Hope and Other Punch Lines(45)

All I manage to say out loud: “Sure.”



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Noah’s house is what my mother would snidely call a McMansion, which is to say it’s new and huge and refuses to blend in this neighborhood of mostly single-story ranch-style homes. For reasons unbeknownst to me, whenever we drive by a new one, my mom, who rarely expresses extreme emotion other than joy, goes off on unhinged rants about how much she despises them. Once I made the mistake of asking, “What did a McMansion ever do to you?” and I got a long lecture about how the influx of big money to Oakdale is killing our community spirit. These new houses are the reason the family-owned hardware store has been taken over by a fancy cheese shop. Somehow it all relates back to 9/11 and to us again falling prey to the greedy maw of capitalism. To how we are watching the world repeat the mistakes of history in real time, though I don’t quite understand what exactly I’m supposed to be watching and not repeating.

“I’d take a wrench from old Mr. Seever over a thirty-dollar wheel of Manchego from a faceless corporation, wouldn’t you?” she said, and I was too tired to point out that we had both of those items at home. In our kitchen. At that very moment. (The cheese had been stolen from my dad’s, but my mom was the one who took it.) Not to mention in the last few years, my mom’s practice has been booming because of the new Oakdale. Money apparently breeds dysfunction, which is great for her business.

Oddly enough, Noah and I are almost neighbors. His house, which I’ve unknowingly driven by a gazillion times since it’s only three blocks from mine, has double-height ceilings and sleek furniture and dark hardwood floors. The only family pictures were obviously taken by the professional photographer at his mom’s second wedding. Noah must have been ten or eleven; he’s wearing a suit and has a mouth full of metal. Do his parents hate him? It seems inhumane to keep his awkward stage on display.

“Wow, look at this place,” I say, a vague statement, because its enormity requires a comment, if not a compliment. Unlike both of my parents’ houses, there’s no kid art framed on the walls, no evidence beyond the wedding photos that anyone under the age of forty lives here. I don’t dislike it for the reasons my mother would—I’m not particularly protective of the Oakdale community spirit, and I don’t have particularly strong feelings about capitalism or like the use of the word maw in any context. I feel a surprisingly lonely vibe here. The house doesn’t seem like the sort of place that could grow a Noah.

“I hate it,” he says flatly. “We used to live on the other side of town in this tiny cottage, but when my mom married Phil, we moved into this monster. You could have fit the old place into this room. But I don’t know, it felt like home,” he says, and then plops down on the couch. “It was the only place I ever lived until this.” I follow and stand next to him. I need to decide how much space to put in between us, and my self-consciousness returns. Do I sit close to him since we’ve acknowledged things might be “different,” or do I safely sit on the opposite side? I panic and plop down somewhere in between.

“Where’s my cheese platter?” I demand. Noah laughs, stretches his legs out, and grabs the remote control.

“Are you ready to watch genius in action?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say. “Yes, I am.”

Then we proceed to watch a movie.

A whole movie.

From the beginning to the end of the credits.

I sort of chuckle at what I think are the right places, and I occasionally smile at Noah and pretend I’m enjoying what he apparently believes is a groundbreaking film about getting high and looking for hamburgers.

I spend a lot of the ninety minutes thinking about the space between us. A foot and a half, maybe more. I feel a tingling nervousness, and still I make no effort to move closer.

Neither does he.

I replay what happened. Him telling me I look beautiful. How our entire afternoon felt like a date, the air heavy with something unnamed. I have no idea what is happening on the screen, although I have surmised that the entire thing is about two guys named Harold and Kumar who are trying hard to get to a White Castle and for some reason Neil Patrick Harris, playing a douchey version of Neil Patrick Harris, keeps getting in their way. I have never been to White Castle, so I’m having a little trouble relating. Also, isn’t NPH like a dad now? How old is this movie?

On top of all that is one more question I can’t get out of my head: Why isn’t Noah leaning over and kissing me? I spent the drive over imagining how it would feel. His mouth on my mouth, or my mouth on his, how I hoped nature would take over and I’d know which way to cock my head, as Cat promised long ago. How it could be one of those moments that stick, like that eye contact at the Burgerler. Because first kisses are supposed to be like that: indelible.

My actual expectations are low. By definition, a first is a first. I aim for slight awkwardness and figuring out the mechanics and hopefully some nervous laughter. Still, sometimes there can be magic in the imperfect.

I consider turning to Noah, moving in close. Instead, I freeze.

Maybe I’ve misinterpreted everything.

Maybe he has no interest in kissing me. Maybe his comment was a friendly “beautiful,” a throwaway, not a cosmic change in our friendship.

Or maybe it was a manipulation, a way to keep me going on our project.