of being honest about your feelings?
I say, Maybe not. Maybe I’m just an idiot.
And she sighs and says, Okay, Ruby, I can see you don’t want to talk about this right now. We can come back to it when you’re ready.3 Okay. Now I know that every single ninth-grade boy in America wants to be a musician. They play air guitar in their bedrooms and pretend they’re rock stars. But I didn’t know that, then.4 If I had half a brain, this episode would have cured me of putting any of my thoughts about boys into writing. It is way too dangerous. But I obviously didn’t learn my lesson then, and haven’t learned it now. I keep doing it, even after what happened with the Boyfriend List. Look at what you’re reading now! Pure evidence of my idiocy.5 Mr. Wallace is
5. Ben (but he didn’t know.)
Ben Moi was at my summer camp after sixth grade. He didn’t know I existed.
“There’s nothing to say about him,” I told Doctor Z. “I liked him. Everyone did. He was golden.”
“What did you like?”
I didn’t have an answer. “There was something about him. He always had a girlfriend. He had like three different ones over the course of the summer.”
“But not you?”
“One time, I sat next to him at a camp sing-along and I pressed my leg against his, trying to be sexy, but he kept moving it away. He was going out with this girl Sharone, anyway.”
“Then why did you put him on the list?” Doctor Z was chewing Nicorette again. I can’t imagine her smoking, but she must light up like a fiend as soon as her workday is done; she chews that gum like an addict.
“I used to think about him all the time,” I told her.
“Like what?”
“Huh?”
“What did you think?”
“I don’t know. Normal stuff about a boy you like.”
Doctor Z was quiet for a minute. “Give me a hint, here, Ruby,” she said. “Something.”
“I just wanted to go out with him. Like when I got dressed in the morning, I’d think about whether he’d like me better in jeans or shorts; or I’d wonder if he’d notice I put mustard on my French fries, and would he realize that I was unusual?”
“Did you think about kissing him?”
“Not really.”1
“Did you like talking to him?”
“We never had a conversation. Except once, he told me my shoe was untied.”
“Did he make you laugh?”
“No.”
“Was he talented, or interesting?”
“Um. Not particularly, I don’t think.”
“Did he make you feel special?”
“He made me nervous. I always felt sweaty and ugly whenever he was around.”
“Really?” Doctor Z leaned forward. “Why like someone who made you feel sweaty and ugly?”
“He was hot,” I explained. “Ben Moi was just the guy that you want as your boyfriend.”
“But why?”
“Can’t you just want someone?” I asked. “Does there have to be a reason?”
“This is therapy, Ruby.” Doctor Z sounded exasperated. “It might be helpful for you to try to articulate something about something.”
So I told her the truth: I thought about how it would be to have such a perfect, popular boy for a boyfriend. How with someone like Ben Moi, I’d know I was all right. I’d know I was pretty. I’d know my clothes were right. I’d know someone wanted me.
“Validation,” she said.
