Authors: Emily Franklin
Tell me about it,
I think, and allow myself one shortlived gaze. Just a moment of wistful thinking. I shake it off.
“Well, you got the Von Schmedler’s place, so that’s a biggie.” Eddie breaks off a piece of scone and eats it, thinking. “Any other ideas?”
I wave to Hanna Fisher, who’s busy serving tea sandwiches while showcasing her lace-up Victorian boots. “I’m in!” she yells, miming money with her fingers.
“Write that one down,” I say and watch Eddie write, wondering if and when he’s going to ask about Leyla again. “Hanna’s giving this place out for a graduation party. That should get some funds.”
Eddie nods. “We’ve got sporting goods, gift certificates from some places in town. I scored tux rentals—could be good for the prom. And Plumpy’s Candies donated a massive basket of all things promoting tooth decay.” He looks at me and hands me a piece of scone. “What’s your candy of choice, by the way?”
“Malted milkballs, spearmint leaves, chocolate licorice, Snowcaps. Not in that order,” I say, as though I planned it out. I can think very quickly on my feet—or nose.
“I highly approve,” Eddie says. “I’m a milkball man myself.” He grins. “Did that sound dirty, or is it just me?”
I laugh—the pleasure of joking, edged with hurt from knowing it won’t lead anywhere. Like when my mother bought me a bag of spearmint leaves right after I had my wisdom teeth pulled—look but don’t touch. I sip my tea. “We should ask around at the hardware store …”
“Already have it.” He taps his pen, then chews the cap.
“Bender’s Ice Cream,” I suggest. He writes it down. “Faye’s Nail Emporium.”
“Ellie’s Books,” he adds. “WNPS radio—maybe they’ll do a personalized show or something.”
“Now you’re thinking,” I say and feel that rush of being with him. The ease, the natural flow of ideas. The two of us leaning over the table, near enough to … never mind. “Samasa’s Restaurant. Add that. They do those gourmet picnic baskets.”
“Samasa’s … got it …” Eddie writes down my suggestions without the pen pausing on the paper. He’s talking with his mouth full of scone, which should be gross but instead is charming. “And so, with the whole email thing you told me about—when do you think she’ll send one?”
I grimace. Ooops. Subliminal sublimation, maybe. Leyla called and told me to proof her first email, but I never did. And never sent it.
“Um, soon,” I say. “I’m sure it’ll be soon.” I dig my fingernails into my palm, wishing I didn’t know all about this—except part of me is glad I do. For one thing, I’m a snoop. Another thing is that somehow, the more I know about something—a situation, a book, an event—the more in control I feel. So even though I am sure this is out of my hands—I mean, you can’t
make
someone desire you—I’m still kind of connected to it. To him. I look at his hair, his hands on the page, the doodle he’s making. Wordlessly, I take the pen and add to the doodle and we sit like that, in quiet comfort, sharing a scone and making aimless art together.
The whole scene is quite lovely until the front door opens and a waft of evil comes right toward us.
“I see you’ve decided to ignore fashion advice once again, Cyrie.” Jill Carnegie folds her arms over her methodically layered outfit and gives me the once-over.
I smooth the ruffles of my pirate shirt, feeling not quite as cool and fun as a minute before. Somehow, with Eddie in a skirt and me in a fluffy white top reminiscent of a high seas adventure, we are not the image of domestic bliss I have in my mind. “It’s called a costume, Jill, and it wouldn’t hurt you to break free of your drone mode and try it on.”
“Yeah,” Eddie challenges. He’s good-humored about it, offering his bonnet to her. She keeps her arms and hands away from it as though it’s diseased.
“Um, no thank you.” Jill studies my face. “And, ew.”
“I’m sure the bonnet’s thinking the same thing,” I say. I can see her eyeing my nose, see the slagging off about to start. Eddie shoots me a look as though what I’ve just said is uncalled for. “What do you want, Jill?”
“None of your business,” Jill says, and faces Eddie.
“She’s cool, Jill.” With his hat off, Eddie looks more normal, and I feel slightly foolish in my get-up.
Jill snickers. “Whatever. All I came to tell you is that you’re late for Wendy’s …” She looks at me. “You know …”
Eddie looks blank for a minute, then nods. “Oh, yeah.” He looks at me. “You wanna come? It’s just a get-together at her house. No big thing.” He ignores Jill’s huffy foot stomp, her head shake.
I don’t want to go, but I like to see Eddie stand up for me and I like seeing Jill sweat it out. Wendy Von Meanie would not be pleased with her minions if they showed up with me in tow. “Well, it’s not like I have much else to do today …” Jill looks strained and Eddie shrugs. “But no.”
“Oh, thank God,” Jill says and swivels to leave, tugging Eddie along with her.
“You okay?” Eddie asks. His face shows true concern, but his feet are pointed toward the door.
“Sure. Go have fun with the toddler set.”
Eddie’s brow furrows. “Don’t be mean, Cyrie.”
“I’m not,” I say and want to defend myself with all the years of torment they’ve dumped on me, but Eddie puts some money on the table.
“As always, a pleasure to hang out with you,” he says, sliding out of his skirt and hanging it back on the coat rack. I watch him and look at our list, at our collaborative doodle. Amidst the lines and circles, the jagged pen marks, he’s drawn a heart. Not a perfect one, one that slants off to the side, right near me—except aimed for someone else.
The next morning at home, I think about Eddie and then about Leyla’s unsent message. I should proof it. I close my door, ignoring the fresh French toast and syrup my dad left for me, and check the email account. Leyla’s first email is still safe. Nothing big, nothing noteworthy, just an introduction, really. I fill my lungs to capacity, semi-disbelieving I’m actually going to do this. I set the account to save all the messages that are sent and click on the first one. Leyla writes:
Hi Rox—
Your not going to believe this but I’m nervous typing! How do you like this idea of sending messages? It’ll be pretty cool once we get into it. Don’t you think?
Write me soon.
Leyla
I clean up the your/you’re situation, put a comma in, and then send it off. It’s not the intro I would have used—I mean, it hardly grabs your (or you’re, heh) attention—but it’s fine. I gather my school stuff together and put it into my bag, take a few bites of toast, change my shirt after I spill syrup on it, and just when I’m about to leave, the computer alerts me to a new message.
L—
Two messages in one morning! Looks like my lucky day. I was waiting to hear from you and wondering if maybe you were reconsidering this correspondence. That’s what it is—or will be—isn’t it? Just like in the old days when people actually sat there in cafes and wrote letters or postcards and had to wait for responses. That’s what this will be, only we can still see each other in school. I can’t wait to write more but I just realized I have no clean socks and I don’t want to offend you with any potential smell at the Word meeting today.
More soon-
Rox
P.S. Not sure which email I should reply to …?
Two
emails? I call Leyla, my heart racing, my breakfast lodged in my throat.
“Hey,” I say into the phone. I’m frustrated that she can’t follow even the simplest of instructions, and my tone indicates this. “What’re you doing sending him an email?”
Leyla lets out a semi-snort. “Um, excuse me?”
“He just wrote back, saying you sent two messages.”
“I only sent one,” Leyla insists.
“But I sent the one you sent to our account,” I explain, still focused on the screen.
“
My
account?”
I shake my head, annoyed. “Leyla. We agreed you’d send mail from the Sumbodee account, right?”
Leyla makes a noise that sounds like a strangled fish. “Uhagaga … sorry! I got impatient and thought you weren’t doing your thing, you know, sending the email. So I sent one from my regular account. Is that bad?”
Her voice is sweet, not whiney, and I can imagine her placid eyes and worried brow. I sigh. Why do I get so worked up? Just editorial instinct. I bite my lip. “It’s not great, but it’s not the end of the world. Look, don’t write to him from your account. Go into the Sumbodee one now and fire off a quick thing—and make sure to explain that this is your real account. The one he should use. Okay?”
Leyla screams, “Just a second!” Then, in a regular voice, she tells me, “Sorry, that wasn’t for you …” The decibel level jumps again. “Give! Me! One! Minute!” She’s really riled up; no doubt her dad is forcing her off the line.
“Okay?” I check my own watch and heft my backpack on. Inside are my books, essays, and running shoes. I have a pre-op appointment with Dr. Singer today (or, as I think of him, Dr. Schnoz), and figure that if I’m not playing varsity anymore I should at least give myself some cardio and jog there from school. “Time to go.”
“No. Wait. Cyrie?” Leyla shuffles things on her end. “My dad’s going to kill me if I take more time this morning doing computer stuff.”
I hold the phone with my chin, sweep my hair into a ponytail, and get annoyed all over again. “Leyla, do you want this or not?”
“I do! Just please—you send something back—a little thing that just buys me time until study hall this afternoon when I can write more. Please?”
I want to point out that this is dishonest. That this isn’t what we should be doing. That she should conduct this back-and-forth herself. But I hear the desperation in her voice and just say, “Okay. But only this once and then it’s all you.”
“Awesome. Thanks!” She hangs up.
I reread what he’s written. Correspondence. My fingers tingle on the keys.
Immediately, I want to write about how I’ve always wanted an old-fashioned courtship by letter. A paper-and-pen collection of missives that I bind together with ribbon and pass down to my children. And I want to crack a joke about his smelly socks, about how I remember that last year he turned a pair inside out and wore them as though that would do anything for the stench.
“You’re going to be late!” my mom yells up the stairs.
“I’m coming!” I type.
Hey You—
Sorry for the confusion before. Just use this address. The other one’s filled with spam and I hardly check it. Hope your morning is off to a good start. See you later!
Leyla
I almost end it there but then tack on my real thoughts:
Wouldn’t the world be a better place if people still wrote letters? Real ones with pens or quills and fine paper? Or even a ballpoint and a legal pad? Looking forward to seeing you.
I figure it’s the truth—at least from my point of view—and it spices up the letter enough to make him want to write back. I press
send
and log out of the account. Words flutter into my mind like butterflies and falling autumn leaves. Tons of words. But nowhere to put them.
T
IME TICKS AWAY,
bringing me closer to Dr. Schnoz. I study the page in front of me on which I have started—yet again—my essay about my greatest flaw being my greatest strength. Watching Eddie watch Leyla, who is sitting next to me in study hall, I know that nothing will come to me on this topic because right now it feels like a bunch of BS.
Last night, as I told my mom about the variety of auction items gleaned around town, she smiled and, ignoring my victories, went for my Achilles heel. “But what about you?” she asked, stressing the
you
while my dad handed her a mug of hot cocoa. I felt like I was trapped in drama class when we had to purposefully act badly, in order to illustrate good acting.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Did you miss the part about me and my multiple auction items? I’m leading the way for the entire
Weston Word
staff.”
“What your mother means …” my dad said, and then my mother elbowed him in the side and spilled her drink.
“Don’t speak for me,” she said, her voice happy and playful. Her pet peeve is when people talk for her.
“Fine,” Dad clarified. “What I feel is that you are—in your words—rocking the auction. However …” (cue exchange of parental looks) “… it just feels as though you’re walking around in a daze. A little distracted.”
I had to hand it to them—as lame as their techniques are for getting me to spew my feelings, they at least can recognize my brains inability to focus right now. It’s not school, not sports, not the intense college pressures or prioritizing of work and the paper. It’s just Eddie. All the energy I’d put into liking him is still with me, only it’s got nowhere to go. All those words that swarmed in my head at Leyla’s are still there, nagging me and knowing they have to stay bottled inside.
“I could be a little distracted,” I ceded. “But not in a major way. Nothing to be—you know—concerned about.”
They looked relieved. No pit of drugs and despair, a la formerly hot bands who spiral downward and wind up working the late shift at Gas ’n Sip or counting hangers at the dry cleaners. “Well, if you need to talk …” my mother offered. She sipped her drink.
Dad touched my cheek and then the tip of my nose. “Hey—you didn’t flinch!” He notes this as progress of some kind.
“I’m too distracted to flinch,” I joked.
“You know the cure for distraction?” Mom asked with her eyes back on her charts and graphs for work. I raised my eyebrows. “Action.”
The paper in front of me remains blank as I flick my pen around and wonder why the hell seniors have study hall anyway. We should be excused from any and all requirements like this. “We shouldn’t be here,” I whisper to Leyla.
She dodges a wad of paper from Wendy and nods at me. “Maybe you could write an exposé about it.”
Resting my head on my desk, I shrug. “Yeah, the cruelties of study hall and the truth about why we’re here.”
“I know why I’m here,” she says. She points to her computer screen and asks what I think.