Tell Me Three Things(25)

Dri: Good. It’s settled, then. Get our your dancing shoes, because we are a-going.



“Is your music the kind of thing people dance to?” I ask Liam, seemingly out of nowhere.

“Huh?”

“Nothing,” I say.





CHAPTER 13


Ethan, Ethan Marks is already in the library when I arrive. He’s wearing his Batman T-shirt, of course, and is staring out the window, captivated, though I have no idea by what. All I can see is another cloudless sky, emptiness. His right hand massages his jaw, as if it’s sore from all the talking he refuses to do. I wouldn’t mind touching the rough texture of his cheek, feeling the knot where bone meets bone.

Did I just say that? Seriously? I take it all back. Sure, he’s hot. But he’s also kind of a jerk, and it’s a waste of my time to have a crush on the one guy every girl in school wants. I don’t have a shot.

Let’s get an A in English and move on. I have stuff to do: work, school, PSATs. Things are finally starting to feel under control for the first time since we moved. I have a job, because: money. I have Dri, who is fast becoming a real friend, and SN too, who I IM throughout the day. SN and I mostly “talk” about stupid stuff, but it’s fun having him in my pocket at all times.

“Hey,” I say, and fold my legs under me. Casual, relaxed, as if I don’t feel the least bit awkward. I’m not a terrible actress, it turns out. I almost believe me. When I look down and see a single brown hair sprouting from my ankle, though, it throws me off balance, and it takes all of my self-control not to yank down my jean cuffs. Chill out. He’s not looking at your ankles. Sudden moves make you look nervous.

“Hey, Jessie.” That smile is back, and his face opens up for just a second before it closes again. “Ready to do this?”

“Sure,” I say, and I wonder if I’ll ever be able to move beyond monosyllabic answers with this guy. Scarlett talks more when she’s nervous—the adrenaline makes her witty, not slow—but my brain gets overwhelmed. Like I’ve stepped outside myself.

Ethan smells like lavender and honey. Fresh too, the opposite of that body spray all the boys in Chicago use, that horrible dome of chemical scent that would linger long after they walked away. Laundry detergent or cologne, I wonder? Does Ethan wash his shirt every night? Most likely he has his own Gloria to do it for him. Or maybe he has a Batman for every day of the week. And yes, I realize I’m starting to sound like Dri and her obsession with Liam, gathering details to mull over later.

Must. Stop. Now. I have a limited number of brain cells, and they’re better saved for my PSAT prep app.

“You read any poetry?” he asks me, but not really. He asks the window. Ethan is looking at the Great Beyond again. He’s somewhere else. Not like me most of the time, outside myself looking in, but outside himself completely. I recognize the look. There but not there. I’ve felt that way before: I’m physically present and accounted for, yet later, when I look back, I realize whole stretches of my day have been stolen. A body without a soul. Not unlike my mother, actually: there, somewhere—physically locatable, buried underground—but not there at all. Marked absent in every way that counts.

“Some,” I say. A single syllable. Again. Good thing he’s not listening. “I mean, yeah, I like poetry, and I read ‘The Waste Land’ a while back, but I didn’t really get it, you know? It’s like a mash-up of all these different voices.”

“Totally. I Googled it, and apparently everything alludes to something else. It’s almost like code,” he says, and then looks at me. He’s coming to again. Is he on something? Pot? Coke? Molly? Is that the sort of haze we are dealing with? But then he rubs his face, and I realize it’s just good-old fashioned fatigue. This boy is tired. Why doesn’t he sleep? What happens at night when he closes his eyes?

Stop it, Jessie.

I force myself to focus.

“Okay, let’s start with the very first line: ‘April is the cruellest month, breeding.’ What does that even mean? I know it’s poetic and kind of cool, especially the breeding part, but why April? Why is it crueler than any other month?” I ask.

“I don’t know. But I kind of hate April,” Ethan says, and then stops. He squints at me, almost angry. He didn’t mean to say that. A slip, somehow. But about what? I don’t get it. What does it even mean to hate April? I hated January in Chicago because it was effin’ cold, but we’re not talking about the weather here. He shakes himself out of it. “Do you like to walk? Why don’t we do this walking?”

Ethan doesn’t wait for my agreement, just gathers his books and his laptop, and so I follow him outside.

“I thought people in LA didn’t walk,” I say once I hear the school door close behind me. I always feel relief at that sound, another day done and survived. He slips on sunglasses, Ray-Bans, and now he’s even harder to read because I can’t see his eyes.

“I think better when I’m moving. It wakes me up. Want to hear what else I learned from Google?”

I nod, which is stupid because he’s not looking at me.

“Sure.”

“Eliot didn’t originally start the poem this way. Ezra Pound told him to cut, like, forty-three lines or something. So the whole April thing was supposed to come later. And back then, presumably he had to literally cut and paste, with, like, scissors and stuff.”