The Creeping

“Other than the broken-home part,” I say.

“Well, yeah, other than the fact your mom is gone.” It doesn’t sting when he says it. It’s matter-of-fact. “You talk to her a lot?” I shake my head. The thing is, Mom didn’t just leave Dad when she went, she left me, too. I visit at Christmas every couple of years, but it’s like visiting a stranger’s house, where you recognize nothing and sleep in a nondescript guest bedroom that smells of potpourri. She’s not even the kind of divorced parent who attempts to buy my love; last Christmas she gave me a turtleneck sweater. I repeat: a turtleneck sweater.

I try not to be obvious keeping an eye on the mantel clock; pleeeaase let Zoey arrive after Sam is gone. He shrugs off the black hoodie like he means to stay awhile, and I confirm that he really is using a white shoelace as a belt. He catches me looking. “What? You’re not up on this trend? Just give it a month, Hella Stella, and you’ll be begging to know where I bought this stylish shoelace.” His laugh is full at his own joke. “You still play the violin?” He jerks his head at a studio portrait of me hanging above the mantel, violin in hand, smiling in the orange glow of pillar candles. It’s a melodramatic pose for a twelve-year-old; my tight-lipped smile was forced. Mom insisted. It was taken a few months before she left us. I haven’t touched my violin or sheet music since she stopped making me practice.

“God, no,” I answer. I suspect he’s attempting to make casual conversation and already knows I wouldn’t be caught dead in the school band room. I eye the throw draped over the love seat. I want to tunnel under it and disappear. Something about Sam being here dredges up things I don’t want to think about. Instead I let out a puff of air and push on. “Listen, Sam, I tried to find you after . . . after I was such a bitch last night. Some guy said you left with some girl.” I can’t remember names, but he should really be appreciative that I went to the trouble of searching for him at all. “I only said what I said because . . . you know.” The lame excuse spills from my nasty mouth; it’s hollow-sounding, and I end up flicking my wrist like Zoey does when she can’t be bothered to elaborate.

His eyes dart over my face like he’s searching for hidden meaning. “I received about a hundred messages from the guys, saying you asked about me. You almost gave Harry an asthma attack.” Of course Sweater-Vest and company relayed my excursion into social Siberia to Sam. My stomach flips thinking about this Harry guy hunched over his inhaler, wheezing about it at the bonfire, and Janey Bear getting wind. Sam blinks at me with a serious expression. “But I don’t understand why you said what you did or why you wanted to find me after.”

I try diffusing the situation by shrugging and allowing him to interpret it how he wants. It isn’t enough to end the most awkward staring contest ever, though. I wish I hadn’t invited him in. I wish that I could actually disappear under the blanket. “I mean, Janey and Kate were right there,” I say finally.

“So?”

I fidget, uncomfortable with totally having to spell it out. “Us sitting there in the dark . . . and you with your nickname that no one calls me anymore.” He still shakes his head, not getting it. “I just . . . I was worried what they’d think. Because of what they would tell people.” I cover my mouth, trying to muffle the confession that I care what someone like Janey thinks or says. “And I was worried what you thought. I mean, I have my own group of friends and you . . . you have your own stuff.” I motion at his vest. “And besides, I don’t really date anyway. You’re just sooo nice to me, and I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

He’s quiet for a long time. I perch on the love seat’s arm, waiting for the hurt feelings to erupt out of him like a PMSing volcano. His eyes are glued to the framed pictures displayed on the marble mantel. Most likely he’s considering the irony that there’s still a photo of us from an apple-picking field trip during the fourth grade tucked into a papier-maché frame he made for me.

“I’m too nice to you?” he asks, turning to study my face. “You’d rather I pretend to forget your name? How about if I hit on your friends in front of you? Or if I said I’d text and then didn’t?” There’s nothing biting in his voice; it’s thoughtful, like his eyes searching mine. I try to stop the shock I feel from reaching them. His jaw is relaxed, his brown irises cool as they figure me out. “I know what the guys you hang out with are like. I think you deserve better than that.”