen table from my mom.

  Out with work friends. If I don’t see you before bed, hope you had a nice day at work. Good night! College mail on the table.

  Glurg. Damn college and their ever-present mail.

  I shuck off my clothes and put on my jammies. The lure of my laptop is strong, but I resist it by throwing on my ear cans and listening to the Monks. They’re fast and poppy and punky, but somehow I manage to fall asleep relatively quickly.

  I wake up in the morning with a cord imprinted on my face.

  After my shower, I check my phone. A text from Lish:

  Don’t get grossed out, but sex with someone you love is so amazing!!!

  Followed by seven hundred emojis, from hearts to fireworks to pieces of pie (I don’t want to know).

  Does Lish think tormenting me about her sex life is helpful? Does she think it will inspire me to look for Hendrix Cutter so I can have MTB sex with him? I don’t need Hendrix Cutter to have great sex.

  My stomach flips.

  Is this a challenge? I accept!

  I rummage through a shoe box in my closet until I find the condoms supplied in our sex-ed packet in health class. I tuck them into my backpack and gnaw on my cuticles in nervous anticipation.

  Oh yes. Tonight
I will have sex with someone I don’t love! Or someone I could possibly love but isn’t my MTB! Take that, Hendrix Cutter!

  Get ready for a flurry of emojis, Lish.

  CHAPTER 25

  Rubber band wrapped around my fingers, I sling my hair into a high ponytail. Not because I think it looks phenomenal, although it does have a slightly seductive I Dream of Jeannie bend to it, but because it’s hella hot. I don’t know why summers take so long to get like this. The first week of summer is always so lovely, I almost forget to wear sunblock. Too quickly the humidity hovers near 100 percent and the temperature comes close to triple digits, and there ends up being no point to wearing sunblock since you’re just going to sweat it off anyway. It’s days like this I make sure to pack at least one back-up Haunted Hollow shirt. Nothing screams, “You want to have sex with me later, don’t you?” like the shadow of pit rings.

  On days that are this hot, crowds are usually thinner but extra-obnoxious. Kids are cranky, parents are short-tempered, and breaks with air-conditioning are scarce. The only departments of the park that benefit are (a) the ice cream and drink concession stands, (b) the store at the front of the park that everyone is forced to walk through on their way out (tired parents fork over the cash for all kinds of crap just to get their kids out of there faster), and (c) the Squalid Squirters. The title explains exactly what they are: pump-powered squirt guns mounted on swivel pedestals, each painted to look decayed, rundown, and like whatever liquid comes out of them would require one to seek a tetanus shot and some stiff antibiotics. Naturally, it’s the same water that runs through the taps and drinking fountains. You’d be surprised how many kids stand directly in front of the squirters, mouths open, for a free drink. Or maybe you wouldn’t. Kids are pretty gross. On hot days little kids may not have the same armpit stank we get once puberty hits, but there’s still something pungent about a sweaty kid. Almost akin to a wet dog.