Eventually I slow and glance at the gas tank. I’m not surprised to see nearly a fourth is gone; I’ll have to turn back now to make sure I don’t use too much by the time this little joyless-ride is over.
I come back to myself gradually as I return to Reedsburg. My mind starts up again like a rebooted computer, and I think, Now what? Being without a plan makes me edgy, and I stave off the feeling by thinking through the rest of the school year and all the college prep work I can do. Amber would probably encourage me to branch out and see if there are other girls I’m interested in, but the thought holds no appeal for me.
Though perhaps I’m being unfair to Amber. It occurs to me that she may be home and would be a good sounding board at this moment. I try calling her phone but get her voice mail. Discouraged and not wanting to return home just yet, I slow to a dawdling pace as I reenter the city limits. I take random side streets.
Eventually I end up near a park and on an impulse pull into the parking lot and stop the car. A stroll around is both a good way to delay going home and to save gas. I wonder why I didn’t think of it sooner.
The day isn’t the prettiest; the sky is still mostly gray and the air is chilly due to yesterday’s rain, but it feels good to walk through the path lined by slowly blossoming trees and leafy plants. A couple of joggers pass by me, and one Rollerblader, but otherwise it’s quiet. Peaceful.
I’m approaching one of the benches that are positioned every so often on the walking path when I see a hunched-shouldered man occupies it. He straightens as I get nearer and takes a long slug of clear liquid in a plastic Coke bottle. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.
I recognize him, though I can’t immediately place from where. It hits me with a bolt of shock about the same time he looks over and catches sight of me: it’s Mitchell, from the gelato shop. He does a small double take. I see recognition likewise dawn on his face, and I know he can tell that I recall him and how I last saw him.
For a few heartbeats, I stare at him and he stares at me, each of us uncomfortably aware that we’re acquaintances, sort of, who last saw each other under unsavory circumstances and neither sure how to proceed.
Finally, I go to the bench and sit gingerly on the opposite edge from him.
“So… how are you?” I say.
He snorts bitterly and takes another swig from his bottle. “Just dandy. You?”
“Oh. Same.” He gives me an assessing look at that.
“It’s strange seeing you again, kid,” he says. “What’s your name?”
“Audrey,” I say and then wonder if I should have given even that much personal information away to a virtual (maybe unbalanced) stranger. But I know his name, after all, so this makes it an even playing field.
“It’s peculiar seeing someone I only know from a brief, chance meeting on the worst day of my life, Audrey,” Mitchell continues. “I didn’t even want to go to that damn place. I hate ice cream, for f—for pity’s sake. That should have tipped me off, when Greg suggested it. ‘We won’t be there long,’ he said. ‘I just want to talk.’ Ha! He wanted to get me to a public place where he thought I wouldn’t make a scene.”
Part of me wants to say “You sure showed him,” but I get the feeling he wouldn’t think that was funny right now.
“It was weird, sitting at those dinky tables with my best friend from college.” Mitchell seems to have an almost pathological need to keep talking and explain himself. I wonder if he has anyone else in his life he’s talked to about this yet. Or if he has anyone else in his life he can talk to at all. “In a bizarro-universe way, it reminded me of being at college and going out to the local pub together. Just this hole-in-the-wall place, overrun by stupid college students. Talking about our classes, talking about the girls in our classes….”
I try to gauge how old he is. Late thirties? Early forties? His general unkempt air—messy hair, and a slight beard that looks like it was grown out of a disregard for shaving rather than a conscious grooming choice—all make him seem a little older than he probably is.
“Greg handed me my ring on my wedding day, did you know that?” he says suddenly. His eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot. “He stood right behind me, right at my back, and handed me the ring, knowing….”
He takes another drink.
“I’m sorry,” I say softly.
“I don’t know how you can do that to someone you say you care about,” he says. “And worse, how she could…. How my… Kathryn, m-my wi—” He stops and stares unseeingly off into the distance for a long pause, jaw working. His red eyes are damp.
“When I first saw her,” he starts but can’t seem to finish the sentence. After a long pause, he continues. “We were talking about painting the master bedroom blue last week. Just last week, she was going over paint strips with me and talking about base coats, all the while—” Another stop. Another swig. “Maybe they’ll end up painting the room blue together. God knows I can’t stay in that house. I thought I would raise my kids in it with her.”
I have a lump in my throat, and I say “I’m sorry,” again, but Mitchell doesn’t acknowledge it.
“I quit my last job because she wanted me to,” he continues relentlessly, painfully. “It wasn’t a bad job, but she thought I spent too much time there. I learned how to grill steaks just the way she liked them, and never to buy tuna because she couldn’t stand the smell of it. I learned about different cuts of diamonds for her, to learn what kind of jewelry she’d like. I learned to live with the house temperature ten degrees hotter than I’m comfortable because she always felt cold. I just— Goddamn, I loved that woman.”
He raises a hand and pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. He takes a wavering breath. Then he drops his hand and peers at me.
“What about you? What about that girl you were with?”
My own eyes cloud with tears, but unlike his, mine overfill and slide down my cheeks.
“She didn’t want me,” I say and sob once.
“Love is a misery, Audrey,” Mitchell says. He offers me his Coke bottle. “Vodka?”
I decline with a shake of my head.
He and I sit in silence. Each of us imagining blue walls, I think.
I SAY I have a lot of homework to do, which is true, and go to my room with the intention of settling in for the rest of the night. I’m not as productive as I usually am. My thoughts are more prone to wandering, and the fourth time I catch myself staring off into the distance uselessly, I curse my lost laser focus.
Finally, I’m down to the English Poem That Is Causing A Perpetual Headache, courtesy of e. e. cummings. At least now I know for sure that poetry is not a viable career option for me, I text to Amber, who quickly responds with a :).
I roll into my favorite thinking position—half off the bed, feet on the wall—and pull the monstrously thick English Anthology textbook to my chest to reread “somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond.” This must be my twelfth time reading the poem, but suddenly, I understand it differently. The same way the world had appeared new to my eyes after I realized all Scarlett meant to me, I now feel a depth in each line that before had been missing.
I only make it halfway through when, for the second time that day, tears well up in my eyes. I toss the book aside and get up. I need to go for a walk.
To my great relief, I don’t pass anyone as I head out. I’m not sneaking away, exactly. Just something very close to it.
My mysterious new neighbor’s light is back on. I can’t say exactly why I’m so intrigued by him, but all of a sudden, I’m reckless. I don’t like things that don’t make sense to me, and so I march toward his house to introduce myself.
Before I know it, I’m on the steps. I ring the doorbell. There’s a TV show or movie playing inside, and I hear the volume suddenly cut. I ring the door again, in case he hadn’t heard me with the sound on before. No movement or sound comes from inside the house.
Perplexed, I open my mouth to call through the door that I’m a
neighbor and I just want to say hi. A slight motion out of the corner of my eye catches my attention. I turn my head and see the curtain in the window fall quickly back in place. Nothing else happens.
Now I feel like an idiot, just standing outside.
I walk away, but the resident of the house has only made me more determined to figure out what is going on with him.
I recap it to Amber the next day during lunch, who is not nearly as enthralled with the situation as I am.
“And I knew he was in there!” I say for the third time, trying to impress upon her how weird this is.
She doesn’t think it’s weird.
“Maybe he’s just shy,” she suggests, peeling an orange and releasing the sweet, tangy aroma.
“Or! Or! Maybe he’s a serial killer.”
“In that case, you should definitely not be poking around his house,” she says. She offers me a wedge. “Want some?”
“I mean, from what you’ve told me and what I’ve seen, it’s not like you have the friendliest neighborhood in the world,” she continues as I take a bite out of the orange. “I would just let it rest.”
I open my mouth to retort along the lines of a mind full of curiosity cannot be so easily sedated when I catch a glimpse of chocolate-brown hair beyond her shoulder in the cafeteria. It’s Scarlett, walking with Serhan and laughing at something he’s saying. I drop my eyes immediately to the half wedge in my hand, the jewellike interior vibrant. I preoccupy myself pulling off tiny pieces of white peel still clinging to the exterior.
Amber frowns, fishes out her phone, and clicks on her mirror app. She holds it up and pretends to check her teeth while scoping out the scene behind her. It doesn’t take her too long to land on Scarlett.
“Oh,” she says sadly, putting her phone back down. “Did you want to talk about it more… tonight?”
I’d given her the bare-bones account of what happened this morning, after she pleaded with me to come to her house for a second-by-second recap of prom with Steven Chaffee (spoiler alert: they’re now dating, so I’m guessing it went well).
“I don’t want to drag the mood down,” I say. “We should be celebrating the beginning of a new relationship, not the charred remains of one that couldn’t even get off the ground.”
“I want to hear all about it,” she says firmly, so, when it’s 5:00 p.m. and I recline on the floor in her room, propped up by her bright yellow beanbag, I recount the whole tale. She’s very sympathetic. She hasn’t urged me to put on my party dress and get out there, because she knows I never do either anyway.
“Just get back to being you,” she advises. “Forget about her. Before you know it, there will be another girl who catches your eye.”
“Sure,” I say.
“No, I’m serious. I think this was an awakening for you. You weren’t interested in girls before, any girls, and I think this is the start of you being interested. Scarlett is gorgeous, there’s no way to get around that, but I bet you’ll start seeing how nice-looking other girls in our class are as well. What about Annie McCormick?”
I make a face before I can help myself. Amber laughs. “Okay. I’m not going to force anyone on you. Just… don’t get too down.”
“You’re doing everything but saying, ‘There are other fish in the sea,’” I say.
She throws her hands in the air. “I was! I was! I promised myself I wouldn’t use clichés!”
“I appreciate that,” I say with a smile.
“But more important,” Amber says seriously, “you were fine before Scarlett and before being interested in girls. You found hard work and purpose and goals fulfilling. Those are things that will never go away, regardless of who you’re interested in or dating. I understand that you hurt now, but you have so much else in your life.”
I’m quiet for a moment.
“I think you’re the smartest person I know, Amber,” I finally say. “But seriously, enough about me. Tell me about Steven.”
Amber swoons dramatically back on the bed.
“Steven is heavenly,” she says. “He picked me up in his dad’s car, and he gave me a corsage….”
She lives up to her promise and goes beat by beat through the night. It’s immensely entertaining, and I’m genuinely glad for her that she had such a magical time. It all sounds like a lot of work without much payoff to me, but Amber revels in reliving it, so clearly she has a different view on the proceedings.
Her account spills over to the dinner table (quinoa and butternut squash) before Pallav steals the show to complain about his teacher (he’s a giant dork, and it embarrasses Pallav). By the time Amber drops me off at my house, I walk to my door with a confident step. I’ve mourned, I’ve grown, and I’m ready to face life without Scarlett.
CHAPTER NINE
“I WANT your science experiments to be involved and for you to work on collaboration skills, so I’m going to pair you up,” says Mr. Nwaogu in a tone that forestalls disagreement. “What project and what subject is up to you and your partner. Just make sure it’s something that we have covered or will cover in this class. You’ll be working together over the next two weeks on your science project, and the winning team gets to present at the ImagineExpo’s preprogram in Chicago.”
I feel my face light up. What an opportunity! I can just see the impressed look on a college admissions officer’s face when they come across that in my application. Mr. Nwaogu pulls out the class roster and eyes it. I’m so used to being the first person called that I’m not surprised in the least when he looks at me.
“Anderson. You’ll be with West. Barker, you’re with Wade. Berrios, you’re with—”
He keeps pairing people together in the most unimaginative way possible while I struggle to regain feeling in my face.
What. The. Bleep.
I sneak a look over my shoulder at Scarlett. She’s frowning absently at her desk but doesn’t seem particularly angry or upset. Or uncomfortable, which is what I mostly am.
I drop my head into my arms and take a moment to quietly groan before straightening up. I can handle this.
“All right, everyone get with your partners and start working on your projects,” says Mr. Nwaogu before sitting at his desk and shamelessly pulling out and tapping at his iPad.
I get up with my stuff and go to Scarlett, who pulls a nearby desk closer for me.
“Any idea of what you want to do?” I ask, settling sideways in the seat to face her. She raises an eyebrow.
“And hello to you too. Lovely weather we’re having, isn’t it? How’s the family?”
“Hi,” I say, a reluctant smile tugging at my lips. “So, have you got anything in mind?”
“I suppose a baking soda volcano wouldn’t wow the crowds?” She’s leaning back in her chair, swiveling herself as much as she can with the restrictions of the desk.
I try to laugh, but the thought of such a simplistic approach alarms me (and an earth science project! Not for a physics class!) and I bet my rigid smile is terrified.
“Ha-ha. No. Look, why don’t I research some options that we could conceivably accomplish with our timeframe and resource restrictions, and let you know tomorrow what I think?”
This strikes me as the perfect plan. Not only will I vet the project and be able to think through how it should be handled, but I won’t have to spend any excessive time with Scarlett and the awkwardness and embarrassment that come with that. I smile at her reassuringly.
She looks back with hooded eyes and a blank expression.
“Sure,” she says tonelessly. “Sounds like it will end up being a real winner.”
“Yeah,” I say, now a little uncertain. “I’m going to see if I can run to the library to get a start on it. Talk to you later?”
She nods without looking at me, instead focusing on pulling her textbook closer and flipping it open. Feeling wrong-footed and unsure why, I get approval from Mr. Nwaogu to spend the rest of the period researching in the library. I put it from my mind as I log on to a compute
r and start. After that the rest of the period flies by. I spend the last fifteen minutes finding information for Jimmy about becoming a vet tech and job openings with veterinarians in our area. He would be so much happier there. He isn’t home when I get there, so I slide the printouts under his and Sam’s door.
I didn’t see Scarlett for the rest of the day, which was both a relief and a disappointment. I spend my next two lunches happily plotting out several viable options for us to work on. I realize pretty quickly that due to the time restraints we need to do something that’s got zing rather than actual scientific research that needs to be conducted over a long time. On Friday I try to catch her eye before physics to present them to her, but it’s difficult. I almost think she’s avoiding looking my way, and I wonder if I’m being paranoid.
Everything used to be so simple and straightforward, with no hidden emotions or messages in every gesture. I really wish I could go back to that.
Since it’s the last day of the week, Mr. Nwaogu talks only for about ten minutes before telling us to get with our partners and work on our projects so he can phone in the rest of the class—he doesn’t say that last part.
Cheered by this opportunity, I leap to my feet and hurry over to Scarlett’s desk, dodging the other slower, socializing students. She hasn’t pulled a seat close for me this time, and I pause to realize this before fumbling my stuff onto a desk and pushing it over. The front legs catch on the carpet and the desk tilts alarmingly, spilling my books and pens to the floor.
“Oh, shoot,” I say, flustered. I crouch down and try to gather them as quickly as possible. One pen keeps rolling away from me before I finally get a good hold on it. Scarlett reaches over with a long arm and tugs the desk the rest of the way, face a little softer than it had been.
“So, what have you got for us, brainchild?” she asks.
“Oh, boy. I’ve narrowed it down to three viable options,” I say, pulling out my notepad with enthusiasm. I open it to the first of ten pages filled with extensive lists of materials and step-by-step directions. “One, we can measure the sugar content of sodas by using a laser pointer. Not complicated, I know. It’s more math than flash, but I think anything using a laser should earn us interest from the judges. Two, we can create a way to cook food only using solar radiation, even on days of low-light availability. Lots of eco implications, very trendy. Three, how magnetic fields affect the flow rate of water—both salt solution and tap water. Magnets are always a winner. Plus we can extrapolate a lot from the results about the applications of diamagnetism.”
carefully everywhere descending Page 8