I move to the orange chair where Ethan is and hand his plate to him.
“Here.” He pats the arm of the chair.
There’s nowhere else. That’s all.
I sit, and he takes a bite of pizza, propping the plate on his legs. Our arms are practically touching. “Watch this,” he says mouth full, and nods to the television where a Ninja Warrior episode or something is blasting. “It’s unbelievable. Dude has one leg.”
On the screen, a good-looking black man is making his way across obstacles in camouflage pants, no shirt, and ripped six-pack abs. Like Ethan said, he’s on only one leg. Still, I have to fight to pay attention. I can feel my arm hairs stand when they brush against his.
“It’s amazing,” I finally twist to tell him. But, when I do, he’s already looking at me, our faces too close, his expression an intense question that makes it hard for me to breathe.
The room erupts with a collective gasp as the guy falls from an obstacle into the water.
“That was freaking crazy!” the girl sitting on the arm of the couch says. “I don’t care that he didn’t finish. They should still give him the money or trophy, or whatever.” She gets up and walks over to where we are and lifts Ethan’s plate, collapsing down backward onto his lap. “What do you think, Ethan? Finish or not, don’t you think he should get the money?”
She reaches her arm up and wraps it behind Ethan’s neck, as if I’m not here, as if I’m a no-one, as if I don’t matter, which I don’t. I feel like I’m going to puke.
I unwedge myself, and get up, and walk back to the bar, but I’m really not hungry anymore, and a few minutes later, you’re downstairs, and someone turns on the movie, and we eat room temp pizza together while I try my hardest not to think about how awful I am, or, worse, make one single wish I’m not supposed to have.
SPRING
SEVENTH GRADE
1. Always be friends.
2. Never fight. If we fight, always make up.
3. Never date a boy the other person likes. Siblings included, because Janee Freese is gross.
4. Never leave the other person alone in the cafeteria.
5. Always keep each other’s secrets no matter what.
6. Never keep secrets from each other.
You hand the pen to me, but I shake my head.
“I’m sure you thought of everything,” I say.
LATE APRIL
TENTH GRADE
“Come back here, Jailbait. Don’t be upset.”
Max has moved to my bed, but I move to the habitat and watch the butterflies.
How is he only telling me about California now, with less than six weeks left of school?
Is this how much I matter to him?
Why didn’t he tell me in February, when we first started dating, when I had time to protect myself, or at least earlier today—or yesterday—when we had all the time in the world? Now my mother is home and all I want to do is get him out of here.
“You have to go, Max,” I say, trying not to sound mad or, worse, let the tears that want to come, fall. “I have a ton of homework.”
“Jailbait—”
“Max, please.” The tears break through and, for a second, I can barely hold on to myself. He gets up and walks over, and wraps his arms tightly around me, burying his face in my neck.
I shake him off. I’m not doing this. But he holds on tighter.
“I care about you. A lot. I swear.”
“Max, don’t.” I squirm free from his hug and swipe at my eyes. I’m dumb for crying, and even more dumb for being so needy and naïve. What did I think was going to happen once he graduated? Did I think he’d hang around for some babyish, virgin sixteen-year-old?
I stand there feeling stupid and alone. I want to put on dry underpants, erase all reminders of him touching me.
No. I want the opposite: I want him to touch me more, to do everything with me, and promise me he’ll never leave.
“Can we talk about this, please?” he finally asks.
I crouch down, and reach in to move an orange slice from one perch to another, needing to be busy doing something, to not look at Max. He had asked to take them out earlier, but I don’t feel like letting them out anymore. I want them to stay safe as long as they can, tucked inside the mesh screen.
I close the Velcro flap again, and a Glasswing crawls up the side. I touch its foot through the mesh thinking it will fly away, but it stays there, looking at me.
“In Costa Rica,” I say, my voice wobbly, “they call Glasswings Espejitos. Spanish for ‘little mirrors.’”
I squint my eyes and stare at its wings, hoping I might see myself there. But I don’t. I can’t. They don’t reflect anything. Even those words are a lie. I’m nowhere to be found these days.
But that’s not true, is it? Max cares about me. That’s what he said.
“I want you, Jailbait.” How many times has he told me that? Isn’t that kind of the same as love?
I should stop stalling, and have sex with him. Run off to California just like Dad did.
“JL?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s okay.”
In the hallway, a door opens and closes, and the sound of the television drifts to me. At least Mom is leaving me alone.
I turn and look up at him, and he comes over to sit next to me, and rubs away a tear that’s slipped down my cheek.
“No need to be sad,” he says. “We still have time. I have plenty of plans to work out. I bought this bike, did I tell you? Not a dirt bike. The real deal. I want you to see her, feel her, but she’s not road-ready yet. She needs parts. A better engine. I blew all my savings on her, and paying some of Dad’s bills. I’ve got to make more money before I can fix her up and go.” He tips my chin, and looks deep into my eyes. “I really want you to come with me.”
And like that, I’m hit with a new emotion: Excitement. Maybe even hope. I could do it. Leave here and go to California with Max. I’m not sure exactly how, but Dad is still there, so if I wanted to, I could! I could make up some lies, leave out some facts, and go.
Go with him. Even help him to go.
With this thought, a memory, stuck to an idea, darts at the edges of my brain: Mom and Dad, dancing. Celebrating.
And something else.
It hasn’t quite surfaced yet.
And it shouldn’t.
It shouldn’t.
But another drop of anger and it will.
FALL
NINTH GRADE
“We’re goddamned rich, Charlotte; can you believe it? No more late fees and ridiculous interest. We can pay it all off! The credit cards, the leases. Hell, the mortgage! No more money worries, ever again!” He picks her up and spins, but she holds herself stiff.
“Put me down, Tom.”
Dad, still in his rented tuxedo, obliges, but holds her hand, and tries to twirl her out in front of him in her lacy black dress.
“Look how beautiful you are! Beautiful and rich!”
“I said stop.”
He pulls her tight to his chest and kisses the top of her head. “You worry too much. It will all be fine. After this, I never even have to work again.”
“I don’t care.” She turns away from him in her bare feet, revealing the unzipped back of the dress. He puts a hand on her shoulder, and she whirls around, angry, her face wet with tears.