The Boyfriend List

“I just went to the game with some guys.”

“That’s not the point.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“Don’t you want to know what the point was?”

“I got up at six for cross-country practice,” Jackson said. “I’m completely shattered. We can talk about this tomorrow.”

“Okay,” I said. But I didn’t hang up.

“I’m gonna go, now, Roo,” he said.

“Okay, go, then.”

“All right. I’m hanging up. Good night.” And the line went dead.

The next day, Jackson called and came over in the afternoon. He brought me a brownie.

I ate it.

He said he was sorry. He should have called when he went to the game.

I thought he should have not gone to the game and should have come over to my house instead. But I didn’t say anything about that.

I said the brownie was perfect, and brownies were my favorite, and did he feel like walking down the dock and looking at the boats? He said yes, and so we did.

But later, I wished I hadn’t eaten that stupid brownie. I wished I had thrown it back at him and told him never to stand me up again.

Five: For Valentine’s Day at Tate this year, the senior class decided to raise money for the Downtown Seattle Soup Kitchen by selling flowers and delivering them. For three weeks ahead of time, they took orders at a table in the main building: a dollar for a carnation, two dollars for a daisy, three for a rose. You’d put in an order, pay cash and write a note to go with the flowers. Then on February 14, the seniors delivered the bouquets; they were showing up in classrooms, at the refectory tables, in the hallways, calling out names.

A lot of girls had had the foresight to send each other flowers. It was worth a few dollars so that your girlfriend could have Bick or the Whipper or Billy Alexander or some other hot senior interrupt math class with a rose. So there were a lot of deliveries. I sent daisies to Kim and Cricket and Nora, and I sent Jackson six roses with an anonymous card—but of course it would still be obvious whom they were from.

When I got to school that day, the whole place was buzzing. Kim already had a dozen roses from Finn the stud-muffin, and there was a daisy from Cricket in my mail cubby with a funny note. I saw Jackson after third-period French, and he hadn’t gotten the roses yet, so I didn’t say anything. I got a rose from Kim and a daisy from Nora, and a carnation from this guy Noel who stood next to me in Painting Elective, with a long goofy poem about unrequited love.¹¹ Nora found the Playgirl in her mail cubby and cracked up.

Jackson sat with his friends at lunch, and I felt weird about him not having gotten the roses yet, so I pretended not to see him and hung out with Cricket, Kim and Nora. In fifth period, Nora showed me a rose she got from some guy she knew from basketball, which made her feel good even though she didn’t like him “that way,” and then asked to see what Jackson had sent me. I said Nothing yet, and she said, “Oh dear. I hope it’s not a frogless day!”

“It better not be,” I said—but I had a sinking feeling that wouldn’t go away all through Biology/Sex Ed.

After, when I was crossing the quad to H&P, I ran into Jackson holding the roses I’d sent him. He kissed me and said, “These are from you, right?” and I thought, Who on earth else does he think it could be? Shouldn’t he know they’re from me?—but all I said was “Maybe,” because I was trying to be mysterious, especially if he hadn’t sent me anything.

In Mr. Wallace’s class, now it was Cricket asking if I had anything yet, and when I said no, she said, “Don’t worry. I hear it’s a special order.”

I couldn’t think what a special order would be, but it sounded good, so I relaxed. Cricket had a rose from Pete, who’s her boyfriend now, but she’d only just started liking him then. The Whipper delivered daisies to Kim, from a freshman who had a crush on her. A thousand hundred people asked me what I had from Jackson, and Heidi even advised me not to let him take me for granted, giving me this knowing look as if she knew him and all his tendencies a hundred times better than I did.

It wasn’t like I had any control over whether he took me for granted or not, anyway. What was I supposed to do? Act like I didn’t like him? He had been my boyfriend for six months already.

Finally, in seventh period, Billy Alexander interrupted Brit Lit with a delivery for me.

It was half a carnation.

Literally, a sad-looking white carnation sliced in half, with a note that said: “I would never buy you regular roses, like a million other roses given to a million other girls. Happy Valentine’s Day. Jackson.”

I tried to act pleased, but I could barely keep from crying. As soon as I got out the door of the classroom, I burst into tears. Kim was right there. “It’s not even a rose,” I cried, “it’s the cheapest thing he could buy. It’s only half of the cheapest thing he could buy.”

“Oh, Roo,” she said, “it’s nice. It’s unusual.”

“It’s soggy,” I sniffed. “The card doesn’t even say Love on it. People have been asking me all day and now all I’ve got is this soggy, ripped-up flower.”

“I’m sure he thought you’d like it,” Kim said. “He had to order it special.”

“I’d rather have roses.” I kept my head down so people walking down the hall wouldn’t see I was crying.

“You want some of mine?” Kim asked.