Ask the Passengers (10 page)

“What about you, Astrid? Anything happening this week?”

I dip more bread into the oil and pick up my fork as if I plan to eat paella. “It turned out that Zeno is right,” I say. I still haven’t told them about Zeno, so we’ll see if they bite.

“Really?” Mom says.

“Yep.”

“Which one is he again? The history or the American lit teacher?” Mom says. She pours herself another glass of wine.

“Isn’t he a philosopher?” Dad says.

I point at him and shoot a finger gun. “Bingo.”

“Oh,” Mom says. And when I don’t say anything else, she says, “Which one was he again?”

“The guy who said motion is impossible,” I say. I take one pseudo-bite of the paella, and it’s pretty good except for the pimentos. And the fish. I try to get forkfuls of rice only. Then I go back to just the bread.

“Like
moving
motion?” Ellis asks.

“Yep. Like all motion.”

“He said it was impossible?”

“Him and a lot of guys before him. But he proved it in new ways. Mostly to disprove it, I think, but still, yep. That’s what he meant.”

Mom and Ellis look at me like I’m weird. Dad says, “How’d he prove it?”

I explain the arrow theory.

“That’s stupid,” Ellis says. “That’s like saying that I’m not
eating paella.” She eats paella. “See?” she says with her mouth full of paella.

“I know.”

“So didn’t you say he was right?”

“He is,” I say. “But not in the way he meant. In other ways.”

“Are you getting graded for learning this stuff?” Mom asks. “Because I can’t see how this will help you get a job.” Ah, there’s the Claire that was missing half an hour ago.
I missed you, Claire.

“Come on, Claire. This is what college kids learn in Philosophy 101. You don’t remember Zeno?” Dad asks.

“Nope.”

“Didn’t they teach philosophy in art school?”

She glares at him. “They taught it. I didn’t take it. I had more practical things to learn so I could one day support my family.”

I dip more bread in more oil.

“So when are you moving on to the Socrates part of the class?” Dad says. “I was talking to a mom at one of the hockey games, and she told me that it’s awesome. Her son took the class a few years ago.”

“We started last week,” I say. “But this week we’ll really get into that part—the project.”

“Stuff like that makes me wish I could go back to high school.”

I’m about to say something lame like “yeah,” but Mom talks over me. “You
can
go back to college any time you want, Gerry.”

He stops and looks at her. She said it to cut him down, but he took it as a real suggestion. His eyes dart around. “You know, Claire, you’re right. I could,” he says. “What do you think of that, girls? Imagine going to college with your dad. Freaky, huh?”

“I don’t think so,” Ellis says. “I’d have a built-in on-campus fan for hockey games.”

“And I’d have someone to go to wood shop with who won’t make a bong,” I say. Although I know there is a great chance that Dad would probably make a bong.

Mom puts her fork down loudly. “No one wants to go to college with me? I was fun in college, you know.”

She throws a sad look at Ellis, who says, “Aw, I’d go to college with you, Mom. I bet you threw some great parties.”

IT IS ONLY 135 HOURS
until we are all standing at the door of Atlantis again with our cover charge in our palms. Only 117 hours until I see Dee again in the parking lot of Maldonado’s. The school week is like a holding pattern. It is the invisible man. It is a black hole. It is the Enso of Zen—the big zero. All I can hear are the ticking of seconds, each one a notch in the 135. For the record, that’s 486,000 notches.

On Tuesday in humanities we learn about Socratic paradoxes. Here’s one of Frank’s:
No one desires evil.
Of course, that’s an insane thing to say. One look around Unity Valley will prove the guy dead wrong. One look at
anywhere
will prove the guy certifiable. Especially in fifth century
BC
Greece.
Geez. So for him to say
No one desires evil
is about more than just challenging the obvious fact that plenty of people desire evil.

When I raise my hand and Ms. Steck calls on me, I say, “It was about making people think. Because the only way to disprove something that defies common sense is to ask why. Why would people desire evil? Why are people evil? Don’t they think they are doing good from their perspective? What is evil, then, anyway? That’s exactly the type of thing Socrates was after. Making people think so they could find the truth.”

“And do you have any answers?” she asks.

“No. Only more questions,” I say. I have come so far from my Zeno-denying arm-flailing only two weeks ago.

They say:
Astrid Jones is such a kiss-ass.

They say:
Ms. Steck will give her an A just because of lit mag.

They say:
You know about Ms. Steck, right?

Anyway, our final assignment for the unit is to create our own paradox and be ready to argue it Socrates-style. This is the Socrates Project. Every year we’ve been in high school, the day before Thanksgiving break, senior humanities students dress like Greek philosophers and argue throughout the halls all day. It’s the reason people fight to get into this course, and the reason some people wouldn’t touch it with a barge pole. I fluctuate between being shit-scared and totally geeked out with excitement. I’m even going to go barefoot. I haven’t figured out my paradox yet, but I have a month, so I’m not going to push it.

All week, Kristina is weird.

Monday:
Are you sure there wasn’t any truth to that thing you said about a girlfriend? You know you could tell me, right?

Tuesday: She squints at me a lot and whispers something to Justin right in front of me. Justin shrugs, then pulls up his camera and snaps a picture of me. When I complain, they claim it’s just a funny joke.

Wednesday:
I thought we were best friends, dude. You’re not keeping secrets from me, are you? Justin and I can help, you know.
Justin nods.

Thursday: Silent treatment. Or at least that’s what it seems like. Plus, she’s overly friendly with her plethora of more popular friends. The Homecoming Court people, the majorettes, the two lead actresses in our fall production of
The Miracle Worker
. I even see her talking to Aimee Hall—enemy of many, thanks to her knack for making shit up and spreading it like mulch so the weeds of sanity can’t poke through and doubt her.

Friday: Kristina’s all perky and nice at lunch. “Maybe you’ll tell me the truth tomorrow night?”

“You know the truth,” I say.

“That’s not what I heard,” she says.

I try not to look panicked. I call Frank S. to rescue me. Bad idea. He slides into the booth behind Kristina and looks right into my eyes. He knows the truth, too.

THE HISPANIC CENTER CATERING JOB
is hard core. We work from five thirty to three thirty. That’s a long day here in the land of shrimp veins. Dee and I meet in the walk-in only once. We don’t even have time to talk except catering-teamwork talk, so while we wash and sanitize big pots and pans, she occasionally hip-bumps me and I hip-bump her back.

My quid pro quo double date with Jeff, Kristina, and Justin is at the Legion Diner on 773. It’s a popular place to get anything with fake mashed potatoes and gravy. I’m in love with their
grilled cheese sandwiches. I don’t know what they do, but they make them taste better than any grilled cheese sandwich I’ve ever eaten in my life. I think they dip them in grease first or something.

I decide to walk because it’s five minutes from my house. Justin and Kristina drive there together and are ten minutes late, as always, and to avoid being stuck with Jeff by myself, I wait in the alleyway behind the diner until I see them park. When we get inside and sit down, Justin squeezes Kristina’s ass all the time and they kiss and hold hands, and you would never ever know that they are not two teenagers in love. I think they could both embark on serious acting careers just based on this behavior. At the same time, I wish they’d stop. They’re giving Jeff ideas, and I don’t like it.

He tries to nuzzle my ear before our food comes and it gives me a chill and I jump. Then he puts his right hand under the table and on my thigh a little too casually, and I kick Kristina under the table.

Our food comes and my grilled cheese is greasy and cheesy and crispy on the outside and I eat it in about three minutes and excuse myself to go to the ladies’ room. I hear the bathroom door open while I’m peeing, and Kristina comes in, sits on the toilet in the stall next to mine and once she releases her pee, she says, “Oh, my God, Astrid. He is totally in love with you.”

“I know. He keeps squeezing my leg under the table.”

“No, I mean he’s actually in love with you. He said it. Just now,” she says.

I feel my cheeks warm.

“He said it?”

“Yep.”

I flush and zip, and while I’m washing my hands, Kristina joins me and gives me a sympathetic look.

“How can he be in love with me when he doesn’t even know me?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know.”

“Do we really need to string him along like this?” I ask. “I mean, I don’t mind being the bad guy and telling him to go away.”

She’s touching up her eyeliner. “Claire will want to know why.”

I sigh and think about it.

“Anyway,” Kristina adds, “if you keep being cold, he’ll get the picture. He wants in your pants in a big way. Maybe you can tell him that you’re gonna wait until you’re married. That’ll probably scare him off.”

“Oh, God. Imagine if Claire heard that,” I say. I look at myself in the mirror and adjust my hair to its perfect position across my forehead.

“Are you sure you don’t have anything to tell me? Because I hear things, you know?”

“What would I have to tell you?” I ask. “And who’s telling you things about me?” But I know I’m really bad at lying, which is why I’ve never really lied before.

She shrugs and gives me a half-disappointed look and pushes the bathroom door open.

I look into my eyes again in the mirror. I can see her there—the me who’s waiting to come out. The me who doesn’t have to send her love away. The me who loves Dee Roberts and isn’t afraid to say so. I stuff her back inside my Unity Valley suit and go back to the table.

As I walk between the tables, I notice a toga at the counter, sitting on a stool. I should have never named him Frank. He was fine for 2,400 years as just Socrates without me conjuring him up to help me out of dumb messes like fake double dates with Jeff the leg jiggler.

When I get back to the table, Justin has a look on his face that’s a mix of pain and laughter or maybe fear. Kristina leans over him and jiggles her boobs in front of his face and then plants a huge kiss on his lips. Then she whispers something to him, and he looks at me in that way—like he’s disappointed, too.

I sheepishly slide in next to Jeff, who immediately puts his hand on my knee.

“I was asking my man Justin where you guys are going tonight,” Jeff says, mouth half full of roast beef and mashed potatoes.

“And I told him we go different places,” Justin says. He kicks Kristina so hard, the table wobbles.

Kristina says, “Private party for a friend of mine who goes to Mount Pitts.”

“And I can’t come?”

Justin lets out a disappointed chuckle. “Not just you, bro. No guys allowed, apparently. I’m out, too.”

“All you hot girls in one place?” Jeff says. “I wish I could crash
that
party.”

Kristina and I look at each other. I have no idea what to say.

“You’re just going to have to be a gentleman and wait your turn, dude. Plus, it’s a sober party… and in an hour, I’m hooking you up, right? So, that’s, like, two strikes against you.”

“Yeah,” Jeff says. “I guess.” I can sense his skepticism. It’s a seed. But it’s there. I want to distract him before he waters it or lets in any sunlight, so I kiss him on the cheek.

Outside, a half hour later, he has me pinned up against his car and is trying to get his tongue in my mouth, and I choose to nuzzle into his neck instead. I accidentally find the spot where he must have slopped on his nasty cologne, and my eyes water instantly. I have to keep myself from gagging.