Nothing Like You (6 page)

Inside, Neil Diamond was still playing my same song over and over. I shut the door behind us and sat down on my bed. “Well?” I said.

“I like your room.”

“Thanks.” I bit my top lip. “What do you want?”

“Is this Neil Young?”

“Neil Diamond,” I corrected.

“Right. That’s what I meant.”

“Why are you here?”

He looked at me. “I just want to know what happened today.”

“Nothing happened,” I said softly, worried Jeff would hear. “I just don’t want to be your friend anymore. I can’t be your friend.” I clenched my teeth shut and put my hand to my heart, trying to slow its insane pace.

“Why not?”

“I told you …,” I said, looking down. “You have enough friends already.”

He pointed toward the bed. “Can I come over there?”

I shrugged.

“Is this about Saskia?” He was sitting next to me now. “I explained that to you.”

“You were kissing her.”

“When?”

“Today in the cafeteria.”

“She’s my girlfriend, Holly. I have to kiss her.” But he
didn’t have to kiss her. He didn’t have to date her or love her or run his fingers through her hair. It’s a choice, love. Even if she were threatening pills or razorblades,
blackmailing
him into loving her, the least he could do was look miserable loving her back.

“You looked happy,” I said.

He slid closer to me, so our arms were touching. My stomach flipped and I moved sideways, away from him.

“You’re tired,” he said, suddenly seeming extraordinarily sympathetic.

I nodded. “You should go.”

He stared back at me for a long second, then shrugged. “We could get into bed together?”

“What’s that?”

“I promise not to do anything.” He stood up then, pulling back my sheets. “We’ll just sleep.”

“How?
No.
” We wouldn’t just sleep. We’d lie side by side awake and unhappy. If he touched me, I’d be unhappy. If he didn’t touch me, I’d be unhappy.

“Come on, under the covers.” He crept into bed, dragging the floral comforter up to his chin.

“I’m not getting into bed with you,” I said. But he grabbed my hand and pulled me down. Not meaning to, I laughed. Then we were in bed together, under the covers, Neil Diamond singing “Holly Holy” over and over and even though he’d promised he wouldn’t try anything, it only took
about a minute before his hands were laced around my waist from behind. He pulled me into him. “Don’t do that,” I said.

His face was buried into the back of my neck. “Do what?” He took a breath. His hands slid up my shirt.

“That,” I whispered, “don’t do that.” I turned onto my back. He kissed me. And it wasn’t like last time, in the car. Last time felt wrong, but this time felt great. So funny, how something so wrong can feel so right. How before at the beach it all felt so empty, and how now, hating him and wanting him and feeling guilty about Saskia all rolled into one really wonderful feeling. He slipped my shirt over my head. “Can I stay here tonight, Holly?”

“You have to leave before Jeff gets up.”

I could hear him sliding his pants off under the covers. “I think about you all the time,” he said, and then he pulled me into him and I let him say sweet things to me, I let him slide off my underwear. “Is this okay?” he asked, running a hand across my stomach. I nodded and brushed my lips against his lips. I knew there was another person to consider. I knew he loved her and not me. But it was my life and my bed and I wanted to feel what I wanted to feel.
If I die tomorrow,
I thought,
at least I’ll die knowing I felt something real.

So here’s where
things started to get a little mixed up.

I suddenly had a secret. And it made me feel guilty, yeah, but I also felt really fantastic. I felt the opposite of dead, really what I’d been striving for, and someone suddenly wanted me in a way I hadn’t been wanted before. I didn’t even mind having to keep things to myself. I mean, I thought the whole situation was really unfortunate, but I knew that I was the one he wanted more. That if she weren’t so fragile, so unstable, he’d be with me for real. No Saskia. No secret affair.

“She’s frigid.”

“No, she’s not.”

“Holly, she is, she won’t have sex with me.”

We were in the back of my car, parked at the beach. Paul was smoking. My windows were rolled up.

“You’re lying,” I said.

“I’m not.”

“You’ve been together
three years
. You’ve had sex with her.” I buckled and unbuckled my seat belt.

He shook his head. “She’s saving herself.” He laughed and dragged off his cigarette. “So ridiculous, that we’re still together …”

I hated hearing him say it: He was with her, not me. It had only been two weeks, the two of us doing what we were doing, and already I felt possessive.

He rolled onto his side and took my face between his hands. “It’s so much better with you. It’s easy. It feels right with you.” I loved this. When he compared me to her. Things were easier with me. I was better than her.

The day before at school, I’d watched them in the hall together. Bumping hips while they walked. I’d watched her whisper something in his ear while he grabbed at her hands and bit the collar on her orange Lacoste polo. Three girls passed by, waving hello, and Paul leaned into Saskia and kissed her. He slipped her the tongue in front of everyone and she smiled, mid-kiss, and pushed him away, hitting him gently with the heel of her hand. Nils was with me. He was watching too. We leaned against our lockers in the hallway, sharing a bag of cheese popcorn. He said, “Those two make me want to puke. Seriously. Happiness like that should be outlawed.”

And he could say what he wanted, but it all looked like lies to me. I felt bad for her. Fragile, frigid Saskia Van Wyck.
Poor little girl,
I thought, watching them stroll right past me. Their arms linked like paper dolls.
You think he’s yours, but he’s not,
I thought.
You think he’s yours, but really he’s mine.

Once, years ago
, Mom hosted a crystal convention in our living room.

I was ten, padding around in socks and my long white nightgown while dozens of new-age hippies milled about sipping Kombucha tea, fondling rocks, and discussing
energy
.

“Who
are
these people?” Jeff asked. He was sitting on the granite island in the middle of our kitchen.

“I have no clue,” I said, running toward him, scaling the side of the island so we could sit side by side.

“You think they know we live here?” Jeff asked. He was twirling a long, rose-quartz baton between his thumb and middle finger.

“No way,” I said, getting settled, eyeing the crowd.

Mom moved easily from circle to circle, beaming, refilling
cups, stopping occasionally to check out a rock and discuss its unique shape and healing capabilities.

“I like
that
lady,” I said, tilting my head toward a woman wearing a neon yellow jumper, inspecting a piece of amethyst. “I like her braids,” I said, tugging on my own hair.

Jeff nodded. “Or what about this guy?” he said, pointing at this young dude with sandy hair hovering around my mother. “He’s been trying to talk to Mom for the last half hour.” Jeff looked at me. “You think he likes her?”

“Like,
likes
her?” I asked, horrified. “Ew. No.”

“I think he
likes
her,” Jeff said, amused. We both looked back at my mom. The guy was trying to edge his way into my mother’s conversation with another woman.

“I’m right. You
know
I’m right,” Jeff said, nudging my shoulder.

“Maybe.” I nodded, turning to face him. “But doesn’t that make you mad?”

He put a hand on my head. “It makes me
proud
,” he said, happily mussing my hair, then pulling me forward and into a tight embrace.

Nils was suddenly
suspicious. He’d stopped dicking around with Nora Bittenbender long enough to notice my hysterical good cheer.

“You seem different,” he said, folding down a page in his book and turning toward me.

I shrugged.

We were in The Shack, after school. It was almost six and dusky out.

“I just—I get the distinct impression that you’re hiding something from me.”

I turned onto my side, amused, and faced him on the futon. “Oh yeah? Like what? What am I hiding?”

“I dunno. You’re happy all the time. Like, all of a sudden, things are great.”

I forced a frown and brushed a stray hair off Nils’s forehead. He looked at me for a beat. “Lemme guess: You’re in love!”

I snorted.

“Or maybe you’ve just won the lottery!”

“Could be.”

“Or maybe you got that adorable little fruit bat you’ve always wanted. The one we saw splashed across the glossy pages of
National Geographic
not too long ago… .”

“That very same one?” I played along excitedly.

“That very same bat.”

I put my hands to my heart. Nils took a breath and dropped his head back down on the bed. “So what’s the real deal?”

I flipped onto my back and fixed my eyes on the ceiling. I couldn’t tell him about Paul. I just couldn’t. “No deal. I’m putting on the Christmas lights. It’s getting dark.” I rolled to my side and stuck the plug in the socket.

“Holly.”

“Nils.”

“Come on, no kidding. What’s up?”

“Nothing. I just feel good. There has to be a reason for that?” I tried my best to look believable. “Maybe the cloud has finally lifted.”

“I thought we told each other everything.”

“We don’t tell each other everything.”

“Yes, we do.”

“No, we
don’t
, loser. I don’t know anything about you and your thing with that girl.”

“That’s because you don’t
want
to know anything. I’d tell you if you asked. And why can’t you say her name, Holly? You know her name.”

“Yes, I know her name.”

“Say it.”

“Nora … Slut-bender.”

Nils sat up, pissed. “She’s not a slut. What, just because she’s not some perfect little virgin, she’s a slut?”

“Fiiiine, she’s not a slut. I still don’t like her. And you don’t like her either! Remember? She’s dumb, Nils. You’re just with her’cause she’ll have sex with you.”

“You’re jealous.”

I laughed. “Jealous of
what
? Her
constant
giggling? All that bottomless
depth
?” I got up on my knees. “Oh! Or! Watch for her birthday party costume. Bet you anything it involves a bikini!”

“Okay, Holly, enough.”

I tilted my head to one side. “You’re a smart guy, Nils. I don’t understand why you’d go out with a girl like that.”

“One day you’ll get it. You’ll invest more than two seconds in something or someone, then we’ll talk.”

“You think you know everything about me?” I stood up. “You don’t know everything about me. I’ve
invested
in things you know nothing about.”

“Clearly.” We looked at each other. Nils grabbed my hand and dragged me back down. He looked me straight in the eye.

I wilted a little. “Look, I can’t talk about it, okay? Just respect that, please? Because I can’t. Not now, anyways.”

“All right.”

I grabbed him and wrapped my arms around his neck. Then held on tight for second or two before pulling back. “Do you bring her here?”

“Who? Nora?”

I nodded, my hands sliding to his shoulders. “Do you?”

“Holly, no. Come on. This is our place.”

We linked pinkies. Then we both slid back down onto our backs with our books. Nils reached over and slipped a finger through my hair. “I love fighting with you,” he whispered.

I dragged my knees to my chest. “Exciting, isn’t it?”

“Makes me feel so alive!” he teased, pulling on a thick chunk of hair and jolting my head hard to one side.

Mid-November
. I was helping Ballanoff carry two huge stacks of books back to his office. We were talking about dumb stuff. Surface stuff. School and Dad and a new section from
The Crucible
we were working on in class. And then came a quick lull in the conversation and who knows why I said what I said but here’s what came out when I opened my mouth: “Jeff says you had a crush on my mom.”