by E. Lockhart
Terrance showed up and squeezed into the booth next to Stacey. He did eat their pizza. Oscar scolded him for being late. Terrance said Oscar was being an old woman. Stacey said that was a sexist insult.
Oscar, Terrance, and Stacey talked about college applications, and Adelaide felt the familiar swell of anxiety that came over her whenever the subject came up. Jack started writing on the napkins.
She plays pinball with guts
Although she isn’t good at it.
She doesn’t need to win at everything.
People look at her anyway.
He showed the napkin to Adelaide.
She took the pen from him and wrote: Stacey?
Of course, he wrote back. The next one said:
He eats pizza like he’s
Never eaten pizza, like he’s
Just discovering it. Like he can’t believe
His luck.
Jack passed this one over to Terrance. Terrance picked it up and smiled.
“I wanted to go to music conservatory for high school,” Oscar was saying to Stacey. “I applied for eleventh grade and again for twelfth, but I keep getting wait-listed and not in. I’ll try again for college, but part of me has to face up to the idea that the height of my piano achievement may be playing holiday carols in shopping malls or teaching little kiddos how to play Minuet in G. It’s unlikely I’ll be a concert pianist, but I do need to keep trying for a while longer, see if I get a breakthrough or whatever.”
“I have this college spreadsheet with columns for things that are important to me,” said Stacey.
“Oh, ugh. Yuck,” said Terrance.
“It’s cool. Like, I have a column for film production classes. Lots of schools don’t offer film production. Maybe you could look for places that have great music programs that aren’t, like, conservatories?” she said to Oscar.
“I just want a big school,” said Terrance. “State school, probably. More people. More kinds of people.”
“How come?” asked Stacey.
“This small town is the death of me. I’m almost dead. Look at me. Feel my pulse. I’m literally bordering on dead from being here.”
“Aw,” said Jack. “But you have us now. And you have Uncle Benny.”
The rest of them kept talking about college apps and Jack wrote:
The pianist is a performer. He is
performing, now. For
all of us. Even though there is no piano in the room.
He shoved the poems for Oscar and Stacey across the table.
Oscar read his silently, then folded it and put it in his pocket. “Thank you.”
“I am too good at pinball,” said Stacey. “I was just warming up.”
This time, they all five went to the pinball machine. Stacey was terrible but insisted she was amazing. Terrance was terrible too. Adelaide did all right, and so did Oscar. Jack was excellent, keeping the ball in play and touching the edges of the machine lightly, never banging it or using the flippers when he didn’t need to.
Adelaide watched his hands. And his face as he concentrated.
She wanted him to write her a poem. Of course she did.
She knew she had one already, but that was from years ago. It seemed unfair that he would write for everyone but her.
At the end of the evening, Terrance got picked up by his mom, and Oscar squashed into Jack’s car with them. He had taken the bus. Jack dropped Adelaide and Stacey first. “I’ll see you soon,” he said to Adelaide, though he didn’t kiss her.
Well, it wasn’t like they were a couple yet. And not everybody was in the Mikey Lewis Lieu school of public affection.
“Is he nice to you, Adelaide?” said Stacey as the two of them lay in the foldout bed, their teeth brushed and Adelaide’s hair in braids to keep off the heat. “That’s what I care about. If he’s nice to you.”
“I think so.”
“I mean actively nice. Besides the bacon. I couldn’t quite tell, is all. He was like, talking to Oscar all the time in the car. Does he make you happy?”
“It’s not happy so much as a thrill,” said Adelaide.
Texts.
Talking to our mom is exhausting.
Yeah. Always.
But why today?
The anxiety. It’s killing me.
When I talk to Mom I feel like I have one job: to make her happy by demonstrating that I am happy.
Is that what you mean?
Yes. But on top of that I have to perform sobriety.
Explain?
I walk straight lines, just casually, while I tell her what I did at school. I invite her into my room to talk so she can look around.
I end up being all
CHIPPER!
During the school year I came home from basketball and I’d say HELLO! SCHOOL WAS EDUCATIONAL AND MY FRIENDS ARE NICE! I WILL TAKE A SHOWER AND THEN SET THE TABLE. HOW WAS YOUR DAY?
You played basketball?
Yeah. JV.
That’s cool.
But I’m the same way with the coaches.
SHALL WE PRETEND I AM NOT A NARCOTICS ADDICT?
SHALL WE PRETEND YOU ARE NOT WORRIED I WILL CORRUPT THE WHOLESOME MEMBERS OF YOUR SPORTY TEAM?
You do not say that.
I say that by saying, “Hey, Coach, glad to be here.” I volunteer to do stuff like stick around to pick up balls, or bring the uniform orders over to the office.
I say it by smiling and leaving my locker open and my backpack open so it seems like I am hiding nothing.
That is, I am doing a display of hiding nothing,
Which means that in fact,
I am hiding something.
And what I am hiding is that even though I am not up to anything,
I have been a horror and an addict.
A much bigger horror than most people have ever been.
I hide it because the coaches don’t want to see it.
But I also know they know.
And I ALSO hide it because the guys on the team are curious if I will ever show it.
I know they know about me, but they don’t mention it.
I think some of them see me as kind of gangster, and it makes them wonder, or think about me more than they would otherwise.
Then there are others who party. I can tell they never bring it up around me, never say they’ve been drunk or high, never ever, as if they are protecting me from myself.
Adelaide?
I’m here.
Sorry that was a lot of TEXTING FROM TOBY.
No, it was interesting.
Hey, Mom, today was educational.
Hey, Coach, glad to be here.
Hey, guys, I’m sober.
I’m sober I’m sober I’m sober I’m sober
I mean, I am sober, but
I have to actually perform being sober to make other people calm down. And also, they don’t really seem that calm, so I am not sure if my performance is a BAD PERFORMANCE or if I am wrong in thinking they need this performance from me.
I am glad you are sober.
I know you are.
Are you glad you’re sober?
I am glad.
Most of the time.
Uncle Benny’s Fine Sandwiches, where Jack worked, was on a courtyard that bordered the Alabaster campus. Juniors and seniors often signed out at the main office and went there for lunch, in good weather.
Five days after he came upstairs and opened the box of condoms, four days after they played pinball, Adelaide hadn’t heard from Jack. So she walked over to
Uncle Benny’s.
It did occur to her that their love might be a delicate flower that would wilt from too much attention.
On the other hand, maybe it was a delicate flower that would die if she neglected it.
Of course, Adelaide would rather think their connection was not a delicate flower at all, but a sturdy freaking cactus of a love, hardy and strong, able to withstand neglect and hard times—but then again, cacti are prickly. You need to approach them gently. Still, she went over. She wanted to see him.
* * *
The sandwich shop was empty except for two philosophers getting food to go. They took forever deciding. The windows were open and there wasn’t any air-conditioning.
The only person working the counter was Oscar.
“Is Jack around?” Adelaide asked.
“It’s you.”
“Hi again. Is he working today?”
“Nope.”
“Okay. Will you tell him I stopped by?”
“I might, if I see him,” Oscar said. “Are you going to order anything?”
“I don’t think so. I had lunch. Can I leave Jack a note?”
“If you must.”
Adelaide had nothing to write on, so she took a napkin. She took some time, making doodles and swirls with her handwriting, but keeping the wording simple. “Came by to see you.”
* * *
The shop was empty except for two philosophers getting food to go. Behind the counter was a sullen girl with a nose ring.
Jack was working in the kitchen, though. Adelaide saw him walk across the back room, where the grill was.
Her heart sped up. She walked out of the busy shop and around into the alley behind it, until she found the back door. It opened on a parking area lined with garbage cans.
Jack’s Volkswagen Beetle was back there.
She looked into the car. There was a rust-colored jacket on the seat, and a library book about abstract painting.
She could hear Jack’s voice through the screen door that led to the kitchen. “Pickles, Swiss cheese, two things of bacon, fresh tomatoes, sun-dried tomatoes, cheddar cheese, provolone.” He was going through the fridge, calling out a list to someone else.
Maybe Adelaide should wait until he finished work. She’d be standing there, leaning on the hood of his car, when his shift ended. He’d break into a smile when he saw her.
* * *
As she stood there, a girl rode up on a bicycle. She was tall and flat-chested, with a round face, sweet full lips, and cheeks that were flushed with exercise. Straight Asian hair, long down her back, wearing jean shorts and a T-shirt. She didn’t go to Alabaster.
Adelaide looked at her phone while the girl went up to Jack’s VW and bent over the hood, scribbling a note on a pad of lined paper.
“Don’t mind me,” said the girl, smiling. “Love note.”
Oh.
Jack had someone.
Who wasn’t Adelaide.
He had this bicycle girl.
The girl leaned on the car as she wrote. She filled the front and back of her paper with loopy cursive, then folded the note and put it under Jack’s windshield.
Jack was never going to tell Adelaide his secret pain.
He wasn’t going to take her to the philosophy film series.
He might like her, might like her a lot, but he wasn’t going to be hers. He wouldn’t be utterly infatuated with
her and only her,
physically and mentally, the way
Adelaide had been with Mikey once, the way
Adelaide was now, with Jack.
What Adelaide wanted was to be
enmeshed with someone else.
She wanted to be unconditionally and exclusively adored.
She wanted to be the girl she used to be before Toby started getting high.
Jack wouldn’t do that for her.
He had this bicycle girl to love. And the girl knew how to love someone; that seemed clear. There she was, pouring out her heart in this note, gleeful and generous and enjoying the moment.
Adelaide wasn’t sure she knew how to love someone like that, at all.
The girl departed, waving briefly and throwing her leg over her bicycle, then pedaling down the alley as if pleased with her own romantic gesture.
Adelaide wanted to read the note, but she left it alone.
* * *
She had the urge to push through the door into the kitchen. Her whole body longed to be connected with his.
She should do it. Just show up. See the smile on his face.
She stepped inside.
Jack was lifting a bin of pickles.
“Hi,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you.”
“Oh yeah. Well. I’m at work.”
“I was in the neighborhood.”
“In the back alley?”
“I just—I thought I’d surprise you. Maybe you want to do something tonight, when you’re done working?”
“I’m up to my elbows here. It’s the lunch rush and we’re short on cheese.”
“I thought—”
“Look,” Jack said, stopping to look her in the eye. “Wait outside. For a minute. Okay? Let me finish one thing and then I’ll come out back. I’m glad you came by.”
He smiled at her and her nerves went away. She remembered the way he’d drawn her to him, yanking her hand, and the way he’d kissed her, so urgently. The way they’d been, that night in her foldout bed.
She waited by his car. In a couple of minutes, Jack came down the small set of steps from the back door, wiping sweat off his forehead with his forearm.
“Adelaide, look, I should have been clear. I’m not—I’m not available.”
“Oh.”
“I shouldn’t have kissed you. Or gone home with you. Or if I did, I should have been clear about exactly what my feelings are.”
She felt her face heat up. She didn’t know what to do with her hands. “Yeah, okay.”
“Can I tell you something? I feel like you deserve an honest explanation.”
“Sure.”
“You make me uncomfortable.”
“What? How?”
“You want saving or something. A rescuer.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You do, and I don’t want to rescue anyone.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“For example, walking in the rain, three miles from home, in the pitch dark. Why not just take a cab? It was like you wanted to be unhappy.”
“I didn’t have money for a cab.”
“You couldn’t get a ride from anyone you know? Or splurge on it? It’s asking for trouble to be walking in the dark on that road.”
“You don’t know how much money I have,” Adelaide snapped. “And you don’t get to tell me how to get home.”
“It seems like a thing with you, is all. Like you want me to rescue you from loneliness. Or boredom. Or from whatever happened with your old boyfriend.”
“I was just into you. Is that a crime?”
He shook his head. “It’s not my job to rescue you, Adelaide.”
“I rescued you at the dog run,” Adelaide argued. “I got B-Cake back for you.”
She wanted to rescue Jack, actually. She wanted to save him from the sadness of his mother’s death; to show him a clear, patient, empathetic love; to heal the pain she imagined in his hips.
* * *
Jack blew out a breath. “Thank you for your help with the dog. You’re exceptionally pretty and obviously very smart, Adelaide. But— you look at me like I’m an object, and you talk to me like you don’t see me at all. You have ideas about me that you made up. Do you hear me? You made them up. I’ve met a lot of girls who pity me and want to save me
. Or they think I fit some idea they have of a tragic hero.”
“Stop,” she said. “You don’t get to make me the bad guy here. You don’t.” Sweat ran down her neck. “What you really mean is,
I’m not that into you.
But that’s not what
you say.
You say
there’s something I did wrong, because that takes the heat off you.
The problem with people like you is, they’re
not capable of love. They’re
shut off. They’re
scared. They’re
dealing with other stuff in their lives, whatever—but they know inside, it’s
their hearts that are closed.” She shook her head to clear it. “What I mean is, you’re saying
I want rescuing, and you say
I’m imagining stuff about you, and you say
I look at you like an object, and—”
“That’s how it feels on my end,” Jack cut in. “You don’t know me at all. You just like the idea of me, the way I fit into some fantasy you have of a boyfriend. And it’s mixed with pity and a kind of morbid curiosity about pain and physical difference and curiosity about my mother dying and— Ugh. I hate it.”
“That’s called liking a guy when you don’t know him that well,” said Adelaide. “You like the
idea of a person, so you
want to get to know him. It’s called
not being closed off, and
going after what you want, and
it’s completely awful for you to go telling me
there’s something wrong with me and
that’s why you don’t want me, when really,