Highly Illogical Behavior(59)

“It was, though,” she defended.

“You remember when we first met?”

“Of course. In biology.”

“Physics,” he corrected. “I know, because I switched my schedule to be in there with you.”

“Huh?”

“Only good thing Janis Plutko ever did.”

“I had no idea.”

“You guys were always together so I finally worked up the nerve to ask her for your number in homeroom. She gave me your schedule instead.”

“Oh.”

“I sort of fell in love with you during your speech freshman year.”

“That was my third best speech to date,” she said.

“You talked about social change and I thought that was so funny. You were running unopposed for a freshman senator spot on the student council,” he said. “And you took it so seriously.”

“Maybe that should’ve been your warning.”

“Maybe,” he said. “But it was good, yeah?”

Lisa knew a lot of things about Clark that no one else knew. She knew he called his grandfather every Sunday, like clockwork. And that he’d never had a sip of alcohol, despite, or maybe because of having three older brothers. And she knew that as frustrated as he got with his mom, he never talked back to her or came home even a minute after curfew. Clark Robbins was honest and true, like some weird reincarnation of Abraham Lincoln. And without a little help, he’d let this breakup drag on forever just to spare her feelings.

“It was great,” she said. “Look, I realize my track record as a friend hasn’t been so hot lately, but I think Solomon needs us. Both.”

“Since when does he hit himself?”

“Maybe always,” she said. “I’d know that if I actually tried to help him like I set out to do.”

“That’s not your job.”

“No, it’s not,” she agreed. “So . . . umm . . .”

“I don’t want to decide right now,” he said. “About breaking up.”

“Okay.”

“You want to see what I’ve been working on instead?”

“Sure. Just don’t make me go back home yet.”

She followed Clark out to the apartment parking lot and couldn’t believe it when they rounded a corner to see his old green van sitting right there as ugly as ever.

“You got your van back.”

“I only saw his mom and dad when I went to get it, though. They said he wasn’t feeling well. Then he called me later that night and hung up before I could even apologize.”

“He’s probably just embarrassed,” Lisa said.

“Of course he is. I broke his f*cking heart.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say f*ck before.”

“I curse when I’m sad.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you sad, either.”

“It’s all I can think about,” he said, leaning against the van. “Solomon stuck in that house forever with no one to talk to. We did that to him. We proved him right. And now we need to figure out how to fix it or I’ll never sleep again.”

“Clark, what Sol has is a very complicated disorder that is unpredictable by its very nature.”

“You’re not a doctor yet, Lisa. And we’ve all got Wikipedia.”

“Fair enough,” she said. “But nothing we can do is going to cure him. That’s what I’m saying. He needs years of therapy. Maybe decades. Staying inside is one thing, beating the shit out of yourself is another.”

“Would you still have done it? If you knew how bad he was?”

“Probably,” she said. “But clearly my decision-making skills are questionable.”

“At least you’re honest,” he said. “You ready to see?”

Clark walked around to the back of the van and opened the heavy double doors. The entire cab had been painted solid black—the floor, the ceiling, and both walls. As she looked inside, Clark just stood there with a proud expression on his face.

“I can’t believe this,” she said.

“We totally gutted it. Took both rows of seats out. All the foam inside them was rotting, which is maybe why it smelled like death in there.”

“God, I’m just glad it wasn’t an animal or something.”

“You and me both. Then we took up that gross carpet and ripped out the ceiling fabric.”

“I sure will miss that dick drawing your brother left with the Sharpie,” Lisa said.

“Yeah . . . Sol’s dad thought that was pretty funny. He asked me if I wanted to keep it. Anyway, we also replaced the battery and all the belts. It’s running a little better than before, but I think it still needs a lot of work.”

“So, what’s with the black paint?”

“I did that yesterday,” he said, showing her his spray-paint-stained hands. “I could’ve died from the fumes, but I had an idea and just decided to go for it. I need your help on the last part, though.”

About an hour later, Lisa was staring into the back of the van, shaking her head. And Clark did the same thing, standing right beside her. She thought, just for a second, that maybe he’d reach over and squeeze her hand like he used to—this little thing that would silently take them back to what they were.