by Jodi Picoult
The fear of these men was nothing compared to the faces of the students surrounding me as Mr. Elyk begins to pass out the SAT Reasoning Test. A cheerleader sitting behind me is swallowing convulsively, as if her breakfast is about to come face to face with my back. Raj keeps checking the battery life on his calculator. Even Chris looks a little pale.
“I don’t understand why everyone’s panicking,” I whisper to Chris. “All you have to do is color in the circles.”
“It’s not about how you color the circles. It’s about finding the right answer to know which ones you color. Based on this test, I could wind up at Harvard or bagging groceries for the rest of my life.”
“No more talking,” Mr. Elyk says. “We’re about to begin.” He lifts up a piece of paper and begins to read from it, a litany of directions that has something to do with sections and time and point systems that sounds like gibberish to me. I stare at the grid of circles that will apparently decide my destiny.
“Now everyone break your seals,” Mr. Elyk says, “and begin.”
I do as he says, then look down at the first question in my booklet:
For pumpkin carving, Mr. Smith will not use pumpkins that weigh less than 2 pounds or more than 10 pounds. If x represents the weight of a pumpkin, in pounds, he will not use, which of the following inequalities represents all possible values of x?
a. | x – 2 | > 10
b. | x – 4 | > 6
c. | x – 5 | > 5
d. | x – 6 | > 4
e. | x – 10 | > 4
What the devil is wrong with a man who doesn’t even know how to use a proper scale? If it keeps reading x, it’s time to purchase a new one.
Clearly this is a trick question. So in response, I decide that the best use of my time is to fill in the circles in the way that will be most pleasing to the eye of the person who is grading it.
I must say, the picture I create is really a masterpiece. There’s a silhouette of a fire-breathing dragon, and a swashbuckling prince holding his sword aloft.
“Put down your pencils,” Mr. Elyk says. I glance at Raj. He seems to have forgotten how to blink.
“Now we will begin the next section,” the teacher reads.
I pick up my pencil, delighted. I think this time, I’ll draw a castle.
On Mondays during Activity Period, I drop Delilah off at the school library, where she works shelving books. We move through the halls holding hands, which seems rather tame when compared to couples like BrAngelo, who are basically mating as they navigate the building, blindly slamming into lockers and terrified freshmen.
The buzz that morning in school is still about the dreaded SAT test. “It wasn’t that bad,” I tell Delilah. “I don’t want to brag, but my dragon was rather creative.”
“Is that a metaphor?”
“No. I drew a dragon. Literally.”
She bursts out laughing. “The guidance counselors are going to have you committed.” Delilah releases my hand and links her arm through mine instead, hugging me closer. “So I was thinking . . . you and I have never been on a real date.”
“We’ve had supper with your mother.”
“That does not even begin to count.”
“Then what did you have in mind?” I ask.
“Well.” Delilah looks up at me; it’s like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. “I thought maybe—”
“Yo, Edgar,” I hear, and I turn around to see the captain of the school hockey team passing by. He fist-bumps me over Delilah’s head. “Hey, thanks for the help in English. I totally passed the test.”
“Anytime!” I say, and turn back to Delilah. “You were saying?”
“I was thinking we could go out to a restaurant, like—”
Suddenly James appears in front of us. “You coming to Friday’s meeting, Edgar?”
I nod. “Wouldn’t miss it. I’m bringing the snack.”
“Awesome,” James says, and at the last minute, acknowledges Delilah. “Hey,” he says, nodding before he walks past.
Delilah’s grip tightens on my arm. “Anyway.” She exhales. “I was thinking maybe you’d like to try Chinese food—”
“EDGAR!” A gaggle of girls surrounds me, pecking at me like chickens with their questions. Did you do the history reading? Should I get a pixie cut? Can you show me how to throw a Frisbee sometime? Is it true that you went to camp with Harry Styles?
I can feel Delilah’s nail dig into my skin. “Girls,” I say. “I’ll catch up with you later.” Then I turn the full force of my charm on Delilah. “Where were we?”
“I was making dinner plans,” she answers, her voice tight. “You were signing autographs.”
I watch her turn into the library, completely confounded. The problem is that Delilah brought me into her world. But now it’s mine too.
At Ms. Pingree’s urging, I’ve joined the drama club. They meet during Activity Period as well, in the school auditorium. Every week, we act out scenes from different plays. Last Monday, it was Tennessee Williams. This time, it’s Shakespeare.
I must admit, Shakespeare is a more comfortable fit for me.
“Now, Romeo and Juliet is something you all should be able to relate to: two teenagers who can’t keep their hands off each other, even though circumstances are forcing them apart. Edgar,” Ms. Pingree says, “would you like to take the reins as Romeo today?”
This is not a surprise. I’m the only male in the drama club. “It would be my greatest pleasure,” I say, and Ms. Pingree’s hand goes to her heart.
“Now. Who shall be our tragic Juliet?”
The hands of the fifteen girls in the room shoot up. “Claire, dear.” Ms. Pingree points. “How about you?”
Claire has an upturned nose and a cloud of fuzzy red hair, and she favors a sweatshirt with a sequined unicorn on the front. She rises, unable to make eye contact with me as she steps forward, giggling uncontrollably.
Before she can reach the stage, however, Allie McAndrews slaps her aside. “I’ll take this one.”
I reach toward Claire, trying to help her up, but I’m yanked away by Allie, who pulls me into the center of the stage with the brute force of an ogre. She tosses her shining hair and looks up at me from beneath her lashes. “You ready?”
I toss a sympathetic glance toward poor Claire, who is still attempting to get up from where Allie shoved her, and then clear my throat. “ ‘If I profane with my unworthiest hand / This holy shrine,’ ” I say, “ ‘the gentle fine is this: / My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand / To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.’ ”
It figures. The most romantic scene in the most romantic play in all of literature, and my stage partner is Delilah’s worst nightmare.
I draw in my breath. For years, I acted as if I truly were in love with Seraphima. This can’t be any worse.
So I stare into Allie McAndrews’s eyes, and I imagine Delilah’s. I reach for Allie’s hand, and I pretend I am holding on to the love of my life.
“ ‘Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much / . . . which manly—’ ”
“Mannerly!” Ms. Pingree interrupts.
“ ‘Man . . . nerly,’ ” Allie repeats, “ ‘devotion shows in this; / for saints have hands that pilgrims hands do touch . . .’ ”
I raise the flat of my hand and press hers against it.
“ ‘And palm to palm,’ ” she says, transfixed, “ ‘is holy palmers’ kiss.’ ”
Stepping forward, I gently brush a strand of her hair away from her cheek. My voice drops to a whisper. “ ‘Have not saints lips? And holy palmers too?’ ”
Allie stares at me. Gaping.
“Line!” I call out.
Ms. Pingree reads, “ ‘Aye, Pilgrim . . .’ ”
“ ‘Aye, Pilgrim,’ ” Allie parrots. “ ‘Lips they must use in prayer.’ ”
I groan. “ ‘O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do; / They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.’ ”
Her gaze is steady, luminous,
hopeful. “ ‘Saints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake.’ ”
I cup her face in my hands. “ ‘Then move not,’ ” I murmur, “ ‘while my prayer’s effect I take.’ ”
I lean in, close my eyes, and kiss her.
As our lips meet, the seal of the auditorium door opens, admitting a slice of light that immediately draws my attention. Standing there is Delilah, looking as if I have crushed her.
She turns around while Allie is still in my arms, and starts to run.
“Delilah!” I cry, and I jump off the stage to race after her.
I chase Delilah past the gym, out the back doors of the school, and into the deserted student parking lot before I manage to grasp her arm. “Just let me explain,” I say.
She rounds on me, furious. “No,” Delilah says. “This isn’t your book. You don’t get to close it and start over.”
“I was just reading lines. How is this any different from what I had to do every day with Seraphima, when I was part of the fairy tale?”
“Back then you had no choice. But this time, you could have said no.” Her eyes well up. I realize, with a pang, that I’ve never made Delilah cry before. “How could you do this to me? And with her?”
“I didn’t do anything to you. I was acting. She means nothing to me.”
“That’s not how it looked,” Delilah argues. “It might as well have been real.”
Frustration flares inside me, making heat rise in my cheeks. “That’s the point of drama club.”
She scoffs. “You know, I actually came to the auditorium because I felt bad about the way I treated you back at the library. But now I realize I have nothing to apologize for. Just go back to Allie. It’s obviously where you want to be.”
As much as I want to fix things with Delilah, I don’t understand why I’m in the wrong. “For heaven’s sake, Delilah, how many times do I have to say it? She’s just a friend.”
“She’s a bitch. You just don’t see it yet. She once told me that my new haircut made my face look less fat.”
“That’s a compliment!”
“I hadn’t gotten a haircut!” Delilah says, her teeth clenched. “She spread a rumor about Jules being a hermaphrodite. When one of her own friends finished a treatment program for eating disorders, Allie told her she was pretty enough now to be a plus-size model.”
“You’re being just as judgmental as you claim Allie is,” I point out. “Have you ever even tried to open up your friend circle beyond a single person, and get to know her? You might find she isn’t the monster you make her out to be, if you’d just talk to her.”
Delilah’s eyes glitter with tears. “You weren’t just talking,” she whispers, and she walks away.
For the rest of the day, I keep replaying my fight with Delilah. I don’t hear anything around me; I don’t see anything in front of me. When I walk down the halls, even though they’re crowded, they seem empty.
At home, when Jessamyn asks how my day went, I walk right past her and into my bedroom, shutting out the world.
This isn’t the first time I’ve had troubles, but it is the first time I haven’t had anyone to share them with. In the past, my confidants were Frump and Queen Maureen, but even if the fairy tale were in my possession and not Delilah’s, I know I couldn’t turn to them. They’re happy, and my problems should no longer be theirs.
I fall asleep, tossing fitfully. My dreams are full of Delilah—the tears that made her eyes too bright, the way her voice shook. The expression on her face when I turned out not to be the person she’d hoped I would be.
In the book, it was so easy. I fell in love, I kissed the girl, she loved me back unconditionally. I’ve never had a script for an apology.
Suddenly I understand all the façades Frump put on, trying to win Seraphima’s heart. I know what it feels like when being oneself isn’t good enough.
I wish that someone would flip backward through the pages of the story of me and Delilah, bringing us back to the Once Upon a Time.
I wake with a start, the blankets tangled around my feet. My hair is damp with sweat, my fists curled in the sheets, and nothing has changed. Delilah is still farther away from me than she’s ever been.
I have to make this right. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, then sit down in front of the computer. There is a little green circle next to Delilah’s name. I quickly click CALL, waiting for her face to fill the screen.
Instead, a box pops up. CALL ENDED.
Before I can try again, the little circle next to Delilah’s name disappears.
I bury my face in my hands. What’s the point of being in this world without her?
All right, I think. Pull yourself together, Oliver. It’s perfectly normal to feel overwhelmed. This is a problem I’ve never encountered before—it has nothing to do with getting out of the pages of a book or seeing letters appear in midair or bleeding ink. For once it is a completely ordinary problem that could affect any teenage boy who quarreled with his girlfriend. Which means that maybe I’m not alone after all.
The house is dark, although it is only eight p.m. Jessamyn has left dinner for me on the kitchen counter, but I am not hungry. I pad upstairs again and pause outside her bedroom. Slowly I open the door, fearing she may already be asleep.
Jessamyn is perched on the edge of her bed. When she hears the door creak, she whips around, wiping her eyes.
It takes me aback. I’ve been so wrapped up in my own problems that I never stopped to consider I might not be the only one who is struggling.
“Are . . . are you all right?”
“I’m fine. I just have a bad headache, that’s all.” She fakes a smile. “Did you need something?”
“No, no. You’re ill. I’ll leave you be.”
I don’t know Jessamyn Jacobs very well. But in that moment, she looks very small, and very tired. “Good night, Edgar,” she says.
“Good night . . . Mom.” I start to pull the door closed behind me, and at the last moment duck back inside. “Try leeches,” I suggest helpfully. “They work wonders for me.”
“Dude . . . what’s up with you?” Chris asks me. “You’ve been staring at that beaker for, like, fifteen minutes.”
“Delilah and I had quite an argument yesterday,” I say solemnly, measuring out hydrochloric acid. We have been left to our own devices to complete the day’s chemistry lab. I’m trying to follow directions to the letter, because I’m so distracted I fear I may accidentally cause an explosion.
Delilah wasn’t waiting for me today when I arrived at school. She wasn’t at my locker.
Chris hands me an eyedropper. “Girls go crazy. It’s just what they do. Give her a couple of days to chill, and she’ll forgive you for whatever you did.” He glances at me. “What was it, anyway?”
“I kissed Allie McAndrews.”
Chris winces. “Bro, Delilah’s not coming back to you.”
“Thank you so much for the support,” I mutter.
“Well, damn, what were you thinking?”
“We were role-playing,” I explain.
“Call it whatever you want,” Chris says, smirking.
“It was for the drama club. Delilah walked in at the worst possible moment.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know what to tell you, man. From her point of view, it doesn’t look good.”
I pass him the evaporating dish so he can hold it over the Bunsen burner. “I’d do anything to take it back.”
“Well, unless you have a time machine, that’s not gonna happen,” Chris says. “What you need is a grand gesture. Something that makes her completely forget what she saw.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m talking going all out. Flowers. Get down on one knee. Confess your love. Haven’t you ever seen The Notebook?”
I look at him, dubious. “That sort of thing really works?”
“Chicks eat it up,” Chris assures me.
The evaporating dish cools, leaving behind pure white crystals,
tiny diamonds. It is remarkable to think that something so beautiful was born from acid.
Maybe Chris is right.
Maybe there’s still hope for me.
I just wish there were a recipe I could follow that would make it easier.
“What’s wrong?” Jessamyn asks that evening, when we are sitting at dinner.
“Nothing,” I say, using my fork to push around the peas on my plate.
“Well, you’re not eating. Or at least, you’re not eating as much as usual. . . .”
I put down my utensils. “Did you ever fight with . . . Dad?” I ask.
“No,” Jessamyn answers, straight-faced. “We were Barbie and Ken.” Before I can even ask who on earth they are, she continues. “Of course we fought, honey. All couples argue. If you’re in a relationship and you’re not fighting, you’re probably doing something wrong.”
“Delilah saw me kissing another girl,” I blurt out.
She chokes on her sip of water. “Excuse me? Is one girl not enough?”
“It isn’t what you think,” I explain. “It was part of a play.”
“I might have to take her side on this one. . . .”
I rest my head in my hands. “I’d apologize, but she won’t even give me a chance to speak.”
Jessamyn’s gaze softens. “Once, I bought a brand-new pair of designer heels. I had them in a bag outside my closet door. When I came back that night before bedtime, the shoes had disappeared. I asked your father if he’d seen them and he said, ‘Oh, you mean the stuff you put out for Goodwill?’ He’d accidentally donated a pair of Jimmy Choos to charity.” She shakes her head, lost in the memory. “I didn’t speak to him for a week.”
“Then what happened?”
She grins. “He bought me an even more expensive pair.”
“I don’t think shoes will work here,” I say glumly.
“It’s not about the shoes,” Jessamyn replies. “It’s about what the shoes represent. A simple I’m sorry can go a long way.”