by Risa Green
“Wait, isn’t your dad forty?” I ask, quickly doing the math in my head.
Lindsay sticks her tongue out at me. “Yes, but he could have fathered a child when he was fourteen. It’s not unheard of. And besides, she acts like she’s eighteen, so theoretically, he would have been twenty-two when she was born.”
“At least your dad wants to hang out with you,” Samantha interrupts. “My dad lives with me and I don’t think I’ve said more than ten words to him in the last five years. I swear, if he ever moved out, I would never hear from him again. I know it. And the only reason why he hasn’t is because he didn’t make my mom sign a prenup, and now he doesn’t want to give her half of his money.”
“You don’t know that,” I say.
“Yes, I do,” Samantha answers matter-of-factly. “They got in a fight once at the dinner table, and he said it. Right in front of me and my sister. My mom told him he’d better start saving, because as soon as I go to college, she’s going to take him for every penny he’s worth.”
Lindsay and I both get quiet. Samantha doesn’t talk about her parents very often, except to say that she can’t stand being around them. And now that her sister’s away at college, they fight more than ever. Samantha once told me that her mom wants to file for divorce but thinks she’s doing Samantha some kind of huge favor by waiting until she graduates. As if having your parents live together automatically makes for a happy childhood, even if everyone knows that they can’t stand the sight of each other.
The silence lingers. I love Samantha, but she opens up so rarely that when she does say something really personal, without irony or sarcasm, I don’t always know how to respond. It’s easier with Lindsay. She cries and vents to me all the time. But right now I’m afraid to say the wrong thing, so I just don’t say anything, and instead focus on moving the food around my plate. Lindsay, too, bends over her lunch and practically inhales her lasagna. But Samantha just sits there, sipping at her plastic bottle of orange juice from a straw.
Finally, Lindsay cracks under the weight of the silence. She glances up at Samantha. “Aren’t you going to eat anything?”
Samantha sighs. “No. I decided that this would be a good time to start my juice fast, since I had to eat here today.” She looks around, clearly disgusted by the cafeteria. “Beyoncé lost, like, twenty pounds on the Master Cleanse.”
“You don’t need to lose weight,” I tell her. “Beyoncé’s left thigh is bigger than your entire body.”
“Whatever. I appear to be thin in clothes because I know how to hide my flaws, but believe me, I’m a train wreck when I’m naked.”
“So what?” Lindsay asks, eating the last bite of her lasagna. “It’s not like anyone is going to see you naked in the foreseeable future.”
Samantha shrugs. “You never know. I could hook up with someone at the concert Saturday night.”
I roll my eyes at her. I know exactly what she’s thinking. “You’re not going to hook up with Aiden when he’s at a concert with Trance, Sam.”
Samantha smiles coyly. “I would if a certain magic ball were to get involved.”
Oh no. I suddenly feel like I’m going to be sick, and it’s not because of the soft tacos. “I don’t think that’s a good idea…”
Samantha narrows her eyes at me. “Why not?”
I hesitate. I actually don’t know why not. There’s just a very loud voice in the back of my head, telling me that IT’S NOT A GOOD IDEA. “I just…well…I think we should figure out what the rules are first. I mean, we don’t want to screw anything up, you know?”
“No,” Samantha answers flatly. “I don’t know. And anyway, I thought you said you figured out all of the rules.”
“That’s not what I said. I said that I figured out that the letter is a list of clues. But I never said I figured out what all of them are. I’ve only figured out one of them.”
“Whatever,” Samantha argues, her voice taking on an edge. “I think you just don’t want anyone else to have their wishes come true besides you. You’re being selfish.”
“That is not true! I’m not being selfish. I just want to make sure we’re using it right before we start asking it things. I mean, who knows what could happen?”
Samantha cocks her head sideways, like she doesn’t believe me. “Really? Then why have you asked it things? I mean, you got to have big boobs for a day, and you got to have an A on your English paper. So why can’t I get anything? Why can’t Lindsay?”
I look over at Lindsay to defend me. “Lindsay, can you please explain to her that this is not a good idea? Remember what you said yesterday, about Back to the Future, and Michael J. Fox’s family disappearing?”
Lindsay bites her lower lip, and I can tell that she’s about to throw me under a bus. She is horrible at saying no to people, and to Samantha in particular.
“Well, I know I said that, but it does seem to all be working out for you. I mean, it seems like if the ball can’t do something, it just tells you to ask again later or it says it can’t tell you now. I don’t think there’s anything dangerous about it.”
Samantha smiles victoriously. “You see? Our resident expert in all things weird and metaphysical thinks it’s fine.”
The voice in my head is screaming now, insisting that this is THE WORST IDEA EVER. But I don’t know how to explain it to them. If I say that it’s a gut feeling I’m having, Samantha won’t believe me. She’ll think that I’m just trying to keep the ball for myself.
“Okay, fine. I’ll do it. I’ll ask the ball for you.” As soon as I say it, the voice inside my head stops screaming and lowers itself to a whisper.
You’ll be sorry, it says.
Yeah, I think. No kidding.
Eighteen
This one,” I announce as I stop in front of a gigantic canvas. “This is it.”
Jesse and I are in the Modern and Contemporary Art wing of the museum, and I am looking up at the busy, colorful, semi-abstract-looking painting hanging before me. It looks just the same as it did in the online catalog, only it’s much bigger than I imagined.
Jesse stops next to me and reads the wall plate out loud. “The City, Fernand Léger, 1919.”
As he studies it, I take the opportunity to study him.
He’s wearing black jeans and his black Converse, with a light blue T-shirt that has a drawing of a horse on it, above which is a caption bubble that says, “Daytrotter.” The T-shirt is kind of tight, and through it I can see the outline of his (very well-defined) chest and shoulder muscles. Which makes me wonder when he started working out (or maybe it’s just genes?), because when we were in middle school he was one of those super skinny boys—the kind whose ribs you could count right through his skin—and whenever he wore shorts, the image of Pinocchio would always come to mind.
But now, the only image coming to mind is one of him with his shirt off, which I keep trying to make go away because a) he’s rude and I do not get him at all, and b) I need to concentrate on our presentation and not on whether he has a six-pack under there.
Jesse turns away from the painting to look at me. “Well, it’s definitely from a different time period than Prometheus. Maybe I’m missing something, but I’m just not seeing the spiritual.” He walks closer to the painting and points at it. “I see it as an urban landscape,” he explains. “These figures are supposed to be buildings and scaffolding and billboards. And this, over here—” he points to four dark gray coils in the background, “—these are supposed to be smoke from a smokestack.” He shakes his head. “It’s a painting that celebrates the machine age. I hate to say this, but of every painting in this entire museum, you picked the one that has absolutely nothing spiritual about it whatsoever.”
I’m trying really hard to contain my glee—I’m thinking about dead puppies and starving children and even my aunt getting struck by lightning—but I just can’t stop myself from grinning e
ar to ear like a big goofy dork. I have done it. I have out art-historied Jesse Cooper.
“I know,” I say, somehow managing not to sound too smug. “That’s why I picked it.”
Jesse gives me a puzzled look. “But the assignment was to pick paintings from different periods and to talk about how spirituality is represented in each of them. Remember?”
“Yes, I remember. And I picked it because, like you said, it celebrates the machine age. But I think what the artist was saying is that in the modern industrial world, there’s no room for spirituality. I think he was trying to say that science and technology and industry have replaced religion. That machines are the new God.”
I look over at Jesse for a reaction, stifling my urge to yell, Ha! Take that, Mr. Wrist Tattoo!
He stares at the canvas, thinking. Then, finally, he nods his head.
“That’s good,” he says, turning to me with a smile. His voice sounds surprised and impressed at the same time. “That’s really good. I’d never thought of it that way.” He scratches his chin and peers at me as if he’s seeing me for the first time. The intensity of his stare makes me blush, so I drop my eyes and pretend to brush something off of my shirt. “Maybe you won’t have to worry about taking that box on the airplane after all,” he says.
I smile. I don’t know why his validation is so important to me, but I feel like a kindergartner who just got a gold star for cleaning up the rug. I don’t say anything back to him, though. I want to seem modest while he continues to marvel at my brilliance.
But instead of more brilliance-marveling, Jesse glances at the giant black rubber watch on his wrist.
“I’m starving,” he announces. “I need a snack. Do you wanna come?”
Oh my God, yes, I want to come. Between getting in trouble in physics and getting into that fight with Samantha, I had hardly any appetite at lunch, and I barely even touched my soft tacos. If I don’t get something to eat, there is an excellent chance that I might die of hunger before my mom arrives at six o’clock.
“Okay,” I say. “But where do you want to go? The snack shop is closed. They were locking it up when we passed it before.”
Jesse waves his hand as if to say that it’s no big deal. “Oh, that doesn’t matter. I’m connected here, remember?”
***
Ten minutes later, a heavyset older man in a navy blue security guard outfit is removing the giant circle of keys from his belt and unlocking the door to the snack shop for us. He’s completely bald, unless you count the white hairs that are sprouting from his ears, and he walks veeeerrrrry slllooooowwwwly, and with a pronounced limp. I’m trying to imagine how it was that he got his job here at the museum; I mean, which person met him and said, “Yes! Now this is the man whom I want protecting priceless works of art”?
“Thanks, Lloyd,” Jesse says as he pushes the door open.
“No problem,” Lloyd answers in a deep smoker’s voice. As he walks out and leaves the two of us alone among the empty tables and upside-down chairs, Lloyd gives Jesse a wink. I expect Jesse to protest and to introduce me to Lloyd by my proper name, Just a Boring Girl from AP Art History with Whom Jesse Is Being Forced to Work, but he doesn’t say anything. He just flashes Lloyd a crooked smile. Hmmmm.
“So they just let you hang out in here, unsupervised?” I ask.
Jesse shrugs. “They know I’m not going to do anything stupid. And I always leave money for whatever I eat.” He walks behind the counter and bends down, disappearing for a moment. When his head pops back up, he’s holding a banana, an orange, and bags of Fritos and SunChips. “Pick your poison,” he says, holding them out to me.
I’m hungry enough to eat all three, but I don’t want to seem like a glutton, so I just reach for the banana. Jesse puts back the orange, then swings himself over the counter like it’s a pommel horse. Once he’s landed, he digs into his pocket and pulls out a few dollars while I fumble for my backpack.
“Hold on,” I say, “I have money.”
He shakes his head. “It’s okay. It’s my treat. Consider it reparation for my having doubted your ability to choose a painting.”
I think about it. He’s acting so different all of a sudden. It’s like I passed a test that I didn’t even know I was taking, and now I’ve been let into the I’m Cool Enough to Be Friends with Jesse Cooper Club. Or let back into it, I should say. I glance at him again, then quickly lower my eyes to the floor.
“Okay,” I decide. “But if it’s reparation, then I think you should buy me the orange too.”
Jesse laughs. He walks back behind the counter and grabs the orange, then tosses it to me.
I catch it with two hands and hold it up to show him. “Consider yourself forgiven.”
He lifts two of the chairs that are stacked upside down on the table and places them on the floor. “Madam,” he says, pointing at one of the seats with a flourish of his hand.
I sit down, unpeeling my banana, and he sits down across from me and breaks open the bag of Fritos. Then he leans his chin on his hand, his blue eyes settling on my face. “So. Erin Channing. What have you been up to the last two years?”
There’s something so knowing about the way he says it, and once again, I feel myself blushing. I have no idea how to answer him though. I don’t want to tell him that I’ve been up to absolutely nothing, and that I’m still exactly the same as I was when we were friends back in eighth grade. Especially since he’s in a band, and he hangs out in a museum, and he lifts weights, and he dates college girls with nose piercings, and has completely forgotten all about the fact that we kissed, even though I still think about it…well, kind of a lot.
“Oh, I don’t know. The usual. School. Friends. Family.”
He nods. “Mostly school, though, right? I mean, how else could you have the highest GPA in tenth grade?”
I blush again. “I guess. But I do other stuff too. I mean, I’m not just some loser who stays home and does nothing but study all the time.”
Jesse looks taken aback. “I wasn’t suggesting that you are. It’s just been a while since we’ve talked. I wanted to catch up, that’s all.” He finishes the Fritos and moves on to the bag of SunChips, opening it with a loud pop. “Anyway, I like the painting you chose. But I will admit, I thought you were going to go for something more obvious, like a Jesus picture or an Old Master painting with cherubs and stuff. You definitely surprised me.” He stuffs a handful of chips into his mouth. “In a good way,” he says, but it comes out sounding like, “iw a goow way.”
I try to arch one eyebrow, the way Samantha does. “Yeah, well, that’s me. Full of surprises.”
“So what made you pick it? What made you think of that painting?” He sounds genuinely interested in knowing, and a part of me is starting to think that maybe he’s not so rude, after all. I mean, he did apologize, sort of. And he did compliment me. Sort of. Maybe underneath the hair and the tattoo and the art snobbiness, maybe he’s just the same old Jesse. Except with a better body. And without braces.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I guess…this sounds stupid, but the painting kind of reminded me of myself. It’s like, even though it’s sort of abstract, it’s still a very no-nonsense painting. Like me. I mean, I’m not really that into the biblical stuff or the religious references. I think I relate better to buildings and scaffolding and things that are real. Things that you can see with your eyes.”
He chuckles. “God, you must hate this project.”
I look right into his blue eyes. “Not all of it,” I say, except that I didn’t mean to actually say that, I meant to just think it, and as I watch my comment register on his face, I can feel my own face heating up, and I know for sure that I am redder than a red velvet cupcake, and all I want to do is crawl under the table and die, right here in the snack shop. But seeing as how there are no weapons or long ropes at my immediate disposal, I decide instead to change the subject.
“What about you?” I ask quickly. “What do you think about spirituality?” That’s right. Deflect, deflect, deflect…
“Me? I don’t know. I guess I’m into it. I mean, not religion so much, but I believe in stuff like fate and destiny and things like that.” He paused. “Like, okay. Last summer, my mom’s friend asked me and my mom and my brother if we wanted to go out on a boat with them for the afternoon, and we were at the dock, all set to go, and I just had this really bad feeling about it. And I told my mom, I feel really strongly that we should not get on that boat. And so my mom pretended that I wasn’t feeling well and we didn’t go, and we found out the next day that they’d been in a boating accident, and that if anyone had been sitting in the seats in the back of the boat, they probably would have died. And those were the seats where me and my mom and my brother were supposed to sit. So I mean, yeah, I believe in stuff like that.”
Interesting. I wonder if his dad dying so suddenly has anything to do with him believing in that stuff. I wonder if it’s how he makes sense of all of it. It’s funny: his story reminds me of the screaming voice inside my head this afternoon—the one that was telling me not to ask the ball about Aiden and Samantha—and I can’t help but wonder if I’m not walking into the lesser equivalent of a boating accident by agreeing to this.
“What about other stuff?” I ask, feeling him out. “Like, Lindsay believes in voodoo dolls and crystals. Do you think any of that is real?”
Jesse scoffs. “I think voodoo dolls and crystals are just ways for scam artists to prey on people who are vulnerable.”
“Me too,” I agree. “But what about clairvoyants?” I ask, trying to be nonchalant. “Do you believe that there are people who can actually tell the future?”
Jesse looks up at the ceiling, and I presume that he’s thinking about it. I suddenly realize I am staring at him and quickly turn away.