So Glad to Meet You

by Lisa Super

  “You found it?” Oliver’s relief was palpable. Even Father George chuckled, and Oliver got the impression that Father George had a sizeable understanding of high school woe, despite being celibate. “Can I…I mean, good. Thanks. Do you happen to still have it? I think someone left it for me.”

  “Sister Candice must have tossed it. I’ve been letting the notes stay, and reading them, for my own personal enjoyment. I hope you don’t mind.” Father George strolled behind the pulpit and pulled out a ring of keys.

  “Uh, no.” Oliver did mind, but he had no desire to argue about it with a priest on holy ground. “If you let us deface your property, you have the right to read it. It’s only for this week.”

  “I’ll talk to Sister Candice, see if she can abstain through tomorrow. No promises after that. She’s kind of a neat freak, this being the Lord’s House and all.” Father George unlocked a door to a back room and leaned over a wastebasket.

  “Thank you.”

  The priest emerged from the doorway and extended his hand to Oliver with a yellow Post-it stuck to his finger: What’s your code name? “Better come up with something clever. Daphne’s a smart one.”

  Oliver gulped. Father George knew Daphne. “Yes, she’s a good influence on me.” That’s why I got her grounded.

  “Wise men appreciate the positive forces in their lives. Keep it up, Oliver. I hope to see you one of these Sundays.” With that, Father George left the chapel as humbly as he’d arrived.

  Oliver sat in Daphne’s pew and looked up to Stained Glass Mary for inspiration. His best idea wasn’t great, but his hungry stomach’s growling threatened the quiet of the room. He wrote in small letters so it would all fit: Frog Murrietta. Because Frog was my first pet hamster’s name when I was six and I grew up on Murrietta Ave.

  On Friday, a blue Post-it awaited him, undisturbed: That’s your porn star name, not your spy name. Is this what communication was like when our parents were dating?

  Did she think they were dating? A sharp pain formed behind his eyes. Oliver crumpled the Post-it. Picturing Father George reading the note spread his headache to the base of his skull.

  His best distraction was a videogame where he could turn off his brain and focus only on the screen in front of him. But the effect was temporary. The all-nighter left him in a haze, when he was most susceptible to memories of Jason. He noticed that his position on the bed, legs folded underneath him, his back propped against the wall, was no different than it was seven years ago.

  Oliver sits on his bed, back against the wall. His eyes are frozen open, staring at the television screen. He pounds on his controller, fighting to keep his characters alive.

  “The whole team will be there.” Jason’s voice carries downstairs to Oliver’s room.

  “I don’t want to go.” Emily’s voice chases after.

  “We could just stop by for a half hour.” Jason’s voice moves between aggravation and begging.

  “Go by yourself. It’s fine.”

  Even with a floor between them, Oliver can tell it isn’t fine.

  “Just go,” she says. “Go.” Her irritation sucks the oxygen from the air.

  “No. It’s okay. I’ll stay.”

  Their footsteps pad down the hall, silenced by the closing door of Jason’s bedroom.

  Emily had won. Jason had lost. Oliver wasn’t going to lose.

  He kicked off his covers. Saturday had arrived. The afternoon closed in and Oliver needed to have The Conversation with Daphne. But he couldn’t spew familiar words and toss in her name for authenticity. Parts of the conversation could be plagiarized, but with Daphne everything required more.

  At 4:00 p.m., he shifted his car into park with a resounding click in front of Sweetie’s. He stormed through the door, sending the bell into a frenzy. He had the fullest intentions to make it clear that they were not now, and never would be, together. But at the sight of her, his mouth dried out and his charge weakened to a tiptoe.

  She wasn’t working, seated next to the counter instead of behind it. “I got three weeks. That’s the decree from parents who aren’t parents. No phone, no iPod, no closed bedroom door. Straight home from school and work.”

  He kept staring at her lips. Supple. Neither exaggerated, nor understated. Lips that knew how to kiss. How had he never noticed them before? Outside of the time when they were coated in lipstick and doing their best Marilyn Monroe impression, of course. “Rough,” was all he could manage.

  “Eh, my friends know where to find me. What was your sentence?”

  He lowered his head, both proud and appalled by his admission. “No rental car while my car was in the shop. I already have it back.”

  “About what I expected. So, I have it all worked out.” She winked at Oliver and turned to the freckled boy their age behind the counter. “Okay, Jed. If my mom calls you need to say that I’m cleaning the bathroom and you transfer her to my cell. Got it?”

  “Cool.” Jed gave her a thumbs up, smitten. A tiny volt of jealousy surged through Oliver and settled in the pit of his gut.

  “Thanks.” Daphne nodded at Jed in solidarity.

  “I thought you didn’t have a phone,” Oliver said.

  “It’s for emergencies. My mom checks it every night for calls or texts.”

  “Intense.” Oliver followed her out of the shop. “I feel like I’ve turned you into a liar.”

  “You have.” Her lips parted into a liar’s grin.

  They drove over a winding road at the top of a ridge, elevated above the spring dew in the valley. The houses in the hills propped up with stilts appeared ready to teeter over at any moment. A coyote loped through the tall grass and vanished. Had it even been there at all? Oliver focused on the road and tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

  Daphne acted like nothing had transpired between them, like he’d made it all up in his head.

  “I got into all the U.C.’s except the one I want to go to.” She sighed. “I mean, I’m still waiting to find out, not writing it off yet. They have to take me.”

  “Berkeley?” Oliver asked lightly, trying to lessen her intensity.

  Her voice was velvet, pleased that he remembered. “Yep.”

  “That’s a long drive.”

  “Or a short flight. Depends which transportation glass you want to look at—half empty or half full.”

  “Except for the train. The train glass is always half empty.”

  “True,” she said.

  “So, what U.C.’s have accepted you?”

  The twisted road straightened out. Houses lined the street instead of hiding behind hills and fences.

  “S.D., S.B., L.A., and Davis. What about you?”

  “I didn’t apply to any U.C.’s.”

  “Then, where?”

  “U of M.”

  She evaluated the possibilities and took her best guess. “Michigan?”

  “Montana.” His enunciation drew out the word, nearly giving it an extra syllable.

  “Montana? What’s in Montana? Besides buffalo roaming, deer and antelope playing, and seldom heard discouraging words.”

  “Mountains. Kind of says it in the name, Slow Fry.” They hit a red light at one of the few stoplights on the hill, and he tossed her a grin.

  “There are mountains all over California.”

  “You’re not the only one who wants to escape. I’m going to business school. Eventually I’ll take over Pagano and Sons.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “At this point in my life, I don’t have any better ideas.” The relief he thought he would feel after saying this was, in fact, emptiness. The light turned green, and he was glad to have an excuse to focus on the road.

  “Does U of M have a football team?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You could be their chicken.”

  “It’s a grizzly bear.”

  “Everyone will be so drunk they won’t know the difference.”

  Daphne’s future burned bright as the Sun. In
her solar system, his own future became Pluto, not even good enough to be a planet, just another rock among billions. He changed the subject. “You’re not asking where I’m taking you?”

  “I trust you.”

  Every innocent thing she said sounded like a come-on. “You shouldn’t.”

  “Are you a serial killer? Oh my god, I’m trapped in the car. There’s no upstairs to run to. I’m going to die…”

  The street widened to four lanes and the palm trees grew taller, their pineapple tops meticulously pruned, dead fronds unacceptable.

  She continued, “…in Beverly Hills. Nope. Beverly Hills wouldn’t let me die in it. I’m not posh enough.”

  They parked off of Rodeo Drive and Daphne followed him up the sidewalk, past the stores of every fashion designer featured prominently in VOGUE.

  “You need to put a couple extra zeroes in my Sweetie’s paycheck for me to shop here.”

  “So, I’m assuming you remember number six?” he asked.

  “Own a pair of designer shoes. Clearly Emily’s.”

  “Look who’s sexist. Maybe Jason had a shoe fetish.” He opened the door to a tall store that seemed to be made entirely of glass. “I want to get you a graduation present, courtesy of a Mr. James Choo.”

  She stopped in front of the door. “Now look who’s sexist. You’re assuming I’m into designer shoes because I almost have boobs.”

  “Nah, you have ’em. Can’t say I haven’t looked. And I poked one.” The flirtation tumbled out from Oliver involuntarily and he shifted his eyes to the floor, avoiding her face and chest area. They hadn’t kissed, he reminded himself. Never happened. He didn’t want to touch her. His hands were rubber to her electricity. I’m rubber, you’re glue. Grade school defense mechanisms only compounded his shame.

  “Well, you’re right. About the shoes. But it’s sheer coincidence.” She sauntered in the store and Oliver followed.

  The saleswoman peered down on the teenagers. The arches of her eyebrows came to a severe point over her skeptical eyes.

  “Don’t worry, he’s a trust fund baby,” Daphne said to the coifed woman donned in impeccably tailored black.

  The saleswoman approached, reserved, still prepared to call their bluff. “Hello, I’m Alana. Is there anything you’re looking for in particular?”

  Daphne checked with Oliver. If he was planning on folding, now was the time. She cocked her head, giving him one last chance. You’re sure about this?

  He wanted to call off the whole thing. This was all a terrible mistake. They were supposed to have had The Conversation on the ride over the hill. Everything should be as clear as the spotless glass surfaces in the store. The shoes meant nothing except friendship, a relationship forged through tragedy, something pure that had crawled through the ugliness against all odds.

  Instead, he nodded in surrender, condemning them both to a harrowing predicament.

  All clear, Daphne faced Alana. “Something neutral. Classic. Goes with everything.”

  Alana believed the intent to purchase, and her attentiveness multiplied by the commission. “We have a few of those. What size?”

  “Seven and a half. Or eight. I don’t know what size I am in Mr. Choo.”

  “I’ll be right back.” Alana glided through the lacquered doors into the back room.

  “Thanks, Alana,” Oliver called after her, ready to have a good laugh about Alana’s dramatic change in attitude. He wore a full smirk on his face, ready to break open with laughter as soon as Daphne cracked. They would make a halfhearted attempt to collect themselves when Alana returned.

  “Oliver, go to prom with me.”

  It was out of nowhere. No lead-in, no warning. He didn’t anticipate her having the gumption to ask.

  Her voice held its confidence. “I’m not asking you to be my boyfriend. I just want you there with me.”

  There wasn’t a smooth way to say it, so he blurted it out. “I’m already going. With Penny. To her prom. Your prom. It’s on the same night as mine.” Information he meant to divulge in the car. Revelations he knew would annihilate the admiration in her eyes. The end of times.

  He didn’t want to see her crestfallen face, but he owed it to her to look.

  “She asked you, and you said yes?” Thankfully, she was more bewildered than sad.

  “Actually, I asked her.” The words scratched against his throat.

  “You asked her to her prom?” Her voice began to crack.

  “Yeah.” Because I am a sadistic asshole.

  “The kiss…” She trailed off, unable to compliment or insult herself over it.

  “It was a great kiss.” He took a step toward her, as if that would prove his sincerity.

  “Not that great, apparently.” The sarcasm cut with precision.

  He spoke slowly, hitting every consonant so she could feel it, know it. “No, it was…the best.”

  “Oliver, tell me you don’t like me.”

  “I don’t want to like you.” He said it as flat and robotic as possible, and it still came out sounding desperate.

  “Not the same thing.”

  The conviction in her words fueled him. “I like you, Daphne. But you want more from me than I can give you.”

  Her voice sliced into him, a clean cut between pity and laughter. “You’re predicting what I want so you don’t have to find out. Better get your crystal ball checked because you don’t know me.”

  “I know you want what Emily and Jason had. I can’t do that.” He stared her down, making sure it registered.

  Her voice was still sharp. “I want whatever we have. All the good and all the bad.”

  The line between what Oliver himself wanted, and Oliver not wanting to be Jason, zigzagged on the earthquake-laden ground of Beverly Hills. “I can’t do it.”

  “Taking the coward’s way out…” her voice trailed off.

  “Like Jason? Little bit of a stretch to compare suicide to saying no to a date, don’t you think?”

  “I’m noticing the irony. By trying to not be like him, you’re being like him.”

  “And you can’t even get dressed without trying to be Emily.”

  “Wow. Thanks for throwing my honesty in my face.”

  “Like you’re not doing the exact same thing to me.”

  “So, what is this? You’re buying me off with a pair of shoes? Is this what happens? Someone scares you and you head to Rodeo Drive with your parents’ credit card? Take me home.” She dashed out of the store as Alana reappeared with a stack of boxes.

  Oliver had run through all the possible scenarios over the last week. He’d imagined a blowout with Daphne that ended with him feeling guilty, outsmarted, and vacant. He had not, however, imagined that this would take place at the Jimmy Choo store in front of an audience.

  He nodded an apology to Alana. She dropped the boxes on the counter a little too hard for how expensive the shoes inside them were, but she got her point across. He hated when people were right about him, especially strangers. And Daphne Bowman.

  The car ride home was the longest one of his life. The stoplights taunted him with their measured ability to change.

  Daphne took a raspy breath. Thankfully, she wasn’t crying. “I’m asking you to be honest with yourself. I don’t think anyone’s asked you to do that before.”

  “And I’m responding by saying, ‘I can’t date you.’ You’re getting all riled up because I’m saying I don’t want you.”

  She pulled the words from the depths of her throat, “Then say it.”

  He was even more intimidated by her than usual. “Say what?”

  “Say you don’t want me.”

  “I already did.” It sounded whiny. He hadn’t wanted to sound whiny.

  Her pity was back to splicing laughter. “The Oliver no is ever ambiguous. And I’m not riled up. If I got upset every time someone in my life didn’t want me, I’d be in a constant state of delirium.”

  “Drama Queen,” he said as a dark joke. It cleared some of the fre
netic energy in the car but solved nothing.

  She took a breath and waited. He knew her next words would be dangerous. They trickled out like the soft rain that rarely fell in L.A. It was always either downpour or a drought. “You’re embarrassed to be with me.”

  He shook his head. “That’s not true. I’m with you right now.”

  “No, I mean, of being with me. My boyfriend, or friend with benefits, or whatever your turn of phrase is for what you are with Penny.” She parted her hair on the right, using the thousands of extra strands to hide her face.

  “I’m not with Penny.” He sat up straighter and adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. He was right, and Daphne was wrong, for once.

  “Well, you will be, soon enough. You know me? Well, I know you, too.” She faced him, waiting.

  He glanced over to prove her wrong, but her gloat, bigger and better than his own, returned the curve to his backbone.

  They veered onto Mulholland Drive. Oliver used the winding road as an excuse to not face her. “You are an amazing person…”

  She almost laughed. “Oliver, if you break up with me one more time I’m going to throw myself out of this car. And as a person with a family history of suicide and depression, I know I shouldn’t use that as a threat.”

  “You forgot alcoholism in there. You want to make a joke about drinking yourself to death?”

  “It’s too expensive.”

  “Oh, so this is realistic hypothetical suicide? Should I 5150 you?”

  “As long as Jason wouldn’t.”

  The air in the car went so thick and still, it forced Oliver to ask the question he didn’t want to ask. “Should we not hang out anymore?”

  “I don’t know. I think you would miss me a lot less than I would miss you.”

  “No, Daph. You have it all wrong.”

  “Give it to me right.”

  “I tried. I’d just be breaking up with you again.”

  He glanced at his side mirror to avoid her rolling eyes. But evading her with one sense didn’t stop her disgust and exasperation from creeping over to his side of the car.

  Defeat swelled in her throat. “You bring out the worst in me.”

  And you bring out the best in me. He couldn’t say it out loud, couldn’t tell her how she’d made his senior year the best year of his life. How he knew that even through cancer or Alzheimer’s or a horrific car accident, on his deathbed, he would hold onto their conversation at Frank’s Diner, when they decided to do the list. He would forever recall the beauty of the desperation and hope in her eyes. The same feeling he’d held inside of him for so long, never having the courage to let it rise to the surface until he met her. She’d opened the cage of something in him that needed to be freed.