by e. lockhart
RUBY OLIVER NOVELS
The Boyfriend List
The Boy Book
The Treasure Map of Boys
Real Live Boyfriends
Fly on the Wall
Dramarama
The Disreputable History of Frankie Landau-Banks
How to Be Bad (with Sarah Mlynowski and Lauren Myracle)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2010 by E. Lockhart
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
Visit us on the Web! www.randomhouse.com/teens
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Lockhart, E.
Real live boyfriends : yes, boyfriends, plural. if my life weren’t complicated I wouldn’t be Ruby Oliver / E. Lockhart. –1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: Now a senior at her Seattle prep school, Ruby continues her angst-filled days coping with the dilemmas of boyfriends, college applications, her parents’ squabbling, and realizing that her “deranged” persona may no longer apply.
eISBN: 978-0-375-89758-0
[1. Self-perception–Fiction. 2. Dating (Social customs)–Fiction.
3. Interpersonal relations–Fiction. 4. High schools–Fiction.
5. Schools–Fiction. 6. Seattle (Wash.)–Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.L79757Re 2010
[Fic]–dc22
2009041988
Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.
v3.1
For Daniel
contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Real Live Boyfriends!
The Insanity of My Parents! And Romance!
Panic Attacks and Rabbit Fever!
The Revelation About Gay Chinese Penguins!
Agony and Love Poems!
Distraction Caused by a Bare Chest!
Humiliation at Snappy Dragon!
Surprise Kissing!
The Waketastic Adventure!
An Agonizing Public Scene! With Violence!
The Wenchery of Cricket and Kim!
Secrets of the Panda Bear!
The Mysterious Disappearance of Kevin!
Shocking Disclosure in the Zoological Gardens!
Emotional Breakdown in the Parking Lot!
A Nighttime Escapade!
A Final List!
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Real Live Boyfriends!
a definition:
A real live boyfriend does not contribute to your angst.
You do not wonder if he will call.
You do not wonder whether he will kiss you.
And he does not look at his phone while you are talking, to see if anyone has texted him.
Of course he calls. He’s your boyfriend!
Of course there will be kissing. He’s your boyfriend!
And of course he listens. He’s your real live boyfriend!
You can sit down next to him at lunch whenever you want. There’s no need for mental gyrations such as: Will he want me there when he’s hanging with his friends? Or will he half ignore me in order to seem golden in front of them?
Of course you can sit with him. He’s your boyfriend!
You can assume you’ll see him on the weekend. You can call him just to chat. You can expect he’ll be nice to your friends.
Contrary to some rumors, however, you don’t have to be in love. You don’t have to engage in any horizontal action beyond what you’re in the mood for. You don’t even need to stay together after high school. But you have to like him and he has to like you—and everyone has to know you’re together.
He’s your real live boyfriend!
The Insanity of My Parents! And Romance!
from seventh grade to ninth, I had a real live boyfriend named Tommy Hazard.
Tommy was perfect. He had clear skin, he was never obnoxious in class, and he was excellent at sports. He had beautiful strong shoulders and a secret mysterious smile. Tall but not too tall. Great teeth. Smoldering eyes.
In fact, he was superhot and could have any girl he wanted. And the best thing was—he went weak whenever he saw me.
He was also imaginary.
I told my best friend, Kim, all about him. He changed according to my mood. Sometimes he was a surfer boy in board shorts and a bead choker, tossing the water out of his hair as he smiled down at me. Sometimes he was a skate punk. Other times a mod guy in a narrow tie who took beautiful black-and-white photographs.
Then I started going out with Jackson Clarke, sophomore year, and Tommy Hazard disappeared—I guess because I finally had a real live boyfriend with a real live heart pumping in his chest.
Only—then it turned out he didn’t.
Have a heart.
And he didn’t want to be my real live boyfriend anymore—
He wanted to be Kim’s.
Flash to end of junior year.
When I wrote the above definition of a real live boyfriend, it was fourteen months since Kim and Jackson got together and shattered my heart, plunging me into an abyss of bad mental health. I wrote it sitting in the B&O Espresso, where Meghan and I were supposed to be studying for finals. We were hopped up on dobosh torte and coffee drinks, and I couldn’t think any more about chemistry formulas.
I flipped to a new page in my notebook and wrote something else, just to give myself a break.
Meghan crinkled her sexy little freckled nose when she read it. “What do you mean, real live boyfriend?”
“Exactly what I wrote.”
“But—” Meghan looked perplexed.
“What?”
“Isn’t this just what a boyfriend is?” she asked. “Any boyfriend?”
Just to be clear, Meghan has had a pretty much continuous cycle of serious boyfriends since seventh grade. Me, I had been in the state of Noboyfriend since April of sophomore year, when the Kim/Jackson debacle made me pretty much dysfunctional.
And while you could argue that Meghan’s male-oriented outlook on life was all about the fact that her dad died when she was twelve and that’s why she’s the only other teenager I know who sees a shrink on a regular basis, there was no denying that she was being truthful when she said she didn’t know what I was writing about. She and her boyfriend, Finn, who was making espresso behind the counter at the B&O right that very minute, got together just before Spring Fling junior year and were as real and live as real and live could be. And before Finn, Meghan had been real and live with Bick.
And before Bick, with a guy she met at camp.
And before that, with Chet, who moved away.
And before that—you get the idea.
Meghan didn’t know much about how it felt to wonder if a guy still liked you. She didn’t know about half-boyfriends and awkwardness and partial breakups and all that human weirdness—partly, yes, because she is one of the most oblivious people I’ve ever met and really might not know human weirdness if it bit her, but also because she somehow knows how to connect with boys. Not like they’re Neanderthals or wildebeests or aliens or pod-robots
, but like they’re normal human beings.
Which obviously they are.
Only, it is extremely hard to tell sometimes.
“A real live boyfriend is more of a boyfriend than a lot of boyfriends,” I told Meghan.
She took a sip of her mocha and shook her head. “If you were going out with a guy, why wouldn’t you sit with him at lunch?”
I shrugged. “He might be having Dude Time.”
“Dude Time?”
“You know, time with the guys. Time where they bond and don’t want their girlfriends hanging on their arms.”
“No,” said Meghan decisively. “They get plenty of that at soccer practice. It is completely unacceptable to have Dude Time when your own girlfriend is in the actual room with you, eating tacos. What kind of guy would do that?”
“Lots of guys do that.”
“What do they say?” asked Meghan. “Hey there, Roo, don’t come near me at lunch today ’cause I’m hurtin’ for some Dude Time?”
“No.” I ate the last of my cake. “They don’t call it Dude Time at all. That’s what I’m calling it. They just give off a Dude Time feeling. Like they want you to leave them alone.”
“That’s dumb,” said Meghan. “No normal guy would do that. You just had a bad experience with Jackson.”
“No,” I said. “I mean, yes.”
“What’s with this part?” Meghan wanted to know. She was rereading what I’d written. “ ‘You do not wonder if he will call. You do not wonder whether he will kiss you.’ ”
I nodded. “Don’t you ever wonder whether Finn will call?”
“No!” she laughed. “He calls me every morning before I leave for school and every night after dinner.”
I sighed and yelled over to Finn, who was wearing an apron and reading Studs Terkel behind the counter, since the coffee shop was basically dead. “You’re a real live boyfriend, Finn, you know that?”
He looked up. White skin, blond crew cut, big eyes. He’s got nowhere near Meghan’s level of sex appeal, but then, no one does. “I’m a what?” he called.
“Never mind,” Meghan told him, giggling. “Roo just thinks you’re nicer than most guys.”
“I am,” he said. “But she’s only saying that ’cause I give her free cake.”
“Okay,” said Meghan, back to business. “But what is this here, about not kissing? If he’s your boyfriend, wouldn’t you be kissing all the time?”
“Only if he’s your real live boyfriend,” I said. “Not if he’s a scamming mate1 or a friend with benefits2 or even a kind-of, sort-of, it’s-all-very-confusing boyfriend.3”
“Ruby Oliver,” said Meghan, “you are certifiable.”
Yes. That, I thought—that’s the trouble with me.
I am.
Because here’s what I was really thinking about during that whole conversation:
Noel.
Asthmatic, funny, scrawny Noel. He of the combat boots and the cross-country runs, the painting classes and music magazines. Friends with everyone, best friends with no one, secretive, beautiful, witty Noel.
Long story short: I was crazy about him but he wasn’t speaking to me. We’d had one amazing kissing extravaganza, then an atrocious misunderstanding late in junior year, the result of various complicated debacles partly involving the fact that my best friend Nora liked him first and he was therefore officially off-limits to me—and partly involving the other fact that in the eyes of most people at Tate Prep, I am a famous slut.
Noel, Noel, Noel.
It was insane to even be thinking of him.
I forgot that I had written all that stuff about real live boyfriends in my Chem notebook, and when my mother offered to quiz me on formulas for the final, I handed it over.
Mom was lying on the floor with her head on Polka-dot, our dog.4 I was standing at the fridge feeling a wave of ennui because of the severe lack of deliciousness therein.
My mother was on a raw food diet.
We’d had salad for dinner, and our fridge contained two bunches of kale, celery juice, pickled carrots, peanuts soaking in water, and a number of other items too horrible to mention.
“Why don’t we ever have dessert anymore?” I complained, shutting the fridge again. I don’t know why I even bothered to open it. Just habit, I guess, left over from the days when there might have been pie or something chocolate in there. “Just for me and Dad, if you don’t want to have it.”
No answer.
“And don’t tell me a banana makes a nice dessert,” I went on.
“Can’t you be supportive of the raw food way of life?” Mom said.
“I could if you didn’t make me live it with you.”
Mom ignored me. “Kevin, come look at this!” she called. Dad got up from his computer, where he was editing his garden catalog/newsletter, and bent over her shoulder. I figured she wanted him to decipher my writing on some part of the Chem notes.
“Did you read that, Kevin?” said my mother.
“Uh-huh.”
“So?”
“So what about it?”
“So I’m not sure you’re my real live boyfriend.”
“I’m your husband,” he said, kissing the top of her frizzy head.
“Ag!” I shouted. “Are you reading my personal things?” I stomped over and snatched the notebook out of her hand.
“Sure,” Mom said, ignoring me and turning to Dad, “but I’m not sure you’re my real live boyfriend because you don’t always call me when you say you will.”
“Elaine!” he moaned. “I forgot once last week when I was at Greg’s playing Wii.5 I wasn’t even home late.”
“No. You forgot that other time,” she said accusingly. “When you said you’d call from the grocery store to talk about what we were having for dinner.”
Dad winced.
“I was sitting on the bench outside my yoga class,” Mom went on, “waiting for you to call. Finally I gave up and went inside, but I missed all the chanting.”
“You don’t even like the chanting.”
My mother coughed. “I’m learning to like it. Anyway, I was waiting for you to call and you never did.”
“We’ve been married twenty years. I’m your real live boyfriend, okay? If that’s what you want to call it.” My dad went back to his desk in exasperation.
“Mom!” I waved my hand to get her attention. “Don’t read my stuff. If it looks remotely personal, don’t read it. Even if you’re holding the notebook for some completely justifiable reason. It’s not your business.”
She held up her palm to silence me. “Ruby, not now. I’m talking to your father.”
“It’s hard enough to have any privacy living in this tiny houseboat without you reading my notebooks,” I went on. This was something Doctor Z had suggested I do when the opportunity came up. To make very clear to my mother how I’d like to be treated and ask her to respect my privacy.
Only, Doctor Z has never tried to be clear with Elaine Oliver. Mom gave no indication whatsoever of having heard me.
“I don’t know whether there’s going to be kissing either,” she complained to Dad. “Honestly. The other night I rubbed your neck and you didn’t even turn around.”
Ag, ag, ag and more ag.
“Oh, help me, Elaine. I was working under deadline. Are you trying to start an argument?” Dad barked.
“I’m expressing myself!” yelled Mom, leaping up from the floor. “You always want us to share our feelings, and now when I’m sharing my feelings you say I’m starting an argument! That’s so unfair!”
Polka-dot hates when they argue, so he stood up and started barking. Rouw! Rouw!
“I’m your husband, Elaine!” yelled Dad. “I don’t know why you’re suddenly questioning everything!”
Rouw! Rouw!
“But are you my boyfriend?” Mom cried. “Ruby says the whole point of a real live boyfriend is that you can tell he’s your boyfriend.”
Rouw! Rouw!
“Ruby’s in high scho
ol,” Dad called over Polka. “Why are you listening to her?”
Rouw! Rouw!
“It’s just how I feel!” stormed Mom. “Maybe because I haven’t done a show in so long. Maybe because of what Juana said the other day.” [Blah blah blah. Insert long monologue about her personal issues that’s completely uninteresting to anyone under the age of forty-five]. “I don’t know,” she finished, nearly in tears. “I just can’t tell! I can’t tell if you’re my boyfriend!”
Dad opened the door to our houseboat and called out into the night. “I am Elaine Oliver’s real live boyfriend! I want everyone to know! My name is Kevin! I am a gardener of rare blooms! I am her boyfriend forever and ever!”
Rouw! Rouw!
Dad kept yelling. “I’m telling you, Seattle! Elaine Oliver is my woman!”
Mom started laughing. “You’ll wake the neighbors.” She wiped her nose with a tissue.
Dad started singing, off-key but loud:
“I don’t wanna sleep,
I just wanna keep
On lovin’ you.…”6
“Okay, okay!” Mom cried.
“Don’t you love Speedwagon?”
“Kevin!”
“I know all the lyrics. I can sing it from the beginning.”
She shook her head. “Not necessary.”
“You want me to stop now?” Dad asked.
She nodded.
“You believe I’m your real live boyfriend?”
She nodded again.
Dad walked over and gave her a hug. Polka-dot made a dash for the door and galloped the length of our dock, which he loves to do at every opportunity.
“Ruby, go collect the dog,” Dad said, his face buried in Mom’s hair.
When I got back the two of them were kissing.
Ag.
I am sure it’s obvious why I need therapy.
A week after Dad serenaded the neighborhood, Noel DuBoise suddenly baked me chocolate croissants and wrote me a letter.
An apology.
An explanation.
Not a love letter, really. But a perfect letter.
All the badness between us washed away, and what I had been insane to wish for—insane to even think about—became a reality.
Noel and I were together.