Definitely about me.
“Sure, but we were just about to start painting the office upstairs, so . . .”
Helpful/Not Helpful Dad pops in. “You know what? I was thinking I wanted to make a coffee run before we really dive in.” The man can read a room.
“Great.” I try to sound enthusiastic. I love Maggie more than just about anybody, but I’ve done a very good job not having a serious conversation with her for almost four months and I was hoping to keep that going for at least another several years.
Dad takes off, and Maggie and I head down to the family room. She’s only seen pictures of the Lovesac.
“Oh my god. You could fit your whole family in this thing!” She plops herself in the middle and insists I climb in with her, which really means climbing all over her. It’s a lot of elbows and knees before we’re settled, facing each other in a beanbag the size of a dwarf planet.
She hands me her Vitaminwater, watching carefully, like she’s trying to figure out where to start. I realize I’m nervous. About Maggie. This is not how things are supposed to be. “Did I tell you that my mom is getting a client from Hong Kong who has triplets?” I try.
“Jackson Oates,” she replies.
I stop the bottle an inch from my lips. I shift in my spot and the foam filler resettles. “What about Jackson Oates?”
She leans forward and puts her hands together in a steeple, like one of those TV detectives who also happens to be a psychologist. “For a long time, I thought that he liked you and you didn’t even realize it.”
“No, he’s just always been friendly because of our moms.”
“Hang on. That’s what I thought at first. But then I realized that wasn’t it. Then I thought, he likes her, she doesn’t like him, and she thinks she’s being polite by pretending not to notice. Because you totally avoid conflict.”
“No, Maggie, it’s just because I was the first person—”
“Patience, my friend!” She grabs the bottle back from me and finishes the rest. Maggie is on a roll. “I’m only halfway through. Because then I thought, she likes him, but she doesn’t realize he likes her.” I roll my eyes. “But that was wrong, too, because what I now believe is this: He likes her, she likes him, she actually knows it but pretends not to so she can fuck it all up.” She says it like she’s solved the case, but she doesn’t look triumphant. She looks sad. I pick at the fake fur under us. After a minute she says, much more softly, “The part I can’t figure out is why.”
I think of a hundred sarcastic comebacks, but none of them come out. I wait for a long time for her to go on, but she doesn’t. When I look up, she is holding out her arms. It’s probably exactly how I looked at her when her dog got leukemia. Finally, I say, “I really fucked it up.”
And the second the tears start down my cheeks, they are running down hers, too.
And, for the million and first time in my life, I am grateful for Maggie Cleave.
It’s hard to hug somebody in a Lovesac. Mavis takes a sharp elbow to the nipple, and my head bangs into Maggie’s chin. The thing nearly swallows us up. The crying turns to laughing and oofing and more crying. Every time I try to separate us, we either sink deeper together or one of us nearly falls out. But we cling and claw our way back and then there we are, a tangle of legs, arms, and bodies, Maggie’s crossed over mine, and I am breathing normally again.
“You’ve really put a lot of time into this Jackson thing,” I say.
“I know. It’s been pretty exhausting, honestly.”
“You could have just asked me.”
“I tried. Like forty times.”
I know this is true. I have always known this was true. “I don’t know what I would have said anyway.” I look up at the ceiling and try to piece it together in my own mind, what I want, what I don’t want, what I wish for, what I’m scared of. “It’s like the ideal thing for me would be a boyfriend that was super into me, but didn’t actually want to touch me.”
Maggie bursts out laughing. “No, it’s not.”
I pull her leg hairs. Hard. “Don’t laugh at me. I’m trying to be honest.”
“No, you’re not.” I glare at her. “You’re not! Really, Greer? You never think about kissing him? You never imagine running your hand up inside his shirt or kissing his chest or him sliding off those little butt huggers you wear with your volleyball costume? You are honestly telling me that you don’t want Jackson Oates to touch you?”
“Oh god,” I say, ducking my face into both my hands. Have I mentioned that Maggie Cleave can read minds? “No. No, I can’t tell you that. Ugh. I like him, Mags. Really like him. Or I did. Or I do. So, so much. I don’t know what I’m doing.”
I flop forward over her legs, which are over mine, and sit for a minute, Maggie playing with the back of my hair. I assume that she’s going to tell me that it’s simple, because I assume that it’s simple for her. I assume it’s simple for everybody but me.
“I think . . . ” She starts and stops. “It’s like you’ve been trying to live your whole life inside your head. I mean you were always a brainiac, but the last couple of years, it’s been different. Like you know in Futurama how they keep all the famous people’s heads in jars? I could see you being a head in a jar.
“So when you said you were auditioning for volleyball, at first I was, like, How’s that going to work? but once I realized you were serious, I was really excited, especially when I saw you coming out of those rehearsals. Like you were finally going to get outside your jar. You’d be sweaty and exhausted and smell like armpits (no offense), but you were also, I don’t know, kind of relaxed. Loose. Happy? This sounds crazy but the first time I saw you coming from the gym, I thought you had gotten taller. I mean your posture is still terrible (no offense), but I think you actually stand straighter after you play.”
We talk forever, Maggie trying to do a Dutch braid but mostly tying knots in my hair. Not only does Dad not ask me to come paint, he shows up with a tray of drinks from the coffee shop. Hot cocoa for me, a soy mocha latte for Mags. My dad is a good guy, and a good guy knows when what you need is a good girl.
It turns out Maggie doesn’t tell me it’s simple. She tells me it’s hard. It’s hard because she knows who I am. But she also tries to tell me it will get better.
“Forget about Jackson. Think about a mystery man. Imagine that everything is going great, like for some reason you’re not all worked up about your boobs. And then it turns out this guy has this mole.” I glare at her. “Not like a normal mole, though. It’s shaped like a swastika. And he knows you’re half Jewish, so he’s too embarrassed to ever let you see it. He thinks you’re going to freak out. What do you do?”
“I send him to a dermatologist because that sounds like a very irregular mole.”
“Come on, Greer. Do you care about him enough to get past the mole?”
“Are you comparing my boobs to a Nazi mole?”
“I don’t think your boobs are a Nazi mole. I think you think your boobs are a Nazi mole. And by the way, in case you missed it, straight guys usually think big boobs are a positive.”
“They don’t have to play volleyball with them.”
“They wish they could play volleyball with them.”
I pinch her, not hard. “But what’s your point? That I’d still date somebody who had a weird mole? It’s not the same thing, Maggie.”
“I know it’s not the same thing. No one has the same thing. But everybody’s got some thing.”
“I don’t think Nella Woster has any things.”
“I knew you were going to say that. You’re practically in love with that girl.”
“Here’s the problem. What if I didn’t mind the mole. Maybe I’m even turned on by weird moles. But what if he didn’t want me to see it or touch it but it was right in the way of everything, and every time I got close to him he freaked out that I was goi
ng to freak out?”
“Okay, let’s say he’s got a really crooked penis.”
“MAGGIE!”
“If all that happened, you wouldn’t touch the mole. Not until he was ready.”
“And what if I didn’t want to wait for that?”
“Then you wouldn’t be the right person for him. And you’d both figure that out.” She puts her hand in my hand and squeezes. “But, buddy? I think you’re going to want him to touch your moles. And by moles I mean—”
“MAGGIE!”
* * *
σ
Before Maggie leaves, I get the full download on Rafa, and how not shy he turns out to be, and how he’s writing a musical they both hope Kennedy will do next year. She makes me promise that the next time there’s a Jackson, I won’t shut her out. I make her promise she won’t pressure me about it, which she acts like she would never do, but which she would absolutely do. I don’t want there to be a next Jackson, though. I just want there to be this Jackson.
CHAPTER 62
“We have milk if you want.” As soon as I walk in the door from school, I can hear Tyler. It’s Wednesday, Mom’s yoga day. He must have a friend over.
I round the corner to see Quinlan sitting behind a bowl of co-op brand Cap’n Crunch. (Kommodore Krinkles, made with certified gluten-free cornmeal and real maple sugar.) “Is it almond milk or soy milk?”
“Just, um, regular milk?” replies Ty.
“Cow milk?”
“I guess?” Is it possible that my brother isn’t sure where milk comes from?
“Okay, just this once.”
Tyler sets the jug next to her. He shoots me a look. Quinlan’s fingers are so pale and so fine, it seems like they will break under the weight of the milk jug. She pours a thin stream that floats the Krinkles to the rim of the bowl.
“Hi, Quin.”
She notices me and her face brightens. “You’re home! I was waiting for you!”
I am expecting to hear Mom and Melinda, but the house is silent except for the shifting of cereal in Quin’s bowl. “Is your mom here? Or your brother?” It’s been weeks, and Jackson and I just give a weak “hey” in the hall if we aren’t able to avoid each other entirely, so if he’s here somewhere, he’s probably hiding.
“No.” She scoops some cereal and licks a drip of milk from the bottom of the spoon.
“Did they drop you off?” Was Tyler babysitting now? The kid can barely avoid electrocuting himself with the remote control.
“I rode the school bus.” She picks a piece of cereal out of the bowl and nibbles on it, as though each Krinkle needed three or four bites. I peek out into the living room; Grumpy Dwarf is safe on the bookshelf with his six brothers by his side.
“Your bus dropped you here today?”
“Quinlan came on our old bus,” Tyler pipes in. “She used the school directory app on her phone to figure out who lived close to us, and then she followed Pia Katz home.” His eyes are huge, like he thinks he’s telling me in code that the kid is bananas. He still hasn’t forgiven her for the Mario earbuds. I want to tell Tyler that a kid who is smart enough to triangulate our location to stop four on the Giraffe Bus would have already killed him if she wanted to. He doesn’t know what I know. She’s not a psycho. She’s lonely.
“So, you’re here on your own?” I say. “Did you tell your mom where you were going?”
“I brought your book back.” She slides off the stool to unzip her backpack and hands me Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH. There’s a folded-up paper in the back, like a makeshift bookmark.
“Thanks, Quinlan. You didn’t have to bring it back.” I realize I mean it.
“I really liked it,” she says, and then, inexplicably, begins to cry. Her face crumples, and the tears come. She goes from runaway mastermind to broken, hurting little girl in no seconds flat. Tyler and I look at each other, helpless.
“God, Greer. Let her keep it!” scolds Tyler. But whatever this is, it is not about the book.
“Quin, what’s going on? Did something happen at school? Tyler, go get some tissues.” Ty is happy to have a job that is not talking to a sobbing child. And call Mom, I mouth as I squat down next to her.
She throws her arms around me, knocking me to my butt. When Tyler returns with a box of Kleenex, I am sitting on the kitchen floor with Quinlan in my lap, crying into my neck. She’s long and bony, but trying to make herself small enough to fit. “It’s okay, kiddo.” I have no idea what it is, so I don’t know that it will be okay, but how bad could it be, right? She’s in third grade. Someone was probably mean to her at lunch. Or the class guinea pig picked a different kid to partner with.
“I don’t want to go,” she says and sniffs. “I don’t want to go.” She gasps between sobs. She’s squished hard into my chest, shaking. She holds impossibly tight and I let her, even if it’s uncomfortable.
“You can stay,” I say. “We’ll call your mom. We’ll ask if she can pick you up later.” She cries harder. “We’ll pick out some more books. I’ve got tons and tons of books. Have you ever read Fablehaven? I loved that when I was your age.” She’s so skinny and fragile here in my lap, and so, so sad. I’d give her all my books, Grumpy Dwarf, and one of Tyler’s kidneys if it would make her happy. But I’m not having any effect. She’s not hearing a thing I say.
“I don’t want to go again,” she says. “I like it here.”
“I know, buddy, we’re going to call—”
“I like you guys.”
“We like you, too—”
“I don’t want to go to hamster den,” she wails.
“You don’t want to what?”
“I don’t want to move to Amsterdam. I just want to stay at our house we have now.”
I get a hot, sick feeling from my belly to my forehead. “What do you mean move to Amsterdam? Quin?”
She sits up, and I can see the full effect of the crying. Her eyes and nose are rimmed red, and there are wet trails down her porcelain cheeks. Her ponytail is half out like a wispy white-blond aura. She wipes her nose with the back of her hand. “And there’s a really nice girl at school named Avery, and she said she would invite me to her birthday, but her birthday’s not till July, so I won’t even get to go to any birthdays. I didn’t go to any birthdays the whole year.”
And I understand. My stomach fills with wet cement. It’s seeping into all my organs and the places between my organs and already starting to harden. The butterfly watches, terrified, as it covers her ankles. The panic is changing already to a dead weight. A weight that keeps increasing.
Just like Dad said. They are moving. Again. This time to Amsterdam. I don’t know when, but definitely before Nice Avery’s birthday party. Before junior year. Before I have had enough time to either glue my friendship with Jackson back together again and start over or convince myself that I don’t want to.
I fold myself over elf girl and hold tight for both our sakes.
CHAPTER 63
The fugitive sits on her mother’s lap, with my Josefina American Girl doll in her lap and a stack of my books at her feet. Her eyes are still bloodshot, but she’s not crying anymore. I called Melinda from our house, and when Mom came home she drove us here. We’ve already been through the reunion scene, in which Melinda scolds Quinlan for having disappeared like that, and then heaps praise on all the Walshes for keeping her safe.
Ben has been offered the position in Amsterdam, she tells us, but hasn’t decided yet. It’s “a very big opportunity,” which I assume means he will get paid a trillion dollars, and which I assume means he’s going to say yes.
“I don’t think Quinlan wants him to take it,” I say. The girl is focused on braiding Josefina’s hair, but she nods in agreement.
“Oh, Quinny’s just worried about missing a birthday party.” Melinda squeezes Quin’s shoulders. “I told her, though, we’ll actually be ab
le to go to Disney Paris for a weekend if we want.”
“But I can’t bring Avery, and that’s whose birthday it is.”
“I know, sweetie. But maybe you’ll make friends with a Dutch girl!” Quin looks at me and scrunches up her nose. Melinda goes on. “Kids make friends so easily.” She pauses a minute and adds, “Well, Jackson always makes friends easily.”
The cement block in my stomach increases by ten pounds. Jackson makes friends easily; what she doesn’t say is that he leaves friends just as easily. I did not understand these rules before.
I want to ask what Jackson has said about the move—like maybe that he would rather live in the dumpster behind Cupernicus than leave me and Kennedy High School—but Quinlan is in front of me, poking me in the leg with Josefina.
“Greer, will you come see something in my room?”
“Sure,” I say, because I don’t really want to know what Jackson told his mother about the move anyway.
As I follow Quinlan upstairs, I hear Mom say, “I always thought it would be fun to go to high school in Europe!”
Jackson’s door is open, but it’s quiet in there. He’s working out with the baseball team, Melinda said. I wonder if he’s told them he might not make it to the season.
There are two other American Girl dolls in Quin’s room—Kit Kittredge, who is the most famous one, and a new one I don’t recognize, who is wearing doll-sized fencing gear. Quin pulls Kit off an American Girl horse and puts Josefina in her place. Makes sense, I think, since Josefina lives on a ranch. Back at my house she only had a stuffed sea lion. She’ll be happy here.
I wonder what they think of American Girl dolls in Hamster Den?
Whatever Quinlan wanted to show me she has forgotten about, lost in redistributing Kit’s things to Josi. I wander around her room. It’s gotten even crazier since the last time I was here. She could be on an episode of Tween Hoarders.
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