“You have?” I said. “I wasn’t sure it actually existed. It looks like something out of a fairy tale.”
She nodded. “It’s beautiful. Musty, but beautiful.”
“I always thought I’d get married there,” I said.
Asha kept looking at it as if she hadn’t heard me.
“So when were you in Germany?” I asked. “Family trip or something?”
She sat down on my bed. “Kind of. My dad used to be stationed in Berlin. We went to visit him a couple of times.”
“Wow,” I said. “Did you ever live over there?”
“Nah, never out of the country,” she said, “but we moved around a lot before we came here. Ohio before this.”
“Did you mind?”
“You kind of get used to it,” she said. “Which is not the same as liking it, I guess.”
“Would be hard to make friends,” I said.
“Yeah,” she said. She paused. “Especially if you and your brothers are the only brown people in the whole school.”
“Oh,” I said. “Yeah, I guess…I guess so.”
She smiled, not unkindly. “So then you get disgustingly close to your family. Especially if you aren’t the biggest fan of other people to start with.” She looked back at the poster. “I’m just saying that theoretically. One would. If they were like that.”
“I’ve lived here my whole life and all I have to show for it is Lila, so you’re doing better than I am.”
She laughed. “I’m sure you have your reasons.”
I laughed too and then felt guilty for laughing. “I’m sorry she’s been such a bitch to you,” I said, and immediately felt worse. You probably weren’t supposed to say bitch to a feminist.
“You don’t need to keep apologizing for her,” she said. “Not everyone needs to be friends.”
“You’re right,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
She widened her eyes at me playfully. “Stop apologizing! It’s really patronizing!”
“So…,” I said. “I’m— Okay, I will. I just feel like I’m responsible for her somehow. We grew up together and she’s…” I shrugged. “She’s like my embarrassing racist uncle. She’s family.”
“I don’t think she’s a bad person,” Asha said. “She just seems to think that the more you talk, the more interesting you are.”
“God, I know,” I said. “I don’t think she even does it intentionally. And she’s threatened by you, but she’d never admit it.”
Asha frowned. “Threatened by me?”
I blushed. “Just, you know, we’re, um, hanging out, so…”
“Oh, right,” she said. It had gotten darker and it was hard to see her expression. “She’s with that guy Jason, isn’t she?”
“The one who looks like a giant sentient slab of meat?” She laughed, and I relaxed a little. “Yeah, but she refuses to acknowledge that they’re together. Which, fair enough. He’d be my secret shame too.”
She made a face. “She could do better.”
“Seriously,” I said. “I don’t know if she doesn’t know how pretty she is or she just has low standards.”
“You think she’s pretty?” she said as she gazed out the window.
I turned to see what she was looking at. It was just houses swaddled in snow, the lights in their windows like golden eyes in the dark. “You don’t think so?”
“No, she is, I guess.” She sighed. “Ugh.”
“Yeah, I hate it when you can tell people are attractive,” I said.
Asha laughed and bowed her head. “I’m just being catty.”
“Oh,” I said. “No, I didn’t mean— I mean, I feel that way too.”
“It’s not really about her, anyway,” she said. “I just feel like…why do girls like her get all the attention?”
Asha had never brought up her love life, so I’d assumed she was indifferent about it. Some kids I knew—academically minded ones, mostly—walled off romance as a topic of conversation, as if it were a distraction from their real future. “Are you interested in someone?” I said.
“No, there’s no one in particular. I just…” She trailed off. “I just feel completely invisible sometimes.”
“Yeah,” I said. It was easier to admit in the gloom, when I didn’t have to look at her. We were silent for a few minutes as the room got darker and darker.
“I got catcalled this one time,” Asha said quietly. “I thought he was insulting me at first.”
I took a moment to think about how to respond: with shock or laughter or commiseration? “Was he?” I said finally.
“He was complimenting me, I think—or what he thought I should take as a compliment, anyway,” she said. “He told me I had a nice ass. And then he tried to grab it.”
“Hot.”
“Yeah,” she said. “But even though I hated it, I felt sort of…relieved that he’d noticed. Which just made me feel worse.”
I wanted to tell her I knew what that felt like, but it was too humiliating to admit it out loud. I sat back on the bed so I couldn’t see her face. “You know those friends Jason has? Mike and Austin?”
“I think so,” Asha said. “Mike’s in our gym class, isn’t he?”
“Yeah. He…well, I don’t know what his deal is. But Austin has—he’s said some things. I don’t think he was flirting. I couldn’t tell Lila because she wouldn’t…” I swallowed, tried to say something else, and then stopped when I realized I was perilously close to crying.
Asha didn’t say anything. We were so still that I could see my shirt tremble every time my heart beat.
“I’ve had that happen,” she said finally.
The heat clicked on with a sigh. I thought about how pathetic I was, for not being able to resist telling her and for letting it happen to me at all.
“I wonder sometimes,” Asha said at last. “Why does it matter whether you’re beautiful at all? What does it even get you?”
I stared at her silhouette. I didn’t know how to answer.
“I mean that,” she said. “The way people talk about women’s beauty like it’s a personality trait. It’s just…it’s depressing. Why should we bother?” She glanced at me quickly. “I mean, not that you’re— Sorry, I didn’t—”
“It’s okay,” I said. Suddenly I desperately wanted to hug her, but instead I grabbed a pillow and pulled it to my chest. “Is the feminism what Dev is always teasing you about?”
She laughed. “Among other things.”
“I don’t think he’s serious.”
“No, he’s not. He just likes being a pain in my ass.”
“And his girlfriend’s, probably,” I said.
She raised her eyebrows. “What girlfriend?”
“Oh,” I said. “I thought he had one.”
“Dev with a girlfriend?” She laughed. “No, he is, uh, definitely single.”
“Oh,” I said. “Right.” I paused. “So there’s no one you’re interested in? Not even Frank?”
Asha glared at me. “No.”
I smiled. “I guess as a feminist you’re a secret man-hating lesbian, right?”
She looked at me quickly to check whether I was joking. “Funny,” she said.
“Yes.” I paused. “But it’d be totally cool if you were. I didn’t mean—”
“I knew what you meant.”
I put my chin on my hands and batted my eyelashes. “So tell me more about feminism.”
She looked at me again thoughtfully. “If you’re sure.”
“I am. It’s mostly about not shaving, right?”
“Mostly.”
“Excellent,” I said. “Reduces the need to shower. And I like when I can feel the wind through the hair on my legs.”
“Are you interested in feminism or an excuse for questionable personal hygiene?”
I laughed. “Both. So tell me.”
“You’re really interested in this?”
“I really am.” I got up and turned on the light. “By the way, do you want to stay for dinne
r? My dad cooks. He’s very good.”
“Yeah,” she said. “I’d like that.”
“Go home, Charlie, really,” Drummond said. He and I were working late on the newspaper layout—or rather, he had stayed after everyone left and I’d stayed with him.
“It’s okay,” I said, trying not to turn hot with embarrassment. “I don’t mind.”
“And I appreciate it,” he said, “but both of us banging our heads against the wall is just going to make a bigger hole.” He made a sound between a sigh and a whimper that made my stomach curl. I hesitated, not sure whether he was just trying to be nice or he really wanted me to leave.
“Why are you two still here?” Asha had appeared at the door.
“The first issue is almost finished,” I said.
Drummond shook his head. “Charlie has an interesting take on the word finished.”
“Why are you here?” I asked her. “I thought you left with everyone else.”
“Watching Jai practice,” she said. “I was walking past and I heard shouts.”
“He’s mad at the software,” I said, jerking my thumb at Drummond.
“It’s fine,” he said. “I’m going to find the people who made it and force them to create pie charts for the rest of time.”
“What’s wrong with it?” Asha asked.
“No, no, don’t worry about it,” he said. “I’m sure both of you need to get home.”
Asha moved toward us. “Let me see if I can help,” she said. Drummond got up with a please, go ahead gesture and Asha took his seat next to me. He stood behind my chair, his hand on the backrest. I moved deliberately to see what would happen; my shoulder brushed his hand and he pulled it away.
Asha shifted things around on the page for a few minutes. “What about this?” she said. “If we moved the editorial over two columns and then pushed the response to the right, that would make sense and still fit on the page.”
“Asha, you’re a genius,” Drummond said, and chucked her on the shoulder. “That’s perfect. We should have you doing layout. We’re terrible at it.” A gust of jealousy swept through me: he’d never chucked me on the shoulder and called me a genius.
Asha brushed her shoulder off. “I’m sorry to run, but I really need to get home for dinner. Will you guys be okay?” She raised her eyebrows at me.
“Sure, sure, go home,” he said, waving her out. “Charlie, seriously, you go too. There’s no reason you should be here this late on a Friday. I’ll finish up and then we can tackle it again next week.”
“Oh, I’m fine,” I said. “My parents are out for the night, so I don’t have to be home.” My parents were definitely not out for the night, but I decided I could apologize to them later.
Asha glanced at me again. “You sure you don’t want a ride?”
“No, it’s okay. I’ve got my dad’s car,” I said, not quite meeting her eyes.
“Okay. Well, have fun, guys.” She waved at me and then she was gone. Her footsteps faded quickly.
“You sure you want to be here? I’m just going to be a grumpy jerk,” Drummond said, sliding down into his chair. His leg bumped against my knees as he settled himself.
When I didn’t answer right away, he said, “What?”
I swallowed. “How’s that any different than usual?”
“Good point,” he said. He paused. “I didn’t mean to imply that I wanted you to leave earlier.”
“Oh,” I said, “good. I wasn’t going to.” I looked into the hallway. The building was completely silent. Usually by then there was the narcotic drone of a vacuum in the distance. “This is the only time of day I like this place.”
He grabbed his tennis ball from the desk and threw it into the air. “With the notable exception of my class,” he said.
“Uh, yes, sure,” I said. He threw the ball at me, and I laughed and caught it. “It has a different feel at night, though, you know? It feels—I don’t know—warmer. Safe.”
“Mm,” he said. “Back when I was in high school, lo those many—”
“Many.”
“—many years ago, I always came in early or stayed late so I could do my homework in peace.”
“Ugh,” I said. “You came in just to do homework?”
“I had a big family. I shared a room with my brother and there was always noise coming from somewhere. Sometimes school was the only quiet place I could find.” He held his hands out and I tossed the ball back to him.
“That sounds hellish,” I said. “On both counts.”
“You’re an only child, right?” he said.
He remembered. “Yep.”
He tipped his chair onto two legs and looked at the ceiling. He threw the ball up and caught it, up and caught it. “I often wished I were an only child.”
“How many brothers and sisters do you have?”
“One brother, two sisters. Two parents, which was more than enough.”
It was strange to think he had parents, people who had known him when he was young. Whenever we asked him personal questions in class, he’d deflect them with a joke. I knew I had to be careful.
“Do you get along with them?”
“Sure,” he said. “Mostly. How about you?”
“I liked my imaginary brother a lot, but they told me I couldn’t bring him to kindergarten.”
He smiled at me, still balanced on two legs. His hair had gotten shaggy and it curled like a wave cresting when he moved. “And your parents?”
“Well, you’ve met my mom.”
“Yes. Oh, I still need to find out about internships for you, actually.”
“Don’t worry about that,” I said, waving the words away. “Anyway, you can imagine how well that goes.” He had put the ball down on the table and I picked it up and squeezed it. “I do love them.”
“But…,” he said.
“You know how when your best friend gets obsessed with somebody and you feel like a fifth wheel when you’re with them?”
“That bad?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Sometimes I think I’m imagining it.”
He rocked forward so the front legs of his chair hit the floor. “My parents got divorced when I was thirteen. Hated them for a good few years.”
“I think you have to hate your parents at least a bit when you’re a teenager.”
“Very wise. I went a little crazy at your age.”
“You?”
“Yes, me, Charlie. Got suspended once, even.”
I stared at him in surprise. Every time I felt like I knew him—had quantified him, made him containable—he would say something like this and a vast space would open behind the words, hinting at oceans, deserts, planets full of things I didn’t know. “Really? I always thought you were…”
He laughed. “I was a loser, don’t get me wrong. I just had a night of drunken stupidity.”
“What did you do?”
He grimaced as if even the memory was painful. “Vandalized a science lab.”
“Why? And how?”
“There was this girl,” he said. “Rachel.”
“Ah,” I said.
“Yes,” he said as if we were old friends, which made me flush with pleasure. “Anyway, she was an atheist—a very vocal atheist, as seventeen-year-old atheists tend to be. She was the one who introduced me to the idea that Catch-22 might be about atheism, actually. She used to tell me how she suspected our biology teacher was a creationist, so one night I snuck in and—you know those bumper stickers they make, the ones where the Jesus fish have legs? I stuck those up all over the walls, into the books, onto the Bunsen burners. Stuck one right onto his reading glasses.”
“That is a pathetic prank,” I said.
“It was,” he said. “I thought I was Yossarian. Turns out I was Doc Daneeka.”
“So did you impress her?”
“What do you think?”
“What happened?”
“Never got up the nerve to tell her I’d done it.”
&nbs
p; I slapped my hands on the table. “No!”
“Yes. But I did turn myself in, because the guilt was eating me up inside. Have I mentioned how I wasn’t popular in high school?”
I enjoyed the thought of him in high school. “What were you like?”
“Picture me now but thirty pounds heavier, with what can only be described as a visual assault of hair, and a hundred times more obnoxious and determined to get people to laugh at my jokes. I say this with a very loose definition of the word jokes.”
“You were Frank?” I said.
He laughed. “Now you understand our fraught relationship.”
“So was Rachel your great lost love?” I said. I tried to keep my voice light.
He cleared his throat. “Not exactly.”
I knew I had hit on something personal, but I wasn’t sure what. Maybe he still liked her. “Do you keep in touch with anyone from high school?” I asked, to change the subject.
“Some people,” he said. “I still talk to a couple of my friends, and a few people I became close to after we got older.”
“Are they different now?”
“Yeah, to varying degrees,” he said. “Some people change a lot.”
“I won’t,” I said. I rolled the ball to him.
He picked it up. “Maybe not,” he said. “You never know.” I didn’t know what to say to that, so I didn’t say anything. “I, however, am not someone you would have liked in high school.” He was silent for a long time, bouncing the ball against the table. “We really should do some work,” he said eventually. But he didn’t move.
I wanted to draw him out before he snapped shut again. “I guess you probably have someone to get home to.”
He snorted. “The only thing I have to get home to is your classmates’ papers.”
“Oh,” I said. “Not even like a goldfish?”
He shook his head. “You’re fishing, though.”
I laughed. “You do tend to be stingy with the personal details.”
He leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling again. “You seem to be pretty adept at getting them out of me tonight.”
I swallowed. “I guess I should ask for your credit card number while I’m on a roll.”
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