Boy Meets Boy (9 page)

"Cut it out!" Claudia shouts from the other room.

Noah and I burst out laughing, which no doubt will only make her angrier. The TV is silent now, waiting for our next move.

We pick up the credit cards and head back to town.

Please 'Rewind Before Returning

Noah and I split up--he'll get the pizza while I get the rental. This is probably for the best, since I'm headed to Spiff's Videorama, where newbies are discouraged. Spiff is the reason most of us still have VCRs--he's a tapehead like djs are vinyl freaks. He refuses to carry DVDs or any of the new technology.

Spiff arranges the videos in his store according to his own logic.
American Pie
is filed under Action/Adventure, while
Forrest Gump
sits in Pornography along with other inspirational classics. Spiff will never, ever tell you where a tape is, or even if it's in. You have to find it for yourself or leave empty-handed. He doesn't give a damn about any of us--just the movies.

This is probably why we keep coming back.

Noah has given me a brief lowdown of what Claudia is willing to watch. Basically, if it features an Indie It Girl, it's a safe bet. John Cusack is also a plus. I head to Drama to look for
Say Anything
(knowing full well that Spiff believes that comedies hold life's true drama).

"Hey, Paul."

It's my name, coming from Foreign Language. It's my name . . . and it's Kyle's voice.

I'm caught in Comedy. Only Science Fiction stands between us. It's a big section, but not big enough.

"Paul?" Kyle says again, this time hesitant. His expression is more open to me than it's been since we broke up. I mean, since he dumped me.

"Hey, Kyle."

There's nobody else in the store--just me and Kyle and Spiff at the counter, watching the monitor he devotes solely to Tarantino and Julie Andrews.

"I've been meaning to talk to you," he says. He shifts from foot to foot. I look down at the frayed cuffs above his shoes. I remember pulling a thread from those very frays and then touching the ankle underneath, all a part of a Sunday-park daydream that surprised me by actually being real.

His sneakers, are different, though. I notice that.

I don't know what I'm supposed to say. I don't really want to get into a conversation right now, especially since Noah is supposed to drop by when the pizza's ready. And at the same time, I'm dying to know: What could he possibly have to tell me?

"I'm sorry," he says. So plain, so clear. I lean on the nearest rack, nearly knocking over a full collection of Abbott and Costello.

"Why?" I ask. Maybe I've misheard him. I try to think of a word that could sound like
sorry,
but there isn't a single one.

"I was wrong. I made a mistake. I hurt you. And I'm sorry." Then, as an afterthought--a punctuation--"I just had to tell you that."

How many times have I imagined this conversation? And yet, it's not at all like I pictured it would be. I thought I would be angry. I thought I would turn his
sorry
into a spiked thing to throw right back at his heart. I thought I would say,
I'll bet you're sorry
or
Not as sorry as I
am for ever getting involved with you.

I didn't think I'd feel such a lack of rage. I didn't think I'd want to tell him it was okay.

I look at
The Breakfast Club
in his hands and remember all the times we rented it, how we would take turns reciting the lines--sometimes I'd be the jock, sometimes he'd be the geek or the princess. I know he must remember this, too. I know he couldn't rent that movie without in some way thinking of me.

"You don't have to say anything," he continues -- I remember how silence makes him nervous. "You probably don't want to talk to me."

"That's not true," I find myself saying, even though the better (i.e., smaller) part of my brain is yelling,
STOP IT! STOP IT!

"Really?"

T nod. The door to the video store opens and I jump back a few feet, practically into Romance. But it's just Seven and Eight from school, too lost in each other to care about anyone else. Seeing them makes me feel wistful.

"Are you waiting for someone?" Kyle asks, unerringly picking the one question I least want to come out of his mouth.

"Why are you doing this now?" I deflect. "A week ago, you wouldn't even look at me in the halls. What's going on?"

"Don't you get it?" For the first time, he looks a little fiery and irritated. "The reason I couldn't talk to you was because I felt so bad for not talking to you."

"That doesn't make sense," I shoot back. But of course it makes perfect sense.

Kyle goes on, his expression half desperate and half appeasing. "There was a time I thought I was right. And that's when I was the most wrong. But the past month or so -- I tried to stop thinking about you, and I couldn't. I just couldn't. I don't expect you to understand, but I can't avoid it anymore. I can't avoid
you
anymore. I walk around the school and I can feel you hating me. And the worst part is, I can't blame you."

Don't make him feel better,
that smaller (better) part of my brain screams.
Don't accept his
apology so easi
--

"I don't hate you," I say. "I've never hated you. I was hurt."

"I know. I'm really, really sorry."

The door opens again, and there's Noah, hoisting the pizza box like the Dino Diner waitress in the opening credits of
The Flintstones.
Kyle catches my glance and takes a small step forward.

"You've got to go, don't you?"

I nod. And then, surprising even myself, I take
The Breakfast Club
out of his hand.

"I need a movie," I say.

"Can we talk again? Like Monday, after school?"

This is bad news. I know it's bad news. But I've got to keep on following it. I've got to see how the bad news ends.

"I'll meet you outside the chem lab. Only for a little bit."

"Thank you," Kyle says to me. And I have to fight the urge to say thank you back.

It doesn't make sense. Nothing makes sense.

"Paul?"

By the time Noah sees me, Kyle's retreated to Fitness. I walk over and Noah looks at the box in my hand.

"Good choice," he says. "That's one of Claudia's favorites."

I can feel Kyle watching us, even though I can't see him. Noah doesn't notice. He is so happy, so oblivious. As Spiff signs out the tape, I try to muster all my happiness and obliviousness back. Then, as I step through the doorway, I turn for a last look. Kyle sees me turn and raises his hand. I don't know what he's doing, then the hand moves a little back and forth. He is waving to me. It is both a good-bye and a hello.

I am so confused.

Noah is talking to me about the five Italian women who were waiting in front of him at the pizza joint, each wanting a different topping on their pizza, enraged when the toppings overlapped on a single slice. The pizza guy tried to explain that toppings are not an exact science-- sometimes in the melting process a stray piece of sausage ends up snuggled next to an anchovy. The women insisted on sending the pie back.

I shake my head at the right places. I laugh at the right places. But I am not there with him.

My mind is back in the video store, in one of the sections between Comedy and Drama.

I become a little wary that Noah isn't noticing my distance. Then I get more angry at myself for digressing.

As we near his house, I am able to summon up the more wonderful events of the day. Our first kiss seems like ages ago. It is already becoming a memory.

I ride the Noah train of thought--spinning into his house, dealing with Claudia's begrudging approval of the movie selection-- before the movie derails me again.
What was I thinking?

Molly Ringwald makes me think of Kyle. Judd Nelson makes me think of Kyle. Even the goddamn principal makes me think of Kyle.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Then I realize something. Noah seems just as distracted. After Ally Sheedy throws her ham at the statue, I leave the room to reheat the pizza. Noah follows me.

"What's up?" I ask, scared that he's caught on to me, that he's going to boot me out for mental disloyalty.

"I have a confession to make," he says. "It's hard for me to watch that movie."

"Why?"

"The first time I went over to . . . well, Pitt's house, we watched it."

I look at his pained, solemn expression. And then I burst out laughing. Not because it's funny (although in many ways it is). Because I feel a release.

"I know
exactly
how you feel," I say,
briefly
mentioning Kyle (not by name, and not including more recent events).

The night is saved.

We stay in the kitchen for the rest of the video. Noah breaks out a Winnie the Pooh cookbook and we decide to make lemon squares.

"You two are insane," Claudia pronounces when the movie is over and she comes into the kitchen to find us covered with powdered sugar and flour.

"Why, thank you," Noah says. I curtsy. Claudia says she's going to sleep.

Perhaps it's Claudia's presence right over our heads, but Noah and I keep our affections quiet for the rest of the night. We relish the briefest of touches--brushing against each other as we take the lemon squares out of the oven, skimming hand over hand when we reach to turn off the oven, pressing arm against arm as we wash out the mixing bowls.

His parents aren't home yet when it's time for me to leave. Tiredness has crept into our conversation.

"Meet me before the morning bell," I say, reaching up to touch his hair.

"I'll be there," he replies, ruffling me back, kissing me good-bye.

As I walk back outside, I take a deep breath. Sure, Kyle's still in the back of my mind. But I think I can manage to keep Noah in the front.

Things Unsaid

When I see Noah on Monday morning, I can tell that something has shifted within me, within him, and within us. Before, it was all about hope and anticipation. Now it's about hope, anticipation, and proximity. I want to be close to him--not out of some vague notion of what it would be like, but because I have already been close to him and I don't want that to stop.

We talk about our mornings and leave so many things unsaid: the choreography of our note passing, our happiness in seeing each other, a little of our fear, our desire to keep our displays of affection private. The first bell rings, and I'm not sure what we'll do--is there a way to acknowledge our newfound closeness without being one of those couples who can't get through the day without a loud hallway snog?

It's Noah who finds the answer, without me having to ask the question. "I'll see you later," he says, and as he does, he runs his finger briefly over my wrist. It passes over me like air, and makes me shiver like a kiss.

I walk into French class feeling very, very lucky.

"Good weekend?" Joni asks once I sit down in front of her.

"Great weekend," I reply.

"I'm sorry I didn't call you. I was with Chuck."

Of course you were.

Before she can say any more, Ms. Kaplansky begins her conjugations. We continue our conversation in folded, college-ruled form.

Chuck and I went to the driving range. I wanted to mini-golf, but he said that was for wusses.

So he taught me how to swing. After a while, he started calling me his eighteenth hole. Then he took me to the nicest place for dinner, and he was so sweet about it. He tried to order us drinks, but the waitress just laughed. Chuck was steamed for a while about that, but I cheered him up. Did you go out with your lover boy?

Yes.
Noah
and
I
spent
Saturday
together.
It
was
groovy.
I
like
him
a
lot.

I want juicy details.

I
had
Tropicana
for
breakfast
this
morning.
Without
pulp.

That's not what I meant. Fine. Be secretive. Like I keep anything from you. By the way, Ted's started to stalk me. Chuck and I are very upset by it.

What
do
you
mean?

I mean, he keeps calling me and dropping by my house. One time I was there with Chuck, and Chuck almost pummeled him. I mean, doesn't Ted get it? I'm through with him.
Through.

Perhaps he's hurting. [I am thinking for a moment of Kyle]

Yes, he's hurting ME and my relationship with Chuck.

At this point, Ms. Kaplansky announces a pop quiz. We all groan and clear off our desks. Ms.

Kaplansky has an uncanny habit of asking us to translate phrases into French that we would never, ever use in English.

1.
Sir, are you familiar with the works of Australian filmmaker Gillian Armstrong?

2.
He was predisposed to believe that she had a case of indigestion.

3.
I am amazed by the size of that ostrich.

When Ms. Kaplansky is distracted, I turn and look at Joni. I don't see any softness there. I know it's Ted and not me she's angry with. But the anger still surprises me. If I can still feel vulnerability and tenderness towards Kyle (who dumped my sorry ass), then why can't Joni feel something less than hostility towards Ted, who she's left behind?

These questions haunt me throughout the day. Noah and I pass notes between every period, little observation installments to tide us over until the next real conversation. I see Ted and he looks awful-- sleepless and dressed to depress. He mumbles a near-silent hello to me, then passes like a defeated shadow. I would rather have him tease me. I would rather have him yell.

Lyssa Ling makes an announcement during homeroom that the committee sign-ups for the Dowager Dance have been posted along side the jukebox in the cafeteria. Infinite Darlene confides in me that she was the first to sign up for my committee, and that she's already planning what to wear for the first meeting. (I assume this means I should figure out when the first meeting will be; I haven't thought that far ahead.) She spits some venom about Joni and Chuck, who she's decided to call Truck, "since the other alternative is just too obscene for a lady like myself." Later in the day, Chuck walks past me. Out of allegiance to Joni, I say hello. He doesn't acknowledge me. I turn to watch him walk away. A minute later, Joni comes bounding into his arms. He acknowledges her . . . but not as much as she is acknowledging him. She is too enthusiastic to notice. Or perhaps I'm reading him wrong.