Eighteen
Jack doesn’t want to talk about Tony. I know because she slipped out with the rest of the cast the moment the rain let up, and when I gave her a look that asked You okay? she replied with a smile. Something’s wrong when Jack smiles like that. But if she doesn’t want to talk, I’m not going to push. Jack doesn’t react well to pushing.
Sunday’s filming passes without incident, and in the end we only have to schedule one makeup shot for Monday—a scene between Brooks and George. Both being the consummate professionals they are, they arrive on time, give a perfect performance on the first take, and are out of the Harlows’ house by noon. Afterward, Jack tells me she has a load of laundry to take care of but that I should head down to the basement, where Paul’s been hiding away, and she’ll be down shortly.
When I get to the entertainment room, I hear the sound of a Ping-Pong ball tapping between solid surfaces, which is odd, because last I heard the Harlows still hadn’t gotten the table repaired. I creep down the hallway to the game room and peer inside. The splintered Ping- Pong table has been folded and moved to one side of the room. At the opposite side, Paul is playing what can best be described as Ping-Pong racquetball. He drops the ball to the linoleum floor and hits it on its way up, causing the ball to bounce off the wall and back to his paddle. I watch in silence from the doorway as he makes it to eleven hits in a row. On the twelfth, the ball ricochets off the wall with such force that Paul misses, and it heads straight for me.
It takes me a jolting, pained moment to realize what’s just happened. I stare at the blue and white ball at my feet, then raise a hand to my right eye.
“Ow,” I say. It’s an afterthought more than a reaction.
“Holy shit! Tash, you freakin’ scared me.”
Paul jogs across the room to where I stand, still stunned.
“You okay?” he asks, peering at my eye.
“It’s just a Ping-Pong ball,” I say, dismissive.
I snatch the ball off the floor and lob it at him. He takes it on the chest with a relieved smile.
“Is this what you’ve been doing all morning?” I ask.
“Eh. I watched the last half of Alien vs. Predator . Played some Bloodborne . Ate a box of Cheez-Its.”
“Busy man.”
“You know it. Are you guys through? I didn’t hear any screaming up there, so that’s a good sign, right?”
I grimace. “Definitely better than last time.”
“Cool.” Paul sits down in the middle of the room and looks to me, expectant.
I join him and say, “Is there a reason we’re choosing tile over the cushy couch in the other room?”
“I like sitting here. Lots of space and no windows—it’s a good place for thinking.”
It does seem like a good place for thinking. Or a good place to drive yourself crazy.
“I’m taking astronomy this semester at BCTC ,” Paul says, leaning back on his elbows, then sinking into an all-out flop. I swear, Paul’s default position is horizontal.
I remain sitting and tap my hands on Paul’s shins as though they are a drum set.
“Astronomy’s cool,” I say. “Is that for a science credit?”
“Yeah, it seemed like the easiest option. No way I’m taking chemistry or biology again.”
“You’ll have to pass along all your wisdom,” I say. “Tell me how great the odds are we’ll get wiped off the face of the universe by meteors in the coming decades.”
Paul nods dutifully. “It sucks I can’t take any design classes yet. I talked to admissions again, and they say I can transfer to UK my sophomore year, no problem, if my grades are good. So I guess I’ll take the easiest classes possible this year and get into the good stuff later.”
I release a peppery sigh and ask, “Do you ever wonder when that stops?”
“When what stops?”
“Doing gross crap so you can get to the good stuff later. When do we finally get to the good stuff?”
“Ew, Tash. Don’t be all cynical like that. You sound like Jack.”
Paul closes his eyes, and in that moment he looks so much like Jack it derails my train of thought. A lot of people assume Jack and Paul are twins or comment on how much they look alike. Personally, I don’t see it. Except when Paul’s eyes are closed.
When he speaks again, it takes a moment for me to remember what my question was. “I think we’ve got some of the good stuff now. It gets sprinkled into the rest of your life, same as the gross crap. The whole yin-yang idea. Isn’t that Buddhist? You believe that, don’t you?”
“More like Chinese philosophy,” I say. “But . . . yeah, maybe I believe it.”
“You’re not experiencing that much gross crap, are you?”
“No. I’m really not.” I think about today’s filming and how much I wish I could be living in L.A. already with a dozen accolades under my belt. “I didn’t phrase it right. I guess I mean I always feel like I’m . . . waiting. Waiting until I get older so people will finally take me seriously and I can do what I want.”
“It’s kind of messed up, isn’t it? We just want to be older, and people our parents’ age complain about how they wish they were young again. It’s depressing.”
“It’s dukkha ,” I say, shrugging. “I know I’m not supposed to fight it, but sometimes I really, really want to.”
“Then let’s do this,” says Paul. “You tell me all the reasons it’s good for me to be nineteen—”
“Almost twenty,” I interrupt.
“And I’ll tell you all the reasons it’s good for you to be seventeen.”
“Almost eighteen.”
I can’t help it. These are important distinctions to make.
“I’ll start,” says Paul. “First, you don’t have to pay for your own health insurance.”
Without missing a beat, I say, “You can lie down on a cold, hard floor and not complain about your arthritic joints aching.”
“You have access to millions of songs, all at the mere brush of your fingertips.”
I frown. “That’s more like a modern-day perk, not an age perk. Eighty-year-olds have millions of songs at their fingertips too.”
“Yeah, but how many of them actually know how to access them?”
“I bet there are plenty of technologically savvy eighty-year-olds.”
Our little game has quickly tanked, but it’s put me in the mood for music. I tug my phone from my jeans pocket and start Chvrches’ most recent album. Paul groans.
“Uuugh, it’s bad enough I’m going to the concert. Why’re you torturing me like this?”
“I am going to convert you, Paul Harlow. You will like them.”
“It’s not that I hate them. They’re just not my style.”
“Mmm-hmm, your style is mopey British bands. And, like, ‘Carry On My Wayward Son.’ ”
“I like what I like,” he says buoyantly. “Anyway, as I said, they’re not my style, but I can appreciate the talent. Also, the lead singer—what’s her name? I’m a little in love with her.”
I give Paul a look like he’s an asshole. “How can you be in love with her when you don’t even know her name?”
He gives me a look like I’m a hypocrite. “How can you be in love with someone you’ve never spoken to?”
I stop drumming Paul’s shins in time with the music. I stop touching him altogether.
“What?” he says. “What’s the difference?”
“There’s a huge difference. Thom and I have had tons of conversations. Maybe they haven’t been conventional, but welcome to the twenty-first century. And I never said I was in love with him.”
“Okay, fine. But obviously you care a lot, because you’re red in the face.”
I am red in the face, but I can’t help it, and I am so pissed at Paul for pointing it out, which makes me go even redder. I scoot back and lie down a good yard from him, my arms crossed tight against my chest.
“Tash, what ?” Paul props himself up and tries to get a good look at my face, but I keep shifting around, not letting him. “I was just pointing out what I liked about the band. They’re talented. I have a crush on the lead singer. Those are good things.”
“Yeah, okay.”
Paul slides to his back, and the only sound is the music—a melody of synths and poppy electronic pattering.
“She’s not just a singer,” I say. “Did you know she has a degree in journalism? Did you know she can play drums and keyboard, too?”
Paul is quiet awhile before he says, “All the more reason to crush on her.”
I know he says this thinking it will make me happier. But it doesn’t. His words pick up the fleshy mound of my chest and wring it tight, like a washrag, draining away all the vital fluids. Why am I sad ? I can’t place it. Paul has always been open about girls he likes. He told me and Jack every little detail about his relationship with Stephanie Crewe, up until the day he broke up with her, which, from what I gather, is pretty rare for a high school guy to do.
So I’m used to this. I’m used to Paul talking about girls. And not for the first time, I reflect that Paul has probably never, ever considered me in that way. Because if he did, he wouldn’t feel like he could talk about his love life so openly when I’m around. Couldn’t tell me the exact same things he tells his sister. And after my poolside confession last year, how could he ever think of me that way? What normal guy would crush on me after I said I flat out didn’t want sex?
I shouldn’t have unreasonable expectations; I know I shouldn’t. But this weird sadness of mine grabs hold of my until-now-dormant fear of meeting Thom next month, and basically my emotions are little better than a pot of melted Jell-O.
“What’s going on here?”
I tilt my head back to see an upside-down Jack standing in the doorway. She’s changed into a pair of long fleece pajama pants and an Edward Scissorhands graphic tee.
I think, I am leaking out all over this linoleum.
I say, “I’m forcing Paul to like Chvrches.”
“Cool,” she says, joining us on the floor.
After a chorus’s worth of no talking, I nudge Jack and ask, “Did you watch that video I sent you?”
Her only reply is a snot-filled snort.
“What?” I say. “Don’t you think it was sweet of him? He clearly made it for me. For us, I mean.”
“Sorry, who are we talking about?” asks Paul.
“Th ooom.” Jack huffs the h and draws out the o in precisely the same way Paul has done before. Which either means they have sibling telepathy, or—the far more likely option—Paul and Jack have talked about Thom behind my back. My mood goes from sad to irritable.
“It was super nice of him,” I say, glaring over at her.
“It was super condescending of him. Like he is some great Authority come down to help us downtrodden novice filmmakers.”
“That’s not how he meant it.”
“You know we have more followers than him now, right?” says Jack. “We don’t need him defending our honor. Anyway, what good does he think that video is going to do? He’s preaching to the choir. Everyone knows there are trolls on the Internet. Haters will hate, no matter how many PSA s he puts up.”
I say nothing. I’m making a careful study of a canvas print on the wall that reads, BIG BLUE NATION .
“What?” says Jack. “Paul, stop looking at me like that. I’m allowed to say whatever sh it about Th om I want. And I say he’s making a power play to convince us he’s in a position of benevolent privilege, and it’s weird. So sue me. Tash. Tash. Don’t give me the silent treatment.”
I shrug off Jack’s tap on my shoulder. “Fine. Everyone hates Thom, I get it.”
“I didn’t say I hated him. I’ve never even met the dude. And, may I remind you, neither have you.”
“Yeah, well, I’m going to,” I bite back. “Soon.”
“Uh-huh, okay.” Things get quiet again, save for the electronic clatter coming from my phone. Then Jack abruptly gets to her feet and says, “Hang on a sec.”
She’s gone for a couple minutes. When she returns, she’s got two flashlights in one hand and a laser pointer in the other. She flicks off the game room’s light switch with her elbow and pushes the door shut with her foot, casting us in complete darkness. Then there’s a sudden wash of light, and I shield my eyes.
“Ow! Jack, what’re you doing?”
“You get a flashlight,” she says, and I feel the weight of a small, solid object on my stomach. “Paul gets a flashlight. I get the laser pointer. If you insist on assuming the stargazing position while listening to this music, we are gonna make the most of it. We’re gonna do an effing light show.”
I open my eyes and grab the flashlight. My irritation from earlier is forgotten—which I guess is Jack’s master plan.
“Ha!” Paul cries, switching on his flashlight and creating a dizzying circular pattern on the ceiling.
I try a strobe-light effect, pulsing the light on and off with the music’s driving rhythm. Jack, meantime, shoves me closer to Paul before lying back down beside me. I try to figure out what shapes she’s envisioning as she drags the red laser across the ceiling in precise strokes. A skull, maybe. A pyramid. Her full name.
I start making a bloop-bloop-bloop sound, imitating one of the electronic layers. Paul cracks up and adds his own more convoluted and therefore more amusing imitation. It sounds something like peoooow, scrsh, scrsh, bow! Jack comes in with a sensual unst-unst .
For a minute, it’s this chaotic swirl of music and sound and lights. It’s all so stupid and absurd and wonderful. Then the songs ends, and we’ve reached our limit. We explode into laughter. Even Jack is cackling, totally uninhibited. I love it when Jack laughs like that.
The next song starts up, and we keep up our light show, though we all silently agree not to continue the vocal accompaniment. It’s a slow song, and I use my flashlight beam to paint long, ephemeral strokes across the ceiling. The room grows warm and sleepy, and when a peppier song follows the slow number, I don’t feel the energy to pick up my light show game. Paul yawns loudly. Jack has calmed her laser work to a predictable series of figure eights.
I keep my flashlight on and pointed upward but nuzzle my face into Jack’s shoulder. My body has decreed that I shall nap, and nothing will stand in my way. With my eyes closed, I listen as Jack’s breathing grows slower, fuller. We’re all going into hibernation, it seems, and I get this odd picture in my head of us as sleepy bear cubs snuggled in a den. It’s so ludicrous that a laugh trickles out of me. I feel a hot, slight pressure on my arm. The arm nearest Paul. He’s resting his knuckles against my elbow, and I like it. I like the warmth and the sensation of safety that comes along with it.
I turn and peek open an eye and find Paul peeking back at me. I creep my hand over to his—the one resting on my elbow, and I fit my fingers into his in the usual way.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hey.” Then, “You know I think you’re the best, right? Way better than the lead singer of Chvrches.”
I laugh, but Paul doesn’t. He squeezes my hand. I squeeze his back.
“I think you’re better than the band Kansas,” I whisper. “Like, the entire band.”
I expect Paul to laugh at that at least, but he doesn’t. The muscles around his mouth get tight. He looks the same as when he plays video games—the war-mural, ancient-statue Paul. And I get that feeling in my throat—carbonation indigestion.
“Don’t frown at me,” I say, because his face needs to stop looking that way.
“Am I frowning?”
“Yes. It makes you look bad.” Which is a super impressive lie.
Paul’s face transforms into an exaggerated, toothy smile. I snort and make a swipe at his nose with my free hand.
“God, Zelenka, what do you want from me?”
The smile is gone, and Paul sounds so genuinely mournful that I inch in closer and tuck my head under his chin and say, “Nothing. You’re good like this.”
He doesn’t answer. He squeezes my hand again, just once. The feeling in my throat subsides, and I feel safe and okay again.
That’s what I’m concentrating on when I fall asleep.