Affective Needs

by Rebecca Taylor

  My own phone buzzed again in my hand.

  Ruth, don woree abt Port—u can send me any pics u lik! ;)

  It was Jay. Great! Now I was receiving sexual innuendoes from a pre-felon—I deleted the entire thread and put my phone back in my pocket. Eli would fall all over himself laughing about this one. And I was pretty sure I knew exactly what his smart-ass response would be. That’s great! Valedictorian wannabe Ruth Robinson is in tight with the biggest dealer in school. Actually, this could really help with your social profile, you know.

  I turned and glanced back at Helen, completely lost in her own mental realm of academia. She looked like she might actually be breaking a sweat over her laptop. A second later, I pulled my phone back out, scrolled through the Recents, and blocked Jay’s number.

  “No more messing around,” I declared as soon as Porter and I entered the library. “We are getting this project done.”

  “Absolutely.” Yet somehow the look on his face left me feeling like he probably wasn’t as committed to the work as I felt we needed to be.

  I stopped, grabbed his hand, and gave him my most serious glare. “I mean it.”

  Porter looked into my eyes for half a second then bent low until his mouth was right next to my ear. “I know you do,” he whispered. “I promise.” Then his lips brushed mine right before he stood up straight and started walking toward the staircase. With my hand still in his, I trailed behind him and cursed my stupid, traitorous, hot-blooded body that now was completely thinking about forgetting all my grand proclamations about work. His touch—it was electric fire on my skin. Now all I could imagine was taking Porter in my arms and kissing him again the second we reached the privacy of our regular table at the back of the second floor.

  How easy it was to knock me off track these days. Easy for Porter anyway. Most days it didn’t take much more than a direct look into those deep blue eyes that pierced right through me. One look and I was curled up with Porter in the backseat of my car, blowing off my honors thesis, our calculus project, and pretty much every other thing I should be doing.

  I needed some balance. Some way to be around Porter and resist simply falling into his arms. I needed to still function. When we reached our table, instead of sitting right next to Porter like I usually did, I chose the seat on the opposite side of the table from him. What we needed was some solid, physical furniture between us.

  He obviously knew exactly what I was up to because the moment I staked out my territory, he let out a laugh. “It that supposed to help?”

  “Yes,” I said. “As a matter of fact, that’s exactly what it’s supposed to do.”

  Porter shook his head and shrugged before dropping his frayed and dying backpack into the center of the table. “Let’s get to work, then.”

  I gave him a single nod. Yes, things were going to change starting today. The problem was, while Porter would obediently follow my positive lead, if I didn’t take the reins he would gladly roll all over the library floor if I suggested. I had to be the strong one. The one to resist. And it didn’t seem fair because, in fact, I would rather be lying under this table with his body pressed against mine than counting on the solid wood to keep us separate.

  It would be easier if he would sometimes care about getting our work done.

  And actually . . . “Why don’t you ever seem to care if we get this project done?”

  Porter pulled wrinkled papers and books with crushed covers from his bag. “Because I don’t. It doesn’t mean anything to me.”

  “How can you say that?”

  Finished with his bag and all the trash-looking items he’d emptied onto the table, he flipped open his calculus book, sat in his chair, and leveled his eyes at me. “I don’t know what you want me to say.” He looked at all the notes and work he’d already finished spread out in front of us. “But actually, I guess that’s not exactly true. If I really didn’t care, I wouldn’t be here at all. Its means something to me but only because it means something to you. I know doing well on this is important to you, and that’s the only reason I bother.”

  I stared at him, caught somewhere between flattered, irritated, and confused. “Why don’t you care about it for you?”

  He lowered his eyes. It was a fraction of a second, but I knew there was something he wasn’t telling me. I took a guess. “You’re dropping out,” I blurted, and fell into my seat.

  Porter swallowed and shook his head. “I’m not dropping out,” his voice was low.

  “Well, what, then? I can tell something is wrong.”

  He took a breath and then his words came out in a rush. “I met with my counselor on Monday.”

  I waited for him to finish, but when he didn’t go on, my eyes grew wide with impatience until it felt like they might burst right out of my head. “AND?”

  “And . . . she was helping me plan my schedule for next year.”

  I stared at him. Confused, I searched his face for some clue. Wait, he wasn’t a senior? Of course he was. I shook my head, “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m short,” he shrugged like he didn’t care, but, as always, Porter’s eyes gave him away. Whatever the problem was, it was really bothering him.

  “Short?”

  “Credits.” He sighed. “I don’t have enough credits to graduate this spring.”

  I blinked.

  Porter picked up a pencil and pulled a random sheet of paper in front of him. “Or next fall. She said I was so far behind, it would take another year for me to finish. And that’s only if I take a max load both semesters.”

  My phone buzzed loudly on the table between us, and Eli’s picture opened up on the screen. I touched the Decline button and tried to wrap my brain around what Porter was telling me. He wasn’t going to graduate this year. No chance. No extra credit, extra projects, extra effort was going to dig him out of a year’s worth of missing credits. Suddenly, I felt sick for him. The idea of not graduating, of having to stay in high school for a whole other year, I couldn’t even—“How could you let this happen?”

  The space between his eyes folded into an angry crouch. “I didn’t let it happen, Ruth,” his voice was loud enough to attract the attention of an old guy browsing the stacks to our right. He raised his eyebrows at us, a warning to keep it down.

  I leaned across the table and lowered my voice, “Of course you did. It’s not like someone else didn’t get those credits.” My exasperation was a runaway train. “Porter, you are so fucking smart.” I wanted to shake him.

  He slumped in his seat and stared across the table at me, his face completely unreadable.

  “I mean, you can’t expect me to believe that the work was too hard.”

  Porter shook his head.

  “Then what?”

  He shrugged.

  “Don’t do that, not to me.”

  “Do what?”

  “Shut me out like that. I’m trying to understand.”

  “What’s to understand, Ruth. I’m a fuck-up. Always have been. Always will be. Not everyone gets Princeton beating down their door.”

  There were so many loaded statements falling from his lips I didn’t know which one to attack first. Now it was my turn to shrug. “But they should be.”

  Later, I waited in the car while Porter stood on the corner outside Paige’s elementary school. There was no point arguing with Porter about all the bad decisions he’d made before I even knew him. It’s not like he could go back in time and fix his credits. After a few minutes of calculus work, we had mutually and silently let the subject drop between us.

  This was my first time meeting Paige, and my hands, wet with sweat, felt slimy against Vader’s steering wheel. I clenched them for a second then wiped them across my jeans.

  She was seven—why was I so nervous? I didn’t really have any experience with little kids; I had never even babysat. Eli had a younger sister, Natasha, who would always hang around and bother us when we were younger. But Eli would complain to his mother and she would come coll
ect her so we could be alone. How old was Natasha now? Fifth grade? Middle school? I supposed old enough that she had her own friends and life now. I almost never saw her when I was at their house because she was either in her room, on the phone, or at a friend’s house.

  If they were the same age, Natasha would definitely have been friends with Bella Blake and her crew. Come to think of it, Natasha was so popular and beautiful, she probably was the Bella of her class.

  The front door to the school opened and Paige shot out in a sprint toward Porter, her backpack bouncing high off her shoulders. This time, I could see a woman standing at the door. She waved to Porter, who raised a hand back. She turned and let the door close as soon as Paige reached her brother.

  On the corner, Paige stopped in front of Porter and held up something to show him. He took it from her, turned it over a few times, smiled, and said something as he took her hand and led her toward my car.

  The bottom had dropped out of my stomach. Why? Why on earth was this quickly approaching seven-year-old girl causing me so much stress? Porter stooped low and pointed to my car. Was it my imagination, or did Paige suddenly narrow her eyes and look suspicious as she followed the sight line of her brother’s finger? I took a deep breath and let it out in a wooosssshhh.

  Porter’s little sister was making me feel like I was walking into a job interview. When they were right outside the car, Paige’s eyes pierced the front windshield and connected with mine. I forced a smile and raised my hand.

  Her serious expression didn’t budge.

  Porter opened Vader’s back door and tossed Paige’s pink bag onto the seat before stepping out of the way so Paige could climb in herself. “Paige,” Porter said as he reached across his sister and buckled her seatbelt, “this is my friend, Ruth. Ruth, meet Paige.” Before either of us could say anything, Porter closed the back door, opened the passenger door, and slid onto the front seat next to me.

  Swiveled around so I could see her, I smiled big. “It’s nice to meet you, Paige.”

  She didn’t say anything. She sat there and stared at me.

  “Paige,” Porter said. “What do you say?”

  Seconds ticked. Paige continued to stare at me, then her brother, then me. I could tell Porter was getting irritated because Paige wasn’t doing whatever it was that she was supposed to be doing—which was what, exactly? Say hello?

  “Paige,” his voice warned.

  I couldn’t stand the pressure anymore. I shrugged and kept smiling, completely ready to give up and let Paige win. But before I could turn around and get Vader started, Paige decided to speak.

  “Are you Porter’s girlfriend?”

  I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. I had no idea how to answer that question. Yes? No? Almost? This, I realized, was why seven-year-olds were so dangerous.

  “Ruth,” Porter suddenly piped up.

  I turned my confused gaze to him. Maybe he had a plan for reclaiming control of the situation.

  “Look what Paige made in school this week,” he held up a lopsided, half-painted pot. The kind made from clay rolled into long worms and then spiraled around and around on itself.

  “That’s really pretty,” I said, and when I looked back at Paige, I could see her expression had softened a bit. “I bet you had to work really hard to make it look that good.”

  “No,” she said, very matter-of-fact. “I’m really good at art. I’m going to be an artist when I grow up.”

  This gave me an idea. “Do you guys have to go home right away?”

  Porter shrugged and Paige shook her head.

  Have you ever been to the Grounds for Sculpture?”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The Grounds for Sculpture was only a ten-minute drive from my house, but when we pulled into the parking lot, I realized I hadn’t been here in almost six years. The last time was a week after my twelfth birthday. My dad brought me here for one of our bi-annual “father time” excursions. Back then, I was still happy when my dad remembered to see me and I had been excited to explore the park grounds and art with him.

  That trip had been the beginning of the end for us.

  Every exhibit, he would immediately race to read the informational plaque and then proceed to lecture me about the piece, the artist, and cultural significance. Always he would add in bits about his own life and opinions on art. An hour into our exploring, I started to tune him out.

  My dad knew next to nothing about art, but here he was acting like he was some kind of expert—it was the first time in my life that it occurred to me that my dad was full of shit.

  When he’d noticed that I wasn’t listening to him anymore, he had switched his lecture topic from art to respect.

  “I’m twelve,” I’d countered. “I can read a plaque just as well as you can.”

  Even now, I could still remember his exact expression. Like I had slapped him. His eyes were angry, and afraid. He launched further into his lecture on respect, threading in words like, ingratitude and undeserving without ever even pausing to take a breath. People all around us were turning and taking a second to stare.

  I walked away from him.

  When he followed me and tried to grab my arm so I would turn and face him, I yanked myself free and practically ran for his car.

  When he finally caught up and unlocked the doors, I wanted to be as far away from him as possible, so I opened the back door, slid onto the seat, and refused to look at him.

  In the privacy of his car, he felt free to yell at me all the way back to my house. It was the first, but not the last, time he pontificated about my crap attitude and informed me that he “will not put up with it!”

  I had kept my eyes fixed out the window and forced myself to not cry all the way home. When we finally pulled into the driveway, my door was open before he even stopped the car. I slammed it behind me and ran inside, up to my room before I could hear another word.

  Then I’d cried. Hysterical, hot, sobbing tears. My mom had brought a cold washcloth to help me calm down.

  “Look!” Paige shouted and pointed to the top of a nearby grassy hill. A second later Paige turned her wide eyes to her brother and whispered, “She’s naked.”

  On top of the hill was a larger-than-life painted metal sculpture of a woman lounging on an old fashioned red sofa. She was indeed naked, with large round breasts and one hand placed strategically over her pubic area. A black cat with an angry arched back perched near her feet.

  Porter smiled and laughed. “Yes, big and naked.” He took Paige’s hand and walked closer to the statue. Like the cat, Paige leaned back and pulled away from her brother.

  “What?” he asked. “Let’s go see it.”

  Wide-eyed and worried, Paige shook her head.

  Porter laughed again. “It’s art,” he explained. “That makes the naked okay.”

  Paige looked to me, as if trying to determine if what her brother was saying was true. I shrugged and nodded, suddenly remembering that there were actually several nude sculptures, all women of course, throughout the park and that I had been just as avoidant and embarrassed of them when I had come here with my dad.

  “Let’s skip this one,” I said, rescuing Paige from her brother’s teasing.

  Paige looked relieved and pulled her brother away from the naked giantess. Porter couldn’t stop laughing all the way to the welcome center’s main entrance.

  But as we approached the ticket window, Porter slowed down. When I glanced back at him, I could see that his smile had evaporated as he stared up at the overhead marquee.

  Adults: $15

  Seniors: $12

  Students: $10

  Children 5 and under: Free

  Porter stopped walking and reached down for Paige’s hand, stopping her as well. A wave of nervous dread rolled through me.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  Porter’s eyes met mine, and he hesitated. “I . . . didn’t bring any cash.”

  “Oh.” I shrugged and opened my bag. “No big de
al, I got this.” My wallet was buried at the bottom under a pack of tissues, a hair brush, and a half-eaten pack of peppermint flavored gum. I pulled it out and unzipped the compartment that held my driver’s license and debit card.

  I pulled out the card and turned toward the elderly man waiting patiently for us behind the glass. Porter and Paige stood paralyzed ten feet behind me.

  “Can I help you?” the man’s voice broke through the round speaker positioned in the glass.

  “Three students plea—”

  “She’s five,” Porter suddenly called out from behind me.

  Confused, I turned around.

  “I’m seven!” Paige protested, and glared up at her brother.

  “You’re five,” Porter corrected his sister. He looked up at me, shifted his eyes to the sign over my head, and then back to me. “She’s five.”

  I stared at them both for a moment and then turned back to the elderly man who was now fighting a smile behind the glass. I leaned close to the speaker hoping Porter wouldn’t hear me. “Three students,” I whispered.

  The man nodded, typed the order into his computer and collected the tickets as they printed out. “Okay, so that’s two students and a five-year-old.” He winked at me. “That’ll be twenty dollars, miss.”

  I handed him my debit card. “Thank you,” I whispered into the speaker.

  “It’s good to see young people enjoying the arts.”

  I signed the credit slip, collected our tickets, and joined Porter and Paige near the entrance. When I handed Paige her ticket, she inspected it until her suspicions were confirmed.