If You Loved Me

by Marilyn Reynolds

  “Very funny,” I say, turning and walking toward the door.

  They catch up to me.

  “What happened?” Tyler asks.

  “He wouldn’t listen to anything! I even told him I buy books in his store but that didn’t help, either.”

  “So much for the buy something theory,” Blake says.

  “It worked at Barb ’n Edie’s,” Tyler fires back.

  I keep ranting. “Mr. Swallow, the old bird, is mad because choir didn’t send him a thank-you note last year and besides he’s a sexist, racist bigot. He said I don’t look like I’m a reader!”

  Wild with anger, I take a book off a counter display and throw it, hard, down on the floor. It makes a loud bang. Everyone in the store is looking at me. Let them look. I reach for another book.

  “Hey, hey. It’s not worth it,” Tyler says, holding both my hands in his. “Calm down,” he whispers. “It’s okay. Take slow, deep breaths.”

  I take a deep breath, then another. I see Blake looking at me strangely. I’m so embarrassed. It’s like something gets hold of me sometimes and I hardly even know what I’m doing. We walk slowly out of the store and stand in front, on the sidewalk.

  “Okay?” Tyler asks.

  “Yes,” I say, leaning my head into his chest, trying not to cry.

  After watching awkwardly for a few moments, Blake says, “I’ll walk on to the pet store.”

  “See you there,” Tyler says.

  Blake walks away and I stay close to Tyler, my hands trembling.

  “You shouldn’t let things get to you like that,” Tyler says.

  “I know. I just get so angry sometimes.”

  “I’m telling you, you should read that book, Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff. ”

  “I don’t feel much like joking right now.”

  “I’m not joking,” Tyler says, giving me a long look.

  We catch up to Blake just outside Paula’s Pets. He goes to the counter and asks for Paula.

  “Hey, Paula!” the guy at the cash register bellows out.

  “Yo!” yells Paula from the back where she’s unloading cases of cat food.

  Paula’s about five feet nine and I bet she weighs at least three hundred pounds. She’s got tattoos on both arms, and they’re not those pretty henna things that fade, either. One’s an eagle and the other’s an anchor. She’s got arms like Popeye the Sailor Man.

  Blake goes back to make his sales pitch and Tyler and I wander around the pet store. There’re some really cute black and white puppies in a cage filled with cedar chips. I can’t help laughing as I watch them tumbling all over one another.

  “Better now?” Tyler asks.

  “Thanks,” I say, thinking how lucky I am that Tyler’s there for

  me.

  After we watch the puppies play, we go to the back of the store, where there’s an aquarium filled with iridescent fish. Sitting on a perch above the aquarium is a trite parrot that keeps squawking “Polly wanna cracker? Polly wanna cracker?”

  We wander down an aisle and stop to watch two tortoises in a giant glass cage. The label on the front identifies the male as Tommy and the female as Teresa. One of them is trying to mount the other. The mountee, Teresa, I suppose, keeps walking away, like she’s not even noticing, and the mounter, Tommy, is totally determined to climb up and hang on. I didn’t know they did it that way. Truthfully though, I never gave much thought to the mating habits of tortoises until just this instant.

  Tyler pulls me close to him and whispers, “Have you thought about what I’ve asked you to think about?”

  “You’re soooo transparent,” I say, smiling up at him.

  “I’m soooo serious,” he says.

  Tommy finally has Teresa cornered and is on top of her, apparently doing his thing.

  “Come on, we shouldn’t be watching their private moment,” Tyler says, leading me back to the wholesome little puppies.

  “Teresa doesn’t seem very enthused.”

  “Tommy’s a brute. You’ve got to admit, I’m much more sensitive than a tortoise,” Tyler says.

  Blake comes walking past us, flashing a subtle thumbs up. We follow him out the door.

  “Full page ad!” he says, waving the completed form in front of us. “Now who’s da man?”

  “You da man!” Tyler and I shout in unison.

  “Way to go, Blake,” Tyler says.

  I get quiet, thinking what a blob I am that I couldn’t even sell a business card ad and Tyler and Blake have both made big sales. It’s like Tyler knows what I’m thinking.

  “You’ll get lucky next time,” he says.

  He takes a few strands of my hair and pulls gently, three times, meaning “I love you.”

  That brings me out of the dumps. I give Tyler’s wrist three quick pinches, meaning “Love you, too.”

  “I can’t wait to show this to The Harp,” Blake says. “He said I’d never get a dime out of Paula. I guess he doesn’t know everything. Cool, huh?”

  Blake waves the paper in front of us again, doing a silly kind of dance, and we laugh, again. The thing with Blake is, most of the time he acts like nothing matters and then he gets all excited, like a little kid, over selling an ad. As my grams would say, go figure.

  Chapter

  6

  Late in the evening, as I’m dozing over my math homework, Grams calls me to the phone.

  “It’s Tyler,” she says. “Tell him I want him to look at my Japanese maple the next time he’s over. The leaves are develop­ing a brownish tip and . . .”

  I hand the phone back to Grams.

  “Skip the middle person,” I say.

  “Listen, Tyler,” she says, launching into a detailed description of the leaves on her Japanese maple.

  “What do you think? Not enough water? Too much?”

  She listens for a bit, then thanks him and hands the phone back to me.

  “He’s a genius,” she says. “Tell him I said so.”

  I take the phone back to my room and close the door.

  “Grams says you’re a genius.”

  Tyler laughs the snorty laugh that makes me laugh, too.

  “I hope the stuff I recommended doesn’t kill her tree.”

  We start on one of those slow, sluggish conversations that happen after you’ve been with someone most of the day and don’t have anything new to say.

  “What’re you doing?” Tyler asks.

  “Homework. What’re you doing?”

  “Homework.”

  “What homework?”

  “Chemistry. What about you?”

  Even though our talk starts out kind of boring, we always want to talk to each other every night. We ask each other obvious questions and give obvious answers. Then Tyler says, “Blake told me he saw you and Amber at Carole’s Coffee yesterday.”

  “Yeah. I cut English with her. She was really upset.”

  “Why?”

  “Amber doesn’t want me to tell anyone.”

  “I tell you everything,” Tyler says.

  “Well . . . You have to promise not to tell a soul.”

  “I promise.”

  “Absolutely no one, not Blake, not even the roses in your garden.”

  “I promise!”

  “Amber has herpes.”

  There’s a long silence, then, “That sucks. Poor Amber. I always thought she was a virgin, though. She seems the type.”

  “Whatever that means,” I say.

  “Well, you know. Like, she’s not with anyone is she?”

  “She had a boyfriend that she was all in love with. They did it once and then about two weeks later she got a bunch of ugly symptoms. He hadn’t even told her. He said he was a virgin, too.”

  “So does she have to take antibiotics or something?”

  “There’s no cure. That’s why she’s so freaked out.”

  “Damn,” he says, and again there is a long silence.

  “You know for sure you don’t have to worry about anything like that wit
h me,” he says. “Right?”

  “Right,” I say. “But that’s exactly what Amber thought, too.” “What do you mean by that?”

  “Well, you know. She thought he’d never had sex before. She thought he couldn’t possibly have a disease like that. And he’d promised to take care of her and be careful and all, but when the time came he didn’t even have a condom. And she was so innocent, she was too embarrassed to even ask about a condom.”

  “But I’m not like that!”

  “I didn’t say you were.”

  “No, but you’re acting like it!”

  “I’m not either! I’m just telling you. You asked me to tell you and I’m telling you and now you’re getting all mad!”

  “I’m not mad! But why don’t you trust me?”

  “I do trust you!”

  I hear Tyler breathing deep breaths, like maybe he’s trying to calm down, using the same method he always tells me to use. Finally he says, “Listen. Believe me. I don’t have any diseases. The whole world knows I’m a virgin. Ask anyone!”

  “It’s not that . . .”

  “I’ll use a condom. I’ll get foam for you to use. Just trust me.”

  “I do. You know I trust you.”

  “Well, then?”

  “Well then, what?”

  “Well, then, what about making this weekend our special time?”

  Now it’s my turn to take slow, deep breaths.

  “Well?”

  “Can’t we just . . . you know . . . keep doing what we’ve been doing?”

  There’s another long silence. Then Tyler says, “I don’t think that’s enough for me anymore. I don’t want to pressure you, I’m just telling you how I feel.”

  “I’m not sure . . .”

  “But if you loved me . . . ”

  “Oh, Tyler. I do. I love you more than anything, it’s just . . .” “Whatever,” he sighs, and hangs up.

  I dial him back, but all I get is his answering machine. I want to tell him how much I love him, but that’s not something I can leave on the machine, for his whole family to hear.

  I try to concentrate on math, but all 1 think of is Tyler what he wants to do, and what I’m not ready to do. I mean, we do almost everything else. We help each other—you know—reach a climax. But just safe sex ways. That’s what we agreed on when we first started getting close. I told Tyler I’d decided a longtime ago that I wouldn’t have sex—the total sex thing, until I was married. He thought that was fine at the time. He even said he respected me for it. But now he’s changed. He wants it all.

  I close my math book. I don’t care. What will I ever need that stuff for? I want to be a writer, not a mathematician.

  I keep thinking of Tyler, his smile, his laugh, how secure and warm I feel with his arms around me. I do love him. He knows that. Why do I have to prove it to him by breaking my promise? Is that loving me? But honestly, I want it, too. I want that special closeness with him. Why is life so confusing?

  There’s a knock on the door, jarring me out of my thoughts.

  “Finished with the phone, Lauren?” Grams asks.

  “Oh, yeah. Sorry,” I say, passing the phone to her.

  “I need to make a quick call to Betty, then I’m done for the night. You going to bed soon?”

  “Probably,” I say.

  “You seem worried. Anything wrong?”

  I swear my gramma has some kind of ESP.

  “I guess I’m just tired,” I tell her.

  “Well, if you need to talk, remember I’ve got a good ear.”

  “Thanks,” I say, forcing a smile and trying to look happy.

  It’s true my grams is a good listener, but I’d rather not discuss the details of my sex life with her.

  “Get a good night’s sleep. Things usually look better in the daylight.”

  I turn my lamp off and stare into the darkness, listening to the gentle hooting of the owl. I’ve run my hands through my hair about a billion times and my thoughts still aren’t clear. What if I said yes, and the condom broke, or had a leak in it? And what if the foam wasn’t effective? That stuff happens. And what if I got pregnant? No way could Tyler and I support a baby, or take care of it. And I’m not sure I could handle having an abortion. I don’t ever, ever, want to be so stressed that I’d even think of doing anything as awful as Sarah Mabry did.

  I want to be totally, absolutely, undoubtedly safe from preg­nancy. But I want Tyler to be totally, absolutely, undoubtedly happy with me, and to know that I totally, absolutely, undoubt­edly love him, and if breaking my old promise is what it takes, well . . .

  In my heart I know I’ve got to reach a decision, but right now my head is spinning with yes-no-yes-no-yes-no.

  Before zero period I wait for Tyler at our usual place, on the bench by the tall, scrawny palm tree near the student parking lot. I’m eager to see him, to feel his light morning kiss and to walk, holding hands, along the cracked and gum-studded cement walkway that leads to Hamilton’s main campus. Our night-time phone conversation and the sound of Tyler’s last, distant “what­ever” floats through my head, and I want it to be wiped out by his cheerful “Hey, Curly,” greeting.

  I wait until after the tardy bell, then walk slowly to class, looking behind me so often I feel stupid, each time knowing I’ll see him running up behind me, smiling, breathless, explaining that his dad stopped for gas on the way to school, and Parker cried because he was going to be late, so his dad went out of his way to drop Parker off first. But it’s all my imagination. He’s not there. No matter how often I look, or how hard I wish, he’s not there. And he doesn’t show up for creative writing, either.

  In peer communications I pretend to be listening but I can only worry about Tyler. Is he really mad at me? Will he stop loving me? The thought leaves me feeling strange and empty.

  Ms. Woods hands out photocopied lists of all the topics we put on the board yesterday, and tells us we’ll need to choose a subject for our class project.

  I look down at the list, but the words blur together. Nothing makes sense. I raise my hand and ask to use the restroom. Woodsie hands me the big, blue hall pass and I walk quickly down the corridor, across the food court to the C building, then upstairs to room 201. I open the back door, just a crack, and see that Tyler is sitting over by the window, where he always sits. The teacher glances up, but I quickly close the door and rush down the stairs.

  Even though I hurry back to class, I know I’ve been gone longer than the usual restroom break. Ms. Woods gives me a look when I return the hall pass to her desk, but she doesn’t question me.

  When I sit down, Amber passes a note back to me.

  “Number Two?” it says.

  “Number Zero,” I write, and pass the note back.

  “I feel better today,” she writes back.

  I draw a big smiling face at the bottom of the paper and hand it to her.

  “Lauren, are you bored with class discussion?” Ms. Woods asks.

  I shake my head no.

  “Then perhaps you could pay attention?”

  I nod yes, feeling all embarrassed.

  “Amber?”

  “Sorry,” Amber says.

  “So, tomorrow we’re going to have a panel of recovering drug abusers. They’ll give some factual information, share some of their personal experiences, and answer questions. I want you each to write out two questions that somehow relate to drugs, and have them ready for the speakers,” Woodsie says, handing a stack of 3x5 cards to the first person in each row. “Take a card and pass it back,” she says.

  “Do we hand these cards in, or what?” Scott asks.

  “Put your name on one side, in the middle, big print. On the other side write your questions. Keep them until after the discussion, then I’ll collect them.”

  “Can we ask anything?”

  “What did you have in mind, Scott?” Woodsie asks.

  Scott turns red.

  “Well?” Woodsie stands waiting.

  “Well, like .
. . someone told me once, like . . . well . . .”

  “Just say it!” Mark says, pounding his desk.

  “Sex is better with coke but worse with heroin,” Scott blurts out.

  Mark laughs a sudden loud laugh, but it’s more of a mean laugh than a happy laugh.

  “Is that true?” Scott asks Woodsie.

  “I wouldn’t know, Scott, but someone on the panel may. We’re trying to encourage open communication here, and if you think the question is appropriate, ask it.”

  Mark laughs again, then pokes Scott and tells him in this mock whisper, “I hear coke gives you a really big dong!”

  The whole class gets quiet, watching Woodsie.

  “Stick around for a few minutes after class, will you Mark?” she says.

  “Hey! Open communication! Are you another big hypocrite or what?” He bangs his desk again, open palmed, so it makes a loud, slapping noise.

  “Just stick around,” Woodsie says. “Any other questions about tomorrow?”

  “Are they talking about kids doing drugs, or parents doing drugs?” Shawna asks, holding up her list of subjects.

  “I can’t say for sure,” Woodsie says. “There’ll be five of them. If it’s at all like the last time they were here, there was an age range from about nineteen to forty-something and they talked about all kinds of drug-related issues.”

  “I’m sick of always hearing about how awful kids are when parents get away with some really bad shit!”

  “Stick around for a few minutes after class, will you, Shawna,” Mark says, mimicking Ms. Woods.

  Ms. Woods makes eye contact with Mark, giving him a look that says she’s had enough. He looks down at his desk.

  “Shawna, work out your questions in a way that addresses the issue of parents doing drugs. I’m sure our panelists will answer as honestly as they can.”

  Mark mutters, “Yeah, I have to stay after but when Doggie Shawna talks bad, no problem.”

  He says it so softly, I’m not sure anyone else has heard. I glance at Shawna, but her face is hidden by her hair.

  Chapter

  7

  On the way to English, after peer communications, Amber says, “That skater guy always seems mad at the world. Shawna does, too.”