The Most Dangerous Thing

by Leanne Lieberman

  “Do you want to come over and play pool?” Paul asks. Even though no one around us is paying attention, I still feel like ducking my head. I could suggest the mall or Starbucks or even the trees he sent the picture of, but I also want to go back to his house. If we can be alone, without anyone else’s eyes on us, that will be a relief. We can go to Paul’s house and sit on the floor with our backs against the front door, limp with relief at the privacy. I can’t seem to imagine anything beyond that. I nod yes, and Paul and I walk to his house. Once we’re away from school, I relax a little bit. Paul takes my hand and we talk about the investor’s club, about an upcoming science test.

  At Paul’s house the kitchen is cleaner than it was before. The garbage and recycling have been taken out; the fruit bowl is full. When Paul opens the refrigerator, I see the shelves have been restocked. “Did your sister move back in or something?” I ask.

  “My mom is coming next week,” Paul says, taking a bag of nuts out of a cupboard. “So Julie’s been here more.” He grins. “We’re preparing for the inspection.”

  “Are you happy about your mom coming?” I ask.

  “Yeah, mainly. She’ll want to hear about what I’m up to, check my tests”—he riffles through a pile of mail on the counter—“and see what I’m reading. She’ll also cook for me, buy me some new stuff. That part’s all good. And she’s good company. But she’ll also lecture me about commerce programs, about university.”

  “That part isn’t good?”

  Paul shakes his head and eats a handful of nuts. “Not good.”

  “We could do commerce together,” I say shyly.

  “Is that what you want to do?”

  I nod.

  Paul frowns. “That’s not what I want to study.”

  “But you’re interested in the investor’s club.”

  Paul looks down. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him embarrassed. “I knew you’d be there…”

  Heat climbs my face. There’s an awkward silence between us. Finally Paul says, “I’ve always known I want to study science.”

  “And your mom, does she like cloud watching?”

  Paul laughs. “Uh, not really.”

  “I see.”

  Paul says, “My mom’s okay. She’s not into nature stuff, but she’s always happy when I take her new places. I took her out to Bowen Island last year, mainly for the ferry ride, and she loved that. Mostly she likes going up to Queen Elizabeth Park, especially on a Sunday in the summer. She likes the view, and she likes to see the brides getting their pictures taken.”

  “What about your dad?”

  Paul’s forehead creases. “I wouldn’t even mention that I’m planning on studying science to him. He thinks I’m going to go into business with him.”

  “What will you do about school?” I nibble on a cashew.

  “I haven’t figured that out yet.”

  I nod.

  “Do your parents care what you study?” he asks.

  “They just want me and Abby to follow our interests. My sister will do something in the arts.” I think about Abby’s play and shudder a little.

  We talk for a few more minutes and eat the nuts. Paul lays one hand over mine and I lace my fingers through his, and we smile at each other, that stupid smile people do when they’re, you know, in love.

  Downstairs, Paul leads me past the carpeted room with the couch and TV and into an unfinished room with concrete floors and a washer and dryer and laundry sink along the outside wall. Shelves hold neat stacks of luggage and sporting equipment—skis and skates, tennis rackets and golf clubs. In the middle of the room is the pool table.

  “You know how to play?” Paul says.

  “I know the basics,” I say. Auntie Karen and Uncle Mark have a table, and Abby and I have spent many Friday nights after dinner playing with my cousins.

  Paul hands me a cue and then uses the triangle to rack up the balls. He leans over the table, takes aim and sends the balls spinning. He sinks a striped ball into a pocket. “Okay,” he says, “you’re solids.”

  I miss my targeted ball on my first shot, but then, as I start to concentrate, I sink balls with ease on my second and third turns. I relax as I focus on the game instead of on being with Paul. I almost win, but then I scratch the eight ball, and the game ends.

  “Oh,” Paul says, “you were doing so well.”

  I shrug. “Play again?”

  “Sure,” he says. He racks up the balls but gestures for me to take the break. I aim the cue ball carefully, and the balls ricochet across the table. Pool is mainly geometry and fine motor skills.

  We take a few more turns. This is good, I think. Paul and me. We can play pool and wander around the city looking at weird stuff, like mushrooms. “Hey, where was the tree you sent me the picture of?” I ask.

  Paul takes his shot and misses. “It’s in VanDusen Garden.”

  “Off Oak Street?”

  “Yeah. Have you ever been?”

  I shake my head.

  Paul leans against his pool cue. “My sister and I used to jump the fence to play there.”

  “What’s there?”

  “All sorts of flowers and trees and a big meadow. There’s also one of those mazes made out of hedges. For a long time I couldn’t see over the top.”

  I lean over the table and easily sink my three ball. “I remember you back then.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You were really short in eighth grade.”

  Paul takes a shot. “And shy.”

  “I didn’t think that. I just thought you didn’t know English.”

  “Well, that was a problem too.”

  I focus on lining up my turn. “You couldn’t have been shyer than me.”

  Paul smiles. “Maybe not. I remember seeing you in eighth grade for the first time.”

  “You do?”

  “Sure. I remember thinking you were the cutest girl in the room. That’s why I sat next to you.”

  “That’s nice of you to say, but it can’t be true.” I aim for the seven ball and sink Paul’s number one instead.

  “Thanks,” Paul says, pointing to the sunk ball. “It is true. I probably should have sat next to some of the other ESL kids the way I did in all my other classes, so they could help me understand. But I wanted to sit next to you.” Paul steps closer to me, so we’re standing face-to-face. He strokes my hair away from my cheek. I take a deep breath. “I still think you’re the cutest girl in chem.”

  I bury my burning face in my hands. “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “For what?” Paul whispers into my hair.

  “I don’t know,” I mumble. “For not even being able to look at you.”

  “That’s okay. You don’t have to look at me.” His hands are still in my hair, sweeping it back from my face, then stroking my cheek. I let my hands fall from my face, and Paul strokes the back of my neck, the curve of my earlobe, sending goose bumps down my arms. We stay like that for a moment, Paul slowly moving closer to me, until he tips my face up to him and kisses me softly. “You don’t even have to look at me to do this.”

  It’s true—my eyes are closed—but I can feel Paul close to me, close enough that our chests are almost touching. I inhale to keep myself together, so that I don’t crumble, and I smell the mix of his cologne or aftershave and the scent of his skin. Paul steps closer to me. His body rests against mine, our legs touching, my breasts against his chest. Paul’s arms slide down my back to rest around my waist, and I hear a sigh escape out of me, louder than I want. My knees feel like they might give way, and I’ll collapse into Paul’s arms. I want to press myself closer, but I step away. “I’m sorry—”

  “I thought—”

  Paul and I smooth out our clothes. “Look, you’re smart and you read social cues right,” I say, “but I get freaked out by people.” I step away from Paul until my back is against the laundry sink.

  “By people?”

  “Yes. People freak me out, and then I need to be by myself. That’s w
hy I have exactly two friends, Fen and Sofia.”

  “And me.”

  “Okay, fine—three friends. And you’re, like, my new best friend, but I’m not sure I can handle that.”

  Paul smiles. “Your new best friend?”

  “You don’t have to call it that,” I mumble.

  He laughs. “No, I like it. I never thought of it that way.” He moves close to me, so close we’re almost touching again. I have to will myself not to bolt. “I like being your new best friend, and I don’t want to scare you,” he says evenly.

  I’m sweating now, and I can feel tears burning in my eyes. “I want to be here with you, but…” I say.

  “I think I sort of get it,” Paul says.

  We stand like that a lot longer, and it’s painful. I can hear Paul’s labored breathing, the effort not to touch me coiled between us. I keep my eyes down to avoid looking at him. I want to wrap my arms around him and hold him to me so tightly, yet I can’t, and that pisses me off. Does that mean I’ll always be alone? I feel multiplication tables forming in my head. I don’t want to recite those now. I don’t do that anymore. “Can we try this again?” I say.

  I mean another day or maybe another lifetime, but I haven’t been clear, and Paul thinks I mean now, this moment. His arms come up, and he wraps them tightly around me, pressing his hands against my back. I feel parts of him against me that I don’t even want to know about. He’s kissing my ear lightly, running his tongue along the lobe, and then his lips are moving along my jawline. I know I’m standing like a board in his arms, but at least I’m not pushing him away. His lips find mine and we’re kissing again, and it goes on for such a long time that I almost forget to be freaked out. I wrap my hands around him and hold him. If I keep doing this, I might get to be just a body with my heart racing and my breath picking up speed. I want to be ready for that, but I’m not, and the panicky feeling comes back. I break away from Paul. “I have to go,” I say. “I can’t stay.”

  Paul lets me step away from him. “Will you come back?” he asks.

  It’s not a simple question. He’s not only asking for homework help; he’s asking for me. I think back to Zeyda telling me a nice boy sends flowers, and I wish that this was all there was to it. Paul would send me flowers, and we’d go to the movies.

  “Will you come back?” Paul asks again.

  “I think I have to,” I say, but there’s no joy in my voice. Something has been started, and I don’t know how to finish it.

  Then I feel really freaked out, so I back away from Paul and fix my hair. “I have to get going because I have this assignment due for my writing class soon and—”

  “It’s okay, Syd. I understand.”

  I’m not sure what he understands, but I lower my head and say, “I’ll text you later.”

  “Okay, I’ll text you back.” He reaches for my hand, but I pretend not to see it—I can’t start all that again. Paul lets me race up the stairs and retrieve my coat, bag and shoes by myself. Then I’m out on the street, and I want to laugh and cry. I feel like I’m drowning in something, I’m not sure what. Love and something else. Something I guess you’d call desire or craving. Those words make me cringe. I settle on the word crave. It’s abstract enough that it doesn’t make me want to crawl into a hole. People crave all kinds of things—new phones, ice cream, cigarettes. Still, I know what kind of craving I’m talking about. But how does that work if you’re the kind of person who doesn’t normally talk to people?

  I take a deep breath and try to clear my mind. Paul is my lab partner. Paul and I do math homework together. He also has beautiful skin that I’d like to inhale. I imagine my hands traveling the length of his back, then wrapping around his narrow hips, inhaling the scent below his ear. My face burns, and I spin around in a circle as if to chase these thoughts from my head. Then I sit down on the curb and open up my journal. I write, These cravings or desire I feel, no one ever talks about girls having them.

  I shudder, put away my journal and start walking really fast.

  Being with Paul has opened up something in me, something I didn’t know I had, that I don’t know how to experience. I think it involves letting go. There’s no way I can let the neatly ordered and controlled world I’ve created be blown apart by these feelings. I’ve never envisioned letting my body take over.

  I start running because I’m not sure what to do with all the thoughts in my head. I want them to go away. I jog toward home until I’m out of breath. Then I stop and pant beside a tree. A few tears come to my eyes, and it feels good to let them run down my face. Am I scared to be happy? Or am I scared that it might not last? Paul might lift the fog now, but for how long? And what if I can’t be close to him? Even thinking about it makes a tinge of fog settle on me. I shake my head to free myself. I think about Paul, about his mouth on mine, about the way we talked on the way home. I want to head back to his house and curl up on his couch and watch Netflix, but we wouldn’t just watch Netflix. I think about his mouth again. The fog lifts, but a new feeling—nervousness mixed with something else—crawls up my skin. I start running again. Eventually I settle for a quick walk, and by the time I get home I’m a sweaty, exhausted mess.

  I take a quick shower, focus on some Sudoku, three games to be exact, finish the math homework, make a few trades and call Zeyda. I take out my journal and reread the line I wrote earlier about girls’ desire. I add, We never talk about girls’ cravings in sex-ed class. We only talk about how dangerous sex can be, the infections and unwanted pregnancies. What if the most dangerous thing about sex is that you’ll want to do it? Everyone knows boys feel these ways, but for girls, we only talk about periods and girls’ inside bits. What if we talked about why people want to have sex? That would be crazy and horribly embarrassing. What if the teacher focused not only on the inside parts of girls, but the outside parts too?

  I lie flat on my back on the floor with my eyes closed, trying not to think about any of my girl parts. The fog is rising like a darkness coming up from the floor and seeping into my bones. I feel it covering my skin, slowly making its way into my head. It’s not only at the corner of my eyes, but in front of and behind me. I try to shove it away, but my hand moves through it. I try to get the lightbulb inside me burning so brightly it will destroy the fog, but it doesn’t work. I give up. I crawl over to the closet and collapse in a corner.

  I take deep breaths, trying to calm myself down, and then I imagine I’m biking with Fen somewhere flat and dry, like the prairies. I manage to keep myself calm until I hear my phone ping. I open the closet door and grab my phone off my bed. Paul texts, Shy girl, next time we’ll go see the trees.

  Okay. I pause a moment and then write, I’m sorry I had to leave.

  It’s okay.

  You probably don’t understand.

  I don’t have to understand.

  I want to see you again.

  Me too!

  I am generally freaked out about everything.

  Even me?

  Yes, you.

  Why?

  Too complicated to talk about.

  Okay.

  There’s a long pause. Then I type, I don’t want you to think I’m a tease.

  You are a terrible tease. He adds a smiling emoji.

  I don’t know what to say to that.

  You don’t have to say anything.

  Okay. I think I have to go now.

  G-bye.

  My heart is racing. I think I’m in love, and I also think it’s going to kill me.

  By dinnertime the fog is so thick I’m sure other people can see it. When I look in the mirror, I’m convinced I can see a halo of darkness surrounding me, like I’ve grown a permanent shadow. I take a series of selfies from different angles and with different lighting to make sure I’m not going crazy, but it doesn’t show in the photos. I try to distract myself by looking at the investing website to check my portfolio. Sofia and I are leading the contest, but I’m not that interested in our standings.

  When I
go upstairs for dinner, Mom’s excited because the Haggadahs she ordered have come in the mail, and there’s a complimentary CD. She’s got “Go Down, Moses” blasting through the speakers attached to her laptop. Mom and Abby sing along loudly as they set the table and dish out the food. Even Dad’s humming as he pours water into glasses. I want to stuff earplugs in my ears and hide in the basement.

  It’s Abby’s night to cook, and because she thinks we should eat more vegetarian food and make a smaller imprint on the earth, she’s made chickpea patties with chutney, curried potatoes and a green salad.

  “I wonder if chickpeas are actually more environmentally friendly than meat,” I say. “They don’t grow locally, so they have to be trucked to us, and then there’s the cans. Even if they can be recycled, that takes resources.”

  “No animals were killed for this dinner,” Abby says.

  I snort. “What about the rabbits who were squashed by tractors for your factory-farmed salad? Do they not count?”

  “No animals were intentionally killed for this dinner. And the potatoes are organic.” Then she pauses, narrows her eyes. “You are really mean.”

  She’s right. I slink out of the kitchen to wash my hands. My fog shadow trails behind me like a bridal train.

  I’m not that hungry, and I pick at my food. After dinner Dad suggests we practice driving. He needs to go to Zeyda’s house and fix a window Crystal says is leaking, and I can have a quick visit.

  “Oh, sure,” Abby says, “you’re willing to drive and put more CO2 in the atmosphere. That’s good for the environment.”

  “Competing to see who’s killing the planet faster is a game no one can win,” I shoot back.

  Dad puts a hand on my shoulder and bustles me out to his Volvo before Abby can say anything else.

  “We should get a Prius,” I say.

  Dad tosses me the keys. “Just learn to drive so Zeyda will agree to go somewhere with you.”

  “Is that what this is about? I get to be Zeyda’s chauffeur?”

  Dad grins. “Driving is a good skill to have. Being able to take Zeyda to his doctor’s appointments is an added family bonus.”