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Authors: Emily Franklin
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the mouthpiece of the phone. I don’t know why I’m about to do this, because I know what’s going to happen. “Can you ask Russ to do them? I’m busy.”
“Now, Jenny.”
End of discussion.
“I have to go,” I tell Tate. I worry that it sounds lame, as if I don’t want to keep talking, which of course I do. Quite honestly, I’d be happy just hearing him breathe into the phone.
“You had to go pretty quickly last night, too,” Tate replies. “I get it. No problem.”
His tone has changed and slipped into that guy-friend voice. I know the phrase
see you around
is next in line if I don’t say something. “Wait, I want to keep talking. I do. But I can’t.”
“Can’t now or can’t ever?”
Tate’s questions challenge me. I really like that about him. “I just have dishes to wash.”
An awkward silence is followed by, “So…?”
“So…?” I counter.
“Want to come over later?” he asks.
For once the loud thud I hear isn’t a ball hitting the side of the house; it’s my heart caving in. I try to sound easygoing and mellow, but my words still come out overtly happy. He has said what I have wanted to hear for so long. “Sure! That’d be great! I’ll see you in an hour or so?”
I start to hang up the phone, but Tate is still talking. “Don’t you need my address?”
“Oh, right,” I say, even though I know it. I forget how I may have gotten that information, which leads me to believe that I’ve always known it.
“One-forty-one Wellesley Street, off Marchese,” he says. “See you in a while. Yes?”
“Yes.”
It only occurs to me when I pull up in front of his house that 141 is one number shy of 142. Maybe Tate will help me make up the difference.
TEN
One of the things I like best about art is that the line between reality and fantasy always blurs. Even with paintings such as Paul Cézanne’s
Still Life with a Ginger Jar and Eggplants
, the viewer can’t determine whether the painter was just copying the objects or making them better—the eggplants darker, fuller; the jar cleaner, glinting with life.
This is how I feel when I get to Tate’s house, with BRODEUR and 141 displayed on tiles set into the stone wall surrounding the front walkway. My fantasy for the past two years has been that he’d ask me over, that I’d go, and that I’d somehow look ravishing even in my plain old dark green T-shirt that only has one small dot of paint at the waist hem. Tate would open the door and look at me, and without having to say anything, he’d take me in his arms and kiss me. My reality isn’t quite the same, but who’s to say which is better?
“Hey, Fitz,” he says as soon as he opens the door. No one ever calls me Fitz, probably because I don’t play sports. I’m not sure how to take it, but it doesn’t bug me like it might have coming from my parents or Russ. He looks amazing, greeting me with a grin and a hand that motions for me to follow him inside.
“Great house,” I say. Then, just in case I sound superficial (because isn’t it a total cliché to go to someone’s house for the first time and compliment it right when you come in?), I add, “The light is perfect for painting.”
Tate shrugs, not in a disinterested way, but in a
never thought of that
way. “Well, anytime you feel like it, just show up with a canvas and a brush.”
“I just might take you up on that offer. I could set up right here.” I stomp my feet right in the center of the airy entryway and pretend to dip a paintbrush into a pot of paint.
“I have a better idea.”
Tate leads me up the stairs to the hallway that I assume leads to the bedrooms. My pulse races and I take a breath. “Where’re we going?”
“You’ll see,” he says.
“Isn’t that what the killer says in horror movies, right before he does something terrible?” I ask, forcing a smile. What if he stops on the stairs and kisses me? What if he leads me to his bedroom and wants to give me a tour of his, um, bed?
“Now, Jenny.”
End of discussion.
“I have to go,” I tell Tate. I worry that it sounds lame, as if I don’t want to keep talking, which of course I do. Quite honestly, I’d be happy just hearing him breathe into the phone.
“You had to go pretty quickly last night, too,” Tate replies. “I get it. No problem.”
His tone has changed and slipped into that guy-friend voice. I know the phrase
see you around
is next in line if I don’t say something. “Wait, I want to keep talking. I do. But I can’t.”
“Can’t now or can’t ever?”
Tate’s questions challenge me. I really like that about him. “I just have dishes to wash.”
An awkward silence is followed by, “So…?”
“So…?” I counter.
“Want to come over later?” he asks.
For once the loud thud I hear isn’t a ball hitting the side of the house; it’s my heart caving in. I try to sound easygoing and mellow, but my words still come out overtly happy. He has said what I have wanted to hear for so long. “Sure! That’d be great! I’ll see you in an hour or so?”
I start to hang up the phone, but Tate is still talking. “Don’t you need my address?”
“Oh, right,” I say, even though I know it. I forget how I may have gotten that information, which leads me to believe that I’ve always known it.
“One-forty-one Wellesley Street, off Marchese,” he says. “See you in a while. Yes?”
“Yes.”
It only occurs to me when I pull up in front of his house that 141 is one number shy of 142. Maybe Tate will help me make up the difference.
TEN
One of the things I like best about art is that the line between reality and fantasy always blurs. Even with paintings such as Paul Cézanne’s
Still Life with a Ginger Jar and Eggplants
, the viewer can’t determine whether the painter was just copying the objects or making them better—the eggplants darker, fuller; the jar cleaner, glinting with life.
This is how I feel when I get to Tate’s house, with BRODEUR and 141 displayed on tiles set into the stone wall surrounding the front walkway. My fantasy for the past two years has been that he’d ask me over, that I’d go, and that I’d somehow look ravishing even in my plain old dark green T-shirt that only has one small dot of paint at the waist hem. Tate would open the door and look at me, and without having to say anything, he’d take me in his arms and kiss me. My reality isn’t quite the same, but who’s to say which is better?
“Hey, Fitz,” he says as soon as he opens the door. No one ever calls me Fitz, probably because I don’t play sports. I’m not sure how to take it, but it doesn’t bug me like it might have coming from my parents or Russ. He looks amazing, greeting me with a grin and a hand that motions for me to follow him inside.
“Great house,” I say. Then, just in case I sound superficial (because isn’t it a total cliché to go to someone’s house for the first time and compliment it right when you come in?), I add, “The light is perfect for painting.”
Tate shrugs, not in a disinterested way, but in a
never thought of that
way. “Well, anytime you feel like it, just show up with a canvas and a brush.”
“I just might take you up on that offer. I could set up right here.” I stomp my feet right in the center of the airy entryway and pretend to dip a paintbrush into a pot of paint.
“I have a better idea.”
Tate leads me up the stairs to the hallway that I assume leads to the bedrooms. My pulse races and I take a breath. “Where’re we going?”
“You’ll see,” he says.
“Isn’t that what the killer says in horror movies, right before he does something terrible?” I ask, forcing a smile. What if he stops on the stairs and kisses me? What if he leads me to his bedroom and wants to give me a tour of his, um, bed?
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