Holding Up the Universe (29 page)

I can feel the tears burning against the backs of my eyes. Every line is me, Libby Strout. It's us, but mostly me. And also Jack.
God.

I could cry in the arms of Jack Masselin as an entire restaurant of strangers watches, or I could push the tears back and down until they're buried. I push them. And push them. I won't let them out. At some point, he leans in and, just like that, without a word, kisses my face, first one cheek and then the other. He kisses me where the tears would be if I'd let them fall, and it's the single loveliest thing anyone has ever done who wasn't my mom. Suddenly I'm filled with this safe, warm feeling that I haven't felt in a really long time. It's the feeling of
everything is going to be okay. You are going to be okay. You may already be okay. Let's us be okay together, just you and me.

I suck in my breath and don't breathe again until the song is over. The jukebox goes jumping right into the next track, which is a fast one, thank goodness, and that's when Jack breaks out the moves.

He says, “Get a load of this, girl.
If you can handle it.
”

And he is grooving all over the place.

“Handle this!” And I'm dancing too, till we're dancing like lunatics, and I don't feel like crying anymore ever again.

He goes, “Do the Exploding Hair!”

And he shakes his head to the left, to the right, to the middle. He has an unfair advantage because his hair is so much bigger, but I do my best to shake my hair all around.

I go, “Do the Lightning Strike!” And I jump and shake, jump and shake like I'm being electrified. He starts jumping and shaking too, and at some point, I look around and a handful of other people are on their feet and dancing at their tables.

Jack says, “It's a dance revolution!”

He takes my hand and twirls me round and round so that I'm spinning like a top and laughing. I think what an amazing world this would be if we all danced everywhere we went.

He walks me to the front door of my house, and when we get there I wait for him to kiss me good night, but instead he hugs me. This isn't a Fat Girl Rodeo hug. It's warm and enveloping in a good way, and I can smell the soap and outdoors on him, like he rolled in fresh grass. I want him to hold me forever, but then he pulls away and gazes down at me with half-closed eyes. “Good night, Libby.”

And I say, “Good night, Jack.” And I go inside and my dad is there, and I tell him about the dinner and then I go to my room and close the door and sit on the bed and think,
Why the hell didn't he want to kiss me?

My phone buzzes.
Best date ever.

Followed by:
I can't wait to do it again.

Followed by:
This chick Mary Katherine really reminds you of us? From what I can tell, she's pretty much bats in the belfry.

I write:
Yes, but in a kind of lovable way. She's got this big secret, and no one understands her. Does that help you make the connection?

He writes back:
Oh I didn't say I don't see the connection, but tell me you don't think we're that crazy.

Me:
I think we're even crazier.

Jack:
I'll buy that.

A few minutes later, he writes:
I can't stop reading. This may be the best birthday present I've ever gotten, next to the soldering iron they gave me when I turned nine.

Me:
That's what I like about you. So manly, yet so cerebral.

Jack:
Those are only two of the many, many things you like about me. And don't get me started on what I like about you. I'll never get this book read, and it's my life's mission to finish it tonight.

He texts me off and on through the rest of the night, giving me a running commentary on what he's reading. Eventually, I fall back into the pillows, a big, loopy smile on my face. He may not have kissed me after our date, but it's almost definitely, undeniably, absolutely guaranteed that he will.

Monday morning, a tall girl with dark skin and a painted-on beauty mark finds me at my locker.

“Jack.”

Caroline.

“Yes?”

Just in case it isn't her but some other tall girl with dark skin and a painted-on beauty mark by one eye.

“Did you have a good weekend?”

“Thanks for asking. Yes, I did.”

“You know what people are saying, don't you?”

And here it comes.

“That I'm one badass dude?”

“About that girl. That Libby Strout. And you. They're saying you're
dating
her. That she's your new
girlfriend.
I was like, I know that can't be true, but they're like, no, it's true. He took her to Clara's.”

“Who is ‘they'?”

“It doesn't matter.”

I can hear the hurt in her voice, buried underneath all the venom. I want to say
It's okay to be a person. We're all afraid. We all get hurt. It's okay to hurt. You'd be so much more likable if you just acted human.

“We're not together anymore, Caroline, so, uh, not to be rude, but why do you care?”

“I think it's sweet that you want to be nice to her after what you did, but I'm just concerned about her. Girls like that, you can't mess around with them, Jack.” She shakes her head. “You could end up breaking her heart.”

“We haven't defined anything yet, but if you're asking me if I like hanging out with her? Absolutely. And do I think she's one cool chick? Yes. Do I think she's beautiful? Yeah, I do. I really do. I'm not messing around with her. I like her. Any other questions?”

She stands there, perfectly composed, perfectly Caroline, and says, “You know, you think you're all that, you pretend to be all that, but you're not.”

“I know I'm not. Which is all the more reason I'm grateful she likes me anyway.”

At home, I dig through the pile of clothes on my floor until I come up with the jeans I'm looking for. I pull the ball of wadded-up paper out of the back pocket.
Top 10 Reasons to Date a Fat Girl.

I make myself reread it. It's like I need to prove to myself once and for all that she's fat and I don't care.

Every word of the article makes me sick.
How could I ever feel anything but lucky that this girl likes me?

I go downstairs to the kitchen, walk directly to the stove, turn on one of the burners, and wave the paper over the gas flame till it catches fire. I hold the paper up and away from the stove and watch as the words burn away. And then I drop what's left of the paper into the sink, where it burns itself into a pile of ashes. I turn on the faucet and wash the remains down the drain, and for good measure, flick the switch to the garbage disposal and let it grind.

Back in my room, I call Libby. When she answers, I say, “I finished the book.”

“And?”

“One, it was pretty damn terrifying. Two, Mary Katherine Blackwood was mad as a fucking hatter. Three, I see why you love it. Four, it might have reminded me of us just a little, although I'd like to argue that we're slightly more sane. And five, I think it would be pretty fucking awesome to live in a castle with you.”

In my nightstand, underneath my headphones, my lip balm, and an assortment of bookmarks, I pull out a letter written on Christmas stationery.

These are for dancing alone onstage

Or in your room

Or anywhere your heart desires.

They are for dancing in your dreams—

dancing toward your future—

dancing in love and creativity and joy—

dancing because that is what you do.

Because that's who you are, no matter what,

inside and outside.

You just

keep

on

dancing.

The shoes that came with this letter are in my closet. They're from the Christmas before my mom died. They will always be the last present I ever get from her, and I need to keep them safe forever, which is why I've never worn them.

But right now I'm sitting down and pulling apart the tissue paper and taking the shoes out of their box and tying them on my feet. They are pink ballet toe shoes, and they are the loveliest thing I own. Even though she bought them too big, they're too small for me now and hard to walk in, but I shuffle over to my laptop and turn on some music. I'm going old-school with the Spice Girls, a band my mom secretly loved. The song is “Who Do You Think You Are,” and it makes me think of my mom, of me, of where I might go one day, of what I might be.

My Damsels audition is Saturday. I know my routine by heart. I could do it in my sleep. But right now I do my own made-up dance that's kind of a ballet-hip-hop-electric-slide-shimmy-pop and I am amazing. I am the best dancer ever. I am a superstar. The shoes are magic. My feet are magic. I am magic.