34. All the Puzzle Pieces

“Just stop, please, for a sec.”

I’m blocking her way and making a fool of myself. If she goes around me, that’s fine. I’m not going to tackle her.

“I just want to talk.”

It’s Friday, and she’s headed out toward the parking lot. I know I’m dangerously close to missing my bus, but there are worse things that can happen.

Like having her leave me in complete confusion all weekend long.

“What do you want?”

“What’d I do?”

The porcelain doll face looks down.

“Jocelyn, please, look at me.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?”

“For—for everything.”

She rolls her eyes.

Again, I’m not getting it. I’m not getting this.

“Please, just—just hear me out, okay?”

She remains there as students pass by, every one of them looking at us like we’re a car wreck in the middle of the interstate.

“Look—this is my third week here, okay. And I don’t know all the rules and the ins and outs and all that. I just know that I think you’re really amazing. And really special. And I just—I’d like to show you that not all guys are complete morons, and I thought—I thought I was doing the right thing, but I didn’t mean to hurt you or do anything that you didn’t want—”

“Just shut up.”

“What?”

“Just stop. Stop talking. Okay? Just stop.”

“Then what—I just wanted you to know.”

“I know, I get it, okay? I get it. I got it last weekend and I still get it, okay?”

My mind tries to put the puzzle pieces in order. I’m not connecting, not computing.

And then, for a brief second, just a tiny sliver of a moment …

There it is, once again.

I see it.

It’s there, and I know it’s there.

“Jocelyn,” I start to say.

But her eyes start to give her away and she shakes her head, says no, then rushes away.

I sigh.

I stand in the hallway that’s now empty.

The bell rings, signaling that the buses have left.

I’m on my own.

I stand there for a long time, wondering what I did wrong, wondering what I should and shouldn’t have said.

I have all weekend to think about it.