Shuffle, Repeat(29)

Or anything but this. This is just me acting as Itch’s beverage stand while he tries to choose between large-patterned plaid or small-patterned plaid.

This is killing me.

I flash back to Mom’s Deep Thought, about how sometimes things need to get messy before they can be good. Maybe that’s what Itch and I need. Some messiness.

“That was nice of Oliver, don’t you think?” I say it casually.

“What?” Itch drapes a pair of red-and-blue boxers (small-patterned) over his left arm and moves to a new rack.

“How he offered you some of that soufflé he made. It’s not like you guys know each other that well or anything.”

“Sure.”

“It was really good.”

“Cool.”

“Shockingly good.” Itch starts checking out the boxer briefs and I switch tactics. “You know what I appreciate about Oliver?”

“Nope.”

“How he can just run up to anyone, to any group of people at school. Other jocks, artists, geeks, stoners, anyone. I don’t ever see him being mean to anyone, you know?”

“Yup.” Itch selects a four-pack of navy cotton undies.

I decide to bump things up, just a touch. “I like being friends with him.”

“Great.” Itch holds out his hand and it takes me a second to realize he’s reaching for his smoothie. I give it to him and follow him toward the register, assessing the situation as we go.

My boyfriend isn’t annoyed by my friendship with our school’s hottest guy. He’s not jealous. He’s not worried.

That’s the problem, I suddenly recognize. Itch doesn’t get jealous or worried or passionate or…

Or anything.

He’s a flat line.

I stand, watching him pay for his underwear, and I feel flat, too. No, worse than flat.

I feel nothing at all.

? ? ?

“Maybe he’s gay.”

It’s four days later, and Shaun is hacking at a particularly sturdy buckthorn plant with a pair of red-handled clippers.

“Itch isn’t gay,” I tell him. “I have hard proof of that.”

“Ha-ha, you said ‘hard.’?”

“You are a child. Here, give me those.” I take the clippers and use them to grasp the buckthorn’s woody base. “You have to grab and twist to pull the roots all the way out.”

Shaun straightens with a groan. “I think the only thing I’m pulling out is my back.” He rubs his hands together. “And my fingers might have frostbite.”

“Don’t be a baby. You’re helping Mother Earth.”

“I hate it.”

“Hush,” I tell him. “Find your Zen.”

We’re at the Ives Road Fen Preserve. Thirty miles south of Ann Arbor, it’s a huge preserve with a wetlands area that is rare for this part of Michigan. I love it for its raw beauty and all the things that look like they’ve never been touched by people. Silver maples tower over acres of prairie dropseed grass. There are tree frogs and cricket frogs and shy, colorful birds. This is the real deal.

Ever since working at the nature center this summer, I’ve wanted to sign up for one of Ives Road’s volunteer days, but this is the first time I’ve convinced someone to join me (and drive us there). To be fair, it’s tough work. We’ve been at it for over three hours and my back hurts, too.

I tried to get Itch to come, but he declined even though his parents are out of town and it’s not like he has anything important going on. He’s probably pouting because I refused to lie to Mom.

Except I forgot: Itch doesn’t pout. Itch doesn’t do anything.

“It just seems like he doesn’t care,” I tell Shaun.

“About you?”

“About anything.”

Shaun points at a small green patch. “That’s not poison ivy, is it?”

“That’s grass, Shaun.”

He drops onto it with a sigh and falls backward, arms outstretched. “What’s the worst thing that could happen if I fell asleep right here?”

“You could be eaten.”

“By a wolverine?” He sounds almost hopeful.

“By mosquitoes.” I twist another shiny buckthorn from the dirt before plopping beside him.

“It’s too cold for mosquitoes,” Shaun tells me. “Which means it’s too cold for humans. Cuddle me.”

He grabs the back of my jacket and pulls me down to rest against him. I place my head on his chest and wrap an arm around him.

“Just a like a real boy,” he says.

“You’re just like a real boy,” I retort.

“So what are you going to do about Itch?”

“Nothing.” Shaun doesn’t say anything in return, so I elaborate. “I don’t want to break up with him. I like being his girlfriend.”

“Maybe you just like being a girlfriend.”

The thing is, I do like being a girlfriend. I like belonging to someone in an official capacity. I like saying “my boyfriend.” I like knowing that if I want a date, I have one.

Since none of those seem like really great things to admit, I change the subject. “How’s Kirk?”

“Too far away.”

“Chicago is drivable.”