When It Happens

  I don’t say anything.

  Mr. Slater goes, “Even if you had a long-distance relationship, which, by the way, in my experience, never works out, one day your relationship will probably end.”

  “Why?”

  “Do you want to be with Dave for the rest of your life?” Then he rips off a piece of paper and picks up the smallest charcoal stick from my set. He writes something. He passes it over to me.

  It says:

  Time will tell.

  “And while you’re waiting,” he says, “don’t settle for anything less than what you really want.”

  He’s so right. It’s like I forgot about what I’m looking for. I remember the boy I described on my treasure-map page before my first date with Dave. And how I’ve been waiting so long for him to come into my life.

  I take my sketchbook out of my bag and turn to that page. All of the words there describe one person.

  And that’s when I realize that it’s finally happening. Because when it happens, for real, you just know.

  “It’s so cool that they only have booths here,” I say.

  I asked Dave to come with me to the diner for lunch. I wanted to have some privacy so I could try to talk to him about this. But I don’t know if I can do it yet. . . .

  “Why?”

  “Because! Then you don’t have to sit at a table if they’re all full.” I play with the retro sugar shaker.

  “No, I mean, what’s the difference where you sit?” Dave says. “You’re still sitting down to eat. Why does it matter if you’re sitting at a table or a booth?”

  He’s so completely clueless it’s unbelievable. This is just one of many examples that proves Dave and I aren’t soul mates. In the past three weeks, Dave hasn’t understood the following: why I have to work on my sketchbook every day, why I like lamps instead of overhead lighting, why games are so much fun, why I get so upset if I get a B in anything, and why I’m still not ready to have sex. And now he doesn’t get it about how anyone who’s even remotely into diners would want to sit at a booth instead of a table. And yeah, I realize that these are little things. But they all add up to the big picture of my life. And if you don’t get them, then you don’t get me.

  And if he was ever going to get me, wouldn’t I have been gotten by now?

  “It’s about aesthetics,” I tell him.

  “What do you mean?”

  This isn’t something you should have to explain. If you have to explain about how something’s supposed to feel, it takes away all the magic. So I go, “Never mind.” My sad voice depresses me even more.

  And something else has been bothering me for a while. Dave usually drives me home every day and then stays at my place for a few hours. Lately, I’m feeling that confined feeling even more. I miss my alone time.

  “By the way,” I tell him, “you don’t have to drive me home every day. Sometimes I just need to be alone for a while.”

  We don’t talk for about seventeen thousand years.

  Then he goes, “Okay, let’s start over.”

  As if it were that easy.

  I keep eating. I don’t look at him. But then I feel bad, so I go, “Let’s play the Game of Favorites.”

  “Fine,” he says. “You start.”

  “Um . . . favorite movie scene of all time?”

  “Let’s see. . . .” Dave’s thinking, but I already regret suggesting this. This game is only good to play with people you want to get to know better.

  After he tells me this way-too-long-and-boring description of a movie I have no interest in seeing, he goes, “What’s yours?”

  “Lloyd holding the boom box over his head.”

  “Who?”

  There’s no way he doesn’t know this. “Dave. You know that huge poster I have in my room? Of John Cusack holding the boom box up?”

  “Oh . . . yeah?”

  “Remember—I told you about this already.” But did Dave ever ask about that huge poster in my room? Wouldn’t that be, like, the first thing you ask someone about if you’re seeing their room for the first time? But Dave hardly looks at my stuff. And he doesn’t really ask that much about me. It’s like he only cares about what his friends think of me.

  And now he only has one thing on his mind when he’s in my room. He doesn’t even bother with the pretense of doing homework anymore. He starts kissing me the second I put my bag down. And when we hook up, he’s so impatient.

  “What movie’s that from again?” he asks.

  “Say Anything . . .”

  “Oh, yeah. Now I remember.” He talks and chews at the same time. “I hated that movie.”

  “You hated that movie?” It’s only my favorite movie in the whole entire universe.

  “Yeah. I mean, okay, so two people like each other. But then there’s all that stuff about her dad keeping them apart? I don’t buy it. If they really loved each other so much, why didn’t they just get together?”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “And I don’t get the whole thing about that scene. Like, what’s so big about a boom box?”

  Obviously, this is the last straw.

  When I get home later, I put The Eminem Show in my CD player, put on the same headphones Marshall wears, and crank the volume. Then I get out my sketchbook and my favorite pen. My favorite pen is pastel blue and writes really smoothly. It feels like liquid silk slicking over the pages.

  I want to write down what I’m looking for. And why it feels like I’m not finding it with Dave. I write and write until my hand hurts. When I look at the clock, it’s one in the morning. But I’m not even tired.

  I change into my fuzzy pajamas with the satin trim I always wear when I’m upset. I turn out the light and get into bed with my iPod.

  And I think about Tobey.

  CHAPTER 26

  soul mates

  november 7, 3:23 p.m.

  There’s a high probability that I’m bringing this up too soon. I never meant to push it like this. But I can’t help myself.

  So I say it.

  “Do you believe in soul mates?” It’s such an atypical guy question. But there’s no other way to explain what’s happening with us. And Sara knows I’m not your typical guy.

  Sara is examining the Dots board. It’s the paper I started to fill in a couple weeks ago. Now the paper is covered with dots in neat rows and columns.The goal of Dots is to draw more squares than the person you’re playing against. When it’s your turn, you get to draw one line, connecting two consecutive dots. You can’t do diagonal lines. If you complete the fourth side of a square when you draw your line, then you get that square and you put your initials inside. Every time you finish a square, you get to draw another line. The fun part is when you’re on a roll and you make a whole bunch of squares in one turn. We’ve been continuing the same Dots game whenever we finish early in class.

  “Yeah,” Sara says. "Absolutely.” She connects two dots. “Don’t you?”

  “Yeah. I do.” My face is like an open book. She must totally know how I feel.

  Sara blinks. She looks down at the Dots board. Her cheeks are sort of pink.

  “It’s your turn,” she says.

  “Oh. Right.”

  I pretend to examine the board. But I’m really trying to figure out what possible words I could put together to equal the magical thing she needs to hear to know that we belong together.

  “I think it’s important not to settle,” Sara says.

  “You should never settle.” But what I really want to say is, So then why are you with an asshole like Dave? “Settling is a guaranteed approach to unhappiness.”

  “Exactly. Like people who go out with anyone just to be with someone. It’s like they’d rather be unhappy than be alone.”

  “Or even just staying with someone when they know there’s someone else out there who’s better for them.”

  Sara smiles this little half smile. She nods slowly. “There’s that, too.”

  “There is that.”


  “Sure is.”

  Then we’re just sitting there, staring at each other. Which has been happening a lot lately. It’s like whatever wall there was between us, however she was holding herself back from me . . . all of that pretense is gone.

  “And when you find a soul mate,” Sara says, “it’s undeniable. You have to be together.”

  “That’s my philosophy.” I look back at her. “You have to go with the flow.”

  “Exactly. I think the universe guides you to make the right choices.”

  “Do you believe in fate?”

  “I guess, but . . . it’s more about creating the life you want so you can make that fate a reality. You know?”

  “Yeah.” I love how she’s so Zen. “Can I have your number?”

  Sara doesn’t say anything for a long time. I can see her breathing. My heart pounds with dread. I try to convince myself that I shouldn’t be surprised when she says no.

  She flips to a new page in my notebook. She rips the bottom corner off.

  She’s doing it.

  Sara writes her number down. She folds the paper. Then she turns my hand over, presses the paper into my palm, and bends my fingers around the paper.

  “Okay,” she says.

  Yes.

  “It’s my home number,” she says. “I don’t have a cell.”

  “Me neither. I think they’re heinous.”

  “Same here!”

  “Who needs to talk to other people that much?”

  “I know!”

  The bell rings.

  “Are you staying after?” I ask.

  “It’s possible.”

  “If you were possibly staying after, where would you be?”

  “I’d be in the physics room. Possibly.”

  That’s where I find her half an hour later.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Hey.”

  I walk over and stand next to her. It’s hard to resist touching her. We look out the window.

  “Remember when you could see the Twin Towers over there?” she says.

  “That was the only reason I’d come in here. It was such a rush.”

  “Yeah.”

  It’s very quiet. No one else is around.

  We stand there for a long time without talking. Like, three whole minutes.

  I look at her.

  She looks at me.

  I say, “Favorite tree?” Sara told me about the Game of Favorites. It rocks. In class, we alternate between Dots and Favorites. So far we’ve had the same favorite things almost every time. It’s bizarre how much we have in common.

  “Weeping willow.”

  “Why?”

  “They always look so sad.”

  “True.”

  “Favorite ice-cream flavor?”

  “Mint chocolate chip.”

  “Mine, too!”

  “No way.”

  “Way.”

  “How are you getting home?”

  “Oh, um . . . I’ll wait for the late bus.”

  Here’s what I really want to say:

  Let’s go under the stairs so I can rip your clothes off.

  Here’s what I actually say:

  “Can I drive you?”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  All of my organs slam against the front of my stomach.

  We walk down the hall so closely I can feel her body heat. We’re the only ones still here except for a few teachers with no lives.

  Mr. Hornby passes us. "Aha! Discussing that piece from class today, are we?”

  “Exactly,” I say.

  “Terrific.” Mr. Hornby scoots down the hall.

  At the front doors, I button my coat. Sara’s trying to zip her hoodie, only it won’t zip.

  “Here.” I put my hands over her hands on the zipper. I slowly pull the zipper up. “Watch your hair.”

  “Yeah.” She lifts her hair out of the way.

  All I can think about is kissing her.

  We walk to my car. All of these ideas about what could happen on the ride home spin around in my brain.

  “What kind of car is this?” Sara says.

  “It’s a Chevy Malibu. Are you into cars?”

  “Not especially.”

  “Me, neither. That’s why I have this one.” I open the door for her.

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” I make sure her scarf is in before I close the door.

  When I start the car, music blasts from the speakers. I quickly reach over and turn it down.

  “Who is this?” Sara says.

  “You don’t know R.E.M.?”

  “No, but I’ve heard of them.”

  “I’ll let you borrow it. They’re phenomenal.”

  “Thanks. Hey, so, what are you doing over break?”

  I pull out onto Pine Street. “Oh, you know, the usual. Survive too many family visits. Do the expected holiday crap.” I glance over at her. “As if Thanksgiving won’t be enough torture.”

  “Totally!” she yells. "Sitting through another fake happy family scene is the worst form of torture that exists. Well, except maybe for gym.”

  “I can think of worse forms.” Like how I have to watch Dave put his hands all over you every single day. That asshole.

  Sara’s quiet for a while. Then she says, “Yeah. I can’t stand my mom.”

  “Why?”

  “She ignores me. It’s like I’m not even there. Or if she remembers that I exist, all I hear about is how I ruined her life.”

  "That’s messed up.”

  “Tell me about it. It’s so hard to deal with a single parent. They take out all their anxiety on you. It’s like, she’s so angry all the time. And I didn’t even do anything!”

  “That’s so wrong.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where’s your dad?”

  “I don’t know. My mom had me when she was still in high school, so . . .”

  “You don’t see him at all?”

  “No, and I don’t want to. I have no interest in maintaining a relationship with someone who didn’t love me enough to stick around.”

  “That’s rough. My dad’s been on my case about college, but he’s decent people.” I pop the R.E.M. CD out and put in The Cure.

  “Please,” Sara says. “I wish my mom noticed how hard I work. I could be Laila and she still wouldn’t say anything.”

  Trees whizz by in the silence. But it’s not like the kind of uncomfortable silence I always had with Cynthia where it felt like we were both struggling to think of something to say. It’s a peaceful silence. Like we don’t have to constantly be talking to prove that everything’s okay. It just is.

  I pull into Sara’s driveway. I panic that she might not ask me to come in. Then I panic that she might.

  “Well . . .” I want to say so much all at once. Everything’s all scrambled together.

  “Thanks for the ride,” Sara says.

  “Of course.”

  “So . . .” She looks over at me.

  All rational thought processes disintegrate. I start to lean toward her.

  “Thanks again,” she says.

  “Anytime,” I say.

  I lean over some more. . . .

  CHAPTER 27

  real love

  november 7, 4:46 p.m.

  I recognize The Look. And this overwhelming feeling that goes with it. I already know I’m not going to be able to focus on my homework tonight. Or probably for the rest of the year. I’m just sitting here with Tobey in his car, but just this much is already too exciting.

  I try to remember how to breathe.

  I try to remember that I already have a boyfriend.

  I have to get out of this car.

  My eyes scan his. I want to memorize every detail of his face. I never want to forget how this feels.

  Tobey is still leaning toward me. The force of the energy between us is so strong. It would be so easy to kiss him right now. Every part of me wants to.

  But it wouldn’t be right. Not
yet.

  “I guess I better go,” I say.

  He stops leaning.

  It takes all of my strength to push open the door.

  I go around to Tobey’s side and stand there. The world spins around me. For the first time I can remember, I’m not freezing outside in November. It actually feels warm.

  I stare at Tobey. He looks back at me with such an intensity I expect the glass to shatter.

  I press my hand against his window. He presses his hand on the other side of mine.

  For a while, we stay like that. With our hands pressed together, separated by glass.

  It’s good that the next day is Saturday, because I would be a total zombie if there was school. I think I fell asleep around four thirty. All I could think about was Tobey. And what to tell Dave. Not that Dave would be trying to hear it right now. I’ve been kind of pulling away and avoiding him. Then I told him I needed to take a break this weekend for some alone time.

  The bad part about today being Saturday is that I’m still waiting for Tobey to call. I’ve been waiting all morning. I glance at the clock. It says 12:32. Why hasn’t he called? Maybe he sleeps really late. And we don’t have call-waiting, so I’m not calling anyone until I hear from Tobey. I called Laila and Maggie last night, so they know everything. Maggie totally thinks I should go for it. Laila said I shouldn’t have even gotten a ride home from Tobey until I broke up with Dave. Which completely goes against what she was saying before, but whatever. It’s obvious that I have to dump Dave.

  I decide to do a new page in my sketchbook about yesterday and another one about how to tell Dave it’s over. That should kill a couple of hours. Then it’ll be afternoon, and Tobey will probably call by then. But what if he feels shot down because I didn’t kiss him yesterday? Doesn’t he know how much I like him? I’m sure he knows that I wanted to kiss him, but I can’t kiss him and still be Dave’s girlfriend. Even if it is just a technicality at this point.

  After an hour of staring at my blank sketchbook page, it’s obvious that capturing the feelings of yesterday on a page is impossible. I decide that working on my dream-home design would probably be more effective. I pick out a thin charcoal stick and outline the master bedroom.

  I glance at the clock. It’s 1:46. Is he thinking about me at all?

  I sketch the walk-in closet and bathroom. The bathroom is huge with separate areas for the sink and bathtub. And post-modern faucets with water flowing over a chrome plate into the tub, like a mini waterfall.