“Well. It’s a lot easier to do with art than it is with life.”
I nod. “It’s so different from math. Math is concrete. Right. Wrong. You make a mistake, you get the wrong answer. A calculation error can be … catastrophic.”
“That’s why I stick with art.”
I watch him work for over two hours, asking questions once in a while but mostly just watching, listening to his eclectic playlist, studying the way his shoulders move under his sweatshirt. It’s nearly ten thirty when he sets down his airbrush kit and stretches.
“I’m starving,” he says. “Wanna make a run for the border?”
“Si,” I answer.
“Bueno,” he says. “Vamos, chica guapa.”
I don’t speak Spanish — I’m a French girl — but I think he called me either pretty or fat. I’m going to go with pretty.
After we inhale eight of Taco Bell’s finest tacos between us (Zenn: five, me: three), Zenn drives me home. He pulls up in front of my house and I try to see it through his eyes. It’s not a very cute house: a split-level from the seventies. My parents would rather have one of the historic homes nearby, but anything with vintage details like crown molding is out of my parents’ price range. My mom has made efforts to add some charm — window boxes and shutters and such. But as my grandpa always said, It’s like putting lipstick on a pig.
Almost all the lights are out; it’s hours past the quads’ bedtime, and by now I’m sure my mom and dad have passed out as well. Insomnia is rarely a problem when you’re taking care of a bunch of little kids. Sleep always trumps waiting up for your teenage daughter.
“Thanks for rescuing me tonight,” I say.
Zenn tilts his head. In the dim light his skin looks even darker than usual. I wonder about his heritage, if he has some Native American in him or something.
“Rescuing you?”
“I was going to fill out college applications.”
“Oh, yeah? To where?”
Now I’ve done it. Saying out loud that I want to go to the schools I want to go to always sounds pretentious and a little bit insane. Like I’m some sort of “beautiful mind.” I shrug. “A couple different places.”
“Don’t be modest. I already know you’re a genius.”
I usually don’t like being teased about being smart, but he says it almost affectionately. I still don’t answer.
“Harvard? Yale?” He nudges me with his elbow. “Oxford?” He says it with a high-brow British accent.
I smile and shake my head.
“Come on. Where?”
I give him a squinty, stubborn look. He gives me one back.
“Fine. Stanford. MIT. Northwestern. Nowhere I can afford, but whatever.”
He nods, impressed. “Well. At least you’ll probably get in.”
It’s true, my chances of getting in are better than most. I should appreciate that fact at least. Whether or not it’s actually affordable is a luxury that most kids don’t even get to worry about. But to me it seems it would be worse to get in and then not be able to go. It would be like … having a boyfriend but not being able to touch him.
“What kind of scholarships are you applying for?”
“All of them, pretty much. But there’s one through this company that gives out a hundred thousand dollars. It’s called the Ingenuity Scholarship. That’s the one I really need.”
“You’ll get it. Aren’t you, like, valedictorian?”
I roll my eyes. “No. Daniel Kim, that AP bastard.” I’ve always finished just behind Daniel Kim in everything — test scores, class rank, you name it — which would be infuriating if he weren’t such a super nice guy.
“Ah. Kim. Figures. That kid has even less of a social life than me.”
“Besides, it’s not really an academic scholarship.”
He looks confused. “It’s not?”
“They look for someone with a unique story and some kind of special talent or gift. Could be anything, really.”
“Huh,” he says.
“What about you? What do you want to do after graduation?” I’ve learned to be careful with this question because not everyone plans on going to college.
Zenn hesitates, still looking out the windshield. His profile is perfect: straight nose, slightly pouty lips, eyelashes, eyelashes, eyelashes. Damn. He could major in eyelashes. Get a full ride.
“Hopefully college. But … I’m not holding my breath.”
I sense that I shouldn’t push, so I don’t. “So, thanks again. For tonight. I didn’t think I cared about homecoming but I guess I did. A little bit.”
“Yeah,” he says, still staring out the front window. “Everyone cares about this high school shit a little bit.” He glances over at me. “Thanks for keeping me company.”
I put my hand on the door handle but am hesitant to get out of his warm, comforting truck. I wonder, if I sat here long enough, if he’d kiss me. You know, just for something to do, not because he likes me or anything. Just to fill an awkward silence. Teenagers do that sometimes — just hook up out of curiosity or boredom. I could kiss him back — my mouth doesn’t transmit fractals at least. But I couldn’t touch him. I couldn’t rub my hands down his back, slide my fingers through his hair. I could kiss him, but my hands would have to stay away from his body. It’s too depressing to think about.
“See you on Monday,” I tell him.
He lifts his hand in a small wave as I close the door.
Chapter 13
On Sunday I get to sleep in. Sleep in is a relative concept with four preschoolers in the house, but miraculously I make it until eight and my mom doesn’t even make me go to church. I’m guessing she feels a little sorry for me, thinking that I stayed out so late working on my college applications instead of going to the dance. I don’t tell her that I was with a boy, not because she’d be upset or mad, but because she’d have a thousand questions for me and I’m not in the mood to deal with her trying to relive her youth through my experiences. My story would be a bit of a letdown, anyway.
The morning is sunny, bright and cool, the kind of fall morning that makes you feel guilty to be inside, so I decide to go for a run while my parents and the kids are at church.