Always the Last to Know(25)
We’d been friends since before I could remember. When we were small, we’d go over to each other’s houses to play once in a while, and as we grew older and play-dates stopped being a thing, he remained one of the nicer boys in school—quiet, good at sports, a mediocre student, like me. We sat next to each other in band during fourth and fifth grades, me on flute, him on clarinet, neither of us very good, though he practiced more. He always picked me to be on his team in gym class. Smiled at me during recess. Once, he got hit in the head with a baseball, and I walked him into the nurse’s office, holding his arm to make sure he didn’t fall. In junior high, we didn’t see each other much, since he was busy being a guy and playing soccer, and an art teacher had told me I had “a real gift.”
Then high school started. Something had happened to Noah over the summer. His voice dropped an octave and his hands were suddenly big and strong. He’d grown a few inches, and when he smiled at me, it felt . . . profound. I could practically feel my heart changing—a lifetime of good-natured affection suddenly turning into a pounding, beautiful ache.
In the front yard of my parents’ house was a beautiful Japanese maple tree, and in the fall, it grew so red it glowed. That was the color of my heart when Noah looked at me, and all freshman year, my paintings were filled with red and black, the black of his hair and eyes, the pure Noah-red of my love. Noah Sebastian Pelletier, he of French Canadian descent, a boy who looked as if he would’ve been at home in the Canadian Rockies on his own, sitting by a fire, watching the stars, the wolves surrounding him in recognition of his wild beauty and soul.
Hey. I was a teenage girl. It was my job to think this way. I dared not draw him, afraid my mother would find the pictures and lecture me about sex. Or worse, tell me I could do better than a blue-collar boy—Mom was such a snob, and couldn’t resist telling people that my sister had married a man who was somehow related to British nobility. My mother might call his mother and tell her we were too young to be in love, and that would be worst of all . . . because Noah was not in love with me.
Unfortunately. His gentle, “Hey, Sadie,” in the halls of Stoningham High, the occasional scraps of conversation about assignments or, once in a while, an amused smile when he caught my eye when our peers were goofing around . . . same as he was with everyone. There was nothing special between us, and it made my heart hurt in the most pleasurable way, pulsing with that pure, glorious crimson. Once, we sat together at the mandatory holiday pageant, watching Gina Deluca, who was two years ahead of us, do an interpretive dance of Mary giving birth to Jesus, and we laughed silently till tears ran down our faces, Noah’s hand covering his face as his shoulders shook, peeking at me through his fingers, both of us laughing harder in that wonderful, uncontrollable way. Oh, I relived that moment thousands of times. Thousands.
The summer between sophomore and junior years, I was fifteen, being on the younger side of my class, since Mom had kicked me into kindergarten when I was four. One sunny, perfect afternoon when the gulls drifted on air currents and red-winged blackbirds called to each other, I took my sketchbook down to the tidal river. The school fields were nearby, and I’d heard some sportsball type of yelling, but I was on another plane. When I was drawing or painting, I was adrift in the moment . . . It irritated my mom that she’d have to say my name over and over before I’d lift my head, but to me, it was the best, most beautiful way to be, alone in a world of my own making. I’d go for hours without eating or drinking. I could sit in the cafeteria at lunchtime and not hear a word . . . unless it was said by Noah.
This day, I was sketching with a new set of graphite pencils, a gift from my father, focused on the sway of the reeds and the curve of the piping plover’s head as it darted along the muddy edge of the river. The sun was hot on my hair, the gentle gurgle of the tidal river was music, and the quick steps of the little bird were so cunning and sweet. All of it flowed from my pencil onto the paper, and I was in a state of utter bliss.
Then a black-and-white ball bounced down the hill, and instinctively, I stopped it with my foot before it hit the river and was carried out to sea. It took me a second to put the pieces together: soccer ball. Intruder. Sports. Boys.
Noah.
He stood there, hands on his hips, his legs already a man’s legs, tan and muscled, appropriately hairy, which I suddenly found extremely attractive. Sweat dampened his T-shirt, and his cheeks were ruddy, his hair tangled and unruly and glorious.
“Hey, Sadie,” he said with a half grin, and my stomach contracted with a strong, hot squeeze.
“Hi,” I managed.
“Thanks for saving the ball.”
“Sure.”
He glanced at my sketchbook. “Wow. That’s incredible.”
The heat of pride (and lust) crept up from my chest, tickling my neck. “Thanks.”
He sat down next to me, taking the ball under his arm, the smell of his sweat and grass from the soccer field enveloping me. “You having a good summer?”
“Mm-hm.” My cheeks were hot, and I kept my eyes on the drawing to avoid melting into a puddle of lust. “Are you?”
“Sure.”
I sneaked another look at him. Long lashes on top of that wild beauty. His face had taken on more definition in the past year, and I had to swallow. I wanted to draw that face. Heathcliff. He was Heathcliff of the moors, if I ignored the Ramones T-shirt and gym shorts.