Take Me There (19 page)

“So, yeah.”

I smile at her. “Thanks for telling me.”

I watch this kid Tony do his professional Mr. Pearlman imitation. It distracts me from thinking about why Keith is getting on my nerves.

“I THOUGHT SHE
felt it, too. You know?”

“Yeah.”

“Aren’t girls supposed to be way more sensitive about stuff like that?”

“That’s what they say.”

We’re waiting for
Thank You for Smoking
to start. Danny’s all into political issues. His goal is to become some upper-level politico type without getting corrupted by the system. He’s always fired up about how people in charge make stupid things happen, like pointless wars and trashing the environment. He pretty much worships Jon Stewart in a godlike way. He has to watch
The Daily Show
every night it’s on and check in with like two dozen different Web sites.

What blows my mind about Danny is that he’s got this huge speech coming up Friday and it doesn’t make him nervous. He hasn’t even mentioned it yet. He’s been obsessing about Nicole.

“Freaks me out,” Danny admits. “It wasn’t like it was just
her
first time.”

“That’s messed up.”

“How’s she gonna act all weird the next day? Like she didn’t even know me or something?”

I just shake my head. I didn’t get it then, and I don’t get it now. The day after Nicole and Danny slept together, she totally iced him. Which is not like her at all. And then she breaks up with him for no reason. Usually I can’t figure girls out to save my life, but this? This was out there. And Danny’s still not over her.

He’s completely uninterested in any other girls. Except Marion. But that’s just his testosterone talking. I keep telling him that once he wins the election, he can have any girl he wants.

The guy in back of us keeps pushing. I give him a warning look. He pretends not to notice. The Magnolia line on weekends is usually halfway down the block, but that’s no excuse for rudeness. This would be the perfect opportunity for a Mr. Inappropriate Alert Guy intervention.

Mr. Inappropriate Alert Guy is this character Danny and I made up freshman year. It’s a concept that never gets old because it’s so perfect. Here’s how he operates. If anyone does something rude, harsh, or obnoxious, he taps them on the shoulder. And then they turn around and he says, “Excuse me. But do you know how inappropriate you’re being right now?” And then he goes on to explain how what the person did is wrong and what they should be doing instead.

And the thing is, he’s not some huge bouncer-type guy. He doesn’t come off all scary and threatening. He’s just an average height. But he wears a tux. He seems more legit that way. So it’s not that he’s physically intimidating. He’s smarter than the person being offensive, so he’s intellectually intimidating. Wins every time.

Rhiannon stands on tiptoes to try and get a look in the window. She wants pink icing. She wants particular sprinkles.

“So,” I say.

“Yeah?”

“Keith was so random last night.” Not to stress about this. But that guy’s a dumbass. She deserves someone better.

Rhiannon tries to look in the window again. “He called me before.”

“He did?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you say?”

“I told him no.”

“Why?”

“Please.”

All this tension drains away. That’s one less thing I have to worry about.

“As if I’d ever go out with him,” she says.

If the guy wasn’t such an egomaniac, I’d almost feel sorry for him. “What’s so bad about Keith?”

“Like he’s anywhere
near
my type.”

“And what’s your type?”

Rhiannon’s bouncing up and down. Now she can see in the window. And my question splats on the sidewalk like a water balloon.

I could ask it again. But whatever.

One of the many reasons Rhiannon is a cool girl is because she understands that I don’t want to talk all the time. Other girls expect you to act like them with the nonstop talking. But she gives me room to be myself.

So we’re sitting on the pier and I’m thinking about Jessica. Not because I miss her or I regret what happened. Which is what you’d expect me to be thinking. But because it’s not the first time I’ve been dumped with Rhiannon indirectly involved.

I’ve only had two girlfriends. Three if you count the thing with Jessica. I broke up with my last girlfriend because I felt like it was getting too serious. She was always talking about stuff she wanted us to do like three months down the line, and when did I want to come over for dinner, and I just wasn’t feeling it. Don’t get me wrong. She was great and all. Curvy, killer smile, laughed at all my jokes. Maybe it could have worked out. It’s just that she rushed things before they had a chance to go anywhere on their own.

So that was all me. But the one before her blew me off after I called her “Rhiannon” by mistake. Which totally didn’t mean anything. That’s the kind of thing that happens when you spend a lot of time with someone. It happens to everyone. And it wasn’t even at some crucial time, like when we were making out. Obviously, there was more to the story than she was telling me. We’d have these weird conversations. Ones that made me think there was some cryptic subtext I wasn’t getting.

A typical conversation would go like this:

Me: So when do you want to hang out next?

Her: Hang out?

Me: Yeah.

Her: Um . . . I’m not sure.

Me: How about Saturday?

Her: Saturday night or afternoon?

Me: What difference does it make?

Her:
[looking at me like I’m the biggest bonehead ever]
There’s a difference.

Me: Oh. Well . . . what about Saturday afternoon? We could go to the planetarium for that new show.

Her: I might be busy.

After conversations like these, I always felt like I was missing something. Like I did something wrong. Even though I had no idea what it was. Or this other thing she’d do was ask me questions like, “Do you like Rhiannon more than me?”

Dude. How was I even supposed to respond to that? They’re two completely different concepts.

When a girl asks you a question like that, there’s no way you can be honest. They say they want you to be honest, but then they get all upset when you are. You can’t win. There’s no way to win. There are questions you just can’t answer without manipulating the truth. Like, “Does this make me look fat?” Or, “Do you think she’s prettier than me?” Or, “Do you ever think about other girls?” Because the truth, in any of these cases, could potentially crush a girl.

For some reason, I haven’t had a serious girlfriend yet. No big. Maybe it’s the kind of thing you don’t find until you’re looking for it.

Brian is sitting with Rhiannon on the couch, all curled up in her lap. She’s reading to him. And I’m just standing in the kitchen doorway, watching them. All mellowed out for once.

But then after we finish Parcheesi and move on to Chinese checkers, I’m all wound up again. I’m only half-thinking about my moves. The other half is thinking about this huge Science League tournament coming up that I haven’t even started getting ready for and my Industrial Design report that’s still not done and this new computer program I need to finish so I can enter this competition and—

“Why’d you move there?” she says.

“Why not?”

“You missed this whole jump.” Rhiannon points to the space I should have moved to. Then I could have jumped three of her guys in a row.

“Oh,” I say. “I didn’t even see that.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

No. I’m totally out of it. All this stress has put me off my Chinese checkers game. I never miss a jump like that. Ever.

So after Rhiannon leaves and Brian is asleep, I’m relieved that I can still work on my software design. This thing will be bigger than anything Apple has invented. My ideas will make iTunes look old-school. I’ll revolutionize the computer world, as Danny would say. He’s always talking about starting a revolution.

The neighbors are fighting again. Which is only slightly more desirable than listening to them having sex. Sometimes the fighting turns into sex, though, so I’m hoping they stay mad at each other. And the other neighbors are blasting that techno-house crap again, so everything in here’s shaking like
boom boom boom
. I bang on the wall along with the beat like
boom boom boom
. As if they can even hear me.

Of course I can’t concentrate. One minute I’m writing code, and the next I’m lost in a haze of my future life.

House: Some three-million-dollar job near the river. Badass amount of space.

Car: Mazda Ryuga. Black.

Job: Software designer for Apple. Sick bankroll.

Girl: Victoria’s Secret model. Also smart and into gaming.

“James!” Ma yells.

“What?!”

“Did you do your homework?”

“I’m doing it, Ma!”

I always do my homework. I’ve never
not
done my homework. Shouldn’t she know this by now?

When she comes in ten minutes later to see that I’m doing it, I almost blow a gasket.

“Why are you checking up on me?”

“For your information, I was coming in to see if you wanted your blue shirt ironed.”

“No, that’s okay.”

She lingers in the doorway.

“Anything else?”

Ma comes in and sits down on my bed. “You seem kind of edgy lately.”

“That would be because I’m edgy.”

“And you’re taking it out on me because . . . ?”

I stop typing. I turn around to look at her. “I’m sorry, okay? I just have a lot on my mind.”

“Anything I can help you with?”

“No. It’s just . . . life.”

“Are you sleeping better?”

“Not so much.”

“Do you—”

“I’m going for a walk.”

“I thought you had homework.”

“I always have homework. I need a break.”

Ma looks worried.

“Don’t worry,” I tell her. “I’ll be okay.”