"You don't have to say anything," he continues -- I remember how silence makes him nervous. "You probably don't want to talk to me."
"That's not true," I find myself saying, even though the better (i.e., smaller) part of my brain is yelling, STOP IT! STOP IT!
"Really?"
T nod. The door to the video store opens and I jump back a few feet, practically into Romance. But it's just Seven and Eight from school, too lost in each other to care about anyone else. Seeing them makes me feel wistful.
"Are you waiting for someone?" Kyle asks, unerringly picking the one question I least want to come out of his mouth.
"Why are you doing this now?" I deflect. "A week ago, you wouldn't even look at me in the halls. What's going on?"
"Don't you get it?" For the first time, he looks a little fiery and irritated. "The reason I couldn't talk to you was because I felt so bad for not talking to you."
"That doesn't make sense," I shoot back. But of course it makes perfect sense.
Kyle goes on, his expression half desperate and half appeasing. "There was a time I thought I was right. And that's when I was the most wrong. But the past month or so -- I tried to stop thinking about you, and I couldn't. I just couldn't. I don't expect you to understand, but I can't avoid it anymore. I can't avoid you anymore. I walk around the school and I can feel you hating me. And the worst part is, I can't blame you."
Don't make him feel better, that smaller (better) part of my brain screams. Don't accept his apology so easi--
"I don't hate you," I say. "I've never hated you. I was hurt."
"I know. I'm really, really sorry."
The door opens again, and there's Noah, hoisting the pizza box like the Dino Diner waitress in the opening credits of The Flintstones. Kyle catches my glance and takes a small step forward.
"You've got to go, don't you?"
I nod. And then, surprising even myself, I take The Breakfast Club out of his hand.
"I need a movie," I say.
"Can we talk again? Like Monday, after school?"
This is bad news. I know it's bad news. But I've got to keep on following it. I've got to see how the bad news ends.
"I'll meet you outside the chem lab. Only for a little bit."
"Thank you," Kyle says to me. And I have to fight the urge to say thank you back.
It doesn't make sense. Nothing makes sense.
"Paul?"
By the time Noah sees me, Kyle's retreated to Fitness. I walk over and Noah looks at the box in my hand.
"Good choice," he says. "That's one of Claudia's favorites."
I can feel Kyle watching us, even though I can't see him. Noah doesn't notice. He is so happy, so oblivious. As Spiff signs out the tape, I try to muster all my happiness and obliviousness back. Then, as I step through the doorway, I turn for a last look. Kyle sees me turn and raises his hand. I don't know what he's doing, then the hand moves a little back and forth. He is waving to me. It is both a good-bye and a hello.
I am so confused.
Noah is talking to me about the five Italian women who were waiting in front of him at the pizza joint, each wanting a different topping on their pizza, enraged when the toppings overlapped on a single slice. The pizza guy tried to explain that toppings are not an exact science-- sometimes in the melting process a stray piece of sausage ends up snuggled next to an anchovy. The women insisted on sending the pie back.
I shake my head at the right places. I laugh at the right places. But I am not there with him.
My mind is back in the video store, in one of the sections between Comedy and Drama.
I become a little wary that Noah isn't noticing my distance. Then I get more angry at myself for digressing.
As we near his house, I am able to summon up the more wonderful events of the day. Our first kiss seems like ages ago. It is already becoming a memory.
I ride the Noah train of thought--spinning into his house, dealing with Claudia's begrudging approval of the movie selection-- before the movie derails me again. What was I thinking?
Molly Ringwald makes me think of Kyle. Judd Nelson makes me think of Kyle. Even the goddamn principal makes me think of Kyle.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Then I realize something. Noah seems just as distracted. After Ally Sheedy throws her ham at the statue, I leave the room to reheat the pizza. Noah follows me.
"What's up?" I ask, scared that he's caught on to me, that he's going to boot me out for mental disloyalty.
"I have a confession to make," he says. "It's hard for me to watch that movie."
"Why?"
"The first time I went over to . . . well, Pitt's house, we watched it."
I look at his pained, solemn expression. And then I burst out laughing. Not because it's funny (although in many ways it is). Because I feel a release.
"I know exactly how you feel," I say, briefly mentioning Kyle (not by name, and not including more recent events).
The night is saved.
We stay in the kitchen for the rest of the video. Noah breaks out a Winnie the Pooh cookbook and we decide to make lemon squares.
"You two are insane," Claudia pronounces when the movie is over and she comes into the kitchen to find us covered with powdered sugar and flour.
"Why, thank you," Noah says. I curtsy. Claudia says she's going to sleep.
Perhaps it's Claudia's presence right over our heads, but Noah and I keep our affections quiet for the rest of the night. We relish the briefest of touches--brushing against each other as we take the lemon squares out of the oven, skimming hand over hand when we reach to turn off the oven, pressing arm against arm as we wash out the mixing bowls.
His parents aren't home yet when it's time for me to leave. Tiredness has crept into our conversation.
"Meet me before the morning bell," I say, reaching up to touch his hair.
"I'll be there," he replies, ruffling me back, kissing me good-bye.
As I walk back outside, I take a deep breath. Sure, Kyle's still in the back of my mind. But I think I can manage to keep Noah in the front.
Things Unsaid
When I see Noah on Monday morning, I can tell that something has shifted within me, within him, and within us. Before, it was all about hope and anticipation. Now it's about hope, anticipation, and proximity. I want to be close to him--not out of some vague notion of what it would be like, but because I have already been close to him and I don't want that to stop.
We talk about our mornings and leave so many things unsaid: the choreography of our note passing, our happiness in seeing each other, a little of our fear, our desire to keep our displays of affection private. The first bell rings, and I'm not sure what we'll do--is there a way to acknowledge our newfound closeness without being one of those couples who can't get through the day without a loud hallway snog?
It's Noah who finds the answer, without me having to ask the question. "I'll see you later," he says, and as he does, he runs his finger briefly over my wrist. It passes over me like air, and makes me shiver like a kiss.
I walk into French class feeling very, very lucky.
"Good weekend?" Joni asks once I sit down in front of her.
"Great weekend," I reply.
"I'm sorry I didn't call you. I was with Chuck."
Of course you were.
Before she can say any more, Ms. Kaplansky begins her conjugations. We continue our conversation in folded, college-ruled form.
Chuck and I went to the driving range. I wanted to mini-golf, but he said that was for wusses.
So he taught me how to swing. After a while, he started calling me his eighteenth hole. Then he took me to the nicest place for dinner, and he was so sweet about it. He tried to order us drinks, but the waitress just laughed. Chuck was steamed for a while about that, but I cheered him up. Did you go out with your lover boy?
Yes. Noah and I spent Saturday together. It was groovy. I like him a lot.
I want juicy details.
I
had Tropicana for breakfast this morning. Without pulp.
That's not what I meant. Fine. Be secretive. Like I keep anything from you. By the way, Ted's started to stalk me. Chuck and I are very upset by it.
What do you mean?
I mean, he keeps calling me and dropping by my house. One time I was there with Chuck, and Chuck almost pummeled him. I mean, doesn't Ted get it? I'm through with him. Through.
Perhaps he's hurting. [I am thinking for a moment of Kyle]
Yes, he's hurting ME and my relationship with Chuck.
At this point, Ms. Kaplansky announces a pop quiz. We all groan and clear off our desks. Ms.
Kaplansky has an uncanny habit of asking us to translate phrases into French that we would never, ever use in English.
1. Sir, are you familiar with the works of Australian filmmaker Gillian Armstrong?
2. He was predisposed to believe that she had a case of indigestion.
3. I am amazed by the size of that ostrich.
When Ms. Kaplansky is distracted, I turn and look at Joni. I don't see any softness there. I know it's Ted and not me she's angry with. But the anger still surprises me. If I can still feel vulnerability and tenderness towards Kyle (who dumped my sorry ass), then why can't Joni feel something less than hostility towards Ted, who she's left behind?
These questions haunt me throughout the day. Noah and I pass notes between every period, little observation installments to tide us over until the next real conversation. I see Ted and he looks awful-- sleepless and dressed to depress. He mumbles a near-silent hello to me, then passes like a defeated shadow. I would rather have him tease me. I would rather have him yell.
Lyssa Ling makes an announcement during homeroom that the committee sign-ups for the Dowager Dance have been posted along side the jukebox in the cafeteria. Infinite Darlene confides in me that she was the first to sign up for my committee, and that she's already planning what to wear for the first meeting. (I assume this means I should figure out when the first meeting will be; I haven't thought that far ahead.) She spits some venom about Joni and Chuck, who she's decided to call Truck, "since the other alternative is just too obscene for a lady like myself." Later in the day, Chuck walks past me. Out of allegiance to Joni, I say hello. He doesn't acknowledge me. I turn to watch him walk away. A minute later, Joni comes bounding into his arms. He acknowledges her . . . but not as much as she is acknowledging him. She is too enthusiastic to notice. Or perhaps I'm reading him wrong.
I don't encounter Kyle until our planned meeting in the chem lab after school. When I told Noah I would be meeting him thirty minutes later than usual, he didn't even ask me why. I feel guilty, both because of the truth I didn't volunteer and because I know that if I had been in his place, I would've asked.
Kyle and I sit at one of the chem tables; the words of our conversation will fall from the air into empty glass beakers, awaiting invisible measure. Behind Kyle, the equation-strewn board hangs like cryptic wallpaper. Neither Kyle nor I take chemistry. I figured this would be neutral ground.
I study his face--the close-cropped black hair, the scatter-freckles, the shadow-hint stubble.
He looks different than when I last really knew him. His features have lost some fierceness.
His angles are not so sure of themselves.
"I'm sorry for springing that on you in the video store," he begins, his voice steady and low.
"That's not how I'd planned it to be."
"How did you plan it to be?" I ask, not to be snarky but because I am genuinely curious.
"I planned it to be a million different things," he replies. "And in the end, I couldn't figure which one it should be."
"But now you've told me." Part of me is still expecting him to take it all back, for this to be his one last cruel trick on my mind.
He nods.
"And what do you want from me?" I ask.
"I don't know." He looks me right in the eye for a moment, then looks behind me, to the periodic table of the elements. "I know I don't have any right to do this. I was really. . . I don't know what the word is for what I was to you. I didn't break up with you the right way.
Something inside me flipped out and I. . . I couldn't stand you. It wasn't your fault. But I couldn't stand you. I needed to. . . I needed to obliterate you. Not you personally. But the thought of you. Your presence."
"Why?"
"It was just a feeling--it was an instinct. I had to do it. It wasn't right. It didn't feel right."
"But you didn't have to lash out at me," I say, my voice rising until I bring it back down.
"You could have just told me. Said 'it doesn't feel right.'"
"No"--he's looking at me again now--"you don't understand. You would've talked me out of it. I would've backed down."
"Maybe you would've backed down because you didn't really want to do it."
"You see--you would've used that logic on me. And I didn't want to use your logic."
"So instead you obliterate me?"
He's playing with one of the beakers now, looking at it in his hand. "I know--I'm sorry."
I decide to continue the narrative. "So you dump me. You bad-mouth me. Then a couple of weeks later you're in the halls playing tonsil hockey with Mary Anne McAllister, telling everyone that I'd tricked you into liking guys. Now what? It didn't work with Mary Anne or Cyndi or Joanne or whoever else, and you've decided to come back to my side again?"
"It's not like that."
"Then what is it like?" I can see he's confused, I can see he's trying to tell me something. But all of my own hurt is coming out now--and it's angry hurt. "Please tell me what it's like.
Because as you've been walking past me all these months -- as everyone has been asking me,
'Whatever happened with Kyle?' and I've been trying to piece together your side of the story from all the second hand accounts I've heard--all this time, I have been wondering more than anything else what you think it's like"
He starts to shiver then. And I remember it so clearly how he used to shiver when he was upset, when he was overwhelmed. There was nothing he or I could do to make it stop. When he told me his brother had learned he had diabetes, when his father yelled at him on a Sunday visit for quitting basketball, when we got to the ending of Boys Don't Cry--these were the only times I got to hold him with all my strength, as his body shook out what his mind couldn't handle. After the first time, when he'd tried to laugh the whole thing off, we hadn't talked about it. We just rode it out, until I wasn't there anymore.
I want to touch him right now. Not hold him, just touch him. But I'm paralyzed. My own reaction to being overwhelmed.
"I'm sorry," he mutters.
"Don't be. I'm sorry I snapped at you."
"No." He looks at me again; the shivering subsides. "I know you hate me. You have every right to hate me. You don't have to speak to me again."
He gets up to leave, and my paralysis is broken. I put my hand on his arm and gesture to him to sit down.
"Listen to me, Kyle," I say. He sits back down and angles his face toward mine. "I mean this entirely. And I'll only say it once. I do not hate you, and have never hated you. I was angry at you and depressed by you and confused about you. But hate never came into it.
"Thank you," he whispers.
I continue quietly. "If you want me to forgive you, I guess have. If you want to know that I don't hate you, you know that now. Is that all?"
A slight shiver again.
"No," he says.
"What, then?" I ask gently.
"I need your help, Paul. I have no right to ask you for it, but I can't think of anyone else to talk to."
I am already involved. I've put myself in this position, and the truth is that I don't really mind.
"What is it, Kyle?"
"I'm so confused."
"Why?"
"I still like girls."
"So?"
"And I also like guys."
I touch his knee. "It doesn't sound like yo
u're confused, then."
"But I wanted to be one or the other. With you, I wanted just to like you. Then, after you, I wanted to just like the girls. But every time I'm with one, I think the other's possible."
"So you're bisexual."
Kyle's face flushes. "I hate that word," he tells me, slumping back in his chair. "It makes it sound like I'm divided."
"When really you're doubled?"
"Right-O."