I paused and turned, touching Xiang lightly on the arm. “About yesterday . . .”
Her face tightened. “Whatever. Let’s just find your parents and get you home.”
But then she paused. “Not that you deserve to know this, but do you know what I heard earlier tonight? Oliver is totes in love with you! Didn’t you tell me he was gay?”
So, folks, that’s basically the story.
On Saturday morning I woke up a totally different human being. I was no longer a walking train wreck. Sunlight streaming onto my bed, I sat up to find that I had a whole new level of clarity about who I was, what I wanted, and what I was going to do. (Actually, it was more like 2:00 P.M.; unconscious from the moment I made contact with my bed the night before, I’d slept for a solid fourteen hours.)
I walked downstairs to find my parents reading the paper in the kitchen.
“Well, well. Sleeping Beauty awakes,” said my dad.
“And I feel a million times better,” I said cheerily, opening the cupboards and digging around, hoping to find cereal that didn’t look like it came directly from a grain silo.
My parents exchanged a surprised look: She speaks!
“Could one of you guys please drive me to Jerry Hall a little early today?” I asked. “I want to get there by four. But before that, I need to go over to Jimmy’s. Oh, and I’ll ride my bike over to Xiang’s, too.”
My mother folded up her newspaper and put it down on the counter. “So you’ve patched things up with her?”
“Well, I hope to, anyway.” I could tell my parents were walking on eggshells, trying to keep me from sliding back into silent mode.
I settled on a box of organic granola-y stuff.
But my dad couldn’t resist treading further: “So, ah, how are things with Oliver?”
I spun around, wide-eyed. “How did you know about that?”
My dad chuckled. “Look, we may be old fogies, but it doesn’t take magical powers to see that the boy is smitten with you.”
Oh, my God. The shame! Even my parents knew! I thought back to that horrible night weeks ago, when my parents had set up The Rules.
The Boy Rules.
The Oliver Rules.
My shoulders slumped. Oh, geez. I’d gotten it all wrong, hadn’t I? Maybe my parents couldn’t care less about Jimmy and Derek.
“Well, to be honest, things with Oliver are not great,” I said carefully, popping open the cardboard box of the granola stuff. “There was a lot of misunderstanding. On my part. About a lot of things.”
I ripped open the plastic bag inside the granola box. “It’s one thing I hope to patch up today.” I swept up the little granola bits that managed to get all over the counter. “Actually, there’s a long list.”
Then I grabbed a small handful of granola stuff and shoved it into my mouth.
Hmm, not bad!
“Martha! Use a bowl,” Mom scolded me, getting up and pulling a spoon from the drawer. “And get some milk or yogurt. You’re not an animal.”
“Fiiiiiine,” I mumbled, opening the fridge door.
“And get some orange juice,” said my dad, who was turning back to the paper. “You need vitamins. You’re looking too pale these days.”
“Yeah, yeah . . .”
As I put together a proper breakfast—brunch?—I realized that things at home were going to be OK. Not perfect, maybe, but definitely OK. And I can live with OK.
My long list was one line shorter.
The leaves were changing, and the air was chilly, making each breath prickle pleasingly as I crunched my way through the woods. The light was angled low, catching the leaves as they trembled in the breeze, igniting their colors.
Every few steps, I would stop by a tree, pull out my scissors, and snip off a gray, worn ribbon.
Then I’d pull out my roll and tie a new, fluorescent pink one in its place.
I heard approaching footsteps, twigs snapping.
“Hey.” Jimmy stood a few yards away.
“Hey,” I said.
“Oh, yeah, I was thinking it’s about time we got new ones,” he said, indicating my ribbons.
“Yeah,” I said, not quite sure what else to say.
“I mean, we don’t need them,” he continued, pushing some leaves into a mound with the side of his shoe. “But we might have to send other people on the trail.”
“Like Derek,” I said, and he looked up to meet my gaze.
“Or Oliver,” he said.
Our breaths came out in tiny puffs.
“Or Xiang, or Kirby,” I said.
Jimmy pulled an annoyed face. “Hello, I’m trying to create a moment here!” he whined, hand on hip. “Xiang and Kirby do not belong on that list. I like Derek, the way you like Oliver, and we’re supposed to be all meaningful and poetic about letting them into our lives, as represented by this trail.”
Oh, Jimmy.
“So just to be clear,” I said, “you knew the whole time that Oliver was straight?”
He nodded, giggling. “I still can’t believe you got that wrong! Right after we did the whole photo-shoot thing at the playground, you said he was super-cute, so I brought him around to your house—”
“What? Wait, you were thinking about me and him together . . . as early as then?”
“—but then you ended up making out with Felix at the first rehearsal, so I didn’t think you were interested. At all.”
“I can’t even . . .” I shrugged helplessly. “But when did you figure out that I was Oliver’s crush?”
“Derek told me while you were off driving around with Oliver on his birthday.” Jimmy looked skyward and sighed. “I may or may not have been complaining to Derek that you were getting all buddy-buddy with Oliver . . . and Derek couldn’t help himself; he told me. He was about to explode from having to keep it secret.”
As the Queen of Unkept Secrets, I couldn’t really fault him.
“Anyway,” he continued, “Derek figured that since you guys were on an actual date, it wasn’t secret anymore.”
“But you didn’t say anything to me?”
“Well, I thought you knew it was a date and that you had decided to stop seeing Felix! It seemed like you had everything under control. You weren’t exactly giving me updates on anything.”
No, it’s true: I wasn’t telling him much at all. I sighed heavily and clumped over to a fallen tree trunk to sit. Jimmy walked over to join me, sidling right up next to me for warmth.
“Marty, Marty, Marty . . . ” Jimmy’s breath had the crisp eucalyptus smell of cough drops.
“You silly, stupid succotash,” I said, leaning my head on his shoulder.
“Yes, my ridiculous Rapunzel,” he said, patting my leg.
Oooh, good one.
After a minute of just sitting there and listening to the soft rattle of leaves in the breeze, Jimmy spoke again: “You know, a minute ago, you didn’t correct me.”
I lifted my head. “I didn’t?”
“So you do like Oliver.”
Ding-dong!
Click-click.
Creeeak.
This time it was Xiang’s mother who answered the door, and she broke into a wide smile.
“Oh, Martha!” she said. “You sang so beautifully last night.”
I lowered my head, giving her my best “Aww, shucks” smile. “Thanks. Is Xiang home?”
“Yes, upstairs. Her bedroom is right at the top.”
This was the first time I’d ever actually been inside Xiang’s house, since she always wanted to leave it. I climbed up the thick-carpeted steps and knocked on the first paneled door.
I heard an annoyed “What?” and then the door flew open.
“Oh. Marty. Um, hi,” Xiang said, clearly caught off guard.
“May I come in?”
She paused for a second, then nodded, and I slowly walked in. Her bedroom was immaculate, all tasteful dark furniture and cream-colored walls, with a music stand set up in a corner. There was no sign that anyone under
the age of thirty lived there.
“I can’t believe I haven’t been here before,” I breathed admiringly.
“Yeah. Well,” Xiang said, clearly uncertain how she should handle the situation—me.
“So the past couple days have been pretty intense, huh?” I said, stalling. Apologies don’t come naturally to me.
She merely looked at me, not showing any emotion.
“OK, I’ll just say it,” I finally said. “I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”
Still no reaction.
“You were being a really good friend, and I . . . wasn’t. I’m sorry.”
More silence.
“Right. Look, I’m happy for you and Parker, and I was probably a little jealous that you seem to be totally happy and in control of everything, while I’m just . . . a mess.”
I ran my finger along her polished desktop as a few more seconds ticked by. “And I’ve been really self-absorbed. I get that. And that’s probably how I got into this whole mess in the first place.”
Her window had a view of the sidewalk, where an old man shuffled along. “You were right that I wasn’t ready to . . . do stuff . . . with Felix. And I’m sure you’ve heard about what a total jerk he is. But that still doesn’t excuse anything. I shouldn’t have sworn at you, and I should have just—”
“OK, can you shut up already?” I looked up to see her grinning at me, arms folded. “I’m just giving you a hard time! Jesus, everyone goes crazy a little sometimes. No big deal.”
“It is a big deal,” I said, relieved by her sudden transformation.
“Well, whatever, not to me,” she replied dismissively. “I knew you were just going bonkers temporarily. But let’s not do that again, OK?”
“Promise,” I said.
“And now comes the fun part.” She squinted and steepled her hands, drumming her fingertips.
“What do we do about Felix?”
I suppose you’re thinking we planned an elaborate act of revenge against Felix. Drugged him, shaved his curly locks, and tattooed BITCH on his forehead, perhaps? Or arranged for something sharp and heavy to fall on him during the final performance?
Nope. I figured that doing anything would just have gotten us into trouble and made it seem like I cared. And I honestly didn’t care; in fact, the only emotion I could muster in regard to him was relief. OK, maybe a touch of revulsion, too. His poor girlfriend.
I’d had enough drama. Plus, revenge would have been totally beneath the new me. (And I don’t know anything about a recent anonymous e-mail to Holy Name’s Jill Cavanaugh. Nope, nothing at all.)
To tell you the truth, not really retaliating was probably the best revenge of all. All throughout the last performance of the show, Felix was clearly paranoid that I had something planned. I had never seen him so insecure, painstakingly avoiding me and looking at me with abject terror, like I was pointing a loaded weapon at him. (Which, btw, really messed up the whole Big Bad Wolf/Little Red Riding Hood dynamic in the first act).
Of course, word had gotten around to the whole cast and crew about his girlfriend and his fight with Oliver, so no one would speak to him, not even Jenny McCafferty. Everyone was being extra nice to me, too, although they may have just been worried that I would spew chunks at any moment.
To Felix’s credit, though, he did show up for the performance, as justifiably horrible as it must have been for him. I half hoped that he wouldn’t show and perhaps Oliver would be sent in as his understudy.
Sigh. Oliver.
There is one final bit to the story.
Maria Kilkenny, it turns out, comes from a pretty fancy-schmancy family. She lives in a big modern house in Lakewood, perched atop a steep bluff along Lake Erie. There’s a big deck facing the water, and the nighttime view from there is unreal: just the twinkly Cleveland skyline off in the distance to the right and a vast black emptiness directly ahead, the tiny whitecaps of waves winking in and out of existence near the shoreline. I can’t even imagine how gorgeous it is in the daytime.
It was pretty cold out, so the Kilkennys had set out kerosene heat lamps on the deck and had left piles of fleece blankets on the random groupings of tables and chairs. Bowls of chips and salsa were scattered about, and towers of plastic cups were posted next to a small battalion of two-liter pop bottles. With strings of tiny lights wrapped around the balustrade and lit candles set out in glass vases, the whole space glowed, like a fancy wedding reception in a movie.
All the kids involved with the show were there after the performance on Saturday—all except Felix, who managed to get out of costume and disappear before most people even reached the dressing rooms after curtain call. Some of the guys were at one side of the deck, seeing who could spit the farthest out toward the water. Jenny McCafferty was on the other side, telling a bunch of orchestra girls and Kate O’Day war stories from her time managing the spring play last year. They were laughing, genuinely laughing, at what Jenny was saying, and she was clearly in seventh heaven. Xiang, Parker, Jimmy, and Derek were playing a heated game of Hearts at one table, and I was nestled under a blanket at another, talking to Maria, Calliope, and Penelope, the girl who’d played the Baker’s Wife, about theater-y stuff. (If you must know, about who played Gypsy’s Mama Rose best on Broadway. I still say Angela Lansbury.)
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Oliver putting on his jacket in the kitchen.
“Hold that thought. I’ll be back soon to completely disagree with you,” I said to the girls, casting off my blanket and making my way inside.
Oliver and I still hadn’t spoken since our blowout on Thursday. I’d awakened that morning (OK, yes, afternoon) resolved to make things right with him, but, considering how horribly I had treated him, it just hadn’t felt right to start the reconciliation process with a text or a phone call. As much as I dreaded it, this had to be done in person.
I had asked my parents to bring me to the theater early because I’d hoped to catch Oliver alone. It turned out, however, that he was even better at avoiding me than Felix was. Every time I’d tried to make eye contact with Oliver during notes both before the show and during intermission, he’d looked away and busied himself with checking microphones or reviewing Jenny’s extensive to-do lists. Throughout the show, I’d searched backstage, hoping to corner him somewhere (and inadvertently sending Felix scurrying off), but he’d always managed to duck away just before I could actually say something. He wouldn’t talk to Derek or Jimmy, either.
But finally, this was my chance. By the time I had gotten to the kitchen, though, Oliver was already at the front door.
“Oliver, wait!” I called out. “Don’t go yet!”
He paused, his hand on the doorknob, for just a moment. But then he turned the knob and went out.
“Oliver!” Goddammit. I hustled after him. “Stop! Please!”
He’d made it to his car by the time I caught up. It was parked along the street, close to where the pavement met the edge of the bluff, which dropped precipitously to the shoreline below.
“Please,” I huffed, trying to catch my breath. He stood, holding the car keys, waiting, as the jagged crashing of waves measured off the long moment.
“What?” he said, not making eye contact. “What do you want?”
He didn’t say it like a question; he said it like “Go away.”
“Look, I know you’re mad at me, and you have every right to be pissed,” I started, tears already pooling in my eyes. The crying was involuntary and totally annoying; I wanted him to see that I was sorry, not for him to feel sorry for me.
“Mad? I’m not mad,” he said brusquely.
“I’m trying to apologize,” I insisted, my voice breaking. The wind whipped my hair around my head, and my whole body began to tremble with nerves.
“I’m not mad,” he repeated, taking a step away and actually turning his back to me.
“Of course you are!” I cried. “Come on, Oliver, you won’t even look at me!”
I watched the back of his h
ead shake back and forth. “Marty, I’m not mad,” he said quietly, so I could barely hear him over the waves and the wind.
Then he slowly turned around and finally met my gaze. He swallowed and took a breath, and I realized he was close to tears, too.
He whispered, “I’m just fucking humiliated.”
Yeesh. I’d only ever heard Oliver swear once before.
And I’d never seen him look so self-conscious, so vulnerable, so . . . sad. I mean, this wasn’t him. None of this was the Oliver I knew.
I tried to say something, but it seemed that my heart had suddenly lodged itself in my throat. I swallowed hard, my whole body still vibrating.
And I don’t know where this instinct came from, but instead of blurting something out, I grabbed the back of Oliver’s neck and went in for a kiss.
I mean, I had made out with Felix, obviously, so it’s not like kissing was brand-new. But Felix generally initiated the kissing, pushing his face into mine, so I always knew he was up for it. This was totally different: Oliver looked like he could slug me at any moment, and I promise, I wasn’t even planning to kiss him.
But, for some totally inexplicable reason, I just engaged autopilot and violated his personal space.
And, thank heavens, it turned out to be the right thing to do. Oliver’s body jerked a bit upon contact, but it wasn’t long before he relaxed and eased into a prolonged smooch.
When I came up for air, cheeks totally wet by this point (Hey, now—by my tears! We’re not dogs), I held his head with both hands, forcing him to look directly into my eyes.
“I. Am. So. Sorry. This was totally my disaster, not yours. You have nothing to be embarrassed about.”
He smiled wide, his puppy brown eyes crinkling at the edges. “Hmm. Not so sure about that. I mean, initially I just thought I was being rejected for some creep.”
I felt a stab.
“Now, don’t get me wrong, that’s pretty bad,” he continued. “But then I realized I had misread a girl’s signals to the point where I thought I was on a date—at the same time that she thought I was gay. And the fact that the misunderstanding didn’t get cleared up during the course of the date? Yeah, you know, that’s not something I’m particularly proud of.”
Beyond Clueless Page 18