I can’t say that I’m not flattered by that last part. Sandy is his best friend.
I try to think of what a TV character might say, given this situation. And I must admit, there’s a lot of good material there. But it hits me. If I want to have a friend, if I want to be a friend, then I can’t just go with the recycled words of TV characters, however good those words might be. I can’t even go with the recycled words of Shakespeare. For this to work, I’m going to have to be myself, even though I’m not always sure who that is.
So instead of falling back on the familiar, I reflect on what he’s said, and take a mental walk around in his work boots before speaking.
“I think it’s obvious why you haven’t told Sandy any of this,” I say, wondering if I’ll ever meet Sandy before concluding probably not.
“It is?”
“Sure. He’s your best friend. You grew up together. He knows all these people. Maybe he even thinks of your father as a second father. Whatever your dad may have done, you don’t want to tarnish his image in Sandy’s eyes. Whatever you’re going through now, whatever bad feelings you’re having, it’s somehow a little bit better—even though the situation stinks—if you can keep your best friend from experiencing those bad feelings too.”
“That’s exactly what it’s like.” He stares at me, curious, stunned. “But how did you know that? I didn’t even know that and they’re my feelings!”
I shrug. “Maybe it’s easier to see a situation for what it is when you’re not so close to it?”
Hey, that was really good! I mean, of course I mean every word I’m saying. It’s just exciting to think that maybe I could actually be good at this friend stuff.
Sometimes, I must admit, it’s very hard for me to stay in the moment. There’s the me that’s living, but there’s also the me that’s always outside myself evaluating, taking a poll on how things are going.
And then I stop myself. Why am I even thinking of polls, however remotely, at a time like this? Why must I analyze myself from the outside? I decide to refocus my energies into trying to be a good friend, into showing Drew that I’m not just listening—I want to help him figure this thing out because I actually care about what he’s telling me.
“I’ll tell you something else I’m seeing,” I say.
“What’s that?”
“You think you know what’s going on with your father. But really? You don’t know anything. Not for sure. I mean, of course it looks bad. But what do you have besides a whole lot of circumstantial evidence?”
Another stunned look from him, like this is an idea that hasn’t occurred to him before. I’m just full of new ideas today!
“And,” I add sagely, “no one is ever found guilty on purely circumstantial evidence.”
“That is an entirely false statement,” he objects.
“True,” I concede. “But if I’d cited percentages instead of saying ‘no one,’ my argument wouldn’t have sounded half as good. When you pontificate about something, even if you know it to be false, never go with the wishy-washy—that’s like Politics 101.”
He smiles for the first time in what seems like hours.
“Anyway,” I say, “it’s enough true to apply here. You don’t really know anything, not for sure. And even if you did?”
“Even if I did, what?”
“You can’t let it bother you.”
“What are you talking about?” The smile goes away. “How can you say that?”
I’m beginning to think that being real has inconsistent effects.
“Because your parents aren’t you.” I can’t believe that I, of all people, am saying that. “Whatever is going on, no matter how it looks, it’s between them. And whatever’s going to happen, it’s going to happen anyway, and no amount of worrying on your part can change that. You have to live your own life, Drew, and find a way to just be happy.”
DREW
I don’t even think about it. I simply close the space between us and place my lips on hers.
KATIE
I’m so stunned, I just sit there, my lips still, not doing anything.
It’s like I’m outside my body, looking at myself being kissed. A boy is kissing me. I can’t believe I’m being kissed.
After a half minute of me not moving, not responding, Drew pulls away.
“I’m sorry, Kat,” he says, “I shouldn’t have done that. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“No,” I say, “it’s okay. It’s just that . . .”
How do I tell him that nothing like this has ever happened to me before? How do I tell him that this is a moment I’ve dreamed about countless times—my first kiss—but I’d reached the point where I’d come to accept that it might never happen to me?
“Just that what?” he asks.
“You asked me before to tell you something that no one else knows about me.”
“Right. And I wound up telling you about my parents instead.”
“Well.” I take a deep breath. “That.” I point at his lips, touch my own. “People speculate, but no one knows for sure, and I’m telling you: I’ve never done that before.”
“I’m sorry,” he begins once more, but this time it’s me closing the distance between us.
“Can we try that again?” I ask when I’m just a breath away.
Before he can answer, I touch my lips to his. Only this time? I don’t observe myself from outside. Instead, I remain firmly in my body as I experience all the sensations that a kiss, a real kiss, brings.
As I experience the at-first soft and then more urgent sensation of his lips pressing back against mine, I feel his hands touch my cheeks. It’s as though he is willing me to remain there, in the moment with him. I slide my arms around his waist, my hands trembling slightly, barely able to believe the feel of his body . . . my fingers separated from his skin only by his T-shirt.
This moment is more than anything I have ever dreamed.
DREW
Kissing Katie is crazy. Not only because of who she is and Sandy’s words of wisdom about not being caught alone with her again—but because of how good it feels. We kiss over and over again. I can’t help myself. I don’t want to help myself.
Still, after Katie leaves I tell myself that, while it was a nice afternoon and she was interesting to talk to, it was just a one-time thing and it’s time to get back to real life. I tell myself this even though I’ve never felt what I felt with Katie while kissing any girl before. After the initial awkwardness (and the second and third and fourth kisses), we became like one kissing mind.
The problem is that when I wake up on Sunday morning, I’m still thinking about her (probably because I went to sleep on Saturday night thinking about her) and before my left hand knows what my right is doing, I’m phoning her landline a second time to ask her if she wants to come hang out again and maybe help me work on my car.
It takes two to tango, as the saying goes, and if she were to say no to me, that really would be that.
But she says yes and comes over. We have another really great time and there’s more kissing. Oh, is there more kissing.
We make a pact not to discuss our parents’ campaigns, to not let it affect us, a pact that Katie finds particularly tough to keep. Somehow, though, I don’t mind. Politics—it’s just a big part of who Katie is.
The next weekend we do it all again.
And the week after that?
I start asking her over every day.
It’s all so crazy. It’s like, on paper, there’s no way this should work. On paper, she’s not the girl that anyone would pick to be with me, me included. But that doesn’t seem to matter because in real life, she’s smart and she’s funny and she’s even learning how to identify a wrench without too much description first.
She even does this—here comes that word again!—crazy stuff that I just totally love. Like, she gets a lot of her ideas about people and teen relationships from TV programs she’s seen. So, one time, we’re in my garage, she’s handing
me tools, and she just breaks out into song.
I would never tell her this to her face but, truth time here: girl can’t sing. But it’s still cute and funny and like nothing any girl has ever done with me before—I mean, there’s not even a radio playing to bring this all on—and when she pauses for breath, I can’t help myself.
“Kat,” I ask, “what are you doing?”
Ever since she confessed “Kat” is the nickname she’s always wished people would call her, I’ve ended up calling her that most of the time.
“Isn’t that what people do when they like each other?” she asks.
“Where’d you get that idea?”
She looks wary now as though sensing a trap, either from me or from life. “High School Musical?” she asks as much as answers.
I nearly bust out laughing. Did she really just say what I think she said? Could she possibly be serious? But then I see that she is, indeed, dead serious. Suddenly I don’t have the heart to tell her that, one, that’s a really old movie; two, no, people don’t really do that in real life; and three, she can’t really sing.
So, barely able to believe what I’m saying, I ask, “How does that song go again?”
Next thing I know, we’re doing a duet.
Crazy, right?
It’s a good thing, I tell myself, that Sandy isn’t here to see this.
But then, no one is, because that’s the thing—or just yet another of the many other things in whatever this thing is:
We agree, early on, not to tell a soul.
Well, it’s my idea initially and Kat is reluctant—she doesn’t like the idea of lying to her father. But then I explain to her that it’s not really lying; it’s simply not telling, not . . . offering. And I further point out how insane people got, not to mention YouTube and TMZ, when all they had to go on was that stupid little incident with That Morning Show.
“Can you imagine what the press would do if they knew about this?” I say. “Can you imagine what kind of . . . fodder we’d become?”
I’m not even always sure what this is. I mean, can it really be called dating if we never go anywhere? But the thing is, I know if we went public, it would be awful. Because while I may not be an expert on relationships, I know there’s a little more to it than what you see in High School Musical.
I’ve seen other kids go through it at school. So often, it’s the same thing. Person X likes Person Y. And what do you know, it turns out that Person Y likes Person X back. It’s a very nice thing. It’s the way life should be. But then once all the other letters of the alphabet find out about it, they stick their noses into things—maybe some people think Person Y isn’t cool enough for Person X; or maybe some people think things aren’t progressing fast enough emotionally or physically and that Person X shouldn’t wait on Person Y. Whatever the case, whatever the reasons, relationships that might otherwise have lasted wind up foundering when all the other letters in the alphabet get involved.
I don’t think Kat and I are ready for that. This . . . thing is just too new to let all the other letters in.
So I find a way to explain all this to Kat, minus the metaphor involving all the letters, and she sees the wisdom of my ways.
Which I must admit is a very flattering thing.
So we agree to keep this to ourselves, at least for now. Neither one of us wants photographers in our faces all the time. Although there are times when I wish I still had my iPhone so I could take my own pictures. Some selfies, not for Instagram or Facebook, but just for myself.
As it is, all I have to rely on is my own imperfect memory. Sometimes, I worry that already I’m forgetting things. So when I lie in bed at night, I run through the day’s events in my mind. In a way, it’s like having a photo album with an endless series of still shots. There’s Kat with orange soda on her shirt because she’s laughing so hard at something I said. There’s Kat, mouth open wide, singing off-key. There’s me, kissing Kat.
So many pictures that no one else gets to see.
Because I don’t even tell Sandy. It stinks, keeping such a big secret from my best friend, but one of the perks about best friendship is knowing the other person through and through. If there’s one thing I know about Sandy it’s that, despite all his good points, the dude does not know how to keep a secret, which is one of the main reasons why I never told him about my dad and his possible cheating on my mom. In fact, the only person who knows about me and Kat is Kat’s Secret Service agent, Kent.
So, naturally, disaster has to strike.
We’re in the garage when I hear voices coming up the drive, heading our way.
“Oh, no,” I say, “it’s the twins.”
Somehow, we’ve managed to avoid them the past few weeks. Probably because they’re always involved in practice for this, and sport event for that, with rehearsal for who knows what thrown in.
It certainly wasn’t like that when I was their age. It was just me and Sandy and whoever else we could rustle up for games outside, back in the old neighborhood. But the twins? They’ve got Suzuki violin and piano and basketball, not to mention soccer year-round. My dad says if they’re not kept busy, trouble results, but I believe what they are is overscheduled. But perhaps I’m old-fashioned. Next thing you know, I’ll be telling kids to get off my lawn.
“I’d love to meet them!” Kat says.
“No,” I insist, “you really wouldn’t, not today. They are the worst blabbermouths in the world.”
So without further ado, I take her hands, lower her onto her back on the dolly, and slide her under the Corvair. I know it’s not a hugely . . . dignified thing to do. But it’s the garage. Where else am I going to hide her?
I straighten up just as the twins walk in, Clint behind them.
“Hey, guys!” I say in a too-hearty voice. “How was your day at school? How was, um, violin practice?”
“It’s Tuesday,” Max says. “We don’t have violin on Tuesday.”
“We have soccer,” Matt says.
“Right, right,” I say, looking down at their feet: cleats. “Of course. How was that?”
I should never have looked down at their feet because no sooner does Max say “It was fine” than Matt points.
“Who’s that under your car?”
“Sandy!” I say, too loudly, the first thing that pops into my head. Also, it’s logical, right?
“Nuh-uh.” Matt shakes his head.
“What do you mean, nuh-uh? Of course it’s Sandy!”
“Nuh-uh,” Matt says again, still pointing at the incriminatingly small Converse High-Tops.
Kat is what you call petite (something I love about her) with feet to match (which I also love), but right now those petite feet are working against us.
“Those are girls’ feet,” Matt persists. “Do you have a girl under there?”
Thinking fast, I pull the boys into a huddle and whisper to make it look good.
“Shh!” I say. “Do you want him to hear you? Haven’t you noticed before that Sandy has little-girl feet? He’s very sensitive about them.”
The twins stare back at me.
So I appeal to their sense of empathy, such as it is. “How would you like it, if you had girls’ feet and people were always calling attention to them? You would totally hate that, right?”
I feel guilty even as I’m saying it. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from Kat, it’s that people are always telling guys “You do X like a girl” or “You do Y like a girl” like it’s some kind of huge insult, but there’s no equivalent reverse. If you tell a girl she shoots hoops like a guy, it’s a compliment.
But I don’t have time to consider language and gender politics right now because the twins, who genuinely like Sandy, look ashamed.
“Hey, don’t worry about it,” I say, gently pushing them out of the garage as Clint gives me a suspicious look I totally ignore. “I’ll find a way to make it up to Sandy. He’s very sensitive but his memory stinks. He’ll forget about this by morning.”
; Then I slide the garage door down and lock it from the inside.
Once they’re gone, I quickly slide Kat out from under the car. I expect her to be mad because, one, I used “girls’ feet” as an insult, and two, her clothes are now covered with grease from being under the Corvair.
But she’s too busy laughing to be mad.
She sits up on the dolly, staring at her own feet. “To think that, of all things, we were almost done in by my feet!” She laughs some more.
I’d like to join her, but I can’t because suddenly I’m mad at the world.
“What’s wrong?” she says. “Do you want to bindi the car?”
“It’s Bondo,” I say. “You Bondo a car. It’s this stuff you use to fill in dents and dings so that later when you paint it, you get a smooth finish. Bindi is . . . something else.”
“What’s wrong?” she asks again.
“I just wish . . .”
“You wish what?”
“As great as all this is,” I gesture ruefully at the garage, “sometimes I just wish we could be a little more normal, you know? Like go out in public together, just once, on a real date like other couples. I’d just like to be able to take you somewhere.”
“Where would you take me?”
I go through all the usual suspects. “Dinner? A movie?”
Kat looks at me wistfully. “That would be nice.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. We both are. But before long, her expression brightens.
She tells me she has an idea, a terrific idea.
“I know somewhere we can go,” she says.
What’s Kat come up with?
It’s not exactly what you’d call normal, but it is public. Relatively.
KATIE
The past few weeks with Drew have been the most amazing of my life, even better than the times my father has won elections. All those years I spent keeping my eye on the prize, I had no idea what I was missing. The real prize? Now I think maybe it’s living. It’s not that I don’t care if my father wins the presidential election—I still do, very much so—but it’s so nice to finally have a boyfriend. It may be even nicer to simply have a friend. (Actually they’re both great, amazing even—and in one person!)
Red Girl, Blue Boy: An If Only novel (If Only . . .) Page 13