Vibes (10 page)

I open my eyes and who do I see sitting across from me?

Gusty Peterson. Naturally.

I smell the peppermint and leather, his unique scent I can't help liking. He's biting his lower lip as his green eyes flutter over me. He smiles tentatively.

I cannot report what expression is on my face—that's how surprised I am.

He slides a piece of paper toward me and raises his golden eyebrows. I look down to see the words
I'm sorry about the way I acted.

My face must be asking some kind of question, because he takes the paper back and writes,
I got really embarrassed during our last meeting, and I don't deal well in situations like that. And then I made that announcement at Processing last week and I wanted to talk, but then you were talking to Mallory.

His expression is confusing to me. He doesn't seem able to lift his eyes high enough to look at my face, but he isn't looking at my breasts, either. I think he's looking at my hands, and that makes me glad that I filed my nails and painted them pink this weekend. I could turn down Charlotte Church so that I can hear his thoughts, but somehow I don't want to. I want to pretend I'm not an overplump psychic with ginormous gazungas talking to a supernaturally good-looking egomaniac. It feels nice to pretend we're two regular people sitting in an irregular school. It's like a vacation from the inside of my head.

Hesitantly, he writes something more on the paper and slides it over to me.
I was thinking it might be fun to do our next character ed assignment at Pluribus after school today. We could get some grindage.

Assuming that
grindage
means food and not human body parts, I nod at him. I'm terrified and happy at once. All that emotion crashes through my body and ends up at my eyes, forcing tears that I can barely fight back. How freakish would I have to be to start
crying
now? And anyway, what is my problem? Grindage. What the hell is cathartic about
that?

He doesn't seem to notice anything. He breaks into a blinding smile and gets up to go. Before he leaves, though, he lifts aside one of my headphones and whispers into my ear, "I'll meet you at the pink tree."

I can still feel his breath on my cheek, even after he has left the room.

I am standing under the pink tree, waiting for Gusty and noticing the way the sunlight makes the petals on the flowers turn a warm peach color. I also notice for the first time the glowing, fresh scent of this tree. It's an amazing fragrance that makes me think of a delicious fruit that would be too beautiful to eat. My feet are surrounded by a thick layer of pink petals. I kick into them until my toes are completely covered and imagine that the ground is made of nothing but pink petals all the way to the earth's core.

Gusty walks out of the school building and comes toward me. He's carrying his skateboard under his arm, and he has a huge satchel slung over his shoulder. He smiles. My stomach tumbles and I have to take deep breaths.

"Hey," he says.

"Hey."

We stand looking uncomfortable for a second before he tosses his head in the direction of Pluribus. I follow him.

We walk quietly next to each other. My mind is buzzing, so I can't get a read on his thoughts, but that's just the way I like it. I don't want to know what he's thinking. I should protect myself better, but I can't help feeling happy.

We are walking along a tree-lined sidewalk when we see a dog zigzagging down the road. He is brown with white speckles, and he has the kind of retarded smile on his face only dogs can muster. If he's not careful he'll get picked up by the dogcatcher.

Gusty grins. "Someone's on a joy ride."

The dog pauses for a second to look at us, his head slightly cocked. He seems to be wondering if we're going to turn him in. Without a word, Gusty sets his skateboard and book bag onto the sidewalk. He trots toward the dog. "What are you doing?" I ask him, but he doesn't answer. The dog seems to understand him perfectly, and he jumps into the air with a surge of doggy joy. Gusty laughs and starts rubbing the dog's ears. The dog loves this so much, he rams his head into Gusty's knees, which makes Gusty lose his balance and fall down on someone's lawn. The second he's down, the dog starts licking Gusty's face ferociously.

This is some kind of primordial ritual I do not understand. "Do you guys need to be alone?" I ask.

Gusty laughs. "No! I'm just happy."

"Is that your dog?" I ask him.

Gusty looks at me quizzically. "Huh? No." They're both out of breath and panting. He lays his head on the dog's back, and the dog curls his head around and sniffs Gusty's neck before giving him a disturbingly sensual kiss.

"Tell me you
know
this dog. Please."

"We've never met." He gives the dog a good rub on the flank before getting up and brushing fur off himself. The dog licks the palm of Gusty's hand.

"Are you sure that's safe?" I ask him. "What if he has some kind of disease?"

He seems amused by this. "He's a perfectly healthy animal."

"Okay."

"Come pet him."

Looking at the dog's big white teeth, I say, "I only like animals that can't kill me."

"He wouldn't hurt a fly." He kneels down and holds the dog's face toward me. The dog's huge pink tongue flops over Gusty's hand, and I wonder how Gusty can stand the slobber. Slobber is one of many reasons why I am a cat person. "Pet him."

"Em..." I look at him, nervous.

"Come on!" He reaches a hand toward me.

I put my backpack on Gusty's skateboard and kneel on the grass next to them. The dog kicks one paw out and it lands on my new skirt. Praying he doesn't have poop between his toes, I slowly, slowly reach my hand toward his head. I give him two little pats and pull away.

"That's not enough. Really rub him, like this." Gusty takes hold of the dog's ear and massages it. One side of the dog's body seems to melt. "Now you," Gusty says, and takes hold of my wrist.

Because I love the way Gusty's thumb moves over my skin as if he can't resist feeling the friction between us, I take hold of the dog's ear and rub it the way Gusty did. The dog stiffens at first because I'm not doing it right, but then I realize he isn't that different from Minnie, who has this special spot right where her ear meets her skull. So I find that spot on the dog and I start to really rub. He melts for me just the way he melted for Gusty, and he lifts his eyes to look into mine. It's funny, because I love the way Minnie looks at me, her yellow eyes so warm and loving, but this dog's eyes remind me of a person's eyes. They're round, with round pupils, not the narrow pupils that Minnie has. Something about the dog feels a little human, and that makes me realize why I was never a dog person. I hate humans. Most humans.

I look up, and Gusty is watching me as if I am completely fascinating. Just looking. Looking at me. I listen to his thoughts, but I don't hear words. I get only a feeling of warmth from them, like sunlight.

My face gets hot, and I turn toward the dog so Gusty can't see me blushing. I start rubbing the dog's other ear so he gets a double whammy, and I go in for a really deep rub, but my thumb grazes something sharp in his fur. Suddenly the dog yelps, leaps away, and snaps at my hand in one motion.

"Oh my God!" I yell.

Gusty grabs the dog and holds its head to his chest to keep him still. "What happened?"

"He tried to bite me!" I feel betrayed. I look at the dog, who is whining softly as if he's trying to whisper to Gusty.

"Did he get you?"

"No, but he tried."

"Kristi, dogs don't
try
to bite. If he meant to bite you, you'd have gotten bit. He's telling you to keep away from that spot because it hurts him. That's all."

I still feel totally rejected. By a dog.

"Did you rub him too hard?" Gusty asks as he examines the dog's face.

"I felt something sharp in his ear." I point to the dog's left ear, and Gusty lifts it up, speaking in a very gentle voice.

"It's okay, boy—let's just check this out." He runs his fingers through the hair under the dog's ears, and the dog jerks his head as though he wants to bite Gusty and whines. "That's it!" Gusty pinches something just inside the dog's ear and pulls it out. It comes with a whole lot of fur. "He had a nasty bur in his ear, and you must have pushed on it and really hurt him."

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault." Gusty smiles at me as he flicks the bur away. "Here." He pulls on my wrist again. I don't want to, but then the dog licks my hand, looking at me sideways with his big brown eyes. "See? He still wants to be friends," Gusty says, and chuckles. "He's a cute dog."

I smile. The dog forgives me for hurting him. I'm not sure whether I should respect him for that or feel sorry for him. With an attitude like that, he's a sitting duck.

Gusty stands and picks up everything we left on the curb. He slings his satchel over one shoulder and my pack over the other. "Let's get going," he says, and we start off again toward Pluribus. The dog follows for a few minutes, but then gives Gusty's hand a last lick before turning to go down a different street. I watch him go, but Gusty doesn't even give him a second glance.

"So, what's that all about?" I ask Gusty.

"What?"

"Your freakish affinity with canines."

"Oh." He shrugs. "I don't know. I've just always understood them."

"What is there to understand?"

"A lot. Body language, vocalization, facial expression, behavior. Even as a kid I could tell by looking if a dog was friendly or mean, scared or happy. They're just easy to me, easier than people. Cats, too, though they're different."

"Yeah, they are."

"I think dogs like me because they can tell I like them. And sometimes they just seem relieved to meet a person who understands them."

"I can understand that," I say. I never knew Gusty had a deep side. I always thought he was dumb in proportion to his looks. Maybe I wanted to believe he was dumb because I thought he didn't like me. The truth is, he never really seemed dumb. Not really. And even if he does think I'm sick, that doesn't mean we can't be friends, right? I'm kind of friends with Jacob, even though I find his spitting problem rather disgusting. So Gusty thinking I'm sick isn't
necessarily
so terrible, right? Maybe he thinks I'm sick like a cool mad scientist kind of person. Or maybe he thinks I'm crazy in a fascinating way like Carmen, in the opera by Bizet.

"Understanding is rare," Gusty says, and I figure he's still thinking about dogs while I'm working my brain trying to figure him out.

"Truer words were never spoken," I say. And we're silent the rest of the way to Pluribus.

Pluribus is the coolest place in our town. All the windows are stained glass, and the ceiling is super high with lots of rough-hewed beams and rafters. Tons of plants hang everywhere, getting their light from the skylights in the ceiling. I hardly ever come here even though I really like it because this is where all the kids from Journeys hang out and I'm usually avoiding them.

Gusty and I are halfway through the nachos before he finally pages through his notebook for our character education assignment. "Okay. We have to list our greatest liabilities now."

I take a long swallow of my root beer while I absorb this information. The last thing I want to tell Gusty about is my dark side. "How do you always know what we're supposed to do for character education?" I ask as a way to keep the subject impersonal.

"The bulletin board. Where we found out who our partners were? Don't you check it?"

"No."

"I'll go first, okay? This shouldn't be too hard." He pulls a pen out of the spine of one of his notebooks. "Me. Hmm. Well, I'm not very good at schoolwork. I get too bored. I let my teachers think I'm slow because then they don't expect much from me and they leave me alone."

"Good strategy," I tell him. I honestly admire him for this. He's an underachiever, but he's very good at it. My opinion of his smarts just shot up like ten points.

"I should try harder, but I'd rather read about things I find interesting, like animal behavior and ecology. I like marine biology, too. Shark behavior. Stuff like that."

"Got it." I take the pen from him and start writing. "What else?"

"I'm shy, so I'm not very good at confrontation. My sense of humor is really zany, so most people don't get it and they just act embarrassed for me. Also, I don't have the greatest table manners, my mom says. My room is really messy because I never fold my laundry until it sits on my bed for about five days and gets all wrinkly. Also, I skateboard with a total disregard for human life. My own, mostly. How many is that?"

"Six."

"Okay. I'm mean to my sister sometimes. And I hate my mom. I shouldn't, but I think she's really selfish. She won't let me have a dog, and she ignores everything my dad says because she makes more money than him, and she's bitter about being the breadwinner. So I just ignore her, which is probably why I'm bad at confrontation. Let's see. Oh, I'm lazy. Lazy in my mind. Not my body. Is that ten?"

"Yes."

He nods, suddenly quiet. "There's one more. One more I should tell you, Kristi." He's holding a tortilla chip, but he puts it back on the plate and folds his fingers together. "You know it. You know what my greatest fault is."

"What? You had a zit five years ago and you haven't gotten over the shock?"

He half smiles, but it's an effort. His eyes flutter at me, and I know whatever he has to say is hard for him. "I'm a coward."

"No you're not."

"Yes. I am." He looks infinitely sad, as if he's remembering a terrible regret.

"Well, you already have ten, so we don't have to write it down. Okay?"

He seems disappointed, or frustrated, or confused. I don't know what he is. I'm tempted to listen to his thoughts to find out, but the last time I did that I found out how he saw me, and I couldn't take that again. It's too painful.

"Now you," he says as he piles a tortilla chip with a tower of beans, cheese, guacamole, and sour cream. The process seems to engulf all his concentration, and I think he must be using this activity to conquer a feeling he has inside himself. Once he has piled on more toppings than any tortilla chip should ever be asked to bear, he somehow opens his mouth wide enough to eat the whole thing in a single bite. Through the mess he says, "Your faults."