by Wendy Brant
He watches me for a moment and then says, “I got an email today.”
My eyes meet his.
“Me, too.”
He takes the fingernail brush from my hand and sets it on the table. He knits his fingers between mine, our palms together, knuckles toward the ceiling like we are going to play uncle. Our hands are slippery from the soapy water and there is something sensual about the way they slide against each other.
“So maybe at least one of us will win,” I say.
He nods. There is a tension in the air, but not a bad tension. Not jealousy about the scholarship. It comes from where our hands are joined and it runs up my arm. I feel it in the thrumming of my heart. Zenn must feel it, too.
“We have maybe a half hour before my mom may or may not come stumbling through the door.”
I swallow once before I croak out, “Yeah?”
“Do you want to spend it giving me a manicure that will be ruined tomorrow? Or should we do something more productive with our time?” His slippery thumb caresses mine.
“Like … study?” I suggest, teasing. I squeeze his fingers between mine lightly. He squeezes back.
He shrugs and takes his left hand out of the bowl. He reaches for my other hand.
“We should study,” I say, as he pulls me up from my chair. “You have to graduate to qualify for that scholarship, and guess what? I got your trig homework from Mr. Haase.”
“Oh, yay,” Zenn says. He tugs on my hands, leading me around the table toward him. He guides my hips so I’m sitting on him, facing him, straddling his lap. He takes off my glasses and sets them on the table. I have a feeling we’re not going to be doing any studying.
I’m definitely okay with that.
“That would be pretty hot, huh?” he says, sliding his hand down my braid. His fingers catch in the rubber band and gently tug it out. “If I started talking trig?” He leans close and says, “Sine. Cosine.” His lips touch my earlobe and I hold my breath. “Tangent.”
“God, that is hot,” I whisper, only half-joking. I slide my fingers into his hair and he closes his eyes in pleasure. He slowly untwines my braid. I close my eyes, too.
“Secant.” He kisses me softly, his lips barely brushing against mine. “Chebyshev method.”
“God, you make even Chebyshev method sound dirty.”
“It’s not me,” he says innocently. “Chebyshev method just sounds dirty.”
I open my eyes and pull away from him slightly. I trace my fingers over his face: the tiny moon-shaped scar under the arch of his eyebrow, the slant of his straight and perfect nose, his cheekbones, his full lips. He didn’t shave this morning and his jaw is slightly rough. My fingertips make a quiet rasping against his chin.
“Viète’s infinite product,” he says. Seriously, I’m not sure I’ve ever heard anything sound as sexy as he can make a simple math formula.
“I don’t understand something.”
“I can’t help you with Viète’s infinite product. That’s your thing.”
“No. I don’t understand how you didn’t become superpopular within minutes of transferring.”
“Me?” He looks incredulous. “Popular?”
“Seriously. You are so … so good-looking.” I probably shouldn’t be so open with my compliments. I’m sure there’s some kind of coy game I should be playing, but I never learned.
He rolls his eyes. “Right.”
“You are. And you’re funny and artistic and smart and you have a kick-ass truck.”
“I do have a kick-ass truck,” he concedes.
“I would think those vulture girls would have swooped in at the first sniff of fresh meat when you showed up.”
He tucks my loose hair behind my ears. “I’m poor. I dress for shit. I don’t have time to play sports. And I couldn’t care less about any of this high school bullshit.”
“And … you’re kind of a rebel,” I add, as if he’s proven my point.
“Eva,” he says, sliding his still-damp hands just under the edge of my shirt, pressing his fingers lightly against my lower back. “I don’t have the time or patience for anyone whose biggest concern is kissing their friends’ asses. You don’t play their game, they don’t want you in their circle. You know that.”
I think of Josh, balancing on the fragile tightrope of popularity. He’s right.
“I mean, you’re smart and funny and pretty, and you’re not popular.”
“I’m not pretty.”
“Why is that the compliment that you resist?”
I’m not sure. I enjoy being called smart and funny, but when he compliments my looks I feel funny in a different way.
“I don’t know.”
“It’s because you are deeper than a puddle. But you are. Very. Pretty.”
I can feel my cheeks burning. I change the subject, but his talk of my good looks has made me warm inside. “How’d you get your cool truck anyway?” I lean down and press my lips against where his jaw nearly meets his ear.
“Dave — from the body shop? — he got it for a steal, we fixed it up. He gave it to me as an early graduation present.”
“Wow.” I catch his earlobe lightly between my lips. “That’s pretty generous.”
Zenn’s breath hitches. His fingers press into my back. “I bring him a lot of work.”
“Ah. So it’s, like, commission.”
“Kinda.”
He squirms a little beneath me.
“Am I making your legs fall asleep?” I ask, trying to lift my weight off his lap slightly.
He shakes his head. “Nothing is falling asleep.”
His suggestive tone makes me blush again. I look down without meaning to, and then blush more.
I kiss him, my hands on either side of his face, holding him like he might run away if I let go. He pulls lightly on my hips, pressing me down against him more firmly. We kiss, and kiss, and his hands wander up and around, exploring. If I thought we had more time, I’d take off my shirt and his shirt and anything else that’s getting in the way. But we only have minutes before his mom could walk in.
“This is crazy,” I whisper. “What are we doing?”
“Therapy, I thought,” he whispers back.
I pull away. “Seriously. What are we going to do?”
“About … the scholarship?” he asks.
“About everything.”
Zenn smooths my hair. He bites his lip in a way that makes my insides tangle. But he doesn’t answer.
Chapter 33
I don’t tell my parents about the scholarship. I’m not sure why, exactly. Maybe it’s because I don’t want to jinx it, or because nothing is for sure. But I don’t tell them anything.
I do contact Stephanie Rayner and set up a phone interview, during which I find myself almost underselling my qualifications. It’s not my intention when I dial the phone, but once we’re talking about math, it sounds flat and uninteresting, even to my own ears. It’s numbers. Formulas. Dry, perfect calculations.
It’s not art. It’s not beauty.
Stephanie is kind and flatters me with compliments about my grades and my résumé, but I want to tell her there are more important things than student council and tutoring. There is supporting your family and there is hard work. There is resilience in the face of adversity. There is love. I bite my tongue and try to accept her compliments gracefully, I try to sell myself. I try. But when I hang up the phone I am relieved it’s over.
But it’s not over. Zenn will do his interview and even though he is charming and funny and his talent is creative and interesting, they may decide that math is practical. They may think somehow my gift is more “important” than his. A young woman interested in STEM may be the trend du jour and they may pick me instead of him.
I’m not sure I can let that happen.
I spend a lot of time thinking about Zenn. Not just horny thoughts about his mouth and his skin and his eyelashes, but about him — how hard he works, how talented he is, how much he’s had to strug
gle. I keep thinking about how much he really, really needs the scholarship. Without it, he won’t go to college, period. He will be stuck painting motorcycle fuel tanks or working at the Piggly Wiggly or raking the lawns of other people’s mansions. He deserves better than that. He deserves everything.
I think about how it would feel if I got the scholarship instead of him. I imagine getting the call or the email, and my heart clenches. Instead of feeling happy or excited I just feel sad. Guilty and undeserving.
It’s funny how I could want something so badly just a couple months ago, and now feel physically sick when I think about getting it. All I can think about is Zenn and how to give him a chance at his best future. If I wait to see who wins, it will be too late. If I win I won’t be able to just give it to him; there are rules against that kind of thing, though I doubt anyone has been stupid enough to win the scholarship and then give it away before. Even if I could, there’s no way in hell he would accept it. I know if things were reversed, I wouldn’t.
There is no good solution other than him winning the scholarship flat out, and there’s no way for me to make sure that happens. But there is a way for me to increase the odds.
Two days after my interview with Stephanie Rayner, I send her an email to withdraw my application. I’m not sure how I’ve become this kind of girl — the kind of girl who ignores her friends or lies to her family or gives up her dream for a boy. A part of me hates that girl.
But a part of me is proud of her because I’m not sure I’ve ever done a truly selfless thing in my whole life. I help my parents because I’m a decent kid and I love my brothers and sisters. I do philanthropic work through church and school because it’s all arranged for me, and it looks good on college applications. But truly selfless, generous acts? I can’t think of any. Until now.
It almost feels like I need to do this as much for me as for him, like maybe this is what love feels like. Like maybe this is what growing up feels like.
Chapter 34
Although Zenn has been coming to school, it’s been snowing a lot and during his non–school hours he’s been shoveling sidewalks for the landscaping company. We haven’t seen much of each other and every single part of me misses him. He does drive me home from school today and pulls over before he gets to my house so we can make out for a couple of minutes before he has to rush off. It almost makes it worse, though, to have a taste of him and then have it taken away. His truck windows are a little steamy and the snow is coming down hard when he drops me off. He doesn’t come in — he doesn’t really have time, and the minivan is in the driveway. We’re actively trying to keep him away from my mom.
When I walk in the house, my lips still swollen from his kisses, my mom is waiting for me at the kitchen table. The house is silent, which is creepy and unusual.
“Where are the kids?” I ask, plopping my backpack onto an empty chair.
“They’re at Bethany’s.”
I nod and try not to look panicked. Bethany is a neighbor my mom only uses in desperate circumstances. Something is going down here.
She doesn’t beat around the bush. “Do you have something you want to tell me?”
A knot of anxiety twists in my stomach. She’s not smiling. She’s not happy. She knows I sabotaged myself, somehow. She’s going to give me a big-ass speech about giving up a hundred thousand dollars for a boy.
“How could you …” she starts, but doesn’t finish her sentence. She’s barely holding it together, her jaw clenched, her hands folded tightly in some sort of prayer under the table.
I don’t confess to anything yet. Teenager 101: never offer up more than you need to.
She rubs her forehead with her fingertips. “You know, don’t you?”
Wait. What? Know what?
“Who Zenn’s father is?”
It’s not about me giving up the scholarship. I try to keep my face neutral, which is nearly impossible.
She studies me for a moment. I look away.
This is it. The end of the line. I think about playing dumb, but I am a smart girl. Nearly a genius on some levels. I don’t think I can get away with that.
I nod, just barely.
My mom’s head drops, her shoulders sag.
“Eva.” Her voice is pained.
“I know, Mom. It’s messed up. But ... we didn’t know at first.”
“But you do now. You’ve known for a while now, haven’t you?”
I want to ask her how she found out, but there are too many ways. Fuzzy memories that became clearer, Google searches, a connection between a last name and an old newspaper article, Zenn’s vaguely exotic looks reminding her of an old mug shot. Who knows? There are a million ways she could have found out. Most likely she just looked, like I did. She may not be my mother by birth, but she’s still my aunt and we share some of the same curiosity genes.
“It doesn’t matter to you? That his father killed your parents?” I can tell it is taking everything to keep her voice calm.
“Zenn had nothing to do with it, Mom. He wasn’t even born yet.”
“His father killed my sister!”
“It was an accident,” I offer weakly.
“He drove drunk! He chose to drive drunk! That’s not an accident. It’s murder with a car!”
I take a deep breath, trying to stay calm and rational, trying to see this from her point of view. But I can’t. I think of Zenn growing up without a dad. I think of Michael’s sad eyes. His jacket. The fractal.
“He spent eighteen years in jail, Mom. Zenn’s life has been totally screwed up because of that accident.”
My mom looks at me incredulously and I realize I’ve said exactly the wrong thing.
“His life has been screwed up? His life?” She stands up and starts pacing around the kitchen. “I lost my sister. My best friend. I quit college. I moved home and became a mom at nineteen. Don’t tell me his life was screwed up.”
These are the feelings I’ve always gotten from touching her: sadness, resentment, guilty regret. I know she loves me. I know she wouldn’t trade me or the E’s for what might have been, but it must be hard to let go of the plans you had for yourself.
“You cannot see him, Eva. I cannot have you involved with that family.” She spits out the last word, like it tastes bad on her tongue.
“Mom. I’ve waited my whole life for someone I could have a real relationship with. I’m not going to give him up because you have an issue with his dad.”
“You should have an issue with his dad! You should have an issue with his whole family!”
“Well, I don’t. I don’t feel the same way that you do.”
“You can’t even touch him, Eva!” I can tell she didn’t think that through by the way she averts her eyes as soon as it’s out of her mouth.
I stare at her for a second, almost not believing I heard those words. It’s a low blow, like my touch is the only thing that would keep a guy interested. I toss the dish towel onto the counter and walk away. We’re not going to make any progress with this discussion.
She follows me.
“I’m serious, Eva. Dating any boy could end in heartbreak for you. But that boy?!”
“Dating any boy could end in heartbreak for anyone — not just me.”
“You are not to see him anymore.” Ha! Like she can stop me.
I try to stay calm. “I don’t think that’s fair.”
“Yeah, well ... I don’t think it’s fair that I lost my sister. Life isn’t fair.”
“His dad took your sister, so you take my boyfriend?”
My mom sighs in frustration. “It’s not like you’re going to marry this kid, Eva. He’s your first real boyfriend. Why not just save us all some aggravation?”
“Okay, first? I never said I was going to marry him. We just started dating! But I like him. He’s amazing and I don’t see why your feelings about his dad should matter. What is this, Romeo and Juliet?”
“His father killed your parents!”
“You’re my pa
rents! You and dad! I never knew my other parents! I know you miss them, I know you’re angry. But I am just trying to live the life that I have!”
I wish so much that my dad were here. He’d get what I’m saying. He’d understand because he didn’t know my parents either, and he might be able to talk my mom down from her anger. But he’s not here.
I grab my coat and head for the front door.
“We are not done with this discussion!” she threatens.
I walk out of the house and slam the door and she can’t really follow me because it’s close to dinnertime and she has four little mouths to feed, just down the street at Bethany’s. She’s stuck, but I’m not. I head straight to Zenn’s. Of course, he’s not home. I knew he wouldn’t be, but I don’t have anywhere else to go. I try to text him. He doesn’t answer.
I wander around in the snow for a while before I get too cold and head to Java Dock, hoping Zenn will get back before it closes.
It’s nearly eight when he finally responds.
Zenn: Sorry. Fucking blizzard. What’s up?
Me: My mom knows.
There is a text lag.
Me: I’ll say it for you — fuckity fuck
Zenn: Where are u?
Me: Java Dock
Zenn: Be there in a few
When he comes in he goes straight to the counter for a coffee. He’s been outside for hours and I’m sure he’s frozen through. His coat is covered in a fine layer of ice, and although his skin looks paler than usual, his cheeks and nose are red.
Once he gets his coffee and takes a warming sip, he sits down next to me on the couch and reaches for my hand. I’m not sure whose hand is colder, his or mine.
My mom is crazy if she thinks I’m letting him go.
“So what happened?” he asks.
I tell him what I know, that my mom somehow found out about his dad.
“She doesn’t want me to see you anymore.” I swear my voice sounds calm and collected, but something must give away my real feelings because Zenn gathers me into his arms and pulls me against his chest. I press my face into his coat, into his clean, hopeful, snowy scent.