Getting Over Jack Wagner (9 page)

Of course, even something as staggering as discovering someone was your soulmate wasn't enough to drive me out into the Quad to meet the guy, not in plain view of anybody in the caf, lobby, math wing or music hall, not to mention every Other Graduating Senior. The entire social structure of York High would probably have gone haywire, jocks dating geeks, brains cutting classes, prom queens playing softball, Led Zeppelin disappearing in a pop of static and airwaves in distress. I was in love, not insane.

 

If my one-critical-person-forming-your-image theory is correct, then probably I should credit Z Tedesco not only with my black-and-tie-dye wardrobe, but my entire career as a college English major. Probably he's the reason I became word obsessed in the first place, the reason I know “ferret” is a transitive verb, the reason I write catchy headlines for a living, the reason I'm always mentally editing spelling and grammar mistakes on bill-boards, storefronts, and Chinese menus, and probably, ultimately, the reason I'm writing a book. I trace all of this back to the fact that Z was on the staff of the school literary magazine:
Transformations.

I discovered this by no act of fate, but through the very goal-oriented, time-consuming scouring of the previous year's yearbook, looking for Z's face. My methods sound a little pathetic, I know, but in situations like these you need to capitalize on your strengths. Behind-the-scenes is where I work best—not on the stage, on the phone, on the kickball field. I prefer to be tucked behind televisions, laptops, magazines. If my search was pathetic, at least it was privately pathetic, unlike the wan, fearful girls draped in XXL Mötley Crüe sweatshirts who looked as if they'd been spooked by their own shadows.

Locating Z in the yearbook wasn't as simple as I thought. As it turns out, Quadders don't go out for too many extracurriculars, and the pretalent-show Z kept a low profile. No wonder I'd barely noticed him since kickball games at Glendale Elementary. He appeared only twice in the two hundred and fifty pages of the York Yodel: once among the generic rows of the freshman class (still scowling) and once in the staff shot of the literary magazine, slumped low in a desk chair, looking intensely thoughtful, the white nub of a cigarette pinched between forefinger and thumb.

My mission: to track down the first
Transformations
staff meeting. In what turned out to be a brilliant move on my part, I asked my English teacher, Ms. Horn. “I certainly ought to know when it is,” she beamed. “I'm only the faculty adviser!” Then she went on to tell me how glad she was that I was “finally embracing my potential as a writer” (this based on one bullshit-filled bluebook on
Ethan Frome).

The following Monday, after school, I prepared myself for the meeting. In the bathroom, I applied black mascara and eye-liner. That morning, I'd picked out my favorite new tie-dye and a pair of jeans I'd managed to bust up a little—some stray white threads at the cuff, a hole at the knee—but not too much, preserving the illusion that the damage had happened organically. In the mirror, I arranged an expression on my face that I thought was dreamy, thoughtful, deeply preoccupied, and held it tight, barely breathing, as I headed for Room 117.

It was your basic gray-green classroom. It also happened to double as a chem lab, which explained the periodic table hanging incongruously among the scattering of tortured artists. Ms. Horn beamed at me as I entered. I couldn't beam back, for fear of wrecking the expression on my face, so I flicked her a low wave. There were about ten kids sitting in chairs: a clump of giggling, fluorescent-clad upperclass girls, a few pale, skinny, bespectacled boys (layout, I guessed), and one morose chubby girl with a pierced nose. Then I spotted Z. He was sitting alone in the back of the room, legs sprawled under the desk, dressed all in black and wearing a half-lidded squint I would later realize was probably boredom or rudeness or marijuana—but I took then to be, you know, deep.

I chose a desk two seats from Z's: not so far that we couldn't talk if we wanted to, not so close that I was being obvious. I felt a touch of pride about the fact that none of the other Z-lovers had had the same idea I did. The pack of upperclass girls was oblivious to anyone but each other, the glasses guys were talking Dungeons and Dragons, and the morose chubby girl had her head bent over a book (she was probably the only one of the lot who actually wanted to read and write, not just accumulate activities for college applications or score a date with a rock star).

As I was inwardly congratulating myself on my ingenuity, four kids—two girls, two guys—floated through the door and sat in a row on the long table at the front of the room. They carried themselves with such ease that I knew immediately they were seniors. All of them were dressed vaguely, genderlessly alike, in loose, flowing pants or willowy skirts, wide-sleeve shirts, long hair and sandals, and a variety of homemade jewelry. They were sucking on lollipops and sitting so close their shoulders touched. I think I fell in love with them all on the spot.

“Hello, everyone,” said one of the girls, giving us a big wave. The room hushed. Her voice was smooth, slow, melodic, kind of like Mr. Devine's folk albums. “Welcome to the first meeting of
Transformations.”
School literary magazines always have titles like this—
Reflections
or
Connections
or
Inspirations
—one abstract plural noun in italics. “These are the editors for 1988,” the girl said, and wafted an arm toward the three beside her, who introduced themselves.

“I'm Skye. Fiction editor. Peace.”

“Maya. Poetry editor. Hello.”

“Avery. Art and layout.”

The first girl pointed at herself. “And I'm your editor-in-chief. Karma.”

How is it that people born with names like these always end up becoming people like them? You'd never find someone named Skye or Karma working in an insurance agency or an investment firm. As Karma kept talking, poetry-editor Maya slid off the table and began circulating the room, handing each of us a lollipop.

“It's really awesome to see new faces out there,” Karma said. “And for those of you who are new, this”—she reached behind her and produced a large, rainbowed box with a slot on top—“is our submissions box. It lives in the main office, so students can drop their contributions in at any time. Our job, during these meetings, will be to read the pieces in the box, comment on them, discuss them, and decide if they reflect the essence and the purpose of
Transformations.”

It was at this point that it began to dawn on me how under-qualified I was to be there. I had no business assessing other people's writing, not with a reading background that consisted mainly of
Bop
and
Teen Beat,
with a sprinkling of
Ethan Frome
and
Horton Hears a Who.
It hadn't occurred to me yet that I would be called upon to work—and worse, speak!—at this meeting. Maybe I could just be the group secretary or something, writing down what others said and occasionally shouting out old catchphrases from the ORSFC: “New business!” and “Order in the court!”

“Okay,” Skye took over, crossing his legs at the knee. I'd never seen a man cross his legs at the knee before. “What we want is for you guys to come up here, grab a piece from the box, and read it…in pairs,” he added, as if an afterthought, or an act of divine intervention.

I felt a shiver down my spine. This was it. My biggest break ever, bigger even than playing the drowning victim for Dave the Camp Mohawk lifeguard. I felt myself stand, barely touching down on the gray-green tile, float to the peace-and-love box, and pluck from it a single sheet of pink paper. Heading back to my seat, I could see Z hadn't moved. I looked at him. He looked at me. I raised my eyebrows. He shrugged. With that, we were partners, and it was as I always knew it would be: my soulmate and I could communicate without words.

As Z and I dragged our desks together, I began to worry about our pending reintroduction. At the high school level, students were the combined product of five different elementary schools. Would Z remember me from Glendale? Probably not. If I reminded him, would it be a smooth conversation starter, or a disastrous reminder of my listless kicking and cartwheeling during those kickball games? I decided to play it safe.

“I don't think we've met,” I said. “Have we?”

He shrugged again. “Don't think so.”

“Me neither.”

He drummed his knuckles on the desk. He wore a ring. I was infatuated.

“My name's Eliza, by the way,” I offered.

He nodded. “Z.”

I knew shaking hands would be too weird, but I was dying for some skin. I considered sitting shoulder to shoulder, like the editors had, but decided we weren't quite ready for that. Instead, I put down the pink paper I'd grabbed from the box, though I couldn't have cared less what was on it: a poem, apparently, called “dying again,” by someone named Michelle Klein. I didn't know her. I glanced at Z as he looked at the page—did he know Michelle Klein? did he love Michelle Klein?—but he registered no recognition. He read the poem through, then leaned back in his chair.

Oh, right. The poem.

When I got to the end (a single tear Michelle had actually hand drawn weeping from the final period) I glanced at Z, who still appeared to be absorbed in thought. I scanned the poem again, to make sure I hadn't missed something. Unfortunately, I was still at the age when the all-lowercase thing seemed arty and cool, and I didn't know yet that poems don't have to rhyme. Still, I wasn't fooled by the artistry of Michelle Klein. My gut told me her poem was bad, really bad, and that this Jake guy should run and keep running.

“Hmmm,” Z said, catching me off guard. He breathed through his nose, as if expelling a stream of invisible smoke. “I like the music in this. It's got a cool beat.”

Another good point. I guess it was only appropriate that Z would be listening for the music in the poem. I hadn't considered the music. The concept of beat had never occurred to me.

“Yeah,” I said, a careful blend of enthusiasm and nonchalance. I skimmed the poem once more; this time, it sounded like a virtual rock ballad. “It's definitely got a beat to it.”

Z didn't reply to that. I figured it was now my turn to volunteer something new, something fresh and insightful. Before I had time to consider the consequences, I heard these words tumble recklessly from my mouth: “I like the part about ‘your skin on mine.'”

I hadn't meant to say it. It was simply the first concrete noun I laid eyes on, one of the few concrete nouns in the whole goddamn “piece.” Regardless, I had unwittingly entered the presence of sex into this, my first-ever conversation with Z Tedesco, and while I had been prepared to wear tie-dye and black makeup, to seek out Z in the yearbook, even to be his poetry partner in the staff meeting of the school literary magazine, I was nowhere near so bold as to say the words “your skin on mine” to Z Tedesco out loud and on purpose.

But, strangely enough, the boldness appeared to be working. I felt Z's stare on the side of my face, creeping along the curve of my ear, my cheekbone, lingering on my mouth. He leaned forward, smelling like cigarette smoke, and whispered, “My favorite part is ‘your kisses.'”

 

To “swoon,” according to Ms. Horn's vocab list, was to “fall into a state of ungovernable ecstasy.” It's as good a definition as any to describe what happened to me on the afternoon of September 30, 1988. After the meeting, I followed Z outside to the grassy fields behind the gym where I hoped the true
transforming
was about to happen. We sat. We mutilated dandelion heads. Z drummed a twig against his knee. Both of us sucked lollipops. Neither of us spoke.

Finally, I ventured: “You were really good.”

Z turned to face me, his eyes unreadable behind the mirrored shades.

“In the talent show, I mean.” It was the first of many conversations in my life that would begin with a musical compliment and end with me getting it on with the complimentee.

“Yeah,” Z agreed, nodding. “It felt good up there. Really good.” He looked up at the sky, as if remembering the glory days, then surprised me by flopping backward on the grass and sighing, “Man, check out those clouds.”

This, too, would soon become textbook: the dreamy, moody astral reference (stars, moon, clouds, etc.) that would occur between the musical compliment and the getting it on. But back then, it sounded new and amazing.

“Aren't they amazing?” Z said, echoing my thoughts.