What to Say Next(2)

Maybe when parents name their children they do it from the perspective of wishful thinking. Like when you go to a restaurant and ask for a rare steak, and even though there is no universally agreed definition of the word rare, you hope you get exactly what you want.

My mom and dad ordered a David. They got me instead.

In my notebook:


KIT LOWELL: Height: 5' 4". Weight: Approximately 125 lbs. Wavy brown hair, pulled into a ponytail on test days, rainy days, and most Mondays. Skin is brownish, because her dad—a dentist—is white and her mom is Indian (Southeast Asian, not Native American). Class ranking: 14. Activities: school newspaper, Spanish Club, Pep Club.





Notable Encounters


1. Third grade: Stopped Justin Cho from giving me a wedgie.

2. Sixth grade: Made me a valentine. (Note: KL made all the boys valentines, not just me. But still. It was nice. Except for the glitter. Because glitter is uncontainable and has sticky properties, and I generally don’t like uncontainable and sticky things.) 3. Eighth grade: After math class, she asked what I got on my math test. I said: 100. She said: Wow, you must have studied hard. I said: No, quadratic equations are easy. She said: Um, okay. (Later, when I reenacted the conversation for Miney, she told me that I should have said that I had studied, even if that meant lying. I’m not a very good liar.) 4. Tenth grade: Kit smiled at me when only our two names were announced as National Merit semifinalists on the loudspeaker. I was going to say “Congratulations,” but Justin Cho said “Damn, girl!” first and gave Kit a hug. And then she wasn’t looking at me anymore.





Important Characteristics


1. On cold days, she stretches her sleeves to cover her whole hands instead of wearing gloves.

2. Her hair isn’t curly, but it isn’t straight either. It hangs in repetitive, alternating commas.

3. She’s the prettiest girl in school.

4. She sits crisscross-applesauce on almost all chairs, even narrow ones.

5. She has a faint scar next to her left eyebrow that looks almost like a Z. I once asked Miney if she thought I’d ever be able to touch that scar, because I’m curious what it feels like, and Miney said, “Sorry, Little D. But as the Magic 8 Ball says: My Sources Say No.”

6. She drives a red Toyota Corolla, license plate XHD893.





Friends


Almost everyone, but mostly hangs out with Annie, Violet, and sometimes Dylan (the Girl Dylan, not the Boy Dylan). Common characteristics of friend group, with the exception of Kit, include flat-ironed hair, minor acne, and larger than average breasts. For five school days last year, Kit walked the halls holding hands with Gabriel, only occasionally stopping to make out, but now they don’t do that anymore. I don’t like Gabriel.

Additional Notes: Nice. Miney puts her on the Trust List. I second.



Of course I don’t open the notebook in front of her. Even I know better than that. But I do touch its spine, because having it nearby makes me feel less anxious. The notebook was Miney’s idea. Back in middle school, after the Locker Room Incident, which is irrelevant to this discussion, Miney decided I was too trusting. Apparently, unlike me, when most people talk they aren’t necessarily telling the truth. See for example the Test Lie suggested above. Why lie about whether I studied for a test? Ridiculous. Quadratic equations are easy. That’s just a fact.

—

“So your dad is dead,” I say, because it’s the first thing that pops into my head when she sits down. This is new information that I have not yet added to her notebook entry, only because I just found out. I’m usually the last to know things about my classmates, if I ever learn about them at all. But Annie and Violet were talking about Kit at Violet’s locker this morning, which happens to be above mine. According to Annie, “Kit’s been, like, a total mess since the whole thing with her dad, and I know it’s been hard and whatever, but she’s kind of being, I don’t know, mean.” I don’t usually listen to the other kids at school—most of what they have to say is boring and feels like bad background music, something clanky and harsh, heavy metal, maybe—but for some reason this seeped through. Then they started talking about the funeral, how it was weird that they cried more than Kit, that it’s not healthy for her to keep things bottled up inside, which is a ridiculous thing to say because feelings don’t have mass, and also they are not doctors.

I would have liked to go to Kit’s dad’s funeral, if only because he was also on my Nice List, and I assume when someone on your Nice List dies, you should go to their funeral. Kit’s dad, Dr. Lowell is—was—my dentist, and he never complained about my noise-canceling headphones getting in the way of his drill. He always gave me a red lollipop after a cleaning, which seems counterintuitive and yet was always appreciated.

I look at Kit. She doesn’t look messy—in fact, she seems better groomed than usual and is wearing a man’s white button-down shirt that looks recently ironed. Her cheeks are pink, and her eyes are a little wet, and I turn away because she is breathtakingly beautiful and therefore very hard to look at.

“I wish someone had told me, because I would have gone to his funeral. He used to give me lollipops,” I say. Kit stares straight ahead, doesn’t respond. I take this to mean I should keep talking.

“I don’t believe in heaven. I’m with Richard Dawkins on that one. I think it’s something people tell themselves to make the finality of death less scary. At the very least, it seems highly unlikely to me in the angels-and-white-cloud iteration you hear about. Do you believe in heaven?” I ask. Kit takes a bite of her sandwich, still doesn’t turn her head. “I doubt it, because you are a highly intelligent person.”