Rolling Dice (18 page)

I don’t expect them to understand properly. It’s just that … it was so
hard
. It was hard trying to stay invisible when people wouldn’t let me. And I didn’t react, not once. I refused to let myself react; reacting would have made it worse, given them another excuse to laugh at me. And now I want to leave all of that behind me. I don’t mind that there are occasional reminders of how I used to be—photos and home movies, stuff like that—but I don’t want them to be shown to someone who I hope is my friend. I don’t want anyone to know about the old Madison. I’ve started moving on and I’d like it to stay that way. The past stays in the past.

But it’s not like I can explain all of that to my parents, exactly.

“Just … please don’t do that to me again,” I say instead, and then I leave.

Back in the family room, I find Dwight surrounded by books, his laptop booting up. He turns and smiles at me, and I smile back, as though everything is completely and entirely normal.

“You’re kidding me!” Dwight exclaims, laughter in his voice. “You have an apple tree in your backyard?”

“I’m totally serious.”

He throws his arms up in the air and then brings his hands down to rest on top of his head, his fingers knitting together. He looks up the ceiling, chuckling and shaking his head. “Oh, man, this is … this is
brilliant
!”

“Um … okay …” I frown, not understanding his enthusiasm about the apple tree. I clear my throat to get his attention again. “Why is it brilliant, exactly?”

“Well, you know the story they tell you in, like, fourth grade, that an apple fell on Newton’s head and then he discovered gravity and whatever, right? Well, we can use your apple tree in experiments. It’s perfect! We can—”

“Wait. You’re not going to
actually
drop an apple on my head, are you?”

“Of course I am. It could help you pass AP Physics. Look what it did for Newton.”

I stare at him for a long moment, a moment that stretches out as we both try and discern each other’s thoughts. The innocent enthusiasm in his wide eyes makes me think he’s serious … but he can’t be, can he?

Eventually he starts chuckling. “You didn’t actually think I was serious, did you?”

I punch him in the arm, scowling. “Heck
yeah
!”

He carries right on laughing at me. “Oh God, you should’ve seen your face!”

I huff, “Whatever.”

“In all seriousness, though,” Dwight continues, “we can do an experiment to prove that acceleration due to gravity is 9:81 meters per second squared. We can drop an apple, measure the distance it falls, time how long it takes to fall … it’ll be easy. Plot a graph, et cetera. I might be able to put together some kind of electromagnetic timer so the apple flips a switch whenever—”

“Yeah,” I interrupt. “If you want to do that, it’s entirely up to you. I will try to help where I can, but I can’t promise I’ll understand what I’m doing.”

He laughs, then cries out, “Oh! And you know what else we can do? Drop an apple on some cornstarch and water.”

“What? Why would we do that?”

“There’s something called non-Newtonian fluids …,” he tells me, and goes on to explain about how certain liquids (like cornstarch mixed with water) can become solid (the particles form hydroclusters, whatever that means) when something hard—like an apple—hits them.

I tune out and reflect that there’s something very cute about Dwight. It’s hard to put my finger on what, though. I think it’s mostly his smile. It’s just so undeniably happy, and the way it reaches higher on the left is quirky rather than strange. As he’s talking, he gestures with his long limbs; he’s thin and gangly and looks just a little uncoordinated, like he could knock a vase over at any moment.

Right now, he’s just wearing a T-shirt with a faded design of a band I’ve never heard of, and a pair of black jeans. Whenever I’ve seen him at school, he’s always in a plain T-shirt or polo. Maybe a pair of slacks instead of jeans. And I’ve never seen him wear Converse to school—it’s always shiny white sneakers or polished shoes.

But I really like band-tee Dwight. We’ve only been working on this project for about an hour and a half, but he’s talked and laughed more than I’ve ever heard him during Physics class. It’s like a different side of him.

And yes, again, he is very, very cute.

“Madison … Madison …”

I jerk out of my thoughts. “Huh?”

He laughs. “Was I really boring you that much?”

“No—well, yes. I mean, no! No, you weren’t boring me,” I stammer, then slap my palm to my face, blushing sheepishly. “Sorry.”

He laughs again. “Don’t worry. I get carried away sometimes, I know. How about I just note down the experiments and how we’re going to do them, and you can put in extra effort when it comes to carrying them out?”

“Deal,” I say. Then, “Wanna take a break?”

“I think we deserve one. After all the work we’ve done.” He gestures at the notebooks we’ve scribbled in. His scribbles are more extensive than mine. There are even diagrams. My page leans more toward doodles than diagrams.

I get up and stretch my legs and arms. I pull back the blinds to check it hasn’t suddenly started raining. “Wanna check out the apple tree?”

I turn back and see Dwight grinning at me, and he clambers to his feet and stretches too, cracking his knuckles. “Lead the way.”

It’s pretty mild outside, but the sky is cloudy. The air acts as a kind of blanket, almost tangible as it presses against my skin.

Our backyard here is bigger than the one we had in Maine. Mom’s flower beds sit on either side, against the fences that divide our yard firmly from the neighbors’. There’s the pool too, of course—but that’s got a cover over it because there was something wrong with the filter, and Dad hasn’t managed to get someone to fix it—and a small deck with the wooden table and chairs we brought from Pineford.

Right at the back of the yard, though, is my favorite spot. That’s where the apple tree is. Whoever owned the house before us must’ve had a kid—or been a kid at heart—because there’s a tire swing hanging from a thick branch. The rope is dark with age and a little frayed, but it’s very thick and strong. There’s also a bench. That’s where Dwight sits; I take the swing.

Hooking my legs through the tire, I push my feet off the ground so that I spin in a circle a few times, and then rotate back until I come to a stop.

He’s just smiling that crooked smile at me. “You’re such a child.”

I giggle, not bothering to deny it.

“So this is the apple tree.” He looks at it appraisingly and nods. “It has surpassed my expectations, considering they don’t grow very well in this kind of climate.”

“Oh. Um, cool.”

After a moment’s hesitation he swings his long legs up onto the bench. One dangles off the end and the other is bent, and his left arm is slung over the back like it doesn’t know where to go. I just rock myself back and forth. It’s nice to have the company, even if we aren’t touching, or speaking, or communicating in any way. Dwight is just there, and I am just here, and it’s
nice
.

I’m not precisely happy. I wouldn’t call it happy. But I wouldn’t call it sad, or lonely, or in any way bad.

I’m … content. Yeah. That’s the word.
Content
.

“Dice.”

I glance up with a “Hmm?” It takes a moment for me to register what he just said, though. “Why’d you call me that?” I ask before he can go on.

“It’s your name, right?”

“Well, yes, but—I mean, no. It’s … My parents call me that. Nobody else does. Nobody else ever really has.”

“Where’d it come from, anyway?”

“When I was a baby and started talking, I couldn’t say Madison, I could only manage Dice. It caught on.”

“Well, I’m going to call you that,” he declares with that adorable, easy grin. “It fits you.”

“How so?”

“It fits you,” he tells me again, but he doesn’t elaborate. I give him a second, and widen my eyes, prompting him, but this doesn’t elicit anything more.

“Do you have a nickname?” I ask him.

“Not really. There aren’t exactly a lot of things you can get from Dwight.”

“Big D?” I deadpan.

He laughs, shakes his head at me. “Right.”

“Can’t say I didn’t try. Dwight it is, then.”

“Dwight it is,” he repeats, confirming it.

And then we sit in silence a little longer, until he speaks again. “I never had a tire swing when I was a kid. I used to have a tree house, though. Well, I say ‘used to,’ but it’s still there, up in the tree in the backyard where my dad and my uncle built it. When I was a kid I used to play up in that tree house all the time, but then one day I just didn’t anymore.

“Do you ever get that feeling: one day, you just wake up and you’re suddenly not a kid anymore? One morning—I remember it was mid-April, when I was twelve, and it was a really sunny day. Well, that morning, I just woke up, and for the first time I didn’t want to play in the tree house. And that was it.”

I feel like he wants me to reply, but I have no idea what to say. So instead, I decide to ask, “Didn’t your sister ever play in there?”

Dwight shakes his head. “It was always my thing. Never something that interested her.”

I spin around a few more times before I speak again. “Dwight?”

“Yes.”

“I … Don’t feel like you have to answer this, and I’m sorry if I’m being nosy, and you can tell me to shut up, but is—is your … your dad—I mean, is he …?”

“My dad died five years ago,” he replies to my unspoken question, his voice quiet. “So yeah, he is.”

“Oh.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re sorry, okay?” he says. “Sorry doesn’t help. I’ve dealt with it, I’m dealing with it, I will deal with it for the rest of my conscious existence. And
that’s okay. But sorry doesn’t make it much better.”

“I wasn’t going to say sorry,” I tell him honestly. “I know.”

“Thanks.”

“Want to go back inside?”

“My curiosity regarding the apple tree has been satisfied.” He stands up, pulls down the right leg of his jeans, and then straightens his T-shirt.

I disentangle myself from the tire swing, and we head back inside to carry on planning out our Physics project.

On Monday morning I drag myself out of bed. The weekend passed far too quickly for my liking—I spent all of Saturday evening at Bryce’s house, meeting his parents officially for the first time over dinner; I spent all of Saturday afternoon freaking out on the phone to Tiffany about what to wear to meet his parents and how I should act. Now I force myself up and throw on some clothes, too groggy to put much thought into my choice.

Mom is making herself a coffee when I slump into a chair at the kitchen table with a whole-grain bagel and glass of OJ. I’m bleary eyed and my mind hasn’t woken up yet; I’m just going through the motions.

“Do you want a ride to school,” Mom asks, “or are you going to walk?”

“Nngh.”

“Okay,” she says as if she knows exactly what I’ve just said. I sure as heck don’t.

“Dwight called last night,” she says calmly. “While you were out at the beach with Bryce.”

I look up, suddenly a bit more awake. “What did he want?”

“Something about the project, but he said it wasn’t a big deal. I guess you can find out today.” Then she adds, “I like Dwight.”

“Me too,” I tell her quietly. “He’s a nice guy.”

“Bryce is very nice too, though.”

That makes me frown. Why do I think she’s comparing them? And why, why, why is it making me get that horrible feeling … like I’ve done something wrong?

“Yes,” I agree slowly—cautiously. “He’s great. Really great. Fantastic, even.”

Mom just nods, and then she grins at me. Maybe I’m not following things properly, or maybe she’s had too much coffee, but I don’t get her sudden changes of mood. “I’m so happy for you, Dice. Making friends, getting back into your schoolwork … a boyfriend …”

I have to smile, because my mom is so happy that I’m no longer the loser outcast. I’m no longer Fatty Maddie. I’m just Madison. And it’s nice.

Mom drives me to school. I’m early, as usual. There are only a few kids hanging around outside on the field, and a few teachers ambling in.

Sunday, I caught up on some English homework, and then Bryce came by in the
evening and we walked to the beach. We just sat on the sand and made out and talked. I am aware that thus far in my relationship with Bryce, there hasn’t been much deep and meaningful conversation. But in fairness, my past has been a closed book, so I’ve avoided talking about myself. Bryce likes to talk about soccer. It’s totally lost on me, but I like listening to him—he gets excited and usually makes me laugh, telling me funny stories about soccer matches. But yeah, mostly, when we’re together, we kiss. Not that I mind; of course not.

I reach our usual picnic bench and sit down, earphones in. I fold my arms on the table and rest my head. I shouldn’t have stayed up texting Bryce till one in the morning. I’m dead on my feet.

I think I fall asleep—I don’t know. But all of a sudden, when I sit up and rub my eyes, there’s Bryce next to me, talking to Adam and Ricky.

“Hey, sleepyhead.”

“What … what time is it?” I ask. I pull out one of my earphones.

“Few minutes till homeroom,” Ricky tells me. “You were crashed out when we got here.”

“Why’re you so tired?” Bryce asks me. “You okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” I say. I start to rub my eyes again, but catch myself before I smear my mascara. “You just kept me up all night.”

There’s the slightest pause before Adam snorts with laughter and Ricky says, “Kept her up
all night
, huh, Bryce?”

My cheeks flame red. “That’s not what I meant!”

Bryce laughs—not at the boys, but at my reaction. He holds my gaze and brushes a fingertip over my flaming cheek.

I duck my head away, and then the bell rings out; there’s a collective movement on the field as people brace themselves for a day of school.

“We’re just teasing you, Madison, don’t worry,” Ricky assures me with a grin as I stumble tiredly into the building. “Everyone knows you’re the sweet innocent little virgin.”

The only reply I can come up with is: “Um.”