“It’s your name, right?”
“Well, yes, but—I mean, no. It’s … My parents call me that. Nobody else does. Nobody else ever really has.”
“Where’d it come from, anyway?”
“When I was a baby and started talking, I couldn’t say Madison, I could only manage Dice. It caught on.”
“Well, I’m going to call you that,” he declares with that adorable, easy grin. “It fits you.”
“How so?”
“It fits you,” he tells me again, but he doesn’t elaborate. I give him a second, and widen my eyes, prompting him, but this doesn’t elicit anything more.
“Do you have a nickname?” I ask him.
“Not really. There aren’t exactly a lot of things you can get from Dwight.”
“Big D?” I deadpan.
He laughs, shakes his head at me. “Right.”
“Can’t say I didn’t try. Dwight it is, then.”
“Dwight it is,” he repeats, confirming it.
And then we sit in silence a little longer, until he speaks again. “I never had a tire swing when I was a kid. I used to have a tree house, though. Well, I say ‘used to,’ but it’s still there, up in the tree in the backyard where my dad and my uncle built it. When I was a kid I used to play up in that tree house all the time, but then one day I just didn’t anymore.
“Do you ever get that feeling: one day, you just wake up and you’re suddenly not a kid anymore? One morning—I remember it was mid-April, when I was twelve, and it was a really sunny day. Well, that morning, I just woke up, and for the first time I didn’t want to play in the tree house. And that was it.”
I feel like he wants me to reply, but I have no idea what to say. So instead, I decide to ask, “Didn’t your sister ever play in there?”
Dwight shakes his head. “It was always my thing. Never something that interested her.”
I spin around a few more times before I speak again. “Dwight?”
“Yes.”
“I … Don’t feel like you have to answer this, and I’m sorry if I’m being nosy, and you can tell me to shut up, but is—is your … your dad—I mean, is he …?”
“My dad died five years ago,” he replies to my unspoken question, his voice quiet. “So yeah, he is.”
“Oh.”
“Please don’t tell me you’re sorry, okay?” he says. “Sorry doesn’t help. I’ve dealt with it, I’m dealing with it, I will deal with it for the rest of my conscious existence. And that’s okay. But sorry doesn’t make it much better.”
“I wasn’t going to say sorry,” I tell him honestly. “I know.”
“Thanks.”
“Want to go back inside?”
“My curiosity regarding the apple tree has been satisfied.” He stands up, pulls down the right leg of his jeans, and then straightens his T-shirt.
I disentangle myself from the tire swing, and we head back inside to carry on planning out our Physics project.
Chapter 23
On Monday morning I drag myself out of bed. The weekend passed far too quickly for my liking—I spent all of Saturday evening at Bryce’s house, meeting his parents officially for the first time over dinner; I spent all of Saturday afternoon freaking out on the phone to Tiffany about what to wear to meet his parents and how I should act. Now I force myself up and throw on some clothes, too groggy to put much thought into my choice.
Mom is making herself a coffee when I slump into a chair at the kitchen table with a whole-grain bagel and glass of OJ. I’m bleary eyed and my mind hasn’t woken up yet; I’m just going through the motions.
“Do you want a ride to school,” Mom asks, “or are you going to walk?”
“Nngh.”
“Okay,” she says as if she knows exactly what I’ve just said. I sure as heck don’t.
“Dwight called last night,” she says calmly. “While you were out at the beach with Bryce.”
I look up, suddenly a bit more awake. “What did he want?”
“Something about the project, but he said it wasn’t a big deal. I guess you can find out today.” Then she adds, “I like Dwight.”
“Me too,” I tell her quietly. “He’s a nice guy.”
“Bryce is very nice too, though.”
That makes me frown. Why do I think she’s comparing them? And why, why, why is it making me get that horrible feeling … like I’ve done something wrong?
“Yes,” I agree slowly—cautiously. “He’s great. Really great. Fantastic, even.”
Mom just nods, and then she grins at me. Maybe I’m not following things properly, or maybe she’s had too much coffee, but I don’t get her sudden changes of mood. “I’m so happy for you, Dice. Making friends, getting back into your schoolwork … a boyfriend …”
I have to smile, because my mom is so happy that I’m no longer the loser outcast. I’m no longer Fatty Maddie. I’m just Madison. And it’s nice.
Mom drives me to school. I’m early, as usual. There are only a few kids hanging around outside on the field, and a few teachers ambling in.
Sunday, I caught up on some English homework, and then Bryce came by in the evening and we walked to the beach. We just sat on the sand and made out and talked. I am aware that thus far in my relationship with Bryce, there hasn’t been much deep and meaningful conversation. But in fairness, my past has been a closed book, so I’ve avoided talking about myself. Bryce likes to talk about soccer. It’s totally lost on me, but I like listening to him—he gets excited and usually makes me laugh, telling me funny stories about soccer matches. But yeah, mostly, when we’re together, we kiss. Not that I mind; of course not.
I reach our usual picnic bench and sit down, earphones in. I fold my arms on the table and rest my head. I shouldn’t have stayed up texting Bryce till one in the morning. I’m dead on my feet.
I think I fall asleep—I don’t know. But all of a sudden, when I sit up and rub my eyes, there’s Bryce next to me, talking to Adam and Ricky.
“Hey, sleepyhead.”
“What … what time is it?” I ask. I pull out one of my earphones.
“Few minutes till homeroom,” Ricky tells me. “You were crashed out when we got here.”
“Why’re you so tired?” Bryce asks me. “You okay?”
“Yeah, sure,” I say. I start to rub my eyes again, but catch myself before I smear my mascara. “You just kept me up all night.”
There’s the slightest pause before Adam snorts with laughter and Ricky says, “Kept her up all night, huh, Bryce?”
My cheeks flame red. “That’s not what I meant!”
Bryce laughs—not at the boys, but at my reaction. He holds my gaze and brushes a fingertip over my flaming cheek.
I duck my head away, and then the bell rings out; there’s a collective movement on the field as people brace themselves for a day of school.
“We’re just teasing you, Madison, don’t worry,” Ricky assures me with a grin as I stumble tiredly into the building. “Everyone knows you’re the sweet innocent little virgin.”
The only reply I can come up with is: “Um.”
And then someone yells down the corridor to Bryce that Coach needs to speak to him ASAP, so he kisses me quickly and I make my way to homeroom.
I drag myself to Art class; after a while I manage to wake up enough to talk to Carter properly.
“How’s the project going?” he asks. “For Physics?”
I shrug. “Okay, I guess. We’ve barely started. It isn’t as terrible as I expected.”
Carter raises his one and a half eyebrows at me. “The project isn’t that bad, or hanging out with Dwight isn’t that bad?”
I laugh. “Dwight’s great. I was talking about the project, though.”
“Ah.”
“What’s that supposed to be?” I ask, pointing with my green-tipped paintbrush at his canvas, where there is a distorted blue-black blot.
“A blueberry,” he informs me matter-of-factly. “Use your artistic imagination—jeez.
”
I can’t tell if he’s serious and it is a blueberry, or if he’s just being sarcastic. I’m never sure with Carter. But either way, I laugh and shake my head, and return to my easel.
“And how’d you lose half of your eyebrow?”
“We were playing truth or dare. It was either run naked down the beach or shave my eyebrows off. And there were a lot of people on the beach that evening. We were interrupted before I could finish.”
I laugh. It’s about the seventh tale I’ve heard. I don’t know if he’s actually told me the truth yet or not, but it always amuses me to hear what he comes up with.
The rest of the day blurs past. Monday runs into Tuesday runs into Wednesday runs into Thursday …
The week’s over before I know it.
And somehow, I’ve managed to sign myself up to the track team. They practice every Thursday lunchtime, Coach tells me, which is totally fine with me. The girls still say I should’ve gone for cheerleading instead. Tiffany sighs, “But you’d have had so much fun on the squad! The track team girls are so boring.”
Saturday afternoon, I check the time on my cell phone and say, “I’m going to go get ready,” and haul myself up from the couch, where I’ve been doing some History homework.
“Are you going out with Bryce?” Mom asks.
I shake my head. “He’s got something planned with all the boys. Remember, I told you. Dwight said I can go over to his house and we’ll work on the project some more.”
“That’s good.” She smiles broadly. “Do you need a ride over there?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Go change and get your stuff, and we’ll head off.”
So I change into my favorite skinny jeans, these bright blue ones, and throw on a plain white tank top. I don’t go to much trouble—but I don’t want to show up at Dwight’s in sweatpants and an old shirt that’s got paint stains on it from when I decorated my bedroom. I throw my laptop and books into a backpack, and at the last second grab my iPod too, because even though I know I won’t need it around Dwight, I still can’t leave without it.
Dwight’s house isn’t all that hard to find—two lefts, a right, and then it’s at the end of a road. I tell Mom that I’ll be able to find my own way home.
“Okay,” she says. “But if it’s after ten, I want you to call me, and your dad or I will pick you up. I don’t want you walking home in the dark.”
“Sure, Mom.” She gives me a look, so I roll my eyes and say, “I swear, I’ll call after ten.” Then I shut the car door and yell a goodbye over my shoulder as I make my way up to Dwight’s house.
It’s a bit bigger than mine, but even from the outside it looks cozy. The windows of the room that juts out beside the porch are open, and the soft blue curtains billow in the breeze. The front lawn has a worn look, like someone actually uses it. There’s a red ball lying there, and a frayed blue rope that looks like a dog’s toy. I check the rusting brass number on the wall beside the front door: 16. It’s his house, all right.
I take a deep breath. I don’t know why I’m so nervous all of a sudden. I hitch my backpack higher on my shoulder. My hand fidgets with the earphone that’s dangling out of my front pocket. But I eventually raise my hand and ring the doorbell. I hear the sound resonate through the house, accompanied by a loud bark. After a couple of seconds of scuffling, the door is yanked open. Dwight’s there, panting a little, mostly hidden by the door.
“Come on in,” he says breathlessly. There’s another woof and he disappears behind the door. I guess he’s trying to restrain the dog.
I slip in and push the door closed.
As I turn back to Dwight, he shouts, “Gellman!” and then something very large, very heavy, and very fluffy pins me to the wall. I let out a little shriek of surprise.
“Sorry,” Dwight apologizes hastily.
“No, it’s fine,” I say. I try to twist my face away from the giant pink tongue lolling my way, but I fail, and when the dog licks my jaw I laugh. But Dwight moves forward, grabbing the dog’s collar and hauling it away from me.
That’s when I get a good look at it. It’s some sort of Labrador cross-breed, though what exactly it’s crossed with I don’t know. But the dog is a mass of silky soft, shaggy blond hair, with big dark eyes and a lolling tongue. I lower my bag to the floor and crouch in front of it; its eyes are level with mine, it’s that huge. Or maybe I’m just that small.
I stroke its head, and scratch behind its ears. It barks again, happy at the attention.
“Who’s this beast?” I ask, grinning.
“Gellman. Well. Gellman-Zweig. After Murray Gell-Mann and George Zweig.”
I just give him a look that clearly conveys I have no idea who those people are.
“They’re scientists,” he explains. “Basically, they both discovered the existence of quarks.”
“Of what?”
“Quarks. Tiny particles that make up hadrons. Hadrons being protons and neutrons.”
“Um. Okay.”
“You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”
“Nope.” I pop the “p,” and we both laugh.
“You can tell I’ve always been a physics nerd,” Dwight laughs, and rubs the back of his neck like he’s embarrassed about it. “We got Gellman when I was eleven. Cynthia—that’s my sister—she wanted to call him Fluffy. Fluffy. Of all the names out there, she chose Fluffy.” He shook his head. “I told her if she wanted to call a pet that, she could get a hamster. Anyway—you ready to make some progress on this project?”
“Not really,” I admit cheerfully. Gellman woofs gruffly at me again, asking for attention. Then he licks my fingers.
“I’m gonna put him in the backyard for a while,” Dwight says. “He’s not usually this excitable. Sorry. I guess it’s just because he hasn’t met you.”
“It’s okay,” I tell him honestly. “I like dogs.”
Nonetheless, he drags Gellman off down the hallway. I slide my shoes off and place them neatly by the door, and then I pick up my bag again.
When Dwight returns he says, “Do you want anything to drink? Eat?”
I’m about to say no, just out of politeness, but think better of it. I’m thirsty, so to heck with it. “A glass of water would be great?” It comes out like a question.
“No problem. You sure you don’t want a soda or anything, though? A latte? I know you’re rather partial to them.”
I laugh. “Water’s fine.”
He shrugs and shoots me his wonderfully infectious smile. “Okay. Well, make yourself at home …” He gestures to a room behind a half-open door, and then disappears toward the kitchen.
The lounge is long and rectangular. At one end is the open window with its blue curtains billowing in the breeze. There’s a large TV against the wall opposite me, and I notice there’s an Xbox connected to it; a long brown, worn leather couch sits directly in front of it, with a matching armchair, a futon and a smaller couch organized strategically around the TV.
At the end of the room near the window there’s a desk with a computer, and a bookshelf stuffed with all kinds of books. I wander over. There are physics books galore (which doesn’t surprise me), and chick lit and romances, and Jane Austen and other classics, and a very well-thumbed collection of the Harry Potter series. I smile, admiring the books. Some look like they’ve been kept well, and others look so loved—like they’ve been read and cherished over and over and over again.
I turn to the couches again. There’s a coffee table in the middle, with Dwight’s textbooks, notebook, and a laptop. I take a seat, perching on the largest couch, and start to empty my bag out slowly, methodically.
Dwight comes in through a door at the far end of the room and sets down a can of soda, a glass of water, and a giant bag of chips.
“How’s your weekend been?” I ask conversationally as my laptop boots up.
He shrugs, but he’s smiling. “Okay. I went surfing earlier, after I finished my shift.”
“Cool.
” Then, without even thinking, I add, “You’ll have to take me out there sometime soon. I’m going to hold you to your promise.”
He chuckles. “I know, I will. I just—I mean, I figured you’re probably busy with Bryce most of the time now …” He clears his throat, and something about it makes me think he’s heard a bunch of rumors about me and Bryce. I know what some people are saying, but everyone I hang out with knows it’s not true.
But if Dwight believed them …
“You should know better than to listen to what the rumor mill is churning out,” I say quietly.
“What? No, I didn’t mean it like—I wasn’t …”
“Oh.”
He smiles softly at me. “I know you’re not that kind of girl, Madison.” It makes Ricky’s words from Monday morning run through my head: Don’t worry, Madison. Everyone knows you’re the sweet innocent little virgin.
I guess my reputation precedes me.
But I return the smile and open up my laptop. Dwight clicks his back to life. He’s already got a couple of documents and Web pages open, most of which he closes; some he just minimizes for later.
It’s quiet while we click and type on our laptops. The ringtone version of “She Had the World” that I downloaded on my cell phone a couple of days ago blares out from my pocket all of a sudden, making me jump out of my skin.
I feel Dwight watching me, and I feel embarrassed as I answer the call. I stand up and turn my back on him for a moment, but I still feel him looking at me.
“Hey, Bryce,” I say quietly.
I can hear the noise of a soccer match in the background. “Mainstream. How’s it going?” He sounds genuinely happy to speak to me.
“Um, okay. I thought you were with the guys?” I state the obvious, my voice questioning, like a prompt for him to explain why he’s calling me.
“Yeah, I am, but it’s halftime and I wanted to speak to you.”
“Oh.”
“So what’s up?”
“Just … studying.”
He laughs. “You’re so studious.”
“Hardly.”