by Gina Ciocca
Sitting in his classroom each day while he stands at the front—a live, in-the-flesh person and not just someone I’ve heard about—has made me think a lot about the night at the slushie stand. The one detail I want to recall—whether or not I flapped my gums about the homecoming float’s location—is still eluding me. But other fragmented pieces of that night have been coming back to me. The problem is, I don’t know if they’re real, or alcohol-drenched amalgamations of truth and imagination.
And worse, I suck at algebra.
It’s the last period of the day, and I linger at my desk after the bell rings, packing my things with exaggerated slowness as I try to work up the courage to ask for extra help with the material I can’t seem to grasp.
As if he read my mind, Mr. Hargrove says, “Were you comfortable with today’s lesson, Ms. Atwood?” Before I can answer, he taps the board. “Factoring is fun, isn’t it? It never ceases to amaze me that numbers can be so straightforward and so versatile at the same time. They never lie.”
Math has never been my strongest subject, and Mr. Hargrove teaches it like he’s simply offering a road map to the easiest, most self-explanatory stuff on earth. It’s not that he isn’t nice, but I can’t shake the feeling that he might laugh in my face if I admit that I’m having trouble understanding.
“Maybe numbers don’t lie, but sometimes I feel like they play tricks on me. Even when I think I’m doing the steps right, I still come out with the wrong answer. I don’t think my brain is wired for this.” I wave at the mess of red gibberish on the whiteboard.
Mr. Hargrove motions for me to take a seat. “Everyone’s wired for this. It’s a matter of making the wires connect.”
That’s sort of what I was afraid he’d say. Now I’m dreading letting him see how much sense numbers don’t make to me. Although, if he’s noticed my grades, it’s probably not much of a mystery.
There’s a knock on the door then, and Joel sticks his head into the classroom. “You ready to go, Da—” His eyes fall on me and he waves. “Sorry. I’ll come back later.”
“Nonsense. Come in. Ms. Atwood and I are going to take another stab at factoring.” I’ve never wished for the ability to slip through solid matter—like, say, linoleum floors—quite as hard as I am now. Because I definitely don’t want to do this in front of Joel.
“Ooh, fascinating,” Joel deadpans.
Mr. Hargrove wraps an arm around Joel’s shoulders and squeezes. “Have you met my Joel Matthew? This kid’s an ace at math.” He ruffles Joel’s hair. “And my pride and joy.”
Joel smooths his hair, clearly embarrassed. “We’re friends, Dad,” he mumbles. Then he glances at me, silently asking if that’s true.
I smile in response. “Joel Matthew, huh? That’s a nice name.”
“He’s named after my father,” Mr. Hargrove says. Joel rolls his eyes and shakes his head, and I get the feeling that his father has told this story more than a few times. Joel spins a chair backward and sits on it, looking up at his dad expectantly. “Joel’s mother and I got married young, or at least what’s considered young today. We wanted to start a family right away, but for whatever reason, it wasn’t happening. After almost three years with no luck, we started to lose hope.” He lays a hand on Joel’s shoulder. “Around that time, my father got very sick. He passed away one month shy of his seventieth birthday, and I was devastated that he never got to see that milestone. On the day of his birthday, we found out we were pregnant with Joel.”
“That’s a pretty amazing story.” I look at Joel, but he slings his forearm across the back of the chair and rests his chin on it, like an obedient dog waiting for his master.
“And then to think, three more followed after him. I’ll never understand how people can say they don’t believe in miracles,” Mr. Hargrove continues.
Joel’s head jerks up. “Dad,” he barks. “We’re not in church.”
“I know. But I’ve seen humanity at its worst. I was dropped at death’s door, and I got to pick up my bags and walk away. So to me”—he points a marker at the board—“the idea of God is every bit as concrete and logical as these numbers.” He puts the marker down and walks back over to Joel. “And this kid is a miracle. Matthew, his middle name, means ‘Gift from God.’ ” He runs his hand over Joel’s hair, more gently than before. “And it couldn’t be more appropriate. Because you can do anything you put your mind to, Joel Matthew. Don’t you forget it.”
Joel ducks from his father’s touch and stands up. “I’ll be in the library until you guys are done.”
He doesn’t wait for an answer before turning and hightailing it out of the room. I feel like I need to go after him.
“Um, on second thought, I should get going. My dad’ll help me if I get stuck on the homework.”
“Of course,” Mr. Hargrove says as I head to the door. “We can go over it tomorrow if it’s still not clicking.”
Joel must’ve kept up his on-a-mission pace, because I see nothing but an empty hallway when I leave the classroom. I start in the direction of the library, and nearly smash my face into his chest as soon as I turn the corner.
“Sorry. Are you okay?” he asks, holding my arms to steady me.
“I was going to ask you the same thing.”
“Me? I’m fine.” He glances in the direction of his father’s classroom. “I just hate when he gets like that. Yeah, he’s been through a lot, and yeah, it’s awesome if your beliefs got you through it. But he never stops to consider that some people might not think exactly the way he does, and maybe they don’t want to be preached to.”
“No, it’s fine. I didn’t think he was preaching. He seems really proud of you. It was a sweet story.”
Joel leans against the locker, the side of his head hitting it with a soft thud. “A story’s all it is.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
We start to walk again, at a slower pace this time, and I watch his profile in the pause that follows. He seems hesitant to explain, and his lips are set together like he doesn’t trust himself to do it correctly.
“He gives me too much credit. The way he talks about me, I feel like I’m supposed to sprout wings and walk on water, or some crazy shit like that. I’m not a miracle in the shape of a kid; I’m a kid. But his expectations of me are so high, it’s pretty much inevitable that I’m going to let him down.”
“I don’t know, Joel. You seem to be making him pretty happy just by existing.”
Joel frowns, and suddenly his eyes are oceans of sadness. “He’s happy because I let him keep his delusions.” Before I can react, he turns to me with a wan half smile and touches a finger to my locket. “Have you thought any more about homecoming?”
My mouth goes dry and I clutch the silver heart. I know I need to tell him about Noah, but thinking about Noah reminds me of what I still think may be his false confession about the blackout kiss. If Joel is really the one who kissed me, I want him to tell me. Now. And if there’s a reason he hasn’t come forward, I want to know that, too.
“Is there something else you want to tell me first?”
“There are lots of things I’d like to tell you, Mace,” Joel mumbles. He takes a step back and scratches his head. “But maybe . . . not right now. Okay?”
It’s the same thing he said the night of the blackout, and I’m no less curious than I was then. But staring into his eyes, I know I’m not going to push the issue. He looks almost on the verge of tears. And there’s something else beneath the sadness that makes the skin on my arms prickle with worry—something that looks a lot like fear.
“All right. Then I should tell you something. Someone else sort of asked me to the dance before you did.”
Joel shifts on his feet. “Let me guess. Ben?”
“Ben? God, no. Why would you think that? Ben asked Meredith.”
“Oh. I don’t know.” From the way he rubs the back of his neck, I get the feeling he wishes he’d said anything but that. “I guess I thought—” His arm drops a
nd he blinks. “It was Granger, wasn’t it?”
“It was,” I say.
“Figures.” Joel snorts.
“I haven’t answered him,” I rush to add.
“That’s why he took you to Old Mill, right?”
“How did you know about that?”
He looks at me like he can’t believe how dense I am. “I told you, I had to work.” When my expression stays blank, he adds, “At the Mill Club? Where I’ve been busing tables for a year?”
I knew Joel had a job at a country club. Somehow, which one never came up. But I bet someone else knew all about it.
“So Noah asked me to go because you’d be there?”
He drags a knuckle across his eyebrow. “I guess—I don’t know. I started that job after I left Mortonville, so maybe it’s a long shot. Forget I said anything.” I open my mouth to argue, but it’s like an invisible cell door has closed between us. Joel’s expression is unreadable when he cuts me off with, “You know what, Mace? Do yourself a favor and go with him.”
“But that’s not what—”
He starts to back away. I feel like I’m standing at the water’s edge, watching him drift out of my reach.
“It’s okay.” He takes a few backward strides toward the math hall. “For real. You’re better off.”
His father appears around the corner then and puts an arm around Joel’s shoulders. “Ready to go?”
“Yeah.” Joel eyes me like I’m something he saw emerge from a swamp. “Let’s get out of here.”
Mr. Hargrove waves good-bye when they walk past. Joel does not.
I’m pretty sure my mouth is hanging open a little bit as they go. First, because in the span of one day, I’ve gone from having two invitations to homecoming to having none at all.
And second, because as I watch Joel retreat toward the main doors with Mr. Hargrove’s arm draped across his back, the image feels all wrong. Because I’m more certain than ever that Joel did say the words “I hate him,” and he said them about the man at his side.
Nineteen
JUNIOR YEAR
I’m starting to think there’s a snowball’s chance in hell that Joel will ask me to homecoming. I shouldn’t be thinking about it—shouldn’t be hoping for it, even if it’s only in the most secret corners of my mind. All of my friends regard him the same way, and it’s the way I imagine the Amish regard certain types of technology. That is, fine to talk about, fine to admire from a distance, but strictly off-limits to anyone in our circle.
I can feel all eyes on me at Friday’s practice when a freshly showered Joel waves at me as I’m straddled on a yoga mat while he’s making his way out of the locker room. Some of the girls wave back, and Joel responds with a polite nod. But as I make my way over to him, I don’t need to turn around to know they’re whispering.
I’d also eat my own gross, sweaty sock before I’d believe that it doesn’t have at least a little something to do with jealousy.
“How’s the wrist?” Joel says, pointing to my naked arm.
I lift my hand and rotate it. “It feels a lot better. I’ll be cheering at the game tonight.”
“Awesome. See you there.” Joel starts to turn away, then taps the cinder-block wall and doubles back. “What about tomorrow night? Do you have any plans?”
My heart skips a beat. If I do have plans, I can’t remember what they are. And I’m pretty sure I’d cancel them anyway.
“I don’t think so. Why?”
“Snow in Georgia is giving away samples of their new fall flavors this weekend. A bunch of the guys are gonna be there, and Ben and I are going together. You coming too?”
Oh, right. I did have plans this Saturday. Luckily, hanging out at the slushie stand is my plan. And the plan of half the people in school. Snow in Georgia’s fall sampler night is a tradition in Ridgedale, the same way it is at Mortonville. It’s located between the two towns, and it’s a popular hangout for a bunch of the local high schools. There are always rumblings about who’s going to start with who, but usually the night ends with nothing more than some harmless drunken taunting.
Usually.
“I’ll be there with Jadie and a few of the other girls,” I say, trying not to sound overeager. And ignoring the fact that Jadie insists she’s not going. “I can’t wait to try the apple pie flavor.”
And fail at being casual.
Joel grins. “Ben’s all pumped up for the eggnog flavor. I think that sounds freaking nasty.”
I chuckle to myself. I’ve always thought of eggnog as the equivalent of runny-egg ice cream, and it grosses me out. Somehow, Ben being excited for it doesn’t surprise me at all.
“Eggnog should be outlawed, especially since it’s fall flavor night, not Christmas. That’s cheating.”
Joel shrugs. “As long as they’re not asking us to show up dressed for an ugly sweater contest, I can live with it.”
Another giggle bubbles up in my throat. “I can totally see Ben doing that, too.”
“And winning.”
We both laugh some more, and Joel tells me to let him know if I need a ride on Saturday. As he walks away, Jadie bumps against me, knocking me into the wall and out of my fantasy about what an apple pie slushie might taste like on someone else’s cold, cinnamony lips.
“That looked promising,” she says.
It doesn’t surprise me that she came to find me. Even though she marched into practice the Monday after the diner incident with her nose defiantly in the air, the two of us have made extra efforts to stick close together. Watching each other’s backs.
“He invited me to Snow in Georgia on Saturday. Sort of.”
Jadie squeals. “See? He’s so asking you to homecoming next. I’m calling it right now.”
“Shh!” I pull her farther into the hallway. “You really think so?”
When my eyes dart toward the gym, Jadie’s mouth gapes. “Ew, Macy, don’t lower your voice because of them! Who cares what they think?”
“So you’ll go on Saturday night, then?”
“Nice try, but if I never see Ken Davenport drunk again, it’ll be too soon. Besides”—a dreamy smile floats across her lips—“Tyrell is taking me out to dinner and a movie.” I must look crestfallen because she hastily adds, “But you can still sleep at my house afterward. We’ll swap stories. And you can show me all the pictures I know you’re going to take.”
I bite my lip, trying to contain the dopey grin stealing over my face. “What if he does ask me?”
“Then you say yes, dummy. I like Joel, no matter what anyone else says.” Her dark eyes glint with mischief. “I have a feeling you’re going to see a whole different side of him tomorrow night.”
* * *
TEXT ME WHEN THE WEDDING IS OVER. MAYBE WE’LL STILL BE AT SIG.
I hit send on my message to Meredith as I’m pacing in front of my dining room window, watching for Joel’s car. I decided to take him up on his offer for a ride to the slushie stand when I realized I’d be without my two sidekicks, and Ben volunteered to be the designated driver.
My phone buzzes. DOUBT IT. TEXT ME DEETS IF ANYTHING GOOD HAPPENS.
There’s so much nervous excitement coursing through my veins that I can’t be as bummed out about Meredith not being here as I should be. She, on the other hand, was none too happy when she realized she’d be spending fall sampler night serving as bridesmaid in her cousin’s wedding.
“Nooooo,” she moaned, giving the word about seventeen extra syllables as she clomped around the hall near my locker. “I’ve barely seen Ben since I flaked out at the diner, and now I have to spend fall sampler night in a green chiffon toga, debating whether to tell my aunts they have lipstick on their teeth.” She threw herself against the wall and slid down to the floor.
“Have you talked to him about it at all?”
“I did, but . . .” She tugged her M pendant back and forth along the chain. “Has he said anything to you about who he’s taking to homecoming?”
I didn’t like the
way she looked at me then. It made me very aware that there was something she wasn’t asking. So I dodged the question with one of my own.
“Would you go with him if he asked you?”
“I guess I kind of assumed he would. But he hasn’t.”
“Maybe he thinks he’s not your type.” I gave her a pointed look. She ignored it.
“We can go as friends, you know.” She pulled the M up against her lip. “I feel like things are getting weird between us. And not in a good way.”
I ignored the second loaded look she shot me, and reassured her that Ben was probably nervous and looking for the right way to ask. I promised to do some digging and report back after the party.
In reality, I don’t want to be the middleman. Trying to interpret the difference between what Meredith says and what she really thinks is getting old. And when Ben does share things with me, I don’t repeat them, for the simple reason that I don’t think it’s my place. We might’ve bonded over Meredith initially, but now that we’re friends, I don’t want to lose his trust.
And aside from that, I honestly have no idea why he still hasn’t asked her to homecoming.
A black Nissan Altima pulls up to my house, and my heart leaps into my throat. Joel is at the wheel in black sunglasses, looking smoother than a fresh jar of Skippy. He parallel parks against the curb in front of my house, and even though I’ve never thought of driving as sexy, I suddenly want nothing more than to watch him operate a vehicle for unspecified amounts of time.
“That’s them?” my mother says, appearing behind me from out of nowhere. “You have everything you need?”
“Yep. I’ll get the door.”
I’m hoping she’ll get the hint that it doesn’t need to be a two-person job, but she’s right behind me as I open the door to Ben and Joel.
Mom greets them and then turns an iron stare on me. “You’re sleeping at Jadie’s tonight, right?” What she’s really asking is, You know I’m not oblivious to the fact that you’ll be drinking, right?
I resist the urge to salute and say, Yes, ma’am, opting for, “Yes, Mom. I already dropped off my overnight bag and everything.” I also leave out the part about having done it as a precaution against potential memory impairment later on.