The Calculus of Change Page 10

  “Who wouldn’t look? I’d totally look,” I say. “I’m looking now.” I have to joke about this or my conscience will explode. I’m left with the question of whom I can tell. If I tell another teacher or any other adult at school, not only will I ruin my friendship with Marissa, I’ll get Danson in serious trouble. I know he deserves it. But something in me wants to protect him. I loved him as a teacher. He inspired me. In his class, I once wrote a piece about my mom and what it was like to lose her and then forget her. The comments Danson wrote in the margins of that paper were at once compassionate and insightful. He held my pain and pushed me further than I thought I could go. He made me rewrite the piece. I later turned it into a song. How can that Mr. Danson and the Lance of whom Marissa speaks coexist?

  “Stop joking, Ade. I’m serious.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “Go on.”

  “So, he’s looking, and I’m talking about the paper, and he says something, and before I know it, his hand is under my chin.”

  “I thought you were going to say boobs. Okay. Chin. Got it.”

  Marissa smacks my leg.

  “What? Sorry. We went from boobs to chin. I’m with you.” My conscience is screaming, a constant buzz in my head.

  “Shut up, Ade. Seriously. Listen. So our faces are inches apart. I can feel his breath on my cheek. He has full control. And then our lips are almost touching, like he’s going to kiss me. But instead he just brushes his lips against mine.”

  “He lip-brushed you?”

  “He lip-brushed me.”

  We laugh.

  “He tastes like almonds.”

  “Almonds?” I say.

  “Yeah. Roasted almonds. Kind of sweet but mostly salty and totally addictive.”

  “Marissa,” I say. “This is really dangerous.” Though we’ve been joking, I say that last sentence with severity.

  “I know.”

  “I’m not sure you do know.”

  She puts her hands on her hips, daring me to take this conversation further.

  So I do. “What would happen if you slept together and someone found out?”

  “There is no chance we’ll be that careless.”

  The way she says we as though they’re in this together tells me everything. She can’t see him as predator.

  “Someone could find out.”

  “They won’t.”

  “Do you think you two will end up together?”

  “I don’t know, Aden. I’m not a child. I know this isn’t happily ever after, okay? It is what it is.”

  “What exactly does that mean, Missy? It is what it is.”

  “It just means I can’t stop it. I don’t want it to stop.”

  I understand wanting something forbidden, something you can’t have.

  Dad

  I idle in the sliding glass doorway while my dad sits, hands crossed over his belly, eyes closed. The sky beyond our porch expanding over the plains never gets old. Tonight is cloudless. The sunset is a hushed coral glow. It’s cold and breezy.

  “In or out, Ade. You’re letting all the cold air into the house.” He sounds gruff, and I’m regretting my decision to approach. “Your brother home yet?”

  I step outside and close the door, shoving my hands into my pockets. “No, said he was going to Sabita’s after practice. I think her mom’s dropping him off after dinner.”

  “Huh.”

  I can’t tell what he’s thinking.

  He takes a pull of his beer and tilts it toward me. I take a swig, not because I particularly enjoy beer but because it’s his peace offering.

  When I sit down next to him, he puts his arm around me and I lean into his shoulder. The sun is down now, and we’re left with a light blue fading to black.

  Me

  Bentley High is all jacked up about dances. There are three a year. Homecoming, the winter dance, and prom. I’ve been asked to a dance once. Senior Year Homecoming, last week. Chris Langon. I don’t know anything about Chris or his family, but Chris has a long beard and long, greasy-looking hair, and he doesn’t smell good. Doesn’t smell good is an overstatement. He smells rank. But I talk to him every day after English because our teacher always lets us out two minutes early, and Chris’s next class is in the same direction as mine. He’s nice enough, but it’s hard to be attracted to someone who seems against showering.

  Chris himself did not ask me to homecoming. His friend asked me on behalf of Chris. In front of my whole choir section when we were hanging around before rehearsal. My choir friends laughed after the poor guy left the room. It was embarrassing. I said, I don’t know, and then I had to say no the next day when the friend came back.

  I bet Chris has a thing for me because I’m the only girl who acknowledges his existence. It doesn’t make me feel good about myself. It makes me feel bad for Chris and shitty about everyone else.

  My recent fantasy is that Tate asks me to the dance. Casually. It’s not one of those ordeals where I waltz down the hallways with flowers or balloons. He asks me after school when we’re alone.

  When we go, I wear a long, slinky red dress that droops in the back. The dress is silk against my skin, and Tate runs his hand up and down my rib cage to my hips when we dance, his hand gliding on the dress, barely grazing my skin. He rests his chin on the top of my head while we dance, but we don’t stay there for long.

  In reality Tate will take Maggie to the dance, and I could never wear a slinky red dress.

  Tate

  “Listen,” Tate says as I lean against the piano, waiting for him to pack his stuff.

  Tate begins to move his fingers over the keys. His eyes are closed as he plays “No Regrets.” It sounds different. He’s slowed the rhythm, and there’s something sadder about it.

  “‘No Regrets’?” I say.

  “Yeah.”

  “It sounds like there might be a few regrets in there now.”

  Tate smiles without saying anything, and silently, we acknowledge the knowing between us.

  I wonder what he regrets. There’s something he’s not saying, and I have this ominous feeling it has something to do with me.

  “You drive,” I say tossing him the keys to my car.

  He smiles again and drapes an arm over my shoulder as we walk out of the room together, the echo of his song still lingering between us.

  “Drive drive?” he says.

  “Of course,” I say.

  I scan my phone for some good music and plug it in.

  When I put on “Kissing the Lipless,” Tate pushes his head back into the seat. He sticks one arm out the window, catching the wind, until the car revs with the need to upshift. So he shifts into fourth gear, cruising now on the open road, and then places his hand on the back of my neck. We’re both singing, the wind blowing wildly around us, as though it’s sucking anything that isn’t right here and right now out of this car and away from us.

  The song ends, trailing into something slower and sadder.

  We take a deep breath at the same time. I’m thinking that moms and my mom have come up enough times in conversation, that it’s time for me to tell him the truth. But I can’t find the words.

  He looks over and reads my mind. “Wanna talk about it?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Why?”

  He’s pushing, and all I want is for him to hold this and me and fill me up the way he does. I know it can’t last, but when I’m with Tate, the empty doesn’t feel so lonely.

  “It’s heavy,” I say.

  “Try me.”

  “I lied to you about something.”

  “Okay,” he says, taking his hand off my neck. Is he bracing himself?

  “My mom isn’t Jewish.”

  “What?” His eyes are wide, confused. Offended.

  “I mean, she was Jewish.”

  “So she converted or something?”

  “No.” Here it comes. I wonder if he’ll see me the same way. “She’s dead.”

  “Wait, what? She died? When?” T
ate pulls the car to the side of the unpopulated road and turns off the ignition.

  “It was a long time ago.”

  “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

  “I guess I didn’t want your—” I pause. “Pity. I didn’t want you to pity me.” The word feels like filth in my mouth, and I spit it out with the disgust I feel. Pity is what people feel when they’re looking down on you from where they sit high.

  Tate puts a hand on my knee, squeezing, and we sit in the beat of him knowing that I have a dead mother. We look at each other for a long time before he says, “I could never pity you, Aden.”

  I can feel the tears welling. The fear and then relief of his reaction threatening to bubble out of me.

  I choke out the question: “Why?”

  Tate exhales like he’s been holding his breath.

  “Because you are one of the strongest, most compassionate people I’ve ever met. And I’m so sorry that your mom died.” He pauses again. “But you amaze me too much for me to ever think about pitying you.”

  Tate reaches for me, and I let his hand wrap mine in his warmth.

  “So what happened?” he asks.

  “She had ovarian cancer. I was seven.”

  Ovarian cancer. I’ve said something out loud I hate saying out loud. I just made her more dead. Ovarian cancer. The part of her that made her a mom killed her.

  “Jeez,” he says.

  “Are you mad?” I’m crying now.

  “No,” he says. “I wish you’d felt like you could trust me with that.”

  “I just”—I breathe through a sob—“didn’t want to ruin it.”

  “Ruin what?”

  “Whatever this is,” I say, finally acknowledging that there’s something about the way Tate and I are that isn’t normal.

  He looks at me. “Nothing could ruin this.”

  I’m relieved that he knows, confused because it feels like he could love me. And I’m sad because talking about my dead mom makes me wish I had her.

  It’s silent and I’m more embarrassed. Drowning again. There’s less air now than ever because Tate is here, and missing my mom is mixing with loving Tate and not having him. But this hole is a part of me. I can’t pretend. I want him to love me.

  Then he puts his hand on the back of my head and pulls me toward him. I’m stretched over the emergency brake and the stick shift. But somehow my head is buried in his chest and I’ve never felt more comfortable. I am held.

  “I might get snot on your shirt.”

  He laughs and says, “I don’t care.”

  He’s stroking my hair, kissing the top of my head. My sad becomes his sad in this moment. This must be love.

  “Tell me something about her.”

  He’s soft and warm, and it’s like we’re holding this together, and maybe, just maybe, I can get a sip of air. I wish he would stay.

  “I have her hair,” I say.

  “You got lucky. You have great hair.”

  I laugh through a blur of tears.

  “I forget a lot of details about her. The older I get, the less I remember what’s real or what I’ve been told.”

  Tate doesn’t say anything else. He just holds me until I stop crying, and then we switch places and I drop him off at home. Even when I’m with him, I want more. I miss him when we’re together. I want to cross the line more than I want anything. I wish he’d stay with me and love me, because I think he’s the only one who knows how.

  Sabita

  I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn. It’s Sabita. I can’t look at her without noting how beautiful she is. Why does it matter so much? She smiles and gives my shoulder a small, familiar squeeze.

  “Aden, hi.”

  I like her in spite of myself.

  “Hey, Sabita. What’s up?”

  “Do you have third period off? I’m usually in the studio, but it’s locked for some reason today. Want to hang out?”

  Whoa. Sabita wants to hang out with me? Without Jon? Okay, this isn’t weird.

  “Okay, sure. I’m meeting someone at Ike’s, want to walk over and join?”

  I mentally kick myself for thinking it’s okay to introduce Sabita to Tate. Even if she is Jon’s girlfriend.

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  “So what are you working on in the studio?”

  “A marble sculpture. I think it’s a turtle, but I don’t know yet.”

  “You don’t know yet?”

  “Yeah.” Sabita sighs. “I know it sounds all artsy, but I won’t know until I get into it a little more. Like, whatever it is I’m creating has to present itself to me in a way. Well, that’s how the art teacher describes it anyway. And I think that’s true.”

  “I can understand that. It sounds a little like song writing. I don’t always know what I’m writing about until I’ve written it.”

  “Yeah. Like that.”

  So we’ve bonded a little without Jon. Me and Sabita.

  “You like working with marble best, then?”

  “No,” she says. “Marble is really new to me. And it’s a bitch to chisel. Painstaking. I like clay the best, but the art teacher makes us choose something outside our preferred medium once a semester.” She does air quotes around the word medium.

  “Oh. I guess that makes sense. I mean, you are young. You never know what you might fall in love with once you try it.”

  I didn’t mean for that to sound condescending. Did I?

  “Yeah. It’s definitely worth trying out all kinds of stuff.” She doesn’t seem to notice the comment about her being young. “I’m coming over for a cookout tonight.”

  This is starting to feel intrusive. She’s invading my time with Tate and now she’s coming for dinner? And she’s proving herself to be a little awesome?

  “You seem like such a great family, Aden. You, your dad, Jon. Thanks for being so cool with me.”

  I have no idea what she means about me being cool with her—I’ve barely talked to her. But just when I’m dwelling on her invasion, she makes some gracious comment and my walls are down again. She pulls her thick black hair out of her jacket and it falls around her face, onto her shoulders. I almost laugh because she’s luminous. Absurdly luminous. I don’t want to introduce her to Tate.

  “Sure,” I say. “I’m glad Jon’s happy.”

  “You think?”

  “I do.”

  “So who are you meeting at Ike’s?”

  “A friend. His name is Tate. He’s cool. You’ll like him.”

  “Friend?”

  I must be see-through. “Yup.”

  “But edging toward more, right?”

  “He has a girlfriend.”

  “Oh. Why isn’t he hanging with her, then?”

  Nailed it.

  “We have a math arrangement.”

  Wow, that’s not really it, is it? A math arrangement. We have a friendship.

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m trying to help him pull his grade up. But we’ve become really good friends in the process.”

  “Oh. That makes sense.”

  Why do I feel like I’m selling myself short?

  Tate is charming as ever. And I think he sees Sabita’s radiance. How could he miss it? I watch him closely as we three sit together at Ike’s. He gives nothing away.

  Until he says, “I can’t believe we haven’t met, Sabita. I make it a point to know all the beautiful women at Bentley.”

  “Don’t be a creeper.” I elbow Tate.

  What could be the most awkward moment in the history of moments with Tate is softened when Sabita says, “You’re a lucky guy, Tate. Surrounded by beautiful women this morning.”

  “That I am,” he says.

  The pang of jealousy I feel toward Sabita is overridden when Tate drapes his arm casually around my shoulder as we make our way back to campus. Only, it’s not walking back to campus for me, it’s floating. I’m important. Even when I’m standing next to the most beautiful girl in all of creation, duly noted by Tate,
I matter.

  When we’re all parting ways in the hallway, Sabita flashes me a look. I think it has something to do with the Aden-Tate secret-club phenomenon, but I can’t be sure. She’s aligning herself with me. She’s good.

  Dad/Jon

  I hear them downstairs in the kitchen. Dad’s voice is raised and stern. Jon’s voice is muffled, and he answers in clips.

  I stop before turning the corner to the coffeemaker, where I’ll add mocha-flavored creamer to the warmth of Dad’s dark roast.

  “Taking a break from the team is not an option,” I hear Dad say.

  “Just until I get my grades up, Dad. I can try out again next year when I have it more together.”

  “You’ll miss your chance for a scholarship. No. That can’t happen.”

  I can feel my insides tighten at the pressure on Jon.

  “I can still get a scholarship, Dad.”

  “You’ll stop spending so much time with Sabita if that’s what it comes down to.”

  “No, Dad. Please. She’s the only thing keeping me sane right now.”

  Jon’s pleading. I’m still inches from the coffee. I wish I had my hands wrapped around the warm mug as I listen to all this.

  “Then what’s your plan?”

  They’re silent, and I have to save Jon. I want to make this better.

  But before I can offer to help Jon study or bend time so he has more hours in the day, he simply says, “I’ll work harder.”

  It’s not determination in his voice, it’s sad resignation.

  And Dad says, “Okay.”

  It’s like he’s missing the struggle Jon’s laid bare. I wonder why he can’t accept that Jon needs a break from lacrosse. It’s as if when Jon said the words, they just . . . evaporated.

  Jon

  The webpage for Brandeis University touts their mission: to transfer knowledge down through generations. I let the mouse hover over the homepage as I stare at the words, wondering what was lost when my mom died. Besides genetics and fading memories, what would she have imparted?