He offers his house. “We have a game room. We can work on the computer in there.”
My mother thinks I’m working with Hallie Bryce on this project, so I go with a general, “Is it okay if I do homework at Lipton’s house tomorrow?” I’m still expecting to be grilled, but she must be distracted by the fact that I am willingly interacting with other humans.
“Sure, sweetie,” she says. “What time?”
“Right after school.”
We decide to forgo the whole process of getting approval for me to ride the bus to Lipton’s, because it involves a ridiculous number of permission slips and signatures from practically every person I’ve ever met, in triplicate. The idea of getting on a different bus also isn’t my favorite—all those kids staring and whispering and nudge-nudging and, yeah, not a good idea. My mother drives me instead, and makes a little “hmmm” sound when she sees how close his house is to where she dropped me off for Marissa’s party.
She stops the car in his driveway and starts to unbuckle her seat belt.
“You’re not coming in,” I say. “I’m sixteen, Mom. Not six.”
She purses her lips, pauses for dramatic effect, and refastens the seat belt. “Fine. What time should I pick you up?”
“I don’t know. Five thirty?”
“If you had your phone,” she says, all syrupy, “you could call me when you’re ready.”
“If you give it back to me . . .” I mimick her tone. “I would be happy to do that.”
“Password?”
I climb out of the car and say, “Five thirty is good,” before shutting the door.
I’ve resigned myself to never getting the phone back, and I don’t really miss it that much. The reason I got it in the first place was to text with Jenna. And any hope I had of that ever happening again has been officially dashed.
The only one I would text or talk to now is Lipton, but there’s something magical about not knowing, not seeing, not sharing everything. It gives my imagination a place to go. It heightens the anticipation of seeing him again.
I could almost burst with it when he opens the door, smiling tentatively. He tilts his head to the side, and I take a mental picture that will only ever be mine.
“Hi,” he says. “Come on in.”
I duck inside. He leans out to wave to my mother. She’ll like that.
Lipton shows me around the main floor of his house, which is easy since it’s basically one huge room. There are exposed beams on the ceiling and a massive stone fireplace. His cat, Kitty, formerly of the shrubbery, is curled atop a fleece blanket folded on the wide arm of the couch. The kitchen looks out on the dining and living areas, which have wall-to-wall windows as well as skylights. It’s bright and open and I’ve never felt so exposed and cozy at the same time.
Mrs. Gregory calls hello from the kitchen, where she’s chopping vegetables. Lipton’s little sister is sitting at a nearby table doing homework. She waves energetically, but is clearly under strict orders not to speak to me. She bites her lips and wiggles like she’s got to pee.
I wave back.
“In here,” says Lipton, leading me to a smaller room off the living area, which has a big L-shaped counter that runs along two walls. One side has an enormous Apple computer monitor, and the other side has trays and bins filled with every kind of paper and craft supply imaginable. The room is covered in artwork and accolades—including a whole wall of honor roll and perfect attendance certificates. There’s a trio of beanbag chairs in the center of the room, facing a big-screen TV in the other corner.
“Wow,” I say. “This is . . . wow.”
“Homework slash game room,” he announces.
“Wow.”
“You said that.”
“I just need to say it one more time and I promise I’ll be done. Wow.” Then I notice the class pictures. Lipton in kindergarten, first grade, second—all the way up to sophomore year. He’s pretty much had the same haircut the whole time. Until last weekend, that is. I point to the one where he’s missing both of his front teeth. “Look at you. You’re adorable.”
His eyes go wide like he’s completely forgotten the photos were there, and he dives to conceal the worst of them—grades seven through nine—behind his hand and forearm. “Not adorable. Promise you won’t ever look at these again.”
“How am I going to resist? They’re hanging on the wall.”
“Avert your eyes,” he says. “Seriously. There are some things so hideous you can’t unsee them.”
I smile and look toward the opposite corner. “Might make it difficult to get our work done like this.”
“Hold on.” He darts over to the art supplies and shuffles around there, then back to the school pictures.
When he finally lets me turn around, he’s taped some blank pieces of paper over the pictures. He scratches the back of his head. “Sorry. Thanks. So embarrassing.”
I don’t argue or try to convince him it’s not embarrassing, because I hate when people do that—tell you how you should or should not feel. My mother is constantly saying “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about” and “You’re being silly.” Which may be true. But having the validity of the feeling itself dismissed only makes it worse.
Instead, I lay my stuff on the counter. “You want to get started?”
Lipton’s face relaxes, and we pull chairs up to the computer. I tell him this idea I have to combine images of the siege from centuries ago with present-day photographs. Show modern-day relevance of the historical event.
“Brilliant,” he says, grinning.
I dump everything I have onto his hard drive, and he pulls up what he’s collected. We go back and forth. He suggests using music, something classical and dramatic. I want to put the entire story on the screen in short paragraphs, so I don’t have to talk at all. He convinces me to narrate.
“We’ll record it. It’ll be fine. You won’t have to be in front of the class. All you’ll have to do is press play and take a seat.”
I give him a look. That’s what he did, and we all know how that turned out.
“You can use your regular voice,” he says, reading my thoughts. “We’ll put it on a USB drive. No screen savers.”
My heart rate definitely jumps up a notch, and my stomach churns. But it’s not as bad as it could be. I’ve been diligently repressing any thoughts of my class presentation, afraid of how my body might react to the fear of something so big. And maybe there’s a delayed reaction at work. Maybe I haven’t even begun to process what I’m about to do. But having Lipton to help me is making it all so much less terrifying. Speaking into a recording device versus standing in front of the class? That’s like night and day. Like yin and . . .
I push the thought aside, the feeling that I may never regain my balance. Lipton actually reaches out to steady me then, physically. He presses his hands to the sides of my arms. “I’ll be right here,” he says.
I nod. “Okay.”