Here So Far Away(19)

“That’s it. Let me bring you over here, girlfriend. Sit on the curb.”

The remaining contents of my stomach started to rise but I managed to keep them down by throwing my head back and swallowing hard.

Bill said, “That right there was worse than watching you actually throw up.”

“What’s with the girl talk?”

“I’m the only guy in the group now, so I’m trying to fit in better.”

My eyes began to water, mostly from the effort of not vomiting. “Never mind. I am not equipped,” he said. “You need a real girl for that.”

“I’m sorry. I just had a bad night and I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay, okay . . . There, there.” He patted my shoulder so awkwardly that I laughed in spite of myself. “There, there, there. If it makes you feel any better, Tracy and I are probably going to break up again.”

Bill had been dating Tracy on and off since the eighth grade. No one knew why they were together. Bill was fun and sloppy and sarcastic and unflappable, the guy you wanted on your team for a hot dog–eating contest. Tracy had two modes: sullen and boring. She had creepy little hands like bird claws and didn’t talk much, except to nag Bill. Every so often they would break up—always her dumping him, never the other way around—and we’d have this surge of hope that he’d end up with someone we liked. Then they’d get back together again. Sid had vowed to bust them up permanently, but didn’t get the chance.

“Aw, shoot,” I said.

“At least you didn’t clap, like Nat. She told me what happened at the food court, by the way. So does this mean that Joshua’s face has melted?”

“What do you mean, melted?”

“Indiana Jones melted. Why are you not understanding me?”

“Because I’m not Sid. I don’t get your inside guy references.”

“Don’t you remember the end of Indiana Jones, when they throw acid into the Nazi’s face and it’s all like, ‘Aaaaaargh . . .’? That’s how I feel every time Tracy and I break up and I get to talk to new girls and I find a gorgeous one and garbage comes out of her mouth. When I’m crossing the room to talk to her, I’m thinking, I don’t care who she is, I don’t care what she is, I want to stick my head into that no-man’s-land between her boobs and have a nap.”

“Oh, stop with your feminist rants.”

“But the thing is, to gain entry into no-man’s-land, you have to have a conversation, and when it turns out she’s a moron, it’s like she’s not even physically attractive anymore. The moment she starts talking about how her cat peed on her bed because it was jealous of her old boyfriend—”

“She melts.”

“Like wax. Listen, I don’t have anything against the guy. Joshua. I just can’t figure what you talked about that night. You didn’t talk like this, that I know.”

Until a few minutes ago, Bill and I didn’t really talk like this either.

“We talked about school stuff, Saddam Hussein . . .” That was all I could remember. “What do you and Tracy talk about?”

“Nothin’. Sometimes her food allergies.”

“The problem,” I said, “is that Joshua thinks he fell in love with me at first sight, and everyone else thinks I’m crazy for not feeling the same. You and me, we’re probably the only ones who don’t go for that insta-love crap.”

“I totally believe in that crap,” Bill said.

“Who did you ever love at first sight? Tracy?”

“Hell no. My hockey coach.”

“Come on.”

“I’m serious. And Sid.”

“Are you trying to tell me something?”

“I’m saying we call it love at first sight when sex is thrown in, but there are lots of different people you meet and you click and you know, you know?”

“I know you miss him, buddy.”

“That’s the problem. Tracy asked if I’d miss her as much as I miss him.”

“You lied, I hope.”

“I might have thought about it a second too long.”

“You wiener.”

“Well, guess what? This wiener loved you at first sight too, Georgie Girl.”

I shifted uncomfortably.

“Not like that!”

“Yeah, yeah. Do I have to say it back?”

“Better if you didn’t now that you’ve made it all cringey.”

“Good. I’ll express it in action.” I patted his knee. “There, there, there.”





Nine


“It’s like we’re not even going out sometimes, you know?”

This was how most of my conversations with Lisa started. In the middle.

“That’s so typical of Keith,” I said, dragging the phone over to my bed. It was almost noon and I still hadn’t slept. “What did he do?”

“I was dropping off a mixtape I made for him, and then we went into the kitchen and he—he made a tomato sandwich.”

“Oh my god!” I shouted.

“No, seriously, a tomato sandwich. One. If it had been me, I would have been like, Keith? What? I’m making a sandwich. Oh? Would you like one too? No, thanks. Are you sure? It’s no trouble. I’m sure. Okay.” (Lisa did this a lot, acted out all of the parts, as though no one would get it if she only gave the highlights.) “Do you think this is his way of, like, asking for space?”