“I hate that word, Emerson.”
“Well, what do you mean?” My voice was getting higher and my cheeks were getting pinker.
“I mean, I wanted to practice for you. I wanted our first kiss with each other to be perfect.”
“Really?” I leaned up on my toes, trying to physically absorb his words.
“I swear. I’ve always wanted to kiss you. You have to have known that.”
I blinked a couple of times before reaching up and craning my neck toward him. Hmm, that clean Jackson smell. Around eighth grade, he started remembering to put on deodorant, thank god. “I guess I kind of knew.”
I leaned in closer.
“Well, I’m not gonna kiss you now, with Hunter’s slobber all over you. We have to disinfect you big-time. Soap in the mouth and everything.”
“Oh, shut it, you.” I punched him in the chest.
He grabbed my hand and pulled me along. “Come on, we’re late for biology.”
5. Still Not Talking
“You still reading that book?” Cara asked as she walked by me while I folded laundry on the couch.
“Yeah,” I said, and then followed her into the kitchen. I sat down at the bar while she took out ingredients for a smoothie. It was noon, and I knew she had a class to teach in an hour.
“You haven’t really been eating, Emi.”
“No, I have been. I’m fine. Hey, do you want to make Bloody Marys instead?” I asked.
She laughed. “Are you becoming an alcoholic?”
“I have something to tell you,” I said, abruptly. She stared at me and her smile faded.
“Do I need to cancel my class?” she asked.
“You know that, uh . . . book? You know. The one by J. Colby?”
“Uhh, of course I do. I just read it. You’re reading it now. I just asked you about it literally thirty seconds ago.”
“Yeah, well . . .” I wanted to tell her the truth, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. “I just wanted to say thanks for passing it on to me.”
She smiled. “That’s it?”
I nodded.
“You still want me to make you a Bloody Mary?”
“No, you should get to class,” I told her.
“Aren’t you going in?” she asked.
“No, I canceled mine. I have a bad headache. I think I’m going to go for a run and maybe try to get some words on paper.”
“Good girl.” She hustled to the door with her bag and then called back, “Oh, you’re welcome for the book, but you should thank whoever stuck that New Yorker article in my box at school. That’s how I found out about it to begin with.”
I stared at the closed door after she left. Someone had left her an article about J. Colby?
I RAN FOUR miles, came back to the apartment, and sat at my computer. Writing would be impossible, so I went back to his website and stared at his picture, navigated to the form box, and began a new message to him: Jase, Why bring it all back up? Why? Why? Why?
Oh, and your writing sucks.
I deleted it then opened the book once again.
From All the Roads Between
Mr. Williams, our tall, brainy-looking biology teacher, stood at the whiteboard and lectured, occasionally asking questions of the class, but I didn’t hear anything he said. I was thinking about Jax, who was sitting right behind me. As I twirled my hair through my fingers, I imagined what kissing him would be like.
His body was too long for our classroom desks, so he had to sit kind of low with his legs spread out in front of him. I could just make out the length of his legs in my peripheral vision. I was starting to notice all these feelings that I hadn’t really thought about before, and I could feel his warmth emanating from behind me.
Mr. Williams cleared his throat and said loudly, “These are cells that lack a membrane-bound nucleus. Who knows what they’re called?”
No one raised a hand.
“Fisher!” Mr. Williams barked out.
“Prokaryotes?” Jackson said, like he wasn’t sure, but I knew he was.
“That’s right,” Mr. Williams said. “Emerson, are you paying attention?”
I sat up straight in my seat. “Yes, sir.”
“Okay,” Mr. Williams said. “Then tell us, the system we’ve been talking about this whole class period is called what?”
My heart was racing, and the room started spinning. I hated being called on. I had no idea what the answer was, but then Jackson whispered, “Binomial nomenclature.”
It was like he had said, I want to make love to you. That’s how Jackson saying “binomial nomenclature” sounded to me.
Mr. Williams was still glaring at me. I pointed my finger to the ceiling and announced, “Binomial nomenclature!”
“So you are paying attention, Emerson. Good,” Mr. Williams said.
On the bus ride home, Jax said, “It’s really hard to pay attention in class when you’re always playing with your hair in front of me.” He squeezed my hand and smiled. Something about the way he was touching me felt different from all the other times.
“You don’t seem to have a problem getting all the answers right.”