“Kevin, the kid is a bully. He used to boss Roo around in nursery school, and he’s grown up into a monster. Let her be angry.”
“I’m not angry,” I said.
“I think it’s important to come to a loving place when people are unkind,” my dad said. “I want Roo to see that people act badly out of pain.”
“I want to call his mother up,” stormed my mom. “Kids can’t be acting like that. People can’t treat Roo like that.”
“Don’t call his mom!” I cried, grabbing her arm. “Please!”
“Why not? He’s a rotten boy and Susan Marrowby-Cox should know about it.”
“Elaine, don’t label people so much. We don’t want Roo carrying around all this fury. We have to teach her forgiveness.”
“Hello, Dad. I’m still here,” I said.
“If I didn’t carry around fury,” said my mother, “I wouldn’t have a career. People pay to come see me have fury. It’s productive. It’s cathartic.
“Come on,” said my father. “You know you have forgiveness issues. Let’s not pass them on to Roo.”
“Don’t bring up my issues. That’s not what this is about.”
“That’s exactly what it’s about.”
“I think it’s about
“My what?” yelled my dad—and they were off and running, arguing for the rest of the evening while I sat in my bedroom with my headphones on, trying not to hear them through the paper-thin walls.
I didn’t really want to tell Doctor Z about seeing Adam Cox, but she kind of squeezed it out of me by not saying anything, and I finally got bored and told the story. I regretted it afterward.
Because really, the story about Adam at the mixer was a story about Kim. And how we used to be. And how angry she can get. And how angry she is at me, now.
I didn’t want to talk about boy #2 on my list either—because talking about Finn Murphy
Damn. It’s like she’s everywhere.
1 Another tidbit for Doctor Z’s file on my sex mania. “Ruby Oliver: names a stuffed bunny after male reproductive organs. Can’t stop thinking about it for even one second, can she?”2 A bad idea, you think? Tossing such a document in a public garbage can? Well, all I can say is—you’re smarter than me. Which isn’t saying much, because I am obviously an idiot.3 Oh, all right. I know some of you are jonesing for a physical description, and let it not be said that I deprive my readers. I hereby give you Ruby Oliver’s five perfect, ideal qualities—and five which I justifiably hate.
1. No zits/boobs that already flop around more than they should and are destined for sagginess.
2. Good muscle tone from swim team and lacrosse/tendency to waxy ears.
3. Long dark eyelashes/bad eyesight and an inability to wear contacts, so glasses always obscure eyelashes anyway, effectively negating them.
4. Reasonably unhairy body/tummy that will never be entirely flat and might even be said to
5. Cute gap between front teeth/propensity to sweat in nervous-making situations.
Now you can picture me, right?4 Mr. James Wallace. I have such a thing for him. He’s from South Africa and has a wild accent and he gets all excited when he talks. He’s way too old for me.5 He looks great in a bathing suit, too. He’s our swim coach.6 I know you’re thinking I should have put him on the Boyfriend List. Any kind of crush is supposed to be on there. But I left him off on purpose. It’s just so stupid to have a crush on your H&P teacher, something that’s utterly and completely hopeless like that. Besides, I’m sure if I told her about it, Doctor Z would think I’m a slutty teacher’s pet like in that Police song, “Don’t Stand So Close to Me.” But I’m not. I know Mr. Wallace will never go for me—and even if he did, it would be pretty gross of him. He’s like twenty-nine years old. And married.
2. Finn (but people just thought so.)
“All right, then,” said Doctor Z. “Number two.”
I pretended I didn’t remember who number two was, and looked over at the paper. “Oh, Finn.” I stalled for time. “Why are we doing this?”
Doctor Z shrugged. “It’s a way of talking about your history. It’s a subject that seems important to you. What can you tell me about Finn?”
“Aren’t you supposed to be asking me about my feelings,” I shot back, “not quizzing me about my boyfriends?”
“Okay.” She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward. “How do you feel?”
“It’s not like any of them are even official boyfriends,” I went on, “until you get to the end of the list. They’re ‘almosts.’ People I had a crush on, or almost went out with, or they almost liked me, or we kissed once.”
“Uh-huh.”
“The only real boyfriend I’ve had is Jackson.”
“Jackson.”
“Yeah. But I don’t want to talk about him.”
No way was I telling her about Jackson. He had been my boyfriend for six months—had been my funny, laid- back, mayonnaise-eating, all-the-time-hanging-out, good-kissing, gravelly-voiced Jackson for most of sophomore
