The Symptoms of My Insanity (10 page)

“So …” I pause with an awkward gulp. “I guess we should …” Make out right here, right now, in my living room, on the couch, on the floor, against those drapes?

“… get to work,” Blake finishes for me, clearly needing to polish up on his mind-reading skills.

•   •   •

Ten minutes ago Blake smiled at me in this way that was just …
girlfriend.
But then he mentioned his sister and how his mom’s thrilled that I could potentially be her new art mentor in a way that was totally, well …
art friend
.

I’m in the attic, taping up a dusty cardboard box, and playing my new favorite game:
Art Friend or Girlfriend.
I’ve also been testing my lung capacity by holding my breath sporadically because I’m sure there have been mice up here and I really want Mom to have a nice office and all, but there is no way I’m dying of hantavirus for it.

“Man, I’m not good with parents,” he says, coming back from bringing boxes downstairs.

I gasp out a short breath, surrendering to potential mice bacteria. “No, you’re fine.”

“I still feel like I might puke.”

“Come on,” I laugh. “It’s just my mom.”

“She’s very … serious,” he says, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “Man, I’m getting a full workout today.” He picks up the bottom of his button-down
shirt and uses it to wipe more sweat off his face. And when he does, I get a small peek at what apparently his whole drama class has already seen. Yowza.

“No, she’s not all serious,” I say, turning my head away from Blake’s abdominals. “She’s just … organized.” I stretch my box-taping arm up over my head. My T-shirt has a large hole in the armpit. Awesome.

“Yeah,” Blake says, looking at the row of seven paint chips pinned up on the wall in slightly varying hues of cream. “Your mom, she’s a spreadsheet.”

“A what?”

“That’s what we call some of the … um, you know, more, serious kids at school. Like … all data entry, no fun?”

“Oh. Yeah well, no, my mom’s fun. She’s just so busy and has so much … on her plate so she has to stay—”

“No totally, I didn’t mean to rag on your mom or anything.” He fingers the paint chips. “So, are you hired to paint this place?”

“No, no, Mom’s hired professionals.”

“You’re not a professional?”

“Well, no. House-painting is different. Plus I don’t have time. And I’d probably mess it up.” I look around at the sloped ceiling and all the doorframes, and then all the window trims. Yeah, no way Mom would ever let me tackle this. God forbid I get some cream on what should be a totally ivory doorframe or something.

“You get along with your mom?”

“Yeah. For the most part.”

“Yeah, you’re probably good like that, running errands, doing favors. You’re … what’s that word … ?”

“Um, I don’t know. Wait, what do you mean?”

“You’re like … dependable.”

Dependable?
Wow. That’s something I’ve always wanted a cute guy to say to me when we’re alone in my attic after dark.
Art friend.

“Dependable?” I repeat back to him.

“No, it’s a good thing,” he says, and then just stares at me in this way that’s like …
girlfriend.

“Do you want some pants?” I blurt.

“Excuse me?”

“I mean, um … that box in the back is full of stuff that Mom’s collected from people to drop off at Goodwill, so I’m sure there’s a pair of men’s jeans in there. It’s freezing out.”

“Oh. Um, okay, thanks.” Blake walks sort of haltingly around the boxes to the back of the attic. I watch him rummage through, pulling out pairs of jeans. What is Blake Hangry doing here at my house?

I found this self-help book in our basement last summer that talked about how good things can happen to you if you just think really hard about what you want to happen and then send all those thoughts out into the universe. I didn’t believe it, though. It’s hard to believe stuff in a book that’s called
Say Y-E-S to Y-O-U!

But I don’t know. Last night after Lola’s Lingerie and Jenna’s, I sent a
lot
of thoughts out into the universe about
hanging out with Blake, like one on one at someone’s house, like couples do. I know we’re just cleaning out my attic, but still, I think it’s a pretty good return on all that powerthinking.

“So, I think I’m gonna stick to my shorts,” Blake says, walking back over to me and holding up a pair of jean overalls with little hearts painted all over them.

“Yeah, that’s probably wise.” I smile. “So, thanks for sticking around and helping,” I say, throwing what I think were once baby toys into a donation box.

“No problem. One day I’m gonna be like, oh Izzy Skymen, the famous artist? Yeah, I totally knew her. I helped her clean out an attic.” He flashes me a sideways smile.
Girlfriend
.

Then Britney Spears’s “I’m Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman” starts playing from the pocket of Blake’s mesh shorts.

“Come on! I am going to murder those guys! Sorry, hold on,” he says when he looks at the call. “Hey, Dad.”

I continue taping up my box, trying not to listen to his conversation, but it’s kind of hard because he gets increasingly louder with every word he says.

“I will—I’ll be home later … No, I already told you I’m at a friend’s house studying— Well, tell Mom I already ate … History … It’s fine … No, we’re just scenery— I told you last night, we’re just lifting up the girls and stupid crap like that— Don’t use that— Don’t use that word— It’s not fa— It’s not being gay, Dad, all the sophomores have to— I will— I did, I did already at practice— I am— I
am
working hard!

“God,” is all he says when he shoves his phone back in his pocket.

“Not that it’s any of my business or anything,” I say, “but you could … um … you could tell your dad that doing the play will look great on your college transcripts.”

“Yeah, that’s a thought.” He picks up a flattened box from the stack and starts aggressively assembling it for me. “I just don’t need him stressing me out. I got enough of it with training, and these initiations.”

“Initiations? Like the hazing stuff?”

“No. Well … yeah that too, but we also have all these things, these tasks we have to do and—” He shakes his head, and when he does, some of his hair flops down onto his forehead. Annoyed, he pushes it back behind his ears. “It’s just all so stupid, I know.” He sighs. “But the thing is, if you don’t do the stuff they ask you to do, it’s worse. Ben Rossman, they made him wear a thong all last week, and he didn’t have it on when they spot checked him, and now at every practice he has to wear Mike Westley’s underwear.”

“Who’s Mike Westley?”

“He was a student like fifteen years ago. Those things have been worn by about a hundred guys now, and I’m sure never washed.”

“That disgusting.” I’m thinking about my mom lecturing us when we were little about the importance of clean pants and underwear and the horrors of what she called “crotch rot.”

“Yeah, I’d rather wear a thong than that underwear to
practice.” Blake bends down to get another box.

“Wait, are you wearing a thong right now?” I smile.

“Not today, are you?” he answers back.

“Oh, um …” His quickness catches me off guard, and then I realize that my window of time to come up with a witty response has closed. So I just half smile and sit down on a large box of books.

“So yeah,” Blake says, clearing his throat and trying to push through our awkward thong moment. “It’s just, you know, I have to do these things, stay on top of it all. It’s like my dad thinks I’ll just get on varsity and get play time next year for scouts, no problem. Just because of Tim. Like they owe me because of Tim. But that’s not how it works. If anything, I get more crap because of him, you know? It’s all just a pain in the ass.”

“Well, if you don’t like it, why don’t you just not play?”

“No, I like it, sometimes,” he says, sitting down next to me on the box. “And anyway, that’s not an option. Like, you can’t just quit art, right?”

Our knees are touching.

“Well, I could if I wanted to, I guess.”

“But wouldn’t your mom flip out? Doesn’t she make you do it?”

“No, not at all. I’m sure she likes that I’m good at it, but she doesn’t really force me to do it.”

The whole right side of my body is touching the whole left side of his.

“Well,” he says, thinking it over, “I guess you just end up
doing what you’re good at, right? And hopefully … you like it.”

“Yeah,” I say, and then I don’t know what possesses me to bring this up, maybe the warmth of Blake’s outer thigh through the fabric of my sweatpants, but suddenly I hear myself saying, “So, you going to that party at U of M on Saturday night?”

“Oh. Yeah, I think so. Are you … you’re going?”

“Thinking about it. Maybe.”

“Cool.” He smiles and turns his head in, and his breath smells like cinnamon gum. “Then I’d get a full day and night of Miss Izzy Skymen.” He tugs at a strand of my hair. “I like the work you’ve done here. You’re very talented.” He grins, holding a crusted yellow tip.

“Well, you know, I’ve been hair-painting for years. I could get to work on yours, but I don’t think you could afford me.” He laughs and I start to reach for a strand of his when all of a sudden we’re on the floor because the box has collapsed. I bolt up, and wave my hand in front of my face to try and ward off all the dust. I look down and there’s Blake, lying on his back over the now-flattened box, covered in books.

He starts laughing, like these huge belly laughs. And then I’m laughing too. “I didn’t really want to carry this down anyway.” He’s still laughing as he gets to his feet. But he does help me repack the books, and another box of old clothes, and then his dad calls again and he says he should probably get going.

Mom, Pam, and Allissa are on the second floor, engrossed in comparing bathroom tiles or something, and don’t even look up when we head down.

“I’m gonna need you to walk me to my car,” Blake says matter-of-factly, dropping the last box on the pile in the foyer, almost crushing poor Leroy, who was in the middle of a power nap in his new cardboard village.

“Oh. Okay.” I try to maintain some feeling in my legs as I grab my coat from the kitchen. “Oh, wait,” I say on instinct, and take out a bottle of mini hand sanitizer from my coat pocket. “It’s just so much dust and old stuff.”

“Thanks, Izzy.” He laughs, and holds out his hands.

And, holy germ-balls, I’m hand-sanitizing Blake Hangry in my foyer.

I walk him to his car thinking,
Girlfriend, definitely, girlfriend.
He seemed genuinely happy that I was thinking of going to the party, and that’s not something his mom would ask him to do. Maybe now that Mom’s met Blake, I can negotiate a party out of Saturday too, and not even have to sneak out. Although Meredith will be here, and that will send Mom into a protective, puritanical frenzy. But if Jenna went with us too … yes, I’d have to emphasize that I’d be going with Jenna.

We reach the end of the driveway and Blake gestures for me to follow him around to the back of his car. So I do. I’m standing there, leaning up against Blake’s trunk, and concentrating on making sure I’ve positioned my body in what one of Allissa’s magazines says is “an angle that shows off
your best and hides your worst.” I don’t know what that means, or what that angle would even be if I knew what it meant, and I don’t think it applies to girls who are wearing bulky winter coats that they can’t button closed, but I guess it doesn’t matter, or maybe I’m doing it right, because all of a sudden Blake pulls me into him and kisses me.

And it’s not like one of those crazy, tongue-fight kinds of kisses. It’s a long, soft, closed-mouth kind of kiss.
Girlfriend. Girlfriend. Girlfriend
. And Blake’s pulling me closer to him, his arms pushing into my lower back, and I feel like everything inside me is melting together. And just as I’m thinking that this feels so good that I hope maybe it turns into one of those crazy, tongue-fight kinds of kisses, I pull away slightly. Which is SO stupid of me. Why did I just pull away? What is my problem? But by the time I realize what a colossal idiot I am, it’s too late and we’re already not kissing anymore.

“Hey,” he says, his arms still locked around me.

“Hey,” I say, a little breathless.

“So … Saturday will be fun,” he says. “Nate and I were helping my mom carry some stuff into the space last week. It looks pretty cool.”

“Oh. Good.” And I then think about Nate and Jenna and the dance and her boycott and find myself saying, “So Nate … does he … is he seeing anyone?”

“Um, no … why? You interested?” he gives me a sideways grin, which accentuates that dimple on his chin.

“No,” I laugh. “I was just thinking of Jenna, actually.”

“Oh. Wait, you want Jenna and Nate to—”

“Yeah! Well, I don’t know, I just thought I’d try and play matchmaker, and that maybe—”

“Wait, you’re kidding, right?”

“What? No … I …”

Blake laughs a little to himself. “Aw, well …” He starts rubbing my back a little. “I think it’s cute you want to play matchmaker, but—”

“So do you think that—” But I don’t get to finish because Blake moves in to kiss me again. Before long, all of my organs have completely liquefied and— Oh my God, I’m vibrating!

It’s my cell, I realize, pulling it out of my coat pocket.

“Hello?” I say, a little out of breath.

“Hello, and who am I speaking with?” The pitch and inflection of my grandma Iris’s stratosphere-high voice quickly re-solidifies my internal organs. I’m pretty sure Grandma Iris is able to lure packs of dogs to her side every time she opens her mouth to speak.

“I said, hello, who is speaking, please?”

“It’s Izzy, Grandma, this is my cell phone you called.”

Blake, hearing this, gives my arm a squeeze and nods his head toward his car. I give him a smile … and then almost drop the phone when I see Cathy Mason’s car parked on the other side of our circular driveway.

What is Cathy Mason doing here? When did she pull up? Oh my God, please tell me that Cathy Mason did not just see me making out with Blake. Please, please, please!