“I never said I like you.”
Silence.
“Jack?”
“What you’ve just heard is the sound of my heart dying a swift and sudden death.”
“Hypothetically speaking, if—and I’m not saying I do—but if I was to like you, what would you want to do about it?”
“I would probably want to hold your hand.”
“Probably?”
“Hypothetically, yes. I would definitely hypothetically want to hold your hand.”
“Well then, I would probably hypothetically hold yours back.”
“I would also hypothetically want to take you to a movie, even though I don’t like movies as a rule because of the whole facial confusion situation.”
“Which one?”
“Which movie?”
“I need to know if it’s something I want to see.”
“Won’t it be enough just to be with me, holding hypothetical hands in the dark?”
“I’d at least like to know what kind of movie we’d be seeing.”
“Uh. I think it would need to be a movie with some of everything. Comedy. Drama. Action. Mystery. Romance.”
“That sounds like a really good movie.”
“So would you hold my hand during it?”
“Probably.”
“Okay. I’ll take ‘probably’ for now. I’d also want to take you out to dinner, either before or after the movie, depending, and I would absolutely want to walk you to your door.”
“What if I wanted to dance to my door instead?”
“Then I’m your man.”
Are you? Is this what this means? My heart goes hopscotching out of the room and down the hall and out the door and into the street.
“But after I danced you to the door, I’d want to kiss you.”
“You would?”
“I would.”
And now my heart is nowhere on earth to be found. I can see it as it bypasses the moon and the stars and goes blasting into another galaxy.
“Hypothetically.”
“Well then, I would let you kiss me.”
“Hypothetically?”
“No. Definitely.”
By the time we hang up two hours later, it’s 1:46 a.m. I lie there for the rest of the night waiting for my heart to return to my chest.
THE NEXT EIGHT DAYS
* * *
At lunch on Monday, I sit across the table from Kam and Seth, who are elbow to elbow. I’m sketching design ideas for Dusty’s robot, and I’m pretty much on fire for the first time, and I can see it, as in I finally know what I’m doing, and my blood is pumping and my heart is pumping like I’ve just run a marathon and sprinted all the way to the finish. Nothing, as in nothing, can stop the flow of these ideas, until Seth goes, “You know, Kam and me, we’ve got something that can help you out in your situation.”
I look up, a little foggy, because my head is on the paper in front of me, not in the MVB cafeteria. Seth is grinning like a jackal, and whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it.
But I say, wary as hell, “What situation is that?”
Seth elbows Kam hard, which makes Kam drop the three dozen french fries he was about to stuff down his throat. “Goddammit, Powell.”
Seth keeps right on. “I did some research last night.” He pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket.
“Jesus. Porn?” I should have known. I go back to sketching.
“Not porn. God.” He actually has the nerve to sound offended, even though as far as I know Seth thinks the Internet was invented for two purposes: porn and poker. “Number one. They’re easy to talk to.”
“Who’s easy to talk to?” I’m still making notes.
“Fat girls.” My head snaps up so hard I probably give myself whiplash. He’s trying to keep a straight face, but he can’t help himself—he’s snickering already.
“Two. ‘Pretty women aren’t always nice.’ ”
Kam goes, “That one’s true.”
I say, “What is it you’re reading to me?”
“ ‘Top Ten Reasons to Date a Fat Girl.’ I found it online.” He waves the paper, and then holds it up to his face again, reads something to himself, and starts howling. I make a grab for it, but he holds it out of reach, over his head. “Three …”
Kam rips the paper out of his hands and hands it to me. I crush it into a ball and get ready to launch it across the cafeteria into the trash, but I don’t want anyone digging it out of there, so I stuff it into my back pocket instead. I lean over the table and whack Seth in the head.
He just keeps laughing. Kam says, “Moron.” And crams the rest of the french fries into his mouth.
I know Seth thinks he’s being funny, but my insides are burning, like I’ve inhaled an entire forest fire.
“Lay off her, man. I’m serious.”
“Wow. Sure, sure, Mass. Whatever.” He’s wiping the tears away and trying to catch his breath. He sits quietly for a minute, and then, with one snicker, he launches into another laughing fit.
I try not to let it bother me. Who cares what they think? I tell myself it’s not that she’s fat. That’s not what I’m worried about. I’m not worried at all. I just want them to leave me alone. Leave us alone. But part of me is going, What if you’re just shallow? What if that’s your identifier?
“You’re a fucking idiot, Seth Powell.” And I gather up my ideas and what’s left of my lunch and walk away.
The Damsels Drill Team auditions sign-up sheet hangs on Heather Alpern’s door. So far seven girls have signed up. I’m number eight. Jayvee hands me a pen, and I lean in and write my name. Behind me I hear, “Oh my God, you’re trying out?”