Making Faces(10)

Lost or Alone? Ambrose said alone, and Fern responded, “I would much rather be lost with you than alone without you, so I choose lost with a caveat.” Ambrose responded, “No caveats,” to which Fern replied, “Then lost, because alone feels permanent, and lost can be found.”





Streetlights or stoplights? Fern: Streetlights made me feel safe. Ambrose: Stoplights make me restless.





Nobody or Nowhere? Fern: I'd rather be nobody at home than somebody somewhere else. Ambrose: I'd rather be nowhere. Being nobody when you're expected to be somebody gets old. Fern: How would you know? Have you ever been nobody? Ambrose: Everybody who is somebody becomes nobody the moment they fail.





Smart or Beautiful? Ambrose claimed smart, but then proceeded to tell her how beautiful she (Rita) was. Fern claimed beautiful and went on to tell Ambrose how clever he was.





Before or After? Fern: Before, anticipation is usually better than the real thing. Ambrose: After. The real thing, when done right, is always better than a daydream. Fern wouldn't know, would she? She let that one slide.





Love songs or poetry? Ambrose: Love songs–you get the best of both, poetry set to music. And you can't dance to poetry. He then made a list of his favorite ballads. It was an impressive list, and Fern spent one evening making a mix CD of all of them. Fern said poetry and sent him back some of the poems she'd written. It was risky, foolish, and she was completely naked by this point in the game, yet she played on.





Stickers or crayons? Candles or light bulbs? Church or school? Bells or whistles? Old or new? The questions continued, the answers flew, and Fern would read each letter very slowly, perched on the toilet in the girl's restroom and then spend the rest of the school day crafting a response.

She commanded Rita to read each missive, and with each note, Rita got more and more confused, both by the things Ambrose was saying and the answers Fern was giving. More than once she protested: “I don't know what you two are talking about! Can't you just talk about his abs? He's got amazing abs, Fern.” Before long, Rita was handing over the notes to Fern with a shrug and delivering them back to Ambrose with complete disinterest.

Fern tried not to think about Ambrose's abs or the fact that Rita was intimately acquainted with them. About three weeks after the very first love note, she walked around the corner between classes, needing to retrieve an assignment from her locker only to see Rita pushed up against said locker, her arms wrapped around Ambrose. He was kissing her like they had just discovered they had lips . . . and tongues. Fern had gasped and turned immediately, retreating in the direction she had come. For a moment she thought she would be sick, and she swallowed the nausea rising in her throat. But it wasn't an upset stomach that made her ill, it was an upset heart. And she really had only herself to blame. She wondered if her letters simply made Ambrose love Rita more, making a mockery out of everything she revealed about herself.





It only took a little more than a month before the ruse was uncovered. Rita was acting funny. She wouldn't meet Fern's gaze when Fern handed her the love note for Ambrose that she had thoroughly enjoyed composing. Rita's eyes shot to Fern's outstretched hand, eyeballing the carefully folded paper like it was something to fear. She made no move to take it from Fern's hand.

“Um. I actually don't need it, Fern. We broke up. We're done.”

“You broke up?” Fern asked, aghast. “What happened? Are you . . . okay?”

“Yeah. No big deal. I mean, really. He was getting weird.”

“Weird? How?” Fern suddenly felt like she was going to cry, like she'd been dumped as well, and she worked at making her voice steady. Rita must have heard something though, because her eyebrows shot up beneath her swoopy bangs.

“It's really okay, Fern. He was kind of boring. Hot, but boring.”

“Boring or weird? Usually weird isn't boring, Rita.” Fern was thoroughly confused and growing a little angry that Rita had let Ambrose get away from them.

Rita sighed and shrugged, but this time she met Fern's eyes, apology in her gaze. “He figured out I wasn't writing the notes, Fern. The notes really didn't sound like me.” It was Rita's turn to look accusing. “I'm not as smart as you are, Fern.”

“Did you tell him it was me?” Fern squeaked, alarmed.

“Well . . .” Rita hedged, looking away again.

“Oh, my gosh! You did.” Fern thought she was going to pass out right there in the crowded hallway. She pressed her forehead into the cool metal of her locker and willed herself to be calm.

“He wouldn't let it go, Fern. He was so pissed! He was kind of scary.”

“You have to tell me everything. What did his face look like when you told him it was me?” Fern felt the bile rise.

“He looked a little . . . surprised.” Rita bit her lip and played with the ring on her finger uncomfortably. Fern guessed “surprised” was an understatement. “I'm sorry, Fern. He wanted me to give him all the notes that he wrote you–um, me–whatever. But I don't have them, Fern. I gave them to you.”

“Did you tell him that too?” Fern wailed, her hands hovering around her mouth in horror.