by Tanya Boteju
As Friday evening rolled around, Charles and I flopped ourselves across the front steps of my porch and read trashy summer novels. We’d reached at least a veneer of harmony between us since our tense, cornbread-infused conversation, mostly because we’d both chosen to ignore it. I realized this may not have been the most mature solution, but it seemed the best (or at least the easiest) one for now.
As I embraced artificiality and turned the page to see which “summer sister” betrayed which, my mind wandered off the predictable story line to lament this equally predictable evening. The last time I’d sat on this porch swing, I’d been engulfed by Deidre’s laughter and energy and the world had felt shiny and new. Now the shine seemed to be dulling against my will.
My melancholy thoughts were interrupted as the automatic sprinkler in the yard started its tick-tick-ticking and a spray of water twirled across the lawn.
I sat up. “Oh shit.”
Charles glanced up from his book. “What’s the matter?”
The sprinkler had reminded me of an unfortunate choice I’d made at the end of the school year. A groan boiled up from my throat. “I forgot I have to make signs for that annoying car wash tomorrow.”
As part of my work for Jill that summer, I had to help her with a project she was doing for the high school. They’d hired her to do some landscaping, but in order to pay for the job, the school decided students should help by fund-raising. A group of go-getters (i.e. not me, not Charles) had volunteered back in April to organize a series of events over the summer to raise money. Ginny, full of bubbles and kittens, and also senior class president, had volunteered. Which meant that I, obsessed with Ginny, decided to volunteer after all.
Admittedly, even though I was smitten with Winnow, Ginny hadn’t completely disappeared from my mind, or my heart. My chest still tightened when I saw her, my nose still craved her smell, my lips still wanted to kiss those freckles. But I could have kicked myself for volunteering to help with bake sales, outdoor movie nights, and car washes all summer. Charles did kick me when I told him I had to go to the school (the school of all places, in the summer!) to make signs. But the fund-raiser was the next morning, so it was now or never.
Like a true friend, Charles said he’d help me if I promised we could make the signs at my house, not at the school. I also had to promise him I’d somehow help manufacture a “chance” meeting with Tessa the following night.
Biking over to the school to grab some supplies, I found myself wistfully glancing toward the Weeds, which had reverted back to its vacant, abject state. The metaphor had basically been created for me on this one.
The main building of the high school was open on weekdays for summer school, and the doors usually stayed unlocked until much later, when the cleaners were done for the night. I thumped up the stairs to the art room, which was shoved off to one side on the third floor. The metal doors made a heavy clunk as I pushed through them, and an aggressive “Fuck!” from the far corner of the room startled me. Standing at the tall counter that lined the back two walls was an unexpected figure.
When Gordon saw me, he slammed his hand down on whatever was in front of him and narrowed his eyes. “What the hell, Nima? Make enough noise?”
Apparently, our semi-pleasant moment at the bike rack had no bearing on the current moment. Irritated, I responded, “My apologies. I didn’t realize the art room was for meditation. It’s also six o’clock and summer. I didn’t think anyone would be here.”
“Well, don’t fucking come near me,” he growled, and began gathering together whatever it was he was working on, hunching over protectively. Despite the gravel in his voice, I sensed a tinge of something else, too—something small and tight.
It seemed safer to ignore him, so I did and climbed up to the craft bins. These were nestled into the shelves along the staircase leading to the loft, a half-level area where the pottery wheel was situated.
The loft often doubled as a lunchtime refuge for some of the quirkier kids. Dusty with clay powder, the air up here felt clouded and earthy at the same time. Thin shelves for drying pottery and sculptures lined the walls. These items—in varying stages of completion—were often abandoned. Small model homes and half-painted animals toppled over one another. Plant pots and lop-sided bowls rested next to figurines with legs too long for their bodies, or arms so heavy they’d broken off and now lay, bloodless, next to their torsos.
I could understand why some kids found comfort surrounded by this earthy, broken family.
On the main floor, large windows looked out onto the baseball diamond. At this time of day, a cool, dim light cast the art room in shadows, but a small lamp in front of Gordon spread a low glow around his gangly frame as he continued to collect his materials, his movements angry and faltering.
Arms full of supplies, I leaned over the banister of the staircase and watched him shove sheets of paper and photographs into a notebook. In his agitation, he failed to notice one photograph slip off the counter.
I should have said something, but I didn’t. Art wasn’t something I’d have paired with Gordon Grant. My curiosity got the better of me and I simply watched as he forced all his supplies into his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and turned to go. Seeing me at the top of the stairs, he set his jaw into its usual steel and glowered at me as he stomped toward the doors and out.
Some Jiffy markers tumbled out of my overstuffed arms and click-clacked down the stairs. I dumped all the supplies into my backpack and walked across the room to where he’d been working.
I picked up the escaped photo. It was a black-and-white picture of him, facing the camera, in his usual baggy jeans but no shirt. The photo was on high-quality paper—he must have been using the darkroom, which was housed in a cubby beneath the stairs to the loft.
Gordon had drawn over himself with a silver marker, smoothing out the sharper angles of his body with curved, meticulous lines. But he’d blackened out his face entirely.
I didn’t know what to make of the image. I found it both beautiful and bleak. I didn’t know Gordon had a creative bone in his body, never mind that he’d sit in an empty school by himself to create things. And it wasn’t like he was making some violent, dark art either—which was what I would have expected. The hands that had altered this photo had been sensitive, precise . . . thoughtful.
My stomach lurched as I realized I had to return the photo to him.
“Gordon!” I called at his back just as he’d stepped onto the baseball field. He turned, and when he saw me jogging toward him, he looked sick.
I stopped a safe distance from him and held out the photo. Unsure of what to say, I tried the straightforward route. “Here. It was on the floor.”
He stared at the picture. His Adam’s apple rose and dipped. The steel hadn’t left his jaw, and I noticed his hands were tight fists.
Growing increasingly uneasy, I added, “It’s really cool.”
Nothing.
“I really like it.”
Nothing.
Then: “I won’t say anything.”
His eyes broke from the photo and found me instead. They flashed with fire, but also—something else.
He snatched the photo from my hands and seethed in a low, icy voice, “Say anything about what, Clark?”
“I—”
“HUH?” His face was suddenly an inch from mine.
I staggered back. “Nothing—I don’t know. Just—nothing.” I turned and speed-walked to my bike, then raced the hell away from Gordon as fast as I could.
I didn’t slow down until I was a block away from my house. As I dumped my bike in the front yard and walked up the pathway, I tried to calm my breathing and rearrange my face from flustered to neutral. I couldn’t tell Charles about this. I was genuinely terrified of what Gordon might do if he found out I’d said anything, and this didn’t feel like something to share anyway. Something was up with that guy—something heavy—and it wasn’t my place to tell anyone about it. Not that I even knew where to begin.<
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When I entered the kitchen, breathing finally under control, Charles had spread the poster board Ginny gave me to use across the kitchen table.
“I got the goods!” I said with fake cheer, dumping my backpack out onto the table as well.
As Charles dragged a fat Jiffy marker across the top of one of the posters to spell out Car Wash, I started to draw something that I hoped looked like a car in the bottom corner.
We worked mostly in silence, which was just as well, because my brain was trying to process my recent interactions with Gordon. I’d been terrified by his anger at the baseball diamond, but I couldn’t get that photo or the look in his eyes out of my head. By the time we’d finished the posters, a growing bud of sympathy had bloomed in my chest for him, but I had no idea what to do with it.
After a magnificently promoted car wash the next day, most of which I spent trying to ignore all the male attention Ginny was getting in her frayed jean shorts and crop top, Charles and I went back to my place to get ready for an equally magnificent evening of stalking Tessa. After Charles donned what I could only guess was his one pair of non-ratty pants—the gray cords—we scarfed down the burritos Dad left for us, hopped on our bikes, and headed for one of three places Tessa would probably be on a warm Saturday night: the baseball diamond, the square, or one of her giggly friends’ houses.
I knew I owed Charles a favor, but the thought of roaming around to all these familiar places and running into a bunch of kids from school led my brain back to its humdrum thoughts again. I was feeling pretty uninspired as we started with the baseball diamond, since that was closest. When we got there, a smattering of tenth and eleventh graders were sitting around, checking their phones. Thrilling. Tessa wasn’t there, so we kept riding.
Next stop, the square. We paused our bikes at the edge of the wide lawn area that, just the week before, had been crammed with booths for the festival, but was now business as usual. Surveying the typical summer crowd of picnickers and Frisbee players, we spotted two of Tessa’s friends, but no Tessa.
Charles kept scanning, squeezing his brake levers in and out.
“Maybe she’s sick?” I offered.
“Maybe.” He scratched his nose with special vigor. “Let’s just go. I’d rather get ice cream or something anyway.”
Seeing his disappointment and also dreading another night on the porch even more than I dreaded this entire excursion, I had a sudden urge to accomplish this mission with as much zeal as humanly possible for someone who was usually more comfortable with reading and hammocks. I channeled a little Dee Dee La Bouche enthusiasm. Maybe if I could inject some adventure into Charles’s world, he’d be more likely to accept the sparkle and shine of my potential one. “Where does this girl live?” I asked him.
“Just behind the Laundromat, near Biddy Park. But I really don’t want to go, Nima.”
“You say that, but I promise you’ll regret it if you don’t follow through. Come on!” I flicked his shoulder with my fingers.
“And do what? Knock on her door?”
“I have an even better idea,” I hinted, pushing off in the direction of Biddy Park.
He sighed emphatically but started pedaling after me.
On the short ride there, I fleshed out the loose idea that had popped into my brain. We needed to show Tessa that Charles could be spontaneous and confident. That he wasn’t just an awkward, tongue-tied goofball with poor eating habits.
At her house, lights glowed from a couple of rooms upstairs. We stayed a little off to the side, bordering on actual stalking now. Some voices that sounded like Tessa and her friends arose from behind the house.
We dropped our bikes by the curb and I took Charles by the shoulders, glaring hard into his eyes. “Okay, pal. If you really want this girl to like you, you have to prove to her you’re willing to do whatever it takes. Are you? Willing?”
His face did this frown-snarl thing it did when he didn’t like what he was hearing. “I don’t know, Nima. I’m not sure I’m up to this.”
“Charles! Do you like this girl or not?” I squeezed his bony shoulders.
“I do like her. I just—”
“Settled.” I pulled some paper and a pen out of my backpack. “Okay, what’s Tessa into?”
“Into?”
“Yeah, what is she like? What does she do?”
“Oh, um . . . she plays soccer. And has green eyes. Oh, and I think she teaches guitar?”
“Hm. Okay, I guess that’ll have to do.” I pressed the paper to my thigh and started scribbling.
“What are you doing?” Charles asked, yanking at his shirt.
“You, my friend, are about to impress Tessa with your poetic prowess. Well, technically my poetic prowess, but consider this my gift to you.” I handed him the paper, on which I’d written a short but, I have to say, adorable poem.
“What? No way!” he yell-whispered as he looked over the poem.
“Way. You’re doing this. Remember—you’ll regret it if you don’t.”
“I’m gonna look like a freak!”
“No, you’re going to look like someone willing to take a risk to show a girl you like her. Think about it, Charles—this is your chance to prove to her you’re a take-charge kind of guy.” I pushed him forward toward the walkway leading around the house to the backyard. “I’ll go first and make a quick intro. Then all you have to do is walk back there and read the poem. Just don’t mumble!”
I could feel Charles sweating through his shirt, but I knew that he needed to do this—that he had to face his fears in order to make any progress with Tessa.
Just before reaching the backyard, I told Charles to stay put until I called him out. Then, taking a deep breath, I walked out into the yard where Tessa and two of her friends were sitting in plastic lawn chairs, listening to music and giggling about something or other. They stopped when they saw me, and before they could say anything, I announced, “Tessa, Charles has a special message for you. Come on out, Charles!”
Charles poked his head around the corner of the house. I reached over and yanked him out by his arm. Then I nudged him forward a bit and whispered, “Read it!”
After three or four excruciating seconds of Charles staring openmouthed at Tessa and Tessa reflecting a similar expression back at him, I shoved him in the back and he thankfully started to make a sound.
Just as he did, however, the back door swung open and out came Davis McCain and Gordon Grant, each carrying a six-pack of beer.
Christ in khakis.
When Davis saw Charles, he bellowed, “No way!” and made a beeline straight for him. Both Charles and I were frozen in place, which made it easy for Davis to snatch the paper out of Charles’s hands. Charles immediately looked at me, his eyes full of panic. All I could think to do was place a hand on his shoulder.
“What’s this, little Charles?” Davis said, holding the paper out in front of him. “Looks like a love poem! Hey, Tessa, Charlie here wrote you a love poem.” Addressing Gordon, who’d walked over to the girls, he added, “Gordo, looks like lover boy here is trying to move in on your territory!”
The panic in Charles’s eyes turned to confusion, as did mine. Tessa and Gordon?
“Let’s see what he’s got,” Davis continued, placing his six-pack on the grass.
“Come on, Charles, let’s go,” I said, tugging at his shirt.
“Oh no—you can’t leave yet,” Davis said, and wrapped his arm around Charles’s shoulders.
I looked over at Gordon and we made brief eye contact before he averted his eyes and slumped down in a chair next to Tessa.
Davis dramatically cleared his throat. “For Tessa. A haiku for you.” Davis paused to let out a howl of laughter before continuing with an exaggerated lisp. “That girl with green eyeths, in tune with her guitar chordths, kickths at my full heart.”
We could barely make out the last few words because Davis was laughing so hard. I found myself wondering if he ever laughed like this when he was alone or if i
t was reserved only for public displays of shittiness like this one. Tessa’s friends were laughing as well, but I noticed Tessa was staring at her knees. Gordon was just sucking back his beer.
“Well, that’s adorable, little Charles. I’m sure Tessa will cherish it forever,” Davis said, once he’d regained the ability to speak. He dropped the paper to the ground and finally dragged his arm away from Charles’s neck. Picking up his beers, he sauntered over to a chair and collapsed into it, as though he’d just done something exhausting. Maybe it was exhausting to act like you don’t care about anything or anyone.
“Nice, you guys. Really nice,” I said, my voice quiet and trembling. Gordon was still avoiding eye contact, but at least the girls had stopped laughing and looked a little subdued. Davis just shrugged and cracked his beer.
I glanced at Charles. His face was slack. He looked like he was about to cry, and I knew he’d hate himself for that, so I took his arm and pulled him back toward the side of the house. He snatched his arm away from me and stalked toward the front yard.
As we left, I could hear Davis repeating some of the words from the poem and forcing out more obnoxious laughter. I was furious for letting myself believe Gordon deserved any of my sympathy.
Charles was marching so fast that I practically had to run to catch up to him. He lifted his bike roughly, climbed on, and booted it back down the street toward his house.
“Hey! Wait for me already.” I grabbed my bike and pedaled fast, pulling up beside him in no time.
“Leave me alone. I’m going home. By myself.”
“Charles, I’m sorry, okay?” I called out to him. “How was I supposed to know those guys would be there?”
“It was a stupid idea! It was your stupid idea,” he yelled, scowling at the road in front of him.
“Listen, Charles, I was just trying to help—”
“Yeah, thanks a lot for your ‘help.’ ” He punctuated the last word with a fierce glance my way, and I could see his eyes brimming with tears. “I realize you’re all excited about your ‘otherworldly’ new life or whatever,” he said, his voice breaking, “but leave me out of it.”