by Blake Nelson
But whatever.
I sneak more looks. He’s got a tattoo on the inside of his left wrist and a small silver ring on his right pinkie. It looks like a girl’s ring. I wonder whose it is.
During the movie he fidgets. He just got out of the main building, which means he’s still in partial squirmies mode. He bites his nails, strokes his hair, shifts around in his seat.
When the lights come on, we both have our feet draped over the seats in front of us. For some reason neither of us gets up right away. The other people file out. They stare at us as they leave, like: Who are these lowlifes in the back?
Stewart’s definitely got the bad-ass thing going on. He doesn’t look like someone you’d want to meet in a dark alley.
Finally, he stands up. I stand up. I follow him through the lobby and out of the theater.
We stand on the cold street. More painful silence.
“So what happens now?” Stewart asks.
“We usually go to the donut place. And then the van comes.”
“Okay,” he says.
At the donut place, we stand in line behind some local high school kids. They’re laughing, teasing each other, goofing around. They don’t notice us at first but then one of the girls turns and sees Stewart standing over her and she shuts right up.
We order coffees and donuts. Stewart pulls some crap out of his pocket and finds a couple wadded-up dollar bills to pay. He goes to a booth by the window and sits. I follow and sit across from him.
I’m having a sugar craving so I put six sugar packets in my coffee. Stewart watches me do this but says nothing.
I drink some of it, sipping it carefully because it’s hot. It’s too hot. I put it down and take a big bite of my glazed twister donut.
Stewart takes a bite of his jelly donut.
“I get on these sugar things sometimes,” I say as I put two more sugars into my coffee.
“That’s a lot of sugar,” he says.
“I can’t sleep anyway. So what’s the difference?”
“Yeah, sleeping’s tough.”
He looks out the window. The high school kids walk across the parking lot. They’re happy American teenagers. They unlock their car from ten feet away. They laugh. One jumps on the back of another.
I glance up at Stewart’s face. He’s so handsome it’s kinda hard to deal with. So I look at his hands. They’re knobby and beat up. One of the knuckles has a big scar across it.
“How old are you?” I ask him.
“Nineteen,” he says. “You?”
“Seventeen,” I say. But then I decide not to lie. “I mean, almost. I’ll be seventeen in a couple weeks.”
He drinks his coffee.
“Yeah,” I say. “I had this friend Trish. She was eighteen. We were the only younger people in our house, but then this other girl Jenna came. She’s weird, though.”
He looks across the table at my coffee cup. “Sixteen. That’s pretty young.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I got into stuff pretty early.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
“It just sorta…rolled over me.”
“Yeah,” he says. “I know.”
The van ride back is quick. Too quick. I want to talk more. Not because Stewart is cute. I kind of wish he wasn’t so cute. It’s just that he’s easy to talk to. Or not even. He’s easy to sit with. I just like him, I guess.
But he’s lost in his own thoughts as we drive back. And I can’t think of anything to say. When we get back to his house, he gets out and I find myself saying, “See ya,” and waving my hand in this stupid way. He looks at me funny and slams the door shut.
The van continues up the street.
And then something really weird happens: Tears come into my eyes. For no apparent reason I actually cry for a second.
“How was the flick?” asks the driver.
I wipe the tears away. “It was okay,” I say in the dark.
“What was it about?” he asks.
“I have no idea.”
13
The next day, my dad comes to see me. He shows up in his new BMW and we drive into Carlton. We go to the one nice restaurant in town. We sit at the table with our napkins in our laps. My dad is tanned, handsome, wearing a nice suit. The local people gawk at him. He doesn’t mind. He likes being a star. Of course he wants to hear about me, but he can’t resist telling me about a new project he’s doing and how he’s getting the money from these Japanese guys who invented robotic pets.
Then he does the fatherly thing and puts on a concerned expression and asks me how my life is going.
The thing about my dad is, he was a big partier himself. He still is. And so, in his mind, what’s happened to me is that I can’t “handle” stuff. He thinks my problem is a lack of control. Which is true. In a way.
We eat our lunch. He makes a big deal about how good his chicken is. He flirts with the waitress and leaves her a big tip.
Back at the halfway house, we park in the street. He wants to come in and see it, but I tell him he doesn’t really want to, it’s depressing, so he doesn’t.
“Your mom and I talked to your principal at Evergreen,” he tells me. “It sounds like you can re-enroll after Christmas. There are some summer school options too. This is all de pen dent on how things go, of course. And what Dr. Bernstein says.”
I don’t answer. I don’t want to go back to my old high school. “Maybe I could get a GED,” I say.
“Why would you do that?” my father says. “There’s no reason to miss out on the rest of high school.”
“What do I need high school for?”
“Because,” he says. “It’s part of life. You still have your whole senior year to go.”
“But what am I going to do there? Who am I going to hang out with?”
“You’ll make new friends. High school isn’t just about hanging out.”
“What’s it about, then?”
“It’s about studying. And preparing for college.”
That’s going to be another sore spot with my parents. They’re still going to want me to go to college.
“I don’t think a GED is what you want,” he says. “If you really think about it.”
“I know I don’t want to go back to Evergreen,” I say, unfastening my seat belt. “Do you have any idea how many people there hate my guts?”
“Probably fewer than you think,” says my dad. “Will you just think about it? We don’t have to decide anything right now.”
Predictably, the call from my mother comes the same night. I have to take it on the house phone, in front of everyone. We have one of our classic conversations:
“Your father said you had a nice lunch.”
“That’s right,” I say, waiting for the argument to start.
“He said it was a very constructive conversation.”
“Yes, it was,” I say, waiting for the argument to start.
“The one thing that sounded strange to me, he said you wanted to get a GED.”
“That’s right, that’s what I said.”
“But, Madeline, why would you do that?”
“Because, Mom. That’s what people do in these situations.”
“But you used to like school.”
“I kinda burned that bridge, Mom. So now I have to do the logical thing, which is get a GED.”
“But why?”
I turn to the wall. “So I don’t have to go back there in total humiliation!”
“Nobody is going to humiliate you. People forgive people.”
“Forgiveness is not the issue, Mom.”
“What would you do otherwise? Even if you got a GED where would you go? You’re sixteen. You can’t get a fulltime job.”
“Mom, I’ll be seventeen in three weeks. A lot of people get jobs when they’re seventeen. I’ll go to community college.”
“It just makes no sense to me. Your father is very hopeful about the situation. He is doing everything he can.”
“Everything he can? Are yo
u serious? Do you know where I am right now, Mom? Do you know where I sleep?”
“I understand that, dear —”
“I sleep in bunk beds, Mom. With people who shot people!”
“Honey, I understand that. But you need to understand this has been a burden on us as well. Your father has been worried sick. Do you know how much Dr. Bernstein charges? And it’s not all covered by insurance, you know.”
“All right, Mom. Okay. I’m the evil daughter and you guys are the victims.”
“I’m not saying that. All I’m saying is why can’t you at least consider his advice? A lot of people consider your father a very intelligent man.”
“Okay, Mom, I gotta go.”
“We’ve spent a lot of time on this. I’ve had conversations with Dr. Bernstein almost every day.”
“All right, all right, I’ll think about it,” I say. I am now in a hurry because Margarita just turned on America’s Next Top Model, which is my new favorite show.
“That’s all we ask.”
“Okay, gotta go.” I hang up and go straight to the TV.
14
Two days later, I’m reading Us Weekly at my laundry room job and I happen to glance outside and see the maintenance crew doing something to the lawn. One of them is Stewart. He’s wearing coveralls. His dyed blond hair sticks out from beneath a baseball cap.
I go to the window and watch the group of them. They talk, they poke at the ground with shovels. Not a lot of work gets done. Stewart stands apart, the baby of the group.
I sit on the windowsill. I watch Stewart. I watch him lean against the truck. I watch him drink coffee. I watch him take a shovel out of the truck, lean on it, and then put it back.
Eventually, the crew gets back in its truck and drives away. I go back to my chair and pick up my magazine. I try to read but I can’t concentrate. Not now. I go back to the window and stare out at the empty lawn.
I think through my night with Stewart at The Carlton theater. What he said. What I said. The way he looked standing on the sidewalk. The squareness of his shoulders, the silence in his face…
Then I tear myself away and go back to my chair. I don’t know what I’m daydreaming about. I’ve been with tons of guys. It never works out.
I snatch up my Us Weekly. It’s ridiculous to even think about.
15
Movie night comes around again. It’s all I’ve been thinking about. I sneak down to Rite Aid the day before, where I wander the aisles looking for something to make me halfway attractive to a boy.
It won’t be easy. I’m pale, blotchy. I’ve gained eight pounds of “recovery fat.” I’ve got deep bags under my eyes. I try different shades of lip gloss. I experiment with eye shadow. I sneak a pinch of Preparation H and rub it under my eyes.
Back at the house, I go through my stuff. I have one cute skirt at the bottom of my suitcase. I put it on. I find my favorite blue socks and put those on. I put on my one clean shirt and brush out my hair.
Margarita watches all this from her bunk. “Big night for you, no?” she asks.
“It’s movie night.”
“You dress up? Just for movie?”
There’s no point lying about it. “There was a boy there last time,” I say.
“Ahhhh. Movie night!”
I check my hair in the mirror. “You wanna go?”
“No, no. No boys for me. I shoot my husband.”
“It might be good practice. You know, for not shooting people.”
“No. You go. Have good time.”
I wait on the porch. When the van comes, I run to it. There are people already inside: two older women and a skinny guy with taped-together glasses.
We go to the next stop, two more people get in. It’s going to be crowded tonight. I don’t know if that’s good or bad. At the final stop I crane my neck to see if Stewart is on the porch.…
He is.
I instantly sit back in my seat, sink down into it, curl my hands in my coat pockets. What on earth am I doing? What do I think is going to happen?
He gets in. An older guy gets in with him. They’re talking.
I am in the farthest-back seat with one of the women. Stewart and his friend squeeze onto the first bench seat. They’re deep in conversation. I sit forward slightly and try to listen. They’re talking about drugs.
I did drugs too, I want to shout. I did tons of drugs. I did painkillers and smoked hash and snorted coke. I got arrested. I stole a car. I slept with a drug dealer and got thrown out of my own house. I…I…I…
I sit back and close my eyes. I bow my head. I pray to God to please not let me make a complete ass of myself tonight.
16
Hey, Maddie,” Stewart says when he sees me getting out of the van. “Hey,” I say casually.
His older guy friend is heading inside, but Stewart hangs back. He waits for me. “I didn’t see you sitting back there.”
“Oh yeah,” I joke. “I’m a back-of-the-van sorta girl.”
He smiles at this. It warms me all over.
We walk along behind the other people. We buy our tickets. Stewart doesn’t say anything but he seems to want to stay near me.
It makes sense. We’re the only ones under thirty in the entire group.
“You want popcorn?” I ask Stewart in the lobby.
“Sure,” he says, and he comes with me. The same pimply local boy scoops us out two bags of popcorn. He smiles up at Stewart respectfully.
We go into the theater and sit with the other people. We’re on the end. We sit right next to each other.
The previews start. I find myself laughing at stuff that’s not even funny. Mostly because I’m so nervous.
The movie plays. It’s a supernatural horror thriller. I hadn’t realized this. Scary movies freak me out.
I get through it by closing my eyes and humming to myself during the worst parts. Stewart doesn’t seem to notice. At least, he doesn’t say anything.
When the lights come up, we all shuffle out. The group of us cross the street to the donut place. I’m trying to stick near Stewart but then his guy friend comes over and grabs him away. I get stuck walking with two women I don’t know.
Which pisses me off.
Inside the donut place, our group takes up two tables. I get stuck in the coffee line, and end up sitting far away from Stewart. There’s nothing I can do. I watch him from afar. He sits there: shy, silent, adorable. Everyone loves him. The older women especially. They want to hold him to their bosoms. It kills me to see this.
The men dominate the conversation. They tell their usual war stories: The time they got arrested. The time they crashed their car.
Whatever.
I try not to stare at Stewart. How can I not? He is beautiful and sad and perfect in some fascinating way. If only it was the two of us. If only we could talk.
The clock is against me. Only nine more minutes until the van comes. I stare into my coffee. He’s forgotten I’m here, so it doesn’t make any difference. I don’t know what I was thinking.
But then at 9:30, when we all gather outside, he comes over to me.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I say back.
I try to think of something else to say. “I saw you with the maintenance crew,” I manage.
“You did?”
“You were out in the lawn.”
“Oh yeah. Fixing the sprinklers.”
“What happened to the sprinklers?”
“They break sometimes in the winter.”
“Oh.”
The van comes. Everyone gets in. I sit in the back and slouch down like I do. Other people get in. Stewart gets in. He comes back and sits beside me.
“I guess I’m a back-of-the-van person too,” he says, smiling.
We drive. We’re sitting pretty far apart. But I look over at him and he kind of looks at me and then he laughs.
“What?” I say.
“I don’t know. It’s just funny.”
“What’s funny?�
��
“That we meet like this,” he says.
“What? In a van?”
“No, just…the whole thing.”
We’re talking quietly, so that the other people won’t hear. They’re all caught up in their own conversations anyway.
“I don’t see what’s so funny about it,” I say.
“Maybe it’s not funny.”
“I’m glad you’re sitting here,” I tell him, my heart pounding as I say it.
“Yeah?”
“I wish we coulda talked more tonight,” I say.
He stares straight ahead. “Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”
I look away. My heart is thudding in my chest. I watch out the window as a farmhouse drifts by.
I turn back to him. I summon every ounce of courage I possess. “Maybe we should meet up somewhere,” I say quietly.
He looks at me, surprised. “I thought boys weren’t supposed to…you know…fraternize with girls.”
“So we won’t. We’ll just hang out.”
He looks at me in the dark. “Where would we do that?”
“How about the Rite Aid, tomorrow at eight.”
He thinks about the Rite Aid. He thinks about it a long time.
“Or not,” I finally say. “If you don’t want to.”
“No,” he says. “That might be okay.”
17
The next day, I am very businesslike as I go about my routine. I get up, get dressed, walk through the rain to my job at the laundry room. I wash sheets for three hours and then go to my group therapy, where I make up some crap about my parents so I can space out and think about meeting Stewart.
After that, I go home and eat dinner and watch Access Hollywood with my housemates. At 7:30, I go to my room and change my clothes. Margarita is reading on her bunk. I look at myself in the mirror. I glance down at Margarita, who smiles at me innocently.
Is it wrong to meet Stewart? I wonder. I hadn’t really thought about that.
When I’m ready, I find an old umbrella in the main closet. It’s broken of course, but it’ll work. I go outside and open it, and then stand for a moment on the porch. A strange feeling comes over me then, as I stare into the dark street. It’s not fear exactly. It’s more like a sense of the mystery of the world.