The Boyfriend List

“No,” I wailed. “That’s not it. I wanted something romantic.”

“I’m sure he meant well.” Kim patted my shoulder.

I ran out of school and found Meghan’s Jeep in the parking lot. I didn’t have an eighth-period class, but she did. She wouldn’t come out to drive me home for another fifty minutes. I sat down on my backpack, leaning against a tire, and waited. Finally she came out, jangling her keys, wearing a new pair of running shoes (from Bick) and carrying two dozen red roses. I’m sure she noticed my face was all red and swollen, but she didn’t ask any questions. We drove home in silence.

When I talked to him later, I just told Jackson “Thank you” for the flower.

“Why did you pretend you weren’t upset?” asked Doctor Z.

“I didn’t want to seem like it was important.”

“Why not?”

“He’d say I was oversensitive. Or he’d think I didn’t understand him, since I didn’t like his present. Because he was being unique.”

“Maybe he didn’t understand you.”

“What?”

“Maybe Jackson didn’t understand you. What you needed on Valentine’s Day.”

“It’s a stupid holiday,” I said.

When we got home from the appointment with Doctor Z, John Hutchinson (aka Hutch) was drinking pop on our front deck.

That’s right. Hutch. Boy #3. On my deck.

My dad was next to him, beaming. “John, you know Roo!” he cried. “Here she is!”

“Hey there, Hutch,” I said. What on earth was he doing at my house?

“Hey, Roo.”

“Hutch! Is that what the kids call you?” My dad punched him on the arm playfully, all man to man.

“Nah.” Hutch shrugged. “My friends call me John.”

What friends?

“How come you’re here?” I asked.

“John answered my ad for a carpentry and garden assistant,” my dad said. “I put a flyer on the Tate bulletin board. You know, I’m greenhousing the southern deck?”

I knew. It had been my dad’s dream to turn our southern deck into a tiny greenhouse, so his beloved plants wouldn’t die over the winter, and so he could grow some exotica that would die in typical Seattle weather. He had been arguing with my mom about it for two years. She wanted him to relax and hang out with her on weekends, and use our savings for a family vacation. He wanted to spend the money and the weekends building the greenhouse.

“John’s a plant man,” my dad enthused. “He wants to be a botanist. But he’s handy with a table saw, too, aren’t you? And I’m going to teach him everything I know.” My dad is never happier than when he’s building something.

Hutch smiled and showed his gray, heavy-metal teeth. “Great houseboat,” he said. “I never knew you lived in one of these.”

Since when did he want to be a botanist? What was that yellowy stain on his KISS T-shirt? Why didn’t he do something about his skin? I couldn’t believe he was going to end up being the second boy ever to come over to my house and see my bedroom. “Why in the world would you know where I lived?” I snapped.

I didn’t wait for a reply. I went inside and slammed the door.

I threw myself on the couch and turned on the TV, but I could hear my parents talking outside. “Don’t mind Roo,” Mom was saying. “Her boyfriend dropped her and she’s been mopey ever since it happened. Full of anxiety.”

“It’s not about you,” my dad added. “She’s working through a lot of pain and forgiveness issues.”

“And expressing a little adolescent rage,” my mom said. “Kevin, I think we should actually be pleased to see Ruby expressing her anger openly. Don’t you think that shows progress? She turns everything in on herself, John. She doesn’t talk freely about her emotions. But she’s seeing a therapist, and we’re hoping that will help.”

“Uh-huh,” Hutch mumbled.

“Maybe that’s normal for people your age,” my mom went on. “What do you think?”

At that point, I went into the bathroom, took a long hot shower and tried to pretend none of them existed.

1 A massive, unfounded, sexist generalization, I know. Mr. Wallace would never let me get away with saying that.

   But it’s still how I feel.2 Kim bought it. She has a secret method for buying such things. She always gets tampons along with it, figuring the checkout clerk will be either too busy avoiding looking her in the eye because of the tampons, or will assume that whatever it is—cigarettes, beer, Playgirl—is just part of a routine drugstore run and not anything she came in specially to buy.3 Yes, Tate is that Christiancentric (as Mr. Wallace would say). They have a Christmas dance for the sixth,