Eliza and Her Monsters(36)

The fact that Wallace offered is kind of nice, though.

Mom makes us peanut butter and jelly with apple slices, aka the lunch you send to school with your first grader. I stew in horror until Wallace begins eating and says it’s “the best freaking peanut butter and jelly” he’s ever had, which makes Mom beam like she’s won an award. At this point I believe he must be either the least picky eater on the face of the Earth, or he’s always so hungry that everything tastes good all the time.

When we return to my room, he finds his spot on the bed. There is plenty of space beside him and the headboard. It’s not like we’ve never sat that close before. We do it all the time at Murphy’s, and on the bench behind the middle school. Sure, those are out in the open and this very much isn’t, especially now that my door is closed, but it’s the same, right? I do my best to hold my frantic heart still, and cautiously arrange myself in that empty space beside him. He doesn’t say a word, but watches me until I’m settled.

“Dog Days reruns, huh?” he says.

“Yep. How do you feel about it?”

“There is no higher teen soap opera.”

“Good answer.”

And thus begins our watching of old Dog Days episodes. The great thing about Dog Days is that it requires so little energy. You don’t have to think, you just have to watch characters making terrible decisions in the height of summer. It surprises me a little that Wallace likes it, considering how much he appreciates deeper meanings in his stories, but I guess we all need something that lets us go a little numb.

I focus on forcing myself to relax, stretching my legs out, trying not to look like I think I might be strangled at any moment. My hair is finally beginning to dry—I pray it doesn’t frizz—and so far neither my sweatpants nor my Wookiee socks have been brought up in conversation. All in all I think we’re doing pretty good.

At one point Wallace stands up to straighten out his pant legs, and when he sits again, he’s close enough I can feel his body heat. We sit shoulder to shoulder. I can see his eyelashes touch his cheek when he blinks. His hair always looks black from a distance, but up close it’s really dark brown. He’s been letting it grow out. I get the strangest urge to trace the curve of his ear with my finger.

After the fourth episode, he says, “Do you have a piece of paper I could write on?”

I jump up too fast. “Sure. Just one? Do you—of course you need something to write with. Sorry. Here.” I grab him a paper from my desk drawer and one of my myriad pencils, and he uses the first Children of Hypnos book as a flat surface to write on. When I’m sure he’s writing something for me to read right now, I say, “I thought you only needed to do that when other people were around?”

He etches one careful line after the next. He frowns, shakes his head. “Sometimes it’s . . . tough to say things. Certain things.” His voice is hardly a whisper. I sit down beside him again, but his big hand blocks my view of the words. He stops writing, leaves the paper there, and stares.

Then he hands it to me and looks the other direction.

Can I kiss you?

“Um,” is a delightfully complex word. “Um” means “I want to say something but don’t know what it is,” and also “You have caught me off guard,” and also “Am I dreaming right now? Someone please slap me.”

I say “um,” then. Wallace’s entire head-neck region is already flushed with color, but the “um” darkens it a few shades, and goddammit, he was nervous about asking me and I made it worse. What good is “um” when I should say “YES PLEASE NOW”? Except there’s no way I’m going to say “YES PLEASE NOW” because I feel like my body is one big wired time bomb of organs and if Wallace so much as brushes my hand, I’m going to jump out of my own skin and run screaming from the house.

I’ll like it too much. Out of control. No good.

I say, “Can I borrow that pencil?”

He hands me the pencil, again without looking.

Yes, but not right now.

I know it sounds weird. Sorry. I don’t think it’ll go well if I know it’s coming. I will definitely freak out and punch you in the face or scream bloody murder or something like that.

Surprising me with it would probably work better. I am giving you permission to surprise me with a kiss. This is a formal invitation for surprise kisses.

I don’t like writing the word “kiss.” It makes my skin crawl.

Sorry. It’s weird. I’m weird. Sorry.

I hope that doesn’t make you regret asking.

I hand the paper and pencil back. He reads it over, then writes:

No regret. I can do surprises.

That’s it. That’s it?

Shit.

Now he’s going to try to surprise me with a kiss. At some point. Later today? Tomorrow? A week from now? What if he never does it and I spend the rest of the time we hang out wondering if he will? What have I done? This was a terrible idea.

I’m going to vomit.

“Be right back,” I say, and run to the bathroom to curl up on the floor. Just for like five minutes. Then I go back to my room and sit down beside Wallace. As I’m moving myself into position, his hand falls over mine, and I don’t actually jump out of my skin. My control shakes for a moment, but I turn in to it, and everything smooths out. I flip my hand over. He flexes his fingers so I can fit mine in the spaces between. And we sit there, shoulder to shoulder, with our hands resting on the bed between us.