Chapter Twenty
Eli
The whole next day I’m trying not to pay attention to my brain, which is now constantly replaying yesterday and that boat ride, but I can’t shut it down. The endless loop just goes faster.
I’m really confused.
The purpose of this plan of mine—disproving her hypothesis—I’m having a hard time remembering why I started in the first place. To keep her from getting her heart broken? To change her mind about leaving Edinburgh? Something about her not becoming a cat lady?
There on the boat, I thought, yeah, she’s totally rethinking the whole thing. I touched her hand, and she looked at me, just like that day all those years ago. There I was again, drowning in those eyes, those big brown pools of quicksand that suck you in and eat you alive. I wanted to kiss her, bad, real bad, right there, with the captain probably watching our every move.
Will she give up the theory? Am I about to change her mind?
I don’t know. I just know that I want the answer to be yes.
In civics I sit next to Koviak and say nothing. He leans back in his chair and swats my arm. “What’s wrong with you, dude?”
I point to my crutches, leaned up against the desk next to me. “My knee is jacked?”
“No,” he says. “That’s not what I’m talking about.”
He waits.
I frown. “Nothing.” Everything. I tap out a rhythm with my pencil on the table while Mr. Palumbo tries to pull up a YouTube video.
Koviak groans. “Don’t even try to bullshit me. I’ve been watching you.”
“What are you talking about?”
I know exactly what he’s talking about.
He leans closer. “Come on. Why are you so afraid of her?” He lowers his voice, because the walls have ears at EHS, and so does Veronica, who sits right behind us.
“I’m not talking about this.”
“Why the hell not? You’re dumb as nails, Costas. She’s hot, and she’s available.”
I level my eyes at him in warning.
He doesn’t care. “Dude, look at you. You can’t even stand me talking about her being hot and available. You look like you want to kill me.”
I turn away from him. “You don’t understand.”
“What’s to understand?” He moves in again. “You’re a guy, she’s a girl. Two plus two equals four, broseph. Go for it. And just so you know,” he says, “I’ve been watching her, too. I see the way she looks at you. She’s always looking at you.”
She is?
“All right.” Mr. Palumbo clears his throat. “Settle, class.” He starts a boring video about the electoral college or some such shit. I hear none of it. I’m only thinking of what to do next. She’s either close to dumping her stupid theory, or she’s Nora Reid—stubborn as hell, and not likely to ever change her mind.
As the video drones on, I think of her, always her. That hair, that face, her body, and I ask a favor. Of God, I guess. I figure in the dark of the civics room, what do I have to lose? I start here:
If it’s true that you created science and the laws that run the universe and all that shit that keeps us alive and not slamming into other things in the galaxy—can you help a dude out with a girl named Nora Reid? Like, can you give me a sign?
I can’t wait to be with her in MJ, but on the way home from school, Nora is in a foul mood. She complains about her English essay—she got a ninety-four, which doesn’t get a lot of sympathy from me—then says she got an email from Emory saying her scholarship application is being reviewed. She wonders out loud what that might mean. Is it good, is it bad? She wants to know.
I give her some nice, long, side-eye. “I’m pretty sure it just means your application is being reviewed…?”
“Right, thanks.” she snaps at me, and doesn’t say anything else. She’s acting weird. Squirrelly.
When we get home, I park the truck and face her as she undoes her seat belt.
“Nor?”
“Yeah?” She’s not paying attention. She’s busy gathering up her backpack and a small box of brochures for the autism walk she’s helping plan in April. She does more for my brother than I do. I’m a piece of shit compared to her.
“Hey, Nora?” I try again. Finally, she looks my way. “Are we okay?”
Her nose scrunches. “Yeah, sure,” she says.
I’m not buying it. Something is bugging her. I hope it’s not me.
And also, I hope it is.
Samir the sophomore has the ball and I can almost see him working out the next part of the play in his mind. He’s a good player. Really dirty, which in lacrosse talk means he’s a killer. The problem is he’s better in practice than he is in actual games. He gets in his own head, and that’s the kiss of death on the field.
It’s not an easy sport. You gotta have speed, agility, stamina. It’s got the contact of football, requires the endurance of soccer, and the two-man game of basketball. You gotta be willing to share the glory, because it’s a total team sport. Also, you have to be smart.
I suck at school, but lacrosse I get. You have to read the field, and you have to run the plays nonstop in your head. Samir will get there in time, I think, but for now I want to kick his ass. He passes the ball and it’s picked up by the other team’s midfielder.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I yell at the top of my lungs. The JV coach eyes me and I half smile an apology. Like Coach Johnston on varsity, he insists that we at least try to show some sportsmanship. Be gentlemen. Not cussing Neanderthals.
Easier said than done when they’re playing like a bunch of morons.
We’re well into the first quarter, and during a break in play, I scan the sidelines for certain people. I’m relieved. She’s not here. Neither is Tex. Of course the first thing that comes to my sick mind is that they didn’t even make it to the game because they’re parked somewhere, making out and probably more. They’ll be engaged in two weeks. I shake my head and force closed that disturbing image.
Some freshman whose name I can’t remember botches another play. These assholes need more help than I can give them. Now Coach is yelling like a caveman from the sideline. I should pay attention, but I think of Nora. It’s funny. She’s a virgin. That’s not even in question. She doesn’t even care about that, as far as I know. That’s not her priority. Her priority is…what?
Her priority is not ending up like her parents.
And so she waits, and waits. And kisses guys. And I wait, afraid she’ll convince herself that some other guy is the one she’s been waiting for.
I just need to convince her it’s me. It’s always been me.
I dig the end of one of my crutches into a divot in the field and wonder if I can make it happen.
How lucky would I be if she was mine? Well, not mine, because a person doesn’t belong to another person. We could be each other’s? She could be mine, and I could be hers. Damn that sounds perfect.
Play starts again, and I’m shouting directions to some of those freshmen who can’t even seem to remember the easy plays. This one works, though, and I’m yelling at them and trying to run down the sidelines with my crutches. Samir makes a goal, and the team and the crowd go apeshit, and even though we’re still down by one, there’s a chance this crew might get their act together in time to win.
I turn toward the still-roaring spectators, heading for the Gatorade, when something catches my eye. A wave of auburn hair next to a tall, goofy-looking Texan in a lacrosse T-shirt.
Nora.
Nora Reid, who never comes to my games because she “hates all organized sports” is in the stands. With him.
I crumple the paper cup in my hand, watching them as the crowd cheers on. I want to pick up this cooler and hurl it into the stands, knocking him into oblivion. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Why is she here with him? Because he asked her? Because she needs to kiss him?
She doesn’t see me. She might not even know I’m here. She’s too focused on him, staring up into his face. He’s bending down, and she’s smiling, and holy shit, are they gonna kiss? Right here? Right now?
No. No. No!
There’s an elephant sitting on my chest. I can’t breathe. The team must have done something good, because the crowd is going nuts again.
I turn away from them. Nameless freshman has just stolen the ball—I don’t give a shit.
I won’t turn and look at them again. I can’t. There’s this tingle in my throat, like you get when you’re about to puke. I have this feeling that it just happened. They kissed. Lightning struck. I swear I can almost smell the scorched earth. Hypothesis proven.
My blood is running hot through my body, it’s all going to my head which is about to explode.
Not that I believe in her damn theory. It’s bullshit. But maybe if you want something bad enough, you can delude yourself into thinking that it’s actually happened. All she needs to do is tell herself it was magic—and that’s it.
I lose.
Like they’ve just thrown gasoline on my anger, I feel myself go up in flames. I need to leave.
I move down the sidelines carefully on my crutches.
“Coach, my knee’s killing me,” I tell him.
“Go home, Costas,” he says. “Knee takes priority.”
I don’t look back. You know what? He can have her. I hope they live happily ever fuckin’ after.
I high-five Samir as he passes me on the sidelines, and then I head for the parking lot. I’m done. Done with my plan to change her mind. Done with whatever feelings I’ve had for her all these years. Time to shut that down.
I’m done trying to protect her from heartbreak, and a future as a lonely little medical-researching cat lady.
I’m done with worrying about her. I’m done loving her.
I’m done with Nora Reid.
We are done.