Authors: Sarah Aronson
SIXTEEN
At the end of the day, Dan met me at my locker. “Hey, J,” he said, making a point to kiss me hard and long on the lips.
“Not in public, thanks.” I pulled away. He laughed. This was just a location rejection. He knew I liked kissing himâI just wasn't into PDA. It was too messy. Too public. I never understood why anyone thought making out at your locker was a fun thing to do. I didn't even like holding hands.
It was the principle of the thing. Kissing was a private matter. But I also couldn't risk it. Stupider pictures of lesser-known people had found their way into magazines. There wasn't much about the press I could control, but this was easy. I didn't want to read about my love life in some rag.
Usually, Dan appreciated that.
Big picture, there was only one exception to the no PDA rule, and that was when someone else was publicly after your guy. Or if that same guy was acting suspicious or weird. Then, I agreed with
Glamour
readers, who in a nationwide poll suggested that the best way to find out if your boyfriend was about to break up with you (or lying about something big) was to engage in a little old-fashioned PDA.
The more public the better.
According to readers, it worked every time. A guy with a secret never kissed you in public.
When Dan draped his arm over my shoulder, I wondered if he'd heard about that theory, too. “Cut it out,” I said as nicely as possible. “I'm distracted. It's been a crappy day. I need some space.”
Now Dan dropped his shoulders and pouted, so that he looked simultaneously pathetic and cute. “Okay. I hear you. Let's get out of here. So we can be alone.” But then he kissed my ear. He kissed it lightly so it tickled. That made me squirm.
I was still thinking about Ms. Browning's critique. “She didn't even like my sewing. She told me I have to work slower.”
“You can do that.” He picked up my backpack and flung it over his shoulder. “There's this really cool spot I want to show you. I think you'll like it.” He smiled. “It's very romantic.”
Now I understood. Unfortunately for him, I was not in the mood for that either. “Can you show me some other time?” I asked in my cutest I-still-like-you, I-just-don't-feel-like-beingserious voice. “I have a ton of sketching to do. I really should visit Abe. What do you think she meant by authentic?”
Normally, Dan liked talking about clothes. In terms of together time, we were pretty much on the same page. But today, he made a very cute pouty lip. “Can you relax and let me show you? I just want to talk for a few minutes. It won't take long.” When I didn't say no (or yes), he held out his hand.
I initiated twenty questions. “Animal, mineral, vegetable? Is it bigger than a breadbox?” When I couldn't get him to tell me anything, I asked, “Did you sell me out to some magazine? Are you setting me up for an ambush?”
“God, are you paranoid.”
“Not really.” I was half-joking. If he watched any reality TV, he would keep his mouth shut. Most people would do anything for name recognition like mine.
“It's just that ⦠well ⦠you are so self-centered about it.” He held the steering wheel with both hands. He drove past the deserted steel factory and a sign marked Dead End to the alleged cool spot, a gravel dead-end road overlooking the river.
I was not impressed.
I leaned as far away from him as I could. “Do you really think I should make the tribute dress? Or go back to the brown? What do you think she meant by authentic?” As I waited for him to answer, my phone vibrated. I pulled it out of my pocket, just to see who it was. Dan tickled my shoulder. “Don't pick it up. For one minute, I want you all to myself.”
He never talked like this. “It's just Abe.” I showed Dan the text: CALL ME NOW!!! I waited for him to laugh.
Dan had a personal policy against messages in all capital letters and he hated exclamation points. He said, “That guy has a thing for you.” He sounded jealous.
“He's just bored.” I hid my phone, so he couldn't see that Abe had left seven messages in the last eight minutes.
We were so out of sync.
Dan turned on the heated seats and the light radio station that perpetually played love songs by people who are now dead. He pointed out a tree that he thought was really beautifulâand almost as old as Miriam's tree. I counted six discarded tires on the opposite bank. He noticed baby ducks swimming in a row. I saw a garbage can overflowing with Happy Meals and beer cans.
He whispered, “The other night we came so close.”
I looked away. There was no way I was doing it in this car.
“You know, I liked you for almost an entire year before I asked you out.” He told me that even if I didn't save Abe's life, he thought I was pretty miraculous. Then he stroked my hair. “You're so pretty.”
I shifted into the corner when he tried to kiss me. My phone buzzed. I didn't even flinch.
He pulled me closer and said everything he'd learned girls needed to hear. “What I wanted to tell you ⦠I think we're really good together” and “I really care about you” and “You're really awesome.”
Sad to say, he could have said anythingâI couldn't concentrate. The car wasn't comfortable; I wasn't in the mood for some big conversation.
“You're not listening.”
“Yes I am.”
“No you're not.”
My phone buzzed again. Nothing was ever mutual.
He held my hands. “I brought you here because I wanted to ask you something.”
I lost my patience. I didn't know what he was about to say, but whatever it was, it wasn't working. I was tired. My phone buzzed again. I wanted to see who was calling. I wasn't going to lose it in a parking lot in the middle of the day.
I was pretty sure my body language was making that clear. But maybe it wasn't. I pulled my hands away. “I'm really not in the mood. Okay?”
He leaned away from me. Finally. “What are you talking about?” He looked clueless.
“I don't want to have sex with you here. I want to go back to work.”
He slumped. Then glared. For a second, I wondered if I had it all wrong, if this was not about sex, if it was about something else altogether. So I said, “Isn't that where this was going?”
Dan stared out the front window, the way Lo did when she was completely irritated and needed to count to ten. “No. That is not what's going on.”
Now I felt like an idiot. I asked him to face me. To tell me what he wanted to say.
“It's too late.” He was hurt.
“No, it isn't,” I said. “I'm listening. Now I'm listening. I'm really really listening.”
He kept his eyes forward. Now he wasn't talking. He turned on the ignition and stepped on the gas. “Just forget I ever wanted to say anything. I'll take you home. So you can work. So you can worry about yourself.”
He was hurt and mad. I still had no idea why.
If I weren't in such a morose mood, I'd tell him to stop. But since I was now feeling crappy and guilty, I said nothing. I let him drive. I turned on the all-talk station. (It was really hard sitting in a car in total silence.)
Crime and poverty were up. A well-known celebrity just adopted a baby from Haiti, and a bunch of people thought she did it just to keep her figure. The Pennsylvania teen had made it to the next round of some station's most-desperate-to-be-on-television/willing-to-make-an-ass-of-yourself competition.
Don't forget to vote, everyone. Charlene is counting on you!
I tried to apologize. “I'm a jerk,” I said. “You're right. I'm selfish.” He didn't disagree. “Please tell me what you were going to say.”
He drove in silence.
When we were two miles from my house, I swallowed every ounce of pride I had left. “Come on, Dan. I'm sorry. I mean it.”
He might have softened up if my phone hadn't vibrated again. But it did. Twice. Dan said, “Tell Abe I said hi.”
I opened my purse. It was Lo. “What's up?” I asked.
She sounded more upset than Dan. “Do you have plans? Can you go somewhere for a while?”
I looked at Dan. “Not really. I'm almost home. What's going on?”
Before she could explain, we pulled up to the house. There were at least thirty people hanging around. Some sat on the grass. Some stood. Others sat on the stone wall by the garage.
I didn't have to ask what the fuss is about.
Dave Armstrong was here. I would recognize his thick white hair anywhere. He stood on the driveway, his arms above his head, reaching up to the heavens.
He was waiting for me.
SEVENTEEN
He looked like an aging movie star.
His hair was short. His clothes were pressed. His cordovan shoes shone without looking cheap. He wore a dark navy suit, wine-colored tie, and kimono-cloth pocket squareâa color palette Dan and I had admired in last month's issue of
GQ
. This was a guy who knew what looked good. He was comfortable in front of a camera.
For a second, Dan forgot that he hated me. He said, “Look at that suit. Brioni? Or maybe something Neapolitan. Look at the soft shoulderâ”
I shook my head. “The man is a preacher. He's supposed to look pious.”
Dan told me to lighten up. “And because he's religious, he's supposed to dress like a slob?”
I didn't really have a problem with Dave dressing well. In fact, if it were up to me, everyone in the universe would care more about his or her appearance. It was just that Dave's motives were so transparent. He was playing to the camera. Even though he shook hands in a friendly way and talked to people and acted like this was all about faith, he never stopped smiling. He always stood with his better side to the camera.
“Hey, look who I see,” Dan said pointing to a small crowd of people. “I thought he was supposed to be in the hospital.”
It was Abe. “He shouldn't be here.” I couldn't believe they let him out. He looked terrible.
His left leg was in a bright red and orange castâthe same colors as Dunkin' Donutsâand his left arm was bandaged up, too. You didn't need to be a doctor to see he was in a lot of pain. He didn't look stable.
I almost felt sorry for him, until I realized whom he was talking to. She was a woman in a gray skirt suit. She had long, dirty blonde hair tied back in a sleek ponytail. It was Roxanne Wheeler. She was here.
This was my nightmare. It was the worst thing that could possibly happen. (At the same time, I knew I shouldn't have been completely surprised.)
I took out my phone, and even though it was not easy to do, I texted Abe. “Look up.” And also: “Don't say anything.”
Twenty seconds later, we watched him pull out his phone, read my messages, and start hobbling toward us. It was painful to watch. His face was bruised under both eyes. He walked slowly.
“Would it kill you to help him?” I asked.
Dan didn't move. “Why don't you?” He half-laughedâit was a little bit catty. He knew I wouldn't. My lawn was a mob scene. Too many people. Way too many cameras. There was no way I was getting out of this car until all these people were goneâI didn't care how mad Dan was.
By the time Abe made it to the car, he was sweating like crazy. I opened the door. “Get in.”
He was out of breath. “Give me a sec.” He reminded us he had a fractured fibula, six broken ribs, seven bad contusions, and a dislocated elbow. He threw his crutches into the back seat, fell in, and moaned in pain.
He smelled sourâlike old milk or a dirty sponge. Dan said, “You're not going to have a heart attack in my car, are you?”
At that moment, I wasn't sure which one of them made me madder. First, I told Dan to shut up. Then I turned to Abe. “I can't believe you sold me out. Don't think I don't know that you spent two hours with Roxanne Wheeler. But Dave. That was low.”
He had the nerve to look offended. “I did not sell you out. I didn't tell her anything.” He took a couple of deep breaths. “Check your phone. I must have called you a hundred times.” He wiped his sweaty hands on his pants. “You should be thanking me. I came here to stop them.”
He refused to say another word until I read or listened to every single message, until I felt like a total jerk, until it was clear that Roxanne camped out first, followed by Dave and the believers. Then, last, Abe.
His face looked feverish. “When you didn't call me back, what else was I supposed to do?”
I didn't feel the need to thank him. “So tell me everything. Where did all these people come from? Has Lo come outside? Have the police been here?” Her car was still hereâso she should be, too.
Dan half-laughed again. “Sharon is going to have a conniption.”
Abe said, “The people are from Dave's mission. They're actually nice.” As for Lo, she hadn't shown her faceâand he'd been here over an hour. I rolled my eyes. He winced in pain. “You know, J, you could act a little appreciative. I discharged myself against medical advice. Believe meâI'd rather be in bed.”
I told him to elevate his leg. His toes looked swollen. Blue.
On the porch, Mrs. Demetrius started singing a song about the power and grace of God. Her red-and-orange dress flapped like a sail in the wind. A few people from the crowd joined in. Soon they were clapping and swaying. The cameramen loved it. They ran around getting close-ups of almost every person.
I didn't know what to do.
I couldn't stay here. I didn't want to open the door. I definitely did not want to face these people.
When the song ended, Dave turned up the volume and offered some gospel passage about the meaning of life. Every time he paused, someone shouted, “Amen.” Or “Praise the Lord.” A couple of shirtless guys ran in front of the cameras, hoping that this was live TV. One pulled down his pants.
Now I was scared. “Dan, I'm sorry. I mean it. I'm really, really sorry. Let's get out of here. I didn't know what I was saying.”
“Yes you did. I get it.” He opened his wallet and took out the picture of the two of us from one of those cramped photo booths and ripped it in four pieces.
We were breaking up.
He said, “Now get out of here. You shouldn't keep
your fans
waiting.”
In the rearview mirror, I could see Abe cringe. Apparently, even with all his injuries, our awkwardness was what pained him.
Roxanne pointed her microphone toward the car and grabbed one of the cameramen. She strutted in her black patent-leather pumps without stumbling or getting those spiky heels caked with mud. I slumped in the seat when Roxanne rapped on the window. Her nails looked like daggers.
This was turning into a disaster. “Look, Dan. You have to believe me. I'm sorry. I mean it. Let's get out of here.” Dan was a good guy. We liked the same things. He had my lip gloss, my denim jacket, and three library books that were due next week. We'd been dating too long to end like this. He knew I never cared or wanted anything to do with my
fans
.
Roxanne rapped on the window again. “Janine Collins? Can I ask you a few questions?”
The cameras rolled. I covered my face. Dan said, “No, J. I mean it. Get out of here. Now.”
This couldn't be happening. I turned around to face Abe. “Can you get them to back off?”
Abe opened the door, said something to Roxanne and
thank God
, twenty seconds later, she motioned to her guys and walked back to the porch to talk to Armstrong. I got out of the car and faced the crowd. And just like the water in the Bible, the sea of people parted.