“Is he Catholic?” my mom asked, breaking me out of my little obsession trance. Of course she would ask that.
“I seriously doubt it.”
“Well, that’s why you and Paul are perfect together. A common faith is the greatest bond.”
“Yeah.”
“It is what makes my marriage to your father so strong.”
Yeah.
* * *
After dinner, I walked the fifty yards back to the cabin with my mom, but then said I wanted to watch a movie back at the lodge. “Fine, leave me here alone,” she said, doing her abandoned-puppy thing, but I ignored it and left.
So, yeah, I went back, into the Bear Room—which was empty, of course—and I turned on the TV in the loft only to finally admit to myself that I had no desire at all to watch a movie. I went down and sat on one of the couches near the Ping-Pong table because from here anyone who peeked into the Bear Room would be able to see I was here.
Not that I wanted anyone to see me. I didn’t.
I’m totally lying to myself.
I have to.
If I didn’t, I’d hate myself for being so lame.
21
BENEDI …
“She’s leaving,” my mom whispered as Penelope stood with her mother and exited the dining room.
“I don’t care.” This felt untrue. Odd.
“You’re done eating. Why don’t you go see if she wants to watch TV?”
“Mom!” my sister whined. “Only I’m allowed to give him advice on how to talk to girls.”
“Then give him advice!” my mom said.
“Why would Benedict need advice?” my father asked. I much preferred the idea of my “makeover” when my father was unaware of it.
“Benedict asked for my help on how to not be such a dork.”
“Elizabeth.”
“Benedict is not a dork,” my father said. “Are you a dork, Benedict?” The manner in which he asked made me feel that if I said yes, my dad would immediately disown me. I know this is not rational.
Before I could answer, my mother said, “No, he’s not. He’s just … shy.”
“I’m not shy.”
“He should be more shy,” Elizabeth said.
“Genetically,” my father began, “you are superior to every other student at Riverbend High School. You should not be shy. You should be confident and popular.”
“Samuel…” my mother said
“It doesn’t work like that, Dad,” my sister said.
“I no longer wish to talk about this,” I said.
“Then we won’t,” Mom said.
But my dad was now focused on the topic. Once focused, my dad could not let go until everyone agreed with him. He said, “I was criticized for not being involved three days ago. Now I am involved and being told not to? Benedict, my father was an alcoholic who abandoned us before I was ten years old. My mother, who never even graduated from high school, was a receptionist at an appliance store. Despite this, I was president of my senior class and captain of the gymnastics team. You are the son of a brilliant, bestselling author and a former model. There is no justifiable excuse for you not to be well liked by your peers. In fact, you should be the envy of them.”
Both my mother and sister tried to defend me, or at least find a “justifiable excuse,” but I knew that my dad was right and that the only way to end this incredibly painful conversation was to say, “You are right, Dad. I will work harder to be more popular at school.”
“Benedict,” my mom said, and tried to reach out.
“No, Mother.” I stood, recoiling from her hand as if it would poison me. “I will see you back at the cabin. I’m going for a walk.”
“It’s too cold…” my mom started, but I ignored her, exited the dining room, and walked out through the front door of the lodge.
* * *
Before I had made it ten steps, I heard, “Benedict,” and turned to find my sister shuffling her feet to catch up to me. She did not slow and soon was wrapping her arms around me in a hug. Our last hug was … I don’t remember. Possibly never. That’s improbable yet felt true.
I said, “You are feeling that much pity for me that you are hugging me?”
“I feel sorry for us both. Dad can be an idiot.”
“He’s brilliant.”
“Sort of, but he’s also an idiot.” She pulled back. “Remember when I was six and I told him I wanted to be president and he said that girls can only be married to presidents? And then I cried for like an hour until you told me you’d vote for me?”
“No, I don’t remember that.”
“Well, you did. So come back inside and play Ping-Pong with me.”
“I don’t see how these two things are related.”
“It’s cold, Benedict! Don’t argue with me!”
“Okay.”
* * *
I followed my sister back into the lodge but stopped as I stepped through the doorway into the recreation room. There was only one other person there and that one person was sitting on the couch looking at her phone and that one person sitting on the couch looking at her phone was Penelope Lupo.
“Elizabeth…” I started, wanting to state how I knew she had tricked me into playing Ping-Pong with her so she could subtly encourage me to interact with my classmate. But before I could say anything more, Elizabeth yelled, “Benedict! Ping-Pong!” She grabbed the paddles from their mount on the wall, which also happened to be next to Penelope. My sister said, “Hey, I’m Benedict’s sister, Elizabeth. He said you guys go to The Bend together?”
“Yeah,” Penelope said, only half looking up from her phone. It was very dismissive, I thought, and it made me feel that even if Penelope and I were the only teenagers in the world she would probably still be too cool for me.
But my sister would not be deterred as easily, asking, “What’s your name?”
“Pen.”
“Pen. Awesome name.” My sister started hitting the Ping-Pong ball back and forth with me, which was nice because then I didn’t have to think too much about how incompetent I am at talking to girls, even a girl I am not at all attracted to.
“My full name is Penelope.”
“That’s awesome too.”
“I fucking hate it.” She laughed.
Elizabeth laughed with her, which is a smart thing to do if you want people to like you. “The best pizza in Riverbend is Penelope’s Pizzeria—do they like give you free slices if you show them your driver’s license?”
“It’s my dad’s place. So yeah.”
“That’s super awesome!”
“Yeah, maybe.” A now-smiling Penelope put her phone down. Which was astounding. My thirteen-year-old sister had befriended a popular girl from my class in three minutes.
I should say something to Penelope. A normal person would say something by this juncture. My baby sister had done all the difficult work in establishing a rapport. It should be easy for me to say anything—even something meaningless would be acceptable. So I should. Yes, you should, Benedict. Yes, I know.…
* * *
Even though convincing Penelope to become Robert’s friend was the first step in regaining his friendship, which would lead to Allison Wray becoming my girlfriend, which would lead to becoming popular, which would lead to my father’s respect, which would lead to an exceptional life, the pressure to communicate like a normal person with a girl was constricting my chest muscles to such a degree that I assumed I was about to have a heart attack and die. Being popular is not very useful if you are dead.
* * *
“Do you play?” Elizabeth asked Penelope, because I had failed to say anything.
“Not really.”
“I’m sure you’re better than me.” My sister then flopped herself down onto the couch, pressing the Ping-Pong paddle into Penelope’s hands. For a moment, I assumed Penelope would find a reason not to play with me. In fact, she would probably say she needed to go back to her cabin. I should state a reason I needed to le
ave first. This would give me the upper hand in our battle for whatever it is it feels like we are battling for. But my inability to speak remained a problem.
Except Penelope didn’t say she needed to leave.
Nor did she offer an excuse not to play with me.
Instead, she stood, paddle in hand, and then positioned herself on the other side of the table from me. For the first time, she looked at me. I looked at her. She smiled at me. I smiled at her.
* * *
I’m not attracted to Penelope at all. I’m sorry for repeating this so often but … strange. I’m not sure why I’m repeating this so often. Perhaps I’ve watched too many romantic movies. My dad tells me they exist only to make the masses forget their lives are meaningless. He is probably right. Of course he is. But right now, all those romantic movies have me thinking that if I were attracted to Penelope, and if she were attracted to me, this would be a very promising beginning to a romantic relationship. But Penelope has a boyfriend, a boyfriend who beat me up. And I am attracted to Allison Wray. And Robert is attracted to Penelope. I have told Robert repeatedly, for years, how unattractive Penelope is and perhaps that is why I am repeatedly telling myself this now.
22
Pe
“Right about now is when you hit the ball to her, Benedict,” his sister said after we had stood there for the most awkward ten seconds of my life. Elizabeth and I laughed a small laugh. Benedict didn’t laugh. Just stood there, stiff. I’ve never seen Benedict laugh at anything. He’ll probably grow up to be a serial killer. Anyway, yeah, so he did snap out of his daze and hit the ball toward me.
I mean, what the hell. I’ve gone to college parties, to huge concerts, to festivals in cornfields where everyone is high and half naked. And now, on a Saturday night, I’m playing fucking Ping-Pong with the biggest dork in high school, with his junior high sister watching, and you know what? You know what? I’m giggling. Not like loud or even on the outside at all. But I have this little giggle inside me. Like there’s a little girl, an innocent girl, maybe only ten or eleven years old and she’s not thinking about appearing perfect or about her parents fighting or her boyfriend calling her crappy things, all she’s thinking is, It’s fun to play Ping-Pong with a cute boy.
EXCEPT BENEDICT ISN’T CUTE.
He’s not.
He’s odd, clueless, and I don’t know—a hundred other things that make me want to strangle that giggling little girl inside me.
* * *
I don’t say anything while we play. Neither does Benedict. Of course he doesn’t. And even Elizabeth can’t bullshit a bridge between us anymore. Silence starts creeping under my skin like a disease, into the whole room, and everyone can feel it, and someone needs to say something soon or else the windows might shatter from the quiet.
Wait. Oh-my-god. Benedict’s going to speak … I can see it forming in his head, in his eyes, here it comes, he’s opening his mouth, and …
He says, “How’d you get that scar?”
I don’t cry. Remember, I don’t cry anymore. But you know who went from being a giggly love-crushing dork to a heaving, teary mess? That little Penelope inside me. Fucking loser.
23
BENE …
Even before my sister said, “Benedict, you don’t ask that!” I knew I shouldn’t have asked about her scar.
(Evil Benny, who had been dormant for some time, screamed with glee, “You’re such an idiot!”)
The old me and the new me had been debating very intensely on what to say. Both old and new knew that I had to say something, but while the new me insisted I ask something meaningless such as “Is this your first time at Wild Wolf Resort?” the old me insisted that asking meaningless questions doesn’t benefit anyone. It would be disingenuous to ask a question I did not care about the answer to even if the asking of the question made that person more comfortable in my presence. The new me said that’s exactly what I needed to do. But the old me had been curious for years as to the origin of that very distinctive scar. And I think I had been concentrating so intently on why I needed to continue to believe Penelope wasn’t attractive that the scar had become the focal point to concentrate on my lack of attraction.…
24
p
I keep hitting that Ping-Pong ball, but really I’m just waiting for my body to crumble into five thousand pieces. I mean, look at my life:
One, I’ve just gotten dumped by my awesome, popular boyfriend.
Two, I’ve been sexually fantasizing about the biggest dork in high school.
Three, this young, innocent Penelope inside me is acting like she’s full-throttle in puppy love with this dork while we are playing Ping-Pong.
Four, this dork—WHO IS RETARDED AND I HATE THAT I EVEN THINK THAT WORD BUT I HAVE TO BECAUSE HE IS—doesn’t say anything, not one word, until the first and only thing he says is, “Hey, let’s talk about that grotesque disfiguration on your face that is the only thing I can think about because it is so hideous.”
Five, I’m so numb to anything real, so dead inside, that I just keep hitting the ball back and forth and back and forth and screw this—SCREW THIS, I’m getting my mom’s keys and I’m driving myself straight back to Riverbend and I don’t care where Paul is or who he’s with, I’ll throw myself at him, I’ll get him so turned on that he’ll beg for me back, beg for my body, beg to marry me and save me from my mom and Benedict and myself.…
“Pen, Benedict, he’s, uh…” Elizabeth says, picking up the ball from behind me. I look up, realizing that I actually did stop playing. I’m just standing there like an even bigger idiot than I was when I kept playing. His sister can’t find the words to explain her brother. No one can. Look at him look at me. He’s not human! He doesn’t even know what he said! No clue! Why am I here? Go home. Go home.
“Penelope…” Benedict starts. Fuck, he’s even calling me by the name I fucking hate. GO HOME NOW, PEN. He starts again, “I mean, Pen…”
25
B …
The new me was telling me to apologize; the old me was telling me I should remain steadfast. Elizabeth was begging me with her eyes to say anything. My mom’s voice was telling me I’m not a horrible person even though I know I am. Robert’s voice was telling me we will be dorks forever if I don’t repair things with Penelope. And my father’s voice was telling me that Penelope is not worth my time, but also if I don’t become popular, then my entire life is a failure.
But growing louder than all these voices was Evil Benny. Just cackling and cackling. He didn’t even need to speak words. Just laugh and laugh at how I was on the brink of literal insanity.
I came to the conclusion that this is not exaggeration. To clarify: I’m not saying I’m losing my mind because it’s a metaphor for my feeling overwhelmed or confused. I’m say I’m losing my mind because I can actually sense the detachment between it and my own consciousness. I did not know how to stop all these screaming voices in my head. I could not function normally, not even in my not-entirely-normal normal way. I did not know how to do anything besides stand at the Ping-Pong table, watch Penelope Lupo try desperately not to cry, and wait for a permanent psychotic break to take hold.
Understanding that these were my final moments of sanity, the fear of embarrassment that had rendered me unable to talk to a girl disappeared. I did not want my final words to be false, not falsely apologetic nor falsely boastful. They should be true. True in a truly new way.
So I said, “What you said in the dean’s office … you were correct. I have social problems.”
After she took several seconds to register that I actually said what I said, Penelope’s internal pain seemed to ease. As did my sister’s external stress. Saying these words out loud, and seeing the effect on others, also seemed to pause my descent into madness.
So I continued, “I should have asked you a meaningless question such as ‘Have you been to Wild Wolf before?’ But my body feels very uncomfortable when I ask meaningless questions even though it would have achieved
my desired effect of forming a bond with you. Instead I asked about your scar…”
Both Penelope and Elizabeth flinched. But I had to stay the course of truth.
“… which I was genuinely curious about because it is so unique. If I didn’t have social problems, I would have known better than to ask this. I have asked my sister to help me, but I think you can see her lessons haven’t started yet.”
26
Pen
What the hell, right?
I mean, crazy-crazy-crazy Benedict. He basically says the most asshole-ish thing ever because he’s too oblivious not to say it, and as I’m standing there ready to evaporate from pathetic-ness, he goes and says the most real thing I think I’ve heard anyone say ever.
And suddenly it makes sense.
Why I fixated on him so much. Because it’s so hard for me to be honest with myself, with my friends, with Paul, and yet I could see this purity inside him. This ability to say things I could never say. He even explained it. Said his body is uncomfortable asking bullshit questions. My body gets uncomfortable with being real; his body gets uncomfortable being false.
I forgot about his scar question. It didn’t even bother me anymore. In fact, it was worth it because it led to him saying what he said. Which led to me finally understanding my obsession with him.
“It’s cool, Benedict,” I said, which was lame because of how generic it was after how unique what he said was. But I’m not him. I’ll never be him. I can only be my quiet, invisible, fake self.
Elizabeth said, “I promise to speed up my lessons.” Which was funny, or at least a relief, and she and I laughed. And, damn, so did Benedict. I’ve never seen the kid laugh ever.
The Nerdy and the Dirty Page 9