Her phone rang.
"What are you doing?"
"Playing Trivial Pursuit with some people."
"Come over.""No."
"Why not?""I've been drinking. I'm not going to drive."
"How many beers have you had?""A few."
"You've probably only had one and a half.""So?"
"I've had about eight. And I can totally drive.""No you can't. Come on."
"Come over.""What are you doing?"
"Drinking. Playing beer pong." "Is that all you ever do?"
"Yes. It makes me feel better about myself.""What? Don't say that. What makes you say that?"
"Because I'm unhappy.""What?! Why?"
"You really want to know why I don't like my life?""Yes. I don't want you to be unhappy."
"We're not going to talk about this now."He had always been the brainy kid in the class, the one who everyone forgot was in the classroom until he raised his hand and said something simple, and brilliant. He wasn't shy, exactly, or overly-ambitious, but detached and endowed with a natural talent for always having the right answer and knowing how to say what he was thinking.
By eighth grade, his curly locks were long enough for shaking about, and he was tall, with big, strong hands. He was a video game-playing mall rat of an eighth grader, and he should have been awkward, what with all the talking he didn't do, but his appearance made up for that; he was a young man among boys.
She thought of herself as slightly beyond the other girls. Seventh grade had been tough: long-standing friendships were no longer what they'd once been, and she only found out about birthday parties after they'd been enjoyed. Rather than confront the mean girls for excluding her, she, by eighth grade, had moved on and spent her free time with a handful of boys with shared musical tastes. He was among the group, but he never had much to say, except for a few rushed, hushed sarcastic words that maybe she misheard anyway...
They went to private school, and the only dance of all their years there was scheduled to follow the eighth grade graduation ceremony, in the same gym where they'd eaten lunches and sat for assemblies. And it was in this gym that the eighth grade class of 2002 met for six consecutive Sundays leading up to the dance...for swing dance lessons.
Male partners were in short supply--because of demographics, not for lack of interest--and boys with a left AND right foot were even scarcer. But he had a surprising, natural talent for moving his feet in time to the count of six. Together, she and he were the unlikely pros of the class, garnering the compliments of the dance instructor with the rough, swollen hands who smelled like beef jerky and old man. "You've got it!" he told them, pausing to admire.
They didn't say much, though, just watched their feet, mirroring each other. Paying attention to details made it easier to forget the big picture, the one in which they were growing up together, holding hands, even if it was just for the sake of dancing. They were catching a glimpse of things to come, when they would be older and there would be more hands to hold and mouths to kiss and bodies to embrace. But then, there, they were just the quiet stars of the eighth grade dance class, together by default.
Several nights a week, he would ring her up, inviting her over to drink beer in his garage with his roommates and other stragglers, neighbors and mutual acquaintances from high school. She always had an excuse, and he never backed down on giving her grief for it.
"If you don't want to hang out, just tell me. I'd rather you do that than tell me you have other things going on."
"But I really do! I want to come hang out, but I can't tonight."
True as it may have been, that she really did want to see him, that she enjoyed his company, it was so much easier to stay at home where it was quiet and everything had a place, where it was certain and predictable and she could go to bed when she pleased and wake up with the sun.
He made her feel transparent, and strange. She could never bullshit him, even if she could succeed at fooling herself. It frustrated her that she could never figure him out like he could her. What did he want anyway? Why was it so important to him that she come over? She assumed he merely enjoyed giving her trouble for being reclusive.
On the nights when his guilt trips got the best of her objections, he would be so happy to see her, telling her so, many times over. He was like a child who got the birthday present he had wanted most but hadn't thought he would get. It amused her to see his drunken glee at her presence, but she never felt entirely comfortable there, in his garage, with mutual friends and acquaintances.
It was in his nature to be affectionate, and it was in hers to be removed at best, ice cold at worst. Tense shoulders, pocketed hands and crossed legs: her posture spoke more than she did, even if wasn't what she wanted to say. But with him, she couldn't trust herself; he was always challenging her. If she could keep up with the zingers he tossed out like marbles, maybe she would be better able to relax. Instead, her thoughts always ended up more knotted than when she'd arrived, her defenses crumbling like little straw huts.
She'd hated him just three years earlier and had, reluctantly, sworn off speaking to him. He'd visited her late at night, and because of their mutual, bookish nature, the talk turned to heavy things--religion, politics--topics she thought she'd finally worked out, until he came and disputed everything she said. Her pride sent him away, and she tried to find a way to avoid him. But the more she ran, the harder he tried to keep up. He eventually caught up, though, when time finally wore away at pride.
He always walked her to her car on the nights that she came over and tried to draw out her visit, suddenly remembering more topics to talk about. He offered his bed, volunteering himself to sleep on the couch, in case she would need to stay. He usually repeated his pleasure at her coming over...finally...and made sure she knew she was always welcome.
She knew, of course, and promised she would start coming over more often. And lunch too, they would make plans to go out for Mexican sometime. They did, more than once, but it was always sad for her somehow, chatting with him when he was sober and, consequently, at his darkest. Mostly, they talked about what was next for them both, which wasn't anything very certain, usually just speculation and possibility, with a touch of fear. Going home from these lunches she felt both happy to have spent time with him but empty too, as though she were chilled in bright sunlight. His bleakness was catching.
In his driveway, on his street, they would stand for a few minutes before she got into her car. He would tease her and make her tense up and push her hands deeper into her pockets, but the more times she came over, the better she got at jabbing him back. She liked to make him laugh and wished he could be this happy when she would see him again, in a few days, sitting in a political science lecture hall where, if he got there first, he would always have a seat saved for her.
Back and forth they would go, taking cues from each other, until all the driveway smalltalk had grown thin.
"So...how're we going to do this? Are we going to hug? Or shake hands...?"
And with a laugh she would always give him the hug he wouldn't admit to wanting--hugs from anyone were his guilty pleasure--and then grasp his hand in a firm handshake, to make him laugh.
She thinks of him often and wishes that they spoke more, sad that she hasn't visited him since he started law school. And sometimes she remembers those early days, in eighth grade, when he was just the quiet boy in the circle and she the rebel of the sisterhood. Things haven't necessarily gone according to plan, but then again, when did they ever have one?
He made her feel transparent, and strange. She could never bullshit him, even if she could succeed at fooling herself. It frustrated her that she could never figure him out like he could her. What did he want anyway? Why was it so important to him that she come over? She assumed he merely enjoyed giving her trouble for being reclusive.
On the nights when his guilt trips got the best of her objections, he would be so happy to see her, telling her so, many times over. He was like a child who got the birthday present he had wanted most but hadn't thought he would get. It amused her to see his drunken glee at her presence, but she never felt entirely comfortable there, in his garage, with mutual friends and acquaintances.
It was in his nature to be affectionate, and it was in hers to be removed at best, ice cold at worst. Tense shoulders, pocketed hands and crossed legs: her posture spoke more than she did, even if wasn't what she wanted to say. But with him, she couldn't trust herself; he was always challenging her. If she could keep up with the zingers he tossed out like marbles, maybe she would be better able to relax. Instead, her thoughts always ended up more knotted than when she'd arrived, her defenses crumbling like little straw huts.
She'd hated him just three years earlier and had, reluctantly, sworn off speaking to him. He'd visited her late at night, and because of their mutual, bookish nature, the talk turned to heavy things--religion, politics--topics she thought she'd finally worked out, until he came and disputed everything she said. Her pride sent him away, and she tried to find a way to avoid him. But the more she ran, the harder he tried to keep up. He eventually caught up, though, when time finally wore away at pride.
He always walked her to her car on the nights that she came over and tried to draw out her visit, suddenly remembering more topics to talk about. He offered his bed, volunteering himself to sleep on the couch, in case she would need to stay. He usually repeated his pleasure at her coming over...finally...and made sure she knew she was always welcome.
She knew, of course, and promised she would start coming over more often. And lunch too, they would make plans to go out for Mexican sometime. They did, more than once, but it was always sad for her somehow, chatting with him when he was sober and, consequently, at his darkest. Mostly, they talked about what was next for them both, which wasn't anything very certain, usually just speculation and possibility, with a touch of fear. Going home from these lunches she felt both happy to have spent time with him but empty too, as though she were chilled in bright sunlight. His bleakness was catching.
In his driveway, on his street, they would stand for a few minutes before she got into her car. He would tease her and make her tense up and push her hands deeper into her pockets, but the more times she came over, the better she got at jabbing him back. She liked to make him laugh and wished he could be this happy when she would see him again, in a few days, sitting in a political science lecture hall where, if he got there first, he would always have a seat saved for her.
Back and forth they would go, taking cues from each other, until all the driveway smalltalk had grown thin.
"So...how're we going to do this? Are we going to hug? Or shake hands...?"
And with a laugh she would always give him the hug he wouldn't admit to wanting--hugs from anyone were his guilty pleasure--and then grasp his hand in a firm handshake, to make him laugh.
She thinks of him often and wishes that they spoke more, sad that she hasn't visited him since he started law school. And sometimes she remembers those early days, in eighth grade, when he was just the quiet boy in the circle and she the rebel of the sisterhood. Things haven't necessarily gone according to plan, but then again, when did they ever have one?
