The Treasure Map of Boys: Noel, Jackson, Finn, Hutch, Gideon—and Me, Ruby Oliver

by E. Lockhart

  “But don’t you think we could do something better now that I’m in charge?” I said. “I mean, don’t you think the student body of Tate Prep could be collectively convinced to eschew cute but disgusting marshmallow confections in favor of true deliciousness?”

  “Speak English, Roo,” said Meghan.

  I splashed her.

  “Fine,” said Nora. “You talked me into it with your ridiculous vocabulary.”

  “Spankin’,” I said. “See, Meghan? Nora appreciates me.”

  “You promise no marshmallows?” Nora asked.

  “I promise. Deliciousness only.”

  “All right, then.”

  Meghan changed the subject. “Nora, tell us all about the whole Kim-Jackson breakup thing,” she said, leaning forward.

  I held my breath, waiting to hear what Nora would say.

  “Kim’s shattered.” Nora took a sip of her ginger ale.

  “Really? What did Jackson do?” I asked, trying to sound like it didn’t matter to me, he’d never been my boyfriend.

  Nora heaved herself onto the edge of the hot tub. “I can’t get into the details,” she said, and sighed. “I promised her I wouldn’t. She doesn’t want everyone knowing all about it.”

  “Oh.”

  My intense curiosity must have showed on my face, because Nora added: “It’s not that I don’t trust you guys, it’s just—it’s not my secret. It’s Kim’s.”

  I ached to know. After seeing them holding hands in the hallway. After watching him stroke her hair the way he used to stroke mine. After feeling like a blade was going through my chest every time I saw them together, for so many months—I almost felt I deserved to know what had happened.

  “All you really need to know is, she’s better off without him,” Nora continued. “He made her feel insecure all the time. Like something else was always more important than she was.”

  I remembered that feeling. I used to dread being invited to parties because if I went, I’d be miserable while Jackson chatted in a dark corner with some girl from another school—but if I didn’t go, it seemed like maybe he’d end up doing something more in that dark corner, and then I’d hate myself for even thinking such a thing and feel like I must be insane possessive untrusting jealous girl. It was a cycle.

  But I always figured Kim was different. Jackson left me for her because she was the one he loved.

  “She was so sure he was ‘the one,’” I couldn’t help saying.

  “Well, he’s turned out not to be,” said Nora. “He broke up with her at school. Can you believe it? And then he told her, ‘No hard feelings.’”

  “What did she say to hat?” Meghan asked.

  “She said, ‘You’re breaking up with me. I’m allowed to have hard feelings, you fuckhead.’”

  Meghan laughed.

  Nora plunged back into the tub. When her head came back up, she said, “That’s it, we have to change the subject now.”

  Meghan started talking about her ex-boyfriend Bick, who was now at Harvard smoking pot and being pretentious, and I appreciated Nora’s loyalty, so I didn’t ask anything else about Jackson and Kim. But I couldn’t concentrate on the conversation.

  One part of me felt sympathy. Poor Kim. Even though Jackson had chosen her over me, still she was someone I used to love, and I felt sorry for her, knowing she was shattered.

  One part of me felt shock. Because the idea that Jackson had made Kim feel insecure just like he’d made me feel insecure—I couldn’t quite believe it. He had given her a cashmere sweater. He had begged her forgiveness when she came back from Tokyo. He had written her romantic letters. I knew these things were true, and yet… she had felt just like I had. Like she hadn’t really mattered to him.

  Then one tiny, shameful part of me thought:

  He doesn’t love her.

  He never loved her.

  Yay.

  “I can’t believe she called him a fuckhead,” I finally said.

  1 Also pants, of course, lest your imagination get away with you. He was wearing pants.

  2 Just in case you’re confused, we don’t have the same classes every day at Tate.

  3 Philatelists: Big word for stamp collectors. I only know it because my dad’s crazy friend Greg is an amateur philatelist. He has a panic disorder and never leaves the house. That’s what will happen to me if my panic attacks get too bad. I’ll get scared to leave the house and I’ll stop functioning and people who want to visit me will have to come over and bring me Chinese food. I’ll probably even start thinking stamps are actually interesting—which is the kind of thing that happens to you when you never, ever go anywhere.

  4 That is the one thing I know for certain about her life outside therapy. Doctor Z must smoke like a fiend, because she’s never without the Nicorette.

  5 Reginald: Not a normal therapeutic term, just in case you’re wondering. Reginald is what Doctor Z and I have agreed to call the grieving process, meaning me grieving over losing all my friends and the other debacles of last year. Only, the phrase grieving process gives me hives. So we call it Reginald.

  6 Edith Wharton. Mr. Wallace had told me The House of Mirth would be on the syllabus second term, and I knew from watching the movie that it’s about the social downfall of a popular woman whose friends and boyfriends all desert her and she ends up a roly-poly pauper and eventually dead.

  So basically, story of my life.

  Except the dead part, hopefully.

  7 Yeah. They did. It’s still there, in stall number three of the main building girls’ bathroom:

  Ruby Oliver is a ____. (fill in the blank)

  Lousy friend.

  Fantasist.

  Slut…

  Trollop.

  Hussy.

  Tart.

  Chippie.

  I know Kim’s and Cricket’s writing as well as I know my own.

  8 What I didn’t tell Doctor Z: I am obviously certifiable, because all through this conversation with Mr. Wallace about lacrosse and the zoo internship, and while I was trying to listen to what Kim saying at the other end of the table, I was also secretly trying to look down the open collar of my teacher’s shirt to see chest hair.

  Because I am hormonally deranged, that’s why.

  Wallace is nearly thirty. Plus, he’s married.

  Plus, he’s my teacher. Gross.

  Except, I still looked.

  I Am a Reluctant Bodyguard

  Roo,

  Here’s a true confession.

  I skipped Chemistry first day back for a reason.

  A reason involving Ariel Olivieri.

  On the rebound from her breakup with Shiv.

  A reason involving a chance encounter at Bailey/Coy

  Books the last day of winter break.

  Her giving me a ride home in the rain.

  And physical contact that now I shudder to recall.

  My advance spies tell me AO may be up for a repeat.

  No repeat is going to be happening.

  I am filled with remorse and a general sense of yuckiness at the memory of what I did under the influence of an atmospheric rainstorm, random hormones and a general sense of being alone on the planet.

  I could not face Chem first day back. But I also can’t ditch class for the rest of the term without incurring the wrath of Fleischman, so I have a proposition for you. I need your protection from the undesired advances of AO.

  I wish to employ your services as bodyguard, and will pay you gladly in Fruit Roll-Ups.

  I leave this note unsigned, as it is highly incriminating. I suggest you eat it when the contents have been memorized.

  —written in Noel’s scribble on yellow legal paper, folded in quarters, with the word “Top-secret” across the outside.

  in all the years we’ve been at school together, Ariel Olivieri’s mail cubby has always been directly next to mine—Ruby Oliver. More than one painful situation has occurred due to this proximity. Someone with my history knows better than to leave such an
explosive note in a public mail cubby—not even taking into account it’s being a public mail cubby directly next to the mail cubby of the person being discussed in the note—but Noel was untraumatized by the dramas of the Tate Universe and therefore fairly stupid in this regard.

  I ripped the note into tiny shreds and flushed the pieces down the toilet, thinking how Noel was the third guy who had liked me and then liked Ariel instead. Sure, one was in fourth grade and one was freshman year. But still. Three guys.1

  Were Ariel and I similar? Aside from being average height with a muscular build and brown hair—no. Ariel was pretty in a warm, dimpled, blue-jean way, whereas on a good day I was pretty in a sharp, eyeglasses, fishnet-stocking way. As for social status, she was golden and I was a roly-poly; and as for personality, she was a vacant shell decorated with charming mannerisms and occasional mild bitchiness, while I was—I don’t know what I was.

  Neurotic.

  Maybe I ought to highlight my hair, I thought. Maybe I should wear jeans that cling to my butt. Maybe if I didn’t come to school in torn fishnets and clunky Mary Janes people wouldn’t always be choosing Ariel over me.2

  Ag. No.

  Thoughts like this are exactly why I’m too neurotic to have a boyfriend.

  Anyway, Noel had kissed Ariel. At the very least. There had been “physical contact.” And even though he said he shuddered to recall it and there would be no repeats, I still couldn’t help thinking of his bony pale hands touching her small but attractive boobs and stroking her glamorously dark curls.

  Who else was he kissing while he wasn’t kissing me? Those sophomores he sometimes ate lunch with? Girls from the cross-country team? Seniors he knew from the November Week retreat? He could be kissing girls all over the Tate Universe without me knowing anything about it.

  I came out of the bathroom stall where I’d flushed the note, splashed some water on my face and put on red lipstick.

  Then I wiped it off again.

  Noel had been kissing Ariel Olivieri.

  Kissing.

  Ariel.

  Ag.

  I felt shattered.

  Except, how could I be shattered? We weren’t together. We would never be together, because of Nora liking him. We had barely spoken to one another since the term started.

  Get over it, I told myself. You’re not allowed to be shattered.

  He’s your Chem partner. You’re his bodyguard.

  Nothing more.

  Noel was waiting for me outside the lab. “Did you get my note?” he asked. I nodded.

  “Did you eat it?”

  I nodded.

  “You did not.”

  I patted my stomach.

  “Tell me you did not. Now I’m getting worried.”

  “I needed a snack to tide me over till lunch,” I told him. “My mother made me drink kale-apple juice for breakfast. She said I’d feel invigorated and my electrolytes would be balanced.”

  “Did it work?”

  I shrugged. “Well, I followed that with a venti vanilla latte. Meghan and I got drive-through Starbucks.”

  Noel wrinkled his forehead. “That can’t be a good mix.”

  “No. So thanks for the piece of paper. It helped settle my stomach.”

  We went into the classroom and took seats at our usual lab table. Ariel and Katarina were next to us. Neanderthals Josh and Darcy on the other side. Noel leaned in and whispered: “Stay close. The enemy is at hand.”

  I liked the feeling of his breath in my ear. “That Fruit Roll-Up better be apricot,” I told him sharply. “I’m not dealing with this situation for anything less than apricot.”

  Fleischman clapped his hands loudly. His comb-over flopped endearingly in the wrong direction. “Emulsions!” he yelled. “An emulsion is a stable mixture of two things that do not normally mix. Oil and vinegar are usually separate, yes? Put them both in a jar, and the oil stays on top and the vinegar on the bottom. Mix them together, and they will separate themselves. But it’s possible to add an emulsifier, perhaps a little mustard or egg yolk, mix vigorously, and create a stable mixture: salad dressing! Now, name me another emulsion you encounter in your kitchen.”

  No one raised their hands.

  “Emulsions? People?”

  No response.

  “Okay, then I’ll call on someone. Oliver! Name an emulsion.”

  I hadn’t done the reading. “Um. There’s emulsion on film?”

  “In your kitchen, Oliver!” boomed Fleischman. “Do you have film in your kitchen?”

  “Actually, we do keep film in the fridge,” I said. “My dad has yet to cross over to digital.”

  Noel laughed. “Pudding,” he said, distracting Fleischman from his attack.

  Fleischman jumped with happiness. “Pudding! Exactly! A pudding is a stiffened emulsion! And how about mayonnaise?”

  He went on for a long time about droplets of oil, agitation and protein molecules. He also revealed himself to be a mayonnaise enthusiast, waxing on about hollandaise, aioli and other sauces that are basically glorified mayo.

  “Wait,” Katarina interrupted. “Go back one step. There’s egg in mayonnaise?”

  “Duh,” said Noel.

  “Yes,” said Fleischman. “It was in the reading. And it’s on the ingredient list.” He bounded over to the table at the front of the room, secured a jar of Hellmann’s and handed it to Katarina.

  “Ugh!” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t like eggs.”

  “Do you like mayonnaise?” asked Fleischman.

  “I thought I did.”

  “Then you like eggs! Now, I want each of you to choose a whisk, two eggs, some vinegar, a timer and a beaker of olive oil. Bowls, measuring cups and salt shakers are already on your tables.”

  Ariel stood to go get her ingredients, but instead of heading directly to the front of the room she walked over to Noel and stood six inches closer to him than was necessary.

  “Some of our whisks have many strands,” Fleischman announced. “Some have few. I want you to count the strands on your whisks, people, then compare with your neighbors the length of time it takes to create your emulsions. The recipe is on the board!”

  Ariel tossed her hair. “Hi, Ruby. Hi, Noel. How’s it going?”

  “Spankin’,” I told her. “Spankin’ with a side of ennui.”

  “Fine,” said Noel.

  “Did you make any New Year’s resolutions, Ruby?” she asked, staring at Noel.

  Yeah, I thought.

  I resolved to keep my hands off Noel. But I didn’t know that doing so would mean he’d take up with you.

  “I canceled all my catalog subscriptions and gave up bottled water,” I said instead.3

  “Oh, wow. What a good person you turned out to be,” Ariel said.

  “Thanks,” I muttered.4

  She adjusted the hem of her T-shirt. “I resolved to broaden my musical horizons.”

  “That’s cool,” I said. Noel was slouching in his chair and staring at our salt shaker.

  “Like I’m getting into punk and indie rock now,” Ariel went on. “Not just listening to what comes on the radio. Hey, do either of you know anything about music? I could use some help knowing what to buy that’s, you know, off the beaten track.”

  She didn’t mean me.

  “All my friends are useless on the subject,” she continued.

  Noel raised his eyebrows at me, as if to say, Will you get her out of here?

  I stood. “Come on, Ariel,” I said, as cheerily as possible, linking my arm through hers. She jerked in surprise but didn’t pull away. “Let’s get our eggs.”

  Ariel was compliant. “Bye, Noel!” she called as we walked to the front of the room.

  He didn’t answer.

  We got our eggs, mixed them with olive oil, lemon juice and salt. Made emulsions. Generated hypotheses about whisks. Listened to Fleischman talk about emulsifiers and what they did and how they did it.

  All through class, whenever Ariel said anything to Noel, I an
swered.

  It happened a lot.

  Ariel and I had a number of awkward, cheerful conversations.

  She didn’t like me, though, so eventually she gave up. Score one for the bodyguard.

  At the end of class, Fleischman offered us all Tupperware so we could take our mayonnaise home and eat it on sandwiches. “It’s an edible experiment, people!” he called as one hundred percent of us left the room without mayo. “Think about it. Now you know the chemical process behind some of your favorite everyday foods!”

  In the hallway, Noel grabbed my hand as we strolled toward the refectory. “Thanks,” he said. “You were completely excellent back there.”

  His hand was warm, and part of me wanted nothing more than to hold it, but I shook it off. “I’m not cut out for bodyguarding,” I said.

  “Don’t sell yourself short. You did brilliantly.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But it makes me ill.”

  “Talking to Ariel? Come on, she’s not that bad.”

  “It makes me ill that I’m helping you be a jerk to her,” I told Noel. “Can’t you see she likes you?”

  His mouth hardened into a thin line. “That’s what you’re upset about?”

  “Yes,” I lied. I mean, I was upset about helping him be a jerk, but I was upset about a lot more than that. “If you kissed Ariel, or whatever, you should be nice to her.”

  He shook his head. “You want me to be nice to Ariel?”

  I couldn’t tell him how I actually felt, because how I actually felt was a ginormous mess.

  I was mad at Noel for kissing Ariel.

  I was mad at myself for being mad. Because I had no right to be mad.

  I was mad he’d even told me about kissing Ariel, like I was a girl he had never been romantically interested in. Like I was only a friend and wouldn’t care in the slightest.

  If he did have to tell me about kissing Ariel, I was mad he didn’t tell me what exactly happened. “Physical contact” is vague. No girl would ever just say “physical contact.”

  He probably did do more than kiss Ariel. Because if it was just a kiss, he would have said just a kiss. And more than a kiss on a first encounter? That meant he must have been really into it—even if now he’s saying he wasn’t.