I wanted to punch him. Daily. But of course I couldn’t, for two reasons. First, he was just a kid. Second, between his braces and his headgear, there was really no way to get at him and really make an impact. (The fact that I’d actually thought about it enough to draw this conclusion probably should have worried me. It did not.)
When it all got to be too much, I’d just turn around and shoot him the evil eye, which usually did the trick. He’d quiet down for the rest of the ride, maybe even the next day, as well. In time, though, his obnoxiousness would return, often even stronger than before.
In my more rational moments, I tried to feel empathy for Gervais. It had to be hard to be a prodigy, supersmart but so much younger than everyone else at school. Whenever I saw him in the halls, he was always alone, backpack over both shoulders, walking in his weird, leaning-forward way, as if powering up to head-butt someone in the chest.
Being a kid, though, Gervais also lacked maturity, which meant that he found things like burps and farts hysterical, and even funnier when they were his own. Put him in a small, enclosed space with two people every morning, and there was no end to the potential for hilarity. Suffice it to say, we always knew what he’d had for breakfast, and even though it was nearing winter, I often kept my window open, and Nate did the same.
On the Monday after Cora’s party, though, when I got into the car at seven thirty, something just felt different. A moment later, I realized why: the backseat was empty.
“Where’s Gervais?” I asked.
“Doctor’s appointment,” Nate said.
I nodded, then I settled into my seat to enjoy the ride. My relief must have been palpable, because a moment later Nate said, “You know, he’s not so bad.”
“Are you joking?” I asked him.
“I mean,” he said, “I’ll admit he’s not the easiest person to be around.”
“Please.” I rolled my eyes. “He’s horrible.”
“Come on.”
“He stinks,” I said, holding up a finger. Then, adding another, I said, “And he’s rude. And his burps could wake the dead. And if he says one more thing about my books or my classes I’m going to—”
It was at about this point that I realized Nate was looking at me like I was crazy. So I shut up, and we just drove in silence.
“You know,” he said after a moment, “it’s a shame you feel that way. Because I think he likes you.”
I just looked at him. “Did you not hear him tell me I was fat the other day?”
“He didn’t say you were fat,” Nate replied. “He said you looked a little rotund.”
“How is that different?”
“You know,” he said, “I think you’re forgetting Gervais is twelve.”
“I assure you I am not.”
“And,” he continued, “boys at twelve aren’t exactly slick with the ladies.”
“‘Slick with the ladies’?” I said. “Are you twelve?”
He switched lanes, then slowed for a light. “He teases you,” he said slowly, as if I was stupid, “because he likes you.”
“Gervais does not like me,” I said, louder this time.
“Whatever.” The light changed. “But he never talked to Heather when she rode with us.”
“He didn’t?”
“Nope. He just sat back there, passing gas, without comment. ”
“Nice,” I said.
“It really was.” Nate downshifted as we slowed for a red light. “All I’m saying is that maybe he just wants to be friends but doesn’t exactly know how to do it. So he says you smell like trees or calls you rotund. That’s what kids do.”
I rolled my eyes, looking out the window. “Why,” I said, “would Gervais want to be friends with me?”
“Why wouldn’t he?”
“Because I’m not a friendly person?” I said.
“You’re not?”
“Are you saying you think I am?”
“I wouldn’t say you’re unfriendly.”
“I would,” I said.
“Really.”
I nodded.
“Huh. Interesting.”
The light changed, and we moved forward.
“Interesting,” I said, “meaning what?”
He shrugged, switching lanes. “Just that I don’t see you that way. I mean, you’re reserved, maybe. Guarded, definitely. But not unfriendly.”
“Maybe you just don’t know me,” I said.
“Maybe,” he agreed. “But unfriendly is usually one of those things you pick up on right away. You know, like B.O. There’s no hiding it if it’s there.”
I considered this as we approached another light. “So when we met that first night,” I said, “by the fence, you thought I was friendly?”
“I didn’t think you weren’t,” he said.
“I wasn’t very nice to you.”
“You were jumping a fence. I didn’t take it personally.”
“I didn’t even thank you for covering for me.”
“So? ”
“So I should have. Or at least not been such a bitch to you the next day.”
Nate shrugged, putting on his blinker. “It’s not a big deal.”
“It is, though,” I said. “You don’t have to be so nice to everyone, you know.”