What If It's Us
Page 10
“Cool. Tell us how ionic bonds are formed and you can earn your freedom.”
Hudson doesn’t say anything.
“Alloys are a combination of what?”
Nothing. See? School pauses for no one. Not even confusing ex-boyfriends.
Hudson shrugs and pulls out his phone, and holy shit, I hope he’s going to google these answers and not just text away. This stretch of awkward silence is made even more awkward by how hard Hudson is blushing. I haven’t seen him this quiet since Kim Epstein tried to call him one of the girls as an insult because he’s a little effeminate, and Harriett blasted Kim’s business for trying to swing at her best friend.
I’m killing the awkward silence. “Alloys are a combination of metals.” We relearned that yesterday.
Hudson snaps away from his phone and stares at me. “I don’t need anything from you, okay? Don’t ask me how I’m doing. Don’t help me out.” He’s so red in the face it’s a miracle he doesn’t not-so-spontaneously combust.
I want to prop up my notebook and hide.
No one here knows our history except Harriett.
They must think Hudson is a loose cannon and I’m the summer school know-it-all. I do know one thing: this is going to be a long summer.
Chapter Five
Arthur
On the subway ride home, it hits me: I really, truly, irrevocably messed up. I met the most gorgeous boy with the most sun-kissed cheeks, and the weird part is, I honestly think he was into me. That smile. It wasn’t a solidarity smile. It was a smile like a door opening. But that door is now slammed shut, locked, and dead-bolted. I’ll never see Hudson again. I’ll never kiss him on his Emma Watson mouth. And isn’t that just the story of my life. Relationship status: Forever Alone.
Wish I’d had the guts to ask for your number.
Jessie’s dead wrong about me being a badass. The truth is, I have zero guts and zero game. I’ve never had a boyfriend, never had sex, never kissed anyone, never come close. It hasn’t bothered me until now. It just felt normal. After all, Ethan and Jessie are right there with me in that boat. But now it feels like I’m auditioning for Broadway with no training and an empty résumé. Unprepared and unqualified and totally, totally out of my depth.
And all the way home, I feel too big for my skin. I hop off at Seventy-Second Street and step out into a mess of people and taxis and strollers and noise. There are three blocks between the subway station and home. I spend the whole time reading missed connections on my phone.
As soon as I open the door: “Art, is that you?”
I set down my laptop bag on the dining room table, which is also both the living room table and the kitchen table. My great-uncle Milton’s apartment has two bedrooms, and I guess it’s considered big for New York. Even so, it makes me feel like a mummy in a sarcophagus. I definitely get why Uncle Milton’s hanging out in Martha’s Vineyard all summer.
I follow Dad’s voice, and he’s sitting at my desk with a mug of coffee and his laptop.
“Why are you in my room?”
He shakes his head like he’s baffled to find himself here. “I don’t know, change of scenery?”
“You’re scared of the horses.”
“I love horses. I just don’t understand why your uncle Milton needs twenty-two paintings of them,” Dad says. “Their eyes follow you, right? I’m not imagining it?”
“You’re not imagining it.”
“I just want to, like . . . glue sunglasses on them, or something.”
“Good call. Mom would be thrilled.”
For a moment, we just grin at each other. Sometimes with my dad, it’s like we’re two kids in the back of a classroom. Which means there are times we must throw wads of paper at the back of my mother’s head. Metaphorically speaking.
I peek at my dad’s computer. “Is this a freelance thing?”
“Nah, just tinkering.” My dad’s a web developer. In Georgia, he was the kind of web developer who made money, until he got laid off the day before Christmas. So now he’s the kind who tinkers.
And here’s something you learn when you live in a sarcophagus: sound travels through walls. Which means, most nights, I get to hear my mom calling my dad out for half-assing his job search. Which usually gets my dad muttering about how hard it is to job hunt in Georgia while living in New York. Which always ends in my mom reminding him he’s welcome to head back home anytime.
Guess how totally not awkward that is.
“Hey, what do you think about Craigslist missed connections?” I blurt.
I don’t know why I do this. I definitely wasn’t planning on telling my parents the post office story. Just like I wasn’t planning on telling them about my sad crush on Cody Feinman from Hebrew school. Or my even sadder crush on Jessie’s very slightly younger brother. Or the fact that I’m gay in the first place. But sometimes things just slip out.
“You mean like a personal ad?”
“Well yeah, but not like must love dogs and long walks on the beach. It’s like . . .” I nod. “Okay, it’s kind of like a lost cat ad, except the cat’s actually a cute boy you met at the post office. But a human cute boy. Not a literal cat.”
“Got it,” Dad says. “So you want to put up an ad to find the post office boy.”
“No! I don’t know.” I shake my head. “Juliet and Namrata suggested it, yeah, but it’s a total long shot. I don’t even know if anyone reads those things.”
Dad nods slowly. “It’s definitely a long shot.”
“Right. Stupid idea. Okay—”
“It’s not a stupid idea. We should post one.”
“He’s not going to see it.”
“He might. It’s worth a try, right?” He opens a new search window.
“Okay, no. No no no. Craigslist is not a father-son bonding activity.”
But he’s already typing, and I can tell from the set of his jaw: he’s all in.
“Dad.”
The apartment door creaks open, and I hear the click of heels against hardwoods. A moment later, Mom’s in my doorway.
Dad doesn’t even glance up from the computer screen. “You’re home early,” he says.
“It’s six thirty.”
Suddenly, everyone’s quiet. And it’s not even the normal kind of silence. It’s one of those charged, atomic silences.
I dive into it headfirst. “We’re making a thing on Craigslist to find that guy from the post office.”
“Craigslist?” Mom narrows her eyes. “Arthur, absolutely not.”
“Why not? I mean, other than the fact that it’s pointless and there’s no way he’d ever see it . . .”
Dad rubs his beard. “Why do you think he won’t see it?”
“Because boys like that aren’t on Craigslist.”
“Boys like you aren’t on Craigslist,” says Mom. “I’m not letting you get killed by a machete murderer.”
I laugh shortly. “Okay, I’m pretty sure that’s not going to happen. Dick pics? Probably. Machete murderer—”
“Ooh. Yeah, as your mom, I’m going to go ahead and veto the dick pics, too.”
“It’s not like I’m asking for dick pics!”
“If you put an ad up on Craigslist, you’re asking for dick pics.”
Hudson doesn’t say anything.
“Alloys are a combination of what?”
Nothing. See? School pauses for no one. Not even confusing ex-boyfriends.
Hudson shrugs and pulls out his phone, and holy shit, I hope he’s going to google these answers and not just text away. This stretch of awkward silence is made even more awkward by how hard Hudson is blushing. I haven’t seen him this quiet since Kim Epstein tried to call him one of the girls as an insult because he’s a little effeminate, and Harriett blasted Kim’s business for trying to swing at her best friend.
I’m killing the awkward silence. “Alloys are a combination of metals.” We relearned that yesterday.
Hudson snaps away from his phone and stares at me. “I don’t need anything from you, okay? Don’t ask me how I’m doing. Don’t help me out.” He’s so red in the face it’s a miracle he doesn’t not-so-spontaneously combust.
I want to prop up my notebook and hide.
No one here knows our history except Harriett.
They must think Hudson is a loose cannon and I’m the summer school know-it-all. I do know one thing: this is going to be a long summer.
Chapter Five
Arthur
On the subway ride home, it hits me: I really, truly, irrevocably messed up. I met the most gorgeous boy with the most sun-kissed cheeks, and the weird part is, I honestly think he was into me. That smile. It wasn’t a solidarity smile. It was a smile like a door opening. But that door is now slammed shut, locked, and dead-bolted. I’ll never see Hudson again. I’ll never kiss him on his Emma Watson mouth. And isn’t that just the story of my life. Relationship status: Forever Alone.
Wish I’d had the guts to ask for your number.
Jessie’s dead wrong about me being a badass. The truth is, I have zero guts and zero game. I’ve never had a boyfriend, never had sex, never kissed anyone, never come close. It hasn’t bothered me until now. It just felt normal. After all, Ethan and Jessie are right there with me in that boat. But now it feels like I’m auditioning for Broadway with no training and an empty résumé. Unprepared and unqualified and totally, totally out of my depth.
And all the way home, I feel too big for my skin. I hop off at Seventy-Second Street and step out into a mess of people and taxis and strollers and noise. There are three blocks between the subway station and home. I spend the whole time reading missed connections on my phone.
As soon as I open the door: “Art, is that you?”
I set down my laptop bag on the dining room table, which is also both the living room table and the kitchen table. My great-uncle Milton’s apartment has two bedrooms, and I guess it’s considered big for New York. Even so, it makes me feel like a mummy in a sarcophagus. I definitely get why Uncle Milton’s hanging out in Martha’s Vineyard all summer.
I follow Dad’s voice, and he’s sitting at my desk with a mug of coffee and his laptop.
“Why are you in my room?”
He shakes his head like he’s baffled to find himself here. “I don’t know, change of scenery?”
“You’re scared of the horses.”
“I love horses. I just don’t understand why your uncle Milton needs twenty-two paintings of them,” Dad says. “Their eyes follow you, right? I’m not imagining it?”
“You’re not imagining it.”
“I just want to, like . . . glue sunglasses on them, or something.”
“Good call. Mom would be thrilled.”
For a moment, we just grin at each other. Sometimes with my dad, it’s like we’re two kids in the back of a classroom. Which means there are times we must throw wads of paper at the back of my mother’s head. Metaphorically speaking.
I peek at my dad’s computer. “Is this a freelance thing?”
“Nah, just tinkering.” My dad’s a web developer. In Georgia, he was the kind of web developer who made money, until he got laid off the day before Christmas. So now he’s the kind who tinkers.
And here’s something you learn when you live in a sarcophagus: sound travels through walls. Which means, most nights, I get to hear my mom calling my dad out for half-assing his job search. Which usually gets my dad muttering about how hard it is to job hunt in Georgia while living in New York. Which always ends in my mom reminding him he’s welcome to head back home anytime.
Guess how totally not awkward that is.
“Hey, what do you think about Craigslist missed connections?” I blurt.
I don’t know why I do this. I definitely wasn’t planning on telling my parents the post office story. Just like I wasn’t planning on telling them about my sad crush on Cody Feinman from Hebrew school. Or my even sadder crush on Jessie’s very slightly younger brother. Or the fact that I’m gay in the first place. But sometimes things just slip out.
“You mean like a personal ad?”
“Well yeah, but not like must love dogs and long walks on the beach. It’s like . . .” I nod. “Okay, it’s kind of like a lost cat ad, except the cat’s actually a cute boy you met at the post office. But a human cute boy. Not a literal cat.”
“Got it,” Dad says. “So you want to put up an ad to find the post office boy.”
“No! I don’t know.” I shake my head. “Juliet and Namrata suggested it, yeah, but it’s a total long shot. I don’t even know if anyone reads those things.”
Dad nods slowly. “It’s definitely a long shot.”
“Right. Stupid idea. Okay—”
“It’s not a stupid idea. We should post one.”
“He’s not going to see it.”
“He might. It’s worth a try, right?” He opens a new search window.
“Okay, no. No no no. Craigslist is not a father-son bonding activity.”
But he’s already typing, and I can tell from the set of his jaw: he’s all in.
“Dad.”
The apartment door creaks open, and I hear the click of heels against hardwoods. A moment later, Mom’s in my doorway.
Dad doesn’t even glance up from the computer screen. “You’re home early,” he says.
“It’s six thirty.”
Suddenly, everyone’s quiet. And it’s not even the normal kind of silence. It’s one of those charged, atomic silences.
I dive into it headfirst. “We’re making a thing on Craigslist to find that guy from the post office.”
“Craigslist?” Mom narrows her eyes. “Arthur, absolutely not.”
“Why not? I mean, other than the fact that it’s pointless and there’s no way he’d ever see it . . .”
Dad rubs his beard. “Why do you think he won’t see it?”
“Because boys like that aren’t on Craigslist.”
“Boys like you aren’t on Craigslist,” says Mom. “I’m not letting you get killed by a machete murderer.”
I laugh shortly. “Okay, I’m pretty sure that’s not going to happen. Dick pics? Probably. Machete murderer—”
“Ooh. Yeah, as your mom, I’m going to go ahead and veto the dick pics, too.”
“It’s not like I’m asking for dick pics!”
“If you put an ad up on Craigslist, you’re asking for dick pics.”
