At Face Value (13 page)

“Yup. You pick it—just like apples.”

I pick at my cuticles and point to one of the pictures. “That one’s pretty nice. I choose that one.”

“You sure?” He swivels in his seat to look at me with his pen poised.

I twist my mouth, unsure. “Probably. Maybe.” Then I grin and stand up. The procedure, as he calls it—the “surgery” as my parents call it, to remind me how big a deal it is—is the simplest route to the solution. “Just out of curiosity: could you make it bigger?”

This makes him laugh. “You got it all, kiddo. Enjoy.” He holds the door open for me. “We’ve scheduled you for mid-January? Correct?”

I nod. “Correct.” A correction. That’s what it is, really. A correction to a problem. A few more months and, just like one of those Cyries on the wall, I will be—if not picture-perfect—then at least photo-ready. And ready for more than that.

That night, before I deal with homework and essays, I call Linus. Better to deal with this situation head-on. Or ear-on, as the phone would have it.

“Hey,” I say, and he knows just who it is without my saying my name.

“So?”

“So …” I look at his note again. “I think …” How should I say it without hurting his feelings? Without rejecting him outright? “I think you should make sure of how you really feel—”

“I know how I really feel, Cyrie.” His voice is strong, confident.

“Oh, um …” I wasn’t expecting ardency from him. “Then I guess …”

“Presumably you know how I’m feeling?” He waits for my response, and I know him well enough that I can tell his eyebrows must be raised in wonderment.

“I do.” But I don’t. I don’t feel the same way. “You know what, Linus? Remember how when you start an op-ed piece, you’re supposed to get attention but also get your point across right away?” He gives a grumble as I try and distract him to buy myself more time. I can’t just come out and say I don’t like him in that way, because he’s too nice for that. I want him to get how I feel without my having to explain it.

“I feel like I’m going nuts, though. Or I will if I don’t get this off my chest.”

Not here. Not now, I think and hurry to quiet him up. “Save it. Seriously, the more passion gathers inside you, the better, right?” Not really, but I’m flustered and wishing the person on the other end of the phone line was Eddie.

“But I—”

“But then just tell me—I mean, tell your person how you feel at the best time possible, okay? Because it matters not just
how
you feel but
how you find out
about the other person’s feelings.” Possibly this is the most poorly constructed sentence ever uttered. Possibly if I write that way on my application, Sarah Jensen will have no competition for Harvard.

But Linus just says, “Okay. I think I get what you’re saying.”

“Good,” I say. At least someone does, because I’m beginning to confuse even myself.

When I check the Sumbodee account that night, I’m dismayed to find that Eddie’s lengthy, personal email is going to be answered with this, from Leyla:

Hi Rox—

I saw how fast you wrote back. You must be a really quick typer! I’m maybe only thirty words per minute but I’m faster when I have good music playing which I do right now (The Shins). Your not going to believe this, but I am almost done with college applications and I’m so happy about it. Do you know where your going? I heard maybe someplace in England—that would be so cool! I could visit you there and have tea with the queen.

See ya later!

Leyla

I wish she translated onto the page better. Her queen comment could have been funny—with her silly voices and sweet demeanor—but here it reads vapid. That’s the problem, I realize, as I correct the your/you’re issues. She’s not saying anything; she’s just writing. I want so badly to do more than edit—to write about how the Shins’ music is so emotive and even though you can’t tell what the hell they’re saying sometimes, you still respond. How Oxford would be incredible and how I went punting on the river there two summers ago and felt as though I existed in another era; how wistful and wonderful it made me feel. But I can’t do that, because that’s me. Not her. So I punctuate and press
send.

“P
ERFECT!” LEYLA GIVES ME
a thumbs-up in drama class before she takes her seat. No doubt she is commenting on the flurry of emails I’ve proofed, cleaned up, and added to over the past few days. Her grammar has improved, though not the depths of her commentary. He knows, now, that she likes grilled cheese with tomato and never wears boots in the winter, and used to want to be a professional tap dancer. But not much else. He’s brought up some issues, but kept the tone fairly chatty. I guess that’s just how it goes. Meanwhile, my brain is yet again crammed with things I want to say to him, but can’t.

I once told Leyla that I wished I was average. She couldn’t understand why, even though she tried. She listened, but she wound up asking, “Why wouldn’t you want to be, um, super-modely if you could?” I tucked nearly my whole face into my turtleneck and mumbled, “Plain. Plain would be enough.”

I make it through Drama, barely keeping my eyes open during the monologues. My neck starts to ache from keeping my head up, and I use my clear view of Eddie and the idea of the approaching auction to keep my brain from switching off. Eddie’s focused on underlining his lines, even though he doesn’t have to perform until next week, when I have to, also. Memorizing comes pretty easily to me, and I have my words down, but I need to work on the delivery if I want to get a decent grade. Harold is nothing if not a stickler for at least attempting to perform properly.

“I really care about you,” Jack Schneider monotones. His eyes are glued to his shoes, and his body is stiff.

I watch Eddie look at him and grin. Not meanly, just in his wry fashion. That’s the great thing about Eddie—or one of them, anyway. He’s funny and smart without being cruel. He coughs, which gets Jack to look up. Eddie sits up straight and uses his hands to gesture, some sports signal that must mean something I don’t get, but suddenly Jack is giving an Oscar-worthy speech about truly loving someone and understanding their core, and it’s enough to make my eyes well up. I look at Leyla, but she’s basically asleep in her cushy chair—one of the hazards of having class in a darkened room.

“That was so nice of you,” I say to Eddie when we’re out of the dark, in the stark light of science lab. Eddie doesn’t answer. “Hello?” I wait for a few seconds and then poke him with one of the tongue depressors we’re using to stir.

“What?” Sheepishly, he looks at me. “Sorry—I’m kind of out of it.” His eyes focus on me, but then glaze over.

“With Jack Schneider?” I remind him. “He was tanking, and then …”

“Yeah,” Eddie nods. “No big deal.”

“I know, but still. You’re very …” I pause, pretending to be absorbed in the chemical process in front of us. “Kind.”

“At least you didn’t say ‘nice.’ No guy wants to be called nice.” He goes back to his cloud of non-focus, his hands on the cold soapstone lab table.

Nice.
That’s what I would have said to Linus if I’d thought it through, though maybe after Eddie’s comments on the word I won’t. The thing is, Linus
is
nice. And cute. And bright. But not for me. I scratch my nose and then hate that I did that—it’ll be red now and announce itself even more than usual.

Without thinking, I start humming “Come Dancing” by the Kinks. The notes are out of my mouth for only a few seconds before I remember that Eddie and Leyla (by way of me) exchanged thoughts about that very band online last night. I quickly switch to the Alphabet Song to cover up, even though it makes a couple of girls snicker nearby. Eddie doesn’t even notice.

“Tired or something?” I ask. My pulse speeds up at being so near him, but I remain calm. I think back to all the emails, the way he listens to—or hears, or reads—everything and comments on it like it matters. Or matters to him.

“Or something,” he responds, his voice laced with mystery.

I jot down the amount of fluid added to the beaker. “Meaning?”

“Meaning …” He looks over his shoulder and all around to make sure no one’s eavesdropping. “Your correspondence is …”

My correspondence? Cue racing pulse. How could he know? He couldn’t. “I didn’t write anything …” I spit out while stirring.

Eddie’s hand flies up to wave me off. “No, no that’s not what I mean—the email thing you set up is all I’m talking about.” He waits, then catches my eye. “It’s kind of great in some ways. Even better than I hoped. She’s, like, this mixture of sweet and salty …”

I make a face. “Like kettle corn?”

He laughs. “That’s like something
she’d
say.” My hands start to shake as he stares at me. “I can tell you guys hang out a lot.”

My hands stop shaking, but my heart pounds. “Oh.”

“But …” Eddie takes out a pen. His eyes look sorry. “So, anyway, thanks for everything. I look forward to my email. Probably too much.”

“Why ‘too much’?” I smile at him, thinking how, really, he’s complimenting me. He’s saying how much he likes
me.
My writing. But then my smile fades when I remember that he doesn’t know this, that all of these words, the flurries of letters, amount to nothing—at least for me.

He frowns. “I’m thinking … maybe it’s not a good idea anymore.”

My heart slams inside my chest. “Why? I mean, why not?”

Eddie clears his throat and adjusts the temperature on our burner. “Because it’s …” He thinks and looks right at me. “In some ways I feel closer to her, but in other ways, it’s more …”

“Distancing?” I offer and wish I’d kept quiet. Eddie nods. I so don’t want to stop writing to him; I don’t want Leyla to stop writing. My initial wariness about being involved is so far gone, and I feel addicted to his words. “But you’re only just getting started with this …”

He considers. “Maybe … maybe if you could just …” He shakes his head, but I encourage him with my eyes to go on. “Think you have it in you to get her to open up?”

“What do you mean? I’ve been—she’s been so open, don’t you think?”

Eddie shrugs. “I don’t know. I get the feeling that she’s holding back. That there’s more to say but she’s afraid.”

“Maybe she
is
afraid.” I think about the exhilaration of holding his hand in the dark box, the fear that we could never do that in broad daylight, the worry that even online, rejection lies around the corner.

He lowers his voice to a near-whisper. “She’s gotta let it out, you know? Otherwise, it’s pointless. The fear stuff, the things she’s afraid of, that’s what I want to know. I can talk about liking grilled cheese with her anywhere.”

Ah, the grilled cheese rears its greasy head. Getting Leyla to say more than that will be like pulling teeth. She’s so uptight about the emails—not at all her relaxed, goofy, and approachable self. She’s the only mean-crew girl (former or otherwise) who has ever been more than civil to me. If only she’d open up on the page. “I’ll relay the message.”

“Really?” Eddie grins his thanks and exhales with relief. “Anyway,” he adds, jotting a few notes into our lab book, “I better write down the results of our experiment.”

I catch up with Leyla at the
Word
office, where she and Linus and Nicole Marchese are working on layout. Nicole hunches over her papers, writing notes in all caps as she’s always done, while Linus looks on. Leyla nimbly arranges icons, clicks articles into place, and formats the week’s issue.

“That looks great!” I slop my bag onto a chair and lean over to read.

“We’re about to finish up,” Nicole says, her eyes weary. “I’m in need of strong coffee.”

“Me, too. Even though I don’t drink coffee. I was up a lot last night,” Leyla says, her hands in constant motion, “wondering why this issue was so hard for us to do. I realized it’s because we have so many little items.”

“Plus the extended auction info,” Linus adds. He sneaks a look at me as though wanting an answer I can’t give, and I ignore it. “Leyla’s got a knack for figuring out solutions, I think.”

Leyla smiles. “Thanks. It’s like …” She looks at us, animated and happy. “I can visualize all the stuff” in my mind and slip the articles into place. Then I have to just match the image in my mind with the screen. And … viola!”

I look at her. “
Voilà,
remember?”

Linus laughs. “Leyla, you crack me up.”

She blushes but shrugs, not embarrassed the way she might be if Eddie were around or the Von Schmedler pack, where she tries to keep a low profile so as not to compete with Wendy. “I’m not a wordsmith like this one here.” She thumbs at me. “But I got it going on with the layout. Guess I’m bound for map-making school or something.”

I sit down and listen to their easy banter, trying to avoid even casual contact with Linus—no editorial hand on the shoulder, no arms touching on the messy table.

When Linus excuses himself to get snacks for everyone, I use the two minutes to talk to Leyla.

“More?” she asks. “He wants more?” Her voice is incredulous, her face wide-eyed with dismay. “I’m sick of having to worry about what to say. No way can I give him more. It’s all I can do to think of topics at all.”

I wrinkle my mouth. “That’s not true. You have lots to say—think about how you were just talking in here. Let the words just spill out.” I swallow my pride and feelings and shove any traces of love for Eddie down to my toes. “He wants to know all the stuff you don’t tell anyone. The things that keep you up at night.”

Leyla’s slender shoulders slump in her thin, berry-colored cashmere sweater. “I’m not sure I can do that, Cyrie. How’re you supposed to tell someone else those things when you don’t even like to admit they’re there?”

All I can do is nod, because … “You’re totally right. But I think …” Linus comes back and I hurry up. “Just try a little more, because you don’t want him to stop writing, do you?” I watch her response—it’s somewhere between a no and a shrug. My own response is much more clear. “You don’t. Trust me.”

She nods just as Linus hands her a cheese stick. She accepts it and says, “Thanks. Did you know that I used to live in Wisconsin? Every time I have these things I feel like I’m back in cheese country.”