His eyebrows are drawn together in a V, and he’s looking at me like he can see straight into my heart and soul.
“Now you’re the only one who knows something about me.”
“I’m sorry about your mom.”
“I’m sorry too.” I stare at my lunch and realize I’m not hungry. In olden times, I would have eaten every last bite because it was in front of me. “I think that makes us even.”
“Does it?”
“You’re not punching me, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
He laughs. “It’s not.” In a minute he goes, “What do your shoes say?”
I hold my leg out to show him. “Just quotes I like from books.”
He points at the most recent one, written in purple marker, the one that says, More weight.
“Where have I heard that?”
“Giles Corey. From The Crucible. He was the last person put to death in the Salem witch trials. Those were his final words, a kind of FU to the people who were pressing him to death with stones.”
Mr. Sweeney appears and yells for us to get back inside.
As we’re collecting our trash and walking toward the doors, Jack goes, “Moses and who else?”
“The ones bullying Jonny Rumsford?” He nods. “His brother Malcolm and also Reed Young.”
“Malcolm?” Now I nod. “Shit. He’s the meanest of them all.”
“I think the other two must be seniors.”
“Thanks.” He shoves his hands in his pockets.
“You’re welcome.”
The light catches his wild, wild hair and holds it. And wham!
Suddenly.
Just like that.
I’m completely conscious of his guyness next to me. His long legs. The way he walks, fluid, easy, like he’s made to walk through water. But at the same time with purpose, which makes him seem taller than he is. There aren’t a lot of guys my age who walk like this. With swagger.
It’s as if I’ve suddenly discovered he’s male. My face is hot and my back is damp and I’m thinking about Pauline Potter, sexing off all that weight, and I’m staring at his hands and I’m like, Stop staring at his hands. What are you doing? He’s the enemy! Well, maybe not the enemy, but you are absolutely not going to think of him like that.
I realize he’s talking and so I come zinging back to attention. He’s saying, “I want you, Libby Strout. I’ve always wanted you. It’s the reason I grabbed you.”
Or maybe he’s actually saying, “You can’t tell, but I’m smiling on the inside.”
I say, “I’m smiling back.” I try to keep my face a blank, even though I don’t have a split lip. But I can’t help it. For some reason, I smile so everyone can see.
It’s midnight when I walk Caroline to her door. On the step, I grab her by her waist and pull her in, and her body is rigid, like she’s made of broom handles and marble. I want to ask her what it is that makes her like this, all uptight and controlling and mean. I wonder where geeky Caroline is right now, if the other day was real or a fluke and this newer, shinier Caroline has really swallowed her whole. Is there anyone in there? I want to say. Instead I pull her in tighter and wrap both arms around her, and try to squeeze geeky, awkward, nice Caroline out of there.
“Ow,” she says. “You always do that too hard.” She pushes me off her. “People might like her more if she didn’t have such a chip on her shoulder.”
“Who?”
“Libby Strout.” She has been talking about Libby all night—at dinner, during the movie, on the ride home.
I laugh because, coming from Caroline, this is hilarious.
“Why is that funny?”
“It’s not. But you know, pot. Kettle.”
“No, I don’t know.” She crosses her arms. “Tell me more.”
Smooth it over. Tell her what she wants to hear.
But I don’t because suddenly I can’t do it anymore. She’s exhausting and I’m exhausting, and we’re exhausting. I’ve been telling her what she wants to hear for the past four years.
I say, “You know what? I’ll talk to you later.”
“If you walk away, Jack, don’t come back. You don’t get to do that and come back.”
“Thanks. Got it.”
I feel this weird nervous energy, like I’m doing something big and life-altering. I tell myself, You need her, as I get back into the Land Rover and drive away.
I head straight to the scrap yard, where I jump the fence and wander through and no one bothers me because it’s late and dark and I’m the only one here. It’s amazing what you can find—old license plates, old screws, a metal bumper. For me, the greatest item of all is gears. Whether they’re small or big, it doesn’t matter—gears are like the power source for almost all machines, the thing that decides their force and speed.
I dig for a while, and it’s peaceful, like I’m the only living soul for miles. But my mind’s not in it. My heart’s not in it. Too much of my life feels like this already—trying to recycle something old into something new and better, disguising someone else’s trash as some fresh, shiny thing.
In the driveway of my house, I pull out my phone. Thirteen texts and one voice mail from Caroline, sent over the past hour. A text from Kam. Another from Seth. I open my email and wait for it to load. I’m thinking about Libby Strout when I see it. The email. Delivered at 6:35 p.m.
A reply from Brad Duchaine of the Prosopagnosia Research Centers at Dartmouth.