better then, when he read Marvel comics instead of Sartre, when he didn’t wrangle with all the hard questions and come out the other end sad or angry or tired or whatever it is he is.
I definitely like him better smiling.
“Let’s tackle ‘The Waste Land’ together.
April is the cruellest month
and all that jazz. Not my favorite poem, but it’s seminal,” he says, and puts his bookmark in
Dracula
and closes it, like that’s that. Decision made. Here are your Chicken McNuggets with extra honey mustard.
Pleasethankyouyou’rewelcome.
“Okay,” I say, because reading him makes me slow. I’m the tired one now. His smile is like unlocking a riddle.
How does an imperfection make him seem even more perfect?
And did he just use the word “seminal”? Is he sad or angry or just sixteen?
“Do we really have an honor code here?” he asks.
“We do. It’s ten pages long.”
“Learn something new every day. We haven’t officially met yet, have we? I’m Ethan, Ethan Marks.”
“Jessie,” I say, and we shake hands like real adults: no fist bumps or faux cheek kisses or guy nods. His fingers are long and slender and solid. I like them as much as his smile. Like touching them even more. “Holmes.”
“Nice to finally meet you, Jessie.” He pauses. “Holmes.”
Day 15. Definitely better.
—
Later, in gym, I walk the track with Dri—she says that’s what her friends call her, because Adrianna has “too many reality-show connotations”—and we laugh as we count the number of times Mr. Shackleman tries to surreptitiously adjust his balls. It’s Dri’s game. SN is right: she’s funny.
“I can’t decide if he’s itchy or trying to hide his boner from watching the Axis of Evil run,” she says. Gem and Crystal have lapped us three times now, not breaking a sweat, not even breathing hard. They look so good, I can’t help but watch them too.
Mr. Shackleman doesn’t look much older than the high school boys, except he already has a beer gut and a small bald patch on the back of his head. He wears gym shorts and blows a shrill plastic whistle more than necessary.
“Are they twins?” I ask about Gem and Crystal.
“No,” Dri laughs. “But they’ve been best friends, since, like, forever.”
“Have they always been so, you know, bitchy?” I hate the word “bitch.” I do. Using the B-word makes me feel like a bad feminist, but sometimes there is no other word.
“Not really. You know how it is. Mean girls get mean in seventh grade and they stay that way until your ten-year reunion, when they want to be best friends again. At least, that’s what my mom says.”
“It’s funny how high school is high school everywhere,” I say, and smile at Dri. Try not to feel uncomfortable at the mention of moms, like it didn’t set off an invisible flare in my chest. “I mean, this place is completely different than where I come from, but in some ways it’s exactly the same. You can’t escape it.”
“College. So close and yet so far away,” Dri says. She’s nothing like Scarlett, who is brash and unafraid of anything or anyone—contrary to what she claims, she’s the brave one of our duo—and yet, I have a feeling Scar would like Dri. Would guide her along, like Scar has done for me all these years.
“A friend told me recently that how happy you are in high school is indirectly proportional to how successful you’ll be later in life,” I say, testing the theory that maybe SN is Adrianna, which I’d definitely take over SN being Theo. Maybe she was just too shy to reach out on her own. I study her face, but there isn’t even a twitch of recognition.
Nope, not her.
“I don’t know. Hope so.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out an inhaler. “Sorry. I’m allergic to the outdoors. And the indoors. And everything else. I know it makes me look like a tool, but not breathing looks worse.”
Once we are better friends, I should tell her she has nothing to be sorry for. No
I definitely like him better smiling.
“Let’s tackle ‘The Waste Land’ together.
April is the cruellest month
and all that jazz. Not my favorite poem, but it’s seminal,” he says, and puts his bookmark in
Dracula
and closes it, like that’s that. Decision made. Here are your Chicken McNuggets with extra honey mustard.
Pleasethankyouyou’rewelcome.
“Okay,” I say, because reading him makes me slow. I’m the tired one now. His smile is like unlocking a riddle.
How does an imperfection make him seem even more perfect?
And did he just use the word “seminal”? Is he sad or angry or just sixteen?
“Do we really have an honor code here?” he asks.
“We do. It’s ten pages long.”
“Learn something new every day. We haven’t officially met yet, have we? I’m Ethan, Ethan Marks.”
“Jessie,” I say, and we shake hands like real adults: no fist bumps or faux cheek kisses or guy nods. His fingers are long and slender and solid. I like them as much as his smile. Like touching them even more. “Holmes.”
“Nice to finally meet you, Jessie.” He pauses. “Holmes.”
Day 15. Definitely better.
—
Later, in gym, I walk the track with Dri—she says that’s what her friends call her, because Adrianna has “too many reality-show connotations”—and we laugh as we count the number of times Mr. Shackleman tries to surreptitiously adjust his balls. It’s Dri’s game. SN is right: she’s funny.
“I can’t decide if he’s itchy or trying to hide his boner from watching the Axis of Evil run,” she says. Gem and Crystal have lapped us three times now, not breaking a sweat, not even breathing hard. They look so good, I can’t help but watch them too.
Mr. Shackleman doesn’t look much older than the high school boys, except he already has a beer gut and a small bald patch on the back of his head. He wears gym shorts and blows a shrill plastic whistle more than necessary.
“Are they twins?” I ask about Gem and Crystal.
“No,” Dri laughs. “But they’ve been best friends, since, like, forever.”
“Have they always been so, you know, bitchy?” I hate the word “bitch.” I do. Using the B-word makes me feel like a bad feminist, but sometimes there is no other word.
“Not really. You know how it is. Mean girls get mean in seventh grade and they stay that way until your ten-year reunion, when they want to be best friends again. At least, that’s what my mom says.”
“It’s funny how high school is high school everywhere,” I say, and smile at Dri. Try not to feel uncomfortable at the mention of moms, like it didn’t set off an invisible flare in my chest. “I mean, this place is completely different than where I come from, but in some ways it’s exactly the same. You can’t escape it.”
“College. So close and yet so far away,” Dri says. She’s nothing like Scarlett, who is brash and unafraid of anything or anyone—contrary to what she claims, she’s the brave one of our duo—and yet, I have a feeling Scar would like Dri. Would guide her along, like Scar has done for me all these years.
“A friend told me recently that how happy you are in high school is indirectly proportional to how successful you’ll be later in life,” I say, testing the theory that maybe SN is Adrianna, which I’d definitely take over SN being Theo. Maybe she was just too shy to reach out on her own. I study her face, but there isn’t even a twitch of recognition.
Nope, not her.
“I don’t know. Hope so.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out an inhaler. “Sorry. I’m allergic to the outdoors. And the indoors. And everything else. I know it makes me look like a tool, but not breathing looks worse.”
Once we are better friends, I should tell her she has nothing to be sorry for. No
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