The Boy Book Read online

  “Hey there, Ruby Oliver,” he said.

  “Hey there, Mr. Clarke.”

  Why was he sitting next to me? Why was he even talking to me?

  Did I want him to talk to me?

  “So what’s new? I haven’t seen you. How was your summer?”

  “I went traveling with my mom. She was on tour with a show.”

  “Elaine.” He said it in a knowing voice. “Did she drive you out of your tree?”

  I loved how he used phrases like that. “Out of your tree.” Phrases no one else ever used, like he got them from his grandpa. And I loved how he already knew all about my mom, and I didn’t have to explain.

  “A fair amount,” I admitted. “But I got to see Big Sur and San Francisco and some other cool places.”

  He was acting like we were friends. Like everything was normal.

  Maybe he thought that acting normal would make everything normal. Maybe he figured I didn’t hold a grudge.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have been holding a grudge.

  Shouldn’t I have been over everything by then? If I was an individual possessed of decent mental health, wouldn’t I just feel relaxed when my ex-boyfriend came by to say hello?

  Or would a person of decent mental health be in touch with her anger and say, “Jackson, I don’t think you’re a good person and I don’t want to pretend we’re friends after what happened,” and walk away?

  If my mind had been functioning, I’d have either said that and never spoken to him again—or else I’d have had a calm, friendly conversation like no badness had ever happened.

  But my mind doesn’t function. I have no idea how anyone would do either one of those things.

  And instead of being relaxed or angry, I was happy. So, so happy that Jackson wasn’t being a pod-robot who didn’t even know I existed, because when he did that (as he had been doing ever since the school year started and even since he’d written me the notes), I felt completely erased. Like I had been this girl Ruby with pretty legs and a boyfriend, and now I was nothing—a space where a human being once was.

  It had been even worse since the notes, actually, because it was like there was some tiny bit of Jackson that saw me and remembered, but most of him was a pod-robot. Because of the notes, I could never get used to it, the way I might have if he was consistent, and whenever the pod-robot passed me in the hallway and didn’t even glance at me, the erased feeling would flood over me again like it was new.

  “I’ve been to San Francisco,” he said. “I’m thinking about applying to Berkeley.”

  “That’s cool,” I said. “It’s supposed to be great.” I looked down at my legs. I was wearing fishnets, and felt perversely glad. I crossed one knee over the other and saw Jackson’s eyes glance down.

  Kim Yamamoto has traveled all over the world and can sail and knows all about different kinds of food. She is richer and more glamorous than me, plus she has a flat stomach and no glasses.

  Compared to her, I don’t have much to offer, besides nicer legs. But maybe I could be the wacky, unpredictable girl; the kind who always fascinates more conservative men in the movies.1 Maybe I could derail him from his straight-arrow path and make him fall madly in love with my quirky free spirit.

  “Are you going to Kyle’s party Saturday?” Jackson asked.

  This was the first I’d heard of it. And if I went to the party, it was sure to be a nightmare. But that is not what quirky free-spirit girl would be thinking about. “Maybe,” I lied. “I might have plans with my boyfriend.”

  Jackson looked surprised. “You have a boyfriend? That’s great, Roo. That’s excellent.”

  “He goes to Garfield,” I said. “His name is Angelo. I think maybe you saw him at the Spring Fling afterparty?”

  “Oh,” said Jackson. “Yeah, maybe I did.”

  “We’ve been seeing a good amount of each other,” I went on. Hating myself as I said it, but loving the look on Jackson’s face.

  “Well,” said Jackson, getting to his feet. “Angelo’s a lucky man.”

  “I don’t know why I lied,” I told Doctor Z on that afternoon.

  She smiled in a condescending way. “You don’t?”

  “Okay, I do.”

  “Why did you?”

  “I wanted to hurt his feelings.”

  “And?”

  “Because it almost seems like Jackson wanted me to be heartbroken and lovelorn, and now he thinks I’m not. So now he’s disappointed that I’m not carrying a torch for him.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “He’s always known in the back of his mind that he could be with me again if he wanted, and the part of him that’s not a pod-robot would like to keep that as an option. Going out with me, I mean. Like some part of him is holding on to this connection we used to have.”

  “Because he wrote you those notes?”

  “Yeah. Which shows he still likes me. But on the other hand, it seems like he wants me to be perfectly okay and happy without him, because that would mean he didn’t do anything wrong. So maybe by pretending I had a boyfriend, I was really telling him exactly what he wanted to hear.” I sighed. “I don’t know.”

  “Are you saying you lied to make him more interested? Or you lied to put him at ease?”

  “God,” I snapped. “It was one tiny lie. Not a huge deal.”

  “Okay,” she said. “I’m just trying to get at what’s behind it.”

  “Like I told you, I lied to hurt his feelings.”

  “Um-hum.”

  “So, that’s what it is.”

  Doctor Z put a piece of Nicorette gum in her mouth. “Ruby, we should talk over why you missed your session last Thursday.”

  Doctor Z never changes the subject. She usually lets me drive the course of the conversation.

  I shrugged. “I just didn’t feel like I needed to come.”

  “You didn’t feel like you needed to come.”

  “My friend Noel invited me for pizza. And I have practically no friends, so I really wanted to.”

  “Um-hum.”

  “Are you mad at me?”

  “No.”

  “Because it seems like you’re mad at me.”

  “No.”

  “And my parents will pay you for the session.”

  “It’s not about that. It’s about your commitment to the therapeutic process.”

  I took a deep breath. “Do you think I still need to be coming here?”

  Doctor Z sighed. “I think you still have some issues to discuss, yes, but fundamentally, it’s up to you. And your parents.”

  “It takes up a lot of time.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “I feel like you’re saying I’m making bad choices. Like I shouldn’t be going for pizza with Noel, and I shouldn’t have lied to Jackson, or flirted with him, or sent him notes, and I shouldn’t be fooling around with Angelo. Like you think I’m ruining my life.”

  “I didn’t say that, Ruby.”

  “I know,” I said, fiddling with the hem of my skirt. “But that’s what it seems like you think.”

  Doctor Z leaned forward in her chair and put on an earnest face. “I’m not here to judge you.”

  “Yeah, but you’re making me feel bad.”

  “Ruby,” she said. “You are the only one who can make yourself feel bad.”

  “That’s not true.”

  She was silent. We looked at each other for a while. Then I looked at the second hand of the clock going around in circles. “I don’t think we’ve talked about Angelo in a long time,” she finally offered.

  “That’s because I don’t think you’ll approve!” I cried. “You’ll think I’m being slutty, or making bad choices, or using him, or getting used.”

  “I’m not here to approve or disapprove,” Doctor Z said calmly.

  “Right.” I was being sarcastic.

  “I’m not. I’m here to help you figure out what you feel.”

  “Well, I feel like you won’t approve of what’s going on with Angelo, a
nd that’s why I’m not telling you about it.” I crossed my arms.

  “Do you know what transference is, Ruby?” asked Doctor Z.

  “No.”

  “Transference is when a therapy patient begins to relate to the therapist as if she were someone else in the patient’s life. Feelings toward someone else are redirected at the therapist.”

  “Ugh.”

  “It’s a normal part of this process.”

  “I hate it when you get all therapy-speaky on me.”

  “Okay. I’m saying that it’s possible you might be angry at yourself, or angry at someone else in your life.”

  “You just don’t want me to be angry at you, so you’re bringing up this transference thing. But it is you who’s pissing me off,” I said, “and it is you who’s making me feel bad.”

  “It’s fine for you to be angry at me, if that’s what you genuinely are.”

  “The hell it is,” I said.

  We sat there for another five minutes, in silence. Then the hour was up.

  “I don’t want to come back on Thursday,” I said as I stood up to leave. “I don’t think I want to come back at all.”

  I drove home crying. Everything seemed so messed up. When I got to my room, I tried to organize my thoughts.

  How I Feel: a list of possibilities

  1. Proud of self for leaving therapy when it is a big waste of my time.

  2. Pissed at self for leaving therapy when I am clearly a basket case in desperate need of professional help.

  3. Proud of self for telling Doctor Z how I felt about her bad attitude.

  4. Pissed at self for not even knowing what I’m really mad about.

  5. Proud of self for going after Jackson, trying to get what I want.

  6. Pissed at self for lying to him and being manipulative.

  7. Pissed at self for trying to get another girl’s boyfriend.

  8. Proud of self for being forward with Angelo (sometimes) and having excellent scamming adventures.

  9. Pissed at self for using Angelo (but am I using him? Don’t know).

  10. Pissed at self for indecisiveness and possible sluttiness in regard to liking two (if not three) boys (since am being honest, can’t deny feelings of attraction to Noel) at the same time.

  11. Proud of self for making friends with Noel and making up with Nora.

  12. Proud of self for choosing Canoe Island without regard to who else is doing it and whether they will eat lunch with me, which translates into

  13. Proud of self for progress in therapy (no more panic attacks, and other personal growth–type things), which then downward spirals into

  14. Pissed at self for ruining therapy, which is the only way I have stayed out of the asylum these past six months.

  Then my mom banged on the door to tell me dinner was ready, and I told my parents I quit therapy, and they actually managed to keep their mouths shut while we ate, but later I could hear them arguing about it, after I went to bed.

  My dad was saying maybe I’d come through a difficult time and was ready to move forward into self-sufficiency, which is, after all, the essential process of adolescence.

  And my mother was saying, “Kevin. Be real. Ruby is neurotic and I don’t want her having those panic things again, plus she’s obviously got some sexual issues. I want her in therapy.”

  Guess who won?

  The next day after school, Mom told me she’d made an appointment for me the following week to see a psychotherapist in our zip code who takes our health insurance. “I want you to try it,” she said. “If you don’t like Doctor Z anymore, fine. But I want you to see how it is with this guy. Besides, he’s only eight blocks away, so you wouldn’t have to take the Honda, which I don’t mind telling you will make my life easier.”

  “Mom, the point was that I quit.”

  She waved her hands in exasperation. “Don’t be a quitter.”

  “I’m not a quitter. I’m quitting this.”

  “This is not a conversation we are having, Ruby. You have to go to therapy.”

  “I haven’t had a panic thing in ages.”

  “You have to work out your issues,” said my mother. “End of discussion.”

  I left the house and slammed the door and went over to Meghan’s, where she told me how her shrink told her that her dream of being naked in front of everyone in her Precal class was a wish-fulfillment fantasy, which made Doctor Z seem pretty good by comparison.

  When I got home late at night, there was a message on our machine from Jackson. “You should come to Kyle’s party,” he said. “Just in case you don’t have the address, I’m leaving it for you.”

  But of course he knew I had the address already. It was in the school directory.

  Boy-Speak: Introduction to a Foreign Language

  What he says: I never felt this way before.

  What is understood: He loves me!

  What he means: Can we get to the nether regions now?

  What he says: I’ll call you.

  What is understood: He’ll call me.

  What he means: I don’t want to see you again.

  What he says: It’s not you, it’s me.

  What is understood: He’s got some meaningful problem going on in his life that’s blocking him from being anyone’s boyfriend, even mine, though he likes me so much.

  What he means: I like someone else.

  What he says: We’re just really good friends.

  What is understood: Nothing is going on between him and that other girl.

  What he means: We have a flirtation, but I don’t want you to bug me.

  What he says: I’m so messed up.

  What is understood: He needs my support and help.

  What he means: I want you to leave me alone.

  —written by me, Cricket and Nora the Monday after Jackson broke up with me. Approximate date: April of sophomore year.

  i was seriously thinking about going to Kyle’s party.

  Of course, I knew there would be all kinds of horrific situations there, but hey—they wouldn’t be much worse than what I encountered at school on any given day.

  1. Guys who think I’m a slut and make catcalls at me.

  2. Guys who think I’m a feminist hysteric and a bitch because I ripped up Cabbie’s pictures.

  3. Girls who think I’m a slut trying to steal their boyfriends.

  4. Girls who think I’m a leper and that the strange blue spots of leprosy will infect them if they so much as give me the time of day.

  But I figured I’d go with Nora, if she was up for it, and maybe she’d ease the way for me. Meghan wanted to go, because she was trying to keep herself distracted from the Bick situation. And some swim team girls would be there, and they were always reasonably nice.

  And Jackson.

  He wanted me to be there. And that made me want to be there too.

  But that all changed on Saturday afternoon.

  I was at my zoo job. I’d spent the morning at the Family Farm, helping toddlers get food out of the dispensers and answering questions about the names of the llamas and the breeds of the goats. It was actually fun. I pet the soft gray necks of the llamas and fed Maggie the cow a handful of pellet treats. Her tongue was slimy when she licked them off my fingers.

  Then I helped Lewis in the greenhouse for a bit, watering stuff and pruning a little, and ate my brown-bag lunch by the elephant enclosure, watching a baby elephant trail around after its mother.

  Two o’clock was the penguin feeding. I had my script memorized, but I also had a printout of it folded up in my pocket. Anya met me by the door of the AV closet and got me set up, since it was my first time being official penguin announcer. The feeding schedule was posted all around the zoo, so a few minutes before we were supposed to start, visitors began crowding in around the penguins, watching them swimming their fat bodies through the blue water.

  The room was dark, and penguins on the land part of the enclosure seemed to sense that feeding time was near: a go
od number of them had waddled over to the door, waiting for the keepers to come out with buckets of fish.

  I stood on a footstool and started my talk when Anya gave me the sign to go ahead. “Welcome to the Woodland Park Zoo’s Humboldt penguin feeding. You’ll notice that Humboldts are medium-sized penguins, averaging twenty-eight inches long and weighing about nine pounds. You can distinguish them from other penguins by the black band of feathers across their chests and by the splotchy pink patches on their faces and feet. The pink parts are bare skin, which is an adaptation that keeps these warm-weather penguins nice and cool. Humboldts are native to the coastal regions of Peru and Chile.”

  I looked up from my paper as the keepers entered the enclosure wearing knee-high rubber boots. Penguins started hopping out of the water and waddling toward the buckets, opening their mouths. “Okay, you can see they know it’s lunchtime!”

  I looked out at the crowd. There, with his back to me, looking at the Humboldts, was Jackson.

  Jackson and a girl.

  A girl I’d never seen before. An impossibly pretty African American girl, with a head full of tiny dreadlocks.

  A girl who reached out, there in the dark, and took his hand.

  “If you don’t like eating fish, you wouldn’t like to be a penguin!” I squeaked out, feeling Anya’s eyes on me. “The keepers are feeding them anchoveta, little fish that live in the waters off the South American coast. Humboldts also eat squid and crustaceans.”

  Jackson leaned down and whispered in the girl’s ear. I could feel heat rushing to my face. My mouth felt dry, and I could hardly keep going.

  “They don’t have to drink water, since they take in seawater as they swallow their fish. But like all penguins, they have a special gland that removes the salt from their bodies.”

  That sick feeling that I had every day last year in the refectory, watching Jackson and Kim together after they hooked up, flooded through me. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Would he recognize my voice and turn around?

  Had he recognized it already?