Itch must have conned his way out of second period a few minutes early, because he’s already waiting in the hallway when I exit environmental sciences. “My parents are going out of town this weekend,” he says.
“For Thanksgiving?”
“No, right after. On Friday. Can you tell your mom you’re staying at Lily’s?”
I’m about to answer when an overgrown Saint Bernard bounds down the hallway and nearly barrels over us. It’s Oliver, wearing an apron and carrying a bowl. “It worked! It didn’t collapse!” He whips out a spoon and scoops a soft pile of brown onto it. “Chocolate soufflé. Here!”
I am hyperaware of Itch standing silently by my side, but I open my mouth so Oliver can feed me the bite and…
Sweet silky heaven.
“Wow,” I say after I’ve swallowed. “That’s incredible.”
“I know, right?” Oliver turns to Itch—“Want a bite?”—but Itch shakes his head.
Oliver doesn’t appear to be bothered. His eyes focus on someone down the hall behind us and he calls out, “Lisa, Yana! Wait up!” He bounds away, waving his spoon.
“You’re still wearing your apron!” I shout after him, but he doesn’t hear me. That’s Oliver in a nutshell. Exuberant and passionate and generous.
“Hey.” Itch nudges me and I suddenly realize I have a goofy smile across my face. I wipe it away. “So can you tell your mom you’re sleeping at Lily’s?”
“Maybe,” I say, my eyes still on Oliver.
Itch has to buy some things, so I let him take me to the mall after school. First we get smoothies, and then I end up holding his cup while he browses JCPenney’s selection of boxers. I watch him, wondering when our relationship devolved to the point of purchasing undergarments together. Maybe it would be all right if I chose for him, if we were being sexy or romantic or if it was a joke or maybe if he was getting the kind stamped with little hearts or…or…
Or anything but this. This is just me acting as Itch’s beverage stand while he tries to choose between large-patterned plaid or small-patterned plaid.
This is killing me.
I flash back to Mom’s Deep Thought, about how sometimes things need to get messy before they can be good. Maybe that’s what Itch and I need. Some messiness.
“That was nice of Oliver, don’t you think?” I say it casually.
“What?” Itch drapes a pair of red-and-blue boxers (small-patterned) over his left arm and moves to a new rack.
“How he offered you some of that soufflé he made. It’s not like you guys know each other that well or anything.”
“Sure.”
“It was really good.”
“Cool.”
“Shockingly good.” Itch starts checking out the boxer briefs and I switch tactics. “You know what I appreciate about Oliver?”
“Nope.”
“How he can just run up to anyone, to any group of people at school. Other jocks, artists, geeks, stoners, anyone. I don’t ever see him being mean to anyone, you know?”
“Yup.” Itch selects a four-pack of navy cotton undies.
I decide to bump things up, just a touch. “I like being friends with him.”
“Great.” Itch holds out his hand and it takes me a second to realize he’s reaching for his smoothie. I give it to him and follow him toward the register, assessing the situation as we go.
My boyfriend isn’t annoyed by my friendship with our school’s hottest guy. He’s not jealous. He’s not worried.
That’s the problem, I suddenly recognize. Itch doesn’t get jealous or worried or passionate or…
Or anything.
He’s a flat line.
I stand, watching him pay for his underwear, and I feel flat, too. No, worse than flat.
I feel nothing at all.
“Maybe he’s gay.”
It’s four days later, and Shaun is hacking at a particularly sturdy buckthorn plant with a pair of red-handled clippers.
“Itch isn’t gay,” I tell him. “I have hard proof of that.”
“Ha-ha, you said ‘hard.’ ”
“You are a child. Here, give me those.” I take the clippers and use them to grasp the buckthorn’s woody base. “You have to grab and twist to pull the roots all the way out.”
Shaun straightens with a groan. “I think the only thing I’m pulling out is my back.” He rubs his hands together. “And my fingers might have frostbite.”
“Don’t be a baby. You’re helping Mother Earth.”
“I hate it.”
“Hush,” I tell him. “Find your Zen.”
We’re at the Ives Road Fen Preserve. Thirty miles south of Ann Arbor, it’s a huge preserve with a wetlands area that is rare for this part of Michigan. I love it for its raw beauty and all the things that look like they’ve never been touched by people. Silver maples tower over acres of prairie dropseed grass. There are tree frogs and cricket frogs and shy, colorful birds. This is the real deal.
Ever since working at the nature center this summer, I’ve wanted to sign up for one of Ives Road’s volunteer days, but this is the first time I’ve convinced someone to join me (and drive us there). To be fair, it’s tough work. We’ve been at it for over three hours and my back hurts, too.
I tried to get Itch to come, but he declined even though his parents are out of town and it’s not like he has anything important going on. He’s probably pouting because I refused to lie to Mom.
Except I forgot: Itch doesn’t pout. Itch doesn’t do anything.
“It just seems like he doesn’t care,” I tell Shaun.
“About you?”
“About anything.”
Shaun points at a small green patch. “That’s not poison ivy, is it?”
“That’s grass, Shaun.”
He drops onto it with a sigh and falls backward, arms outstretched. “What’s the worst thing that could happen if I fell asleep right here?”
“You could be eaten.”
“By a wolverine?” He sounds almost hopeful.
“By mosquitoes.” I twist another shiny buckthorn from the dirt before plopping beside him.
“It’s too cold for mosquitoes,” Shaun tells me. “Which means it’s too cold for humans. Cuddle me.”
He grabs the back of my jacket and pulls me down to rest against him. I place my head on his chest and wrap an arm around him.
“Just a like a real boy,” he says.
“You’re just like a real boy,” I retort.
“So what are you going to do about Itch?”
“Nothing.” Shaun doesn’t say anything in return, so I elaborate. “I don’t want to break up with him. I like being his girlfriend.”
“Maybe you just like being a girlfriend.”
The thing is, I do like being a girlfriend. I like belonging to someone in an official capacity. I like saying “my boyfriend.” I like knowing that if I want a date, I have one.
Since none of those seem like really great things to admit, I change the subject. “How’s Kirk?”
“Too far away.”
“Chicago is drivable.”
“My parents don’t think so,” says Shaun. “But even if they did, I don’t know if I would go. Kirk isn’t out to his dad yet. It would be weird.”
“I’m sorry.” My relationships are complicated enough without the extra baggage that Shaun has to deal with. “Are you going to break up with him?”
“I don’t even know if I have to,” says Shaun. “It doesn’t feel like we’re dating anymore.”
“I know what you mean.”
“Hey, lovebirds!” A deep voice with a strong New York accent startles us into sitting upright. It’s an older man wearing gloves and work boots that mark him as a volunteer. “What do you think this is: Inspiration Point? Get the hell up and get to work!”
Shaun and I turn to look at each other, slow grins spreading over our faces. “I love you,” Shaun says loudly so the man will definitely hear.
“I love you, too,” I tell him. The man grumbles something under his breath and marches away. I stand and pull Shaun to his feet. “Just a few more buckthorns and then we can go home.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”