Owen took in another shuddering breath. "Mallory," he said. "If you could just—"
Just then, a tall dark-haired woman—Owen's mom, I assumed—appeared in the doorway of the house, calling her. Mallory shot her an annoyed look. "I have to go in," she announced, then leaned in even farther, so her face was inches from Owen's. "But you'll come over another time, right?"
"Sure," I told her.
"Bye, Annabel."
"Good-bye," I said.
She smiled, then stood up, and waved at me. I waved back, and Owen and I watched her climb the front stairs and head down the walk, turning to look back at us every few steps or so.
"Wow," I said. "So she's punk, huh?"
Owen didn't answer me. Instead, all I could hear was him inhaling, loudly, several times in a row.
"Is this you freaking out?" I asked.
He exhaled. "No. This is me annoyed. I don't know what it is about her. There's just something about sisters. They can make you freaking crazy."
"Story of my life," I said.
Another silence. In every one that fell, I told myself this time, he was going to get out and leave, and this would be over. And each time, I wanted it to happen even less.
He said, "You say that a lot, you know."
"What?"
"'Story of my life.'"
"You said it first."
"Did I?"
I nodded. "That day, behind the school."
"Oh." He was quiet for a moment. "You know, when you think about it, that's kind of a weird thing. I mean, it's meant to be sympathetic, right? But it's kind of not. Like you're telling the other person there's nothing unique about what they're saying."
I considered this as a couple of kids on Rollerblades whizzed past, hockey sticks over their shoulders.
"Yeah," I said, finally, "but you could also look at it the other way. Like you're saying no matter how bad things are for you, I can still relate."
"Ah," he said. "So you're saying you relate to me."
"No. Not at all."
"Nice." He laughed, turning his head to look out the window. I caught the quickest flash of his profile, and remembered all those days I'd spent studying him from a distance.
"Okay," I said. "Maybe a little."
He turned back, facing me, and I felt it again. Another pause, just long enough for me to wonder what, exactly, was happening. Then he pushed the door open. "So," he said, "um, thanks again for the ride."
"No problem. I owed you."
"No," he said, "you didn't." He untangled himself from the seat. "I'll see you tomorrow, or something."
"Yeah. See you then."
He got out, shutting the door behind him, then grabbed his bag and started up the steps. I watched him until he went inside.
As I pulled away from the curb, the whole afternoon seemed so strange, surreal. There was so much filling my head, too much to even begin to understand, but as I drove, I suddenly realized something else was bothering me: The CD had stopped and there was no music. Before, I probably wouldn't have even noticed, but now that I had, the silence, if not deafening, was distracting. I wasn't sure what this meant.
But I reached forward and turned on the radio anyway.
Chapter Nine
Beauty and the Beast. The Odd Couple. Shrek and Fiona. I had to hand it to the rumor mill: Over the next couple of weeks, they came up with lots of names for me and Owen and whatever it was we were doing every day on the wall at lunch. For me, it was harder to define. We weren't together by any means, but we weren't strangers. Like so much else, we fell somewhere in the middle.
Whatever the case, some things now were just understood. First, that we'd sit together. Second, that I'd always give him a hard time about not eating anything—he'd confessed to me he spent his lunch money on music, always—before sharing whatever I'd brought. And third, that we would argue. Or not argue, exactly. Discuss .
Initially, it was only about music, Owen's favorite subject and the one about which he felt the most strongly. When I agreed with him, I was brilliant and enlightened. When I didn't, I had the Worst Taste in Music in the World. Usually the most spirited exchanges came at the beginning of the week, as we discussed his radio show, which I now listened to faithfully every Sunday morning. It was hard to believe that once I'd been so nervous to tell him what I thought. Now, it came naturally.
"You've got to be kidding!" he said one Monday, shaking his head. "You didn't like that Baby Bejesuses song?"
"Was it the one that was all touch-tones?"
"It wasn't all touch-tones," he said indignantly. "There was other stuff, too."
"Like what?"
He just looked at me for a second, half of my turkey sandwich poised in his hand. "like," he said, then took a bite, which meant he was stalling. After taking his time chewing and swallowing, he said, "The Baby Bejesuses are innovators of the genre."
"Then they should be able to put together a song using more than a phone keypad."
"That," he said, pointing at me with the sandwich, "is I-Lang. Watch it."
I-Lang meant Inflammatory Language. And like R and R and placeholders, it had become part of my daily vocabulary. Hang out with Owen long enough, and you got an Anger Management tutorial, free of charge.
"Look," I said, "you know I don't like techno music. So maybe, you know, you should stop asking me my opinion of techno songs."
"That is such a generalization!" he replied. "How can you just rule out an entire genre? You're jumping to conclusions."
"No, I'm not," I said.
"What do you call it, then?"
"Being honest."
He just looked at me for a second. Then, with a sigh, he took another bite of the sandwich. "Fine," he said, chewing. "Let's move on. What about that thrash metal song by the Lipswitches?"
"Too noisy."
"It's supposed to be noisy! It's thrash metal!"
"I wouldn't mind the noise, if there were other redeeming qualities," I told him. "It's just someone wailing at the top of their lungs."
He popped the last bit of crust into his mouth. "So no techno and no thrash metal," he said. "What's left?"
"Everything else?" I said.