shiver up my back. “I don’t like to think about you dying.”
God.
For the millionth time I secretly guess his age. I would ask, but asking would bring the difference into it. Let’s say twenty-seven. I’ll be eighteen soon, so when he’s seventy-nine, I’ll be seventy. Practically no difference at all.
“Boys?” he says.
I suddenly realize he’s asking a question.
“A few should be allowed to live.”
He laughs. “No, I mean, you don’t have a boyfriend, do you?”
“I know what you meant. Maybe I just don’t know how to answer the question. I have a friend who’s a boy; you’ve met him. That’s about it.”
“Do you date much?”
What should I tell him? That I haven’t been on a date my whole senior year? That I haven’t wanted to? That the sum total of my experience with the opposite sex consists of a few fumbled moments with Schuyler in the snow?
I study the Wal-Mart wall. “I’m afraid of stopping,” I say.
“Stopping?”
“I don’t know if I can explain.”
“Try.”
Now I am getting light-headed, drunk on contact with his skin. “Stopping my life,” I say. “Stopping my dreams. I think maybe—I think I’m afraid sex will strand me with some stupid guy who won’t understand me, won’t let me do the things I’ve come here to do. I—”
“It’s okay,” Mr. Mann says.
As desperately as I want him to hold me, it helps that we are just sitting here first. That he has this perfect chance, but he’s showing control. The door can still be opened. I can still get out, walk away.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ve never done anything like this before. Ever. I don’t want you to think—”
“I know. I know.” He looks at me. “It’s okay. I’m not like this, either. I mean, I’ve never done this before. Well, not with a—not with someone from school. I’m not like that. I want you to know that. You’re just so . . . different.”
Gulp. “I hope that’s good.”
“Different? Sure. Different is good. Different is—goddamn amazing.”
It’s too much. I pause to take a breath.
“It’s not that—that I didn’t have chances with guys. It’s just so important, you know? Who it is, why you do what you do. I think everybody’s here for a reason. We’re not supposed to waste our lives just messing around. There are too many fantastic, amazing things to do. You can’t screw it up.”
He smiles with his eyes. “How’d you get so intense?”
I think about it. I remember the message on his answering machine. “I’m like Mark Twain.”
“Twain?”
“He said he was born excited . I understand that. That’s me. I don’t waste time on people who aren’t. I can’t. I have this Master Plan.”
“What? Tell me about it.”
“You’ll think it’s crazy.”
“No, I won’t.” He holds up three fingers like a Boy Scout, making me smile. Making me safe. “I promise,” he says. “Tell me.”
“I’m going to—” Should I really say it? Make it real? Take another breath. “I’m going to discover things people have never seen. Unbelievable things. Beautiful things that will change everything we know about the universe. Where it came from, where it’s going. What it is. Who we are. Someday they’ll all want me, and then—”
He leans over, puts a finger to my mouth.
“It’s all right. I believe you.”
Is that what I’m trying to do? Make him believe?
What if I’m messing it all up?
What if I’m too strange, too stupid, too smart? What if I’ve let too much of myself out? What if the inner, secret Me is a brick in a wall I’m building between us? Maybe he wants someone else. Someone more, someone less, someone braver, stronger, weaker, wilder, crazy, pretty, sane—
Suddenly he circles my shoulders with his arm, pulls me to him. It’s happening. It’s happening. I close my eyes, letting go, letting go, letting go.
We stop. Still holding.
“Bucket seats suck,” he says.
Yes.
We move to Wilkie Collins.
The reverberating
God.
For the millionth time I secretly guess his age. I would ask, but asking would bring the difference into it. Let’s say twenty-seven. I’ll be eighteen soon, so when he’s seventy-nine, I’ll be seventy. Practically no difference at all.
“Boys?” he says.
I suddenly realize he’s asking a question.
“A few should be allowed to live.”
He laughs. “No, I mean, you don’t have a boyfriend, do you?”
“I know what you meant. Maybe I just don’t know how to answer the question. I have a friend who’s a boy; you’ve met him. That’s about it.”
“Do you date much?”
What should I tell him? That I haven’t been on a date my whole senior year? That I haven’t wanted to? That the sum total of my experience with the opposite sex consists of a few fumbled moments with Schuyler in the snow?
I study the Wal-Mart wall. “I’m afraid of stopping,” I say.
“Stopping?”
“I don’t know if I can explain.”
“Try.”
Now I am getting light-headed, drunk on contact with his skin. “Stopping my life,” I say. “Stopping my dreams. I think maybe—I think I’m afraid sex will strand me with some stupid guy who won’t understand me, won’t let me do the things I’ve come here to do. I—”
“It’s okay,” Mr. Mann says.
As desperately as I want him to hold me, it helps that we are just sitting here first. That he has this perfect chance, but he’s showing control. The door can still be opened. I can still get out, walk away.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ve never done anything like this before. Ever. I don’t want you to think—”
“I know. I know.” He looks at me. “It’s okay. I’m not like this, either. I mean, I’ve never done this before. Well, not with a—not with someone from school. I’m not like that. I want you to know that. You’re just so . . . different.”
Gulp. “I hope that’s good.”
“Different? Sure. Different is good. Different is—goddamn amazing.”
It’s too much. I pause to take a breath.
“It’s not that—that I didn’t have chances with guys. It’s just so important, you know? Who it is, why you do what you do. I think everybody’s here for a reason. We’re not supposed to waste our lives just messing around. There are too many fantastic, amazing things to do. You can’t screw it up.”
He smiles with his eyes. “How’d you get so intense?”
I think about it. I remember the message on his answering machine. “I’m like Mark Twain.”
“Twain?”
“He said he was born excited . I understand that. That’s me. I don’t waste time on people who aren’t. I can’t. I have this Master Plan.”
“What? Tell me about it.”
“You’ll think it’s crazy.”
“No, I won’t.” He holds up three fingers like a Boy Scout, making me smile. Making me safe. “I promise,” he says. “Tell me.”
“I’m going to—” Should I really say it? Make it real? Take another breath. “I’m going to discover things people have never seen. Unbelievable things. Beautiful things that will change everything we know about the universe. Where it came from, where it’s going. What it is. Who we are. Someday they’ll all want me, and then—”
He leans over, puts a finger to my mouth.
“It’s all right. I believe you.”
Is that what I’m trying to do? Make him believe?
What if I’m messing it all up?
What if I’m too strange, too stupid, too smart? What if I’ve let too much of myself out? What if the inner, secret Me is a brick in a wall I’m building between us? Maybe he wants someone else. Someone more, someone less, someone braver, stronger, weaker, wilder, crazy, pretty, sane—
Suddenly he circles my shoulders with his arm, pulls me to him. It’s happening. It’s happening. I close my eyes, letting go, letting go, letting go.
We stop. Still holding.
“Bucket seats suck,” he says.
Yes.
We move to Wilkie Collins.
The reverberating
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