by N. K. Smith
“What?”
“You’re perfect.”
He pauses, his arm halfway into the refrigerator and twists around. “I’m what?”
Heat prickles not only on my cheeks but all over my body at his look. I press my lips together, but he stands up tall again and comes closer.
“I’m what?” Fox is going to make me say it again.
“Perfect. You’re freakin’ perfect.”
He brushes his fingertips over my chin, then almost skips back to the refrigerator. “I didn’t even have to bring you flowers or chocolate to rate a perfect? Score.”
As I watch him pour the milk into the cup, something about what he just said sparks a memory. It’s not of him, but of his friend Gage. I remember sitting in the library with my earbuds in, but not listening to any music. Sometimes I use the earbuds as a shield. If people think you’re busy listening to something, they won’t bother you. I don’t remember why all the popular kids were there, but they were sitting at the next table over, making so much noise I almost walked out.
But Fox’s friend, Gage was talking about girls in my class, all younger than him, but not so young that they were off-limits.
“Rate?” I ask. Even though I hate it, I know this simple word may start an argument.
I wait for him stop stirring in the sugar before I let my eyes connect with his. I feel much too cautious to be doing this, but I’m compelled to know. “What do I rate? I mean, you and your friends used to rate girls all the time, right?”
“What?”
“Your friend Gage. He was the king of assigning ratings, wasn’t he? Didn’t he make Ruby McIntyre cry in Phys Ed because he said she was too fat for a regular rating?”
Fox still has a pleasant expression on his face, but I think it’s more because he’s not sure what to do. “Did he?”
“Yeah. He did. And then she stopped eating for three months until she passed out playing volleyball.”
He takes a drink of his coffee after setting the spoon in the sink. Then he just stares at me for a moment. I shift my weight and rub my thumb over the handle of my mug.
After what seems like a long time, he says, “I never took part in his rating system, Saige.”
“But he did. He developed it, right? And he’s your friend.”
“I can’t help what my friends do.”
“What was his rating for me?”
“He didn’t have one.”
I tilt my head to the side. “He rated every girl in school but me?”
“Come on, Saige.”
“Just tell me, and we can move on.”
“He was a stupid teenager.”
“And the girls he subjected to his childish, sexist rating system were just teenagers, too. Teenage girls with feelings.”
“I know. He knows I’ve never liked it. What do you want from me? Not to hang out with him anymore? Because that’s fine. I barely see him as is.”
“I want you to tell me my rating.”
“No,” he says.
“No?”
Fox shakes his head as he leans back against the counter. “No.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re picking a fight that I not only can’t win, I can’t defend. I didn’t do that to any girl. I told him it was a shit thing to do. I’m not going to repeat what he’s called any girl, let alone you, the girl, by the way, I kind of dig.”
“You kind of dig me?” I ask in a loud whisper.
“Not kind of, I do dig you, but if you want to be more accurate, I sort of adore you, even though right now you’re being the biggest pain in the ass after I sprang for chocolate glazed with sprinkles and chocolate iced custard filled donuts.”
How can I stay angry with him? “Are there powdered in there?”
“Are there powdered donuts in there?” he repeats, indignant. “What do you take me for? I’m hurt that you’d think so low of me to not purchase a staple of American breakfast! And before you insult me by asking, of course, I got just plain glazed, too.” Fox tilts his head back, pushing his nose up into the air. “Well, I never!”
Now it’s really hard to be upset about something his jerk of a friend did a few years ago, so I poke him in the stomach. “Bring your donuts,” I say as I walk to the living room.
He follows me in, sets down his coffee cup and the box of donuts, and goes over to the music dock. Sure enough, The Avett Brothers come on. “Why do you—”
“Eat some donuts and just accept the fact that when you’re with me, nine times out of ten, we’re going to listen to them. You might as well just learn to love them.”
I flip open the box and grab a powdered donut. He sits down on the couch and reclaims his coffee. “I do like them,” I say before taking the daintiest bite I’ve ever taken. I don’t know why I think acting more ladylike or not eating freely will affect how he feels about me. “But just out of curiosity, why do you like them so much?”
Fox devours an entire donut in two bites, licks his fingers, then grabs another one before washing down the first with coffee. “They’re just so honest and respectful and gentlemanly. I want to be like them.”
It’s a timely answer given the discussion in the kitchen. From experience, I know Fox is a gentleman, so regardless of what his friend may have done, I don’t believe he was a part of it. While it burns my ass that he won’t tell me what was said about me, I guess I should just trust that it’s not something I’d want to hear.
And it might not be something a gentleman would want to say.
“And they’re like epic romantics. Their songs are just amazing. They write about love and pain and sorrow and remorse.”
“So is that you? Are you an epic romantic?” I can’t believe I’m asking it, but Myka told me to go with this, so I’m going. I think he’s interested in me, and even if he isn’t, he’s still a good guy who’ll be a friend if nothing else.
He’s got a slight blush on his face and the tips of his ears are red, like I’ve tapped into a truth about him. He is a romantic. But I already knew that. When I step back and look at them, all of his actions have been romantic.
Plus, that kiss in the woods was incredible. Even I swooned.
“I do believe in romance, I know it makes me a girl, but there you go.”
“It makes you a girl to like romance? What? Do you sit at home reading cheesy 1980s—” I realize why I shouldn’t finish the sentence. I doubt he sits at home reading much of anything. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s cool.”
“Well, if you’re a girl because you like romance, I’m a guy because I don’t.”
“You don’t?” he asks in an incredulous voice. “That’s just because no one’s romanced you right.”
While his words are probably true, I don’t tell him this. This whole topic has me jittery, so I busy myself with my fluffy, white donut and coffee, but I can feel him still watching me. “Tell me a joke.”
No hesitation. “A neutron walks into a bar and asks how much for a beer? The bartender says, for you? No charge.”
It’s not the first time and it probably won’t be the last time, but I’m struck with just how smart he is. I know he could be reciting a joke he heard, but I don’t think so. I think he knows what a neutron is, and I feel like shit for having gone through high school thinking he was stupid. “That was funny.”
“Mrs. Baker told me that in my second ninth grade.”
“You took Mrs. Baker’s chemistry in ninth grade?”
“Yeah,” he says, then finishes another donut. “That’s the tradeoff for being held back. You look stupid, all your friends graduate before you, but since you did well in a lot of subjects where writing and reading wasn’t the main component, you can take more subjects.”
“There was tons of reading in chemistry.”
“Yeah, but the school got some audiobooks for me so I could sit down at night and listen to the chapters instead of reading them.”
As I fix my eyes on my booksh
elf, I chew the inside of my lip. There’s always so much to ask him, but I never know how.
“What?”
I shake my head.
“What?”
“I wish you could read better because I do my best communicating through the written word.”
He sets his cup down on the coaster, then stretches his arms above him. I peek at his solid chest stretching his orange shirt through the corner of my eye. “Why don’t you feel comfortable just asking or saying stuff?”
“Because my thoughts, opinions, and comments have gotten me in trouble in the past. Apparently the filter everyone else was born with wasn’t a part of my package.”
“Didn’t we already cover that I don’t think you could offend me? Or was that just in my head that I had that conversation with you? Just say it.”
“Well, we’ve already had this conversation, too, I think. It doesn’t matter, and if I say it again, you’re going to think I’m—”
“Say it, Saigey-Over-the-Ocean.”
“These nicknames have to stop. They’re—”
“Cute? Make you smile? Add a certain depth to our interactions? You’re right on all three, Saigeypoo.”
I blatantly roll my eyes.
“Now just say what you wanted to say a million minutes ago.” Fox tilts his head to one side. “I think you’re trying to take advantage of my distraction level.”
“No, I’m not.”
“So say it.”
I exhale a long breath. “I guess I just wonder if you tried harder, if reading wouldn’t get easier.”
Fox is quiet and my gut starts to hurt because I’m sure this is going to lead to some kind of clash between us. Just when I feel like the tension has risen to a new high, he speaks, and I realize that I’m the only one holding the tension.
“I spent years trying to get better. My dad paid all this money to a couple different places to help me, but after a while, I just realized I didn’t want to put that much effort into it. I mean, I don’t want to write or read for a career. I can read and write well enough to get me through life, but I’m an artist. I work in a visual space. I’ll never be a poet; I’ll never be a sports columnist; I’ll never be a businessman putting together major reports for important people, and it’s okay. I don’t want that.”
“But maybe if—”
“It’s not fair that it takes me two hours to read something my dad can read in twenty minutes. I don’t want to waste time for stuff that’s not going to fulfill my goals. It’s the same reason I don’t bother taking guitar lessons because I’m not a musician.” Fox takes my hands and scratches at my nails. “I mean, don’t you have goals you’re working toward? Don’t you put aside the stuff that’s not going to help you reach them?”
He’s got me. “I don’t have many goals. I mean, I want to be a writer in California. Go to school at NYU, I guess.”
“So you want to go to college, then move to California?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
I shrug, drain the rest of my coffee, then set the cup on the table. “I guess. I mean, maybe not in that order. I don’t know. Living on the beaches of California sounds so much better than college in New York for the next four years.”
“What washes up on tiny beaches?”
I raise my eyebrows in question.
“Microwaves.” He pinches my leg. I look down and realize I’m still in my PJs. “If you don’t go to college and get a great job, how can you afford to live on the beach? I think it’s expensive out there.”
“Look around you, Fox,” I say, and he does. “I do nothing to afford this.” I point to the chair he usually sits in. “That cost ten thousand dollars.”
“What?”
“Yeah. I own a ten thousand dollar piece of furniture to put your ass on.”
I point to the abstract painting behind us. “That was twenty grand. I don’t even know what the hell it is or who the hell painted it. I liked it, so I bought it. Trust me, affording a place on the beach will not be a problem.”
He opens his mouth but nothing comes out as he runs a hand through his hair. Fox looks disturbed. Like honest-to-God troubled.
“What’s wrong?”
“How do you get so much money?” he asks.
It’s a legitimate question from someone who keeps two jobs and lives in a house that’s fifty years old and falling apart. “My mom was killed.” I say it fast, thinking it would explain everything, but I can see on his face he still doesn’t understand. “My dad and I got money. Her life insurance and money from the compensation fund. When my dad was killed, all the money was mine. My grandma and I don’t get along, so I petitioned to get access to the money earlier. I had good lawyers, and it worked, but it doesn’t matter because since I’m eighteen, it would’ve been mine now anyway.”
Even though I can tell he wants to talk more, I don’t. It’s nice to have this money, but I hate what happened to make it mine. “I’m going to take a shower.”
“Sounds hot and wet.”
I narrow my eyes. “You’re supposed to be a gentleman.”
Charm drips off him as he says, “It was an innocent comment about the water in a shower. Get your mind out of the gutter, young lady.”
Chapter 10
Fox
We bang out another five pages of illustration, plot, and dialogue for “Myka’s Metal Valentine.” I used the time she was in the shower to get ahead on the panels. Although I wanted to mention something about her hot, wet shower when she was out, I didn’t. I like riling her up, but I don’t want to push it too much. She’s kind of a reserved girl, so going crazy with the innuendo might damage my chances with her.
It’s getting late in the afternoon, and I don’t want to go to work tonight. I’d rather spend it with Saige. All of the tension created by Gage’s stupid rating system has passed, and I’m happy it has. There’s no way in hell I’m repeating my friend’s words about Saige to anyone, but most of all to her.
It’s not like it was all that bad, but it was bad enough.
In fact, next time I see him, I’m going to punch him in the gut for saying crap about Saige. I hadn’t remembered until she brought it up. Gage had no idea I’d end up liking her years later, but still, he deserves a good fist to the stomach for it anyway.
She sits with her computer, typing out the dialogue she’ll write in one of these bubbles, and I’ve lost interest in the panel I should be working on. Instead, my attention is on her hair. Specifically, how it feels as my fingers twirl through it. It’s thick and silky, and as soon as I twirl it enough, it slides through my fingers and falls back down against her shoulder.
When I’ve done this about twenty times, she puts her laptop on the coffee table, sits back and shifts her body toward me. I’ve gotten used to her silent manner of communication, and the look she wears now tells me she’s got something going on in that active head of hers.
“You want to say something, don’t you?”
This is one time she doesn’t turn away from me. “I want to ask something, but I don’t know how.”
“What’s it about?”
“Um, you. Me.”
I look at her for a moment, then take out a clean sheet of paper. With the nubby pencil, I start sketching, aware that she’s watching my hands move over the page. I’d like to give this picture more time, but Saige is sitting right next to me, probably wondering what the hell I’m doing since she just said she wanted to ask something.
When I’m finished with the rough sketch, I hand it to her and watch as more color floods her face. She sweeps her eyes over the picture, looking at the image of her in her long dress sitting next to me, our hands touching, palm to palm.
I’ve drawn a dialogue bubble in the picture above her head. She grabs the pen next to her laptop as she sets the sheet of paper down on the table. With a shaky hand, she writes, “Are you mine?” in the bubble.
The muscles in my face ache from the strain of the smile I’m holding as my
mind makes sense of the letters. I know the grin is toothy and goofy, but I can’t push down the childish giddiness of her printed question. First, I draw another dialogue bubble above my head, then carefully pluck the pen from her hands. I make sure to caress her fingers as I withdraw mine, and watch as she shivers just a little at the same time a ripple of excitement meanders through me.
I normally hate writing anything because I can never tell if what I write is wrong or not, but I’m confident in this. Not only is it a small word, but I know Saige won’t make fun of me even if it does come out wrong. So I take the tip of the pen and press it against the paper to carefully write, “Yes.”
I can hear her hold her breath, and as much as I want to look at her, I set the pen down and pick up the pencil again. With the eraser, I remove our hands from the picture. I draw a little heart-shaped box between us. Her hand is wrapped around it and my hand is extended toward it, as if I’ve just given her something, and I hope the real Saige can understand the meaning behind the addition.
When I finally do glance at her again, her eyes are fixed on the page I hand to her. She traps her bottom lip between her teeth, and if I have to guess how she feels right now, I bet she’s feeling the same excitement I am, but with much more nerves than I have. She looks a little overwhelmed, and I should probably do something to help her out, but I can’t think of jokes right now. I can’t come up with a single nickname to shift the energy and lighten the weight on her shoulders.
And it’s probably because I don’t want to.
These moments in life are the best there are. They’re heavy with emotion, messy with the what-ifs, and frightening with the unknowns.
But they’re good. They make my body tingle, my mind sing, and my spirit soar. These are the only moments worth slowing down to savor.
She brings her gaze to mine now, and I can’t help it. I lean toward her, intent on doing only one thing.
Kissing her.
I let the drawing float out of my hands as I bring one of them up to her neck and use the thumb to stroke her jaw. She draws a shallow breath in just as my lips touch hers, like she’s taking a piece of my soul into her. My other hand rests on her knee, and I feel her body shaking.