You, Maybe (9 page)

Nineteen

LUCKILY MY MOTHER
doesn’t look at me all that much so she didn’t notice the missing earring. I had sweated in her yellow sweater so I hid it in my bottom desk drawer, to deal with it during the week, because she and my father were home by the time I got back from Carson’s. No lights were on at Michael’s house, but I figured that meant nothing; he was probably still watching the movies in his room and his parents were probably still at work. I considered going back over there but decided against it. He had made it pretty clear he didn’t want to see me, and before I could deal with him, I figured, it would be better to find out where things stood with Carson. I didn’t even want to call Zandra or Tru. I got in bed and read, to escape my life.

My stomach was churning so much I couldn’t eat dinner Sunday night or breakfast Monday morning. My mother seemed pleased. Maybe all the stress will be good for me, at least in my mother’s opinion: my jeans were practically falling off. “Why aren’t you eating?” she asked me.

I just shrugged.

“On a diet?”

“Sort of,” I said.

“Ooh, which? I need a new one.”

“May I be excused?” I asked, and brought my plate to the sink and went upstairs. I didn’t think the high-stress-personal-turmoil diet was exactly what they’d print in the pages of one of her magazines.

I woke up early and washed my hair and even blew it dry a little, before trying to braid it. It didn’t work. My fingers were shaking too much. I did a ponytail, as smooth as I could make it, and did my makeup slow and careful, a softer look than my usual dark lines, even curling my eyelashes. Carson hadn’t come over after the football game, so I had to figure we were probably history, but I wanted to look better than ever so he could be sad over what he was losing, at least.

So? I tried to be objective, checking myself out. Should be easy to be objective, I thought—there is so much to object to. No, no, what I like best about myself is my flawless beauty. Well, my flawed beauty. One earring down, I looked off-balance, on top of all the usual stuff. I vowed not to cry through my non-waterproof mascara. I sniffed my flower and stood up straight. I am a strong girl, I told myself. I can handle this. I love him; I am willing to sacrifice half of my most valuable possession to let him know it. He doubted me, and who could blame him? He was right. I’ve been holding back. I hadn’t let him know how I feel, so of course he eventually had to pull back and protect himself. He’d made himself vulnerable to me. He may look strong and confident but inside he was clearly feeling scared. How many people get to see that side of Carson Gold, the Golden Boy? I am the only one. He let me in, and I played the tease. What a jerk I am. I hurt him.

I have to show him that I love him.

I have to be strong, I told myself, at the bus stop. Michael wasn’t there. I guess he got his mom to drive him. Maybe he didn’t want to face me. Well, I told myself, his feelings are not my responsibility. I am in love with Carson, and Michael will have to cope with that.

I crossed my fingers like a baby the whole ride to school, praying please, Carson, forgive me. Please give me another chance. Please love me.

Relationships are work, I told myself. Am I afraid of work? Well, I am lazy, it is true, about most things, but on the other hand I am not always afraid of hard work. Am I? No. I work hard at something. What? Writing song lyrics. Ugh. At least I did. Will Michael and I stop writing songs together now? I guess so. Oh, Michael. No, Josie: focus. What was I convincing myself of? Oh, right, that I am not afraid. Of hard work. That was it. Well, also, I built my Tallulah the Clown business from nothing, from doing magic tricks for the kids down the street three years ago into a real job; I have already made almost a thousand dollars. Guests almost always ask for my number while I’m cleaning up, telling me what a great job I did. I am only a mediocre magician, but I run a good party and I work really hard at it. I like to. So if I’m happy to work at becoming Tallulah the Clown, I can certainly work at becoming Carson’s girlfriend, right?

It’s just different makeup.

I smoothed on some extra lip gloss, stalling at my locker. I smoothed down the pink sweater I was wearing for the first time, the tight, light pink sweater my mother had bought me for my birthday despite the fact that I have not worn light pink since kindergarten when I stopped being her dress-up doll and started wearing black stuff held together with safety pins. It’s a costume, that’s all. The black stuff, the pink stuff, the Tallulah multicolor stripes—it’s all just costumes.

“Whoa,” Zandra said when she saw me. “What have you done to yourself now?”

“That’s pretty funny coming from you,” I said, nodding at her newly green hair. “What did your mother say to that?”

“She called my shrink again,” Zandra said. “Emergency meeting this afternoon.”

“And you’re going?”

“I’m turning over a new leaf,” she said. “Therapy could be fun, I’m thinking.”

“Holy . . .” Tru stopped in her tracks and stared at me. “I thought Zandra was talking to a BP! Josie?”

“Overreact much?” I turned away from their stares to spin my combination. “How about her hair?”

“What?” Tru said. “Roy G. Biv. G for Green. We did it yesterday. But what is this getup for? Oh! Is this all for Carson?”

“Obviously,” Zandra said. “How’d it go yesterday? Hey, where’s your earring?”

I opened my lock and then my locker. On the shelf was the envelope I had left for Carson, with the address crossed out and his name on it. He was giving it back. “Oh, no.”

I grabbed it off the shelf and tore open the envelope. Out fell his car keys. Not my great-grandmother’s earring but Carson’s car keys. I picked them up and uncrumpled the envelope, looking for a note. Nothing. I ripped it open some more. There was my note, my
Yes. I do.
He hadn’t written anything back.

“What is it?” Tru asked.

I held up the car keys.

“What does it mean?” Zandra said.

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe he’s giving you his car.”

I pushed her on her forehead. “I don’t think so.”

“Did you have a fight with him?” Tru asked.

I nodded, trying not to cry. “Yesterday.”

“Did he break up with you?”

I shrugged.

“Why didn’t you call us?” Tru asked.

“Behind you,” Zandra whispered.

I spun around and there was Carson. “Hi,” I said.

He started to unbutton his shirt.

“Carson, what are you . . .”

There was a string tied around his neck, making a loose necklace. He gripped the string with his finger and thumb, and pulled up my earring, which was hanging by the back, from the string. He stood there holding it.

“What are you doing seventh?” he asked.

“You, maybe,” I managed to say.

“Bring my keys.” He slipped the string back into his shirt and buttoned up. Then he slung his arm around me, kissed me on the mouth, and walked me away from my friends, to homeroom, as everybody turned to watch us pass.

Twenty

CARSON MET ME
before lunch, and we went out to the courtyard. Emelina pulled a small pink ball out of her bag and all the guys cheered. What a hero she is. I sat down on a bench, warning myself not to pout.
I could bring a ball sometime, that’s not a big deal
, I thought.
I could definitely bring a ball, if that’s such a great thing. I could bring a Wiffle bat. Wouldn’t that be fun?
Luckily, Margo sat down beside me on the bench before I could work myself too deep into a funk. She really is very nice. I like her, despite how pretty she is. She complimented my sweater, asked me where I got it. I didn’t know. She checked the tag and said it was from a really cool store. She was impressed that my mother is in advertising and very glamorous; I didn’t tell her about the fart account. When the bell rang, Carson ran over to the bench red-cheeked and out of breath, and he put his arm around me to walk back into school.

Seventh period, I got to the back exit before Carson, and had my usual brief panic that maybe he was blowing me off. I have his keys, I reminded myself. He’s going nowhere without me.

When he showed up, he kissed me, a nice slow make-out kiss, right there in the back hallway, just as the bell was ringing. “Hello, boyfriend,” I said.

He flashed me his smile, took my hand, and led me out into the cold. At his car, he held out his hand. I put my hand in it. “The keys,” he said.

“Oh,” I said, and handed him the keys. What a dope I am. Did I think I was just going to plop into the driver’s seat and drive his car, instantly? I walked around behind the car, settled into the passenger seat, and turned on the radio, looking for a good song while the car warmed up.

“How about . . .”

“What?” I asked him.

“Maybe just some quiet, today, okay?”

I turned off the radio. “Okay.” I sat back and buckled my seat belt. “Are you mad at me?”

“No,” he said. “Stop asking me that.” He pulled out of the parking spot. “We won’t do reverse today, but pay attention. You want to press the clutch before you shift, and ease the . . .”

Honestly, I was just listening to his voice, rather than his words. He glanced at me from time to time, so I nodded, but I was busy memorizing his beautiful profile. I love you, I said silently to him. You don’t have to be afraid anymore. I am yours. I love you.

He made the turn into my development.

“Oh,” I said, with a fake laugh. “I thought, I mean . . . I thought you were going to teach me how to drive. But, that’s okay. You don’t have to . . .”

“Josie . . .”

“I’m not complaining,” I quickly assured him. “You want to go, you know, explode some eggs? Ha, ha?”

“No.”

“I was, it’s a joke,” I said, smiling so he’d understand. “I meant, we could just go fool around, in my room. That’s fine.” I was sweating. I put my hand on his thigh.

He stopped the car. “I’m going to teach you to drive, remember?”

“But . . .”

“So chill, okay? There’s no traffic here, so you can go slow.”

“Oh,” I said. “That’s fine. Sure. That’ll be great.” My teeth were chattering. It was a pretty cold day, despite my full-body sweat. Maybe I was nervous. Maybe I was scared witless. He was getting out of the car and so was I. I touched the dent on the roof of his car for luck, as I always did, and walked around the front. He kissed me as we passed each other. I got into the driver’s seat for the first time ever, illegally, only fifteen. I could be arrested and go to jail. What if I did it wrong? What if I wrecked his car? What if he thought I was an uncoordinated loser?

Emelina can drive a truck.

True, she ripped the top off it, but then she drove it topless four hours into the mountains. How is it that she does a total destructo thing that if I did, it would make me seem like a bumbling idiot, and she comes off as this sexy, powerful, independent, capable hero, and everyone in the room is left with the word “topless” on their lips?

I buckled my seat belt and turned the ignition key. The car was already on, apparently, judging from the grinding, squealing noises that came from both the engine and Carson.

“Sorry.” I dried my palms on my jeans.

“Do you remember what I said about the clutch?”

“Yes,” I lied, then admitted, “Well, no. Could you review?”

Following his instructions I pressed down with both feet and released the emergency brake. “It would be easier if you could see what you’re doing,” I said, trying to get a peek under the steering wheel.

“Keep your eyes on the road,” Carson said, keeping his own eyes straight ahead. “Now move your right foot to the right and press . . .”

“This reminds me of dance class,” I said, “Which I should admit that I failed. . . .” We were rolling forward. “Not that you can actually fail ballet, but I faked a sprained ankle and even though I couldn’t keep straight which foot was supposedly injured, the teacher was so relieved, she . . .”

“Press the gas lightly,” he interrupted. “Remember what I said, ease down with your right foot and up with your left. . . .”

“See what I mean?” My feet were doing what he told them to, like they had little foot minds of their own, while my mouth chattered on. “Right, left, up, down, it’s like doing the hustle. . . .”

We were heading straight for Michael’s hedges.

“You want to steer,” Carson suggested. “Remember how to brake?”

“Yes,” I lied. I knew there was something you had to do before you brake, he had been saying it right while I was admiring the angle at which his nose came from his forehead. He had said, what was it? There is something you have to do before you press the brake. Very important. You have to do something; don’t brake until you press something. What? I grabbed a wand sticking out beside the steering wheel and pressed it, then slammed on the brake, just as we crashed hard into Michael’s hedge.

It was apparently not the thing I was supposed to have pressed. In fact it activated the windshield wipers. If it had suddenly started to rain, pressing that wand might have been a good move. The sky was bright blue, however, as I could see over the edge of the bushes into which I had driven Carson’s car.

“Put it in neutral,” Carson said quietly. “And pull up the brake. The emergency brake.”

I did what he said, then asked, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Can you get out of the car?”

“Yes.” I’m not sure if he meant would I be able to open my door despite the bushes or was I injured or was I such a disaster that I could not even operate the door handle, but I just opened the door and tried to get out. I failed. I then unlatched my seat belt and successfully got out of the car.

Carson was looming above me, waiting. When I was out of his way, he slipped into the driver’s seat. I stood on Michael’s lawn. Carson backed his car out of the hedge, which was only slightly dented, and thumped the car down off Michael’s lawn onto the street again.

There were red streaks, like bloody scratch marks, striping the hood of his car. While he turned off the car, I reached over to touch the damage.

“It’s just the red things,” I assured him quickly. “Those red juicy bush-berries. It’s washable. It’s not blood. I mean, obviously, it’s not blood. What I mean is I can fix it. I’ll wash it. I’m sorry.”

“Stop,” he said.

“No, I insist.” I tried to put my arm around him, to comfort him. “I’ll wash it. You can just, if you pull it into my driveway . . .”

“That’s fine,” he said, stepping away from me. “I’ll pull it into your driveway. Then I am going to take a walk, okay? I need to take a walk.”

I nodded. “I’ll wash it while you walk. Carson?”

He was getting back into the car. He stopped with one leg still on the pavement. “What?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Okay.”

“You forgive me?”

“Yeah.”

“I love you,” I said. He pulled his leg into the car and slammed the door. He drove the twenty yards or so to my driveway, and I walked along behind him. He was getting out of the car by the time I reached my driveway. “I’ll have it shiny clean,” I promised, smiling broadly at him.

“Half an hour,” he said. “I have to get back for practice.”

I watched him walk his brisk, long-legged walk down my driveway, away, and then ran inside to look for a bucket and sponge. He could have said, “That’s okay, let’s go to the car wash together.” He could have said, “It’s my fault, too, I shouldn’t have pointed the car straight at a berry bush for your first time ever behind the wheel.” He could have put his strong arms around me and said,
“Oh, Josie, are you okay? That’s all that matters to me. Don’t worry about the
car—
I love you, Josie.”

But maybe that’s not fair. Maybe I am being unreasonable and selfish. I just drove his beautiful white car straight into a berry bush—did I really think he should be nice to me, comfort
me
, at that point? He has every right to be angry. His parents would probably be homicidal if he came home with his car so wrecked.

I found some sponges but no buckets. Where would we keep a bucket? I bet Carson’s family would have a bucket. I got the biggest of my mother’s red pots. What the heck, they should get used, right? I filled it with hot soapy water and lugged it out to the driveway, and started to scrub.

Oh, Carson. I am sorry. You have every right to be angry at me. Why am I such a clod?

If Emelina drove his car into a bush, would he make her wash it?

That’s not fair. Emelina is not his girlfriend anymore, anyway; I am. I am his girlfriend. I have to try to be good at it. If he wants me to talk a little less, is that so much to ask? And wear my hair in a ponytail? I could learn to braid. He thinks I have a beautiful face, is why he wants me to wear it that way. He wants to get a word in edgewise. I am an only child; maybe I am spoiled. Maybe I need to be brought down a notch.

That’s not even what he’s doing, I chastised myself as I scrubbed his car. I am such an exaggerator. He loves me, he chose me, he wants to see my face, he wants me. He wants to know I want him, and also, please, for me not to be so jerky all the time.

Is that so much to ask?

The berry stains were gone. I kept going. By the time he came back, I was sweating again despite the cold, clouds of breath puffing from my mouth as I shined every bit of his car to a gleam. “Hey,” he said. “Hey.” He caught me by both arms and pulled me close. He kissed me soft and tender. I dropped the sponge and wrapped my arms around him. He kissed my empty earlobe.

“Sorry,” I said.

“Shh,” he answered. “Forget it. I gotta go.”

“Don’t you want to come in?”

“I can’t.” He pulled away and opened the car door.

“I was asking if you
want
to,” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “But . . .”

“Yes,” I said, too.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I’ll go to Emelina’s. Her mountain place. The weekend after next. With you.”

He kissed me again, I closed my eyes and pressed against him.

“What about work?”

“I have a party,” I admitted. “But I can cancel it.”

He kissed me, soft and deep, then pulled back enough to ask, “What about your parents?”

I shrugged. “It’s not up to them. We’re meant for each other, right?”

He nodded and kissed me again.

“So, we should be together.”

“Yeah.” We made out for another minute. “I gotta go,” he said. “I’ll call you.”

“Tonight?”

He slammed the car door shut and backed fast down the driveway. I stood there on my lawn, damp and soapy, and watched him go.

He didn’t call.