Know Not Why: A Novel (38 page)

“Uh. So,” I say, with that in mind. “Are you
planning on, uh, doing it anytime soon?”

I expect to be answered by a punch in the face –
really, it was pretty much an open invitation – but instead, what I
get is a disgusted scowl.

“I can’t believe you, man,” Cliff says. He
actually shakes his head in dismay. I am the worst. “I can’t
believe you would mess with her like that. She always really liked
you.”

“I always really liked her too!” I realize how
this sounds, and take new note of the fact that seriously, this
dude is
tall
, and I quickly add, “But, you know, not in a,
like, awwww-shit-gotta-tap-that way.” Could have just said
‘romantic.’ ‘Romantic’ would have probably worked better. “Contrary
to popular belief. Including my … own … belief, for a little while,
but – no big! That was really long ago. We’re talking … like …
November. Pretty much ancient history.”

“She cried,” Cliff quasi-growls, taking one step
closer. “A
lot
. All through The Devil Wears Prada. So we had
to watch it again.”

“Man, I am so very, very sorry. For lots of
reasons.”

“I love Kristy.” The growling goes away with
this. It’s more like witnessing a middle schooler rhapsodizing over
his first girlfriend. He sounds so earnest that I think, were
Kristy to bear witness to it, she might actually perish of
emotional overwhelmation. I even find myself feeling kindly toward
this guy, this guy who plans to, I can only suppose, beat me to a
bloody pulp as soon as he’s done with his Starbucks.

“I,” I reply sincerely, “would never doubt
that.”

“I just want her to be happy. All the time. You
know what it’s like, to see her upset?”

“Yeah,” I say, because hi, been there. “It’s
like being told that Santa isn’t real. Combined with how it felt to
realize you were too old for fruit snacks.” He looks surprised at
the aptness of my description. “She cried in front of me, too,” I
explain.

This apparently does the trick, because all of a
sudden he’s close, way close! Goodbye, cruel world. “Because you
made
her cry.”

“Really, if we’re talking culpability,” I
squawk, “I feel like Amber was at least as responsible—”

“Listen,” he snarls right into my face. I can
smell the coffee on his breath – so well that I realize it’s
actually hot chocolate. (Solid choice.) Oh God, it’s the end of
me.

But then he glances around us, lowers his voice,
and tells me, “I don’t want to, because it’s not really my thing,
and I … I’veneverreallybeeninafightbefore,” (He mumbles that part
to his shoes), “—but I just … listen, I have to hit you, man. Or
something
.”

My first impulse is to run to my car, lock all
the doors, and blast Tori Amos until he flees in insurmountable
terror, which is, I figure, anyone with a dick’s response to Tori
Amos.

But then I think back to Kristy, teary-eyed.

“You know what,” I say, inhaling steeply, “go
for it.”

He stares at me. “What?”

“Go for it,” I say again. Each word is a tiny
unsettling pain, like stepping on a thumbtack. “Hit me.”

Cliff looks at me. He seems disappointed.

“I don’t think it works like that,” he says.

“Like what?”

“You can’t … you can’t
surrender,
man.
Then it’d be like I’m just beating you up.”

“Isn’t that the point?”

“I guess,” he says, “but that just seems so …
mean.”

“I won’t lie: it does kinda give off that
impression.”

“Damn it,” he mumbles. He takes another sip of
his hot chocolate.

Whoo. Close one. Except – except, well, I don’t
really
feel
like ‘whoo, close one.’ I feel more like I just
craftily weaseled my way out of something that I deserved. I don’t
know how getting pain inflicted upon me is really going to help
things with Kristy, but maybe it would help things with me. I still
can’t quite shake the notion that I am deserving of punishment.

“If it helps,” I say slowly, “The first time I
saw her, I distinctly thought, ‘I wanna ride that more times than
the Matterhorn at Disneyland.’”

Cliff stares thoughtfully at me. Then he does
this curt little nod, very carefully sets his hot chocolate onto
the ground, and lunges.

For all my talk of self-sacrifice, I guess I
would make a sucky Jesus, because I bolt. I don’t mean to, but all
of a sudden there’s this much bigger, much fitter guy about to
decimate me, and I can’t just stand there and let it happen.

However, unforeseen complication: it’s icy.
Really, really icy. I make it like eight steps, and then I slip and
fall. Hard.

“Ow! Fuck!”

“Eeeshhh!” Cliff freezes, hovering over me. “You
okay, man?”

“I think so,” I say. He offers a hand to pull me
up, and I take it. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, sure.” I’m just getting used to what it
feels like to stand again when there is – oh shit – a fist heading
straight for my face.

Bam!

Aaaand I’m down again.

“Ohhhh,” I groan. “Bad. Bad feeling.”

“Was that not a good time to do it?” Cliff asks,
concerned.

“I’m dot sure any time would have beed a good
tibe,” I reply, feeling a little dizzy. “But that was probably one
of the worser tibes, yeah.”

“Ahhh, okay, uh, I just thought maybe it
wouldn’t be as bad, since you just fell over, so you’re hurt
already
, so maybe it would kind of just – blend in –”

“
Ow
,” I say pointedly.

“Uh. Okay. Well. Sorry. And, uh – don’t be a
jerk to my girlfriend. Please.”

“Fear dot, good sir. Dever again.”

“Here,” he says, leaning down. “I’ll help you
for real this time.”

“I don’t beliebe you,” I moan, but I’m in too
much pain to put up a fight as he reaches for my arm and starts to
heave me up off the ground. Except then all of a sudden
he’s
being yanked away from me—

“Asshole, I will pepperspray your
ass
,
BACK OFF.”

The first thing I think is
Cora!
, even
though it doesn’t sound like Cora. Then my brain makes the leap to
…. Amber?
, who is always hovering at the top of my list of
fierce ladies. This is succeeded, rather dazedly, by
Xena?,
Buffy?, River Song?, Agent Scully?, Professor McGonagall?,
President Laura Roslin of the Twelve Colonies of Kobol?, Mad Wife
In The Attic From Jane Austen Not Eyre No Wait Damn It Eyre Not
Austen?
, and just keeps going and going. What doesn’t even
cross my mind, though, is the truth, and the truth is that
it’s—

“Heather Grimsby?” I croak.

I look up at her. Her swooshy brown hair catches
the light and seems to burn. She’s like an avenging angel. Or
possibly the devil.

“Hey, Howie, what’s up,” she says in that
inimitable uninterested Heather Grimsby drawl. Her attention
switches to Cliff. “Seriously. You done here, loser? Because I will
friggin’ spray this, okay.” She brandishes the can in her hand.

“Don’t,” squeaks Cliff. “Please don’t spray
it.”

“Please don’t spray it,” I throw in, because I
get the sense that throwing pepperspray into the mix will make this
fun for no one.

“Fine,” she says, lowering it slowly and putting
it back into her bag. “But you deserved it, douche.”

“Sorry,” Cliff says, sounding properly ashamed.
“I was just helping him up. Honest.”

“Right after you totally punched him in the
face? Sure.”

“It’s pretty complicated,” Cliff mumbles,
sheepish.

“Why the hell do you have pepperspray?” I can’t
help asking. This is not exactly crime central.

“I don’t,” Heather replies. “It’s a sampler
bottle of hairspray.”

“You mean you were gonna attack us with
hairspray?” Cliff asks, starting to laugh. “Like, what, make our
hair look really good?”

“Uh, did I give you chortle permission, doof?”
Heather demands.

He stops laughing and stares sadly at the
ground.

She tosses her hair over her shoulder.

I … don’t really know what to do.

Arthur’s car pulls into the lot. It’s still
running when Kristy jumps out of the passenger’s seat and scurries
over to the scene of the crime. “Reddy? What’s going on??”

“Morning, Kristybee,” Cliff says, massaging his
neck awkwardly. “Um. First remember that I love you. This, total
act of love. And, uh, I did something kind of stupid.”

While Cliff gets cracking on
that
explanation, Heather reaches down and helps me back on my feet.
Considering the last time we engaged in physical contact it was
while she was puking on me, it makes things kind of weird.

“Uh,” I say, “thanks, I guess. For … saving
me.”

She shrugs. “I owed you one.”

“Yeah,” I say, because I can’t quite dispute
that. “You did.”

For a second, I wonder if she’s going to
apologize. It’s gone quiet, the kind of quiet that usually preludes
some grand proclamation. The sky is just starting to brighten from
black to dusky blue. It’d be downright symbolic.

“See you around,” she says.

“Yeah,” I agree, “See ya.”

I watch her walk away, disoriented. Who knew the
day would come when her working next door would bring me anything
besides anxiety and pain?

Arthur comes over. “Look at you.”

“Is it bad?”

“There’s blood,” he reports.

“Score,” I say.

He rummages in his pocket for a few seconds and
retrieves—

“Oh, Artie. You’re handkerchiefing me?”

“It’s a Kleenex,” he protests.

“Still.” I grin at him. “You classy gent.”

He laughs softly as he lifts it to my nose.
There’s a flash of pain at the contact, and I wince.

“Sorry,” he murmurs.

“S’okay.”

“And I thought telling your mother about me was
going to be the dramatic highlight of your week.”

“Please, boytoy mine. I live large. And fast.
Always.”

“How ever will I keep up with you?” he
deadpans.

“Ehhh.” I feign contemplation. “For you, I’ll
slow down.”

He smiles, one of those slight quiet smiles that
look really good on his mouth. “Much appreciated.”

“I just got saved from
Reddy
,” I recount,
still feeling pretty dazed, “by Heather Grimsby, Ruiner of my
Teenage Existence.”

“I think she owed you.”

“That’s what she said,” I reply. As soon as the
words come out of my mouth, the world around us turns sparkly and
bright. “Hey! Look at that. An accidental ‘that’s what she
said.’”

“I don’t think it counts,” Arthur says, “since
the preceding statement wasn’t exactly ridden with innuendo—”

“Shhhh,” I interrupt, catching his wrist and
temporarily ceasing his mission to mop up my blood. (That’s real
affection.) “Don’t destroy the pristine, ephemeral beauty of this
perfect moment.”

He shuts up obediently. And rolls his eyes, but
it’s in a way where I can tell he finds my shenanigans
endearing.

I am so damn lucky. Standing in a parking lot
with my second bloody nose ever seems nothing short of great, as
long as he’s right there with his goddamn Kleenex.

“Hey, Howie?”

I turn around. Cliff is standing there, looking
contrite.

“You can have the rest of my hot chocolate, if
you want.” He holds it out to me.

Wouldn’t you know, this zany debacle’s been good
for something after all.

“Thanks, buddy,” I say, and get to work gulping
it down.

+

As far as bloody noses go, mine is pretty
unimpressive. It’s not even bleeding anymore, just red and
grumpy-looking. I inspect my reflection in the bathroom mirror.
What is it about me, unwanted red noses, and this mirror?

“I got you ice.” I turn to see Kristy standing
in the doorway, clutching a ziplock bag of ice cubes.

“You didn’t have to get me ice.”

“I wanted to,” she says, handing it to me. “I’m
sorry he did that.”

“I’m not. I earned it. I more than earned it. He
probably should have hit me with a moving van.”

“Nah,” she replies, with a pale imitation of her
usual Kristy beam. After a few seconds, she slyly adds, “He’s a
nervous driver. I don’t think he’d want to operate a moving
van.”

“Burnnnn.”

I press the ice pack gingerly against my nose,
wincing a little at the sudden sting of the cold.

This is not lost on Kristy. “Isn’t it a shame
sometimes that ice has to be so cold? I sort of wish they could
invent hot ice. But that makes no sense, does it? Like, you could
probably just use a heating pad or something. Still. You know what
else I think would be neat? A reverse microwave, you know, in case
you have something that’s too hot and you want it to cool down
faster. Because the fridge just doesn’t work very fast! Even the
freezer doesn’t. I tried to tell Arthur about this one time, but he
said it was scientifically impossible, which I thought was sort of
unfair, because—” She stops and bites her lip. “Sorry. I’m
rambling.”

“I like it when you ramble,” I tell her. “Your
rambling, milady, has been dearly missed by me.”

“It’s only been a few days,” she points out.

“Don’t care. Mine has been an empty life,
KQ.”

She laughs a little, halfheartedly, and doesn’t
say anything.

“I hate me for all the stuff Amber told you,” I
say, because I can’t really handle not saying it. “You get that,
right?”

A little hesitantly, she answers, “Reddy did say
that you were going to let him hit you.”

“Yeah,” I say, and feel a flash of gratitude
toward ol’ Reddy for not including the part where I also ran
away.

“I know that a lot of the time boys pretend to
like girls and care about what they say just so they can sleep with
them,” she says, not looking at me. “I do. But it made me really
sad to think that you were one of them.”

“Hey, don’t. That was all – I dunno, denial, and
me not being happy about a lot of stuff, and you just seemed like
this really great cure.”