Whisper to Me(78)

Then she hit the ground, sprawling, her head and shoulders taking the impact, and rolled.

“****,” you shouted. “Are you okay?”

Paris stood, awkwardly. She shook herself like a dog. Then she put her arms up in a V, like an Olympic gymnast, like, “TA DA!”

She turned and hurried over to where the two teams were gathered, though it was obvious she was limping.

“What’s she doing?” you asked.

“I have no idea,” I said.

You frowned. I must have sounded angry. Because of the touching. Because of you giving her that boost, and how obviously you would be more into her than me.

And then Paris was pushing a big silver trophy into Julie’s hands and there was a flurry of movement and suddenly the Bees lifted Julie up into the air and the crowd went wild.

Click. Kodak moment.

“Um,” you said, over the noise of celebration. “What was that?”

“I’ll explain later,” I said.





But I didn’t.

I mean, I didn’t explain later. I really wanted to, I really wanted some time alone with you, I had been looking forward to that all evening, thinking about the ride home and how we would stand in the yard together, under the night sky …

But sometimes life thwarts our plans. Often, in fact.

First off, we were hanging out with Paris and Julie and the team in the parking lot and then you offered them a ride and the whole way to their apartment the pickup was just filled with them, with their excitement and happiness, and Paris was so loud.

“My girl got her trophy!” she was shouting. “My girl is a champion!”

“It was a team effort,” said Julie, but I could hear the bright joy in her voice, and it made me twist inside.

“She is the champion, my friends … ,” Paris started singing. You glanced over at me and raised your eyebrows. Paris did not have a beautiful singing voice. I just wanted her to be quiet, but she was Paris. She was never quiet. I mean, what are you going to do? You can’t ask the sun to stop shining.

So she sang the whole song, only she didn’t know most of the words, not that it stopped her.

Then we dropped them off, and Paris and Julie went up, Paris still shouting stuff, mostly impossible to make out now, and Julie was holding the trophy aloft that Paris had given her, and finally they went into the apartment building and you turned to me. And then I found out that sometimes your own feelings can thwart stuff for you; you don’t even need life to do it.

“Wow,” you said.

“Uh-huh,” I said. I must have sounded cold.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” I said.

“Did I do something wrong?”

“Absolutely not.”

“But you’re pissed with me. Is it because I offered them a ride?”

“No.”

You sighed. “O … kay … So nothing is wrong?”

“No.”

But of course I was speaking in monosyllables and it was pretty obvious I was not happy, and in the end you just raised your hands and said, “Fine. Let’s just go home.”

That made it sound like our home was together, like we were a couple or something, which just made me feel even worse, thinking of you rushing to help Paris, of how stupid I had been, thinking that any of this had anything to do with me. I knew that was a thing boys did—get to the beautiful one through her plain friend.

I figured that was what you were doing.

I know better now. I know you were helping Paris because you liked me, and I liked Paris, and so automatically you liked Paris. At least I assume so; just as likely you just saw that she needed help and you didn’t even think about it. I’m the one who thinks about stuff too much, I’m aware of that.

Anyway, that’s why I was frosty to you in the pickup, okay?

Eventually you gave up on me and a little part inside me died, and you started the engine and drove back toward the house. After a while, watching the streetlights go past, I started to think maybe I had been an idiot. Maybe I had read something into nothing. I opened my mouth to say sorry—

—and we passed Dad’s car, a few blocks from the house, driving home.

****.

“Hit the gas,” I said. That was another opportunity wasted to spend time with you, to talk to you alone, because you sped up to beat him and we got home like two minutes before him so I didn’t even say good night to you, just ran into the house while you lay down in the pickup so he wouldn’t see you. And we made it. We got away with it.

So that’s why I’ve told you the story of the game, which you know anyway, what with being there and all.

One: because I was mean to you afterward and you didn’t deserve it and I’m sorry. Two: because you saw what happened at the game, with Paris and Julie, but you didn’t understand.

You see, you were on the phone at the pier when Julie was talking about never winning anything. You probably just thought it was Paris being crazy, as usual.

But you get it now, right? You get what I’m telling you about her?

You could call her crazy. If that was the way you saw the world. Or you could call her someone who would go to the trouble of having a trophy made, specially, and then crash a sporting event just to give it to her friend.

That’s the Paris I want the world to remember. That’s the Paris I want you to remember.