My sister apparently lives in a time warp, where twenty minutes and an hour are the same thing. I was so not going to let her borrow my jean jacket for doing this to me.
Jordan drove me to Wal-Mart. I told him I would call the store and tell them that I couldn’t come in. I told him he could just drive me to the school, and I’d drive myself to work from there.
But no dice. He worried about me getting to Wal-Mart as soon as possible, since Kate said I was needed there “right away.”
Like it was an emergency room instead of a store that sold Saran Wrap and tennis balls.
My mom says all events in life—both good and bad—are valuable for the lessons they teach you. Mom also says if you don’t learn the lessons you’re supposed to, life keeps giving you the same experiences over and over until you learn what you need to. I am obviously missing some big, important lesson because I’m continually finding myself in awkward situations.
Jordan left Kate at his house reading through Shakespeare—probably scouring the play for other offenses against Juliet—and dropped me off at Wal-Mart’s front door. He said he’d be back in four hours so he could take me to my car at the school.
“Oh, you don’t have to,” I said yet again. “I can call my parents.” They would wonder why in the world I was at work and my car was at the school, and probably I’d hear countless jokes about stranding myself in the Wal-Mart parking lot twice in one week, but at least I wouldn’t have to hang out in the store for four hours.
“It’s no problem,” Jordan said. “My mom is always finding something she needs me to buy, so I’ll probably have to come back tonight anyway.” And then he drove off before I could argue the point further.
So I was stuck at Wal-Mart. This meant I’d have to call my parents and let them know I’d be home late so they didn’t call Jordan’s house wondering what was taking me so long. This meant I’d have to spend the rest of the afternoon at the place I worked without getting paid to be there, and mostly this meant I was never going to take up matchmaking as a career choice.
Five
I didn’t want to walk around the store the entire four hours. I mean, I have browsed every square inch there is to browse at Wal-Mart, and besides, I had homework to do. If I went to the break room for that long, the other employees would ask what I was doing, and then why I was here on my day off.
I was not going to tell them the truth, and I didn’t have a plausible lie thought up. There was only one thing to do. I went and camped out in a stall in the women’s bathroom. With my Advanced Algebra book on one knee and my notebook on the other, I did my math problems. Which would have worked out all right except it was hard to balance my calculator along with everything else on my knees, and I kept dropping it. My calculator probably picked up multiple germs and a couple of communicable diseases while down on the floor, and I wondered what the people in the stalls next to me thought of my groping around for it; but no one ever asked.
That’s the nice thing about doing your homework in a bathroom stall: No one feels the need to make pointless small talk with you.
After I finished my math homework, I wrote the rough draft of my English paper, studied my Spanish vocab words, and read the next two chapters of my history book. When all of that was finished, I still had forty-five minutes left to wait, so I got out my copy of Romeo and Juliet and read through it. I envisioned myself as Juliet—in love, passionate, and willing to die for the man who’d captured my heart. I saw myself onstage in a flowing white dress, with jewels intertwined with my hair.
This is harder than one might imagine while toilets are flushing around you.
I shut my eyes and tried to block out everything else, like Mrs. Shale taught us. I tried to think like Juliet, to be her. I said her lines in my mind over and over again until I realized I was actually saying the words out loud, delivering them so they filled the bathroom.
See, there are some people who might not understand why you’re doing that in a stall.
I peered out of the crack in the door to see how many people were around. Two women washed their hands at the sinks. I grimaced and scooted as far away from the door as I could, just in case either of them had X-ray vision—or at least really good vision—and could somehow tell who I was through the door crack.
Then I silently waited for them to leave the bathroom so I could sneak out undetected.
I hoped Kate appreciated all this bathroom time I’d put in for her. It’s not every friend who’d hide out in a public restroom for four hours just so she could have quality flirt time with the guy she liked.
After I slunk out of the bathroom, I checked my watch. Ten minutes left until Jordan came. I decided to go wait for him outside.
When I’d taken three steps away from the bathroom, I saw Jordan walk through the front door. Two steps later, he saw me. “No blue vest today?” he asked.
“I wore a borrowed one—just put it away, in fact. I got off a few minutes early.”
If God is really as strict about lying as my Sunday School teacher says he is, I’m in big trouble.
“Did you need to buy anything here?” I asked. “Or are you ready to go?”
“I’m ready,” he said.
We turned to leave, but right then Mr. Cranston lumbered toward me. He held out one hand like a traffic cop, then called out, “Jessica!”
They say your life flashes before your eyes when you die. I’m not sure about that, but I do know your life—particularly the parts where you’ve told big, whopping lies to guys—flashes before your eyes when you’re about to be exposed by your store manager.
“Mr. Cranston,” I said in a half-strangled voice. Then I simultaneously tried to send him psychic messages not to say anything about my being in the store when I wasn’t working and prayed for deliverance really hard.
I’m not sure of everything I promised God to get me out of this situation gracefully, but at some point in my life, I may have to become a missionary to a Third World country.
“Jessica, could you do me a favor?” Mr. Cranston asked.
“Sure,” I squeaked.
“Could you check in the ladies room and tell me if any wackos are in there? I just heard from one of the customers that someone is in there talking to Romeo.”
You know, I really need to be more specific when I request deliverance from God.
I felt my face reddening, but I kept my voice even. “I just came from the bathroom, and it’s empty.”
“Good.” He shook his head. “Wackos and drug addicts. I wish they’d just stay away from the store.” Then without another word he turned around and headed toward his office.
I walked to the front door without looking at Jordan, but I could hear him beside me laughing anyway. “Wackos, drug addicts, and actors,” he said as we stepped outside. “Someone should have warned your boss about those.”
I ignored him.
“Why were you practicing lines in the bathroom anyway?”
“Because the hygiene aisle was already taken.”
He laughed again as we walked across the parking lot. “Man, talk about method acting. You’re either really dedicated or you should be committed someplace. I’m not sure which.”
I shook my head. “Just add this day to the list of my embarrassing moments.”
He opened his car door for me, which would have been very gentlemanly if he hadn’t added, “This one is my car,” as he did it.
I mean, really.
With my arms folded, I waited for him to walk around to his side of the car. When he slid in and started the engine, I said, “You never did tell me your most embarrassing moment.”
“And I never will, either.”
“Oh, come on.”
He shook his head, the humor draining from his expression. I could tell he was thinking about that moment. And it wasn’t good.
I decided to change the subject. “Did you and Kate rehearse much?”
“Naw, but we did agree we both hated Shakespeare, althoug
h for different reasons. She thinks he’s a sexist, opinionated misogynist, and I think the way he kept rhyming things is really annoying.”
I’d just spent four hours in a bathroom, and Kate had spent the time talking about Shakespeare’s view on women? The girl was hopeless.
“I’m definitely not ready for tryouts,” he said. “I can read the words, but I don’t know how to act them. I mean what do I do with my body while I’m saying stuff? I tried to wave my hand around a little while I spoke; but it didn’t feel natural, and it probably looked stupid.”
“Your body language problem,” I said.
“Yeah, whatever. Can we get together and go over this some more? You didn’t really have a chance to help me with it today.”
The only time left was tomorrow, and that’s when I was laying my trap for Brendan. But how could I say no to Jordan after I hadn’t helped him today? He needed my expertise. The poor boy was resorting to hand-waving in an attempt to perform his lines. “I guess we could go over it right after school,” I said. Because Brendan had football practice after school so wouldn’t come over till later. “But it has to be at my house because I have to make cookies for . . . something.”
“Your house it is then,” Jordan said, and he smiled.
Every time I saw Kate the next day, she talked about Jordan. By lunchtime I’d heard it all. Twice. Jordan was so nice. Jordan was so handsome. Jordan had offered to put a Pima curse on Shakespeare for her.
I unwrapped my sandwich. “Indians have curses for dead people?”
She made one of those coughing noises that isn’t really a cough but a way to tell you that you just said something stupid. “Of course not, Jessica, don’t be so culturally insensitive. He was joking. He has a wonderful sense of humor.”
Yeah. Right. He was perfect, and I was getting sick of hearing about it. I ate my sandwich in silence while she tried to repeat, verbatim, their entire conversation from yesterday.
“I think he likes me,” she finished off with a sigh. “You can always tell by how much attention a guy pays to you. When I was with him, he made me feel—you know—important. Like what I thought mattered.”
Maybe Jordan is just the type of person who makes people feel important, I nearly said. After all, he always made me feel like I mattered too. He took my advice about clothes, shared a secret with me, and laughed at my jokes.
The sandwich felt like dust in my mouth. Jordan made me feel special, and I’d handed him over to Kate.
Because I was in love with Brendan, I reminded myself. So I shouldn’t be thinking of Jordan that way, especially since I’d just handed him over to Kate. I should encourage her guy-getting attempts. I should tell her, for example, that Jordan was coming over to my house after school, and invite her along—even if that meant I then had to watch her making jokes about Shakespeare with Jordan, like it was some exclusive club just the two of them belonged to.
I took a sip of milk, fingered the straw, and then made myself speak. “Jordan said he wanted to run lines again after school. We’re going to my house. Do you want to come?”
“Want to? Definitely. But the Spanish Club is electing officers today, and Senor Gomez wants me to be secretary. Besides, in English class Mrs. Shale said she’ll get a totally modern version of Romeo and Juliet. It will all be different. But she said she’d give us a few minutes before tryouts to read over the stuff to familiarize ourselves with it. So, you know, Jordan shouldn’t worry about it.” She leaned forward, tapping her fingers on the table excitedly. “All day I’ve tried to think of an excuse to go up and talk to him, and that’s it. I’ll tell him what Mrs. Shale told us, so he won’t have to worry about running lines with you after all.”
She said this as though it would be a great relief to Jordan, as though I’m to be avoided whenever possible.
I tried not to squeeze my milk carton, but somehow milk managed to shoot up my straw and spill on the table anyway. I didn’t say anything else to Kate. I didn’t have to. She was back to talking about how wonderful Jordan was.
as the day wore on, it ticked me off more and more that Kate wanted to cancel my acting session with Jordan. I mean, she had no right to do that. Just because she couldn’t come didn’t mean he didn’t need the help. The boy didn’t even have pickup lines. What did he know about being a Romeo?
My mind circled around this issue instead of fluttering around the idea of Brendan coming to see me. And Brendan was coming to see me. I’d sent him my E-mail this morning, since I knew it would be hard to send it after school while Jordan was over. Brendan must have already read it because when I walked by him on my way to Advanced Algebra, his gaze followed every step I took. He stood beside Lauren, hanging around the drinking fountain like it was some sort of social event, but he watched me. His lips started to form words; they nearly hung in the air, then he glanced at Lauren and didn’t say them.
There is only one reason you don’t say, “Hey, thanks for telling me about my history book. I’ll be by to pick it up later,” and that is because you don’t want your girlfriend to know you’re coming over to my house.
So he was coming.
Whether Jordan was coming or not, I wasn’t sure, and my thoughts went something like: I’ll wear the gold earrings Brendan got me last Christmas and have his favorite CD playing in the background, and . . . Does Jordan like country music? Do American Indians in general hate country music because the stars sometimes wear cowboy hats and boots? I mean, maybe the whole cowboy thing stirred up bad memories for them. But then again, maybe it was stupid of me to even wonder about that. Music preferences were an individual thing, right?
And would Jordan be offended if I noted the cultural difference between us, or would he be offended if I didn’t? Kate, who was the queen of all that was politically correct, probably knew the answer to this question, but I wasn’t about to ask her. She was the one who was trying to uninvite him from my house.
I was actually surprised and immensely relieved when Jordan showed up at my locker after school. Kate apparently hadn’t found the opportunity to talk to him after all.
We drove to my house in separate cars—although if Brendan hadn’t been coming over, I would have insisted on taking Jordan in my car just to be difficult. As it was, I had to run lines with Jordan, get the cookies going, and change into a stunning outfit, all before Brendan arrived.
The first thing I did when we got to my house was banish Nicki to her room. She claimed she wanted to watch us act; but I knew she would just hang around giggling, so I threatened not to let her have any cookies unless she left us alone.
Then Jordan and I made up a double batch of chocolate chip—a double batch because it only seemed fair to send Jordan home with some, since he was helping to make them.
As we measured, stirred, and talked about school I wondered what he would think if he knew he was helping me make cookies as a way to recapture my old boyfriend. I also wondered what Jordan would look like riding a horse against the setting sun, deerskin trousers on his legs and war paint smeared across his chest. Usually I didn’t think those thoughts consecutively, but sometimes I did, and after a while the image of Jordan on a horse sort of overtook thoughts of Brendan altogether.
I tried to banish this line of thinking by telling myself American Indians had probably never dressed like that. Hollywood most likely just put them in movies that way because they knew women audience members loved to see shirtless guys running around on horses.
Jordan, for example, would look stunning on a palomino.
After we put the cookies in the oven, we went into the family room to work on the play. Dad was at work, Mom was out running errands, and Nicki had taken the phone to her room and thus might never reemerge. The house seemed strangely silent, and I suddenly felt awkward standing alone with Jordan.
“So you need help with your motions?” I asked him.
“Yeah. What am I supposed to do with my body while I deliver my lines?”
“Your body . . .” I
let my gaze momentarily wander, then snapped it back to his face. “It depends on your emotion. How do you want to feel? I mean, how do you want your character to feel?” I glanced over at the kitchen. “Is it hot in here? Do you think the oven heated up the room too much?”
“I’m fine.”
Yes, he was, and I had to stop noticing that aspect of him. Jordan needed help with his acting. That’s all.
I took a step back from him. “So what emotion are you trying to convey to the audience?”
He shrugged. “I’m attracted to Juliet.”
“Right. So how do you act when you’re attracted to someone?”
More shrugging, this time with a look of exasperation thrown in.
“You’re making this harder than it is. Here, let’s pretend you and I have just met at a party, and you want to get my phone number. Don’t worry about what you’re going to say. What you say isn’t important. Your body language is what we’re working on. So go ahead and talk to me.”
He nodded, put his hands on his hips, then seemed unhappy with that and folded his arms instead. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I said back to him.
He took a step closer to me. “Great band, huh?”
“Yeah, they’re really good. Um, what kind of band are they? I mean, do you hate country music?”
“What?” he asked, then put his hands back on his hips. “Is that what you’d really say to me at a party?”
“No, but I just wondered what kind of music you like.”
“Me as Jordan, or me as Romeo?”
“You. Jordan.”
“Oh. Country is okay. I like rock too. I’m partial to oldies.” He dropped his hand from his hips. “Can I get back to being Romeo now?”
“Sure.” I smiled at him. I liked oldies too.
He took another step closer to me. He wore the blue shirt I’d picked out for him. The color looked rich and vibrant against his skin. I suppressed the urge to reach over and smooth out its wrinkles.