Everything You Want Me to Be(53)

One day, though, the week before Christmas, I was just finishing a text on my phone when the bell rang, and Peter immediately said, “Hattie!”

It was loud and everyone stopped talking to see what was going on.

“Yeah?” I hit send before looking up.

“Phone on my desk. Now. You can pick it up after school.”

I trotted my phone up to his desk, ecstatic about violating the no-cell-phone-in-class policy. I thought it was genius, finding the excuse to see me alone, but after school that day a whole group of sophomores had invaded his room to study for the MCAs.

He glanced up from the middle of the horde when I came in and said, “Oh, Hattie. Your phone’s over there. Leave it at home next time, okay?”

I nodded and grabbed it, completely deflated after spending half the day dreaming about a brush of skin, a murmured promise, or even a stolen kiss behind the door.

It wasn’t until I’d finished collecting books from my locker that I noticed the message. I had a new text, sent from myself, to myself, a half an hour ago.

“From her hair the heads of five crucified also looked on, no more expressive than she.”

Is this you? I keep looking, can’t help myself. Looking for you is my only sustenance.

Check your right front tire.

I practically ran out of the building, through the parking lot, and found a rectangular package on top of the tire, hidden from view in the wheel well and wrapped in gold.

I got inside the truck and opened it, making sure no one was watching me. It was a book, a hardcover edition of V, by Thomas Pynchon—the book he’d wanted to get autographed the first time I stumbled on him in the chatroom. It felt like a lifetime ago. There was nothing written inside. He’d been careful not to create any link between us, but I couldn’t care less about that right now. He’d given me a Christmas present.

I smelled the wrapping paper and whispered it—“sustenance”—feeling as giddy as I ever had in my life.

I got another unexpected present, too. Gerald sent me a camcorder with a note in his swirly handwriting about hard work and dedication to perfection. Portia and I spent the last few nights before break performing our favorite movie scenes for the camera and it helped the time to pass.

Christmas was so strange this year. Although I didn’t miss Greg, exactly, it was weird not having him there, ripping open his presents and shouting his surprise or excitement. There was no one to dilute Mom and Dad’s attention. They sat on the couch blowing the steam off their coffee cups and watching me with that fake kind of happiness, the kind where you try to pretend things are normal, as I opened a big box that sat by itself under the tree.

My present turned out to be a suitcase, a gorgeous suitcase. It was compact and simple, with smart pockets and dividers inside and wheels that looked like they were made of titanium. They made a sleek whirring sound on the laminate floor as I walked it around and around the kitchen table.

“I love it,” I told them honestly and gave them each a big hug.

“If you’re going to be seeing the world next year, you’ll need to look the part,” Dad said and ruffled my messy bed-head hair.

Mom showed me how to wipe stains and dirt off it to keep the black material looking nice, and then she made me an enormous Denver omelet that I couldn’t half finish.

I packed the suitcase up immediately and set it in the corner of my room. December turned into January, and then on the morning of Saturday, January 5th, I put it in the passenger seat of my truck—where it looked absurdly out of place—and drove to the Crowne Plaza in downtown Minneapolis.

I was breathless as I knocked on the door to his room and when he opened it we both stared at each other.

“Hi.”

I just smiled instead of answering, not trusting my voice.

“Come in.” He stepped aside and gestured awkwardly.

There were lilies in a vase on the desk. I crossed over to them and touched one of the ragged-edged, white petals. “Nice hotel.”

“No—I mean it is, it’s not bad, but I brought those. You said once they were your favorite.”

Even though he seemed a little jumpy, he walked over to me. I let go of the suitcase handle and lifted one of the flowers out of the bouquet and smelled, closing my eyes.

“Thank you.”

“Happy birthday.”

It made me warm to hear his voice, so low and close to my ear. I didn’t think I could be any happier than I was at that moment, standing quietly next to him, with the whole evening ahead of us and no one else in the world to intrude. I turned toward him and gave him a flirty grin.

“Is this my only present?”

He lifted a finger and brushed it along my jaw. “I don’t know yet.”

I stepped closer, angling my head up. “How can I help you decide?”

He didn’t disappoint. Slowly, so slowly, he leaned in and kissed me. It was unlike any kiss I’d had, made up more of air and promises than actual flesh. I felt myself getting weak, getting wet. I reached for his shirt buttons, but he stopped me.

“No.”

“No?” I said it like I’d never heard of the word before.

He laughed and wound my scarf around my neck. “We’re going out.”

It was effing cold, so we took the skyway, walking from skyscraper to skyscraper in the second-story labyrinth of shops and corporate offices. Most of the stores were closed for the weekend so we just window-shopped and wandered into the few that were open. Peter led us on a meandering route over Nicollet Mall and then we hit the streets to walk through the more crowded theater district. I recognized one of the old lightbulb marquees where I’d gone to see The Nutcracker when I was ten.