“Oh, yeah, I saw a bit of that.”
“Mostly, though, she’s terrified that Caleb will be autistic—anytime he, like, gazes off into the distance or something, she freaks out, even though it usually just means he’s pissing his diaper. She asks everyone we meet about the vaccination stuff.” He glances around. “Hey, want to just sit in here? I don’t really feel like watching TV.”
“Yeah, me neither.” I sit on a super-hard armchair and have to squirm my butt around to find a position that’s comfortable. David sits on the end of the sofa closest to my chair. “I hate when people talk about how awful autism is when Ethan and Ivy are right there.”
“I know. When she says stuff like that, I wish Ethan would blow up at her, but he’s too nice—he just shuts down. Sometimes it drives me crazy that he doesn’t get mad or fight back ever. I’ve even yelled at him for being too nice.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “Charming of me, right? To tear into him because he’s a better human being than I am? Meanwhile, I have no trouble losing my temper with anyone and everyone—including him.”
“Me too with Ivy,” I say. “So many times. Once, in middle school, she got worked up about something in front of one of my friends, and I told her that if she didn’t learn to control herself, I wouldn’t let her hang out with me anymore.” I stare down at my fingers, spreading them out wide on the arm of the upholstered chair. “I was so mean.” I’ve never told anyone about this before. It’s kind of a relief to confess.
“Siblings say stuff like that to each other all the time.”
It’s sort of amazing—David Fields is trying to comfort me. Who knew he had it in him?
“And let’s be honest,” he says. “Ivy and Ethan can both be incredibly annoying.”
“True.” Our eyes meet, and I see . . . understanding. I’ve always felt like I had to make other people see the good in Ivy because they’re so quick to judge her, but since I know David already gets it, I can be honest with him. “But they don’t mean to be. I hate how annoyed and impatient I can get with her.”
“You shouldn’t hate yourself for that,” he says.
“Yeah? What should I hate myself for?”
“I’ll make a list,” he says with a smile that makes it a joke, not an insult.
“There isn’t enough ink in the world . . .”
“I’ll use a spreadsheet.”
There’s a moment of silence.
“They’re pretty quiet in there.” I nod toward the family room.
“They’re both champion watchers,” David says. “It’s their superpower.”
“Too bad they can’t make a career out of that.”
He leans toward me and whispers, “Ethan’s planning to make a move tonight.”
“What kind of move?”
“First holding hands and then, if that goes well, a kiss on the mouth. We discussed it. Made a plan of action.”
“With diagrams?”
“I considered it. But I’m pretty sure he knows where the hands and lips are, and I warned him to stay away from all other areas.”
“Did you tell him to stop holding hands if there’s a sweat situation? That’s important.”
“I didn’t think of that.”
“What kind of love guru are you?”
“Believe me,” he says, “I’m well aware it’s the blind leading the blind here.”
I wonder what his romantic history is. If he even has a romantic history. He stays so far apart from everyone at school that it’s hard to believe he’s ever made a real connection there. But people have summer flings and stuff like that, right?
I try to picture David flirting with a cute, nameless girl, but it’s too weird a thought. He’d have to let his guard down, and he never does that. Except for now, I guess. And a couple of other times alone with me.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table in front of me, where I’d tossed it when I sat down. I glance at it and laugh.
“What’s so funny?” David asks.
“It’s from Ivy. She wants me to join them in there.” But I don’t get up.
“Texting is the greatest invention ever,” David says idly. He doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to get up either. “For a sociopath like me, it’s the gift that keeps on giving. I once had a friend who always called me on the phone.”
“Not a friend anymore?”
“Goes without saying.”
“And yet I said it.”
“Some people just can’t help stating the obvious.”
“Some people don’t know how to make polite conversation.”
“Yeah,” he says. “That would be me.”
“You do okay when you want to.” My phone buzzes again. Ivy: Where are you? I ignore it.
“You know what we should do?” David says. “The next date, we should just leave Ivy and Ethan at one of our houses and go somewhere else together. Not too far away, just not there. I think it would help your sister get used to not always having you there without making a big deal out of it.”
“Yeah? Where would we go?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “Wherever you like.”
I have the strangest feeling that David Fields is sort of asking me out on a date. And an even stranger feeling that I don’t mind.
But then I quickly tell myself that’s not what he means, because he knows I have a boyfriend. A great boyfriend. The best.
Ivy calls from the doorway to the family room before I have to respond. She’s gotten up from the sofa to check on us. “Why are you guys sitting in here?”
Ethan comes up behind her. He puts his hands on her shoulders and gently squeezes. The last couple of times they’ve been together, he’s been reaching out to her a lot, clearly eager to get his hands on her in some way—but it’s more sweet than pervy.
“We’re just talking,” I say.
“It’s so dark.” She moves toward us, and Ethan’s hands drop off her shoulders, but as he follows her, he keeps reaching out to touch her back or arm. “Why don’t you turn on the lights? Is it so you can make out?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Ivy,” I say. It’s funny, but it’s also embarrassing. “Do we look like we’re making out? We’re not even sitting together.”
“It’s just that when you and James make out, you leave the lights off like this.”
“Who’s James?” asks Ethan.
“Chloe’s boyfriend,” Ivy says.
“Chloe’s big, strong, athletic boyfriend,” David says. “Which is why there’s no danger of me making out with your sister, Ivy. We were just too lazy to turn on the light.”
“Let’s go back in the TV room,” Ethan says to Ivy. He tugs at her arm and then runs his fingers down to her wrist. “Come on. I like when it’s just us two in there. And I want to finish the show.”
“But you guys will come in too?” Ivy says to me. “Since you’re not making out?”
“Yeah,” David says. “So long as we don’t suddenly start making out in the next few minutes, we’ll be in soon.”
“Okay.” She lets Ethan take her hand in his and lead her back into the family room.
“That wasn’t awkward at all,” David says.
“Sorry.”
“It’s fine. I have a high tolerance for embarrassing situations. I mean—” He gestures at himself. “I’d have to, right?”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I just shrug. He’s okay. There’s nothing actually wrong with the way he looks or even the way he acts when we’re hanging out together. It’s just that he can be so weird and standoffish at school.
He says, “Ethan seems pretty happy whenever he’s with your sister.”
“I am so proud of myself.” I give a little bounce in the chair. “I mean, I saw Ethan and was, like, This is the perfect guy for Ivy. I am brilliant.”
“I’d pat you on the back, but you’re doing a good enough job of that on your own. Plus, you start off patting someone’s back in a dark room, and you know what that leads to
—”
“What?”
“Ask Ivy,” he says. “She’s figured it all out.”
We eventually make our way to the family room, where we watch the end of Ivy and Ethan’s show with them—although I’m really watching Ivy and Ethan, not the show. They’re more interesting. He’s sitting all squished up next to her on the sofa, much closer than the space requires.
His thigh is tight against hers, his fingers constantly creeping toward her arm in the desire to touch her somehow, somewhere . . .
I know that feeling. I’ve felt it myself, on those first early dates with James and a couple other boys—that aching, itching desire to touch, to feel, to bond, to give in to desire. And I’ve sat next to boys who’ve given it off like smoke from a fire, who’ve pulsated with so much need, so much yearning, that you can practically feel the heat rising off of them.
Maybe Ethan can’t put it into words. Maybe he can’t even completely understand what he’s feeling, but he’s definitely in love or lust or whatever you want to call it with my sister. Serious skin hunger has set in. Mom would probably be alarmed, but why shouldn’t he feel physical desire for the girl he likes? I mean, so long as he doesn’t push himself on her in any way.
What about her? I study my sister. She’s mostly just staring open-mouthed at the television, but then I see her glance down at Ethan’s hand and there’s something in the way she looks away again quickly—I can’t tell whether it’s nervousness or excitement or uncertainty or what—that makes me think she’s aware of his thirst on some level that might not even be conscious.
So, yeah, he’s a step ahead . . . but maybe she’s not too far behind?
As we’re saying goodbye, Ethan leans forward, grabs Ivy by the upper arms, leans in, and plants a big, wet, juicy one right on her mouth.
Part of me wants to cheer him on, and the other part wants to say, Whoa there, Dude. Make sure the lady wants it. But I’d be the first to admit that, in this case, it’s a little hard to know what the lady wants.
Ivy steps back as soon as she can and wipes her mouth on her shirt—not deliberately or insultingly, just like there’s saliva on it and she wants to get it off.
I glance at David. He looks anxious. I flash a smile that’s more reassuring than I feel. I want this to work so badly. For Ivy’s sake. And for Ethan’s.
And, oddly, a tiny bit for my own. I’m kind of enjoying having someone all in with me on this project—David wants this to succeed as much as I do. If Eth-vy (Iv-an?) doesn’t work out, I’m back on my own.
And that sounds so lonely.
Twenty-Three
“AS FLIES TO WANTON BOYS are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport,” Ms. Campanelli recites at school a few days later. “Anyone know what that’s from?”
Jana instantly says, “Shakespeare. King Lear.” And checks to see if people are impressed with her.
Spoiler: they’re not.
Except maybe for Camp, who beams. “Right! And what’s he saying? Because I think it relates to what we’re talking about here.” We started off the day with Salinger’s story “Teddy,” and somehow that got us onto the subject of religion, which led to the current discussion of polytheism.
Jana says, “It means the gods torture us for fun just like boys do with bugs.”
“That’s right,” Camp says. “It’s sort of an early precursor to chaos theory, when you think about it—there are no guarantees that just because you’re a good person, things will go well for you. Some god might just be in the mood to mess around with your life.”
“It’s sort of the opposite of a real religion, then,” says Sarah.
“Interesting,” says Ms. Campanelli.
David lifts his head to look up from his computer screen. “What’s the difference between a ‘real’ and a ‘not real’ religion?” he asks Sarah.
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t. Enlighten me. What makes one religion more real than another?”
“I just meant, like, you know, the Jewish-Christian stuff. What we all believe.”
“We all?” he repeats.
She waves her hand and says again, only more irritably, “You know what I mean.”
“Yeah,” James says, turning in his seat to glare at David. Almost like he’s been waiting for an excuse to do that. “Don’t pretend you don’t understand her just to make her feel bad.”
“He’s not,” I say, and both James and Sarah swivel to stare at me. “There are tons of other religions. And there’ve been, like, thousands, since humans have started keeping records. And for all you guys know, people in this room could be Buddhists or Zoroastrians or Mormons or atheists. I mean, you can’t just assume that everyone believes what you believe or say that your religion is more ‘real’ than other people’s.”
“I didn’t!” Sarah says. “You’re totally putting words in my mouth!”
“Everyone, relax.” Ms. Campanelli holds up her hands. “Your choice of adjective was a little unfortunate, Sarah.”
Sarah’s mouth hinges open in the universal sign of this is so unfair!
“But,” Camp continues, “I also agree that we all knew what you meant, so let’s move on. I want to talk about Teddy’s parents—do you think they love him or not?”
Jana is of course already answering the question by the time I’m sliding back down in my seat, my heart pounding in a way it usually doesn’t when I speak up in class. David catches my eye. He looks grateful . . . and confused. He didn’t expect me to defend him.
I shrug and look away, and now it’s James’s turn to catch my eye. He also looks a little confused. But not at all grateful.
Later that day, I have lunch with James and Sarah as usual. Neither of them mentions English class, but they laugh more at each other’s jokes than at mine—it’s a subtle thing, but I don’t think I’m imagining it.
Afterward, James splits off, and Sarah and I head to our next class together.
That’s when she says, “So what’s going on between you and David?”
I groan. “Nothing. How many times do I have to tell you?”
“You’ve always said that he’s a jerk, but suddenly today you’re all David’s right in class.”
“Because he was right—you shouldn’t have said some religions are real and others aren’t.”
“Oh, please. Everyone knew what I meant. You would never have taken his side before.”
“What are you implying?”
“Nothing. But just so you know, James is feeling really weird about you right now.”
I have a sudden desire to stab Sarah in the throat with a pen. Too bad mine are all felt tips and wouldn’t do more than leave a dot of black on her skin. “Did he say something to you? Or are you just spinning your own little web of insanity?”
“I don’t want to betray his confidence,” she says loftily, hugging her books against her chest. “So I probably shouldn’t say anything else. But just be aware that he’s noticing.”
“Noticing what?”
“How you and David are suddenly besties . . . and maybe more.”
I could still throttle her, right? You don’t need a sharp pen to throttle someone. Or do you? What the hell is throttling, anyway? “Are you serious?” I say. “You guys know what the situation is—that this is all about Ivy and Ethan. And if James has a problem with that, he can tell me himself. And if you say stupid things like your religion is more ‘real’ than other people’s, then I’m going to call you on it.”
“Fine,” she says angrily, and we walk in silence to class and don’t speak to each other for the rest of the day.
That evening, Ivy shows me a text from Ethan.
Your very hot. Can I see you soon?
“Nice.” I hand the phone back to her. “So are you going to see him again?”
“Do you think I should?”
“Absolutely. I like that boy.”
“Okay,” she says. “But can I also do someth
ing with Diana this weekend?”
I shrug. “Ask Mom.”
“I want you to take me.”
Apparently all of this chauffeuring and chaperoning of her and Ethan has made her more dependent on me, which is ironic, given that my original goal was to make her less dependent. “I do have a life of my own, you know.”
“You take me to see Ethan.”
“That’s different.”
“Why?”
“Just because it is.”
She gazes silently past my shoulder at the wall behind me.
I sigh. “Fine. I’ll drive you if I don’t have other plans, but there’s no way I’m taking you all the way to Alhambra or wherever she lives. We can meet near school or something.”
“I’ll ask. I got her cell phone number—it was my idea.” She sounds proud, and maybe she should—I don’t think she’s ever planned a get-together with a friend before. Maybe this whole Ethan thing really has motivated her to be more social, which would be sort of amazing and great. “I’ll text her.”
“You do that,” I say with a yawn.
When I enter the cafeteria on Tuesday, I spot David sitting alone at a table as usual, eating pasta and keeping his eyes on his laptop screen. As I watch, a piece of penne falls out of his mouth and onto his keyboard, and he just picks it up and sticks it back in his mouth, then swipes at the keys with a napkin.
He glances up and our eyes meet. He raises his hand with a gesture that seems like maybe he’s beckoning, so I come over. “Hey,” I say. “What’s up?”
“We have to see our grandparents on Saturday. Can you guys do something on Sunday?”
“I think so.” I idly swing my lunch bag from my fingertips. “Let me find out what Jeannie and Ron’s plans are.” I prefer to call my mother by her first name when I’m talking to other people. I’m sure there’s some deep psychological reason why. “If they’re going out, Ethan and Ivy can hang out at our house together. If they’re not . . .” I stop. “Your house isn’t any better, is it? I’m running out of ideas. Everything seems potentially disastrous.”
“Not everything,” David says. “There’s always the Roller Derby. They couldn’t possibly draw attention to themselves there.”