by Cat Patrick
“Wimp,” Phillip calls, and goes back to watching The Simpsons. Teddy calls in the pizza as I shrug out of my jacket and take up space on the saggy beanbag.
Teddy’s room hasn’t changed since he moved in—posters everywhere, especially Electric Freakshow, and a few over Phillip’s bunk that he refers to as his “girlfriends.” Sure, if he happened to be dating a pinup model in a swimsuit.
When the pizza arrives, the three of us pounce, calling dibs on the biggest slices and then groaning when someone else takes them. But once our mouths are too full to talk, we finish watching The Simpsons and relax into the comfort of college life.
After his third slice, Phillip decides to share some of his favorite dorm stories, to which I half-listen and half-cringe.
“You could see her black G-string through her white sweats,” he says, shaking his head. “And I’m pretty sure she did it on purpose.”
“Phillip, you’re disgusting,” I respond, biting into my slice while still staring at the television. “I can’t believe any girl would go out with you.” Phil isn’t entirely revolting. It’s just that he crossed into that annoying-brother status years ago.
And then he smacks me on the back of the head with a pillow. The room erupts into laughter. There are a few more hits until Teddy has to break it up before we really start to throw down. When it’s done, we all sigh.
“I’ve missed you, snot nose,” Phillip says fondly from above me on the futon.
“You too, reject.” I glance at the clock on Teddy’s dresser and see that it’s nearly ten. I’m not sure if I have a curfew, but it seems wrong to stay out until midnight on my first night at Dad’s. I tell Teddy and Phillip good night and make my brother promise to come over for a “family” dinner tomorrow. I tell him I’ll need moral support.
As I cross the lobby of the dorm, I pause to fold the still-wet cuff of my jeans where they slip under the heels of my sneaker. I do a quick hop, trying to steady my balance. A cold rush of air hits me as the door opens, and when I look up, I suck in a startled breath. And nearly tumble to the floor.
Chris lifts his head, his mouth opening with surprise. But rather than ask what I’m doing here, he smiles. “This totally counts as one of those random times,” he says, and takes out his phone.
I laugh, not sure how to respond. More than anything, I’m pretty stunned to have actually bumped into him again.
“Well?” he asks. “I believe your exact phrase was that I could have the digits. So hand them over, Sweet Caroline.”
“Don’t sing it.”
“I never will.” He pauses. “Okay, I might once or twice. But I will try to control any musical outbursts.” When I still don’t give him my number, Chris slides his phone back into his pocket and walks to lean against the wall of mailboxes. “Can I at least assume you were stalking me?” he asks hopefully.
“Not this time.” When he glances away, I take the opportunity to size him up. He’s wearing a black thermal with no coat, and his arms are more muscular than I had noticed at the party. His blond hair is messy, but sort of adorable in its own way. His eyes are a shade of blue you only see in the sky on the clearest day. Maybe it’s the buzz of a normal night at last, or maybe I’m intrigued, but I go to rest against the mailboxes next to Chris.
“I regretted not giving you my number,” I say, staring at my sneakers. “The day after my gram died was horrible. I tried to find you, but”—I look sideways at him—“you’re right. The houses do look different in the daylight.”
A broad smile crosses his face. “It was the red one.”
I snap my fingers at the missed opportunity, and then we go back to leaning silently, even as more students enter the building. After a minute he pulls out his phone, the screen lit up before he hits ignore. I start to fidget.
“So what floor do you live on?” I ask. “My brother’s on six.”
Chris seems surprised. “Oh, I don’t live here. I’m just stopping by to see a friend. That’s who keeps calling, actually.”
I laugh. “So you’re the ditcher this time?”
“She’ll get over it,” he says with a shrug. I feel a pinch of jealousy.
“Your girlfriend?” I ask, trying to sound casual. Chris pulls his eyebrows together.
“Do you think I’d be asking for your phone number if I had a girlfriend? Wow, you really do think I’m a douche.”
“No, I—”
“Just a friend,” he says. “Maria is a friend and I actually have several others, all of which I’d ditch for a short amount of time if you’d agree to go get coffee with me. Right now.”
“I can’t.”
Chris nods, then takes his phone out again. “God,” he says, hitting ignore. But before he can put it away, I take it from his hand.
I can feel his stare on the side of my face as I click into his contacts and enter my number. When I type in my name, I put Sweet Caroline. He watches me do all of this without a word, and when I’m done, his bright blue eyes find mine.
“I’ll call you,” he says with a victorious grin.
“Maybe soon?” I ask, feeling like I should hug him or somehow acknowledge that I’m completely and totally flirting back.
“Oh, it’ll be soon,” he says. “I’m not letting you slip away this time. Even if you run.”
The word “run” sends a shiver over me, but I refuse to let even one bad thought in right now.
“It’s still raining,” Chris says as he slowly backs away. “So drive safely. The bridge is out on Brinkerhoff if you’re going that way.”
“I’m not. My dad lives really close, but thanks for the warning.”
Chris walks to the elevator, looking back as if debating whether or not to stay longer, but when it opens, he just smiles and gets in.
And I’m not even to my car when a text pops up on my phone.
TOTALLY LIKE FATE.
EIGHT
STAY
After school, I feel like I’m a bubble on the verge of being popped, only I’m not as afraid of spilling air as I am of spilling emotions. Reeling from the kiss with Joel and overrun with sadness about Gram, I know I need to keep myself busy—my thoughts at bay. So I head to my room hell-bent on dismantling Penguin Palace.
He followed me into the auditorium. I stuff my penguin sheets into a trash bag. He confided in me about his uncle. Why now? Down go the kid posters from the walls. Juju gets the lovely penguin snow globe that Dad brought back from his honeymoon in New Zealand. What was with the kiss? Bye-bye, hideous lamp. Mom can deal with that one. He’s an amazing kisser—even better than I imagined. I smooth down the black-and-white comforter that Gram gave me. Gram can probably hear me thinking about kissing boys. Boys with girlfriends.
My cell rings, making me jump. I go over and check the caller ID—I can’t believe what it says. Last year during Simone’s The Secret phase, she had me program Joel’s number into my phone—a way of telling the universe to make him call. He never did. Um, until now.
“Joel?” I say like a complete loser, as if I’ve been waiting by the phone for him. I’d smack myself if I didn’t think he might be able to hear it.
“Hi, Caroline,” he says with that voice of his—that quiet, commanding voice that’s never light, no matter the situation. “Is this … are you busy?”
“I’m not, actually,” I say, sitting down on my pristine bed. “I just finished doing … something.”
“What were you doing?” he asks.
“I was just fixing my room—at my mom’s,” I say. “I had to move back after, you know.” I look around, amazed by how much more “me” I feel now that I have my own stuff.
“Got it,” he says. We’re both quiet for a few seconds, then, “So listen, I wanted to call and apologize for today.”
“Really, it’s fine,” I say quickly, not wanting to talk about it.
“No, seriously, I feel like a dick for kissing you—like I took advantage of you when you were upset or something. I mean, I’ve known that yo
u liked me for a while but—”
“What?” I interrupt, instantly humiliated by both the fact that he knows and the fact that he just went ahead and acknowledged it out loud.
“What?”
“What did you just say?” I don’t really want to hear it again, but it’s like sticking your tongue in a mouth sore—I ask anyway.
“Come on, Caroline,” he says quietly. Intimately. “I mean, I’m not wrong, am I?”
I hold my breath, hoping he’ll say something else, anything else. But he’s silent—waiting for me to answer. “I don’t know what you want me to say here, Joel,” I tell him. “I mean, so what? We’ve known each other forever and nothing’s ever …” I can’t say it; I try again. “And you’re with Lauren.”
“Maybe not for long.”
My stomach flips, but I manage not to squeal “REALLY??” into the phone.
“The whole long-distance thing isn’t working too well,” he says, sighing.
Long distance? She only goes to school across town!
“That’s too bad,” I say, pretending to be sympathetic. He laughs halfheartedly, calling me on the failed attempt without saying anything.
“She’s jealous. You know she got into Clinton but stayed at the community college to be closer to me, right? And she always wants me to call and check in; she wants to know where I am all the time. She asks me about girls in my classes and who I talk to on a daily basis. … It’s like she went to college and went batshit.”
It’s my turn to laugh, but I try to contain it.
“Shouldn’t you be the jealous one?” I ask, hating that I’m having a conversation with Joel about his incredibly hot girlfriend. “She’s the one surrounded by older guys.”
“Jealousy isn’t my thing,” he says flatly. It sort of bugs me for a reason I can’t pinpoint. What do I care if Joel doesn’t get jealous? He’s not my boyfriend. And besides, isn’t trusting someone a good thing?
He sighs again. “I don’t want to talk about Lauren.” Thank God. “I was calling to apologize, but also … I wanted to tell you that it wasn’t just out of the blue for me either. It wasn’t like I was trying to get some from the girl in crisis.”
“Oh, yeah, I’m totally the girl in crisis,” I say sarcastically.
“You get what I mean,” Joel says, maybe a twinge annoyed.
“Do I?”
“Your grandmother just died—you’re not exactly up,” he says. The banter is starting to feel a little like a battle.
We’re both quiet again, and I’m wondering what excuse he’s going to use to get off the phone because clearly this call is not going smoothly.
“You said you’re at your house?” he says instead.
“Yes,” I answer curiously. “Why?”
“I’m coming to get you.” He offers me no choice. “I want to talk to you, but I hate phones. I hate not being able to see your face. I can’t tell if you’re pissed or mellow or whatever. Let’s just go somewhere and hang out for a bit, okay?”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I look at myself in the mirror by the closet to verify that I look as shocked as I feel. It’s worse.
“Okay,” I say.
“Fifteen minutes?” he asks. I nod.
“I’ll be waiting.”
Joel drives a white, vintage Volvo wagon that would look good on no one but a guy completely comfortable in his own skin. I’m sitting on the stoop when he pulls up; he nods at me but doesn’t get out. I walk over and climb into the passenger seat; it smells like fake pine, soap, and the faintest hint of cigarettes.
“Do you smoke?” I ask, fastening my seat belt.
“You smell it too? My mom says I’m crazy—she has the worst sense of smell of anyone I know. Anyway, no, I don’t smoke—the previous owner did,” he says, shaking his head. “This was my uncle’s car. The one I told you about? I can’t get the smell out. I’ve used my own cash to have it detailed twice.”
“It’s not that bad,” I say. “You can barely notice it over the air freshener.” I bat the tree hanging from the rearview mirror, 100 • S TAY then feel idiotic for doing it; I shove my hands under my legs to keep them contained. Joel reads it as me being cold and turns up the heat.
“So, where are we going?” I ask as he pulls away from the curb.
“Fairgrounds?” he asks, and in a flash I’m nervous. People go to the fairgrounds to drink or make out—at least that’s what Simone tells me. I’ve only been there once and it was pretty lame.
“Sure,” I say, sitting back into the seat and trying to breathe away my anxiety. Joel and I don’t talk much the rest of the way, and I wonder whether he and Lauren usually drive in silence or whether they have an infinite number of things to talk about. I can’t help but feel like I’m doing it wrong.
Joel takes a right at Magnolia, then pulls through deserted gates with unmanned pay stations that make me think of a scene from a dystopian novel I read last summer. There’s a wide expanse of pavement ahead of us: a massive, cracked lot with no streetlights or guidelines. Around the perimeter is a jumpable white fence; to the right is the underside of a grandstand where concerts happen when the fair comes to town. Joel turns in that direction, driving diagonally across the lot and parking expertly between the break in the grandstand so people driving by on Magnolia can’t see his car.
“Come on,” he says, killing the engine. He opens his door, so I open mine; now I’m genuinely cold and shivering from the chill. My sweatshirt wasn’t a good choice.
“I have an extra jacket in the back—you want it?” he asks.
“Sure.”
Joel opens the back door and grabs the fleece-lined denim jacket he wears all the time. I walk around the car and take it from him, then shrug into it, trying not to blow a fuse from the perfect smell of him enveloping me. I want to live and die in this jacket. “Thanks,” I manage. “Much better.”
I follow Joel through a tunnel and up a ramp to the front of the grandstand, then watch him jump a waist-high chain like it’s nothing. I duck and go under, trying not to fall or get my hair caught in the links. He tromps up the metal stairs to the highest possible point, then turns and sits on a cold bench—I trail behind and do the same. Only then do I realize what a great view of the city we have from up here—this side is taller than the one facing us, so we can see the hills to the left and the water to the right.
“This is pretty awesome,” I say, leaning back against the wall where one of the luxury boxes is. “I’ve never been up here.”
“I come here a lot to draw,” Joel says. “It’s peaceful.”
“That it is,” I say. “And freezing.” I shiver and he scoots a little closer to me. He leans back too, and we both stare straight ahead.
“So,” he says.
“So.”
“Are you mad at me?” he asks. I look at him, surprised.
I decide to make light of the situation, hoping it will help. “Why would I be mad?” I ask. “It’s not like I wasn’t a participant in the whole auditorium kissing session.” But when Joel looks at me with those too-dark eyes, all lightness flies out the window. “I know you have a girlfriend,” I say. “I’m not expecting anything.”
“But what if I want you to expect something?” he says, holding me like shackles with his gaze. A breeze blows my hair into my mouth, and as I pull it out, I let myself smile.
“Why now?” I ask.
He shrugs—I’m not sure it’s the right reaction, but it’s all I’ve got from him. Then, “Maybe it’s always been there; I don’t know. All I can say is that when things started going to shit with Lauren, you’re the one I started thinking about.”
“Are you serious?” I ask. I think my heart’s going to leap right out of my chest.
“I’m serious,” he says. “And this whole thing with your grandma—it’s bringing back all those feelings I had for my uncle. I feel like you’re the only one who gets me right now.”
I’m aware that Joel’s words are not quite perfect,
but I’m not sure what perfect looks like, either. So when he kisses me again, long and without holding back, I go with it. I feel it deep inside like I want to crush him with all of the emotion surging through my veins, but then he pulls back to have me rest against him and we watch the sunset without speaking.
I think of perfection, and whether it exists.
I think of Lauren, and what she’d be saying or doing were she here instead of me right now. I wonder if Joel is going to break up with her, and whether I’d still come here if he told me he wasn’t. I realize that I would.
Then because it’s what I do, I think of Gram. This time I don’t think about how much I miss her. I don’t replay her final words in my mind. Instead I’m crushed by the thought that were she still alive, Gram would probably be disappointed in me right now.
EIGHT
GO
I pick up my phone and smile. FRISBEE GOLF: SPORT OR NOT?
NOT, I send back to Chris, and shake my head. Since I gave him my number he’s texted me about a hundred times, but not one phone call. I’m not sure if he’s purposely drawing it out or if he’d rather text. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like the instant satisfaction of writing back and forth all day.
CHEERLEADING: SPORT OR NOT?
TRICK QUESTION, he writes. ARE YOU A CHEERLEADER?
I lean against the kitchen counter as my dad and Debbie sift through papers, paying bills. Debbie—which is actually what all of her friends call her—is pretty cool about everything, even though I get the sense that she wants to spend more time with me but is afraid to ask. I like her enough … but it still feels sort of traitorous to my mom to just dive into a relationship with my father’s new wife. I’m taking it slow.
NOT A CHEERLEADER, I reply to Chris. BUT I HAVE A PRETTY GOOD HIGH KICK. WATCH OUT.
VICIOUS.
I laugh and Dad and Debbie look over, smiling like they’re in on the joke somehow. “Is that Simone?” my father asks. My expression falters a little, and I nod.
“Yep. She’s sharing some of her latest misadventures.” I don’t know why I lie to him—there’s no reason to. Then again, what if he doesn’t think I should date or he has some weird dad ritual for meeting any guy I text? Or maybe I like having a secret. Something I can’t be judged for.