He does, and I do.
“Um, you know about the brake, right?” He looks around like it’s going to magically flutter in front of him, so I point down past his knees, careful not to get to close. “That one. And that one’s the gas. The clutch is . . .” I have to nudge aside his leg to show him that one, and my fingers graze his knee, something happens. Not electricity, like they say in the movies, but even though it’s completely innocent and lasts barely a second, I can feel it in my stomach and my heart, like an echo. I haven’t touched him in years, and yet, here’s another thing that’s not the same. My voice dies out. “That one.”
He’s looks at the pedals with fleeting interest, but his eyes fix on my face. I clear my throat.
“So um, left foot operates the clutch . . . right the gas and brake . . .” He’s not looking at the car. He’s looking at me. Suddenly, this enormous cab feels very tight. “Tell me you don’t know this?”
He puts up his hands. “I know nothing.”
“Well, then, concentrate, dude. It helps to actually look at these things as I tell you what they are.” I tap my finger on the steering wheel when he still doesn’t get the picture. “Hello. Why are you staring at me?”
His voice is quiet. His eyes are sort of dreamy and unfocused, or clouded with some past hurt. “Because I never thought I’d see you again.”
I lose the breath in my lungs. That makes two of us. I shift in my seat. “Okay.” I tap the steering wheel again. “Can we . . .”
He nods suddenly, all business. “Right. Yeah. Clutch.” He’s pointing to the emergency brake.
He’s got to be pulling my leg. He’s no dummy. In fact, as clumsy and weak as he was, he more than compensates with brainpower. He was always slow, steady, and methodical, and yet I had no idea how he whizzed through algebra problems when we were kids. Sometimes he made me so envious with how fast he finished his homework that I wanted to shake him.
Well, some things haven’t changed, because I still want to shake him.
This continues for a while, me trying to explain something, him getting it totally wrong. Then I tell him to let out the clutch and put the car in drive, but he hesitates. “I just want to make sure . . . “ he starts, trailing off to nowhere. I was always the one in a rush, so his practice of making sure every I was dotted and t was crossed often tried my patience. A familiar feeling of déjà vu settles on me.
“Gah!” I explode, embarrassed when it comes out louder than I expected. “Come on. Just drive. It’s not rocket science. Everyone does it. Even complete morons.”
“Really?” he asks.
Then he releases the clutch, presses on the gas, and up-shifts, just like he’s been doing it his entire life. He proceeds to make a figure eight in the parking lot, all the while, grinning at me.
“What. The. Hell,” I mumble, clutching the armrest as he does another quick turn. My face is hot. “Stop. Just stop. Let me out.”
He slows. “Wait. What? Come on, Ari.”
I reach for the door handle before the truck has come to a complete stop. “You knew how to drive all along? Why would you lie about that to my dad? To me?” I shake my head and throw open the door. “Goodbye. I’ll walk home.”
“No, come on, Ari, wait.” I do. Besides it not being very appetizing, climbing the mile back up the hill in flip flops, I’d spent the previous night mulling over all the mysteries surrounding Noah. As scared as I am, as much as I hate to admit it, part of me wants to understand him. He bows his head apologetically and drapes his arms over the wheel. “I just . . . wanted to spend time with you. And I didn’t think your dad would let us, knowing . . . my history.”
I gnaw on my lip. “Did he say that?”
He shakes his head. “Doesn’t have to. It’s all over his face. It’s all over everybody’s face. That guy across the street? Everyone. I know I’m not on their list of favorite people.”
“My dad doesn’t think anything bad about you, Noah. He knows we were friends. He’s always treated you like his own son. We can be together without you making up stories.”
He doesn’t say anything for a long time. His eyes are focused on a place just above the dashboard, alight with a slow-burning fire. “I’m not so sure. I mean, I feel like that same kid who used to hide out in the treehouse with you. You know, writing those poems and things? But things are different now. It’s been written on your face, too, since I first saw you.”
My hand instinctively flies up to my cheek. “No, I—“
“I could see it. You weren’t happy to see me. You’re afraid you’re going to do or say something wrong and I’m going to break. Don’t deny it.”
“I was happy, Noah. I’m so happy you’re here,” I tell him honestly.
“But that doesn’t mean you want to be here with me,” he murmurs. “I’m sure you’ve been doing pretty well without me coming along and screwing everything up. I get it. I know why you’re scared. But you’re the only thing from my old life—my normal life—that I have left.”
I hadn’t thought of that. I fight the tears threatening to cloud my eyes.
“I won’t break, okay? You can ask me anything, Ari. You should know that. If I’m going to spill my guts to America on primetime television, there’s nothing I wouldn’t tell you. Okay?”
I nod, and look down at my hands to find them trembling in my lap.
“Okay?” he says again.
“Yeah. All right.”
“So ask me,” he says, leaning closer. “What do you want to know?”
There have been a billion questions, gnawing a hole inside me to the point of near madness. But one has always stood above the others. “Why,” I murmur.
He shifts in his seat, then looks out the window. “Why, what?”
“There’s something you wouldn’t tell me.”
He tilts his head, uncomprehending.
“My parents adored you. I adored you. We would’ve done anything for you. All you would’ve had to do was tell us. And so I keep wondering if maybe we didn’t make it clear enough how much we cared about you.”
He’s shaking his head, but he doesn’t say anything.
“You know everything about me, Noah. Every little thing inside my head, you seem to pick up on. And I thought I knew you. But I missed this? This one, huge thing? I keep thinking I must have been a pretty shitty friend that I didn’t notice it, that you couldn’t tell me. I . . . “
“Oh, God, Ari. No way. How could you even think . . . ”
“I used to ditch you all the time at school. To hang out with the popular kids. And when those bullies would go after you, I—“
“Ari. Are you kidding me? You didn’t ditch me. We ran in different circles was all. I wasn’t the coolest guy in the world that everyone wanted to hang with. I get that. And excuse me but you’re a lightweight, too. Do you really think I’d want a girl fighting my battles for me?”
I can’t help it. I open my mouth and a flood comes out. “Okay. So then, why? Why did it happen? Why didn’t you just come to us and tell us what was going on? Unless she tied you up or hurt you . . . or she . . . I don’t know, drugged you?” I swallow, hardly able to believe I’m saying these words. Things I’ve wondered, over and over again until I’d driven myself nearly mad. I never thought I’d be this close to the answers. “I mean, because if that happened, if you felt threatened, then it would make sense. I could understand you keeping quiet about it, staying with her for that long. Is that what it was like?”
The shake of his head is imperceptible, but I already know the answer.
Instead of patching it, though, I can feel the hollow inside me ripping ever wider. “Why did you go with her, Noah?”
He brings his hands to his chest, then cracks his knuckles and looks away. He says, “I never said I didn’t deserve those looks you guys are giving me. I never said I was the innocent victim.”
#
My mom drove us down Route 29 to Lambertville as the sun disappeared beyond the horizon. Noah wat
ched the trees sweep by out the window, and I could see the creases in his brow through the reflection on the glass.
He was wearing an oversized black bathrobe. He’d told me it was a ninja costume, but he kind of looked like a frazzled dad, ready to head to the bathroom.
I didn’t care. So what, if they looked at him funny? I didn’t feel so nervous because now I knew they wouldn’t be looking at me.
Jacy’s house was a big one, on some cliffs overlooking the town, and while it wasn’t as fancy as Claire’s, she had a giant screened-in gazebo out back that was covered all over in fake cobwebs. A witch cackled when Noah opened the screen door and let me go inside. He straggled in afterwards, looking as if he’d rather be anywhere else.
Jacy ran over to me and wrapped her arms around me so I choked on her Rapunzel hair. “You look great! Oh, my gosh, so pretty!” she gushed as I removed my glasses and nearly stumbled into her. Then she looked over my shoulder, at Noah, who was studying something on the ceiling. “Oh! You look good too. Are you a hobo?”
He looked at her and said, “No. I’m Noah. From class.”
I wanted to cover my face with my hands. She laughed. “I know that, silly,” she giggled. She looped her arms through ours and dragged us to a table that was set with all this gross-out food—cupcakes shaped like eyeballs and cookies that looked like witch fingers. “Help yourselves. The ghoul brew is fantastic, if I do say so myself.”
When she left, I looked at Noah, who was shaking his head and muttering to himself. “Did I really just say that?” he mumbled to me.
I said, “Just relax. It’s a party.” I started to sway my hips to the music as I looked around for Claire. This was good. It was dark, and flaws were less noticeable in the dark. The décor was spooky. Outside, a bonfire was going, and people were toasting marshmallows and sipping hot chocolate and apple cider. We were all wearing goofy costumes. There were no closets available to play Seven Minutes in Heaven in. I could handle this.
Then I whirled around and saw the rest of the people, and my whole body tensed. Gabe was lying back in a flower-cushioned chaise, looking like he was in a photo shoot for his signature cologne. He was dressed like a vampire, and kept snapping his fake fangs against the roof of his mouth. His groupies surrounded him like flies on crap. I just gaped at him for a minute, until he turned suddenly, and focused on me.
He winked.
I wanted to throw up.
I took a step away from Noah.
Just then, Jacy clapped her hands and pulled an empty two-liter of root beer from under her arm. “Who wants to play Spin the Bottle?” Jacy announced.
Now I really wanted to throw up. A couple people nodded, but then Gabe spoke up. “Boring,” he muttered, and everyone froze in place.
Claire suddenly appeared in the door, in a shimmering Jasmine costume that highlighted her flawless belly. All eyes fell on her as she rolled hers. “Really, Jacy? That’s so old. I feel like we’ve played that every weekend of our lives. Let’s do something different.”
Jacy looked hurt. She backed away and muttered to me, “Sometimes she really gets on my nerves.” Then she smiled at her and announced, “Like what, Claire? You always have the greatest ideas.”
“Something with blindfolds,” she said, dangling a piece of cloth in her hands. “Whoever wants to play, meet me outside by the fence in two minutes!”
Jacy slumped into the sofa as the stampede went off to play Claire’s made-up game. I sat next to her, and Noah sat on her other side. She seemed surprised we weren’t following Claire, like everyone else. She said, “She thinks she’s so cool because she has that new boyfriend.”
“Uh, boyfriend? You mean Gabe?”
“Oh, they broke up,” Jacy said. “Now she’s dating a senior.”
“A senior . . . in high school?” I blubbered, shocked.
“No, a senior citizen,” Jacy said, laughing. “What do you think? Didn’t you hear the rumor?”
I just shrugged slightly, as if that would make look less ignorant.
“Oh my god, it’s all around the school!” she exploded, leaning forward, so I knew it had to be something juicy. “They were in her bedroom, and he asked her to take of her shirt. She said no. And then they started Frenching, right on her bed. Got to second base, I guess?”
It was shocking. She had a boyfriend, an older boy who wanted to see her boobs. I didn’t even have anything that resembled boobs. “Second . . . base . . . “ I murmured, trying not to look utterly lost.
“Yeah.” She started counting on her fingers. “First is kissing. Second is up the shirt. Third is down the pants. And a home run is . . . um . . . I forget.”
Noah was leaning back, still looking at the ceiling. Suddenly, his voice, quiet though it was, broke into the conversation. “All the way.”
We both stared at him. Up until then, we’d nearly forgotten him.
He stumbled then, looked at his lap. His face reddened. “Or so I hear.”
Noah. The boy who I’d never even seen talk to a girl who wasn’t me (though heck, I didn’t really think I counted as a girl). But then I figured, Noah was smart. Brilliant in fact. He knew many things, even from purely scientific viewpoint. He was crazy-into NASA and space travel, too, since he had solar system model dangling over his bed and glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling, but it didn’t mean he’d been to the moon. “Oh,” Jacy and I said in unison.
After that, I could see the outlines of blindfolded people, groping each other in the firelight. Something about pinning the tail on the donkey, but using people as the donkey. There was lots of shrieking—obviously, it was a big hit. “What do you think they’re doing out there?” I asked her.
“No clue. Knowing her, I just hope everyone is still clothed.” Jacy squinted into the darkness, then glanced worriedly toward the kitchen window, where her mother was busy stirring up more punch. She stood up. “But I’d better get out there. It’s my party, after all.”
I looked at Noah, who appeared more interested in the dirt underneath his thumb nail. “If you could be a combination of any two animals . . . ?” he murmured.
I smiled. “An eagle and a cheetah,” I said without skipping a beat. “A cheagle.”
He nodded his appreciation. I was glad to have him there. To have someone who felt exactly the way I did: that all of this was stupid. I wasn’t even twelve yet. We had all the time in the world to grow up.
Chapter Eight
Was she normally an overly flirtatious person, in general?
No. Not at all. Just with me. I think... I got the feeling she was scared of most men. But me? She had power over me.
Power, in what way?
In every way. She was bigger than me—at first, at least. She was in a position of authority. People would believe her over me. She just knew more about how the world worked, how to manipulate me. I mean, one thing I remember, was her coming into my room in the morning. And I had a . . . uh, a boner. And she looked at it for a long time and said that I was going to need a girlfriend to take care of that.
At eleven?
Yeah. But I don’t think she meant that—she hated the idea of me going to a party or talking to another girl or whatever. At the time, I didn’t even really know what the hell she meant by getting a girlfriend to “take care of that”.
But you found out.
Yeah.
Before you turned twelve?
I’d turned twelve that August, and in November, she . . ..
She took it upon herself to” take care of it”?
Yes.
Did you encourage it in any way?
Are you asking if I liked it? Hell no. I was scared to death. I told her to stop. She didn’t.
#
The last thing I want is to be on the news again, so at my request, Noah drops me off at the base of the hill, and I climb my way up to my house. My calves burn by the time I make it to my driveway. When I get inside, my father is sitting in his office, looking worried. “Are you all right?”
he asks.
I nod. “Yeah, I was just—“
“You were with Noah?”
I nod, wondering why he looks so worried. It was his idea, after all. “What?”
“Next time,” he says, leaning back in his wheelchair. “I want you to tell me you’re going. And text me. All right? Every half hour.”
I squint at him. “But it’s Noah. Not some escaped convict.”
He exhales. He motions me forward. When I come inside, he motions for me to sit. Then he leans forward, tapping his fingers on the desk. “I know you two were friends. But he went through a lot. He’s struggling with a lot of heavy stuff, confusing emotions. And people don’t come out of that without a few scars. Those scars could . . . .” he trails off. “We just need to be careful. It’s no different than the soup kitchen. You understand?”
I do. Well, partially. I’ve spent every Saturday morning of high school helping my dad dole out meals to the homeless at the local soup kitchen in town. He told me then to be cordial and friendly, but to never get too personal. To keep a safe distance. He told me that people who are down on their luck are often harmless, but some of them may be harboring deep-seeded mental issues, scars from the tragic events they’d gone through.
In other words, offer compassion. But nothing else.
But this is Noah, not some homeless guy. He may look altogether different, but he’s got it together, mentally. He’s probably more together than I am. I say, “He’s okay, dad. Yeah, he had bad stuff happen to him. But he’s told me he’s putting it behind him. He’s good.”
My father presses his lips together. “How did the lesson go?”
“Um. Good. He’s . . . he caught on really quick.”
“All right. Well. The second you think he’s ready, get him to the DMV so he can get his license. You understand?”
Okay, so maybe Noah was right when he said my dad wouldn’t be too keen on us hanging out. “Yeah, but—“
“Ari. I offered that because it’s the Christian thing to do. We’ll get him set up at the church, get him counseling. Help him with setting up over there. Check in with him now and then to make sure he’s doing well. Then we step back and let Noah and Christ do the heavy lifting.”
Lost Cause Page 8