“Yeah.” He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Sorry to bother you,” he says, still not looking at me. “I just had to talk to someone.”
“I’m glad you came.” We’re silent for a moment. Then I say, “Please, can we be friends? I know I screwed up. But I had no idea Ivy was gay, or I never would have set them up. And I know I should have watched Ethan more carefully, but I really thought he was just in the bathroom. I’m so sorry for every stupid thing I did, but I care about you both so much, and I can’t stand to have you hate me when everything else already feels so sad.”
“I don’t hate you,” he says. “And I don’t blame you for that stuff either.”
“You’ve kind of been giving off that vibe. At school today—”
“I was scared I’d break down if I talked to you. I was barely holding it together, and a friendly face was pretty much the worst thing right at that moment.”
“Oh. So we can be friends?”
“Of course. We are friends. I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Yeah.”
We sit there a moment.
And then he says, “All I can think about is him being in a room somewhere . . . alone and scared and—” His hands go up to his face, and he makes the saddest sound I think I’ve ever heard—?a moan of pure grief. His shoulders start shaking, and even though his face is covered, I can hear his sobs.
There’s only one thing I can do and I do it. I wrap my arms tightly around his shoulders and pull him to me. He drops his hands and buries his face in my neck. I can feel his tears on my skin, hot where they’re fresh, cooler where they’ve already slipped down and dampened his cheeks and chin.
I hold him while he cries.
His sobs gradually slow down. He stays a few more moments in the crook of my neck and then suddenly and abruptly pulls away and sits back in the driver’s seat, wiping his eyes and nose on his sleeve.
“I’m sorry,” he says thickly. “I’m really sorry about that.”
“You think I mind?”
He doesn’t answer that. “I should go. It’s late.”
“Just sit for a second. Make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m fine.” He takes a long, shuddering breath and rubs hard at his face, like he’s scrubbing it clean. “Today’s been rough, that’s all. But I’m fine. I don’t have to keep you here any longer. I don’t even know why I bothered you.”
“Because you knew I’d understand. Because if this had happened to Ivy, I’d be a basket case. I’m in this with you, Fields, and you’d better not try to shut me out.” I pull on his sleeve. “Look at me.”
He does. At least, I think he does—?he turns toward me—?but it’s so dark in the car that his eyes are just black holes.
“Somehow you’ve become the person I’m closest to in the world right now,” I say. “I don’t know why or how, because you’re kind of a dick.”
This gets something that’s almost a laugh out of him.
“And you don’t exactly welcome people into your life,” I say. “You’ve shoved me away every chance you’ve gotten. But I don’t care. I need you in my life because you’re the only person who gets me—?and you need me in your life for the same reason. And this whole Ethan thing is scary and sad and wrong, and some of it’s my fault, but not on purpose, and you know that, and that’s why you’re going to forgive me and let me help you help Ethan. We’ll rescue him together, and maybe we’ll figure out Ivy’s future together, too.”
“Okay.”
I wait. He doesn’t say anything else.
“Okay?” I repeat. “That’s it? That’s all I get for my beautiful speech?”
“Okay, Chloe?”
“I was right. You are a dick.” I reach for the door.
He grabs my hand. “I was kidding.”
I turn back to him with a grin. “I know. So was I.”
He squeezes my fingers so hard it’s painful. “Thank you. For coming to my house and being nice to me tonight and for saying you want to be my friend.”
“I don’t just want to be your friend. I am your friend, whether you like it or not.” I squeeze his fingers back, just as hard. “You’re not dealing with all this shit alone, you know. I’m in it with you, all the way.”
“I’m beginning to get that feeling.” He’s not letting go of my hand, and I’m okay with that. “Want to hear something really screwed up?”
“Sure.”
“Don’t judge me for this, okay? I think part of the reason I was upset that your sister was gay was because it meant I didn’t have an excuse to hang out with you anymore.”
“I’m reporting you to GLAAD,” I say. “And you were wrong. We’re hanging out right now.”
“How about tomorrow? Any chance we’ll be hanging out then?”
“A very good chance. If you ask nicely.”
“Will you please meet me after school tomorrow?”
“You didn’t actually have to ask nicely. I was going to say yes anyway.”
Thirty-Three
CAMPANELLI’S ON FIRE the next day, fluffing up her hair and shoving up her sleeves—?an adorably dowdy little ball of energy and enthusiasm. She plunges right in when class starts. “?‘For Esmé—?With Love and Squalor’ is my favorite story in the collection—?that’s why I saved it for last. We all know what happens in the story, but what would you say it’s about?”
“How bad war is,” Jana says instantly, without bothering to raise her hand.
“Okay, good,” Camp says. “Salinger is definitely not in favor of the war.”
“What an insight,” David mutters, and Camp looks over at him.
“You have something to add, David? Something constructive?”
“Anything would be more constructive than ‘war is bad.’”
“Shut up,” Jana says, swiveling so she can glare at him over her shoulder. “War is bad.”
“Well, duh.”
“Don’t duh people in my classroom, please,” Camp says.
“Sorry,” David says. “I just think there’s more going on here than just the obvious.”
“And that would be . . . ?”
He says, “This is a story about a girl who saves a guy by proving there’s still some good in the world.”