“You were in Michigan that weekend.”
“I have to work. You know I'm here most weekends.”
“I'm not complaining.”
“How'd you do?”
I shrug. “Okay, I guess. The scores will be mailed. I can take them again next year, you know.”
By now, we're home. As we go into the house, Dad says, “You seeing anyone?”
“What?”
“A girl. You have a girlfriend?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
He looks uncomfortable. “I'm not prying. Just wondering. Lots of good-looking girls at your school. When I was your age, I had a string of girlfriends.”
Crap! I bite my tongue, hoping he doesn't start some dumb walk down memory lane. “Good for you.” I start up the stairs to my room. “Got homework.”
“We should talk more,” he calls up after me.
Whatever, I think. “Sure,” I say. In my room I push a pile of dirty clothes off my bed. The whole place is a mess, but I don't care. Unusual for me, because I like my stuff to be organized and neat. Lately I can't concentrate. It's as if some animal is prowling around inside my gut and wants out. I feel this gnawing sensation, as if my skin is on fire from the inside out. Joel says I need to get laid. That a guy can only do so much for himself in the shower alone. But the girls at school bore me. All except one.
I start piling up dirty laundry because if I don't wash soon, I'm out of shirts and jeans, and I can't go to school smelling like a locker room. I can't sit in front of Lori's desk reeking like a stupid jock. I toss the pile of dirties into a basket, promising myself I'll do it tomorrow after school, when I won't run into Dad downstairs. It's bugging me that he thinks Lori's hot. He's way too old to be lusting after her.
I turn on my computer and once it boots up, I go to my e-mail, where nine new messages are waiting for me. I haven't checked it since last night. Too busy when I got home today, what with the parentteacher event tonight. I scroll down the list. Two from Honey. One from Joel. Some junk mail. One from “carnivaldaze.” I almost delete it, then decide to open it. When the message flashes onto my screen, I about fall over. The time stamp is two a.m. the night before. It says:
Hello, Ry.
I hope you don't mind me e-mailing you. Sort of risky, I know. If you ever want to share another cappuccino, just to talk, let me know. Just hit reply and give me a time and date.
Please delete this after reading. L
I follow her instructions to the letter.
Sometimes I feel like I want to crawl out of my skin. It itches. Burns. I take another bath. Nothing helps.
The parent-teacher meetings went well. No problems there. I return to the one with Ryan again and again. His blue eyes haunt me. His father came, not his mother. Usually it's the mother. Almost always, it's the mother, protector of her young, who shows up. Ryan is a softer version of his father, not yet gone to flab. The older man is beefy, with the pouchy jowl and paunchy midsection so common in middle-aged men. His hands are large and square and hairy, while Ryan's are young, long-fingered; the father's thumbnail, and only his thumbnail, is bitten to the quick. I think about the father touching me and my skin crawls. I think about Ryan touching me and I glow warm deep inside.
Bill Mathers, a coach at the school, divorced and the only bachelor, has asked me out. I almost laughed out loud. I see the way he looks at me, like some kind of wolf, ready to pounce and rip me open. Disgusting. They're all disgusting, these middle-aged men who think a woman owes them something. A date equals sex. Their math is so transparent.
My brain keeps coming back to Ryan, to his beauty, his youth. He's a puzzle to be put together. Behind the smart-aleck cracks in class, inside his easygoing exterior, there's a spring ready to uncoil. I must be careful. Careful as never before.
I return to my computer and scan the new arrivals in my inbox. Nothing I care about. I pace and drink red wine, hoping it will help me fall asleep. I slide a DVD into my machine and watch an old movie. At six, I shut off my alarm and begin to dress for school. I look at my inbox one final time before heading out the door. A message has arrived marked with a red exclamation point. This one is urgent.
I read Ryan's reply, sent at 5:50 in the morning. He gives me the answer I want.
Ryan
On Friday night, I do exactly as Lori tells me. I wait at a certain bus stop, get into her car when she drives up and ride with her to another part of town, where we go into a coffee shop.
“It's my favorite coffeehouse,” she says when we're inside, where it's dark and the walls are lined with booths for privacy.
Blue lights shine over the coffee bar, turning the place a shade like ocean water, deep and mysterious. A small band plays mellow jazz on a stage lit with revolving lights in pink, yellow and green. The smell of hot rich coffee makes the air chewy. We haven't talked much during the drive, and now that we're here my palms are sweating and my mouth is bone-dry. Lori takes a seat across from me in the booth, asks what I want when a waiter appears.
I stare at the menu with its two pages of coffee selections with names like Devil Mocha Delight, Vanilla Extract, Double Whammy, Chili Pepper Surprise— “brewed with hot peppers, and not for the taste timid,” says the description. I can't concentrate.
“I like the Italian Stallion,” Lori says, a smile in her voice. “It's a dark-roasted Italian bean brewed with licorice. Tasty.”
“Sounds good,” I say, hoping my voice doesn't break, or squeak, or tremble. It holds steady.
She gives the waiter our coffee order, adding, “And a slice of cinnamon coffee cake. Two forks.”
I file the menu behind the sugar holder on the wall, lock my fingers together on top of the table and look across at her. For the first time tonight, our eyes connect. She says, “I'm glad you came.”
“Me too.” My undeniable wit and charm, as Honey jokes, escape me. How do I talk to this woman who turns my insides to jelly and makes my blood hot? Music? I can't believe she even listens to the tunes I like. Sports? Cars? School? My mind's blank.
“You're awfully quiet. Anything wrong?”
“No. I—I'm just not sure—”
She covers my hands with hers. “I don't want to make you uncomfortable, Ryan. I just want to get to know you better. I want to enjoy your company. But if you'd rather not—”
“No!” I blurt. “I—I mean, this is cool. I don't want to leave or anything. I'm just digging around for something to say.”
“Words never fail you when you take me on in the classroom.”
I see by her smile that she's teasing me, and I loosen up. “Well, then let's discuss world history— how about those Huns?” That makes her laugh and I feel a rush of relief. This might not be so hard after all.
“That's more like the Ryan I want to know.”
The coffee comes, and the cake. I grab a fork and slice myself a chunk. “This is good.”
Her smile widens. “Maybe I should have ordered two pieces.”
