Zenn Diagram

by Wendy Brant

  “Three, actually,” I correct him.

  “Eva.” Zenn’s voice is a warning, but his eyes are smiling.

  “Three jobs? And school? How the hell do you do that?”

  “Not very well. It’s why I need a tutor.”

  “Shit,” Josh says. “Then what’s my excuse?”

  We all order drinks — Zenn and I more water, Josh Coke, Charlotte iced tea — and there is another awkward silence before Charlotte makes some inane comment about tea and where it’s grown and I know I’m going to need to do something to spice things up.

  “Have you guys seen this blog post,” I ask them, “where the author compared consent — like, sexual consent — to having a cup of tea?”

  They all stare at me for a moment, shocked by my choice of topic. Zenn looks amused, Charlotte looks horrified, Josh looks confused. Does their reaction stop me? Oh, no. Not even a little bit. It’s better than talking about how the Assam region of India is the largest tea-producing area in the world.

  “It was … well, it was brilliant, actually. She explained how it could apply to all sexual situations. Just imagine that, instead of initiating sex” — I feel myself blush a little at the word, but pretend I haven’t — “you’re making the person a cup of tea.”

  Josh looks doubtful. Perhaps he’s never had to wonder about a girl’s consent before. Maybe this is a new concept to him: girls not tearing off their underwear at the mere thought of him.

  I continue. “Basically she says you ask them, ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ and if they say, ‘Fuck yes, I would fucking love a cup of tea!’ then you know they really want a cup of tea.”

  Zenn laughs, and I realize that might be the only reason I’m telling this story: to make him laugh.

  Charlotte, who as far as I know has never even had a cup of tea, sexually speaking, nods earnestly.

  “If you ask if they want tea and they say, ‘Um, I’m not really sure,’ then you can make them a cup of tea but they may not drink it. And if they don’t drink it, she says, don’t make them drink it. Just because you made it doesn’t mean they are obligated.”

  Zenn is grinning.

  “If they say, ‘No, thank you,’ then don’t make them tea at all. If they are unconscious, don’t make them tea. If you make them tea and they start to drink it but fall asleep mid-cup, don’t pour it down their throat.”

  Now finally Charlotte laughs, nearly spitting out her own iced tea. Josh looks at her adoringly and I wonder if maybe she has indeed had some variety of tea with Josh. If so, I’m guessing it was likely not the variety he had to pour down her throat.

  “It’s amazing, really,” I say. “It works for every scenario.”

  Something about my goofy analogy loosens us all up and the rest of dinner is surprisingly relaxed. Josh and Zenn get along well enough. I’m actually having fun. This must be what it’s like to be a “normal” teenager.

  We make it through dinner and I am convinced, now, what attracted Charlotte to Josh way back in middle school. It wasn’t his boy-band hair and chiseled body, which was all I ever saw before I got to know him. Charlotte always saw a kindness in him, a surprising humility. Charlotte saw the person he was, not the person he was trying to be. Once I let go of the stubborn stereotype I had of him, I saw it, too.

  During dinner when Charlotte excuses herself to go to the restroom, Josh half rises out of his chair, like men do in old movies. He offers her a taste of his meal and then tries hers, even though he’s already mentioned that he doesn’t really like salmon. And despite Charlotte’s offer to pay for dinner, Josh takes care of the check before any of us have a chance to even politely reach for our wallets.

  And the way he looks at her. Well.

  He’s a good guy.

  Granted, he’s still no rocket scientist when it comes to trig, but I’m glad first impressions — and fractals — are sometimes wrong.

  After dinner we walk across the street to the arcade. Video games are not my thing, but it’s something for us to do. I don’t really want to play anything because I fear the fractals of a thousand geeky boys will lay me flat if I touch the controls. Unlike a shopping cart, these things are fondled by the same person for hours on end. Zenn and I settle on pinball, and he controls one paddle and I control the other, mostly by punching at the button with my fist. My technique is not very effective, to say the least, but we end up laughing a lot. We eventually leave to get some Dairy Queen and then we split up: Josh and Charlotte to his dad’s Mercedes, Zenn and I to Zenn’s truck.

  “That wasn’t so bad,” Zenn says, adjusting his rearview mirror.

  “Nope.”

  “Mooney seems like an okay guy.”

  “Yeah …”

  “What? You don’t think so?”

  “No! He is. He’s a good guy.”

  “Charlotte likes him, right?”

  “Hmmm? Oh, yeah. She likes him a lot. Like, she’ll probably have tea with him soon, she likes him so much.”

  Zenn smiles. “Then … what’s the problem?”

  I’m not even sure there is a problem. Maybe my fractals make me think there are problems when there aren’t. Maybe there’s just life. Messy, complicated life.

  “Something about his … fractal?” Zenn asks.

  “No. Well. Yes.” I sigh and look out the window, a little embarrassed to be talking about my visions again. I wish he would just forget all about them. But, I mean, I am a freak of nature. “I’m not even sure what it is, honestly.”

  Zenn is good at asking, then waiting and not pushing too hard.

  “Maybe I’m just being protective of Charlotte, or whatever. But I think maybe he drinks.” It’s like I’m looking for some reason to doubt their relationship.

  “Drinking’s not that unusual for his crowd.”

  He’s right. We’re seniors. Kids drink. I don’t know why I’m so judgy all of a sudden. Am I really worried about Charlotte? Or looking for reasons they shouldn’t be together because my own relationship is doomed?

  “Has Charlotte said anything about him drinking?”

  “No, not really.” I brush away my concerns. “I’m sure it’s fine.”

  Zenn says, “I guess I see what you mean about knowing stuff and wanting to help.”

  I sigh.

  “But sometimes people just have to figure shit out on their own.”

  It’s a new idea for me: that I’m not responsible for fixing Josh, or protecting Charlotte, or healing my mom, or erasing the past. It’s a relief to realize that I’m not expected to repair everything that is broken. That even if I could do it, I don’t have to.

  Suddenly I am overcome with the wish that we could go back to my house and just sit on my couch together, watch a movie, make out a little. I wish I didn’t have to hide him from my parents.

  “Why do you think you don’t get fractals from me?”

  His question surprises me, although I’ve wondered it myself a million times. “I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “The only thing I can think of is that we have some different kind of connection? Maybe from the accident?” He smiles. “Does that sound really corny and overdramatic?” He squeezes my hand, his warm fingers linked with mine in a way no one’s have ever been before. We do have a connection. We do.

  I let those two words settle on me like a mantra: we do.

  Chapter 31

  I wonder if my mom suspects something when she asks me Zenn’s last name.

  “Bennett,” I tell her. It’s the truth, but I don’t tell her that Bennett is his mom’s last name, that his parents were never married, that his mom chose to give him her name in the chaos after the accident because she didn’t want her baby associated with the man that caused the tragic story on the front page of every local newspaper. It’s probably the same reasoning my mom and dad used when they changed my name to Walker. Simplify. Erase. Start over.

  I can’t tell if she knows something or if she’s just making conversation. Parents are good at being sneaky like that
.

  “Have you told him about ... your parents?” It’s hard for her to call them that because they only parented me for four months while she has raised me for eighteen years. I know she’s torn between wanting me to remember them somehow, and wanting me to think of her as my “real” mom.

  “Yeah,” I tell her. “We’ve talked about it.”

  She might have planned on giving me a little lecture about honesty being important in any relationship, but I’ve beaten her to the punch.

  “What’s his family like? Have you met them?”

  I have to be careful. No lies, but not the whole truth yet either.

  “Yeah. I’ve met them.”

  “Both his parents?”

  If she suspects that Mike is Zenn’s dad, maybe she doesn’t think I would have met him, since (for all she knows) he’s still in jail. Then again, she may not suspect anything. Maybe I’m reading into it.

  “They nice?”

  “Sure. Yeah.”

  “Any brothers or sisters?”

  “No. He’s an only child.” As soon as it’s out of my mouth, my stomach lurches a little. I suddenly remember telling my dad that the Juicy sweatpants and Zombie sweatshirt belonged to Zenn’s non-existent sister. I doubt he mentioned that to my mom, but if he did, I’ll be caught in a lie. I’ve never lied to my parents before like I have been lately.

  I don’t like it.

  But my mom just nods. “What does his dad do?”

  Here we go. The truth. Just the minimal truth. “He works at the same body shop where Zenn painted the van.”

  “Oh, yeah? Is it a family business?”

  I shake my head. “No. They just work there. I think a friend of theirs owns it.”

  “Mmmm.”

  I don’t tell her that his parents aren’t married. I don’t tell her that his mom drinks too much, or that Zenn has been supporting them for years. I certainly don’t tell her anything more about Mike. But I know it’s just a matter of time before the whole truth comes out.

  “What are Zenn’s plans after high school?”

  Oh, so she wonders if he’s good enough for me, I guess.

  “He’d like to go to college but his family doesn’t have much money.”

  My mom snorts ironically. I’m preaching to the choir.

  Apparently I’ve shared enough now. “Well, he seems like a good kid.”

  “He is.”

  There is a pause in conversation and I think maybe we’re done. But then she says, “You guys …?” and trails off.

  Oh, God. What is she fishing for?

  I look at her blankly.

  “It’s just that … he’s your first boyfriend.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” I correct her. Is he? Is he my boyfriend?

  “Whatever. He’s the first guy you’ve dated. More seriously, I mean.”

  “More seriously than who? Sean Kirkdorf?” I throw out the name of my elementary-school boyfriend, the one boy I “dated” in fourth grade. The extent of our dating was leaving birthday gifts on each other’s doorsteps so we didn’t have to see each other or talk.

  “Well …”

  I scoff. “Yeah, well. It’s hard to date anyone when you can’t touch anything.”

  “Eva!”

  “Ew, Mom! I didn’t mean that! I just meant, like, hold hands or whatever!”

  My mom laughs and I start laughing, too.

  “So … he’s okay with you not … holding hands?”

  “First of all, Mom, you’re grossing me out.”

  “You’re the one being gross. I’m seriously just asking how things are going.”

  Well, now she’s done it. She’s put me in a situation where I’m going to have to tell her that I don’t get fractals from him. And that will open up a whole can of worms.

  “He’s been very patient,” I tell her. How I can say this with a straight face is beyond me. The idea of him having to be patient with me is ridiculous. I’m like an eager puppy, pressing myself into his outstretched hand.

  “Have you told him about your … condition?”

  I roll my eyes. She acts like my brain malfunction is as simple as a case of eczema. “Yes,” I tell her. “He knows I have some issues.”

  “And …?” She doesn’t like to talk about it, doesn’t like to call it anything because if she names it out loud it becomes more real. Not something minor. Not something that will go away on its own. My fractals are kind of like Voldemort — the things-that-must-not-be-named.

  “I guess we wait and see.”

  “Maybe we should try another doctor,” my mom suggests. “Take you to the Mayo Clinic or something?”

  “It’s fine, Mom,” I say. “No sense in wasting more money.”

  “Maybe you’ll still outgrow it.” Her voice is suddenly too bright.

  “Maybe,” I say.

  I know she’d feel better if I told her that I can touch Zenn, that I can have a regular relationship with someone. Or maybe it would make her feel worse, especially if she knew who Zenn was. Who knows what she wants to hear.

  “Are we done with the third degree for the evening?” I ask. “I’ve got some homework to do.”

  “Fine,” my mom says. “If teenagers volunteered just a little information on their own, parents wouldn’t have to dig so hard.”

  “If we did that, we would be pretty lousy teenagers.”

  Chapter 32

  Zenn is not at school again today. Every time he skips I feel like he’s drifting away from his college dreams, from his bright future. From me.

  I check my phone to see if he’s texted — he hasn’t — but I do see that I have an email from a Stephanie Rayner. I don’t know a Stephanie Rayner, but it’s not labeled as spam, so I open it.

  Dear Ms. Walker,

  Gemini Corporation is pleased to inform you that you have been selected as a finalist for the $100,000 Ingenuity Scholarship. Your application stood out among those of over 2,000 Wisconsin seniors and we would like to complete an interview before selecting the winner. Please contact me at your earliest convenience to set up a meeting …

  There is more but I stop reading. My heart is hammering in my chest. I’m a finalist! I could actually get this!

  And then I think of Zenn, who also applied. Oh, God, please let him be a finalist, too! Because it’s not like our relationship needs another challenge. We’ve already got secrecy and fractals and messed-up parents. At least if we are both finalists, one of us has a shot. It would be proof that the world is not totally out to get us. And I want him to have a chance. Maybe this is what love feels like: wanting something for someone else as much as you want it for yourself. Of course, he has to graduate before he can even qualify for a scholarship.

  I text him.

  Me: Where are you?

  Zenn: Working. Why? U OK?

  Me: Yeah. But I thought we had a deal?

  Zenn: What deal?

  Me: About school.

  Zenn: It’s just one day. Have a big job to finish before it snows.

  I don’t text back right away. He is working to keep a roof over his head, to feed himself and his mom. He is not lazy or dumb or irresponsible. I want to ask him about the email, but if he didn’t get one then I will feel horrible. So instead I just text.

  Me: OK.

  Zenn: I’ll be done by 3. I’ll pick you up.

  He is waiting for me when the bell rings, filthy again. Funny how I’m finding the smell of soil kind of sexy.

  “Do you, like, roll around in the dirt at work?”

  Dirt is caked under his fingernails, ground into the creases of his knuckles.

  “You need a manicure,” I tell him.

  He laughs. “Yeah. I’ll drop twenty-five dollars to make my hands look pretty.”

  “I’ll do it for you. C’mon. You’ll love it.”

  He looks doubtful.

  “It’ll be part of my therapy.” Just thinking about touching his hands makes me warm and soft inside.

  “Fine. They
’ll just look shitty again tomorrow.”

  He drives us to his place and I offer to make him a sandwich while he showers. He points me in the direction of the bread and the fridge and I carefully assemble what I need, testing items around the kitchen for fractals before using them. I sense that Zenn’s mom doesn’t do a lot of cooking. By the time he comes back to the kitchen I have his sandwich ready, along with a bowl of warm, soapy water, a fingernail brush I found under the sink and a small bottle of hand lotion from my backpack. He picks up his sandwich with one hand while I plop his other hand into the bowl.

  “You have to let it soak,” I tell him. “Or … at least I think you do. I’ve never actually had a manicure myself.”

  “Really? Isn’t that, like, a mandatory rite of passage for girls?”

  “Not for me.” I hold up my pathetic, damaged hands with their short and unpolished nails.

  “Oh, right,” he says.

  “But in the movies they always soak in some kind of liquid first. Right?”

  “Some kind of liquid?” Zenn laughs. “This should be interesting.”

  “How hard could it be?”

  “With my hands? Pretty fucking hard.”

  After he finishes his sandwich and his free hand has soaked for a few minutes, I lift it out of the water and tell him to put the other one in the bowl. I take the fingernail brush and scrub gently at the permanent dirt lines in his knuckles. My mind is spinning, trying to figure out how to bring up the email.

  “You’re gonna have to scrub harder than that, Ev. That dirt has been there for years.”

  I scrub a little harder. His fingers are relaxed, slippery, warm. I imagine them sliding along my skin and feel a blush creep up my neck. I clear my throat. “Your hands were the first thing I noticed about you,” I tell him.

  “My hands?” He lifts the hand that is still soaking and studies it. “They’re not exactly my best feature.”

  “They’re really … manly.”

  He laughs.

  “My dad’s hands are so … soft and clean. Yours are, like, weathered.”

  “That’s just a nice word for beat-up.”

  “I like them. I guess I notice hands. Maybe because mine are so …” I can’t think of the right word. Fucked up?