As he ran, he yelled over his shoulder, “See you.”
“I wasn’t—” I began, but I remembered he used to do that a lot, when he wanted to be alone. He’d always say good-bye before you’d ever thought about leaving.
LOOK, TEXTS FROM STUART SHAH
Holy shit, this is crazy. I accidentally shampooed my hair three times yesterday, just thinking about him and, yeah. Doing what we did again.
Stuart: Mariana’s reading tonight at the Dartmouth library and she asked me to read with her!!!
Me: OMG. Congratulations!
Stuart: It’s at 5. Come?
Me: If I can finish the Blindness essay due tomorrow, yes.
Stuart: Well, what are you doing still texting me? Write write write!
Me: hahaha
Stuart: See you at 5. ;) Me: God willing
Stuart: I didn’t know you were religious.
Me: I’m sorry, I meant dog willing.
Stuart: GO WRITE SO I CAN SEE YOU!
BLUE RASPBERRY
I finished my essay at 4:45, and all the way to the library, I did that awkward thing between walking and jogging that people do when they cross the street in front of traffic. When I got there, the library was packed, rows of chairs in the lobby filled up with people spilling into the shelves, and Mariana stood behind a microphone, already reading.
Stuart was in the front row, his head bent, staring intently at the floor, listening.
Finally, Mariana looked at Stuart, and I followed her eyes. In profile, his long lashes curved toward his nose and his lips were open.
“As any of you know who have seen me read before,” Mariana began, “I love to make two works converse with each other. For the last two sections, I want to bring up a young writer who sent some work to me the other night. I don’t think he expected me to read it…” The crowd chuckled. “But after keeping my beer glass full, it was the least I could do.” They laughed again. “And I was very impressed. So we’ll read short sections in conversation.”
When Stuart cleared his throat and looked down at his printed page, I wanted to know everything about him I couldn’t see.
What brand of toothpaste did he use?
Did Stuart dream often?
Were the dreams vivid?
What was his favorite flavor of Jolly Rancher?
His work was good. Everyone could tell it was good, because no one was fidgeting.
I wanted to tell everyone around me, I know him. I kissed him, and when he began to read, my eyes were glued to him. But he didn’t look at me. Maybe he didn’t see me. Maybe the warmth I felt was made up, or a fever, and he didn’t actually want me to come.
The reading concluded. I clapped as hard as I could, and everyone stood up around me.
Future Sam, I had started to lie awake at night, thinking about our conversations, smiling to myself at things Stuart has said, and thinking about that opening-a-can-of-soda feeling that happens whenever I make him laugh. But ever since talking with Maddie, I wondered if I didn’t just put too much weight on the hours that we spent lying in the Dartmouth grass, throwing ideas up into the sky, taking the words out of each other’s mouths.
Stuart moved behind the table where Mariana was set up to sign books, craning his neck. He was looking for someone. Maybe me, maybe not.
Maybe he was biding his time until he could say something like Maddie said, something like, I can’t be the person to whom you bring all your woes and realizations about life, and he had just decided to kiss me in the meantime.
A long lined formed. I moved between the bookshelves.
But I didn’t want to bring all my woes to him. That’s the opposite of what I wanted to do. I wanted to listen to him, and sure, occasionally talk—okay, maybe talk a lot—but I wanted him to like what I said. I wanted to talk about ideas and books and things smart people talk about, things that people like Stuart talk about.
Two Dartmouth students moved in line near my passage between shelves, saying, “… and Stuart Shah, wow. I read his piece in The Threepenny Review, too. Prodigy…”
I was pretty sure I didn’t belong there. I was pretty sure someone who was banking her future on cheating on high school finals and the likelihood of a ten-minute graduation speech changing her fate wasn’t supposed to be there, next to Stuart Shah, and all the people who admired him.
I heard his voice nearby, and a crowd of people laughing.
I retreated to the Philosophy section and tried to slow down my heart rate by breathing slow and staring at the floor, like Dr. Clarkington taught me. This was awful. Caring about someone is awful, I was thinking. I should be locked back in the bell tower, where I can’t throw any emotional grenades, and suddenly I saw brown shoes.
“There you are,” I heard Stuart say, and the words were so quiet it felt as if they were meant only for me.
Hands took mine from where fists had formed on my waist, and Stuart bent to put his lips on my cheek. I couldn’t look at him.
“Stuart.” I stepped out toward the floor. “You did a good job.”