Another Day (Every Day 2)

“I promise,” he says.

He means it. I know he means it. He is in the clear—but I’m not about to let him feel like he’s there yet.

“I believe you,” I tell him. “But you’re still a jerk until you prove otherwise.”

•••

Neither of us has had lunch yet, so we decide to go eat. A tells me the boy’s mother is coming back in two hours to pick him up. We don’t have much time.

We go to the first restaurant we find, a Chinese restaurant that smells like it’s just been mopped.

“So, how was your morning?” A asks.

“It was a morning,” I tell him. “I had a math test. That can’t possibly be worth talking about. Steve and Stephanie got into another fight on their way to school—apparently, Stephanie wanted to stop at Starbucks and Steve didn’t, and because of that she called him completely self-centered and he called her a caffeine-addicted bitch. So, yeah. And, of course, Steve then skipped out of first period to get her a venti hazelnut macchiato. It was sweet of him to get her coffee, but passive-aggressive because she really likes caramel macchiatos much more than hazelnut ones. At least she didn’t point this out when she thanked him, so everything was back to its shaky normal by the time second period started. That’s the big news.”

I don’t tell him that when I saw Justin, he gave me shit for ditching him yesterday (even though it’s not like we had plans). He kept telling me he hoped I’d had an amazing night. I told him I had a really amazing time studying math. He acted like he didn’t believe me, like I ran off to some party without him.

Instead of talking about Justin, I ask A more about the girl he was yesterday. I feel I deserve credit because I ask this as if it’s the most natural question in the world. What else did you do when you were a girl yesterday?

“It was like being a grenade,” A says. “Everyone was just waiting for her to go off and do some serious damage. She had power, but it was all cultivated from fear.”

I think of Lindsay Craig and her minions. “I know so many girls like that. The dangerous ones are the ones who are actually good at it.”

“I suspect she’s very good at it.”

I picture A as Lindsay, or some other mean girl. “Well, I’m glad I didn’t have to meet her.” Because what would the point be? If A was like that, there’s no way we could ever be like this, the way we are now. This might be a cheap Chinese restaurant with grease stains on the menus and ceramic cats guarding the soy sauce on the tables, but it’s still an escape, it’s still exciting. We hold hands and look at each other and not much needs to be said. I have found someone who cares about me, and right now I can accept that.

“I’m sorry for calling you a jerk,” I say. “I just—this is hard enough as it is. And I was so sure I was right.”

“I was a jerk. I’m taking for granted how normal this all feels.”

“Justin sometimes does that. Pretends I didn’t tell him something I just told him. Or makes up this whole story, then laughs when I fall for it. I hate that.”

“I’m sorry—”

“No, it’s okay. I mean, it’s not like he was the first one. I guess there’s something about me that people love to fool. And I’d probably do it—fool people—if it ever occurred to me.”

I don’t want to sound like a complainer. I don’t want to sound like this weak girl who can’t take care of herself. But I also want him to know—I can’t stand people being mean. People playing games. I want to guard myself against it, but I make a shitty guard for my own heart. I would rather lose the game than play it. I would rather be hurt than be mean. Because I can live with myself if I’m hurt. I don’t think I could live with myself if I were mean.

I’m worried A is going to try to say something to make it all better. That he’s going to tell me it’s all in my mind. Or, even worse, like Justin, he’s going to tell me I have to learn how to take a joke. Like my lack of humor is the real offense.

But A’s not saying any of that. Instead, he’s emptying the chopstick holder.

“What are you doing?” I ask. The woman behind the cash register is giving us a strange look, and I don’t blame her.

A doesn’t answer. Instead, he works the chopsticks into the shape of a heart, covering the table. Then he takes all the Sweet’N Low packets from our table and two others in order to turn the heart a pale paper pink.

It’s too much. And it’s awesome at the same time.

When he’s done, he points proudly to the heart. He looks like a kindergartner who’s just finished a fort.

“This,” he says, “is only about one-ninety-millionth of how I feel about you.”

I laugh. I think he’s forgotten that his heart is full of Sweet’N Low.

“I’ll try not to take it personally,” I tell him.

He seems a little offended. “Take what personally? You should take it very personally.”