Tell Me Three Things(42)
“Screw you,” I say.
He shrugs, nonplussed.
“Rage is totally your color.”
—
Later, at Book Out Below!, I sip herbal tea and play Candy Crush on my phone. Only two purchases so far, and one jerk who took a picture of a book to buy online. By late afternoon, just as evening seeps in and I start to feel bored and lonely, the bell dings: new customer. My head snaps up, full-on reflexive now, and I gasp in surprise.
Caleb.
Kilimanjaro gray-T-shirt boy. Who I saw texting at the party. No one from school, other than Liam, has ever walked into this store while I’ve been working, not even Dri, though she promises to visit. I told SN just this morning about this place. So it doesn’t take great powers of deduction to conclude that this must be him before me, finally, in the flesh. My heart squeezes—so this is the person I’ve been spilling my guts to for the last two months—and I wait for the disappointment to hit. It doesn’t.
Instead, I feel disoriented, the same thing that happens after I ask someone for directions and then forget to listen, realize that I’m still just as lost as before. It’s hard to imagine SN’s words coming out of this guy’s mouth. He’s attractive, yes—hot, even—but in a normal, run-of-the-mill way. Generic. A variant of the presumptive prom king type you find in any high school in America. No special sauce. What do I say? Do I introduce myself? Play dumb? Act like I assume this is all just a strange coincidence?
He is wearing the same gray T-shirt as last night and as the first day of school, when I literally applauded him for climbing a mountain. He must have felt bad for me then, must have seen that I needed some help since I couldn’t even manage to find the right homeroom. Hopefully, somehow, he didn’t notice the grass stuck to my ass.
Mind officially blown. Sploof.
Kilimanjaro gray T-shirt guy.
“Hey, is Liam here?” he asks, and smiles down at me, like he’s in on the joke, though this doesn’t feel particularly funny. Just uncomfortable. Is this why he hasn’t wanted to meet until now? Knew it would feel this awkward and random?
“Um, no, sorry. He doesn’t work today.” Jessie, this is SN. Up your game.
“Oh, I think he has my phone,” he says. “I lost it last night at the party. You go to Wood Valley too, right?”
“Yeah, I’m Jessie,” I say, and reach out, too formally, I think a moment too late, to shake his hand. His fingers are long and dry, his shake a bit limp. A mismatch to his voice.
“Caleb,” he says. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too.” I smile back, try to say with my eyes what I don’t have the nerve to say with my mouth: I know it’s you. This is a weird game we’re playing, but I guess so is IM’ing anonymously.
“So how do you like it so far? School, I mean.”
“I guess you could say I’m still adjusting.”
“Yeah, cool, cool.” Caleb turns to leave—is he as nervous as I am?—and I suddenly feel desperate to make him stay, to reestablish our connection. I feel like I’ve already screwed things up. All it took was thirty seconds face to face.
Should I ask him about Tanzania? That’s where Kilimanjaro is, right?
“Um, would you want to have coffee sometime?” Did I really just say that? Out loud? Take a deep breath. Slow your roll. “I mean, I just, I’m trying to meet new people, that’s all.”
He seems surprised, tilts his head to the side as if to get a better look. He’s checking me out, and he’s not subtle about it.
This whole thing is vaguely insulting.
No doubt we should stick to IM’ing.
“Sure. Yeah, why not? What’s the worst that can happen?” he asks, with a mysterious grin, an obvious reference to the same question I asked him just last night. I’m about to answer, I have a million things to say, but it turns out he’s just being rhetorical, because he has already walked out the door.
SN: how was work?
Me: It was nice of you to stop by.
SN: funny.
Me: not the word I’d use.
SN: ?
Me: ?
SN: okay, then. moving on. spent so much time with my Xbox today that I actually got bored. #neverthoughtthedaywouldcome Me: Sore hands?
SN: rising above obvious joke. aren’t you proud of me?
So this is how we’re going to play it. Pretend this afternoon never happened. Maybe this is for the best. Maybe SN/Caleb has been right all along. Writing is better.
Real-life talking? Way overrated.
CHAPTER 20
“This is a long-ass poem,” Ethan says. “And it’s kind of annoying and complicated. I can’t keep all the voices straight.”
We’re back at Starbucks, what I now think of as our Starbucks, which I would never admit to Ethan in a million years. I’m sipping the latte he bought for me after asking if I wanted the same as last week. He even remembered that I like it extra hot. He was so casual about it—ordered, slipped a credit card out of his wallet—I didn’t even feel weird about not offering to pay. Next time I’ll say something like “I got this one” or “This one is on me.” Or maybe not.
“I agree. I mean, I write terrible poetry, but I don’t know. I can’t help but write in my own voice. I am who I am who I am. Whether I like it or not.”