“But your thoughts are you. I think therefore I am, right?”
“No, not really. A fuller formation of Descartes’s philosophy would be Dubito, ergo cogito, ergo sum. ‘I doubt, therefore I think, therefore I am.’ Descartes wanted to know if you could really know that anything was real, but he believed his ability to doubt reality proved that, while it might not be real, he was. You are as real as anyone, and your doubts make you more real, not less.”
—
The moment I got back home, I could feel Mom’s nerves jangling about my visit with Dr. Singh, even though she was trying to be calm and normal. “How was it?” she asked, not looking back at me while grading tests on the couch.
“Good, I guess,” I said.
“I want to apologize again for the way I spoke to Davis yesterday,” she said. “You have every right to be upset with me.”
“I’m not,” I said.
“But I want you to be cautious, Aza. I can tell your anxiety is increasing—from your face to your fingertip.”
I balled up my hand and said, “It’s not him.”
“What is it then?”
“There’s no reason,” I said, and turned on the TV, but she took the remote and muted it.
“You seemed locked inside of your mind, and I can’t know what’s going on in there, and it scares me.” I pressed my thumbnail against my fingertip through the Band-Aid, thinking it would scare her a lot more if she could see what was going on in there.
“I’m fine. Really.”
“But you’re not.”
“Mom, tell me what to say. Seriously. Just . . . tell me what words I can say to make you calm down about it.”
“I don’t want to calm down. I want you to stop being in pain.”
“Well, that’s not how it works, okay? I have to go read for history.”
I stood up, but before I could get to my room, she said, “Speaking of which, Mr. Myers told me today that your essay on the Columbian Exchange was the best he’d seen in all his years of teaching.”
“He’s been teaching like two years,” I said.
“Four, but still,” she said. “You’re going places, Aza Holmes. Big places.”
“Did you ever hear of Amherst?” I asked.
“Where?”
“Amherst. It’s this college in Massachusetts. It’s really good. It’s ranked really high. I think I might want to go there—if I get in.”
Mom started to say something but swallowed it, and then sighed. “We’ll just have to see where the scholarships come from.”
“Or Sarah Lawrence,” I said. “That one seems good, too.”
“Well, remember, Aza, a lot of those schools charge you just to apply, so we have to be selective. The whole process is rigged, from start to finish. They make you pay to find out you can’t afford to go. We need to be realistic, and realistically, you’re going to be close to home, okay? And not only because of money. I don’t think you really want to be halfway across the country from everything you know.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Okay, I get it. You don’t want to talk to your mother. I love you anyway.” She blew me a kiss and at last I escaped to my room.
—
I did have to read for history, but after I finished, I wasn’t tired and I kept thinking about texting Davis.
I knew what I wanted to write, or at least what I was thinking about writing. I couldn’t stop thinking about the text—writing it out, hitting send knowing I couldn’t take it back, the sweaty heart-race of waiting for a reply.
I turned off my light, rolled over onto my side, and shut my eyes, but I couldn’t shake the thought; so I reached over for my phone, clicked it awake, and wrote him. When you said before that you like my body, what did you mean?
I watched the screen for a few seconds, waiting for the . . . of his reply to appear, but it didn’t, so I put the phone back onto the bedside table. My brain was quiet now that I’d done the thing it wanted me to do, and I was nearly asleep when I heard the phone vibrate.
Him: I mean I like it.
Me: What about it?
Him: I like the way your shoulders slope down into your collarbone.
Him: And I like your legs. I like the curve of your calf.
Him: I like your hands. I like your long fingers and the insides of your wrists, the color of the skin there, the veins underneath it.
Me: I like your arms.
Him: They’re skinny.
Me: They feel strong actually. Is this okay?
Him: Very.
Me: So, the curve of my calf? I never noticed it.
Him: It’s nice.
Me: Is that it?
Him: I like your ass. I really really like your ass. Is this okay?
Me: Yes.
Him: I want to start a fan blog about your ass.
Me: Okay that’s a little weird.
Him: I want to write fan fiction in which your amazing butt falls in love with your beautiful eyes.
Me: lol. You are really ruining the moment. You were saying...before...?
Him: That I like your body. I like your stomach and your legs and your hair and I like. Your. Body.
Me: Really?
Him: Really.
Me: What is wrong with me that texting is fun and kissing is scary?
Him: Nothing is wrong with you. Want to come over after school Monday? Watch a movie or something?
I paused for a while before finally writing, Sure.
FOURTEEN
IN THE PARKING LOT before school on Monday, I told Daisy about the texting and the kissing and the eighty million microbes.
“When you put it that way, kissing is actually quite disgusting,” she said. “On the other hand, maybe his microbes are better than yours, right? Maybe you’re getting healthier.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe you’re gonna get superpowers from his microbes. She was a normal girl until she kissed a billionaire and became . . . MICROBIANCA, Queen of the Microbes.” I just looked at her. “I’m sorry, is that not helpful?”
“It’ll probably get less weird, right?” I said. “Like, each time we kiss and nothing bad happens, it’ll get less scary. I mean, it’s not like he’s actually going to give me campylobacter.” And then after a second, I added, “Probably.”
Daisy started to say something, but then she saw Mychal walking toward her from across the parking lot. “You’ll be fine, Holmesy. See you at lunch. Love you!” she said, and then took off toward Mychal. She threw her arms around him, and kissed him dramatically on the lips, one leg raised at the knee like she was in a movie or something.
—
I drove over to Davis’s house straight from school. The wrought-iron gates at the entrance of the driveway were closed, and I had to get out to press the intercom button.
“Pickett estate,” said a voice I recognized as Lyle’s.
“Hi, it’s Aza Holmes, Davis’s friend,” I said.
He didn’t answer, but the gate began to creak open. I got back in Harold and drove up the driveway. Lyle was sitting in his golf cart when I arrived next to the house. “Hi,” I said.
“Davis and Noah are at the pool,” he said. “Can I give you a ride?”
“I can walk,” I said.
“Take the ride,” he responded flatly, gesturing to the space on the cart’s bench beside him. I sat down, and he set off very slowly toward the pool. “How’s Davis doing?” he asked me.
“Good, I think.”
“Fragile—that’s what he is. They both are.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“You gotta remember that. You ever lost somebody?”
“I have,” I said.
“Then you know,” he said as we approached the pool. Davis and Noah were sitting next to each other on the same pool lounger, both hunched forward, staring at the patio beneath them. I was thinking about Lyle saying then you know. I didn’t, not really. Every loss is unprecedented. You can’t ever know someone else’s hurt, not really—just like touching someone else’s body isn’t the same as having someone else’s body.
When Davis heard the golf cart pull up, he turned his head to me, nodded, and stood up.
“Hi,” I said.