Chapter 36
Andrew
Tuesday morning I call Mrs. Stovall to let her know I’ve fallen gravely ill and won’t be in. She says she hopes I feel better—even though the tone of her voice says she doesn’t believe for a minute that I’m sick—then assures me she will find a sub. I tell her my plans are on my desk (right where I left them Monday in anticipation of my grave illness).
At seven thirty, I’m pretty sure it’s safe to return, but I wait another half hour just to be sure. At eight o’clock on the nose, I head home. The garage is empty. I leave the door open and park in the driveway.
All clear. Get over here, baby.
As I wait, I calm my nerves with a litany of assurances that our secret day together will remain a secret. Neither Kiki nor Maya showed a hint of coming illness this morning. There is nothing broken in the house that might mean an unexpected call from a serviceperson. The homes in the neighborhood are small, modest, and owned by mostly single people, all of whom work. Maya is in an all-day training session half an hour away with lunch provided. And the weather is beautiful. It’s going to be okay. It has to be okay.
Robert is not far away. In three minutes he’s pulling into the garage. I push the button as soon as he’s clear and the door closes behind us. Within seconds he’s in my arms again.
It’s the first time we’ve had this kind of freedom, and we take advantage of every moment of it, starting in my bedroom. By the end of second period—even when I’m playing hooky, the teacher in me can’t help but measure time by my school schedule—we’re pleasantly sated. By fourth period, we’re on the couch challenging each other to Devilishly Difficult Sudoku races in our underwear. I win the first, he wins the second, but on the third puzzle he keeps gripping my erection with his toes. I call foul and he accepts a boxer penalty. We never finish that third puzzle.
It’s my idea to play Truth or Dare in the shower during fifth period. I throw a washcloth over the drain, and the water slowly backs up to make a shallow tub. We plant ourselves opposite each other on the tile floor, our knees drawn up, our feet locked together in the middle. Sophomoric as it is, the game serves two purposes: It involves no physical activity beyond talking (a much-needed rest), and it allows me to get an answer to a question that’s been dogging me for weeks.
So here’s my twist on the game, as I explain it to Robert: You can only choose Truth.
“Okay,” I say to him. “Truth or Dare.”
He rolls his eyes and grins. “Truth.”
Here goes. “That first time, you know, you wrote on my whiteboard that I lied too. What did I lie to you about?”
His grin slides away. “Dare.”
“No. You can’t choose Dare. That’s not the way we’re playing the game. Truth. Let’s hear it.”
He eyes me through the spray and pushes his wet hair back from his forehead. I’m beginning to think that he won’t answer, and then he does. “When I asked you why you brought me to your apartment, you said you were more concerned about me than you were about yourself. And then you freaked out over a two-month discrepancy and . . . you just walked out on me.” He bites down on his lips and looks away. I don’t respond until he looks back at me. He shrugs like he’s just admitted some big secret he’s been holding on to. And I guess he has.
“I got scared,” I tell him.
“Are you scared now?”
“Yeah. But I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere. Okay?”
He nods his head, and gives me a wan smile. I return it.
“All right. Your turn,” I say.
“Truth or Dare.”
“Truth.”
“Have you ever had a crush on another student?”
“No.”
I think my quick response may have been too quick. He looks unconvinced, as if that word no is just a knee-jerk response not tied to any kind of truth, the kind of knee-jerk response I see in the classroom all the time. I say, Stop. Kid says, What? I didn’t do anything. It wouldn’t matter if I’d captured the entire thing on video. The response is always self-righteous indignation.
Is that the way I sounded to him just now? One way or the other, I intend to find out.
“Truth or Dare.”
“I don’t want to play anymore,” he says. He stretches out his legs and draws one of my feet into his lap, then threads his fingers through my toes.
“Come on. One more.”
He sighs, a note of resignation. “Truth.”
“What’s bothering you?”
His eyes meet mine, and I’m not so sure I want to hear the answer anymore. I steel myself for whatever’s coming.
He takes a deep breath and lets it out as he flexes my toes back and forth. “I guess I’m afraid that everything’s going to change one day. That you’ll outgrow me. That I won’t be able to afford college unless I go away and do something I really don’t want to do. That if I go away, you’ll meet somebody else. That somebody will find out and the whole thing will blow up in our faces. And that if it blows up in our faces, you’ll go away.”
“That’s a lot to worry about.”
The afternoon passes by too quickly. Robert leaves at two, a little before the end of seventh period, and after a long, tight embrace that we are both reluctant to end. Dressed in corduroy slacks and a light knit pullover, I head over to pick up Kiki at Ms. Smith’s Village. On the way, I text Maya to tell her I’m not tutoring today.
Robert
“The school called and said you were absent today.”
I’m holding my phone with one hand as I let myself in the garage door with the other. Damn, I should have called the school myself this morning.
“I just didn’t feel good when I got to the parking lot, so I turned around and came home. I should have called you. Sorry.” I’m trying very hard to sound pathetic.
“And you didn’t answer your phone either.”
“I think I had it on vibrate,” I mumble convincingly. “I went back to bed and slept all day.” Which is exactly what I’d like to do right now. In fact, I’m already kicking off my shoes and pulling my shirt over my head as we talk.
When she gets home, I’ve got the quilt drawn over me and I’m reliving the day in my head, but I’m also thinking about the future. What’s going to happen next August? Baton Rouge is hours away. Five or more. Even College Station is almost two hours, although it’s unlikely I could come up with the tuition for A&M this late.
Mom leans into my room to let me know she’s home.
“Hey, Mom?” I say as she starts to leave. “What if I don’t go to LSU? What if I don’t study medicine?”
“If that’s not what you want to do, Robert, we’ll figure something out. Okay? Don’t let Aunt Whitney or your late grandfather bully you into something that’s not right for you. But I do think you’re going to have to make a decision pretty soon.”
Andrew
Maya tosses her bag and her keys on the counter and gives Kiki a hug.
“Mommy, look!” Kiki holds out a fistful of shredded parmesan cheese that she’s been throwing into a salad bowl, mostly.
“I like cheese,” Maya says, taking a small bite from Kiki’s hand. “How was your day?” she asks me.
“Good. How was yours?”
“Well, they haven’t cut my job yet, so pretty good, I guess. Thanks for picking up Kiki. No tutorees today?”
“Nope.”
“Yay you. What’s for dinner?” She crosses the kitchen to where I’m turning chicken breast cutlets on a small grill.
“Chicken Caesar salad. Okay with you?”
“Perfect. I’m going to go change, okay?”
When she comes back, she’s dressed in plaid flannel pajama pants and a snug white T-shirt. I’m cutting the chicken into thin slices to throw on the salad. Kiki has moved on to croutons.
Maya reaches into a cabinet and pulls out two shallow salad bowls. “Did you take a shower when you got home? Your bathroom’s all wet.”
Why were you in my bathroom?
“No, actually. I started to. I turned on the shower, then forgot all about it.” I nod toward Kiki like I blame her.
“So how did the towels get all wet?”
She doesn’t sound suspicious. They’re just questions, I tell myself. Questions that she wouldn’t even have if she were respecting my privacy. “I didn’t have the curtain closed good and by the time I remembered the shower, there was water all over the floor. I mopped it up with the towels. I’ll throw them in the washing machine in a bit.”
“Oh,” she says.
I’m about as clean as a person can get, but after dinner and after I read to Kiki (Robert the Rose Horse, of course, of course) I stick with my regular routine and shower again. I send Robert a quick text first.
Sooo tired ;)
I delete the sent text, then lay the phone face down on my bed and get into the shower. When I come out ten minutes later, my phone is face up. I notice it immediately because I always place my phone face down—it’s a weird habit—and there is zero chance that I didn’t this time. I even specifically remember thinking if anyone were to come into my room, they wouldn’t see the screen if for some reason it were lit up.
I pick up the phone and check my messages. Robert has texted, but only his number shows up now, and the message hasn’t been read. I’m relieved, but I can’t believe that Maya is snooping in my room. This is not okay.
I pull on some clothes. I’m ready to confront her when something grabs my ankle. And then a giggle.
“What are you doing under my bed, baby girl?”
Kiki crawls out clutching Spot. I pick her up. She’s wearing Little Mermaid pajamas tonight and her dark hair is tousled. “You are supposed to be in bed, little one.”
She sticks her thumb in her mouth and smiles around it. “I hide.”
“I know you hide. You scared your daddy half to death.” In more ways than one.