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I was right about not sleeping. I tossed and turned until well after midnight, then had a dream where Nelson and I were dancing in a long hallway, like something out of King Louis XIV, all gold and crystal and glitzy. It stuck with me the next morning all the way to school. Getting out of the car, I waved at my mom and made my way inside and got this crazy, insane idea.
I could fix Nelson’s reputation. He didn’t know I knew what Tiffany had said, and I guess if I did what I was thinking of doing, I’d have to confess I’d found out. But, I reasoned, it’d be after the fact. Surely, he wouldn’t mind. The timing would have to be perfect though, and I had only the barest window of opportunity.
To pull it off, I had to find someplace concealed where I could see the lockers but not be seen. I flicked my gaze left and right and decided the custodian closet was perfect. I had to hope it’d be unlocked. It wasn’t, so I adapted my plan and crunched up in the recessed opening. Peering out, I waited until Nelson appeared.
He spun the dial on the front of his locker, left-right-left, and tugged open the door. Digging out my cell, I brought up his number and held my thumb over the keypad. Then, I looked for Tiffany. The likelihood she’d be nearby was pretty high because I knew her locker was just down from his. I spotted her blonde head, her perfectly manicured nails digging through the stash she kept inside, and hit dial.
Nelson startled at his cell ringing. He pulled it from his pocket, his brow wrinkling at seeing my name, and brought it to his ear.
“Don’t say anything,” I whispered, watching him react. “Clear your screen and hand the phone to Tiffany.”
“What? Why?” he asked.
“Just do it.”
He hesitated, and I knew I was asking a lot of him. But the more time went by, the more I knew I had to follow through.
“Nelson ... Hand it to her, but don’t say it’s me.”
He glanced around the hall, obviously looking for where I was, then, not finding me, stepped right and tapped her on the shoulder. “It’s for you ...” he said, his voice muffled, away from the speaker.
She looked down at his phone, then up at his face. He extended it further.
She took it finally, bringing his cell to her ear, and I closed my eyes to concentrate. If I watched her, I’d never be able to do this.
“Hello? Who is this?” she asked.
“This,” I began, “is Sarah Jane. I wanted you to know that how great you thought he’d be, he is. Only better. Last night, we danced together, Nelson and me, alone, nobody to look at but each other. You think of that next time you decide to spread rumors.” I was done, so I hung up.
I peeked around the doorway, and she stood there staring at him. He took the phone back from her, standing in place until she’d walked off. Then, he sent me a text. What did you do?
Wasn’t me, I replied. Was Sarah Jane.
Nelson pushed Pink inside her house, closing the door behind him, and she backed up against the wall, her head tilted upwards toward his. One hand upside her head, he looked down at her, his thoughts spilling over each other to get out.
He’d wondered about the phone call this morning until Isaac told him the gossip wheels said his girlfriend had called and put Tiffany in her place. His girlfriend? Brigitte. Not Punk, who’d ceased to exist for him weeks ago, not Pink, who she was at school or when they were studying, but the fascinating girl who’d worn the green dress and danced with him.
She was soft and warm and round in all the right places, her eyes wide and inviting, her hair, the way it danced around her cheeks, a lure in his mind. Yet, greater than that, the biggest attraction of all was her humility. She had no idea she was any of those things and refused to believe it.
Now, she’d done singlehandedly something that’d quieted all the talk, and that had brought him here, his heart in his throat.
“You ...” he said, leaning in. “How did you know?”
She’d curled her lip between her teeth, and he wanted nothing more than to tug it away.
“Overheard her in the hall. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Nelson exhaled. “And say what? She was angry that I refused her, so she started to talk.”
“But you were upset. You had that accident.”
He dipped his chin. “I was. Then I decided it didn’t matter what she said.”
“It mattered to me. She hurt you, so I shut her up.”
His mouth crooked. “You did.” He reached one hand upward, taking a lock of her hair between his thumb and forefinger. “Tell me, Sarah Jane, what happens now? What do you and Walter do together?”
She swallowed, her throat flexing. “We ... we could read,” she said, choppy.
He laughed. “Next thing you know, I’ll be taking college entrance exams.”
“And what’s wrong with that? You aren’t dumb, just unmotivated.”
Nelson tilted his gaze. “You know what motivates me?” he asked.
Pink shook her head.
“This does. I like our small, private world,” he replied. “I like there being me and you and no one else. I like being Walter and you being, Sarah Jane.”
She smiled wide. “And Sarah Jane likes that, too. But you’re still going to read.”
He straightened, putting space between them, and waved toward the living room. “You pick the book. I figure I owe you one.”
She made no effort to move. Written on her face was one thing. He stared at it, his chest drawing tight, and accepted her devotion. But this time, he returned it with his own. “I’m yours for tonight,” he said.
“We are going to read The Abbot,” Mrs. Palmer said. Her back turned, her arm lifted, she wrote across the white board, her marker tip squeaking. “I’m excited about this book because it’s off the usual reading list ... but approved by our principal.” She pointed one finger at the ceiling as if in confirmation.
She revolved, facing the class, with her thumb clicking the marker cap shut. “You have one month, until after Halloween, to complete it. There will be worksheets along the way and a test before Thanksgiving. I suggest you portion your time wisely so that you stay up with the rest of the class.”
A bead of sweat trailed down Nelson’s spine. A month. Read an entire book in a month. That was like asking him to climb the Statue of Liberty with one hand. He’d made it through the love life of Sarah Jane, read the list of SAT vocabulary words well enough, but to keep pace with the rest of the class in a book of ... he flipped to the end ... two-hundred twenty pages. Impossible.
There’d been book reports in previous years, of course. He’d used the student study guides or rented the movie, if there was one, and survived. But he suspected there wasn’t either for this book, which meant he’d have to do the very thing he’d spent thirteen years of school avoiding. He’d have to read it. Pink wouldn’t cut him any slack either but knowing she would help brought relief.
He poked her in the back and leaned forward. “Going to die,” he said.
She made no response, but he could imagine her peeved expression. He sat back, and Mrs. Palmer’s voice became a drone.
Reading the book wasn’t his only problem. Even if he made it through the story, understanding it was the bigger issue. Classroom book studies were tricky, full of endless metaphors and hidden meanings that he simply didn’t get. Why couldn’t the world speak plainly like Pink did? Why couldn’t you look at people and know what was in their head, what came up next, and not have to interpret everything?
He looked at her and knew instantly how she felt – she was as infatuated with him as ever. But his own thinking where she was concerned confused him anymore. He thought about her at odd times of the day. He wanted to drive to her house on nights he didn’t have to. He texted her too much. Was that simply because he relied on her? Why did it feel like everything he’d ever known about the pair of them had been dumped in a caldron and stirred around?
A wave of laughter crisscrossed the classroom and Nelson came to, everyone’s faces turned his direction.
Mrs. Palmer, her hand on her hip, cleared her throat. “Mr. Trader, welcome back.”
Nelson nodded once.
“I was asking different members of the class how they’d describe the Middle Ages.”
The Middle Ages? His brow wrinkled. “Uhm ... I guess, in between?”
The laughter returned, and his cheeks warmed. He played it off with a smirk.
“He’s thinking about his girlfriend,” called someone from the back. “Sarah Jane.”
Pink’s shoulders stiffened, the hardness spreading down her arm to her hand. She curled her fingers into a fist.
“Well, class is not the time for our love life,” Mrs. Palmer responded. “So whoever she is, put her out of your head.” She brushed her palm down her blouse and inhaled. “The Middle Ages was a period of about ten centuries beginning from the collapse of the Roman Empire to The Age of Discovery ...”
Nelson waited until Mrs. Palmer wasn’t looking to dig out his cell. I was, he typed. He attached Pink’s number and hit send. She didn’t respond, but then, she wouldn’t even look until class was over.
He stared at the back of her head where the ends of her curls twisted around her collar, and a sudden eagerness to talk to her alone took hold. He didn’t act on it, however, restraining himself when class ended and moving on. Nevertheless, the feeling wouldn’t leave as the day progressed. Come the final bell, he could stand it no more. He sent her a text. Let’s go somewhere. It was Wednesday, so she was under no obligation to him, but hope pulsed in his chest.
Go where? Pink responded.
Somewhere. I’ll pick you up, he said.
She sent an okay, and he made his way out. He arrived on her doorstep right as her mom pulled into the drive.
“Nelson,” Mrs. Pink said. “I didn’t expect to see you today.”
“Mom?” Pink glanced at him then back at her mother, not giving him time to respond. “Can we go out for a while?”
Her mom’s eyes sparkled, seemingly amused. “I suppose so, but you need to be back before dark.”
Kissing her cheek, Pink then walked his direction. She halted in front of him, her books hugged to her chest. Neither one spoke until the front door closed.
“Where do you want to go?” Pink asked.
He opened the car door and waited while she climbed in. He made his way around the front. “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but let’s go to the bookstore.”
“The bookstore?” Pink’s eyebrows arched. “I really can’t believe you said that.”
He shrugged. “Me either, but I figure it’s the one place where no one will expect me to show up.”
Two things were running through my mind during the drive to the bookstore. First, Nelson’s text that he’d been thinking about me in class. Feelings, I’d learned in the last month, were subtle. There often wasn’t any huge “a-ha” moment when things altered. It was more like getting the toe of your shoes wet. One minute, your feet are nice and dry, the next your socks are damp, and if you keep walking long enough, your entire foot. What stage we were at I wasn’t sure, but somewhere along the line we’d both stepped in a puddle and were on our way toward being drenched.
Second, I was thinking about him asking me to go somewhere. The bookstore was a surprise choice, but he was right. No one from school, with a handful of exceptions, would willingly spend their afternoon there and definitely none of his friends. That was, after all, his goal, to keep “us” hidden. But all of that set aside, Nelson had asked me to go with him. This was him wanting to spend time with me for no reason other than he liked me. We were friends. Unexpressed, but definitely friends.
“So, this book ... I’m worried,” he said. “It’s a lot to read in such a short time.”
I reined in my wild thoughts. That would be something else we’d need to talk about. “We’ll set you up a schedule,” I replied, “how much you need to read every day, and if you get stuck, you can call or text.”
“I’m afraid I won’t understand it,” he added.
“Look ...” I paused to consider my response. “Best thing you can do is not get worked up in advance. Take each scene as it happens and don’t think about what comes after.”
An odd expression formed on his face.
“What? Something I said?” I asked.
He glanced my direction. “Just was thinking that was good advice about other things.”
He quieted, and I stared ahead at the road. However, my mind rolled over my recent statement, and I did the very thing I’d just told him not to. I asked myself a question about the future.
Where was all this leading? I’d seen different sides of Nelson, from fear and worry to a tender side that’d only increased my loyalty. What I hadn’t seen was any indication this would ever be more than what it was. During the day, he and I still pretended we didn’t talk. I didn’t know for sure ... but he didn’t acknowledge me in front of his friends, and I didn’t act like he should. Would there ever come a point when either one of us would stop? It wasn’t my job to figure that out. I knew that in my head, but not looking into the future for some kind of answer was incredibly hard.
Nelson drove into the parking lot of the bookstore, and I determined to do what I’d suggested ... to live in the moment and not speculate. We were here. We were friends, and for now, that was as it should be.
We walked inside the double doors side-by-side and took a right down an aisle. Time passed, the two of us pointing out this book or that one. We got hung up at the cookbooks, Nelson perusing one full of desserts, then continued on from there through reference materials, spiritual self-help books, and somehow ... I’m not sure how ... found ourselves center of the teen romance aisle. There, in front of me, was the entire series of Sarah Jane novels.
“There’s more?” he said.
I nodded. “About thirty of them. Sarah Jane’s life goes on and on ...”
Nelson plucked one from the shelf and turned it over. “Without Walter?” he asked, reading the blurb.
I eyed him. He sounded upset. “Well, they can’t write thirty books and everything always be smooth. That’s boring. I believe she dated a guy named Brian and another named Mark.”
Nelson’s face twisted up strange. He set the book back in place. “Walter wants to be with Sarah Jane,” he said.
Unsure how to take that my words faltered. “Th-they get together ... at the end,” I said.
Draping his arm around me, he steered me toward the end of the aisle. “And live happily ever after,” he said.
“Actually ...” I started. I was going to say they went to college and the books left you hanging. But he cut me off.
He came to a halt, his hand tightening on my sleeve. “I’m writing this story myself,” he said, “and I like my ending better.”
I didn’t want to argue. He was being so firm. Therefore, I said nothing.
We rounded the aisle, intent on whatever came next. Nelson was on my left. A familiar blonde head and perky female voice from somewhere on the other side of him brought us both to a halt.
“Nelson? What are you doing here?”
Tiffany. Unthinking, Nelson placed himself in front of Pink, one hand on the top of the bookshelf and hoped Tiffany hadn’t noticed them together. Her brows drawn tight, she approached.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Here?” he asked, his voice too high. “Research ... for his ... history.”
She puckered her lips and nodded to the left. “The history books are that way.”
That way ... nowhere near where he was. Nelson did his best to cover for it. “S-sure, I knew that. Just was ... looking around. Not like I come here often.”
His heart in his throat, he willed Tiffany to move on, but she didn’t. In fact, she rooted in place. Craning her neck, she twisted around, looking behind him.
“You’re alone? Sarah Jane isn’t with you? Because I thought I saw you with a ...”
“Yeah ... Yes ...” Breaking into her statement, Nelson forced confidence into his tone. “I’m alone. She had things to do.” He waved one hand in front of him. “You don’t want to run into her anyhow. She’s not a fan.”
This remark made Tiffany’s eyes harden. Her mouth pressed tight. “I don’t know who she is or how she found out anything ...” She paused briefly. “But the phone call was seriously ...”
“You started the rumors,” Nelson said, interrupting her once more. “How would you expect her to react? You’re lucky all she did was call, which was not my idea by the way.”
Tiffany snorted, her nostrils flaring. “Whatever ... You’re a piece of work. I’ve half a mind to this this girlfriend of yours is a myth.” She shuffled her feet as if to round him.
“No myth,” he replied, stepping in her way. “Or do you need me to describe her?” He snapped his fingers. “That’s right. You thought she was a he.”
With a huff, Tiffany glared at him a few seconds longer then spun around and disappeared. Nelson released his breath. After a minute had passed, he revolved on one heel and searched the nearby aisles for Pink. He found her staring at the Japanese anime books well within hearing range. Her face was curious, the lines long.
“I’m sorry about that,” he said. “I never thought I’d see her ...” His words caught in his throat.
Pink looked upward, her eyes moist.
“What did ... what did ... I do?” he whispered.
He knew the answer the moment he asked it. Faced with someone from school, he’d traded her in for a fictional character with not so much as one look her direction. Sure, she’d agreed to keep their time together secret, but no girl ever wanted to be completely ignored. Yet, he’d done so without giving it a thought.
“I’m sorry.”
She bit her lip, not responding, and his apology fell flat. He knew better. He’d known from the start how she felt about him and fostered it somewhat, yet never told her their friendship had grown disproportional in his head. She was larger than life, bigger than any character in a book.
Her next words confirmed it.
“I’m Brigitte,” she said. “Sarah Jane doesn’t exist. And you’re not Walter. You’re Nelson. This is Nelson and Brigitte together at the bookstore, but maybe it shouldn’t be. I think I want to go home.”
“If ... you want,” he replied, weak.
She nodded and made her way to the door. He followed behind, his gaze on her back, and knew ... just knew ... things would never be the same.