“I’m laughing at myself,” he said. Of course he would point this out. “I think this is the first time I have ever done so.” Which made Elizabeth and me laugh more, which made him laugh more, like this over-the-top robot laugh. And he was on a roll so he said, “My laugh is very awkward, isn’t it?”
And that sent us all into a breathless fit of laughter, which, I don’t know, I hadn’t experienced since maybe the first time I smoked pot freshman year. Tonight I guess I was high on Benedict’s craziness. Or realness. Or whatever combination of the two he was.
27
BENEDICT
Penelope, my sister, and I stayed in the lodge for another hour playing Ping-Pong, talking about the resort and even a little about school. I tried to make the occasional self-deprecating reference to my social problems, which always resulted in their laughter, which I enjoyed.
After Elizabeth said she was tired, I said I’d walk her home, and then Penelope said she should go too. Penelope’s cabin was next to the lodge, so after we said good-bye, my sister and I had a long walk back together.
“Benedict!” she said, loud but whispering, once we were a few cabins away from Penelope’s. “Not what I would have advised, but I think you did an amazing job tonight. After saying the worst thing ever with that scar question, you were brilliant. I mean, Benedict, I was so proud of you.” She shoved me into the snow because that’s how siblings often display their affection.
Getting up, pushing her back but not too hard because big brothers can’t do that, I said, “I came to the conclusion that the confession of my imperfections was the only way to repair the situation.” I did not elaborate about being on the brink of a mental breakdown.
“Well, admitting your imperfections was perfect. If you ever get into trouble like that again, just do the same thing.”
I said, “I appreciate your support, Elizabeth. You have the opposite of social problems. You were a social genius when you established a connection with Penelope when we first arrived in the recreation room.”
“Benedict, are you saying that I’m just as smart as you?”
“I was not saying that, but now that you have said it … ummm … I … yes. You are smart in a different way than I am, which I now value much more highly after the past week.”
“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said, brother.”
“I will work harder to say nicer things to you more often.”
“Also work on saying nicer things to Pen. Because she totally likes you.”
“No, she doesn’t. She has a boyfriend.”
“I don’t care if she has a boyfriend; she likes you.”
“She has a boyfriend. Also, Robert likes her. I need to establish a friendship with Penelope so that I can then make her friends with Robert and then Robert and I can become best friends again.”
Elizabeth stopped walking, turned, and faced me. She grabbed me by my shoulders. She was very serious. “Benedict, I know I said she’s too cool for you. And I know you did a great job of talking about your social problems. But you and Pen, you two have this thing. I don’t even know what it is. But it’s a thing.”
“No, we don’t. She’s not attractive at all.”
“She’s like the sexiest girl maybe ever!”
“She has a boyfriend. And Robert is my best friend.”
“Oh, jeesh, are you being blockheadish again? You were being so honest back at the lodge. Can you really not see it?”
“Elizabeth, just because I am trying to improve my communication skills with my peers doesn’t mean I will abandon logic.”
“Oh, god, forget it, fine. Let’s just get back to the cabin. It’s freezing.” She spun back and started to jog. I let her go on ahead. I was enjoying the winter air. For some reason, it didn’t feel as cold walking back as it did walking to the lodge. Which is odd because it was later at night, and logically, it should be colder.
28
Pen
My mom was asleep by the time I got back inside the cabin. It felt later than it was. It always did up here at the lake. But it wasn’t even ten. It was a Saturday night. Back home, my friends and I would just be getting our festivities going. But here there was nothing to do.
Screw it, I’ll just get in bed and masturbate a million times.
But once I had changed and gotten under the covers, I didn’t really feel like it. Not that I wasn’t turned on. I was. I always am because I’m a freak. But I didn’t feel like masturbating. So weird. So I tried to read more Millie Dragon on my phone. I couldn’t really do that either.
Oh-my-god. I’m just going to think about Benedict, aren’t I? Yeah. I am. Not even in a sexual way! But thinking about hanging out, playing Ping-Pong, watching a movie together, talking about whatever. This is so weird! Having bizarre sexual fantasies was normal for me! But this, this, I couldn’t even understand.
But … yeah … okay … I don’t know. Screw it. I can’t stop. I’m just gonna think about telling him things, telling him about how my parents are nuts, tell him how religion is bullshit, about how I want to be real like him but I can’t. Tell him about my sexual fantasies, about how I fantasize about him …
As I’m thinking this, thinking about being real, and honest, and totally connected to someone, to Benedict, I’m just aching, just throbbing, but I don’t know, I don’t want to let it go, I just want to feel it. I want to keep thinking about talking to him, keep feeling my body enjoying that thought.…
And then I faded away and slept. I never fall asleep that early, but I did, and I slept deep. No dreams. Nothing. Just sleep. Just rest. Just calm.
* * *
In the morning, I woke up in time for breakfast. When Paul was here, we’d stay up late in the living room (my mom wouldn’t let him stay in my room because she thinks I’ll be a virgin until I’m probably dead), and my mom wouldn’t even bother to ask us to breakfast because we’d be passed out until close to lunch. But I heard her moving around the cabin, so I called out, “I’ll go to breakfast with you.”
When I came out of my room, she said, “It’s very strange to see my daughter up with us nonvampires.”
“I went to bed early.”
“You didn’t watch a movie?”
“I ended up hanging with that Benedict kid and his sister.”
“Oh, reeeeaaaaaally?” my mom said. I decided I’m never telling her anything ever again. “What did you dooooooo?”
“We played Ping-Pong, Mom. Don’t be weird.”
“It’s not weird to want to know what your daughter did!”
“Okay, fine, let’s just go to breakfast.”
* * *
Wild Wolf has the best oatmeal maybe in the world, and as soon as I’m eating it, I’m regretting not waking up for it the past two years.
Sitting there with my mom, relaxed, well rested, enjoying breakfast, even enjoying us talking about silly stuff like TV shows, my head flashes back to a couple nights ago when she caught me masturbating and she flipped the hell out and I told her to fuck off and then some ugly shit must have gone on between her and my dad and I wished they were all dead. I mean, when I see shit like that happen in movies or books, the characters all change and the whole plot changes. It’s like: “This fight will make everything different for our hero!” But not with me. Not with my family. We’re yelling and fighting like lunatics one night and eating oatmeal together the next morning. Not literally the next morning, but close enough.
Anyway, after we’re done eating, my mom and I drink coffee and look at our phones since the dining room is the only place you can get Wi-Fi or any service at all. There are no texts from Paul, which doesn’t even make me feel anything. I mean, I don’t feel good about it, but I don’t feel any worse about it either.
Iris did text me a few times, telling me she missed me. That was nice. But then Iris asked if I wanted to hear what Paul was doing, which made me think Paul was going out with other girls, which made me want to kill every girl I’ve ever seen him looking at. I
guess this makes me a homicidal maniac. Love’s great. I’m kidding. It sucks.
* * *
“Should we go shopping this morning since you’re up?” my mom asks, in the middle of my mind’s murdering rampage.
“Sure,” I say. At least half our vacations up here were spent driving to small towns in the area like Minocqua and Boulder Junction and buying local crap like handmade sweaters and homemade soap. I enjoyed it more than I would ever admit to my mom, but, I don’t know, if I left with her, then Benedict …
Never mind. Never mind.
Like, as I’m having this thought, he walks in with his family. It feels so awkward, like last night didn’t happen at all or the opposite extreme, like we had sex and can’t even look at each other, only then I see him stop and, I don’t know, talk to himself maybe. Then he marches right over to our table. Oh-my-god, I’m going to pass out from all the embarrassment rushing to my face.
“Hi, Mrs. Lupo, my name is Benedict Pendleton. I go to school with your daughter. I’m introducing myself because I’m working on not being socially awkward.”
I laugh because I’m going to laugh every time he says that no matter how many times he does.
“Penelope, don’t laugh!” my mom screeches.
“No, it’s okay, Mrs. Lupo. I like when Penelope laughs. Hope you had a lovely breakfast and I look forward to talking again soon.” Then the kid leaves.
My mom, who tries to be nice unless she’s condemning people to hell for being sinners, can’t even help but say, “Okay, you’re right. He’s a little dorky.”
“A little?”
“Yes, okay, Penelope, maybe more than a little. But he’s also adorable.”
“He is adorable,” I say softly, but not in my head like I thought I was going to say it. I don’t think I’ve said that word ever. “Adorable.” Gross. What a stupid, geeky word. But I said it, I guess. And my mom gives me that look. Like she knows I’m going to get myself in trouble. She’s right. She’s so right.
29
BENEDICT
My dad needed to work on his book, so after breakfast my mom, Elizabeth, and I went for a hike along the service road that circled the lake. All three of us wore three layers each so we wouldn’t die of frostbite, except the sun was out, the hike was strenuous, and we all ended up sweating so much we were carrying our jackets by the time we arrived back at our cabin. We were repeatedly passed by cross-country skiers, which looked like more fun and less work, so I told my sister we were going skiing after lunch.
“No, I’m not.”
“Go with him,” my mom said.
“You go with him.”
“I’m old. I need to rest.”
“Fine,” Elizabeth said, “I’ll go if you ask Pen to join us.”
“Fine,” I said, before I could think of a logical reason that I shouldn’t ask her.
“Oh, my,” my mom started, “should I be aware of something?”
“No, Mother,” I said, “Elizabeth is only helping me practice being normal.” But my sister and mom exchanged a look that suggested they didn’t believe me.
* * *
At lunch, after I turned off my ability to hear Evil Benny or any other voices besides the ones saying, “Do it, Benedict! You’ll be great!” I approached Penelope and her mother at their table.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Lupo and Penelope.” They both smiled. They found me humorous because I am awkward.
(“This should make you feel like a moron!” Evil Benny said because he has access to my mind even when I think he doesn’t. But I decided not to let it make me feel like a moron. Evil Benny didn’t know how to respond to that.)
“Good afternoon, Benedict,” Mrs. Lupo said.
“Hey,” Penelope said.
“My daughter only speaks in single words.”
“I know, but those single words often contain a great deal of meaning.” I knew this was a nice thing to say even before Penelope’s mouth formed this miniature smile. Maybe after I say one hundred more nice things like this it will make up for my question about her scar. I went on, “Penelope, my sister and I are going cross-country skiing this afternoon and would like to know if you would join us.”
“I, uh, don’t…” she began.
“She would love that,” her mom said.
“Yeah, okay,” Penelope said.
“Yes, great. They rent skis down at the boathouse. Should we meet there at two p.m.?”
“Okay,” Penelope said.
“Great. See you then.” And then I walked away. Though Penelope was just a friend, and probably just a friend because we were the only high school students at Wild Wolf Resort, it did feel, on some level, that I had just successfully asked a girl out on a date for the first time.
I tried not to let this triumph go to my head, but as I ate lunch, I began to think I, once again, was the greatest person in the world. When contrasting this thought with my near collapse as a functioning human being last night, I could not help but laugh at myself. I’ve found I feel better after laughing at myself and am going to try doing it more often.
* * *
After lunch, in our cabin, I tried to think of topics of conversation to begin with Penelope while we cross-country skied. Elizabeth was very good at this, so I would only need a few, but I didn’t want to be unprepared. Then I worried I was going to be late for my date with Penelope even though I know it’s not an actual date. I like to be early because I don’t like to waste brain cells being worried about being late, so I told Elizabeth it was time to go but she refused to get up from the couch.
“It’s not even one thirty, Benedict! It’s going to take us three minutes to walk down there!”
“It takes at least eight minutes, Elizabeth. We’ve done the walk five times now and it has always taken at least eight minutes.”
“Fine, eight minutes. I’ll leave at one fifty-two, then.”
“No, we must leave now.”
“No, we must leave at one fifty-two.”
“I’m going now. I’ll check out the skis and make sure everything’s in order. You promise you’ll be there by two p.m.?”
Elizabeth formed this little grin on the right side of her mouth. Then she said, “I promise I won’t let you down.” I didn’t like how she said that at all, but now it was almost one forty and I was far too concerned about being late to worry about anything else.
30
Pen
If I had Benedict’s number, I would have texted him I couldn’t go skiing with him. I mean, fuck me. Really. There was like fifteen minutes where I was kinda into it. Like, “it’s cool to do something different.” But then I remembered I HATE doing anything athletic and I HATE being cold and this was both those things AT THE SAME TIME. Right? Right! Like I said, fuck me.
But I couldn’t text him. And I couldn’t show up and tell him, “Hey, can’t go because I’m sick or whatever,” because he’d be able to tell I was lying, and even though I know I’m a liar, I don’t want him to know. I just don’t.
Oh, and also, yeah, ALSO, I had no snow pants, so I had to borrow my mom’s white puffy overalls, which were five hundred times too big for me, and my black jacket barely fit over them and it all made me look like a huge marshmallow that was charred on the top half. Seriously. I had to walk bowlegged and they made a swishy noise, and if there ever was an outfit that would make a boy not want to have sex with you ever, I’m sure this was it. Not that I wanted Benedict to want to have sex with me. I didn’t. I mean, maybe I did. But not for real. I loved Paul. I needed to get Paul back. Paul, Paul, Paul, Paul … he’s my everything, yeah, everything, and I kept thinking about this, I made myself even.…
But I walked, or swished, my way out of the cabin anyway. The boathouse was down on the water on the opposite side of the lodge from us, so it was a lot of swishing. Like, I’m sure everyone at the resort could hear me. If someone was making a video of me doing this and posted it online, my life would be over. No one would ever want to be seen with me again
in public. That’s how ridiculous I looked! Why did I say yes?! What-the-hell-am-I-doing? Why does Benedict make me do and think the dumbest things ever?!?!
“Hi, Penelope, Pen,” he said when he saw me. He ran to the top of the boathouse stairs to help me walk down them because it was that obvious I couldn’t move like a normal person. He, however, looked so normal in his snow pants and jacket. He even looked like a jock. It’s like I’ve entered an alternate universe where Benedict is popular and normal and I’m the one with social problems who can’t even walk down stairs by herself. He said something about his sister being late, but I was just trying not to slip and break my butt in half.
Inside the boathouse, there was some old guy with a red beard and something red on his hands—oh, wait, that’s fish guts, awesome—and he was getting out ski shoes and putting them on the floor for me to try on. Of course the fish guts got inside the shoe and I’d throw up if I thought it would make all this stop. Benedict was very helpful, I think, saying nice things, I think, but I was sweating now just from trying on shoes and so mortified by everything that was happening that I couldn’t even really pay attention to anything.
Eventually, with the ugliest shoes in the history of shoes on my feet, I walked back outside and had to do the stairs without Benedict’s help since he was carrying all our skis and poles.
At the top, Benedict laid out the skis near the beginning of what I think was a path into the woods. I’m pretty sure the boathouse fish-guts guy said how to put the skis on, but I couldn’t remember a thing. Like, not even how to talk. Benedict could tell because he handed me the poles, told me to use them for balance, and then got on his knees in the snow and lifted up my feet and snapped the shoes into the skis.
You know, as I was watching him do this, I just had this weird thought. What if, back in eighth grade when I decided to start wearing sexy clothes and makeup and make myself popular and all that … what if, instead, I just stayed a geek. A dork. Yeah. And studied, got good grades, and never had any friends, not really, but then now, right now, since I got to Wild Wolf, everything happened sort of the way it happened. I’m sure it would be different, but sort of the same. And this moment, right now, with Benedict, who my dork self doesn’t think is dorky but actually thinks is awesome and super smart. Yeah … and that dork self, who I kinda am right now in this marshmallow outfit, would be looking at this handsome, smart boy down on his hands and knees in the snow just to help me, as if he was some kind of knight-in-shining-armor crap. Dork self wouldn’t think “crap” because she probably likes stupid fairy-tale shit. Like that dork self would be so in love with how handsome and helpful and kind and confident this boy was being.…
The Nerdy and the Dirty Page 10