Tell Me Three Things(26)

I close my eyes for a second and picture it, though I have no idea what T. S. Eliot looked like. But I imagine an old white guy with a monocle, a heavy pair of scissors, and a glue stick.

“I can’t imagine writing without a computer,” I confess. “When I use paper, it feels too…slow or something. My mind is faster than my hands.”

“Yeah, me too. So tell me something else I don’t know about you.” He cocks his head to the side, and this time he is looking at me. I’m grateful for his sunglasses, that extra layer of protection. His gaze is too strong. This, surely, is one of the many things that keeps the girls coming to his chair, these little moments of connection dished out sparingly, like tiny gifts. Maybe he’s intentionally stingy with them; too much and no one would ever leave him alone.

“I don’t know,” I say. “Not much to tell.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Okay, there’s lots to tell, but not so much you would want to hear.” December, that’s the cruellest month, I think. Dead mothers’ birthdays and Christmas cheer. April too. The month of endings. And I like your Batman T-shirt and your scary eyes and I want to know why you don’t sleep enough. When I close my eyes at night, I see last moments, impossible goodbyes.

But I don’t dream anymore. Do you dream? I miss it.

“So, what about you?” I ask.

“?‘Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow, feeding / A little life with dried tubers.’?”

“You memorized ‘The Waste Land’?” I ask. “For real?”

“Most of it, yeah. I read poetry when I can’t sleep. I like to memorize it.”

“Seriously?”

“Now I’m totally embarrassed. Stop looking at me like that,” he says, but I’m the one whose face is red. I’ve been looking at him in, well, wonder. The guy reads poetry. For fun.

Swoon.

“I know it’s weird.”

He smiles, and so, so do I.

“No, that’s really cool.” I resist the urge to touch his shoulder. Who is he? I am officially Dri. All I want are more details. “Dried tubers?”

“I know, right? Like what the hell are dried tubers?”

—

Later, I lie down on my day bed, prop my feet up on its curved edge. IM with SN.



SN: you’ve been quiet today. SO HOW WAS YOUR DAY. GO!

Me: Look at that. You do have a shift key. Day=not too bad. Yours?

SN: good, actually.

Me: Tell me three things I don’t know about you. You know, besides your name and, well, everything else.



Heh. Apparently my afternoon with Ethan has left me braver. Reckless. When we said goodbye, next to my car, he put his hands in his jeans pocket, rocked back on his heels, and said, “Till next time.” Till next time. Three words that sound good together like that. All in a row. Poetic.



SN: okay. (1) I make an amazeballs grilled cheese.

Me: Amazeballs?

SN: yup, so good it justifies the use of the word “amazeballs.” (2) I went through a Justin Timberlake phase in 6th grade and called him JT. like “yo, what up, it’s JT on the radio.” yeah. it was bad. not my best year.

Me: I’ll admit it: I’m still going through a Justin Timberlake phase. And 3?

SN: I don’t know. may keep this one to myself.

Me: Come on. You keep everything to yourself.

SN: tell me three things and then maybe…

Me: (1) I have this whole weird theory of the universe that I don’t actually believe but like to think about. Like we are something tiny and insignificant, like ants, to some larger, more complex species, which sort of explains all the weird random things that can happen, like hurricanes and cancer. OMG, I can’t believe I just told you that. I’ve never said that out loud before. Not even to Scarlett. #embarrassed.

SN: that’s a little weird, and yet possibly brilliant. #impressed Me: I know, right?

SN: Google the Fermi paradox. will blow your mind. And 2…

Me: (2) I have trouble remembering my times tables. I mean, I can do calculus and stuff, no problem, but basic math, not so much.

Me: Just Googled Fermi. How do you know that kind of thing off the top of your head?

SN: I dunno. just do. 3…

Me: You only gave me 2.

SN: (3) I like you.

Me: (3) I like you too.



Crap. I did it again. Hit send without thinking. Who do I like? Who is this person? It’s not a lie. I like his words. I spend my day looking forward to writing to him, hearing his thoughts on stuff. But to just come out and say “I like you” without knowing who he is, with this ridiculous imbalance—he knows who I am, probably where I live—is just plain stupid. I’m asking for some sort of cosmic smackdown. Can I take it back? How do I do that? Do I just let it lie, enjoy for a moment that a guy—and yes, I realize I say that hopefully, that he is an actual guy from Wood Valley and not some sort of joke, or something totally weird I hadn’t thought of, like a cop who tries to catch child predators online or something—actually likes me? Me. I’m not sure that, other than maybe in sixth grade, when Leo Springer passed me a note that said Let’s go out!!! and was then my boyfriend for approximately twenty-two hours because I forgave the excessive punctuation but not his excessive hand sweating, which I later felt bad about when it turned out he had a serious glandular issue, any guy has ever said anything like those words to me: “I like you.” Screw it. I’m going to take a moment to revel.