The Boyfriend List

I tried to talk to Cricket and Nora, but Cricket just said, “Later, okay, Roo? We’ve got stuff to do,” and the two of them went off toward the refectory and then avoided me the rest of the day. Katarina and her set were pleasant enough, but I could tell they wanted to know what was going on with Angelo and Jackson so they could spread it around, so I tried not to get into conversations with them.

The only person who was nice to me was Noel. We had Painting Elective together, and he walked with me across the quad afterward, barefaced lighting up a cigarette with his paint-covered hands, even though any teacher could have seen him at any time.

“Thanks for the ride Saturday,” I said.

“At your service.”

“I don’t know what I’d have done without you.”

“Someone else would have given you a lift.”

“Maybe.”

“You were having a party, Roo.”

“I guess.”

“You’re like the warrior princess of the Tate universe,” said Noel. He lowered his voice to sound like a TV announcer: “No matter what they said about her. No matter what people thought! Ruby Oliver was undaunted. She gave parties, she kissed other people’s boyfriends, she held hands with strange men. In her magical silver dress, she kicked the asses of one and all who dared to stand in her way….”

I laughed. “Then why do I feel like a leper?”

“The warrior princess was covered with the strange green spots of leprosy,” Noel went on in his announcer voice, “but that did not diminish her charms nor impair her miraculous kung fu and painting abilities.”

I kickboxed the air in front of me. “Tcha!”

“Seriously,” said Noel. “You’re not afraid to be seen with me? After what people are saying?”

“What do you mean?”

“At least three people have asked me if we’re going out now.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Cricket asked what I thought of the Dali poster in your bedroom.”⁷

“She did?”

“And Nora asked if we were an item.”

“Nora? Why wouldn’t she ask me?”

“And Josh asked if I was ‘doing you’ behind Jackson’s back all along.”

“Josh is a moron.”

“Yeah, but he’s asking what people want to know.” He sucked on the butt of his cigarette and then stubbed it out on the bottom of his combat boot. I wondered if Noel had seen me sort of kissing Angelo, and guessed he probably hadn’t. But he would hear about it soon enough, that was for sure.

I stared at Noel. He was delicate, underweight, wearing a leather coat.

He looked me in the eye. “I don’t mind if they’re saying that stuff,” he said. “It doesn’t bother me.”

I wondered if he had held my hand because he liked me—or because he was being nice. I wondered if he liked girls at all. It was hard to tell with Noel, the way it was hard to tell when he was serious or when he was joking. Like he was on the cross-country team, but he never seemed to care about winning or not winning, the way Jackson did. And he smoked cigarettes, but was otherwise a straight-edge; no beer, no drugs, no meat, no toxins. He even drank carrot juice.

He was a disorienting person.

“I’ll tell them whatever you want me to,” he went on. “Nothing ever happened. Or we’ve been together since Christmas. Or I fondled your digits against your will. Or we had an incredible one-night stand. Whatever you want me to say. I don’t give a crap what Cricket and Nora think. Or Jackson Clarke, even if he is bigger than me. They’re a bunch of Tate idiots, anyway.”

“Those people are my friends, Noel,” I said, suddenly feeling defensive.

“Some friends.”

“What does that mean?”

“I mean, if those are your friends you’ve got no need for enemies.”

“There’s just a misunderstanding. It’ll all blow over.”

Noel shook his head. “You think better of this scene than I do, Ruby. Don’t you see how fake those girls are? Let it go. Have a laugh about it when you’re older. Forget that junk.”

I wanted to believe him, to skip off to some punk-rock hangout and develop ironic distance and start over in a universe where it didn’t matter what any of these people thought about me. But I couldn’t.

I just loved them.

“Trust me,” he said. “You don’t need Jackson Clarke or Cricket McCall to have a life.”

I’m not ironic. I’m—whatever the opposite of ironic is. Oversensitive. Overly sincere.