Opposite of Always(37)
Which I break with strategically disarming small talk. “So, can you believe Mrs. Holstein canceled that quiz? I mean, like, WTF, right? I mean, who does that?”
But Jillian stares intently at her phone, as if any minute now POTUS is going to call her for advice on overseas troop deployment.
“Can I ask you a question, J?”
She mumbles something I choose to interpret as certainly.
“How long are you going to be mad at me?”
“Depends. How long are you going to be an asshole?”
I glance at my watch. “Uh, I think I’m done right about now.”
She breaks her phone trance, glares at me. “You sure about that?”
“One hundred and twenty percent,” I offer.
She groans. “I hate when people do that.”
“Do what?”
“Say more than 100 percent, as if that’s really a thing. Plus, if you really wanna emphasize your commitment, why not go all in on the hyperbole? Why not say 900 percent or 5,383 percent? I mean, at least be creative with your terrible math.”
“Jillian?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m 1,234,424 percent sure I’m done being an asshole.”
“Good.” She smiles. “Now I’m only 72 percent away from believing you.”
“Nice, I’m further along than I thought.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she says. She settles into her normal seat. I offer her a peanut butter cracker; it disappears into her mouth.
“J, is something else wrong?”
She sighs. “You want the entire rundown?”
“Of course.”
“We didn’t have power this morning because Mom forgot to pay the bill. I found a stack of unopened past-due notices. Lately, it’s like she’s on another planet.”
“Wow.”
“I had an awesome candlelit cold shower this morning, though.”
“That sounds incredible.”
“It was, believe me.”
“Any word from your dad?”
“The same word. He just keeps saying the same stuff over and over. I told him he picked a fantastic time for a midlife crisis.”
“Damn. Even still, to go back to C?te d’Ivoire is wild.”
Jillian’s face knots. “Wait. How’d you know he was going back there?”
Crap. “Huh? You must’ve mentioned it.”
“No, I definitely didn’t, Jack.”
“I mean, uh.” Backpedal, Jack. Backpedal. “I just assumed, you know, if I was having an existential crisis, I’d probably go back to, uh, where I grew up, you know, for answers. Yeah.”
She studies my face and isn’t buying my explanation, but at the same time, what other explanation is there, short of time travel?
She looks away, fiddles with her necklace. “When you’re a kid, you think your parents have it all together. That they know what they’re doing. And then one day you realize they’re just as screwed up as you. They’re just old and screwed up.”
“So, you’re saying we’re all doomed?”
She snags another cracker from my package. “Pretty much.”
I Got Threads on Threads on Threads
In the throes of a mind-numbingly boring fifth-period study hall, this pops up: Dear Jack,
I must admit that as I read your email I was starting to feel pressure but then, because you told me no pressure at least a dozen times, all the pressure totally went away. It was awesome. And completely unexpected. So thank you!
The truth is I’m leaning toward no to your proposal.
Here are my reasons, in bullet points: Prom Scares Kate Because . . .
Dancing scares me. I’m afraid I don’t have the stereotypical black girl rhythm. I’m afraid I don’t even have inebriated white people at a party rhythm. Seriously, two left feet would be a step up for me.
Party streamers make me nervous. I think because they remind me of thin and crimped, multicolored paper snakes.
I’m a punch-bowl pusher-over. Don’t ask me how, but it’s true. No matter the setting, if there is a punch bowl present, I’ll find a way to knock it over. Carpet doesn’t stand a chance against me!
I hate dresses. How come they don’t make parties where you can show up in your jogging pants, and with your hair tied up in an old (non-chic) bandanna, without people thinking you’re a charlatan? Or at least, a spinster in the making? And who doesn’t love jogging pants?
I am an octopus. Okay, this one’s not true. I blame Mrs. Nielson, my ninth-grade English teacher who felt arguments should always, ALWAYS be composed in sets of five. Although she also called cell phones transponders, so.
Anyway, hopefully you now have a better understanding of what you’re dealing with—or rather at least who. Perhaps you wish to withdraw your invitation?
But if not, Jack, I do have a serious question for you. Actually two questions. I know—Kate being serious is like [insert some absurdity here].
But here goes—and please, pardon me for the severe cheesiness of what I’m about to say next—probably 4.5 out of 5 cheese wheels—but 1) how is it that I feel like I know you already, Jack?
And 2) why did I write an entire email explaining to you why I can’t go to prom with you when I already know that I’m going to go to prom with you?