The Truth About Jack (Entangled Crush)

by Gehrman, Jody

  Though the urge to check my vitals is strong, I resist. No email, no Facebook, at least not for a little while; I need a break from all that. But maybe Cody’s tried to contact you, a little voice inside me whispers. My fingers hesitate over the keys. If he has emailed, it can only be some bullshit, sheepish apology, and if he still hasn’t, I’ll be furious. That decides it. It’s a lose-lose situation.

  Instead, I type in “Barcelona” and immediately immerse myself in a vast array of images and maps. There are churches that look like they’re melting, close-ups of Gaudi’s kaleidoscopic sculptures, bustling markets, ocean vistas. I start to seriously entertain the idea of going there. Even if it’s just a dream for now, it feels like a healthy distraction. Spending forty-eight hours moping and crying and checking my phone for messages hasn’t done me any good. Researching Barcelona is like stepping outside into fresh ocean air after being cooped up in a smoky room for days.

  I feel him before I see or hear him. A shape lurking over me. I flinch a little and yank my earbuds out, cutting “Howlin’ Wolf” off mid-howl. He stands there, trying to look friendly, gesturing at the chair across from me. His expression says, Mind if I sit? I don’t know how to turn him down, so I nod my assent. I consider telling him I have to get back to work, but I’ve barely made a dent in my scone, and my chai’s three-quarters full.

  …

  Jack

  I watch from a few tables over as Miles slinks into the chair across from her. Surely she’s not into him. He’s not bad looking, I guess; girls at Saint Mary’s always seemed to like him. No doubt he spends a fortune on hair products. Sometimes a guy can sense the sleaziness in another guy, while a girl remains oblivious. Any way you look at it, though, Dakota is way too good for Miles Asher. She’s sensitive, artistic, quirky. In spite of the tattoos spreading across Miles’s forearms and the pierced eyebrow, he’s mainstream to the core. I can’t imagine a single original thought springing from his brain. He’d never appreciate her uniqueness.

  You don’t even know her, I remind myself sternly. How can you be so sure about how great she is? Scolding myself doesn’t do any good, though. Somehow, in spite of never having talked to her, I feel like I do know her—like I’ve known her forever.

  I pull her letter from my pocket, smooth it out on the table. Her back’s to me, so it’s unlikely she’ll see. Even if she does, I doubt she’ll recognize it unless she gets up close. It’s on plain, unlined paper, written in dark blue ink. Her handwriting slants and swirls—a funny mixture of chicken scratch and old-fashioned elegance. The capital letters loop extravagantly, a playful contrast with the cramped, messy lowercase ones. Glancing over at her table again, I wrap my forearm around the paper, like someone cheating on a test, and read it for the millionth time.

  Dear Whoever Finds This,

  I know this probably seems weird, but I feel so alone right now, I have to reach out to someone. I guess the sea chose you. The surf is like a hungry beast today, and I really believe if I can launch my thoughts with enough force, that beast will carry my message far, far away. Maybe it will wash up on the shores of someplace not so lonely.

  Do you ever feel like the last person on earth? Do you ever stand on a deserted beach and wonder if there’s anyone in the whole universe who aches inside like you do? I guess that’s probably self-centered, thinking I’m the only human being with a broken heart. Still, I can’t help but wonder, where is everyone? Where’s my tribe, the outcasts who wander in search of fellow misfits? I’m a jagged piece that doesn’t belong anywhere. Are there other jagged pieces out there? Can we band together, even if we don’t exactly match?

  If you find this and it makes sense to you, please write to me. Tell me what you think about when it rains. Write down seven of your favorite words in order. List the three songs you hate most and why. Maybe we can start a conversation. Maybe we can find some comfort in a fellow creature’s pathetic yelp from across the sea.

  Yours,

  Dakota McCloud

  1147 Joy Road

  Sebastopol, California, 95473

  I don’t look at them but listen carefully when I hear Miles ask her, “So, what’s going on?”

  “Nothing much. Doing a little research.”

  “For school?”

  “Not really,” she says. “Just out of interest.”

  “That’s right—you’re homeschooled, huh?”

  “Yeah.” She turns back to her computer.

  That explains what she’s doing out of class on a Wednesday afternoon. Didn’t think she looked old enough for college. Is it wishful thinking, or does she sound a little cagey with Miles? I can only see the back of her head from here, but I catch a glimpse of his predatory expression as his eyes roam over the exposed skin of her shoulders. She’s wearing a tank top, nothing especially revealing, but it’s all I can do not to walk over there and punch Asher for the things I know he’s thinking. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve kicked his ass.

  Calm down, I tell myself. You’ve got no right.

  “So, what’s your research?” He slaps on a look of studious interest.

  “I’m thinking about going to Barcelona.”

  “Really? What for?”

  She pushes her chair away from the table a little. “Something about that place. Sounds magical, doesn’t it? Even the name…Barcelona.” She says it slowly, with a slight lisp, the way they pronounce it in Spain.

  “Sure does.” It’s pretty obvious Miles isn’t thinking about Barcelona at all. He’s trying to devise the quickest way to get her naked. By now I’m clutching my coffee cup so tightly I’m afraid I might shatter the thick porcelain.

  Luckily, Dakota starts putting her computer away, preparing to leave. I relax a little. She’s not stupid. Obviously she’s noticed his smoldering looks, and she’s ready to pack it up. She hasn’t finished her scone or her chai, but she makes an excuse about getting back to work and heads for the door. As she leaves, Miles catches me watching and shoots me a triumphant smirk, as if he’s made serious progress when we both know he hasn’t.

  As I watch her go, I get an idea.

  A wonderful, awful idea.

  Chapter Six

  Dakota

  I’m lying on my bed, listening to the placid tapestry of nocturnal sounds. The canvas walls of my yurt are pretty thin, allowing the night to penetrate: crickets, frogs, the occasional howling dog or hooting owl. It’s Friday. I finally broke down and checked my email an hour ago, after I cooked myself a meal of pasta in my tiny kitchen. Aside from the usual annoying spam buildup, there were three messages from River, all of them repeating the same basic message: say something. Of course this just hardened my determination to say nothing. If my silence makes her uncomfortable, that’s just too bad for her. You can’t stab your best friend in the back and expect her to make soothing noises.

  I know what she expects from me—not fury, but forgiveness. In all our years growing up together, I never stood up to River. She’s only a year older than me, but that seems like a lot when you’re twelve and your best friend’s thirteen, already needing a bra when you’re still flat as a board. Even without the age difference, River’s always been frighteningly self-assured, whereas I’m…not. I mean I know what I’m good at: taking junk and making it into something beautiful. I’m confident about my art. But when it comes to having opinions about politics and people and all of that, River’s much more confident. She has no qualms about ordering people around. She has lightning-quick instincts about The Way Things Should Be, whereas I have to think things through, and even then I’m not always sure how I feel. I guess you might say she’s bossy. In some ways, I liked that, growing up. Having her around to decide everything meant I didn’t have to.

  I get up and pace around my yurt, suddenly restless. Thinking about River makes me twitchy, and I know from there it’s a short hop to thinking about Cody, which is someplace I really don’t want to go. He’s still too cowardly to contact me. My respect for him and for boys in general ha
s plummeted to an all-time low. I don’t want to let this betrayal taint my view of humanity, but it’s hard to resist the morbid spiral into hatred of all humans. I’m fighting to retain some shred of hope, to see the world as a place where people can actually love each other, not just go through the motions.

  I stop before my collection of miniature gear sculptures. Examining them makes me feel marginally better; they remind me of what I’m good at. I made these out of old pocket watches I found at a yard sale, broken beyond repair but bursting with delicate gears I instantly fell in love with. I soldered them together to make vaguely anthropomorphic little creatures—seven peculiar monsters made of springs and gears and sprockets.

  I go to my work table and study the supplies I’ve been gathering for months, a mishmash of pieces I haven’t yet decided how to use: a large, rusty sundial salvaged from the dump; a dozen glass bottles I got for five dollars at the Goodwill in hues ranging from cobalt blue to sea glass green; three Barbie dolls from the 1970s; an oversize bright orange ceramic ashtray; the innards of a grandfather clock. Maybe I can work on a project, distract myself from this seething loneliness and anger. After tinkering for a few minutes with my random collection of salvaged junk, though, I know I’m not in the right mindset to create. That’s when I hear the sound of Dad’s guitar in the distance.

  I go outside, stand on my little deck for a moment, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. Above me, there’s no moon, and the stars are so thick they seem to go on forever. I can see Fran behind the French doors of her tree house, the room lit like a votive, glowing. She’s bent over her table, writing as usual. To my left and up the hill a little ways, Tomo’s yurt looks dark. Beyond that, I can see Jane and Neville’s straw bale house. That’s where River grew up with her pack of four younger brothers, Garth, Tristan, Sam, and Wyatt. I can hear faint strains of raucous boy laughter coming from over there. Business as usual at the Clarks’. Dad’s converted barn looks deserted. Then I see he’s lit a fire in the pit, and I can just make out his form holding a guitar.

  Dad takes a swig of his beer and stops playing his guitar as I approach. “Oh, hey, you got a letter today.”

  “Really?” I wonder who it’s from. Cody? River? Who writes letters anymore?

  “Yeah, I didn’t recognize the return address. Someone in Geyserville. It’s inside on the kitchen table.”

  I’m too curious not to investigate right away. I hurry into the house to get a look at the letter. The envelope is made of thick, expensive paper the color of sea foam. Just as Dad said, the return address, printed neatly by hand in the upper left corner, is someplace in Geyserville, a little town about forty minutes away. A part of me wants to run back to my yurt and open it there, but I can’t make myself wait. I’m too curious. I tear open the envelope and pull out the matching stationery.

  Dear Dakota,

  First, let me answer your questions. They’re good ones. It seems only right to start our acquaintance there.

  When it rains I inevitably think about my best friend, a guy who ODed a few years ago. There was a big thunderstorm the day he died. It was Sunday. I’d just finished watching a movie—Harold and Maude—when my mother walked in with the strangest look on her face, the phone still in her hand. It was one of those moody days when the clouds roll in for hours, ripe and swollen with rain. I remember after she told me, I stood there at the window for a long time, just watching the drops hit the glass, thinking, What a cliché—boy dies, cue storm.

  Seven of my favorite words in order (from least to most): pogo stick (does that count as one or two?); Fahrenheit; anti-establishmentarianism; legato; whirl; gravitas; sprezzatura.

  The three songs I hate most and why: “You Light Up My Life” by Debby Boone because, seriously? There’s never an excuse for that much cheese; “Baby” by Justin Bieber. Is this the voice of our generation? It makes me shudder; “Aliron,” a Spanish kids’ song I associate strongly with sour milk, though I don’t really remember why.

  And now a question for you: if you could be anything in nature for just ten minutes, to investigate its internal life, what would you be and why?

  About your bottle: for several weeks I’ve been traveling in California, and one of my cousins took me out on his boat today. I’m originally from Barcelona, but for now I wander this vast country, seeking adventure. When we pulled in the nets, there was your bottle, sitting amidst the fish and seaweed. When I read your note, I knew immediately that I had to write to you. Because yes, I do sometimes suspect I’m the only one who feels this alone. I, too, wonder where my “tribe” is, as you say, and when I will find them. I only hope my letter can bring you half the comfort your magical message in a bottle brought me.

  I do not know how long I will be traveling, but if you would like to reach me you can write to my cousin at the address below. He will be sure I get it, wherever I am.

  Alejandro Torres

  235 Hidden Acres

  Geyserville, California 95448

  I sink into a chair, stunned. My fingertips trace the thick paper. This is really happening. He found my message. Alejandro Torres, from Barcelona! It’s almost too perfect to believe. I feel happier than I have in ages, like gravity has no hold on me, and I might just float up into the air. I sit there, my eyes drinking in the pale paper and the black ink, the careful penmanship, the perfect words.

  Dad appears in the doorway. His eyes move to my letter. “So, who’s it from?”

  “Oh, just something from a friend.” For some reason I don’t want anyone to know about my message in a bottle, or Alejandro, either. It feels too precious, too magical to expose.

  “You want to sit by the fire, hang out?”

  “No, thanks.” I get up, clutching my letter. I can’t wait to read it again. Maybe I’ll even try writing a response tonight. “I’m super tired.”

  “Okay. Well, if you change your mind…”

  I give Dad a quick kiss on the cheek. He studies me quizzically but says nothing as I head out the door. As soon as I’m outside, I begin to run, my heart beating frantically inside me. The cool air on my face feels like a caress, and the stars above me pulse with magic.

  …

  Jack

  Alejandro Torres. I repeat the name inside my head as my fingers move through “Nocturne in D Flat Major” automatically, the lento sostenuto section coming easily. Buttery sunlight spills onto the polished wood floor of the conservatory, and the surface of my baby grand gleams like a mirror. Each note vibrates inside my chest. Alejandro Torres of Barcelona, Spain. What was I thinking?

  She must have gotten the letter by now. It’s probably already moldering in her trashcan. I tried to stick pretty close to the truth. Aside from that Spanish folk song I threw in for authenticity’s sake, all my answers to her questions were totally honest. Maybe that’s where I went wrong—being too honest. Or maybe I wasn’t honest enough. Probably the Alejandro thing was stupid. Seriously, I could have just written, Hey, I’m a dude from Geyserville and I found your bottle and yes, I feel lonely too. Instead I made it hopelessly convoluted by claiming to be a fisherman from Barcelona.

  God. Shoot me now.

  I try to lose myself in the music. Sometimes when I practice I can do that—delve so deeply into the notes that I forget my own name. It’s a great feeling, surrendering like that, feeling each chord vibrating inside my chest, like I’m not just playing music, I am the music. I’m the moody smokiness of Rachmaninoff and the soft pastels of Chopin. Now that the push to prepare for my Julliard audition’s over, though, I find it’s harder to fall into a song like that. I no longer lose my sense of time and place and even find myself eyeing the clock. My hands obey my commands and dance along the keys with technical accuracy, but I don’t feel the songs seizing me like they used to. What if my love for piano dries up altogether, just evaporates without warning, leaving me with talent, training, and proficiency but no heart?

  Attila comes in and my fingers stumble in surprise. He never steps foot in the cons
ervatory when I’m practicing; in fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in here, period. Mom’s pretty serious about rehearsal. She’s so stoked about me going to Juilliard. You’d think since I’m already in, she’d ease up a little, but she’s gotten more insistent than ever about me practicing.

  I hole up in this room for at least three hours a day, playing my piano, and nobody gets to disturb me. I used to have music teachers, but now there’s no one in the area good enough to offer me anything. That sounds conceited, but I don’t mean it that way; it’s just true. I sometimes wish it weren’t, since it means total isolation while I rehearse. I don’t mind solitude, but my own company can get old after a while.

  “What are you doing in here?” I ask Attila, standing.

  He puts a finger to his lips. “Shh. Keep playing.”

  “Uh, okay.” I sit back down and continue with the song. Lowering my voice so it’s barely audible over the music, I add, “What’s up?”

  Attila sits beside me and props something in front of us on the sheet music stand. It’s a bright red envelope. There are sparkly stars here and there—not stickers, more like someone used glue to carefully outline these beautiful little supernovas, then sprinkled them with orange and gold glitter. They look like tiny firecrackers going off all around the address. My address—well, Alejandro Torres’s cousin’s address. I read the name in the corner: Dakota McCloud.

  She wrote me back! Okay, she wrote Alejandro back.

  My song goes abruptly silent as I reach for the envelope.

  “Keep playing,” Attila orders gruffly.

  “But—”