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

by E. Lockhart

  “I see you’re sparse here,” said Archer, surveying the table.

  We were sparse, because of the people who didn’t bring their stuff, but I threw back my shoulders and told her, “People have been buying everything, that’s why. We have more coming in to put out for the after-lunch crowd. This is just the end of breakfast.”

  Gwen shook her head. “I’m worried these items you’ve got here are not going to move, Ruby. Frankly, I’m surprised you let people bring in”—she gestured at the sour-cherry squares—“blobs of red stuff on pastry when the evidence of previous sales, and in fact the entire tradition of CHuBS for years back, is that cute sells.”

  “I told you we were going for deliciousness,” I said. “I told you we were doing Tate Boys Bake.”

  “Yeah,” she answered, “but you didn’t say you were abandoning cute. It’s hardly CHuBS if you abandon cute like this!”

  “The lemon bars are amazing,” piped up Meghan. “Two people came back and bought seconds. And the coffee cake sold out within a half hour ’cause we had such good word of mouth.”

  Archer ignored her. “At least I have my bunnies and Saviors,” she said. “We can price them high and maybe that’ll save your bottom line.”

  I was furious. How dare she come in after all my weeks of hard work and disparage my bottom line without even looking in the cash box? How dare she hand this whole project over to me and then criticize the way I did it? She wasn’t even listening! She hadn’t even tasted anything!

  She wasn’t considering how we’d gotten all these boys to become involved in the sale, how we’d gotten the word out about Happy Paws; she wasn’t considering anything we’d done except how she wouldn’t have done it that way.

  And now she wanted me to sell Jesus marshmallows.

  “Gwen,” I said. “I don’t think we can sell what you brought.”

  Archer’s eyes widened. “What? Of course we can. Three fifty each, I think.”

  “I know Easter is in a few weeks,” I said, “and Tate is certainly Christian-centric enough to have a Christmas dance for the middle school, even though people here are Jewish and atheist and Muslim and Buddhist. But I’m not going to have Saviors and bunnies at my bake sale unless we’re representing other religions too.”

  “No one’s going to mind,” said Archer.

  “There are parents here,” I said. “Non-Christian parents of non-Christian kids. I don’t think we should get religious about our baked goods at a school function unless we show some diversity.”

  “Besides,” added Meghan. “I’m not sure about marshmallow Saviors, anyway. No offense, Gwen, but the Jesuses are a little much.”

  “They are not!” cried Archer. “They’re cute and inspirational!”

  “I think they’re borderline offensive.” It was Jackson, sliding into his usual seat on the far right of the table and opening the ledger in which he kept his Handicap bets.

  “Exactly,” said Meghan. “Even the Christians aren’t going to like them.”

  “Clarke, why are you always ragging on me?” Archer barked.

  Jackson shrugged. “It’s fun?” He went back to his notebook, but poked my leg under the table in sympathy.

  “Fine, don’t sell the Saviors. I’ll bring them to my church group this weekend,” said Archer. “They’ll appreciate them.”

  “We’re not selling the bunnies, either,” I told her.

  “Why not?”

  “Because that’s not what you signed up to bring.” I flipped through my notebook. “You signed up for dulce de leche brownies and white chocolate cupcakes with raspberry filling.”

  “I changed my plans,” she said. “I’m sure lots of people didn’t deliver exactly what they signed up for.”

  “That’s not the point,” I told her. “The point is, you knew what deliciousness meant.”

  “So?”

  “You made marshmallow bunnies not to save my bottom line but to try and prove to me that you knew better. You’re not trying to help me, you’re trying to take control of my sale and prove I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  “Go, Ruby,” Jackson muttered.

  Just then, three of Archer’s senior CHuBS compatriots showed with trays of cutesy cupcakes: green ones with shamrocks that said “Kiss Me, I’m Irish;” vanilla ones with yellow lollipop flowers; pink ones with ice cream cone hats and smiley faces.

  “See?” I said. “Those were not on the sign-up sheet. You’re trying to take over!”

  “Look, Oliver,” said Archer as her minions began moving my deliciousness to make room for cuteness. “I’ve been on CHuBS since I was a freshman, and the sale I ran in December was the most successful ever. I only let you do Baby CHuBS because you seemed like a team player and last year you had good ideas for cupcakes. We have a legacy to protect. I told you, there are lots of moms here today who were CHuBS twenty-five years ago. They’re not going to be happy seeing the whole thing looking ordinary, with lemon bars and brownies. Here you are, going against tradition with your whole deliciousness boy-crazy thing, and meanwhile, rumors are going all around school about you—and now CHuBS is going downhill.”

  “Don’t bring my reputation into this!” I yelled. “Whatever rumors are going around have nothing to do with the bake sale, nothing to do with how much money we’re raising for charity, nothing to do with anything. I staffed the thing well enough, didn’t I? People are buying the food, aren’t they? And maybe those CHuBS moms will love it that boys are getting involved. Maybe they’ll be thrilled to eat actual food rather than marshmallow art projects.”

  “I hardly think so,” said Archer. “Cute is a tried-and-true approach, Oliver. It’s what people like. It’s what brings in the money. And it’s what CHuBS is all about. I’m sorry I ever gave you this job.”

  “I’m sorry too,” I told her. “But you did. And I worked really hard on it, and so did Meghan, and I’m not letting you and your friends waltz in here and take over.”

  Just then, Finn came back to the table with four soccer muffins, all bearing trays of amateur baked goods that at the very least aimed for deliciousness. “We have plenty of supplies, thanks,” I told Archer. “You can take yourselves and your cuteness elsewhere.”

  “Fine.” She grabbed her tray of marshmallows and turned on her heel, her friends in pursuit.

  As I looked at her retreating back, all the fury of the past couple weeks surged inside me. Not just at Archer, but at everything. I picked up a piece of carrot cake and lobbed it at her retreating back. It hit her head, stuck in her hair and then slid down her back in slow motion, leaving a thick white trail of cream cheese frosting.

  The Parents’ Day Handicap was won by Mr. Fleischman, though he himself knew nothing about it. Instead of the allotted four minutes about the activities of the science department, he spoke for a record fourteen, waxing enthusiastic about his new kitchen science unit and how the eleventh grade now had a vital appreciation of the ways chemistry affected our daily lives. He was hoping his new way of connecting the sciences to the world in which we live would serve as a model for the courses taught in the other grades. He even got out a jar of mayonnaise “made by our own Katarina Dolgen during a lesson on emulsification and the stability of mixtures” and spread it on a piece of whole-grain bread he had stored in his pocket, then took three bites of it in front of everybody.

  Some parents grumbled that this cooking in the classroom sounded like elementary-school work, while others complained that mayo alone on bread was disgusting, and a third group pointed out that as head of the science department, Fleischman was supposed to be lecturing not just on Chem but on Biology, Sex Ed, Physics and various electives.

  Still, in terms of the Handicap, Fleischman was a clear winner, even before the head of the English department spoke, so I snuck out of the auditorium and went back to the Baby CHuBS table to set up for the final hour of the day. Meghan was still inside, sitting with her mom, and the hallway seemed eerie and empty.

  There was a
white sheet over the bake sale table to indicate it was temporarily closed. I pulled it off and began clearing crumbs, consolidating pastries, and setting out napkins. I got the cash box out of the locker we stored it in and began to count.

  Four hundred and sixty-six dollars. In one day.

  We had raised four hundred and sixty-six dollars! I had banked on three hundred, maybe three fifty.

  I sat there, glowing. By the time the day was over we’d probably have five hundred dollars to give to Happy Paws. With no cuteness, a roly-poly leader and a campaign against antiquated notions of masculinity.

  “We have a winner, eh?” It was Jackson, likewise cutting out of the auditorium early after Fleischman’s victory. “Good for me, too, as he was no long shot.”

  “What were his odds?”

  “Four to one, but Kline was the favorite, and way more people bet on her than on Fleischman. I think mainly juniors bet on him, ’cause you guys have had him for all the kitchen science stuff.” Jackson came and sat next to me, pulling a large wad of cash from his pocket and shuffling through it under the table, putting twenties on the bottom and singles on top. “I shouldn’t have to pay out too much. Kyle’s gonna be mad. He bet a pile on Harada at twenty to one.”

  He touched my leg and a jolt went through my body.

  “Hey there, you,” he said, as if he’d just noticed we were alone.

  “Hey.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Yeah. But you’re not getting a free molten chocolate cake. Those are selling for four dollars each.”

  “It’s not about baked goods.” Jackson’s thumb rubbed a small circle on my thigh.

  “Oh,” I said. “What’s it about?”

  “You.” Jackson looked into my face with his beautiful clear eyes. I knew each freckle on his nose, the square angle of his jaw, the way one bottom tooth overlapped another. “You and me.”

  “Isn’t that ancient history?” I asked, but I didn’t move my leg out from under his hand. “Or maybe Greek tragedy?”

  “Does it have to be?”

  He was so close. The center of my treasure map. “What are you saying?” I asked.

  “I’m saying, will you go to Spring Fling with me?” He looked down shyly. “Do you want to give me another chance?”

  I was so shocked I didn’t speak.

  This was Jackson Clarke, my first boyfriend.

  This was Jackson Clarke, who looked so good without his shirt on.

  This was Jackson Clarke, who had met my parents and made me laugh and picked me up every day after swim practice.

  This was Jackson Clarke, who had stomped on my heart, jerked me around, run off with my best friend and then turned into a pod-robot.

  This was Jackson Clarke, looking vulnerable and nervous. This was Jackson Clarke, who was such a good kisser.

  This was Jackson Clarke, who wanted me back. “I mean, I know the dance was a disaster last year,” he said. “But I was hoping I could make it up to you.” I still couldn’t talk.

  “Maybe I can make a lot of things up to you,” Jackson continued. “Will you let me try, Roo? Because I’d really like to. I’ve been thinking about it since that day I ran into you with Dempsey at Nordstrom. And then I heard something about you and Noel DuBoise, probably just a rumor, but—I don’t know. I couldn’t stand that it wasn’t me.”

  Here was the moment I’d been fantasizing about in my less mentally stable moments for almost a year: I could have him again. We could be in love. I could go to Spring Fling and wear a corsage and slow dance and look at the moonlight on the water.

  Everything bad that had happened since Jackson dumped me could be erased, and I would finally be happy again.

  Except.

  Ag. Hello?

  I am insane, but I am not that insane. I had had nearly a year of therapy by now, and even though Doctor Z was the lover of an aging hippie with horrible foot fungus, I couldn’t help seeing her patient brown face looking at me as those thoughts ran through my mind. She’d see the holes in my fantasy as fast as I could verbalize it.

  Even as I felt the warmth of Jackson’s hand on my leg, even as part of me wanted to kiss him and give him a free molten chocolate cake just for wanting me, I had to admit the following:

  I would not “finally be happy again.” I don’t have a predilection for happiness. I have a predilection for anxiety. Maybe it was easy for me to be happy once, a long time ago, but something shifted in my brain. Now it’s hard. And there is no simple solution to getting happy if you’re not wired for it. As Doctor Z has told me again and again: no happiness fairy is going to fly down and make everything fine; and just because the happiness fairy seems to be six feet tall and desperately cute and touches your leg, that’s no reason to believe he really exists.

  If I went to Spring Fling with Jackson, all the badness that had happened in the past year would not be erased. The words about me on the bathroom wall would still be there. I’d still be without my zoo job. I’d still have panic attacks and have to go to the shrink and eat almond-pumpkin pâté for dinner. Same me, same life.

  I also wouldn’t magically become friends again with Kim and Nora. Both of them would actually hate me even more than they already did, and Cricket, Katarina, Ariel and Heidi would do the same, just to keep the others company.

  Jackson asked me to Spring Fling because he felt jealous of me kissing Noel in the art studio. He and Noel had never liked each other. They were competitive on the cross-country team. Part of this sounded like a territory battle between the two of them, not anything really about me.

  Fact: Jackson was the guy who idealized what he didn’t have. The fish that got away. The road not taken. The grass on the other side of the fence.

  Fact: Jackson cheated on Kim when she was in Tokyo.

  Probability: Jackson cheated on me with Kim.

  Fact: It is a bad idea to date a known cheater, because even if he doesn’t cheat on you, you will always know he’s capable of it and will never fully trust him. Then you will become even more insecure and neurotic than you already are.

  Fact: If I went to Spring Fling with Jackson, Noel would write me off forever.

  If he hadn’t already.

  But if I wanted Jackson, I argued with myself, if he was at the center of my treasure map, shouldn’t I just take him, now that I could suddenly have him?

  Sure, it wouldn’t solve everything.

  Sure, it would cause more angst in some ways. But wouldn’t I have love? For a little while, at least?

  And wasn’t that something?

  These ideas sped through my mind in a tremendous rush, but as Jackson took his hand off my leg and reached to touch my hair, I told him, “No. I’m sorry. I can’t.”

  Oh.

  That wasn’t what I thought I was going to say.

  Most of me was leaning toward saying yes and going to the dance and having love.

  But out it came: “No. I’m sorry. I can’t.”

  Jackson pulled back. Surprised. “Oh. Okay.”

  “I just—I don’t want to get involved with you, Jackson,” I said, the words tumbling out. “You’re a nice guy, but then, when it comes down to it—you’re not, really.”

  “Not what?”

  “Not nice.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “I think it might be,” I said.

  “Look.” Jackson leaned back in his chair. “I know I’ve done some stupid things in the past. I know I wasn’t the best boyfriend to you—or to anyone. But I was confused. I was confused for a long time. And I think I’ve finally figured out what I need.”

  “What you need?”

  “You.” He set his chair legs on the floor and leaned toward me again. “That’s why I’ve logged all this time at your bake sale table.”

  I shook my head. “You needed somewhere to operate the Handicap.”

  “Please,” he laughed. “I could operate it in the refectory easier than anyplace else. I was trying to get near you
again and I needed an excuse.”

  Oh. “But why?”

  “You’re not like Kim,” he answered after a beat. “She’s so controlling and insecure. Most girls are. But you, you don’t care what people think. You have so much self-confidence. Plus, you’re beautiful, and we were good together, Roo. You know we were.”

  Everything he said sounded wonderful, but it wasn’t true. I was desperately insecure and I did care what people thought. Jackson wasn’t really talking about me. He was talking about an idea of me he’d concocted in his head. As soon as he remembered me and my true weaknesses in the clear light of day, he’d be as cruel this time as he had been the last.

  “So will you think about it?” Jackson asked, stroking my hair.

  I stood and shook his hand off. “I don’t need to think about it,” I said—although part of me was still screaming Think about it! Think about it! “You turned into a pod-robot. Not even Cricket turned into a pod-robot. At least she was mean to me. At least she had feelings. You were just completely cold, as if we’d never even known each other. As if nothing had ever happened between us. I don’t want to be with anyone who could act like that.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said sarcastically. “Just because I don’t show my feelings to the whole Tate Universe, all the time every day, doesn’t mean I don’t have them.”

  “I’m sure you have feelings, Jackson,” I told him. “I just don’t think they’re very deep.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “See?” I said. “That’s exactly the person I don’t want to be with. And he’s always there, underneath all your charm.”

  “If that’s what you think,” he said, “I don’t need to be here.” He shoved his notebook into his backpack, slung the bag over his shoulder, grabbed a molten chocolate cake without paying for it—and walked off without a word.