Granted, he’s still no rocket scientist when it comes to trig, but I’m glad first impressions — and fractals — are sometimes wrong.
After dinner we walk across the street to the arcade. Video games are not my thing, but it’s something for us to do. I don’t really want to play anything because I fear the fractals of a thousand geeky boys will lay me flat if I touch the controls. Unlike a shopping cart, these things are fondled by the same person for hours on end. Zenn and I settle on pinball, and he controls one paddle and I control the other, mostly by punching at the button with my fist. My technique is not very effective, to say the least, but we end up laughing a lot. We eventually leave to get some Dairy Queen and then we split up: Josh and Charlotte to his dad’s Mercedes, Zenn and I to Zenn’s truck.
“That wasn’t so bad,” Zenn says, adjusting his rearview mirror.
“Nope.”
“Mooney seems like an okay guy.”
“Yeah …”
“What? You don’t think so?”
“No! He is. He’s a good guy.”
“Charlotte likes him, right?”
“Hmmm? Oh, yeah. She likes him a lot. Like, she’ll probably have tea with him soon, she likes him so much.”
Zenn smiles. “Then … what’s the problem?”
I’m not even sure there is a problem. Maybe my fractals make me think there are problems when there aren’t. Maybe there’s just life. Messy, complicated life.
“Something about his … fractal?” Zenn asks.
“No. Well. Yes.” I sigh and look out the window, a little embarrassed to be talking about my visions again. I wish he would just forget all about them. But, I mean, I am a freak of nature. “I’m not even sure what it is, honestly.”
Zenn is good at asking, then waiting and not pushing too hard.
“Maybe I’m just being protective of Charlotte, or whatever. But I think maybe he drinks.” It’s like I’m looking for some reason to doubt their relationship.
“Drinking’s not that unusual for his crowd.”
He’s right. We’re seniors. Kids drink. I don’t know why I’m so judgy all of a sudden. Am I really worried about Charlotte? Or looking for reasons they shouldn’t be together because my own relationship is doomed?
“Has Charlotte said anything about him drinking?”
“No, not really.” I brush away my concerns. “I’m sure it’s fine.”
Zenn says, “I guess I see what you mean about knowing stuff and wanting to help.”
I sigh.
“But sometimes people just have to figure shit out on their own.”
It’s a new idea for me: that I’m not responsible for fixing Josh, or protecting Charlotte, or healing my mom, or erasing the past. It’s a relief to realize that I’m not expected to repair everything that is broken. That even if I could do it, I don’t have to.
Suddenly I am overcome with the wish that we could go back to my house and just sit on my couch together, watch a movie, make out a little. I wish I didn’t have to hide him from my parents.
“Why do you think you don’t get fractals from me?”
His question surprises me, although I’ve wondered it myself a million times. “I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “The only thing I can think of is that we have some different kind of connection? Maybe from the accident?” He smiles. “Does that sound really corny and overdramatic?” He squeezes my hand, his warm fingers linked with mine in a way no one’s have ever been before. We do have a connection. We do.
I let those two words settle on me like a mantra: we do.
Chapter 31
I wonder if my mom suspects something when she asks me Zenn’s last name.
“Bennett,” I tell her. It’s the truth, but I don’t tell her that Bennett is his mom’s last name, that his parents were never married, that his mom chose to give him her name in the chaos after the accident because she didn’t want her baby associated with the man that caused the tragic story on the front page of every local newspaper. It’s probably the same reasoning my mom and dad used when they changed my name to Walker. Simplify. Erase. Start over.
I can’t tell if she knows something or if she’s just making conversation. Parents are good at being sneaky like that.
“Have you told him about ... your parents?” It’s hard for her to call them that because they only parented me for four months while she has raised me for eighteen years. I know she’s torn between wanting me to remember them somehow, and wanting me to think of her as my “real” mom.
“Yeah,” I tell her. “We’ve talked about it.”
She might have planned on giving me a little lecture about honesty being important in any relationship, but I’ve beaten her to the punch.
“What’s his family like? Have you met them?”
I have to be careful. No lies, but not the whole truth yet either.
“Yeah. I’ve met them.”
“Both his parents?”
If she suspects that Mike is Zenn’s dad, maybe she doesn’t think I would have met him, since (for all she knows) he’s still in jail. Then again, she may not suspect anything. Maybe I’m reading into it.
“They nice?”
“Sure. Yeah.”
“Any brothers or sisters?”
“No. He’s an only child.” As soon as it’s out of my mouth, my stomach lurches a little. I suddenly remember telling my dad that the Juicy sweatpants and Zombie sweatshirt belonged to Zenn’s non-existent sister. I doubt he mentioned that to my mom, but if he did, I’ll be caught in a lie. I’ve never lied to my parents before like I have been lately.
I don’t like it.
But my mom just nods. “What does his dad do?”
Here we go. The truth. Just the minimal truth. “He works at the same body shop where Zenn painted the van.”
“Oh, yeah? Is it a family business?”
I shake my head. “No. They just work there. I think a friend of theirs owns it.”
“Mmmm.”
I don’t tell her that his parents aren’t married. I don’t tell her that his mom drinks too much, or that Zenn has been supporting them for years. I certainly don’t tell her anything more about Mike. But I know it’s just a matter of time before the whole truth comes out.
“What are Zenn’s plans after high school?”
Oh, so she wonders if he’s good enough for me, I guess.
“He’d like to go to college but his family doesn’t have much money.”
My mom snorts ironically. I’m preaching to the choir.
Apparently I’ve shared enough now. “Well, he seems like a good kid.”
“He is.”
There is a pause in conversation and I think maybe we’re done. But then she says, “You guys …?” and trails off.
Oh, God. What is she fishing for?
I look at her blankly.
“It’s just that … he’s your first boyfriend.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I correct her. Is he? Is he my boyfriend?
“Whatever. He’s the first guy you’ve dated. More seriously, I mean.”
“More seriously than who? Sean Kirkdorf?” I throw out the name of my elementary-school boyfriend, the one boy I “dated” in fourth grade. The extent of our dating was leaving birthday gifts on each other’s doorsteps so we didn’t have to see each other or talk.