No dads have man-buns, that’s for damn sure.
The girl’s name is Simone and she’s my age and on her Instagram, she’s smokin’ hot, but not in a fake, plastic-y way like everyone else in this town. Maybe that’s because her mom was a famous model. Simone’s got this long, coffee-colored wavy hair that’s shaved on one side and she kind of dresses like a vocalist from a ’70s rock group. The times I’ve spied her from the street, she’s been wearing lots of scarves and bangles and other cool stuff that definitely does not come from J. Crew.
Simone has a casual elegance, like a Disney princess who doesn’t know what she is because an evil queen gave her amnesia and forced her to live in the forest. She strikes me as worldly and wise and chill, deep and interesting in a way that all the brittle future sorority girls in my school are not. She definitely doesn’t seem like the type of girl who’d eviscerate you for the cardinal sin of asking her to a middle school mixer, leaving you shamefaced and speechless in the middle of the cafeteria, too terrified to ever try again.
Kent says no one could have possibly have drawn these opinions, nobody could have come up with all these positive character traits by simply walking past her house.
I maintain that he couldn’t because he has no imagination; he’s too linear in his thinking. That’s also why I always beat him at chess.
I wouldn’t expect him to understand my fascination with Simone. He’s been obsessed with this generic blonde goddess named Mallory since grade school. I bet Mallory wouldn’t even bother to spit on him if he were on fire, but I keep that to myself. Kent soldiers on in his relentless pursuit, hope springing eternal. He kind of reminds me of a dog chasing a car when it comes to Mallory—he’s never going to catch the vehicle and he’d have no clue what to do with it if he did, but damned if he ever stops running behind it.
While he might whine about stalking Simone, he’s helping me anyway.
“There’s no fluid left in me—I sweated it all out. I’m literally leeching salt at this point,” Kent complains. He swipes his forehead and rubs his fingers against his palm. I hear the grit when he scrapes his hand against itself but pretend I don’t.
He says, “Seriously, bro, there’s a crust on my brow. Come on, Stephen... It’s over. Give it up. Let’s head to the beach. I wanna go walk directly into the lake, like, shoes and all, I don’t even care.”
I need to admit defeat.
And yet...
“One more pass?” I want this to sound like a command, a marching order, but my words come out more plaintive than planned.
He narrows his eyes and stares me down for a solid thirty seconds. “You suck.”
I guess plaintive worked.
We turn at the corner for our final walk-by when we see her garage door opening in the distance. Like Botticelli’s Birth of Venus, Simone comes into focus from the darkness of the garage, her form slowly revealed as the door inches upward, only instead of being surrounded by angels while naked astride a clamshell (my preference), she’s standing in front of a mountain of cardboard, buttressed by recycling bins.
She is the embodiment of divine love, august gold, wreathed and beautiful, clad in the heavenly raiment of a baggy, tie-dyed overall dress.
Oh, yes. She will be mine.
“You said that out loud, dude,” Kent tells me. “You may want to work on keeping your internal monologue, you know, internal.”
Simone spots us and waves.
“Check it out, she’s waving!” Kent says, shielding his eyes with his hand as he squints down the long, curved, sun-drenched driveway. Every house in our ’hood is set back from the curb no less than one-tenth of a mile. (Again, this blew at Halloween. Batman shouldn’t have to wear gym shoes.)
Kent continues, “No, that’s not a wave. She’s gesturing for us to come up to her garage. Yes! Score! You know, I doubted you, Cho. I did. Thought we were wasting our time, but you proved me wrong. Get up there and claim your woman. ’Bout time something good happened around here.” He gives me a small push in her direction.
“Walk faster,” I hiss, my heart beginning to race like a hamster on a wheel. “Actually, run.”
Kent comes to a dead stop. “Aw, hell no. Not this again. I am not walking faster and I’m sure as shit not running. I did not just sweat out half my body weight going back and forth for you to wuss out when you finally get your chance to talk to her. You wanted her to see you? Mission accomplished. Get your ass up there and have a conversation. ’Cause I’m done here. We have less than a week left before school starts and the last thing I wanna do is stand in the blazing hot street for one more second. Now, I’m going for a swim and you’re gonna go work your magic. Text you later.”
He walks toward the wooded path that leads to the residents-only beach on Lake Michigan a couple of blocks away while I stand frozen by her mailbox.
I want to talk to her. I do.
I want to work my magic.
I want to so badly...but I just can’t.
Maybe Kent’s not the dog who’s caught the car. Maybe it’s me.
I open my mouth to try to explain but the words won’t come out.
Kent’s a whole house away when he glances over his shoulder. He sees that I haven’t moved. He looks at a bemused Simone—she’s still midwave—and then at me. With a small shake of his head, he jogs back over. He’s out of breath by the time he reaches me.
Grudgingly, Kent says, “I could probably be your wingman for a few more minutes.” Relief washes over me and I’m able to move again. We start walking up the drive together.
He asks, “How is it that you’re both the smartest and the dumbest guy in our school?”
I shrug.
If I knew, then I’d tell him.
3
KENT
MATHERS
“You are coming across as a fucking lunatic right now, you hear me?”
Stephen won’t look at me.
I tell him, “You don’t seem like someone walking up to introduce himself to a girl he’s been crushing on, oh, no. You look like someone who wants to make an ottoman out of her skin. Take a deep breath and chill.”
I’m trying to not sound as frustrated as I feel...and totally failing.
I don’t know how Stephen always ropes me into his schemes, but here we are. A-fucking-gain. All I want to do is go to the beach and catch some sun so that I don’t look like I spent the summer walking to and from the dorms at Physics Camp (which I did). I mean, I can live with being short and I’ve made peace with the fact that I’m still carded for PG-13 movies, but I draw the line at a farmer’s tan. One good afternoon on the sand; that’s all I need.
Yet am I chillin’ on the shores of Lake Michigan gettin’ my bronze on?
No.