Holding Up the Universe(73)

I don’t love Caroline. I don’t even like Caroline.

I force myself to think of things I like about this Caroline right now, the only one who’s here.

She smells good. Her teeth are very … um … even. Her eyes are okay. Her mouth is nice.

I mean, I guess. But the shit she says? Not so nice. Libby has interesting things to say that aren’t cruel or selfish.

I say to my brain, Why are you doing this? Why can’t you stop thinking about Libby? Why are you fucking with me?

And as I’m sitting here having this in-depth conversation with my brain, Caroline goes, “I’m think I’m ready.”

“For what?”

“It.”

I’m trying to look into her eyes, but the room is dark except for the light that slips in under the door and her phone, which goes bright every other minute from all the texts coming in.

“It. Sex, Jack. I’m ready to have sex. With you.” And then here comes the attitude: “Unless you don’t want to.”

I’ve only been wanting to since birth, but inexplicably I hear myself say, “Why now?”

“What?”

“Why are you suddenly ready now? After all this time? What changed?”

Apparently my mouth has a mind of its own because it won’t stop talking. My manlier parts are going, STOP TALKING, YOU IDIOT! SHUT THE FUCK UP! But my mouth isn’t listening. Why isn’t it listening?

“Are you gonna argue with me about this?”

“Is this really where you want to do it for the first time? I mean, look around you.” I point to the walls of posters. I dislodge a stuffed animal from under my back and wave it in her face. “You wouldn’t really want to do it in front of this little guy, would you?”

“Are you freaking kidding me?” And she shoves me so hard I go flying off the bed.





Mick from Copenhagen and I are dancing, his hair flashing blue-black, blue-black, and his smile flashing white, white, white. We are making up dances as we go—actually, I’m making them up and he’s trying to follow along. “I call this the Wind Machine!” And then I act like I’m pushing through a windstorm. “I call this Shoes on Fire!” And then I’m jumping around like my shoes are on fire and I don’t want to touch the ground.

When a slow song comes on, he holds out his hand and I take it. Dancing with him is different from dancing with Jack. For one thing, Mick is about fifteen feet tall, so my face is pressed into his chest. For another, he kind of just sways back and forth and shuffles his feet.

Stop thinking about Jack Masselin. Jack, who doesn’t want you, at least not enough to give it a chance. Focus on Mick from Copenhagen and his shiny teeth and his giant hands.

When Mick says, “Come with me,” I go with him. As Bailey watches, mouth open, I follow him up the stairs into what must be Dave Kaminski’s bedroom. Mick turns on the desk light and sits down on the bed. I stand in the doorway staring at him. He smiles and I smile, and then he says, loud enough so I can hear him all the way over here, “I was wondering if I could kiss you. I’ve wanted to kiss you from the moment I saw you.”

And even though he’s not Jack Masselin, or maybe because he’s not Jack Masselin, I walk across the room and sit down next to him, and suddenly we’re kissing.

My neck is twisted, and I want to move it, but I don’t want to move it because it’s Mick from Copenhagen, and now I’m getting a cramp in it, so I shift just slightly, and now I’m getting a cramp in my calf. It is the worst pain of my life, but here is a gorgeous boy kissing my face off, so I soldier on.

In spite of the fact that my body is seizing up everywhere and I’m in excruciating pain, he’s a good kisser. I’m guessing he’s had a lot of practice, because it feels like he’s showing off a little, doing all these intricate circle dances with his tongue. He’s working it like a ringmaster, and don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing bad about it. This is probably the way they kiss in Copenhagen. He’s probably been kissing people like this since he was two.

Then the kiss is over and we pull apart, and I feel this weird urge to applaud because it seems like he expects it. He says, “Wow.”

“Yeah,” I breathe. “Wow.” Because what else am I supposed to say? Next time, don’t try so hard. And Excuse me while I walk off this cramp.

“Have you ever been to Scandinavia?”

“No.” I haven’t been anywhere except Ohio. I wonder then if he knows I’ve spent part of my life locked inside my house.

“You should go sometime.”

But what I hear is Maybe I’ll take you there. Maybe we’ll go back and I’ll show you where I’m from and you can meet my relatives and I will love you forever.

And even though I don’t want to meet his relatives and I don’t want him to love me forever, I kiss him again. Because while I’m kissing him, there is no America’s Fattest Teen, at least not for tonight. No cranes or hospitals. No dead mother. No Moses Hunt. Most important of all, no Jack Masselin. There is just me. And this boy. And a kiss.





I’ve never seen Caroline cry before, so for a minute I sit there, completely stupid, trying to figure out what to do. She is hiccupping and wheezing, like she’s trying to catch her breath. I start petting her like she’s a dog, and she shrugs me off.