I had overanalyzed everything, I told myself as I entered the school building. I should never have spent so much time thinking about Jonah. How could I act naturally around him now? Why couldn’t I be more like other teens, who wandered in and out of friendships easily and traded boyfriends like playing cards? Why was I looking for him around every corner? This isn’t healthy, I decided. I was going to stop caring.
Except then I saw Jonah by the lockers, chatting with some junior boys. His hair was still damp from his morning shower, his arms were folded across his chest, and he was laughing at something one of the other guys was saying. And suddenly I cared so much I almost fled in the opposite direction.
He turned around and saw me, then waved me over with a smile. “April, you have to help me. Robby wants me to join the basketball team. And I’m trying to explain to them that I can’t play. What do you think? Should I sign up and make a fool of myself?”
“You just need a little practice,” Robby suggested. “You’re taller than most of us—and we really need more players.”
“Yeah, and you couldn’t possibly make them any worse,” I chimed in. “Last season wasn’t exactly Fallstaff’s best.”
(They’d actually lost each and every single game. There had been jokes about pitting them against the girls’ team.)
Jonah shrugged and shook his head. “All right, but you’ll be sorry when I trip over the ball.”
“Oh, come on,” Robby exclaimed. “You can’t be that bad. You must have played something at your old school.”
Jonah laughed shortly and slammed his locker shut. “I went to an art school. I mostly sketched and painted.”
They took a step back, as if he’d just admitted to having Ebola.
“You’re, like, some sort of artist then?”
“Well, I try to be.”
Robby’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “So, what are you—some kind of fag?”
A sick knot of anger turned over in my stomach, and I felt my fists clench. But Jonah barely moved. There was a bored and patient expression on his face, as if he was used to answering this question. “No, Robby, I usually draw naked chicks,” he responded coldly. “It keeps the gay off.”
One of the guys snickered. “Yeah, sure. Whatever, man.”
Jonah smiled stiffly at him, shoved his hands into his pockets, and stalked off down the hall. I hurried after him and caught up to him by the classroom entrance. “Why weren’t you angry at that jerk?” I asked him. “Most guys would have punched him.”
“Most guys care what people like Robby think. I don’t.”
“I don’t care about Robby either,” I said. “But what about the rest of the school? What if they start spreading rumors?”
“So what if they do? It wouldn’t be the first time.” He smiled and leaned closer to me, then reached out for my hand and shaped my fingers into a ball. “But next time you’re thinking of punching someone, make sure you make a decent fist, okay? Thumb goes on the outside. Unless you want to break your knuckles.”
I glanced down at our hands, and suddenly I was ready to be the female Evander Holyfield if it meant that Jonah would hold my hand forever. He was warm and close; he smelled faintly of chocolate mint and aftershave. I was beginning to feel a little dizzy.
He held my fingers for a few seconds longer—maybe a shade longer than he really needed to. “Look, it’s really sweet of you to care so much,” he said. “But honestly, I checked out the minute I walked into this place.” He swallowed hard and seemed about to speak again, but then a group of students began to push past us, and he dropped my hand and hurried into the classroom after them.
I inhaled deeply, tugged my sleeve back into place, and slowly floated into history class.
The first thing Ms. Lowry talked about that morning was the composition of history essays; she said that our goal was proving our main hypothesis. Then she said a lot of other things, but I wasn’t really listening after that. I had an important hypothesis of my own to prove—namely, that Jonah wasn’t gay.
I constructed a simple chart and jotted down the currently known facts about my new friend.
The page was split into two columns and read something like this:
|
Jonah |
|
|
Not Gay |
Gay |
|
Fistfights? |
Artsy stuff (admits this openly) |
|
His clothes are nothing special |
Apparently not attracted to Cora |
|
Held my hand for a few seconds |
Smells really good |
|
Complimented me twice |
Complimented me twice |
|
Says he’s straight |
Says he’s straight |
I needed to show my chart to Kristin and ask her for help. But I’d recently pulled a mature and progressive attitude and declared that I didn’t care one way or the other. I couldn’t show up at her door with my neurotic notes. Asking my mom’s opinion was out of the question. She’d probably faint and then check out twenty books on teen sexuality from the library and make me read them. I needed more data, I decided. I’d try to take things as they came.
Still, I probably shouldn’t have written Jonah’s name at the top of my chart. That was truly an advanced level of stupid. Or I should have at least hidden the paper.
Oops.
We were gathering up our books after the bell rang when Jonah leaned back to say something to me. I realized suddenly that my gay analysis chart was sitting in plain view on top of my open binder. With a quick motion, I slammed the cover down to hide the page. My movement was too sudden; the loose sheets fluttered out onto the floor. I made a mad dive for them and caught one just in time—only to realize that I was holding the first page of my history syllabus. And Jonah had kindly picked up the other sheet—and was now staring at it quietly. I made a futile grab for it, but he stepped quickly aside, his eyes still fixed on the paper in front of him.
Then he raised his eyes to look at me, and I felt the blood rush to my face. How bad was it? I wondered, trying desperately to remember what I’d written. I hadn’t said anything negative about him. He might think it funny and maybe even complimentary—I had, after all, mentioned that he smelled nice. Maybe we would laugh at this over lunch.
And maybe not.
The room got slowly quieter as the other students filed out. I stared at him, hoping for him to speak and dreading it at the same time. I couldn’t interpret his expression; it seemed absolutely blank. Was it shock? Disappointment? Why wouldn’t he say something? Get mad, like a normal guy, tear up the sheet, call me a moron? Was he waiting for me to talk? What did he want me to say? I’d ruined our friendship before it had even started. If he was gay, I realized, then that page would look like I was judging him. If he was straight and he’d actually been attracted to me—well, he wouldn’t be anymore.
I cleared my throat and tried to say his name, but I only managed a strangled raspy noise. Without a word, Jonah held the sheet out to me, dropped it at my feet, then turned and walked slowly out of the classroom. The door shut behind him softly, and his retreating footsteps faded into the rumble of the students in the hall. I picked up the page, crumpled it in my hand, and crept miserably to the girls’ bathroom.