Will You Won't You Want Me?: A Novel (3 page)

The metal door sighed as Marjorie entered the gym-cum-auditorium; several students turned to look. The history teacher, Ms. Carroll, approached. “It is unacceptable to hold us up like this.” Marjorie’s friends—clutching each other like life preservers—waved her over with gummy-bracelet-encircled wrists. As she tiptoed past, seas of fifth through eighth graders parted with reverence. Boys roughhoused; girls peered down at once favorite shoes in doubt. Even Terry stopped to watch Marjorie take a seat.

“Okay, kids,” said Terry, “let’s get started. Are you ready to FIGHT BACK? TO STOP BEING VICTIMS? Let me hear you!”

“Yeeeaah…” came a halfhearted collective reply. An eighth-grade class clown yelped a delayed, “YEAH!” and then cracked up.

That’s when Marjorie realized: they had waited for her. Even the teachers had stalled, feeling unconsciously that the group was incomplete.

Sensing eyes on her back, Marjorie turned. Mac sat behind her, grinning. He was new at school but had already secured his role as critic and jester, adored and feared.

“All hail Her
Madgesty,
” he mocked, with a bent head and a flourish. The girls around him—there were always girls around him—giggled.

“Shut up,” Marjorie whispered. “Shut up, shut up.”

“That’s totally your new name,” Vera said, “
Madgesty.
” Mac eyed her with boredom, then winked at Marjorie.

Marjorie claimed to hate the name, yet she answered to it. Just like that, reality plummeted down the chasm between the truth and what one tells oneself, never to be seen again.

In fact, she became reliant on, paralyzed by, and wholly defined by the unearned adoration, got drunk on its ease, feared its disappearance, and protected its power, erecting a wall of reserve that separated her from those who could safely behave like humans (going to the bathroom, getting pimples, tripping down stairs).

She snorted now—a lone unsquelched nerdy habit—as Mac delivered his story’s punch line from his barstool, “And it
was
blue gym socks. I swear!”

“No, it wasn’t! It couldn’t have been.”

“Well, it was.”

“But how did you know?”

“I didn’t. Wild guess. But I won the bet; he had to give me his
own
copy of his Rookie card.”

“Mac, I don’t even believhue you.”

“Was that even English? You’re slurring, you lush.”

The bar’s clientele had morphed. The kitchen was closed, baby carrots, new potatoes, and broccolini stalks tucked safely away in Tupperware cribs for the night. The happy hour crowd had left to catch
Girls,
the end of the Yankees game and, in more evolved cases (or so they felt),
The Colbert Report.
Mac’s “boys”—even the one mysteriously nicknamed “Plug”—had gone home to their pregnant wives and plump girlfriends. Now younger drinkers with wallet chains debated the merits of emocore bands.

Marjorie sighed and looked at Mac, who repeated “socks!” and started her snorting again. She was on probation at work, soon to be homeless, and losing her best friend to a late Elvis doppelgänger. The laughter was a relief.

“You’re a dork.” He shook his head. “Why don’t people realize that? But seriously, do you believe me? The story?”

“Of course not!”

“Why?”

“Because I know you and you’re a liar!”

Mac’s mouth dropped open in mock—perhaps tinged with real—hurt. “No way. You’re coming with me.” He grabbed Marjorie’s arm, pulling her up off her stool.

“Where are we going?” Struggling to keep her balance, she snagged her bag, then followed him toward the back. “Oh, lovely! A scenic tour of the janitorial closet!”

Near the fire exit, he opened a pockmarked door, ushering her inside what was clearly the manager’s back office. A card table was topped with a landline and piles of papers, someone’s organized chaos; the wall above was pinned with interior design inspirations and a schedule. At center slumped a ripped fat black leather couch. Mac shut the door, muffling the festive sounds, and began searching a file cabinet drawer for the card he’d supposedly won off a chagrined Mets pitcher.

Marjorie leaned against the wall for support. Standing had demonstrated the depth of her drunkenness. “Did you find this furniture on a street corner? You’re charging twenty dollars a drink. You could at least spring for IKEA in here.”

“Said the girl who’s been freeloading all night.” He touched his hand to something sticky and grimaced. “Ugh. These guys are filthy. I’m gonna have to talk to them.”

Marjorie eyed Mac, who was crouched over, wearing a look of determination. He had always hated a mess. As a teenager, when she first glimpsed his pressed jeans draped over hangers like slacks, she assumed that his live-in housekeeper was to thank. But over time, she noticed that he pulled high-tops from his closet and straightened his pens on the table at school with precision. Now, his narrow button-down was pulled taut in just the right places—no doubt custom. Marjorie realized he was dressed up, even for him.

“What’s with the tie?”

“Huh?”

“Why so snazzy?”

He didn’t look up. “Meeting.”

“With whom, may I ask?”

“No, you may not.”

“Must have been someone important to merit Brioni. Now I’m curious. Hot date with a tranny? Corporate espionage ring?” She raised an eyebrow. “Court date?”

He shot to standing. “Jesus, Madge. Just leave it alone!”

Marjorie started to apologize, for what she wasn’t sure; her head swam too delightfully to figure it out. Mac sighed. “Stop, stop. Forget it. I might as well tell you … it’s Natalie.”

“Oh. Mac, you don’t have to—”

“No, it’s fine. I shouldn’t have snapped.” He tugged at his earlobe, a longtime nervous tick. “She got arrested last week, for possession. Again.”

Mac’s older sister Natalie had struggled with drug dependence since her late teens. Stints at myriad domestic country club rehab centers and two in Switzerland plus a short-lived Outward Bound program in Utah had not helped. (She’d spent her two-day solo mission picking psychedelic mushrooms from cow fields.)

“Today was her court date. Had to appear as the saintly brother. Good guess, by the way. But for future reference, I’m not much into transvestites.”

“I’m really sorry, Mac. You didn’t have to tell me.”

“It’s fine. Let’s face it: I always wind up confessing to you. You have that effect on me. It’s probably those big doe eyes.” They locked stares for a strange, tense second. “Or that big rack.”

Marjorie snickered, despite herself. Mac turned back to the cabinet as if to resume an unfinished conversation. “Okay, I’m gonna find this. And prove that I’m not a liar!”

“Not a liar about
this.
”

“Right! About this.” Mac sorted methodically, placing each scrap in a designated pile.

For reasons she was not ready to confront, Marjorie was reminded of her one lapse in judgment with him. She was fifteen years old and at the height of her reign. In New York City, social circles spread beyond private and public school classrooms to neighborhoods. When she and her friends were not at clubs full of peers, they hung on Riverside Drive with older hip-hop- and grunge-obsessed boys, many of whom were washed-up quarterback equivalents who had rebuffed college in favor of pot and video games.

At school, she was crushing on an eleventh grader named Bryce, a soccer player but also a smoker—so not without edge. Marjorie did not fall easily. Her infatuations lasted only until her affection was returned with clumsiness or if the object wore lame sneakers. However unconsciously, she could not afford to show weakness for fear of falling from her pedestal. Flaws, even by association, were unacceptable.

Her inner circle was chilling by the park after school one day. One by one, they slipped off to orthodontist appointments and dreaded tutoring sessions at algebra-textbook-littered tables. Eventually, only she and Mac remained. He offered to walk her home, an old-fashioned suburban cliché rooted in the city by honking cabs and homeless people pushing supermarket carts. The concrete sidewalk—spotted with ancient bubble gum wads turned black—sparkled; weeds reached defiantly up through cracks toward the late-afternoon sun. The October weather was unseasonably warm. They walked along Riverside Drive, mindless of wind off the Hudson.

A million miles away, in Nigeria, a pipeline exploded, killing over 1,000 people. Across the country, in Silicon Valley, offices were being set up for a little start-up company called Google. In exactly two years and 330 days, the world would change forever when hijacked planes hit the World Trade Center, rocking the city to its core, traumatizing the United States’ roughly 285 million inhabitants in one instant and rendering it forever impossible to meet a relative at an airport gate. But here, at this moment, in this preserved neighborhood in New York City, the kids were all right.

Mac had just finished an impression of their English teacher, Mr. Eisenstein, oinking about
Animal Farm.
He stole a glance at Marjorie, then, with forced breeziness, asked, “So, you like that new kid?”

“What new kid?”

“You know, that soccer douche bag. Brass. Or whatever.”

“His name isn’t Brass. It’s
Bryce.
And you play soccer!”

“Whatever. You know who I mean.”

Marjorie was well aware. They trudged in silence for a beat, hearts pounding, threatening to betray their adolescent performances of normal.

“So, do you like him or not?”

“Who?”

“Seriously? I’ll take that as a
yes.
”

Young Marjorie stopped and turned to face young Mac, forcing her thumb deep beneath the scratchy nylon strap of her messenger bag. “Don’t take that as a yes. It’s not a
yes.
”

Mac rolled his eyes. Even the dimmest observer could see what was brewing between Bryce and Marjorie: him pulling on her short plaid skirt and calling her “Britney Spears” when they passed in the hall; Marjorie feigning disgust and shoving him lightly back. (The singer’s first single “… Baby One More Time” had just hit the airwaves, and her accompanying Catholic schoolgirl video was all over MTV. The world was at once revolted and enamored.)

“I heard he got a girl pregnant at his old school.”

Bryce had not gotten anyone pregnant. Bryce had not yet had sex. Either way, his reputation might only have benefited from that rumor.

“Mac, that’s ridiculous, even from you.”

“Just admit that you like him. It’s obvious that you do!”

“I don’t. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t.”

“You’re the worst liar.”

“Just don’t tell anyone!” she blurted out. It was a mistake born of panic. She’d confirmed Mac’s suspicions. He would be on the phone spreading the dirt before that night’s episode of
Dawson’s Creek
began. She waited for his joyous exclamation of “I knew it!” Nothing came. They had stopped next to an old stone fountain on Riverside Drive and 76th Street, so much a part of her everyday landscape that she barely knew it existed.

“Why do you care anyway?”

“I
don’t
care.” It sure looked like he did. He tugged at his earlobe like he was signaling to some half-blind pitcher.

“Then why are you asking?”

“I heard he likes Sarah Kaplan anyway.”

“Please. Everyone knows Sarah Kaplan is hooking up with Eric Martinez.”

He stared at her hard, sighed, and then looked up at the blue sky and across the street at a bicyclist pedaling hard toward his next Chinese food delivery.

“Fine! I like you. Okay? I do. And that Bryce guy is a loser.”

Marjorie was shocked. She had written Mac off long before and assumed that he’d done the same with her.

“Oh.”

His opponent knocked off balance, Mac grew suddenly confident. “I think you would like me too if you gave the idea a chance. We’d be unstoppable.”

“It’s not a competition.”

“Sure it’s not.” He rolled his eyes. “Here’s the deal: I’m going to kiss you now. And you’re not going to say anything afterward, until you give this some thought. But you have to give me this chance. It’s only fair.”

No one had ever told Mac O’Shea that
life
wasn’t fair.

Marjorie had set her sights on Bryce, and Mac was hardly boyfriend material. But she found herself wanting to say
yes
on a gut level she’d not experienced with boys before but would later with
men.
She felt an uneasy flutter reverberating through her, a warmth, a pull.

“I’m not sure about this,” she admitted.

“Why?”

“I think you might be…”

“What?”

“A bad idea.”

Mac laughed. “That’s for sure.” And before she could gather her wits, he’d stepped so close that she got distracted by the light tips of his dark eyelashes. “So, can I kiss you?”

She nodded a quick assent, though her brain screamed
no.
He leaned in, his lips finding hers, at first a bit awkwardly, as she panicked. But then the kiss intensified and she was surprised by her shudders as his hands found her waist. And when he let go, because it was he who ended it, she wasn’t sure how she felt. Embarrassed, sure. Dizzy, yes. Like maybe she wanted him to do it again?

Before she could do anything, he tipped an invisible hat in her direction, grinned, and stalked away in the direction of home.

That night, Marjorie couldn’t focus on the latest episode of
Felicity,
ate only half a steamed artichoke (her favorite), and couldn’t comprehend her Algebra 2 homework, even after consulting notes. She wasted an hour doodling squiggles in lively conversation with geometric boxes. The next morning, she spotted both Mac and Bryce in the locker area, caught first one guy’s eye, then the other’s, and ran.

By seventh period, she was queasy and still unsure but was finding it difficult not to think about that after-school kiss, when Vera reported the first rumors: “I’m telling you this because I would want to know.” Despite her complicit audience, she couldn’t disguise her gossipy glee. “Mac is telling everyone that you made out with him yesterday. He says you practically
raped
him into kissing you, and he isn’t even into you.”