Shuffle, Repeat (9 page)

I shake the thought away.

“It's not cheating if it's a stupid bet in the first place,” Itch argues.

“It's not a bet. I told you that already.” My voice rises and I don't try to stop it. We're at a freaking construction site. No one can hear us. “It's a competition. It's a game.”

“It's bullshit.”

“It's fun,” I say even louder. With the words comes the knowledge: it's true.

Itch shakes his head. “You have a screwed-up definition of fun.”

I sit back against the door, crossing my arms in front of my chest. “What's
your
definition? Because I honestly don't have any idea what you think is fun. You never seem to have any.”

Itch is silent for a moment before leaning forward and turning the key. “It's getting late.”

“I appreciate the present.”

Neither one of us is telling the truth.

“I've been thinking about something you said,” Oliver tells me as his Air Supply song plays softly for the second time this morning.

“That we should be paying more attention to climate change?” I ask.

“No.”

“That people should reconsider their feelings about insects as food because eating them instead of meat would be better for the environment?”

Oliver laughs. “No, but I would pay good money to watch you eat a grub worm.”

“I said I'm reconsidering my feelings,” I remind him. “Not that I'm ordering grub worm sandwiches.”

“Poser.”

“Baby steps,” I tell him. “What have you been thinking about?”

“The senior prank.” Oliver waits patiently while I perform a bunch of eye rolling and excessive sighing. “Is it out of your system?”

“One more.” I heave a final deep groan. “Okay, I'm done. Go ahead.”

“No more laxatives.”

“Am I expected to cheer?”

“No.” Oliver pokes me in the ribs.

“Hey!”

“But you are supposed to hush and listen.”

I hush and listen.

“Theo says that Jimmy McKay says he can borrow a really tame cow from his uncle's farm.”

“ ‘Borrow.' ” I say it with a heavy dose of skepticism.

“We won't give it any laxatives and we'll be really nice to it.”

“How?”

“What do you mean?”

“How are you going to be nice to Jimmy McKay's uncle's really tame cow?”

Oliver considers. “We'll bring it treats.”

“Treats.”

“Hay or alfalfa or…sugar lumps! Don't cows like sugar lumps?”

“
Horses
like sugar lumps.” I purse my lips. “Go on.”

“There's this scientific thing about how cows can go up stairs but not down them. So all we have to do is get the cow up to the third floor. It's way better than feeding it laxatives. It'll just be stuck up there, mooing around. I bet they'll cancel classes. At least in the morning.”

“Hey, Oliver?”

“Yeah?”

“
Why
do you think cows won't go down stairs?”

Oliver's forehead scrunches up. “Evolution?”

I whap him across the biceps (God, that's hard!) and make a snort that sounds a lot like Itch. “It's because they're
scared.
”

“We shouldn't scare the cow?”

“It's mean to scare cows,” I tell him. “Even for tradition. Even for a
legacy.
”

“It's mean to crush my hopes and dreams.” Oliver slumps in an overdramatic way that makes me laugh.

We're both quiet for a while as the Violent Femmes (my one song, of course) play from the behemoth's speakers. “This music sucks,” Oliver says mildly.

“You've mentioned.”

I watch as the trees flashing by are replaced by storefronts. I would prefer to engage in our now traditional sport of song bashing, or even to continue discussion of the senior prank, but my mind keeps going back to my conversation with Itch. Or rather, my
lack
of conversation with Itch. “I have a question,” I tell Oliver.

“Shoot.”

“Hypothetically speaking, let's say that a person and her boyfriend made a decision to be free to date other people over a specific period of time. Say, a summer, for example.”

“For example,” says Oliver.

“Let's say that this hypothetical person didn't date anyone, exactly, but instead may have—one time only and with one person only—done some…” I pause, trying to figure out how to continue. “Done some
things.
”

“
Things
that are physical? Like the
things
commonly done between two people who are dating?”

“Correct.” I nod and then hasten to add, “But not
all
the things. Not even
most
of the things.”

“How many things, exactly?”

“Like
one
thing. Maybe one and a
half.
”

“Which particular things?” Oliver asks. “Be specific. Give details.”

“You're heading toward Theo Land,” I warn him. If Darbs or Lily or Shaun was the one asking, I would probably give more information. That would be normal. But the idea of telling those same things to Oliver doesn't seem fine or normal at all. It seems…

I can't figure out how it seems. Mostly, it just seems like I don't want to tell him.

“I'm an emotional detective,” Oliver says. “A therapist. I'm basically like a priest….Are you going to do that eye-rolling seizure thing again?”

“Probably.” I stare at his handsome profile and decide just to go for it. I want a straight-male take on the Itch Sitch, and at the moment, the only qualified person in my life appears to be Oliver. “It was one time, one guy, and it was no big deal. A little making out, that's all.”

“You did say maybe one and a half things.”

“Fine, some over-the-shirt action. That's all you get.”

“I can work with that,” says Oliver. “Go on.”

“I keep thinking about it,” I admit. “Not about the guy, but about what I did. Even though it was technically within my rights, I feel…”

“Guilty.” The word comes out of Oliver's mouth fast. And with authority.

He's right.

“Yeah, I guess that's it. I feel totally guilty. And I never told Itch, but now I'm wondering if I should have when it happened. Or if I still should. What would you do if Ainsley kissed another guy?”

Oliver's lips press together. “I don't know,” he finally says. “Because I can't imagine okaying that in the first place. What's the point?”

Again, he's right—which silences me.

Oliver gives me a gentle tap on the knee. “You should tell him.”

“I guess. Maybe. Probably.”

“You're supposed to be honest with the person you're with. Y'know?”

“I know,” I say, even though I don't know anything anymore.

When we reach school, I pause before opening my door. “Hey, Oliver?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for the ride.”

“Anytime, Rafferty.”

“And for the talk.”

Oliver smiles at me. “You're welcome.”

We're out of the car and almost to the front lobby doors when Oliver nudges me. “Oh, by the way…”

“By the way what?”

“By the way, studies show that high school popularity is a determining factor in later-life financial security. Look it up.”

“What?”
All that friendly conversation. Just Oliver lulling me into a false sense of complacency.

“Suck it, screamo,” he says. But then he grins and nudges me again. “Have a good day.”

He disappears into the crowd and—even though I'm mad about the song—I'm kind of bummed to see him go.

Itch and I are sitting on the swings at Cherry Hill Park, not far from my house. I asked if he would drive me home and he said yes, even though things have been a little tense since the weekend. We were quiet the whole way here. I was thinking about how to say it, and about what it would mean, and even about what I
wanted
it to mean. I kept going back to the thing Oliver had said, how things are supposed to be. How do I want things to be with Itch?

It sleeted this afternoon and now everything is gray and dank. The seat of the swing was spotted with water when I sat on it, but I already felt so damp that I didn't care. Now I'm regretting that decision as the temperature drops even more and I'm shivery everywhere.

“So what's up?” Itch says.

A nervous knot gathers in the pit of my stomach. Earlier, I thought of several ways to broach the topic but now I've forgotten all of them. “I have to tell you something.”

“Go ahead.” His voice is more even than usual.

I twist the swing to face him. “Remember how you said we should be open to dating other people this summer?”

“Yes.”

I suddenly have an attack of the nerves so strong that I have to jerk out of my swing and stand up. I squeeze my thumbs inside my mittens, take a deep breath, and spit it out: “I kissed someone.”

I wait. Itch digs his toes into the pebbles to bring his swing to stillness. He gazes up at me for a moment, a long moment during which I try to understand his expression, but I can't find anything in it. No anger or sadness or jealousy. Either I don't know how to read him, or those emotions really aren't there. I can't tell.

And then Itch's mouth tilts up into his lopsided grin. “Is that all?” I nod and he gets to his feet. He sets his hands on my shoulders. “Me too, June. It's okay.”

I freeze—
what?
—before pulling back. I'm not jealous but I'm…I don't know what I am. I'm surprised. I'm
something.
“Who was she?”

A line deepens between Itch's eyebrows. “Just a couple Florida girls.”

“A
couple
?”

“Maybe three. None of them meant anything.”

“Did you have sex?” I ask, and he shakes his head violently.

“Not even close,” he says. “I'm telling you, it was nothing.”

And I have to believe him. I have to understand, because that's what it felt like with Ethan in the 7-Eleven parking lot. It felt like nothing, like it could have been anyone's mouth and anyone's hands. It was a time killer. A space filler. It wasn't fair and I'm not proud…but that's what it was.

Itch reaches out to me again, and this time I let him pull me in, let him wrap his arms around me and stroke my hair. “We weren't together,” he murmurs in my ear. “Now we are. It's all good.”

I nod against him, relieved.

And—somehow—also disappointed.

Oliver doesn't even turn on the playlist when I climb into the car. He just pulls out into the street before flipping a look at me. “Did you do it?”

“Yes.”

“You told him?”

“Yes.”

Silence for at least a full minute. I know Oliver is waiting for me to talk, but there's really nothing to say. Finally, he can't take it anymore. “How'd it go?”

“Fine.” I scrunch down in my seat and stare out the window. “It went fine.”

Itch must have conned his way out of second period a few minutes early, because he's already waiting in the hallway when I exit environmental sciences. “My parents are going out of town this weekend,” he says.

“For Thanksgiving?”

“No, right after. On Friday. Can you tell your mom you're staying at Lily's?”

I'm about to answer when an overgrown Saint Bernard bounds down the hallway and nearly barrels over us. It's Oliver, wearing an apron and carrying a bowl. “It worked! It didn't collapse!” He whips out a spoon and scoops a soft pile of brown onto it. “Chocolate soufflé. Here!”

I am hyperaware of Itch standing silently by my side, but I open my mouth so Oliver can feed me the bite and…

Sweet silky heaven.

“Wow,” I say after I've swallowed. “That's incredible.”

“I know, right?” Oliver turns to Itch—“Want a bite?”—but Itch shakes his head.

Oliver doesn't appear to be bothered. His eyes focus on someone down the hall behind us and he calls out, “Lisa, Yana! Wait up!” He bounds away, waving his spoon.

“You're still wearing your apron!” I shout after him, but he doesn't hear me. That's Oliver in a nutshell. Exuberant and passionate and generous.

“Hey.” Itch nudges me and I suddenly realize I have a goofy smile across my face. I wipe it away. “So can you tell your mom you're sleeping at Lily's?”

“Maybe,” I say, my eyes still on Oliver.

Itch has to buy some things, so I let him take me to the mall after school. First we get smoothies, and then I end up holding his cup while he browses JCPenney's selection of boxers. I watch him, wondering when our relationship devolved to the point of purchasing undergarments together. Maybe it would be all right if I chose for him, if we were being sexy or romantic or if it was a joke or maybe if he was getting the kind stamped with little hearts or…or…

Or anything but this. This is just me acting as Itch's beverage stand while he tries to choose between large-patterned plaid or small-patterned plaid.

This is killing me.

I flash back to Mom's Deep Thought, about how sometimes things need to get messy before they can be good. Maybe that's what Itch and I need. Some messiness.

“That was nice of Oliver, don't you think?” I say it casually.

“What?” Itch drapes a pair of red-and-blue boxers (small-patterned) over his left arm and moves to a new rack.

“How he offered you some of that soufflé he made. It's not like you guys know each other that well or anything.”

“Sure.”

“It was really good.”

“Cool.”

“
Shockingly
good.” Itch starts checking out the boxer briefs and I switch tactics. “You know what I appreciate about Oliver?”

“Nope.”

“How he can just run up to anyone, to any group of people at school. Other jocks, artists, geeks, stoners, anyone. I don't ever see him being mean to anyone, you know?”

“Yup.” Itch selects a four-pack of navy cotton undies.

I decide to bump things up, just a touch. “I like being friends with him.”

“Great.” Itch holds out his hand and it takes me a second to realize he's reaching for his smoothie. I give it to him and follow him toward the register, assessing the situation as we go.

My boyfriend isn't annoyed by my friendship with our school's hottest guy. He's not jealous. He's not worried.

That's the problem, I suddenly recognize. Itch doesn't
get
jealous or worried or passionate or…

Or anything.

He's a flat line.

I stand, watching him pay for his underwear, and I feel flat, too. No, worse than flat.

I feel nothing at all.

“Maybe he's gay.”

It's four days later, and Shaun is hacking at a particularly sturdy buckthorn plant with a pair of red-handled clippers.

“Itch isn't gay,” I tell him. “I have hard proof of that.”

“Ha-ha, you said ‘hard.' ”

“You are a child. Here, give me those.” I take the clippers and use them to grasp the buckthorn's woody base. “You have to grab and twist to pull the roots all the way out.”

Shaun straightens with a groan. “I think the only thing I'm pulling out is my back.” He rubs his hands together. “And my fingers might have frostbite.”

“Don't be a baby. You're helping Mother Earth.”

“I hate it.”

“Hush,” I tell him. “Find your Zen.”

We're at the Ives Road Fen Preserve. Thirty miles south of Ann Arbor, it's a huge preserve with a wetlands area that is rare for this part of Michigan. I love it for its raw beauty and all the things that look like they've never been touched by people. Silver maples tower over acres of prairie dropseed grass. There are tree frogs and cricket frogs and shy, colorful birds. This is the real deal.

Ever since working at the nature center this summer, I've wanted to sign up for one of Ives Road's volunteer days, but this is the first time I've convinced someone to join me (and drive us there). To be fair, it's tough work. We've been at it for over three hours and my back hurts, too.

I tried to get Itch to come, but he declined even though his parents are out of town and it's not like he has anything important going on. He's probably pouting because I refused to lie to Mom.

Except I forgot: Itch doesn't pout. Itch doesn't do anything.

“It just seems like he doesn't care,” I tell Shaun.

“About you?”

“About anything.”

Shaun points at a small green patch. “That's not poison ivy, is it?”

“That's grass, Shaun.”

He drops onto it with a sigh and falls backward, arms outstretched. “What's the worst thing that could happen if I fell asleep right here?”

“You could be eaten.”

“By a wolverine?” He sounds almost hopeful.

“By mosquitoes.” I twist another shiny buckthorn from the dirt before plopping beside him.

“It's too cold for mosquitoes,” Shaun tells me. “Which means it's too cold for humans. Cuddle me.”

He grabs the back of my jacket and pulls me down to rest against him. I place my head on his chest and wrap an arm around him.

“Just a like a real boy,” he says.

“
You're
just like a real boy,” I retort.

“So what are you going to do about Itch?”

“Nothing.” Shaun doesn't say anything in return, so I elaborate. “I don't want to break up with him. I like being his girlfriend.”

“Maybe you just like being
a
girlfriend.”

The thing is, I
do
like being a girlfriend. I like belonging to someone in an official capacity. I like saying “my boyfriend.” I like knowing that if I want a date, I have one.

Since none of those seem like really great things to admit, I change the subject. “How's Kirk?”

“Too far away.”

“Chicago is drivable.”

“My parents don't think so,” says Shaun. “But even if they did, I don't know if I would go. Kirk isn't out to his dad yet. It would be weird.”

“I'm sorry.” My relationships are complicated enough without the extra baggage that Shaun has to deal with. “Are you going to break up with him?”

“I don't even know if I have to,” says Shaun. “It doesn't feel like we're dating anymore.”

“I know what you mean.”

“Hey, lovebirds!” A deep voice with a strong New York accent startles us into sitting upright. It's an older man wearing gloves and work boots that mark him as a volunteer. “What do you think this is: Inspiration Point? Get the hell up and get to work!”

Shaun and I turn to look at each other, slow grins spreading over our faces. “I love you,” Shaun says loudly so the man will definitely hear.

“I love you, too,” I tell him. The man grumbles something under his breath and marches away. I stand and pull Shaun to his feet. “Just a few more buckthorns and then we can go home.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”