manicpixiedreamgirl (22 page)

At first I wondered why, in the time I’d spent with the drama department, I hadn’t heard more about her … activities. Then I realized: I had. Quietly, like background static.
Some girl at the read-through saying “Everyone knows Becca.” Ross in the booth saying “stick around” with that shit-eating grin. Other whispers and asides and jokes that I’d sort of heard but dismissed as being for the Cool Kids only.

I was just stupid. That pretty much explained it.

So on Monday, I played Becky’s game right back. When she said hi in between classes, I said hi back. This went on for the entire week. The week after that, she asked if I wanted to go to a bookstore with her after school. I said yes. We went. A week later, it was an invitation to get CDs signed by the bassist from Just This Once at a vintage record store. I said yes. We went.

And I continued dating and screwing around with Sydney.

“Hang on,” Sydney had said the first time I got her zipper down.

I paused. We were in my room a couple weeks after the cast party. Mom and Dad were on a date night. Gabby was at some lecture at school.

“What?” I breathed. For the record, I did not think about Becky when Syd and I were hooking up. Ever. Whether by accident or design, I don’t know, but I kept them completely separate when I was getting together with Syd.

“Not like this,” Sydney said, but she made no move to get out from beneath me or block my hand.

“Not like what?”

She laughed.

There are some things a girl should never do in this circumstance. First among them is laugh.

“Not on the floor of your bedroom and hurrying because your parents are coming home soon,” Sydney said. “Sorry if that’s romantic enough for you, but it’s not for me.”

I backed up off her and sat down. “What do you want? Candles? Silk sheets? Blue light coming in through the window? What?”

Sydney stopped laughing. She scooted backward and reached for her shirt. “Hey,” she snapped. “You don’t have to be a jerk.”

Ever notice if a guy says “jerk,” it comes out kind of wishy-washy, but a girl—man, a girl can make that word a slap. Or a knife.

“Sorry,” I said. I wasn’t, but that’s what you say.

“Wow,
that
was sincere,” Syd said. “Jesus, Tyler. Can’t we at least talk about it? I’m not Becca Webb, here.”

I don’t know exactly what my face must’ve done when she said that. But I know that in all the time I’d spent with Sydney, she’d never looked scared of me. And had never had any reason to. For one moment there, though, she was.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I said.

Outside, I heard the horn on my dad’s car beep softly, twice. A polite little reminder they were home now, so whatever we were doing we’d better
not
be doing by the time they got inside. So bonus points to Syd for predicting that one.

Syd pulled on her shirt and stood up. She grabbed her
purse off the floor with a flourish and marched to my door. I made no move to stop her.

Sydney opened my door and took one step into the hall, then stopped and faced me.

“I really, really do want to have sex with you, Ty,” she said. And for the first time since we’d started going out, Sydney looked hurt. Her eyes were tight, the corners of her mouth twisted down. She wasn’t crying.

Syd paused and shook her head. “But not with both of you.”

“What’s that—supposed—to mean?” I sputtered, knowing I sounded stupid for repeating myself.

Sydney barked a short, disbelieving laugh. “When you figure it out, let me know,” she said. “Then you can—”

“Hello?” Mom called as the kitchen door opened. “We’re
home.…
”

Sydney didn’t even glance down the hall. “Then we’ll see,” she said. “Talk to you tomorrow.”

She walked away, and I heard her greeting my mom like nothing at all had just happened. I sat on my floor, a useless piece of shit, shirtless, a little achy, and tried to tell myself I didn’t know what Syd was talking about.

The next day at school, I saw Becky as we passed each other in the hall. I said hi. She said hi back. When I saw Sydney in English, she gave me what I took to be a forgiving but cautious smile. I nodded to her and took my seat, and at lunch, we ate together and talked about theater crap. I paid no attention to Becky, sitting alone at her usual table. With
a box of animal crackers. Tossing my trash, I noticed she’d arranged them just like she had the first day of freshman year, with the broken ones off to one side.

This pattern lasted until the end of sophomore year. Syd and I slowly resumed our usual routine of making out, but I didn’t try anything more, and she didn’t either.

On the last day of school, when my path crossed Becky’s, I said, “Have a good summer. Call me if you want.” And handed her my cell number. We’d had no real reason to trade numbers before then; our hangout time had been arranged at school, and always the day of. Spontaneous.

Becky said, “I will. You have a good summer too. Keep writing.”

“Will do,” I said.

And that was it. So I thought.

Two weeks after school let out, while Sydney and her family were in Hawaii, I happened to finish what I thought was the best story I’d ever written. I paced around my room reading it over and over, sometimes aloud, sometimes not. I was so jazzed up by it, I had to share it with someone.

Guess who sprang to mind.

Since I didn’t have Becky’s email address or phone number—she hadn’t called me, so I didn’t have hers saved—I decided to risk going to her house. What can I say, I was wearing my Stupid Pants. They always fit.

I’d finally gotten my license that summer, free and clear. Mom let me borrow her car. I pulled up to the sidewalk in front of Becky’s house, goggling at the silver Jaguar parked
next to Becky’s blue Jeep. I assumed the Jaguar was her dad’s; only a prick like him could drive a car like that.

I went up to the front door and rang the bell. Chimes sounded deep within the house. A few seconds later, Mr. Webb, dressed business casual with a half-open button-down and mussed hair, opened the door.

“Yes?”

I waited for him to recognize me, but he didn’t. I cleared my throat. “Is, uh, Becky home?”

“I don’t know,” he said, and chuckled.

Didn’t know whether or not his kid was home?

“Um,” I said. “Well, her … her car’s in the driveway, so I—”

“Oh, that’s not her car.”

“Not the Jaguar, the Jeep.”

“I know which car. It’s not hers. It belongs to her mother.”

“Ron!” a woman’s voice sang from somewhere in the house. “Just buy whatever it is and come
get
meeee.…”

Mr. Webb glanced over his shoulder with a slimy leer, then faced me. “Anything else?”

“I guess … if you could … just tell her that Tyler stopped by—”

“Yeah, sure. Bye.”

He shut the door in my face.

Shaken, and drained of the excitement of being back at Becky’s house after such a long hiatus, I started walking to my car.

I heard the door open again behind me. “Tyler?” Becky said.

I stopped. “Hey.”

Becky shut the door and came over to me, wearing blue sweatpants and a new Just This Once T-shirt, no shoes. I felt a stab of regret for not recognizing the album cover. I’d need to look it up when I got home. Her toenails were unpainted.

“Did you talk to my dad?” Becky asked.

“In a roundabout way.” I was still shaken, and pissed. Even a gold-medalist idiot like me could figure out what he’d been up to. The singsong voice hadn’t belonged to Mrs.

Webb.

Becky lowered her head. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That must’ve been unpleasant.”

“That’s not your car?” I said, pointing to the Jeep.

“Sure it is.”

“He said it was your mom’s.”

“She bought it for me. He was out of town, and she was pissed at him about something, so she bought it for me on his credit line.”

Because I was so pissy, I snorted, and said, “Huh. Must be nice.”

“It really isn’t,” she said, without so much as a hint of a smile.

Which made me feel bad.

“Did you even get your license yet?” I asked.

“Nope. Neat, huh?”

Her tone said,
No, it’s not neat
, so I didn’t reply.

“So, what’re you doing here?” she asked. At least she didn’t sound mad at me for my dumb comment.

“I just finished writing this,” I said, showing her the short stack of paper. “I would’ve called, but I don’t have your number. Figured it was worth a shot, see if you were home.”

She took the story from me and read the first couple lines. “That’s sweet,” she said. “Thanks.”

And hugged me.

It was the first time she’d ever hugged me, and it blew away my lingering anger at Mr. Webb. It even felt like she held the hug for an extra second or two, but that could’ve been my imagination. Or wishful thinking.

Either way—she hugged me.

For some stupid reason only my subconscious could’ve explained, but never would because it hates me, I said, “So, what was all that with Ross at the cast party?”

Her face immediately registered confusion. “Ross?”

“You were in a truck together …”

“We were hanging out,” she said, lifting a shoulder. “Why?”

“Hanging out or hooking up?”

Becky laughed. The sound aged me backward ten years. “Oh, god, Tyler, please.”

Which was about as much of a nonanswer as a human being can give.

“So you didn’t hook up,” I said.

Becky folded her arms. “Tyler,” she said, “you’re a funny guy, and I like talking to you, but the truth is, no matter
what happened in that truck, it’s not any of your business at all. Okay?”

She didn’t sound mad. She sounded … tired.

And she was waiting for a response.

I thought about all the time I’d essentially lost with her after the Matthew thing. How much more was I prepared to lose now after Ross?

Bottom line, standing there just a few inches from her, having just received a hug that I wanted more than anything in the world, more than any sexual thing Sydney could ever dream up, I opted to try my best to let it all go.

I never really would, not entirely. Maybe over time the memories would fade, but I wasn’t about to lose my junior and senior years—years I could spend being Becky’s friend, being in her
presence
—to my jealousy.

“Okay,” I said. “I’m sorry if I sounded like a dick.”

“You didn’t,” she said. “You
don’t
. But I am curious.… Why do you want to know so bad?”

I almost laughed at her. How could she not know?

“It’s for a story,” I said.

Becky smiled. “Ah, research,” she said. “I get it. Well, Sparky, write this down: nothing happened that would ever make for a good story.”

That made me feel better. At the time. Because I made it mean what I needed it to mean, focused on those first two words: “nothing happened.” It didn’t occur to me until later that the entire phrase really could go either way.

“So, I’d invite you in,” Becky said, “but it’s kind of
grotesque in there right now. I’ll read your story tonight, though, and give you a call later so you have my number. Is that all right?”

“Sure!” I said.

“Cool,” Becky said. “I’ll talk to you later, then.”

She went back into the house, holding my story. I wished it was the one I really wanted to show her.

I scrape my shoe on the concrete slab beneath the picnic table, then find a stick to scrape the dog crap from between the crevices in my soles. Gross.

“Hero types get killed a lot,” Robby says as I work. “You know that, right?”

I nod.

“But you’re going to keep trying anyway.”

“Yep.”

“You’re a strange and difficult person to deal with, Ty.”

“The feeling’s mutual.”

Robby snorts a smile. “So you never said anything,” he
says as I clean my shoe. “Never once just said, ‘Hey, Becky, we should go on a date,’ anything like that?”

“No. Not yet.”

“Yet,”
Robby says. “So there’s potential in the future.”

“Something like that.”

“Well spit it out, girlfriend,” Robby says. “C’mon, let’s have it.”

I rub my shoe in the dirt, check it, rub it again, check it, and decide it’s as clean as it’s going to get. I lean against the picnic table just as Justin falls over in a dead sleep on the grass. Robby and I both look at him and laugh. Then Robby gestures for me to go on.

“I halfway sort of might’ve lied to you guys about tonight,” I say, shoving my hands in my pockets. It’s finally starting to get just a bit chilly.

Robby’s expression hardens. If there’s one thing we don’t do to each other, it’s lie.

“Lied about what?”

“The story,” I tell him. “The one about the werewolves.”

“Yeah? That was a great story, man.”

“Thanks. The thing is, it’s not the only one I sold.”

Robby folds his arms. I turn to face the parking lot, squinting at my car parked there under one of the lights.

“There’s another one,” I say. “For a literary magazine. It didn’t pay anything, nothing like that. I sent it out a long time ago, and most everyone rejected it. I’d almost forgotten
about it when I got the letter saying they were going to publish it. I got exactly two copies as payment.”