“Jew . . . ish,” you said wobbling your hand. The gold polish was gone, replaced with a dark, mossy green. Still bitten, though. For some reason that detail always stood out. It meant you had . . . I don’t know. Appetites, I guess. “My mom’s Puerto Rican,” you went on—hopefully not noticing my flop sweat—“so we eat pasteles at Pesach.”
“We’ll have to try that,” Pop-Pop chuckled. The conversation kept going like that until Dad gave me a super conspicuous nod of approval and I finally decided to call the game.
“So, do you, uh . . . want to run some lines?” I asked, standing up so fast I almost toppled the coffee table.
“Yeah, we should probably get to it,” you said. “It’s past two.” You held up your palm, which had D, Sun, 2pm written on it in purple ink. I must have looked confused, because you laughed and said, “Good thing one of us remembered.”
“We might need to get your head checked,” Dad laughed.
That’s not me, I should have said. I knew I would never forget a date with you. I knew it and I said nothing. All I wanted was to get you alone. I didn’t know what I’d done to deserve the luck of you showing up on my doorstep out of the blue, but I wasn’t about to question it.
That was my first real mistake.
? ? ?
“Sorry about the mess.”
We were sitting on opposite ends of my air mattress, which made squeaky little farting noises every time we moved, giving me great motivation for my character being moved to swift and unexpected suicide.
“It’s really fine,” you said.
“We’re getting our own place soon,” I heard myself lie. “This one’s kind of small.”
“I like it. It feels like people really live here, you know?” You leaned back on your elbows, a loose tendril of hair grazing my pillow. “My house is like a museum.” You ran your fingers over Pop-Pop’s line of presidential figurines, standing guard at the headboard like a chorus line of historical chaperones.
“I remember it being more like a zoo,” I said, trying to find a casual place to put my hands.
You laughed. “That only happens when my parents go out of town. Like once a month.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Lucky.”
“I guess,” you said. “. . . It’s kind of lonely.” You looked at me sheepishly, the hint of a smile in your eyes. “I had like five imaginary friends.”
“So you’ve always been popular, then.”
“I wasn’t creative, though,” you said. “Their names were all Fifi. Fifi I, Fifi II, Fifi III . . .” You laughed and shook your head. “I had a harem of clones.”
“Mine’s worse,” I said. “I had an epileptic dog named She-Bo.”
“No!” You cracked up.
“Yup. And he was real.”
“She-Bo was a he?” You had to put down Millard Fillmore to wipe tears from your eyes.
“Genetically he was a he,” I said, grinning. “I don’t know how he self-identified.”
“Stop it, I’m dying.” You took a deep breath, but it failed to control your giggles. I’d never seen you so uncomposed. It was fucking amazing.
“You’re—” You’re beautiful, I wanted to say. But I couldn’t. I didn’t want to be that guy anymore. I was actually trying to keep friends.
“Hey.” You sat up straight, and your sweater slipped down over one golden shoulder. Your face was still flushed from laughing, your eyes warm, dark pools that I gladly would have drowned in if you’d asked me. Did you mean “hey,” or “heyyyyyy”? My heart beat wildly against my ribs.
“Isn’t that the lady from the lobby?”
“Huh?”
You leaned in closer, and I realized you were looking past me, to the radiator cover by the window. On it was framed picture of Pop-Pop and Roberta Zeagler, the founder of our school, whose giant wrinkled face hung over the water fountain by the security desk. I saw her every day, but didn’t even think about it anymore, because she was just my grandfather’s old friend who had died before I was born, just a name that meant nothing—except when it got me a second-semester transfer to an elite New York school I probably couldn’t have acted my way into, anyway.
“Is it?” That was the best I could do, feign stupidity.
A few awkward seconds ticked by until you shrugged and smiled. I could tell you knew but kept silent to spare my feelings. It was kind. Maybe that’s why I was so eager to return the favor later on, so eager to turn away so I couldn’t see what was happening right in front of me. Except, cowardice feels different from kindness. You can tell by the sting. You can tell by the shame.
“Should we . . . ?” you finally said.
“. . . Oh, right. Yeah. Let’s rehearse.” I’d forgotten completely about the script on my lap. I hoped I could remember how to read.
“Anything but the . . . you know,” you said, smiling down at your knees.
“Yeah, that would be weird to do without . . . someone else here,” I said, attempting a laugh that sounded more like a grunt. My breathing was getting fast and shallow. As if on cue, your phone pinged.
“Ethan?” I asked.
“No,” you said, frowning at the screen as you typed something quickly with one thumb. “For once. I just forgot about something else I was supposed to do today.”