I run past Charlotte’s house, but it doesn’t tell me anything about her night. Her car is in the driveway. The curtains in her bedroom are still shut, but she doesn’t have little brothers or sisters so that’s not unusual. I imagine her curled up in bed, her hair still stiff from last night’s styling products, Josh’s scent lingering … well … everywhere. I wonder how it went, if she had fun, if Josh kissed her goodnight and, if so, what it felt like to run her hands over his shoulders. I wonder what guys’ shoulders feel like. I wonder if they held hands. God, the thought of holding hands with a guy is almost more of a turn-on to me than a kiss. Interlocking warm fingers, the brush of fingertips against a palm. It seems like such a tame and G-rated gesture, but to me it would be everything.
I wonder if Charlotte will call me later today with the details, or if she’ll call Jessica first since the two of them seem pretty tight lately. Maybe because Jessica actually seems excited about Josh where I just seem … skeptical.
I run slowly down Oak Street, admiring the big houses. Josh Mooney’s old girlfriend lives in one of them, but I can’t remember which. I can’t even remember her name. I look up and down the street and guess it’s the big Victorian with the complicated color scheme and gingerbread trim. It looks like her: frilly and high maintenance. In the way that jealous girls do, Charlotte used to call her Bucky because the girlfriend had slightly prominent front teeth. She wasn’t bucktoothed by any means, but when you hate a girl because she gets to kiss the boy you like, any little imperfection can become a spiteful nickname. I don’t even remember her real name. Rebecca? Bucky Becky? I think about texting Charlotte to ask her, but I don’t.
Down the street there’s a guy raking leaves in front of my favorite house: an Arts and Crafts–style with a huge front porch. I slow my pace when I realize the guy is wearing a green army jacket.
Holy crap. Could Zenn live in my very favorite house in the whole town? What are the odds? And he’s up at eight thirty — what are the odds of that?
I cross over to the other side of the street because, although I would love to see him, I don’t really want him to see me.
His back is to me, he is wearing headphones and he is focused on his task. He doesn’t notice me today.
I circle back toward home and spend the rest of the day raking our leaves, helping my mom with laundry, doing homework, playing with the kids. Charlotte finally texts me back at nearly three o’clock.
Charlotte: Hey!
Me: Hey! How was it?
Charlotte: Totally on fleek!!!
Oh, Charlotte. Her attempt to use slang that is already outdated, and use it just slightly incorrectly, is why I love her. But the fact that she’s saying on fleek at all makes me sad. This is the kind of language and enthusiasm that she has picked up since hanging out with Josh and his gang.
Me: That’s good. It was fun, huh?
Charlotte: SOOOOO fun. I wish u were there. I missed u!
I’m sure she was all broken up about me not going while she and Josh were making out.
Charlotte: What did u do?
I debate just telling her I hung out at the coffee shop. Something in me wants her to feel bad about abandoning our tradition of skipping homecoming and making ourselves feel okay about it with chocolaty coffee and muffins. But instead I decide to tell her the truth.
Me: I hung out with Zenn There is a slight pause before she replies.
Charlotte: Wait … tutoring guy?
Me: Yep
Charlotte: Oh! Cool. Did u have fun
Charlotte: ?
Me: Yep
Charlotte: Cool
Me: Yeah.
Me: I saw your pictures on Insta. You looked really pretty.
I hate that I do this. I don’t want to be one of those girls who gives empty compliments. But she did look pretty. She always looks pretty. And I know this is proper girl etiquette — to tell each other how pretty we are.
Charlotte: Thnx!!
I want to ask her more. I want to hear every detail of her night, but it feels too strange. It’s like I’m a younger sibling she used to play Barbies with, but now she’s outgrown them and only plays to humor me.
Me: Maybe we can go to Java Dock later and you can tell me about it?
Another longish pause.
Charlotte: Shoot. Sorry. Jessica and I are going to *$.
Starbucks. No more Java Dock.
Me: That’s fine. I’ll just talk to you tomorrow or something.
Charlotte: K.
Charlotte: Sorry …
It’s that last sorry, like an afterthought, that does it. I feel tears well in my eyes. I don’t want her feeling sorry for me.
Me: TTYL
I wonder if she’ll sense my disdain. We used to make fun of texting abbreviations like that: LOL, TTYL, BRB, GTG. But she’s speaking a new language now because she texts back: 2DLoo
I think I’ve lost her. She’s becoming one of them.
Chapter 14
My mom and I make our weekly trip to the grocery store late Sunday afternoon. My dad stays home with the kids and we tackle the shopping, stretching it out as if it were an afternoon at the spa. We enjoy our time together, our time without four little people asking for cereal or candy or cheese or soda.
I worry (and simultaneously hope) that I’ll see Zenn at the Piggly Wiggly, but he’s nowhere to be found. Another guy takes our cart; his name tag says Brian.
On the way home my mom drives down Oak Street and I’m not too proud to admit that I scope out the Arts and Crafts house again, wondering if Zenn might be around. I’m amazed how you can go from not knowing someone exists to thinking about him around the clock in just a couple of weeks. There is no sign of him until we pass Bucky Becky’s Victorian, and I spot him raking her yard. I do a double take to make sure. Yes, there is his green jacket and his truck in the driveway. Could he be dating Bucky? Then I realize if that were the case she would have chomped down on his collar with her big buck teeth and dragged him to homecoming, whether he wanted to go or not. As we get closer to his truck I see a sign on the driver’s-side door, one of those magnets that you can just stick on there, advertising Eden Landscaping Service. I think back to his scraped-up knuckles and the bandages and realize that blisters from yard work probably make more sense than injuries from fighting.
So. He works at the Piggly Wiggly. And the body shop. And some kind of landscaping place.
I’m starting to suspect that he is not rich after all, which makes me feel slightly more hopeful about the prospect of any kind of anything with him. As long as he’s okay with, you know, no touching.
Right.
“You know him?” My mom has followed my lingering gaze.
I look back out the front window, trying to play it cool. “Who?” I’m as bad an actress as Charlotte. Maybe worse.
“That guy back there? You were totally checking him out.”
“I was not.”
“You kinda were.”
I shrug and pick some lint off my black coat. “I think it was one of the guys I tutor.”
“The one who went to homecoming with Charlotte?”
I shake my head.
“Oh.” My mom slows the minivan. “Should we stop and say hi?” I can hear the teasing in her voice. She turns up the goofy children’s music CD that plays in a never-ending loop, whether the kids are present or not. “Maybe we should roll down the windows so he can hear our tunes.”
This makes me laugh. “Please don’t.”
She slows even more and starts to roll down her window. She sings along loudly with the CD: “Harry the silly platypus
Has fur like a bear but a nose like a duck!”
“Mom!”
I look in the rearview mirror and see Zenn glance up at us. I’m sure he can’t tell it’s me, but I feel panicky and sweaty anyway.
My mom rolls up her window and presses on the gas. She turns the radio back down.