Things I’ll Never Say (25 page)

She's up before I can answer, heading toward the tall grass near the creek.

I stand up and follow her, anticipating how one thing will lead to another like it always does. Her hips sway as she walks, and I feel the good feel of knowing what's coming. I try not to trip on my own feet as I make my way over the uneven grass.

Only Sarah stops just short of our favorite place near the creek.

I catch up and put a hand on her shoulder to turn her toward me. I lean in, expecting to kiss her, full up with wanting her, like always. I am anticipating the way her mouth will taste. I'll hold her close and move my hand to her breast, which is just the right size, just big enough to fit inside my hand. I love that about her, the way we fit together like that. So much better than with Wendy, who was shorter and rounder — but in a cute way, not beautiful like Sarah.

Just as my mouth is about to connect, Sarah shoves me, and she falls to her knees. She's kneeling in the tall grass, looking up at me, her cheeks and collarbone lit white by moonlight.

I'm standing there not sure what just happened. Did she just trip on the ground? I ask, “Are you okay?”

Her eyes are intense. So intense. Maybe scared.

I kneel next to her and wrap my arms around her to make her feel safe. I brush hair from her face, and I see tears just waiting at her bottom eyelids to spill over. So I pull her down on top of me, and we're hidden in the grass. I let my hands roam over her back and down her arms. “What's the matter, baby?”

Sarah arches her back away from me and her knees come up on either side of my ribs. “You gave me something,” she says. Tears tip over her bottom lids.

I hate when she cries.

She pushes away and sits up so that she's straddling me, then grabs hold of my arms — in a surprisingly painful grip, like she wants it to hurt — as she tells me, “You did this to me.”

She raises a hand. I'm thinking that hand looks like a white torch in the moonlight, and so it takes a second for me to notice the swift downward movement. She slaps my cheek. She raises the other hand and slaps me again. She's crying and slapping, and crying some more. “You ass,” she cries. “You ass!”

“What?” I ask. “What are you doing?”

Slap.
One cheek, then the other.
Slap.
And I'm still not sure what she's talking about. “What?” I ask. I try to stop her arms, saying, “Come on, Sarah. It's okay. It's okay.” I figure this is something bad. But it's something we can fix. Oh, God! I hope she isn't pregnant.

I'm lying there on my back and trying to hold her wrists to stop her slapping me. “What are you talking about?”

She hisses the words. “I have herpes.”

The air feels suddenly damp and cold. The wet grass is soaking my back. I drop her hands.

She fills in details I don't want to hear. She's in pain. I gave her blisters. She slaps me again. She tells me in a voice filled with quiet rage, “I hate myself.” She wipes her eyes against the back of her arm. “I hate that I still love you.” Then she tells me, “I'll find a way to hate you.” She stands over me and cries, “How could you? How could you tell me you love me and then do this?”

I get up on my knees. But everything is quiet. So quiet because Sarah is already walking away.

She doesn't go back to the fire pit. Instead she makes a straight line for her car. I'm wondering how she can be serious. I never had blisters. Not even a rash. I watch her headlights as her car makes a U-turn and she leaves. She leaves me kneeling in that long, wet grass. How could she have herpes if I never had a sign? And I keep wondering if I heard her right. Did she really say what I think she said?

We're three weeks into school when my mom starts asking about Sarah. She's gone, I want to say. Just gone. Rick tells me that Sarah goes the long way around school to avoid passing my locker. He always asks, “Man, what
did
you do to make that girl wish you were so invisible?”

But there are some things I just cannot say, so I tell my mom Sarah's busy with the girls' soccer team. “I'm working to keep starting rank myself,” I add.

My mom asks if we broke up.

I could tell her,
We broke up even though I really love Sarah. But the problem is I loved too many girls.
But how does a guy tell his mom he cheated on the girl he was going out with?

My mom won't let up today. “It isn't just that Sarah's not around anymore. Except for soccer practice, I don't see you hanging out with anyone lately.”

I wonder what she would say if I told her the truth
. I'm not hanging out with anybody anymore. Because I'm a dirty kind of guy.

I wonder how the truth would change the way my mom loves her boy.

Instead I say, “Don't worry, Ma. I'm just focusing on important stuff. Like soccer. And Calculus. Calculus is wicked hard.”

Somehow my mom thinks it's her job to ask me about friends every single day. Seriously. I finally say to her, “You're obsessing, Ma. You have to let it go. You have to just stop.”

My mom is not someone to let it go, though.

We're into October. I'm passing Calculus but sat out the last soccer game because Coach said my head wasn't in it. And my mom's asking about girls again. She's hoping I'm over Sarah and moving on. She's asking if there's anybody I like.
Like
like, she means.

All I want is breakfast. I drop bread in the toaster and slam down the little bar on the side that always tries to pop back up.

“Yeah, Ma, there are lots of girls I like,” I say. “Lots.” Only not that way. Not anymore. But I can't say that. I can't tell my ma how I used to love girls, couldn't get enough of how soft they are. So I screwed around a bit — well, a lot — with Sarah.

But I think all girls are bitches. No, that's not true. Not Sarah. Sarah is definitely not a bitch. She's not. She just hates me now.

“Really, Luke.” My mom studies my face, like what's going on with me is written right there for the world to see. “Your friends are all dating. I just see you missing out on things like dances, is all.”

I work at making my forehead go smooth and my eyes go wide, erasing anything like emotion. “Dances?” I repeat. “Dances are lame.”

“It's social,” she says. “You used to be social.”

The toast pops up, saving me from looking at her. It's a little too dark, smoking on the edges. I grab a knife and slather a hunk of butter on the burnt toast. “So now I'm not social? I'm just sick of things.”

“Oh, Luke. You spend way too much time alone lately.” She taps the lip of her coffee cup with her finger. That's a sign she's trying to figure out how to say something that will probably tick me off. “It might pull you out of this blue funk if you did something social.” Her tapping finger slows. She's getting to the point. “Homecoming is a week away.”

She taps.

“Mrs. McKay says Wendy is still hoping to be asked. You two used to be such good friends, and it's been hard for Wendy since her dad left.” She taps again.

I know what's coming. I drop the knife in the sink.

“It would be nice for you to ask her. You've hung out with her. . . .”

“You want me to ask Wendy McKay to Homecoming?” I'm holding the toast, grateful that I haven't bit into it yet. “I don't think so.”

She gets the teasing-mom look now. “You two used to be cute trick-or-treating together.”

“We were little kids. We loved the candy.”

If I told her the truth, would that end this? How do I tell my mom I cheated when I slept with her best friend's daughter? Then I might even have to tell her how much of a mistake Wendy was.

She cups her coffee mug between two hands. “Come on, Luke,” she says. “I'm worried about you.”

“Don't be. Please, Ma, just don't be worried.” I reach over and give her shoulder one of those reassuring squeezes my dad's so good at. I must not be as good at them, though, because as I ease around the kitchen, I catch her frown.

I picture giving my mom the whole ugly truth.
Wendy gave me herpes
, I would say.
And I passed it on.

I can hazard a guess that my mom might be spitting out her coffee at that part. After all, I am her boy, and she has raised me to be a good one. I don't even think she would expect me to be hooking up.

Behind me, my mom waits for something more. She's doing that thing where she hopes I'll open up so she can help.

If I was going to tell my mom the truth, I'd have to say,
Are you getting all this, Ma? Because this is important. Sarah got the worst of it.
I picture telling my mom,
I'm the cheater who spread this shit to his girlfriend.

And now that I know this about myself, I'll probably never have another girlfriend. Ever.

I shove the toast in my mouth and chew, almost gagging on the taste and the memory of Sarah telling me she had blisters, thanks to me. No. This is not a recollection to share with my mother. I drop the toast on the counter.

“I love you, Ma.” I grab my keys and backpack and open the door. I step outside and tell her just before the door is blown shut by the wind, “But I just can't take Wendy to Homecoming.”

I jangle my keys as I head for my bike, and I look at the sky to see black clouds scudding past. This probably isn't a great day to drive the bike, but I'm not gonna ask my mom for a ride.

Movement across the street catches my eye. Well, speak of the devil. The very girl who ruined everything is in her driveway. Wendy and her mother are getting in the family sedan. Wendy does one of those girlie finger waves and calls out, “Hey, Luke. Do you maybe want a ride today?”

I pretend I don't hear. Grab my helmet, jump on my bike, and start it up. I screech out of the driveway in second gear, thinking,
There's no way in hell I'd go anywhere with that girl.

It's cold and damp the night before Homecoming. If I stay at home instead of going to the bonfire at school, I'll probably spend another night searching the Internet for signs and symptoms. Can I be a carrier without ever having a sore?

Apparently.

How many times can I clear my search history before I make a mistake and leave a clue? Maybe I should go to a doctor and have it checked out. Maybe not.

I clear my history and head out.

The night-before-Homecoming bonfire in the field next to the football field is intended to get us all jazzed up for tomorrow's big game and dance. I don't have a date. But no problem, there are always a couple of us guys who show up at the bonfire without dates. This year one of them is Rick. His girlfriend just broke up with him to take a football player to the dance. So Rick and I and two other guys on the soccer team all go to the bonfire together to watch everyone get crazy.

“Tomorrow's the big day,” Rick offers. We stand around in our letter jackets sporting our varsity soccer letters, our hands jammed in our front pockets, trying to stay warm and act cool. “Football,” he says, and shakes his head. “I'd be interested in the dance if it was for a soccer game, you know?”

He pulls a water bottle out of his pocket, takes a swig, and coughs. We're all carrying our bottles with vodka in them. Mine's almost empty. So almost empty that I might worry about balance if I didn't have two feet planted firmly on the ground.

The bonfire plays across everyone's faces so that they're licked with gold. I spot Sarah. She's laughing. That's like a shot to my heart. She's standing with a group on the other side of the bonfire. Doug Wilcox is there. He didn't waste any time trying to move in on her after she dumped me.

Her eyes glow in the light as she glances around. At first I think she's looking for me. Like she always used to when we were together. But then her eyes wander past my face. She doesn't want me to see that she sees me. Or maybe she wants me to see that she's ignoring me.

But I watch her. I stare at the way she tosses all that black hair back, laughing at something Doug just said to her. Does he smell her hair when she does that? Does he get the same crazy lightness inside his heart that I got just being near her? I stare at her hands, grazing her hip and spreading out on the small of her back as she stretches up on tiptoe to respond to whatever Doug said.

Wendy's standing on the other side of Sarah. She's wearing a T-shirt that's short enough that her belly ring glints in the firelight. Next to Sarah, it's like she's trying way too hard, though.

Whatever made me want Wendy when I had Sarah? What was I thinking?

Wendy taps Sarah on the shoulder so that Sarah leans down. It takes a minute for me to realize they're hanging out together. Wendy points at me and says something, and Sarah nods before she scans the crowd and purposely raises her eyes above my head again. She will not look at me.

Sarah turns into the crowd and disappears.

I long to follow her. This is the only girl I want to be with.

I step through the crowd, in the direction Sarah just took. But then Wendy's heading straight for me.

I change course and bump right into Rick, who's standing with his back to me. And then I stumble. I guess I'm not as steady as I thought I was.

That gives Wendy a chance to catch up to me and grab my arm. “Hey, Luke,” she says. She's smiling like she's hoping for something. It's that smile that got me into trouble.

I try to shake her off. “I'm okay.” I lurch when I grab the water bottle from my pocket. I attempt to chug from the almost empty bottle, and, in a totally unswift move, I trip when I turn away from her.

She keeps her hand on my arm. “I hear you're not going to the dance tomorrow.” She says this like she's asking a question.

“Nope.” I wave toward Rick and the guys. “We're gonna do our own team thing.”

“Like what? Is it something I could do with you? I don't have a date tomorrow.”