that came out wrong. It implied that I would consider the idea.
Which I wouldn’t. I was in awe of Patrick, yes, but it was not the right kind of awe. Like whenever I went to church and listened to the folk band Patrick played in—which was awesome, like sixties rock for Mass—I had to work hard to not look at him because it pained me to see how intense he looked. I wondered, every time, whether that was what it felt like when you had a kid and he or she had a recital or a speaking part in a play and it all went horribly wrong and right at the same time. When you wanted to just cry out of pride and embarrassment all at once. I felt a million emotions around Patrick, pretty much on a daily basis, but I’d simply never had the urge to touch his face or hold his hand. I’d never felt desire.
“But I’m saying we’ve already started it.” Patrick’s voice seemed a little shaky, too, and when I looked up she saw that his eyes also seemed to vibrate with intensity. “I feel it.”
It had to be said. No pussyfooting.
“I don’t think I do,” I said sadly.
“But why not?” he pleaded.
“I don’t know.” I sighed and thought,
I wish I did!
“I just don’t.” I put down the sheet music. “We’re wasting time here.”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you.” He came closer.
“No,” I said. “I mean, with the sheet music. It’s not worth enough points to spend all this time looking for it.”
He hadn’t stopped coming closer.
“Patrick, come on,” I said. “Let’s just forget about prom, okay?”
“I don’t want to forget,” he said.
And then I wondered what sort of stuff
I
didn’t want to forget, then wondered how much of
any of this
I would remember in the end. Like if I lived to be as old as Eleanor. I sort of hoped that I’d forget most of what I’d already experienced of life. Not because it was so
bad
, but because it was so
ordinary
. I hadn’t ever left the country, or made love, or gotten married, or skydived. Not that I was sure I ever
would
skydive but if I did—if life presented the opportunity and motivation—I hoped I’d remember that when I was old—the feeling of flying, of free-falling, of total liberation—and not this awkward conversation with a boy who was once my best friend. I wanted to remember Italy and Paris, rip cords and parachutes. Love, too. Even loss.
But not this.
Because right then, Patrick leaned in, like he was going to kiss me, and I turned away.
I thought about how he wouldn’t even
want
to kiss me if he knew how I felt about Carson. Then thought about
telling
him how I felt about Carson for that very reason. It seemed cruel.
“You guys having any luck?” Dez said from the hall, then he poked his head into the room.
“Patrick found the music box,” I said, “but we’re striking out on movie sheet music.”
“Wait,” Patrick said. “I got one.” He pulled out sheet music for “The Rose,” from the movie by the same name, starring Bette Midler, and handed it to me.
Winter called out, “We should get moving, Team Lame-Oh! I boxed up the loot that’s down here.”
Patrick picked up the “Raindrops” music box and threw me an I’ll-deal-with-you-later sort of look, and we hurried downstairs and out the door.
We left with a silver bangle [10], an ice-tea spoon [10], a stapler [2], the snow globe [20], the music box [80], the sheet music [20], the flag [25], a yellow leaf (silk, but still) [40], a remote [10], a three-hole punch binder [5], an ice-cream scoop [10], a bottle of shampoo (to be emptied later since we ran out of time) [5], a divided dinner plate [10], a stack of Dixie cups (for Patrick’s icosahedron attempt) [potential for 65], an unopened cable bill [50], a recipe for Chocolate Chip Banana Bread [5], and a cleaned-up Mary, shucked from her Half Shell [100].
For a whopping total of 402 actual points.
Which, when added to the Home Depot loot, meant 587.
Like taking candy from a baby.
I locked up behind
Which I wouldn’t. I was in awe of Patrick, yes, but it was not the right kind of awe. Like whenever I went to church and listened to the folk band Patrick played in—which was awesome, like sixties rock for Mass—I had to work hard to not look at him because it pained me to see how intense he looked. I wondered, every time, whether that was what it felt like when you had a kid and he or she had a recital or a speaking part in a play and it all went horribly wrong and right at the same time. When you wanted to just cry out of pride and embarrassment all at once. I felt a million emotions around Patrick, pretty much on a daily basis, but I’d simply never had the urge to touch his face or hold his hand. I’d never felt desire.
“But I’m saying we’ve already started it.” Patrick’s voice seemed a little shaky, too, and when I looked up she saw that his eyes also seemed to vibrate with intensity. “I feel it.”
It had to be said. No pussyfooting.
“I don’t think I do,” I said sadly.
“But why not?” he pleaded.
“I don’t know.” I sighed and thought,
I wish I did!
“I just don’t.” I put down the sheet music. “We’re wasting time here.”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you.” He came closer.
“No,” I said. “I mean, with the sheet music. It’s not worth enough points to spend all this time looking for it.”
He hadn’t stopped coming closer.
“Patrick, come on,” I said. “Let’s just forget about prom, okay?”
“I don’t want to forget,” he said.
And then I wondered what sort of stuff
I
didn’t want to forget, then wondered how much of
any of this
I would remember in the end. Like if I lived to be as old as Eleanor. I sort of hoped that I’d forget most of what I’d already experienced of life. Not because it was so
bad
, but because it was so
ordinary
. I hadn’t ever left the country, or made love, or gotten married, or skydived. Not that I was sure I ever
would
skydive but if I did—if life presented the opportunity and motivation—I hoped I’d remember that when I was old—the feeling of flying, of free-falling, of total liberation—and not this awkward conversation with a boy who was once my best friend. I wanted to remember Italy and Paris, rip cords and parachutes. Love, too. Even loss.
But not this.
Because right then, Patrick leaned in, like he was going to kiss me, and I turned away.
I thought about how he wouldn’t even
want
to kiss me if he knew how I felt about Carson. Then thought about
telling
him how I felt about Carson for that very reason. It seemed cruel.
“You guys having any luck?” Dez said from the hall, then he poked his head into the room.
“Patrick found the music box,” I said, “but we’re striking out on movie sheet music.”
“Wait,” Patrick said. “I got one.” He pulled out sheet music for “The Rose,” from the movie by the same name, starring Bette Midler, and handed it to me.
Winter called out, “We should get moving, Team Lame-Oh! I boxed up the loot that’s down here.”
Patrick picked up the “Raindrops” music box and threw me an I’ll-deal-with-you-later sort of look, and we hurried downstairs and out the door.
We left with a silver bangle [10], an ice-tea spoon [10], a stapler [2], the snow globe [20], the music box [80], the sheet music [20], the flag [25], a yellow leaf (silk, but still) [40], a remote [10], a three-hole punch binder [5], an ice-cream scoop [10], a bottle of shampoo (to be emptied later since we ran out of time) [5], a divided dinner plate [10], a stack of Dixie cups (for Patrick’s icosahedron attempt) [potential for 65], an unopened cable bill [50], a recipe for Chocolate Chip Banana Bread [5], and a cleaned-up Mary, shucked from her Half Shell [100].
For a whopping total of 402 actual points.
Which, when added to the Home Depot loot, meant 587.
Like taking candy from a baby.
I locked up behind
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