by Carrie Jones
“I know that.”
“I know,” I inhale and exhale slowly and put the soccer player back on the dash board. “I just don’t want you to start obsessing about him.”
“It’s hard not to obsess about him when he lives right across the street from you.”
“Diagonally.”
“Fine. Diagonally.”
We drive past the Beechland Road. Some highland cattle graze in the twilight-lit field. They belong to Ben and Sue Piazza. Just as we drive past, the boy cow mounts the girl cow, I think. I’m no good with cattle gender identification. Actually, I don’t know if you even call boy cattle, cows. Anyway, the boy starts getting pretty active up there.
“Oh God,” I say.
Tom looks over and starts laughing.
“Don’t get any ideas,” I say and hit him in the thigh.
The girl cattle doesn’t seem to be having a good time. She swings her head slowly so that she watches the truck past. Our eyes lock.
We drive past and the view of fornicating farm animals is blocked by pine trees. Great green limbs afford the couple a special Maine privacy, I guess.
“When we do it, it’s not going to be like that,” Tom says, grabbing my hand. “I swear.”
“Oh,” I mumble. “When we do it.”
“Yeah.” His hand squeezes mine.
“Promises. Promises.” I squeeze his hand back but it hurts to move my fingers; there’s just this ache. So, instead, I take my hand away and rip off one of the stupid duct tape quotes stuck to his dash: “Sexual intercourse is kicking death in the ass while singing”—Charles Bukowski.
Em’s belly is still so flat.
I try to shred the tape into little pieces but I’m no good with duct tape. Instead, I fold it into itself, crumpling itself into a little ball so the words mean nothing anymore, nothing at all.
“Belle? What is up with you?”
I pocket the duct tape. “Don’t ask.”
Mimi is in line ahead of us at the movies. I stare at her and then at the glass front of Wild Styles, where there are all these pictures of women with short spiked-up hair. That will be Mimi some day. She turns around and sees us. She smiles big and waves. Tom waves back. She mouths the word, “Pathetic.”
“Great,” I say, looking at the Formica floor of the Maine Side Mall. “Can we go?”
Tom gets this stunned look. “What?”
“Mimi’s here,” I whisper.
“So?”
I try not to schlump. I don’t succeed. “You waved at Mimi.”
“It was instinctive,” Tom hugs me to him, puts his head on top of my head and rests it there. “Do not let her intimidate you.”
“Right. Everything intimidates me.”
He pulls away. “Belle? You okay? You haven’t been acting right.”
I swallow. I breathe. I stare up at his eyes and get caught there. “I’m just … I just … I’m worrying about things.”
“Do not worry about Mimi.”
“Okay.”
We move forward in line. Mimi enters the theater. She has good legs and you can see almost all of them in her skirt. She winks our way when she enters.
Tom doesn’t see. He takes out his duct tape wallet. Then he takes my hand and squeezes it. “And do not worry about me.”
Sunday
Tom picks me up and takes me to breakfast, just the two of us. No Emily. No Shawn. No Andrew or Kara or Anna or Crash. Just us and my secrets.
Everyone stares at Tom and me as we walk into the Riverside Café. This is not because we have blood on our teeth or because my skirt is tucked into my underwear because that is not the case. They stare because this is Eastbrook and in Eastbrook everything is stare-worthy. Something in the edges of my jaws simmers and tightens. Maybe it’s tension. I’m not sure.
Larry Shaw, the town mayor, slaps Tom on the back. “Taking the little lady out on a big date, Tommy boy?”
Tom grimaces. “Yep. Big date. Breakfast at the Riverside.”
I step on his foot. He laughs.
Larry’s eyes move up and down me. I shiver and sniff in the smell of frying bacon. “And how’s life treating you, Belle?”
“Good.”
“And your mom?”
“She’s good too.”
It’s proper to say “well” instead of “good” but Larry’s not that smart and I don’t want to confuse him. His eyes drift over Tom’s shoulder to the Dows who are hustling in the door. They are more important than us in the political world of voting and land use ordinances it seems, so he drops his hand off Tom’s back and moves on. Cringing, I turn away before Mr. Dow sees me.
Jessica, the Eastbrook American reporter, waves to us. “Any hot high school news?”
“Nope,” Tom says in a friendly way and then the hostess, who is Mimi Cote’s mom, hustles over to sit us down.
“Hey Tom. Hey Belle,” Mimi Cote’s mom smiles real big at us. I forgot that she was working here now instead of Denny’s. How could I forget that? “You two have a seat.”
She settles us into a booth and gives us menus, fussing over us like we’re celebrities. She leans down and exposes some cleavage, which is a Mimi-type move, although she’s much nicer than Mimi. “You two know what you want? Or you want me to give you a minute?”
I smile at her. “Maybe a minute?”
She winks and wheels around, grabbing a couple of plates off the booth behind us, which is where our kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Phipps, is sitting with her husband, who is also a city councilor, though he quit for a while. Mrs. Phipps gives me a friendly little wave. Mr. Phipps nods. Tom nods back.
This is how life is in Eastbrook.
Tom and I peruse the menus and the silence between us is deep. Then he leans over and whispers, “I heard Mimi hooked up with Andrew after the movie last night.”
After the movie.
“How would you know that already?”
“Andrew texted me.”
“After he did it?”
Tom shrugs. “Andrew has no class.”
I let that settle for a second, but it doesn’t settle well. It’s annoying that Andrew would send Tom a rooster message, but it’s almost worse that Mimi gets more action than I do, despite the fact that I have a boyfriend.
“She gave him hickeys in a line all the way down his chest and each hickey is in the shape of a cross,” Tom tells me all deadpan serious.
I spit out my water. Tom starts laughing. He gets a napkin and starts mopping the table.
“That’s disgusting,” I manage to say.
He shrugs like it’s maybe not so bad. Something ugly settles into me.
“Am I not lustable?” I ask him over the menu.
He sputters and puts the napkin down. “Where did that come from?”
I pluck the lemon off the edge of my water glass and drop it in. “Am I not the kind of person people lust after? You know, am I like the girl-you-want-to-marry or am I the girl-you-want-to-copulate-her-brains out and have her give you a line of hickeys?”
“Copulate?”
“I’m not going to say the f-word in the middle of the Riverside.” I grab the salt shaker. “So? Which is it?”
He pulls some duct tape out of his pocket and starts looping it around. I don’t know what he’s making. He doesn’t seem to know either. “You can’t be both?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think you can be both.”
“Emmie’s probably both,” I manage. I close my eyes. I don’t know what Emmie is now. “Well, what am I?”
He sticks the tape in his mouth to make some tension so he can rip it. “Both.”
“Right,” I push my lemon to the bottom of my glass, trying to make it sink faster. “I’m both. Seizure Gir
l is both.”
“Don’t call yourself that.”
Over at another table Alison Merrill dumps her orange juice. It splatters on the floor. Her mother shrieks. Mimi’s mom rushes over with a big cloth, smiling, saying everything is alright. I want so badly for everything to be alright. But it isn’t. Anger and fear are tornadoing up through my body because everything is so unright and I can’t talk about it.
“I think you’re both,” Tom whispers and he puts a little duct tape ring on my finger. All its edges are turned in and smooth. There’s a little duct tape simulated diamond on it.
A ring.
I’m not sure what to think so I smell instead. Why does bacon frying smell so good? It’s so wrong. The poor pigs. And why does a duct tape engagement ring look so good? It’s so gray, and sweet and … Tom’s fingers brush across mine. I hold my hand up and admire the ring like it’s the real thing.
“Oh. That’s so nice. Thanks. That’s really good … Um … It’s a really good ring replica,” I say.
My smile meets his. His hand touches mine. I lean in, warm and toasty in the morning sunlight, smelling coffee and bacon, surrounded by the chatter of people I’ve known forever.
So, I just say it. “Tom, are we ever going to … you know … ”
His eyes go wide.
I whisper and hold up the menu in case someone wants to read my lips. “I mean, it’s okay if you don’t find me attractive that way.”
“I just said you were both.”
“I know, but why … ”
His hand leaves mine. He slams his back into the booth cushion. “That’s not it, Belle.”
“What is it, then?”
“Do you really want to discuss this here?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
He doesn’t say anything. He starts ripping pieces of duct tape off the roll. I bet he’s not making another ring.
“Tom?”
My voice is pleading.
He doesn’t say anything, just rips the tape, loud and fast. I put out a hand to stop him. “Tom?”
“I’m not gay,” he whispers. “If that’s what you’re thinking.”
“I’m not thinking that.”
“Right. You think everyone is gay.”
“No I don’t.”
“I just don’t want you to think I’m using you. There’s this quote by Stacy Nelkin. It goes, ‘For me, love is very deep, but sex only has to go a few inches.’”
I tip the pepper shaker sideways, on purpose, just to see if any will fall out. “Do you have to talk in quotes?”
A grain falls out. Another. Tom puts the pepper shaker right side up. “I don’t want you to think it doesn’t matter to me.”
“Why would I think that?”
He shrugs.
“That’s absolutely stupid,” I say.
“No, it’s not.” He rips more duct tape. People are looking. Duct tape ripping is a noisy thing. “Dylan is gay. I used to be friends with him in eighth grade … People might think.”
“Tom, enough with the tape.”
I clamp my hand over the tape, take it away. He glares at me.
“Okay. So, you’re not gay. Great. I think we knew that. What is it then? Are you not ready?” I ask.
He groans, looks one way, then another, pulls his hand through his hair. “I’ve been ready forever. I’ve been ready since kindergarten.”
My eyebrows seem to raise all by themselves. I pull them back down. Tom in kindergarten was super cute especially when he yelled at Shawn for eating paste. “Then why not?”
I rock the pepper shaker back and forth. I want to ask if he’s afraid I’ll get pregnant like his mom, like Emmie, but I can’t quite do it.
“I told you.” He gulps his water. “I don’t want you to think I’m using you.”
I scrunch the sticky tape into a ball. “That’s a stupid reason. And I think you’re lying because you’re afraid to hurt me.”
He puts his glass down, picks it up, puts it down again and finally says, “You’re not Mimi, Belle.”
“Oh, that’s a good one. What? I’m not hot enough to have sex with, is that what you’re saying? I’m not a hickey queen.” I spit it out quiet so the world won’t hear but then I stand up. My brain feels like bacon sizzling in a too-hot pan, crunching up into itself, drying out. “Or is it I’m too delicate because I had stupid seizures and you don’t want to do it with a freak? Is that it?”
“Jesus, Belle, what the hell are—You don’t even have seizures any more.”
He looks around to see if people are listening. Everyone is pretending to not notice.
“Or are you going to pretend like I’m too good to do it with? Is that it? Sort of like a mommy–good girl complex issue thing? Well, that’s bullshit. Listen to me, Thomas Tanner. I’m not a virgin. Dylan may have been gay but we had sex. All. The. Time. Okay? So, obviously, I’m not like the good little super virgin you’re making me out to be in some sort of duct tape induced macho frenzy? Alright?”
“I’m not my dad.”
I don’t even know what that means. My feet start marching me out of the restaurant before my brain can figure out what’s going on and right in that instant I hate Tom. I hate Tom for not even trying to have sex with me. I hate him for making me want to have sex with him. I hate him for not magically knowing about Emmie. I hate Mimi who doesn’t seem to have my problems. I hate me for being such a psychotic idiot about this when this is not my main problem anymore. This is no longer The Problem but it’s something I can lash out about. Even when I’m walking away I know I’m doing the wrong thing, the melodramatic thing, but that doesn’t stop me.
Mimi’s mom puts out her hand and touches my arm. “Belle, sweetheart, you okay?”
“Yep.”
But I keep on marching away from her hand, away from Tom, away from everybody in the whole damn place. They are all staring at me.
As I bang through the door Larry Shaw gives a low whistle and tells somebody, “Looks like Tommy Tanner’s got himself a little trouble in the love department.”
The door slams behind me.
This is a stupid, stupid town.
The door slams behind me again. One second passes. Another. Then my stupidity hits me. All the muscles in my face push up towards my eyes so I don’t cry, but it doesn’t work. My feet shuffle forward on the cold cement sidewalk. I buckle, grab my stomach and let out one sob. Just one. That’s all.
And I don’t know if I’m crying because I’m stupid or I’m frustrated or I’m worried about Em or because I already miss my pre-college life or because I’m finally really missing my dad. I just know it comes. One sob.
I swallow. My lips press into each other. I straighten. I want someone who’ll always love me even when I’m stupid like dads are supposed to. Crap. I want my guitar. I left it in the truck. Damn.
Tom catches up to me in less than twenty seconds, swings me around by the arm and makes me face him. “Belle … ”
I stare at the sidewalk, ignore the pleading in his voice. Tom is not the sort of guy who pleads.
“Belle, you know I love you.”
“This does not count as saying the l-word. That is saying it under duress,” I announce, moving my shoulder forward a little to show him I hear him, but I’m not about to answer back the way I’m supposed to, all lovey-dovey.
The sidewalk has a big crack in it that is shaped like New Hampshire. New Hampshire is called the Granite State. It borders Maine. This is not important, but this is what I think. This is what I think because I don’t want to think about anything important.
Tom drops his hands. I stand there. He stands there. Somebody drives by and toots, but I don’t look up. I don’t wave. I am tired of waving.
“I’m tired of waiting, Tom,” I say, slow
. Words are quiet, like a sidewalk, like a piece of toast waiting to pop up.
His feet shift. He’s written my name on the duct tape that surrounds his shoe. “Me too.”
His eyes are tree bark brown and deep, deep, solid something I could lean on forever. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“The other night … having you go … it was so hard.”
He smirks and says an Andrew line, “Yeah, it was really hard.”
I punch him. He doesn’t even cringe.
“I hate that feeling.”
“What feeling?”
“The missing-you feeling. It hurts.” I squeeze his fingers with mine.
He rubs the back of my head with his free hand, supports my neck with it and smiles down into my eyes. “I know. I hate that feeling too, but you can’t be afraid of it. It goes with liking someone.”
“You said love before.”
He rests his forehead against mine. Our noses touch. “You said that didn’t count.”
“I’m stupid sometimes.”
He kisses me lightly.
Just then, just when everything gets back to bacon sizzling perfect, Jim Shrembersky hops by. He’s smiling and happy. His black shirt is tucked into his black jeans too tightly and it makes him look zombie pale, but his smile is nice when he says, “Hey, Belle. How’s your mom?”
Like he didn’t just see her last night? I bite back a smile. He looks like a little kid talking about a Caterpillar excavator toy he just got for his birthday. “She’s good.”
Jim nods at Tom. Tom nods back. He’s got the same amused smile I have, I know.
“She had fun on your date,” I tell Jim because I am a nice person.
He bounces up on his toes. “Really?”
“Uh-huh,” I say and lean against Tom, who puts his arm around me.
Jim stands there bouncing and beaming for a second and then he says, “I saw you out on your bike the other day, when it was pouring. I’d just picked up my car from the garage. I was about to give you a ride, but I saw you get into Tom’s truck. I can’t believe you can bike in that. That’s amazing. It was good of you to bring her home, Tom.”