The Treasure Map of Boys

by E. Lockhart

  “Maybe. Wouldn’t it look like a thermometer?”

  He laughed. “You don’t know what it’s supposed to look like?”

  I opened the freezer to poke the dough. “No. I decided to make doughnuts for our bake sale recruiting table and I’m like halfway through and I realized I need a candy thermometer.”

  “I think this is it. Hold on,” Gideon said. “Mom! Is this thing a candy thermometer and can Ruby borrow it?”

  I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but Gideon eventually said: “She doesn’t want to loan it out.”

  “Tell her it’s a doughnut emergency,” I said.

  “She’s having a doughnut emergency,” he said.

  “Oh, and tell her it’s for charity,” I said.

  “It’s for charity,” he said.

  “And tell her it will look good on Nora’s college applications if CHuBS does well.”

  Gideon laughed. “She already said yes. Should I drive it over?”

  Oh.

  Gideon was going to drive a candy thermometer over to my house. Was it possible the other night hadn’t been a mercy flirt at all?

  So sue me. I changed my shirt and put on red lipstick before he got there. Most any girl would have done the same.

  Gideon made a lot of noise about the houseboat. How cool it was, how he drove past the rows of Seattle houseboats all the time and had never been inside any of them, how much he liked the greenhouse, how amazing it must be to have so much nature right in your home.

  My dad ate it up, of course, and raised his eyebrows at me in a hopeful way, as if to say, “Is this polite, intelligent and bohemian young man a new boyfriend? Can I begin to hope that you will become well-adjusted?”

  I felt sorry for Dad for a second—because I know he worries about me—but then he pulled a complete Kevin Oliver move by saying, “Gideon, it’s so nice to see Ruby has a new friend. I know she was lonely over winter break when Meghan and Nora were away.”

  I felt like retching. “He’s Nora’s brother, Dad.”

  “Okay. But he can still be your friend.”

  I was sure Gideon was going to run away screaming any second, but he walked over to the stove and asked me what I was measuring with the candy thermometer.

  “Oil,” I told him. “To fry the doughnuts.”

  “Can I watch?”

  “Oh, um. Sure.”

  We put on oven mitts and measured the temperature of the oil until it was 365 degrees. In between testing the oil, I rolled out the dough and cut circles in it with a cookie cutter.

  Gideon stayed. He helped me put the circles into the oil with a spatula.

  They fried and turned brown! It was amazing.

  We scooped them out with tongs and shook powdered sugar over them. Gideon ate one before it was cool and burned his mouth and had to suck on an ice cube. I got a splatter of oil on a vintage sweater that probably wouldn’t come out, plus a small burn on my wrist. Still, we had doughnuts!

  And more doughnuts.

  And more doughnuts.

  We spread them on cookie trays covered in paper towels to soak up the oil. When the table was full, we put them on plates on the dining room chairs and on top of the credenza behind the sofa. We didn’t talk that much—just “Watch out, that one’s getting too dark” and “Here, your turn with the spatula,” stuff like that.

  We had taken the last batch of fried deliciousness out of the oil when my mother came back from Juana’s.

  With a Great Dane.

  My stomach dropped.

  “Surprise, Ruby!” she yelled, standing in the doorway and letting the cold air rush in.

  Oh my God. She had believed me about the dog.

  How could she have believed me?

  The dog was beautiful, but enormous. His head was as high as my chest and he had pointy ears and a tail like a whip. He was spotted like a Dalmatian and barking in a friendly way.

  Rouw! Rouw!

  My mother had a leash on him, but as he lunged into the house, she bent down and unclipped it. “Welcome to your new home, big boy. Say hello to Ruby.”

  The dog ran over to me and smelled my hand, then licked me from fingertips to wrist in one giant swipe of tongue. “Hiya, puppy,” I said.

  I love the way dogs want to lick you right away if they like you. They’re so direct.

  He sniffed Gideon briefly, then ran to the table. In a matter of seconds, the dog stood on his hind legs with his forefeet on a chair and ate an estimated twenty-two doughnuts. He spilled several trays and dusted the floor, the rug and one edge of the sofa with powdered sugar.

  Oh no. All our hard work. All our deliciousness.

  “Polka-dot, no!” My mother dashed over and grabbed him by the collar.

  Polka-dot turned and gave her an enormous lick across the face, then ate another doughnut.

  “Stop him!” I cried, and Mom was still saying “no”—but Polka-dot outweighed her by probably forty pounds, and he was very much enamored of the fried deliciousness that was my Doughnut Enterprise. Mom yanked him, and Gideon went over and yanked him, and frankly, Polka-dot was too strong for both of them. He was willing to come off the table, but then he just began scarfing up the doughnuts at chair level. I felt like crying, but my mom and Gideon had lost control, so I went over to Polka-dot and tapped his nose, like I’d seen Juana do when her dogs misbehaved. “No!” I said firmly.

  Polka-dot licked me and ate another.

  I tapped his nose again. “That’s people food!” I said.

  He looked at me as if to say, “Isn’t it good stuff? Thank you for sharing!”

  I had to admit, it would have been funny under other circumstances. He just looked so sure that I was going to understand his point of view. Still, a tear leaked out as I moved the single undamaged tray of doughnuts to the top of the refrigerator. I had worked so hard on them. Jackson would have been so impressed.

  We just let Polka-dot have his way after that. He ate everything that was left on the floor. The four of us stood in silence, watching as he poked his head under the table, his tail snapping back and forth in doggy joy.

  “At least he’s cleaning the floor,” said my father, who had been no help whatsoever during this entire escapade. “There won’t be a speck of powdered sugar left when he’s done.”

  Polka-dot wagged his tail.

  “So I got you a dog, Ruby,” said my mother, stating the obvious. “Like your therapist said you should have.”

  “Mom!” I’m not ashamed that I go to a shrink, but it’s still not a factoid you want broadcast to hot college boys who are helping you cook. I mean, Gideon is so well-adjusted that the idea of mental illness must completely repel him.

  “I knew Juana had a Great Dane,” Mom explained. “So I went and got him for you.”

  “I wasn’t serious!” I cried. “You weren’t?”

  “No! It was a joke.”

  “Tell me that’s not true.”

  “Therapists don’t tell you what dog breed to get. Why would you think I was serious?”

  “I don’t know,” said my mother. “Maybe because that’s what you told me when we were having a serious conversation about your therapy?”

  Gideon grabbed his jacket. “I should be getting home,” he said. “It’s late. Sorry about your doughnuts, Ruby.”

  “Oh, that’s okay!” I said, as brightly as I could, while my face flushed with shame. Not only did he know I went to a shrink, now he also knew that I lied to my parents and fought with them.

  So much for any attraction he might have felt. “Why don’t you take a few home for your family?” I said, to cover my embarrassment. “I don’t have enough to bring in for the bake sale recruiting, anyhow.”

  “Okay,” he said. “They’ll love ’em.” As I wrapped four doughnuts for him, Gideon held out his hand to my dad. “Thanks for having me over, Mr. Oliver.”

  My dad shook enthusiastically. “Call me Kevin.”

  “And Mrs. Oliver, nice to meet you.”

&nbs
p; “I don’t know what you were thinking, Ruby,” my mother snapped at me, ignoring Gideon completely. I handed him the doughnuts. He gave me a quick wave and walked out the door.

  My mom and I had a full-on argument over the mess in the house, my lie about the dog, her behavior toward Gideon, my lack of gratitude for Polka-dot and who knows what else. I cleaned the kitchen, wrapped the last two doughnuts in foil for my dad and Hutch to eat the next afternoon and spent the night sleeping on the couch so that Polka-dot—whose enormous people-food meal had seriously disagreed with him—could be taken out for walks every hour when he whimpered at the door.

  I didn’t bring my stupid treasure map to Doctor Z; I pretended I needed more time. We spent most of our Tuesday session talking about Polka-dot and how my parents had been transferring all their obsessive worry about me onto him: Polka-dot wasn’t getting walked enough. Or he was walking too much and didn’t he look like he might be limping? Or he was lonely at night and should sleep with them; no, he needed privacy at night and was content on the living room couch.

  He shouldn’t be allowed on the couch.

  No, he was one of the family now, of course he could get on the couch! Endless discussion.

  “It sounds like they love him,” said Doctor Z.

  I thought about it. “Yeah, they do,” I said. “They’ve fallen in love with him, even though they didn’t want him at first.”

  “Why did they get him if they didn’t want him?” she asked. I hadn’t told her about my lie.

  “They got him for me,” I told her.

  Doctor Z crossed her legs. “That’s a big present.”

  “I guess.”

  “Getting you a Great Dane when they didn’t want one themselves.”

  My mom had been so pissy with me about Polka-dot—saying stuff like “You asked for him, you walk him”—that I hadn’t had a minute to think about it that way.

  She had gotten me a big present.

  One she didn’t want around.

  As a surprise.

  Because she thought it would help my mental health.

  Because she loved me.

  I Am Wearing the Wrong Bra

  Roo,

  Here, in late payment for services rendered, four apricot Fruit Roll-Ups.

  Also, in compensation for unforeseen hardships associated with the job of bodyguard,

  one candy ring in a flavor that appears to be blue raspberry,

  though I am not certain.

  In any case, it is blue.

  And I am blue.

  Roo, I don’t know what I did, exactly,

  because I am a fool,

  because I am not good with girls,

  because sometimes I’m all wrong when I’m around you.

  You know that, right?

  Yes.

  Everything has been all wrong between us since the bodyguard thing. I confess I don’t know exactly what I did, but

  I did something wrong.

  And for the something, I am sorry.

  Noel

  —found in my mail cubby Wednesday morning, written on yellow legal paper and folded in quarters, taped onto a brown paper bag containing four apricot Fruit Roll-Ups and a blue candy ring.

  noel and I hadn’t spoken more than we had to since the argument about Crystal Mountain. We had done our labs in Chem tersely and without amusement. I didn’t sit by him in Art History. I was mad about Ariel, and Nora, and about Noel not understanding why I might be mad, and I felt spazzed out in general around him, so I just acted as cold and silent as I could. That way, at least, I wouldn’t end up saying anything more I’d regret.

  But I got his note Wednesday morning and I couldn’t stay mad. There’s something about seeing a guy’s feelings written down, something about him taking that risk and committing his heart to paper, that means so much more than anything he could just say.

  I read the note over several times and tasted the candy ring.

  It was gross, actually, but no one had ever given me a ring of any kind before.

  And here was one from Noel.

  An apology ring. A sweet ring. A blue ring.

  I tried it on and would have worn it for the rest of the day, but I knew I’d have to explain to Nora where it came from, so instead of wearing it, I wrote Noel back on a blue Post-it and stuck it in his mail cubby.

  Sometimes, actually, you are very good with girls.

  —R

  I wasn’t going to feel guilty about writing back, I told myself. It was the only polite thing to do. I couldn’t go saying nothing when Noel had given me candy and Fruit Roll-Ups, could I?

  And anyway, what I wrote was short. It wasn’t like we were having some epic correspondence Nora didn’t know about.

  Yeah, my note was a little flirty. But Meghan flirted with everyone all the time, and it didn’t mean anything. It was simply an expression of her personality. Flirting is a normal part of human interaction. Just because I flirted with Finn when we got him to join Baby CHuBS didn’t mean I liked him back. It was only a way to pass the time. And just because Jackson had been sitting at our bake sale table making witty remarks-that didn’t mean anything either.

  So there. It was fine to write Noel back. I was going to Chemistry and I was normal. It was nice to be friends.

  When I walked into class, Noel’s grin was so wide and open I knew he’d read what I wrote. Everything was easy between us again.

  That day’s experiment was a ginger ale volcano. We were supposed to put on these beige plastic smocks, which were exceptionally unflattering, and Fleischman gave each pair of lab partners a screw-top bottle of ginger ale, Altoids and small pieces of paper.

  “My vanity is challenged,” I said to Noel. “I hate it when we have to wear smocks.”

  “I have no vanity,” he said, “but I’m sweating in this thing.”

  “That’s it,” I said. “We’re not wearing them.” I shrugged mine off, took Noel’s from him and hung them back up.

  “People!” called Fleischman. “I’m not going to make it mandatory, but I think you want to wear your smocks.”

  “Captain of the Beaker,” said Noel. “Prepare the experiment.”

  “Smockless,” I said, “I will do your bidding.”

  I rolled a stack of Altoids into a small tube of paper, quickly opened the pop and dumped the mints into the ginger ale.

  Boom! The ginger ale exploded out the top of the bottle and sprayed all over the room. Ours was first.

  Boom! Boom! Boom! The others followed.

  Fleischman was ecstatic. Everyone was laughing and wiping their faces, and some boys were trying to drink the pop as it foamed out the top of their bottles.

  Me, I was wearing a white T-shirt. With a bright orange bra underneath. And no smock.

  I was soaked in ginger ale.

  “Nice rack, Oliver,” said Neanderthal Darcy from the table on the other side of us.

  “Heh heh heh,” chuckled obnoxious Josh, his eyes glued to my boobs. “This is the best Chem class all year.”

  I looked at Noel. He was drenched too, but he was wearing a navy blue hoodie over a black T-shirt. And his eyes were going exactly where Josh’s and Darcy’s were.

  My anchor coat was in my locker three stories down, and I knew if I ran out of the room I’d end up making the whole debacle more dramatic than it already was. I looked at Ariel and Katarina, hoping one of them would have a sweater handy and take pity on me. They were both wearing their smocks, so I couldn’t see their outfits, but neither one was taking any action.

  Fleischman was oblivious. He was talking to a table of kids whose ginger ale hadn’t exploded properly.

  Should I run out of the room and get my coat?

  Or walk over to the closet and put a smock on?

  Should I brazen it out and let everybody see my bra?

  Don’t panic.

  Don’t panic.

  “You could stop traffic with those, Oliver,” said Darcy. “The color’s bright enough.”


  “She could stop traffic without the bra too,” chuckled Josh.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “I’m wondering: Did your mothers raise all of their children to be sexists, or were you two singled out specially?”

  “Don’t get offended,” Darcy said. “Orange is a good color on you!”

  Josh nudged him. “Check it out. She’s cold.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest.

  “How could you tell?” Darcy asked.

  Josh cupped his hands in front of his chest, then wiggled his pointer fingers. “You can tell.”

  I couldn’t think of anything snappy to say, so I turned to leave the room for my coat when I saw—Noel. Holding out his damp hoodie to me. Keeping his eyes steadily on the floor so they wouldn’t rest on my boobs anymore.

  I took it silently, flushed with gratitude and embarrassment, put it on and zipped it up. It smelled like green apple hair gel and laundry soap.

  We finished the lab in silence, wiping ginger ale from the stools and floor, then writing up our observations and listening to Fleischman talk about bubbles and surfaces and I don’t know what.

  I kept thinking, I’m wearing his hoodie. I’m wearing his hoodie.

  No guy, not even Jackson, had ever given me his clothes to wear. And even though it was wet, it was incredibly warm.

  Right after class, I was in a bathroom stall wringing the ginger ale out of my bra and T-shirt when Kim and Cricket came in together.

  “Just act like she doesn’t exist,” Cricket was saying. “Like Jackson doesn’t exist. Neither of them are worth your time to even think about.”

  Were they talking about me?

  They were talking about me.

  “I can’t believe he’s hanging around her like that, sitting at her bake sale table, after everything that happened,” Kim answered.

  “She’s always wanted him back, you know that,” said Cricket. “Erase the whole thing from your mind. Those people do not exist.”

  Kim sighed. “That’s harder than you think.”

  My stomach twisted. I wanted to bust out of the toilet stall and explain that I wasn’t doing anything with Jackson and he was just doing the Parents’ Day Handicap at our table, and couldn’t we keep the truce we’d settled into before Kim and Jackson broke up? Because really, truly, I meant no harm.