Zenn Diagram

by Wendy Brant

I reach out and touch her arm and she just looks down at my hand. I assume her new friends touch her all the time, in the way that all teenagers do, and that she’s used to it. Maybe she won’t realize I’m spying.

  Her fractal is lavender, like a faded bruise, and dense like fog. It feels like a muffled argument, like a battle between someone with a megaphone and someone whose mouth is covered with duct tape. There is a giddiness there, but it’s weighed down by something else … a helium balloon tied to an anvil.

  I don’t know exactly what it means, yet, but I’m furious at myself for ever introducing Charlotte to Josh if this is what he’s done to her fractal. If his fucked-upness has somehow rubbed off on her.

  She looks up from my hand.

  “What’s it say?” she asks, though I’m sure she already knows.

  “What’s he doing to you?” I ask.

  “Who?”

  Her lying is getting better, but I give her my impatient look anyway.

  “Josh?” she asks incredulously. “You think it’s just Josh?” She shakes her head and pulls her arm away.

  “What is it then?”

  She looks out at the water again. We sit for a moment and eventually she offers her arm to me. Maybe it’s easier to let me read her fractal than it is to talk about it.

  I focus on the shapes and the feelings and the pattern and slowly I get a sense of isolation, of a huge lake an inch deep.

  “They never talk about anything. Ever.”

  Ah. I get it. The new friends.

  “I mean, they talk. They talk a lot. But it’s about clothes and parties and cute boys and how many calories they had for lunch. But they don’t know anything about me. I don’t think they even want to. I can’t stand it anymore.”

  And I can’t help myself, but I smile before quickly covering my mouth.

  She says, “I miss you.”

  “I miss you, too.”

  “Then why haven’t you been calling me? Or texting me?”

  “You seemed like you wanted to try out that group. Josh’s friends. I didn’t want to get in your way.”

  She looks down at her lap. “It felt like you were disappointed in me. Like … like by dating Josh I was somehow one of them. It felt like you had written me off.”

  “Me?”

  She nods.

  It’s probably true. That’s what it felt like. An either/or situation: me or them. “You’re sitting with them at lunch now,” I remind her.

  “Only because you left me stranded at that table with Negative Nora and her whiny bunch. I’ll take the calorie counters over the complainers any day.”

  Truth again. The girls we sit with can be truly miserable.

  “Come back to lunch and we can sit together again,” Charlotte offers. “We can both get away from the Glumsters. We’ll sit somewhere else.”

  I think about it for a minute, weighing my friendship with her and my growing whatever it is with Zenn.

  “It’s that guy, isn’t it?”

  I must blush or something because I don’t say a word and she still nods knowingly.

  “Are you guys dating?”

  “No. No. Nothing like that. Just … friends.”

  “Right.”

  “Come on, Char. You know I can’t touch anyone. And this guy … man. I’ve touched his jacket and nearly passed out. I can’t imagine what it would be like to touch him.” I don’t tell her that I have touched him, however briefly, once. I don’t tell her that it didn’t give me even a hint of a fractal.

  “Well,” she says, decisively. “He can touch you, can’t he?” Her voice is suggestive and teasing. Man, I’ve missed hanging out with her.

  “Well … yeah.”

  She smiles. “So there you go.”

  I don’t even know how to answer.

  Chapter 22

  Zenn has been out for three days in a row and I’m starting to worry. I decide that, as his friend, I should check up on him. That’s what friends do, right? If it were Charlotte, I’d make sure she was okay. And since I only have two good friends, I have to look out for their welfare. This is what I tell myself.

  I swing by the cemetery on my way to his house, dawdling so I don’t seem so pitifully eager. It would be really sad for me to show up at his door only minutes after the final bell. So I stop by my parents’ grave and swap the small, white stone that is there for the gray yin-and-yang one I picked up yesterday with Charlotte.

  When I get to the Arts and Crafts house, Zenn’s truck isn’t in the driveway but I decide to try anyway. If he’s home, I hope he’s home alone. And I hope he’s receptive to a surprise visit.

  I take a deep breath and knock on the door and wait. And wait. When no one answers, I reluctantly turn back down the steps and am halfway to the bottom when Zenn’s truck pulls in the driveway.

  He parks and climbs out before he sees me waiting on the stairs.

  “Oh, hey!” He is clearly surprised, but not disappointed. He might even be happy. I’m new at this whole boy-girl thing, so it’s hard to tell.

  “Hey.” I hold up a yellow folder with his trig homework. “I just … you weren’t at school again so I got your homework from Mr. Haase.” I hope my excuse doesn’t sound as transparent to him as it does to me. “Didn’t want you to get behind.”

  He comes up the steps and I get a better look at him. He is filthy. Dirt coats his jeans and his sweatshirt. It covers his skin in a fine layer making him appear even darker than he normally is. And hotter, if that’s possible.

  “Oh. Okay. Thanks.” He takes the folder from me and opens the door. “Come on in.”

  Even though his voice is subdued, I hesitate only a second.

  He drops the folder onto the tiny kitchen table. “I just … have to get cleaned up.”

  “Oh, sure! Sorry! I’ll go …”

  “No, you can hang out. I’ll be quick.”

  “No, seriously. I just wanted to drop off your homework. See if you were okay.”

  “Eva,” he says. “Stay.”

  His voice is kind but firm. I can tell he wants me to stay. I want to stay. “Okay.”

  He disappears into the bedroom, and then into the bathroom. After a moment I can hear music — something soulful with banjos and maybe harmonicas — and the shower running.

  Holy God. He’s in the shower. Right behind that door.

  I nearly get up and leave, but then I realize I’m being ridiculous. I’m eighteen years old, for Pete’s sake. The mere thought of a naked guy in close proximity should not send me running for cover.

  The nosy part of me wants to slide my hands over everything in his apartment, learn as much as I can in these few minutes alone with his stuff. It’s so tempting to snoop sometimes, out of curiosity or boredom. But with Zenn I’m too afraid of what I might learn, so I sit primly on a kitchen chair with my hands on my lap.

  The kitchen is so tiny that I can almost reach out and touch every cabinet and appliance from my chair. The only thing that looks properly used is the coffeemaker. There are no curtains on the window, but a small ceramic cartoony-looking turtle sits facing outward on the windowsill, as if watching for guests to arrive. Next to the turtle is a row of small, round stones, lined up by gradient: light gray to almost black. I stand up to look at them, and smile. They are all about the same size, each one slightly darker than the one next to it. Leave it to an artist to organize his stones by color. Or maybe they’re his mom’s stones. Either way, seeing them lined up like that makes me happy.

  True to his word, the shower goes off in just a couple of minutes, and after another few minutes I hear the turn of the doorknob and brace myself for … I’m not sure what. Zenn in a towel?

  But that would be too much like some soapy TV show. My real life isn’t hot guys, fresh from the shower, roaming around in towels. My life is more staid and predictable than that, like a PBS documentary. Sure enough, he emerges in clean jeans and a fresh T-shirt, his hair damp and as messy as his short hair gets, like he towel dried it and that�
�s about it.

  And good lord he smells amazing.

  “So … are you sick?” I ask. He doesn’t look sick. Just … tired. “Can I get you, like, some … soup or 7 Up or something?”

  He smiles a little and shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he says. “Just got a lot going on.” He scrubs both hands over his hair in a gesture of frustration and helplessness and then slips them into the back pockets of his jeans. This might be my cue to butt out. But … I’m choosing to ignore it because he seems so overwhelmed.

  So alone.

  In a moment of boldness or insanity, of uncharacteristic impulsiveness, I stand up and cross the few steps between us and slide my arms into the triangles his arms make with his body. I press myself up against him lightly in a tentative hug. He doesn’t move and I almost pull away, but I’ve committed myself now and I think it would be worse to have him look at me with confusion than to stay pressed against him in my just-trying-to-be-comforting hug. At least this way we don’t have to make eye contact. Besides, he feels so solid and warm. I carefully ball my hands into fists, keeping them away from his body, and allow the rest of me to linger, press, enjoy.

  He hesitates for a second longer before pulling his hands from his pockets and I mentally prepare myself for the rejection of him pushing me away. But instead he wraps his arms around me, pulling my body more tightly against his. I nearly sigh from the feeling. We stand, my cheek pressed against his chest. I inhale the clean, simple smell of him.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask him again.

  “A little better now.”

  There’s something slightly flirtatious in the way he says it. It’s a tone he hasn’t used with me before and it makes me blush against his shirt. God, my fingers itch to be splayed across his back, to grasp at his T-shirt and slide through his hair. Instead, I tangle them together behind him so they won’t go all rogue on me.

  The music is still coming from the bathroom and it might be my imagination but it feels like we are swaying slightly as we hug. I feel Zenn’s face near my hair, his breath on my ear, the rough brush of his chin against my temple. I look up slightly and his mouth is right there, just above mine. Neither of us moves. We hesitate in indecision, my breath catching in uneven hitches. His arms tighten around me just slightly.

  “You sure it’s nothing contagious?” I whisper.

  He looks down at me, shakes his head, barely. We breathe the same air for a moment and I think maybe he’ll kiss me. Maybe I’ll kiss him. Maybe I’ll open my hands and press them against his back with the rationalization that touching him, just once, will be worth whatever fractal he gives me.

  But he doesn’t kiss me and I don’t kiss him. I don’t unclench my hands.

  What happens instead is the apartment door flies open

  with a pop. We drop our arms from each other quickly, guiltily, but not before the couple standing in the doorway sees us.

  “Well, fuck me!” Zenn’s mom exclaims, thumping a case of beer onto the kitchen table. “Zenn’s got a girlfriend!”

  Zenn’s head falls in a gesture of irritation and embarrassment. They enter the apartment and set a bag of groceries down next to the beer. His mom has forgone her devil costume for a pair of jeans and a hooded sweatshirt that looks like it might be Zenn’s. Some kind of clip — I think it’s called a banana clip — holds back her hair, and her bangs are teased like it’s 1990. She holds out her hand to me.

  “Hey, Zenn’s girlfriend. I’m Cinde.”

  Apparently she doesn’t recognize me from Halloween. No surprise, I guess, since she was half in the bag that day.

  “I’m not …” I start, but then I figure what’s the point. She’s just teasing us anyway. I hesitate a second before grasping her hand quickly and letting go. It’s enough to trigger a fractal, but I’m prepared and I take a deep breath. It stays small and manageable, just a small whirlpool of fuzzy darkness. “Eva,” I tell her.

  The man holds out his hand as well. “Mike,” he says. I’ve barely even touched him when the army jacket fractal sweeps over me and I nearly lose my balance. I pull my hand away rather rudely and lean against the table. Zenn gives me a funny look.

  Mike has the same thick, dark hair as Zenn, though slightly flecked with white at the temples. The same bronzy skin, same dark, vaguely Asian eyes. I put two and two together.

  “Mike’s my ... dad.” Zenn says the word like it’s foreign and unfamiliar in his mouth.

  “Oh,” I say, and sway on my feet a little. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Are you okay, hon?” Cinde asks.

  Zenn pulls out a chair and gently pushes me onto it. “Just a little warm,” I say.

  Cinde gives Zenn a teasing look and I realize she thinks I’m flustered from being wrapped around her son. But I’ve nearly forgotten about that in the fractal chaos.

  Cinde pops open a beer. “How ’bout a cold one?” she says, and holds the can out to me.

  Before I have a chance to answer, Zenn groans. “Jesus, Mom.”

  “I’m kidding! Shit, everyone’s always so fucking serious!”

  I have no doubt that she swears often, but it feels like she’s doing it now to seem cool and young. She offers the beer to Mike and he declines as well. Instead he gets me a glass of water from the faucet. Cinde sips the beer and flips open the folder on the table, oblivious to the fact that I might pass out in her kitchen. “You guys having a study date?”

  Zenn speaks for me. “Eva was just dropping off my homework.”

  “Mmmm hmmm,” Cinde hums, like homework is a code word for blow job.

  “I should go,” I say, standing up so quickly I nearly topple over.

  “I’ll drive you home,” Zenn offers.

  I still feel weak and nauseated. I would love a ride. “It was nice meeting you both,” I say even though I don’t really mean it. I secretly wish they had never shown up.

  “Likewise,” Cinde says, and lifts her beer in a sort of toast.

  Out in the truck Zenn starts the engine and leans back against the headrest. “Fuck,” he says. “Sorry about that.”

  I pretend I’m not embarrassed at all. Like I get caught pressing my body against boys every day. “Don’t worry about it.”

  He puts the truck in Reverse and rests his arm along the back of my seat as he turns to back out of the driveway. For some reason, the gesture feels almost as intimate as the hug.

  “So … your dad, huh?” I say.

  Zenn nods tightly, not playing along.

  I’m persistent if not subtle. “Is that what’s been going on? Why you haven’t been at school?”

  Zenn sighs and stares out the window. Finally he says, “My mom has gone all ape-shit crazy now that he’s here. Drinking too much, not working. When I’m home I have to babysit her.”

  “Do you need anything? Can I help?”

  Zenn shakes his head. “I’ve been thinking about leaving school.”

  “What?! No.”

  “If I worked full-time we’d probably be okay. I wouldn’t have to rely on her to be reliable.”

  “Zenn. You can’t. That’s not the answer.”

  He shrugs. “Maybe it is. Maybe this is all just a waste of time. School. Art. All of it.”

  “Education is never a waste of time.” I realize how stupid and preachy it sounds as soon as it’s out of my mouth. “Just … give it until the end of the semester. Okay?”

  His jaw clenches, his hands grip the steering wheel.

  “Okay?” I ask again.

  “Fine. But I really don’t see the point.”

  I don’t know how to argue with him. Maybe it is a waste of time. But what can I say? He can’t quit. I won’t let him. But I try to keep it light. “You wouldn’t miss trig? What are you, crazy?”

  He finally cracks a smile. “You are such a nerd.”

  It’s like he just told me he loves me.

  He parks in front of my house and I want to reach out and touch him again … something. But self-doubt gets the
better of me.

  I just say, “Thanks for the ride,” and climb out of the truck.

  I’m halfway to the house when Zenn rolls down his window. He calls out, waving for me to come back.

  “Hey,” he says, “do you want to do something tonight?”

  Oh, my God. Maybe that hug wasn’t just a friendly hug for either of us. Maybe it was something more. Or maybe he just wants to get out of his apartment, away from his mom and dad.

  “By some miracle, I don’t have to work,” he says, studying his hands on the steering wheel. “And I’d prefer to not be around those two.”

  He’s nervous. Oh, my God, he’s definitely nervous.

  “And … well …”

  My silence has gone on too long. I’m bordering on cruel now. “What do you want to do?” I ask coyly.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t gotten that far.”

  “I’m just messing with you. It doesn’t matter. I’m in.”

  Chapter 23

  I text Charlotte as soon as I get inside. She shows up ten minutes later with her brand-new makeup bag in hand, like a doctor making a house call. I feel horrible that I haven’t been there for her the way she is here for me now.

  I look in the mirror and figure she’s got her work cut out for her. I take a quick shower while she pieces together an outfit from my closet, nothing crazy, but a combination that I would never think of. Then she uses some kind of paste and a hair dryer attachment to make my wavy hair as curly as possible. Then she forces me to sit still while she applies more makeup than my virgin skin has ever seen.

  “Easy, Char. I don’t want to look like a pageant contestant.”

  “You won’t. You’ll just look like you, only an HD-worthy version.”

  Sure enough, my pores become invisible, my eyes bigger, my mouth fuller. If I had known makeup could do this I would have tried it sooner. Charlotte makes me wear my contacts, insisting that kissing is much easier without glasses. I take her word for it because, frankly, what do I know about kissing? And what are the odds of that happening anyway?

  When I come out of my room, Libby wants to touch my hair. Normally it’s in a braid or a bun or a barrette, so the fact that it is loose and curly is just too much. I must look like a fricking princess to her.