He tells me his mom held it together pretty well when he was younger. She kept jobs for a while at least. He said he didn’t need a math tutor back then.
“I wasn’t ridiculously smart like you,” Zenn says, “but I was an honor-roll kid until my mom went off the rails. I mean, I am a quarter Asian, after all.”
“Your dad’s side?” I ask, and he nods.
“My grandpa was in Vietnam. Brought home a wife.”
“Like Miss Saigon,” I say, “with a happier ending.” I can’t believe I said something so dumb. Clearly his life hasn’t been that happy, and he’s probably never heard of Miss Saigon. The only reason I know it is because my mom saw the musical in Chicago when she was a teenager and obsessively played the sound track my entire childhood.
He gets it, though. “Moderately happier than a prostitute who commits suicide, sure.”
“When was that?” I ask. “That things went downhill with your mom?”
“I was probably twelve, thirteen? When I was old enough to stay home alone for longer, she started waitressing at night. Then working at bars. And then … well. Yeah.”
His life started unraveling at about the same time mine did, when everyone I touched became a minefield.
He’s tearing apart a pizza crust, breaking it into a hundred little pieces.
“We started having serious money problems. Kept moving. I got my first job when I was fifteen and …. here we are.”
Besides the time he told me about his back-to-school shopping trip, it’s the most personal he’s ever been with me, the most open. It could be the moonless dark, the unusual quiet of the park, the feeling that we are the only ones around for miles. It could be the hug that maybe broke down a wall between us. Whatever it is, I like it. I like sitting here, our shoulders pressing lightly against each other, hearing his deep, smooth voice giving me a new piece of his puzzle.
He peeks into the paper bag that holds the napkins and little packets of parmesan cheese and red pepper flakes that came with our pizza.
“Oh, man. Jackpot,” he says, and pulls out a couple of mints, the chalky vanilla kind, wrapped in a tiny sleeve. We suck on our mints and he’s quiet and I think maybe he’s waiting for me to say something. Even though I’m secretly in awe of him, of his responsibility and his work ethic and just his overall toughness, I don’t want to make a big deal of what he’s just told me. Instead I admit that I’ve been avoiding finishing my college applications.
“Why?” he asks. “Are you afraid you won’t get in?” I can tell by the tone of his voice that he thinks that’s ridiculous.
“I’m almost more afraid that I will get in, but I won’t be able to go and my parents will blame themselves. And that maybe I’ll blame them a little, too.”
It feels good to finally say it out loud, to admit that my fear is as basic and selfish as that. I don’t tell him that the guilt feels worse because they didn’t choose to have me. They rescued me and they owe me nothing, and yet I still feel like they’ve let me down somehow. Like, maybe I wasn’t enough for them so they had to have four more of their own kids, sucking dry any hope for my college fund.
I look at his mouth, wondering if his mint is gone. And then I realize I’ve looked at his mouth and I feel my cheeks grow hot. But I think he’s looking at my mouth, too, so maybe it’s okay.
“Can I …” he starts.
I nod quickly.
“You don’t even know what I was going to ask.” He’s teasing.
“Doesn’t matter.” If he asked to shave my head and paint a fractal on it, I would let him.
He looks at me for a moment and then looks down.
So I look down.
And then we both look back up at the same moment, and he tilts his head ever so slightly before he leans in and presses his mouth against mine.
His lips are soft and barely parted, hesitating for a second, maybe waiting to see if I object. I most certainly don’t. I kiss him back, hoping my mouth doesn’t betray my eagerness. God, he tastes like peppermint and vanilla and hope. Date, I think to myself. So this is a date.
My hands hover, clenched, just an inch from his chest. I fight the urge to touch him. Not just to touch him, to slide my hands over every inch of him. The kiss deepens a little more, his warm, rough hands finding their way to my neck, cradling my face, his thumbs tracing my jaw.
I can’t take it anymore. Maybe … maybe it’ll be fine. Actually, I don’t really care if it’s fine or not. I want to touch him even if I have fractals. I have to touch him. I unclench my hands and press them against his chest, tentatively at first. I can feel the steady beat of his heart beneath my palm. I brace myself for the fractal that I hope will be worth it. I pause, waiting, and it seems like he hesitates, too, our mouths just barely apart, our breath mingling. I do feel light-headed and dizzy, but it’s not a fractal. Just … lust, maybe.
I forget about bracing myself. If it comes, it comes. He can scrape my sweaty, dizzy body off the playground equipment for all I care.
Without realizing it, I’ve grasped his jacket in both hands and I notice for the first time that the fabric feels different, softer. The army jacket is gone tonight and in its place is a soft, thick cotton hoodie with a fleecy lining. I don’t know why I didn’t notice before. Maybe the hoodie is new, maybe it’s something else, but whatever it is seems to be negating my fractals.
The white steam of our breath swirls around us like a little passion cloud and even though it’s cold, my body temperature has gone through the roof. I feel like I’m melting from the inside out, like lava might flow out of me at any moment.
When Zenn pulls away, I nearly follow, not wanting him to stop. He leans his forehead against mine and takes a breath. I try to loosen my death grip on his sweatshirt.
“I have to tell you something,” he says. His voice is serious and I swallow the lump that forms immediately in my throat.
Oh, God. No bad news. Nothing bad. This is a happy place.
I try to pull myself together.
“I applied for that scholarship you told me about.”
My mind is still a little fuzzy from being so close to another human for so long. I’m having trouble processing his words.
“Scholarship?”
He nods. His thumb traces my cheekbone. “The big one.”
“Oh,” I say, trying to make sense of this news. “Okay.”
He pulls back a little more and I want to grab him so he doesn’t go far. “I applied right after you told me. That night of homecoming? I mean, I’m sure nothing will come of it — I’ve never won anything in my life — but it’s been bothering me that I never said anything.”
“A lot of people apply for that scholarship. The odds are against both of us, probably.”
“You’re not mad?” he asks.
“Why would I be mad?”
“I don’t know. I mean, you told me about it and then I try to get all up in your action.”
It’s shameful how much I want him to get all up in my action.
“It’s open to everyone, Zenn. There’s no reason you shouldn’t apply.”
He looks relieved.