“Never.”
But I’m not so sure about that really. Things between Missy and Wes aren’t going well. Missy has to divide her attention between running, schoolwork, her new brother, me, and Wes. I’m grateful that Missy feels I am worth making time for in her busy life and that she doesn’t expect me to be the perpetual third wheel, but Wes just feels slighted. He preferred the way things were back in the summer, when Missy had all the time in the world for him. Missy is holding out hope that once cross-country ends and before indoor track starts she can smooth things over with him, but she is also having her doubts. I don’t think she can bring herself to admit she might have to break up with him.
“He keeps kind of suggesting that I should have sex with him to prove that I love him,” she said the other day. “But I don’t know. I think sex is supposed to be an expression of love, not some way of proving yourself.”
“Well then it sounds like you know what you need to do,” I said, as if I had any experience that qualified me to give advice.
Another afternoon when I was at Missy’s house, Wes called and Missy went to another room to talk to him. While she was gone, Anna asked me what I thought of the situation because she was afraid Wes was being too jealous and controlling. I agreed, but I also know Paul is poised to be Missy’s rebound, which makes me secretly wish she and Wes can find a way to work things out, and then I feel guilty for my own selfishness. I’ve always thought of myself as a good and honest person, but my friendship with Missy is making me unsure about that.
* * *
Now everyone is scrambling to find a date and get a dress for the semi-formal dance. The semi is held every year on the Saturday after Thanksgiving. One morning on the drive to school Maura reveals that she decided to take my advice and get out there and have fun, and to that end, she’s bringing a guy she’s been hanging out with from East Vo-tech. Of course Missy and Wes are planning to attend. I had figured I’d just stay home alone, but then one night Paul suggests we skip it together.
“We can go grab a bite to eat, catch a movie, and then check out the parties,” he says.
“Definitely better than some lame dance,” I say, half believing it. I want Paul to want me to be his date and to see me as a beautiful girl in a beautiful dress, but I also know from my homecoming experience that dances are not my cup of tea. Still, he’s singling me out as the person he wants to spend the evening with, and I am excited.
Then he asks, “Will you help me with my math homework?”
Of course I agree and he says he’ll drive right over.
“You can’t come over! Maura lives next door.” I don’t know why I’m still obsessed with not rocking that boat.
“So if she asks, I’ll tell her you’re my tutor.”
“I guess she’d believe you. After all, she knows I’m not your type,” I say, instantly regretting the bitterness in my tone.
Paul thinks I’m just making a joke and tells me he’ll be here in 10 minutes.
* * *
My mother loves Paul. She loved him from the first time he picked me up for John’s party. She doesn’t mind that I spend so much time on the phone with “such a nice, handsome boy,” and now that he has started showing up a few times a week to “study,” she is beside herself with joy.
“He must like you,” she keeps insisting.
“He likes Missy,” I keep responding.
Generally, he comes over to do homework. He struggles in math and science, and I help him. We work on our college application essays and gossip about teachers. During one of our study sessions, I learned that his mom recently started working second shift at the hospital, which explains why he is suddenly showing up at my house each evening. He gets tired of being home alone. His mom starts work at three and doesn’t get home until almost eleven. Most of the time my mom ends up feeding him dinner, although he insists that’s not why he comes over.
When he told me about his mom’s work schedule, it occurred to me that as often as he speaks about his mother, he doesn’t ever mention his father. I had just assumed Paul was from a two-parent family. That’s pretty much what I assume about everyone until I learn otherwise. But that night I realized I must be wrong—unless his father also works in the evening. I didn’t know how to ask him. I am afraid it’s a touchy subject (if it weren’t, he would have told me already, right?), so I haven’t probed further.
But I’ve also realized how Paul lets me dominate our conversations. He asks a lot of questions and lets me ramble on, but I seldom ask him questions. I never have to; there is never a lull in conversation because I am always talking. I hate to admit that I hardly know him at all, and I feel totally self-centered for my willingness to talk about myself without ever thinking of asking Paul questions. In that regard, I could really take a lesson from Missy.
One morning on the drive to school I ask Maura about Paul’s home life and she fills me in: His dad left his mom and him when he was a baby. She’s raised him alone, and now they live in an apartment at Apple Valley Terrace.
This is also news to me. Another wrong assumption on my part. I assumed Paul lived in a house, like me, but Paul lives in an apartment. Apple Valley Terrace is a complex near Forest Park. It isn’t far from my grandmother’s and Missy’s houses. Like most of the apartment complexes in town, the tenants are a mixed bag. It’s a private complex, not a housing project, but a lot of the units are low-income. My grandmother often complains about the “shady people” who hang around the parking lot there.
My family hasn’t lived in an apartment since I was a baby. I associate apartments with single people, elderly people on fixed incomes, and people who are really poor. I’m beginning to see what a terrible tendency I have to assume that everyone is just like me. I can’t imagine what it’s like growing up your whole life without a backyard, always hearing neighbors through the walls and ceiling, always knowing that there are strangers living their own lives under the same roof. It’s crazy how different Paul’s experiences are from my own, and I want to learn more.
I’ve been trying to make a point of listening more, of asking Paul questions, but he is deft at steering the conversation away from himself.
“How come I never come to your house to study?” I ask one night.
“Because you don’t drive,” Paul says.
“I’m getting my license next month.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
Paul is a very touchy-feely sort of guy. I’ve gotten used to him throwing an arm around me, walking up behind me and rubbing my shoulders, sitting sideways on the couch and letting his legs drape across mine. I know there’s nothing romantic in it—it is just his way—but I love it.
Amazingly, even with Paul showing up at my house a few times a week, Maura is unbothered. At first I thought maybe she deserved a little more credit than I’d been giving her, but then I realized the truth: Maura isn’t home most evenings to notice Paul’s car pulling into my driveway. She is out with friends just about every night of the week.
Even with the weather getting cooler and the days shorter, I feel so happy. No “Seasonal Affective Disorder” for me. I never minded going to school, but now I look forward to it. I have Missy and Paul, and maybe two friends doesn’t sound like much, but it’s more than I hoped for, more than I found at my last school.
* * *
When my brother calls Saturday to make plans for my parents to pick him up at the airport in Hartford, he shocks us all with the news that he is bringing his girlfriend home with him for Thanksgiving. It is the first any of us have heard about a girlfriend, and yet it must be serious if she’s flying to our house with him for a holiday. My mother is beside herself with joy. I am intrigued although not exactly excited. I have been looking forward to having Jeff all to myself for a while. I planned to show him around town and hang out like we used to. That seems unlikely now.
I drive with my mother to the airport. We wait near the baggage claim, and of course the flight is late. We sit
on a bench, my mother impatiently tapping her foot and staring at the flight announcement board while I attempt to concentrate on Hamlet, which is due after Thanksgiving for English class. We sit there for about an hour before the flight comes in. Then the baggage claim is flooded with cranky people. We scan the crowd and finally I spot him, coming down the escalator, his hands on the shoulders of a cute, preppy-looking, blonde girl on the step in front of him.
We meet him at the bottom of the escalator and exchange hugs. Everything feels chaotic with all the people around us and announcements over the PA system. Jeff hurries to introduce us to Jen and to tell us that they hadn’t checked any bags so we can head right to the car. We lead them to the car and Jeff tells me to sit up front. He has never done that before. He sits in the back with Jen. I barely had a chance to look at Jen and the curiosity is killing me. I have to force myself not to keep turning around in my seat.
When we finally get home, I get a better look. She’s short, like me, or maybe a smidge taller, and thin, but athletic looking and not waifish. Her hair, which is definitely professionally dyed (although she may have been born blonde), is cut into a chin-length bob that is perfectly styled. She’s wearing slim-fitting khaki pants and a green cardigan over a green camisole. She has on cute flat shoes. She looks like a walking J. Crew ad.
We stand in the kitchen while my mom gets dinner ready. Jen has her manicured hands folded over the back of one of the stools at the kitchen island. Her fingernails are a perfect medium length, carefully shaped, and painted in a French manicure. I know she must be wearing makeup—no one with hair that perfect and nails so carefully kept would go out without makeup—but her face looks very natural, no heavy eyeliner or garish lipstick. In fact she is so put together, I can’t help but think she looks more like a soccer mom than a college student. She seems too old for Jeff. Jeff rambles on about school, answering all my mother’s questions, and Jen just stands there quietly, looking nice.
I have never been one to wish I had an older sister. I think some kids who grow up in households like mine, always on the move, never staying in one place for long, wish for big families because then they’ll always have friends. No matter where they might move, there’s always someone to keep them company from the moment they arrive. Not me. I’m content with one big brother. And besides, it was hard enough to live in Jeff’s shadow, to follow Mr. Popular through life. At least no one expected me to have his interests or athleticism; after all, I’m just a girl. Sometimes when I was much younger I thought it might be fun to have a younger sister, but once I started babysitting I got over that idea.
Standing in the kitchen with Jeff and Jen, though, I realize that at some point Jeff will get married and I will have a sister-in-law. I know I am just being childish and insecure, but I keep thinking that I don’t want anyone comparing me to Jen. How can I possibly measure up? Why did Jeff bring her here when this was supposed to be a fun family weekend?
At the end of dinner, I excuse myself from the table in the middle of some story about Jeff’s soccer coach. If Jeff isn’t going to have time for me this weekend because he is too busy entertaining his girlfriend, at least I don’t have to hang around them more than necessary.
* * *
I spend the beginning of Thanksgiving break hiding out in my room on the phone with Paul or Missy instead of hanging out with my brother, but he is relentless in his insistence that he get to meet some of my new friends. The more I try to avoid him, the more he annoys me. He says that if these new friends are so important that I’d rather talk on the phone with them than be with the rest of the family, he should at least get to meet them. His protective big brother routine is sweet—after all, before he went to college, any social life I had was thanks to him. So Friday night, we meet Paul, Missy, and Wes at Mel’s Diner. Two pairs of love birds and me and Paul. At least the numbers will balance out all right.
Of course as soon as we arrive there’s a problem: the hostess wants to seat us at a big booth, three on a side. Logically, Paul and I should sit on separate sides so the couples can sit shoulder to shoulder, but that arrangement makes me feel alone and vulnerable. I practically glue myself to Paul’s side so I can slide into the booth alongside him. Wes, as always, has his arms around Missy and is not going to let her go. Jeff looks terribly amused in the way that adults often look at teenagers, which annoys me because he is only three years older than us. Besides Jen holds Jeff’s hand in a way that suggests she has no desire to be physically separated from him, if only by a table. We all stand there, no one choosing a seat.
“Can we have that one?” Jeff asks, pointing to a big, circular booth in the corner.
“That’s really for bigger parties,” the hostess begins, looking impatient, but Jeff gives her his winning smile, and her tone softens. “I guess it’s not going to be too busy tonight,” she says, leading us that way.
We slide around into the booth, Paul and me in the middle, with Jeff and Jen to my right, and Missy and Wes to Paul’s left. We all order coffees, except Jen who gets tea, and Missy and Jeff order pie. We only have to suffer awkward silence for a minute before Paul can’t take it anymore. “So you’re a soccer player?” he asks, turning to Jeff. I know we won’t have another lapse in conversation for the rest of the night. If you want nonstop chatter, just put Jeff, Missy, and Paul at the same table. Jeff is a storyteller, Paul is a questioner, and Missy is both. Also Wes is in a good mood, which is a relief. I wasn’t sure how he’d be with Paul here, but he is acting relaxed, like when I first met him. He seems happy enough to add details to Missy’s stories, as if his ability to do so is proof of their flourishing romance or something. Actually, they’re acting like a boring old married couple, but at least everyone is getting along.
Jeff regales us with stories about college life and hands out advice about choosing a college and writing application essays like he’s some sort of expert. He is working in the admissions office, so I guess he has some inside information, but mostly I think he’s just enjoying his senior status at our table. He and Paul talk about sports and Missy asks Jen a million questions about southern living, since Jen is from Georgia. Jen isn’t much of a talker, though, so her answers tend to be shorter than Missy’s long, rambling questions. We sit there longer than the waitress would like, taking up precious time at her biggest table, downing free refills of coffee and not much else. At least we leave her a big tip.
It is freezing when we go back outside. Jeff and Wes, good boyfriends that they are, wrap themselves around their girls as we walk down the block toward the cars. Paul and I walk along behind them, taking turns shoving each other playfully to the side. When we reach the parking lot, Wes is suddenly in a big hurry to take off, which leaves the four of us standing there in the cold dark.
Jeff extends a hand to Paul. “Take care of my sis,” he says.
“As if she were my own.”
Their handshake turns into that fake boxing thing guys are so fond of, and that turns into some typically male wrestling hold, and then Jeff is clapping Paul on the back and Paul is getting into his car.
“I’ll pick you up at 8 tomorrow,” he says to me, before he shuts the door.
I get in the back seat and give Jeff some directions to get us home.
“Lizzie, he is so cute,” Jen says, turning around in her seat to look at me. It is the first time she’s attempted to initiate conversation with me all weekend.
“He’s just a friend,” I say.
“Mom said he’s at our house like three times a week. And you two are skipping the semi tomorrow together, right?” Jeff asks.
“Yeah, but if we weren’t just friends, maybe we’d be going to the semi together,” I say.
“I bet he likes you,” Jen says.
I fill them in on how Paul and I became friends thanks to his crush on Missy.
“Whatever,” Jeff says. “Wes seems to have a pretty firm grip on Missy.”
“And Paul and I are just friends,” I say.
�
��I’ll bet you’ve never seen When Harry Met Sally,” Jen says.
I haven’t.
“Well, you should. Believe me, men and women cannot be friends.”
I want to believe her, but I know Paul is not interested in me. Still all night I have been letting myself pretend that Paul and I are a couple, just like Jeff and Jen and Wes and Missy. It’s fun to pretend. And we have better chemistry than Missy and Wes any day, anyone can see that. There is none of the under-the-surface tension lurking between us that has recently developed between them. Maybe if I were prettier, thinner, taller. Maybe if I were nicer, less cynical. Maybe if I were Missy.
There is no sense in pining for Paul. I’m glad we’re going out tomorrow, just the two of us, and probably Tuesday after school he will come over to study again. That is already more than I ever imagined. If he wants to think of me as the sister he never had, at least he wants to think of me.
Chapter 13
The next night Paul is right on time, as usual, and just like homecoming, he arrives with a bouquet.
“We’re not even going to the dance,” I say, when he hands it to me.
“You’re still my date for the evening,” he says.
His date. “I don’t have a boutonnière for you,” I say. “And you’d look so cute with a flower pinned to your sweater.”
“A thank you will do,” he says.
I feel my face color. It is rude to respond to a gift with sarcasm. What sort of person am I? “Thanks,” I say.
The movie is sometimes funny but mostly stupid. Afterwards we have some time to kill before the party. We stop at Mel’s and share dessert, and then we drive around, looking at the Christmas lights people put up over the weekend. We don’t talk much and it’s nice. We are comfortable enough around one another to sit in silence without having it be awkward.
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