During sophomore year, I went on the only two dates of my life. The first was with seemingly sweet Chad Morgan, who had dimples and blue eyes and looked like he could have been on some Disney Channel show playing the slightly nerdy but stealthily cute neighbor. We went to a movie and everything was going great — he laughed at my lame jokes, he bought me popcorn. Then halfway through the movie he slid his small, damp hand onto mine and it was ruined. I tried to ignore it at first, concentrating on the story on-screen. But the longer his hand sat on mine, the clearer the fractal became. Orange-and-red hot bolts of anger issues. Bright green streaks of competitiveness to the point of dysfunction. I pulled my hand away in the guise of eating popcorn, but blue-eyed Chad was done for.
Not too long after that, class clown Logan Boggs asked me out and, even though he wasn’t really my type, I figured at least he’d make me laugh. Then he held my hand as he walked me home from the frozen yogurt shop and I was overwhelmed by what I suspected was a dark cloud of racism. Or homophobia. Something heavy that scared me away from him immediately.
I know not every boy has those kinds of issues. Logically, I know that. But everyone has some kind of issue. Some insecurity or bias or stubborn shortcoming. Later in a relationship maybe that kind of stuff isn’t so deal-breakery. Usually by the time you learn about people’s “damage,” you’ve become attached, maybe even see it as endearing. But to learn about someone’s dark secrets right away, when any red flag can send you running for the hills? That’s a whole lot harder. And it’s a big part of the reason I’ve decided I just have to be alone ... for now.
Most of the boys in my school aren’t interesting to me, anyway. They try too hard, they care too much about things that don’t matter to me, they just seem immature and ridiculous. Until now, no one has lured me out of my cocoon of denial. But the rosy glow in Charlotte’s cheeks reminds me what I’m missing.
“Are you ready to go?” My voice is uncharacteristically snippy. “I’ve got a fuck-ton of homework tonight.”
Charlotte sighs and stands up, oblivious to my tone. “Is a fuck-ton more or less than a shitload?”
“Oh, way more. A fuck-ton more.”
She nods blandly, accepting my expertise on expletive measurements without question. “Do you need a ride home tomorrow, too?” she asks, dreamily.
“Nice try.” I laugh. “But I’ve got a kid after him tomorrow.”
Zenn, I want to tell her. Zenn, Zenn, Zenn.
I bite my tongue and follow her out to the car.
Chapter 8
All day on Tuesday I feel restless and fizzy inside. It’s not like I’ve never had a little crush on a guy before, but somehow this is different. I feel anticipation (and a little bit of fear) pooling in my stomach and then overflowing to every other part of my body. Why, I’m not sure. It’s not like Zenn has shown any hint of interest in me. He remembered my face. He smiled at me maybe two times. He made a couple of corny sheep jokes. He has been cordial at best.
But those hands, those eyelashes, that charming smirk … and something about that haunting fractal. That vision is probably why I feel a little bit of fear mixed with the infatuation.
I assume the quiet knock on the door before Josh and I are finished with our lesson is Charlotte, trying to make a love connection. But when the door opens this time, it’s Zenn. A few minutes early, even.
Josh looks up. He seems disappointed. I am not.
“Sorry,” Zenn says. “I’ll just wait out here.”
Josh stands and gathers up his things. “It’s cool, bro. We’re done.”
It might be my imagination, but I think Zenn cringes a little at being called bro. Can’t say I blame him.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Eva.” Josh pronounces my name Eve-ah, like the robot in WALL-E . My turn to cringe a little. I mean, it’s a nice name. It’s just not my name.
Josh gives Zenn a manly nod as he leaves. Zenn crosses the room and sits down, shaking his head. “We have three classes together and he still doesn’t know my name.”
“Apparently, he doesn’t really know mine, either.”
Zenn smirks and then produces a calculator from the pocket of his coat. “Not only on time but with my calculator.”
“Nice work,” I say, and I take the calculator to give the algo time to brew. Zenn flips through his math book to find the appropriate section. He’s not paying for this session, but I realize that I’d probably pay him to sit here and study his hands. They are fascinating. My pastor dad’s hands are soft, for holding and praying and serving. Zenn’s are a workingman’s hands, for hard, outdoor, physical work, not office work at a computer. I wonder what he does to make them look that way. Can’t just be putting away carts at the Piggly Wiggly.
I tear my eyes away and look down at the calculator. I’m not getting anything. Not a tingle or a whisper. Just like when I held his math book. Nada.
I try to hide my confusion and have him start on a sample problem from his homework. He works on it, slowly but correctly, without my help. Does he even need me at all?
Well, crap.
I want to ask him why he’s here. But tutoring is good for my college applications and what do I care if he wants to waste a little extra time doing math? So I just keep my mouth shut and we go through his homework problem by problem. I give him hints when he gets stuck. In our half hour, he nearly finishes it.
When we’re done he closes his book and I slide his calculator, useless as it was, back across the table. He stands up, remembering his jacket this time.
“Hey,” he says, his voice a little hesitant, gravelly, intimate. “I was thinking …”
My hands start to tingle and I wonder if I’ve accidentally touched something to trigger a vision, but no: they are resting safely on my lap. I feel my heart beating in the soles of my feet.
“If your church wanted to repaint that van, I do that sort of thing.”
Oh. Okay. Not what I was expecting — or hoping for — at all.
“You … paint vans?”
He nods, kind of wagging his head side to side. “Well, other things, too. But I’ve done some motorcycles and, like, logos on cars for businesses.” He digs a slightly crumpled business card out of his pocket and sets it on the table. “I work out of a body shop on Powers Street. If they’re interested, have them give me a call.”
I study the card but don’t pick it up. Don’t want to risk having a fractal while he’s standing right here. “You can get rid of the headless sheep?”
“Absolutely. We can do something more subtle. Like … bright purple with unicorns. Maybe some rainbows.” He says this stone-faced but his eyes flick with the first real bit of humor I’ve seen in him today.
I laugh. “Okay. I’ll let them know.”
After he leaves I carefully pick up the card while I’m still seated. I have bruises on my knees from my fall on Friday, so I’m erring on the side of caution. But the card doesn’t trigger anything. The more disposable the item, the less it seems to absorb fractals. The card says Port Dalton Body Shop with his name, Zenn Bennett, handwritten beneath the logo.
Well. He wants to paint my van. And unfortunately that’s not a euphemism for anything.
Chapter 9
I mention Zenn’s offer to my dad at dinner, while I’m cutting up bites of overcooked chicken for four preschoolers who, frankly, act like they would rather eat poop.
“Hey, Dad,” I start, making sure I don’t act too invested in the idea yet. “I meant to tell you. I’m tutoring a kid at school who paints vans —”