I know i only have one shot, and it ain’t an easy one. maura’s been in a good mood all day - well, a maura version of a good mood, which means the forecast calls for drizzle instead of thunderstorms. she hasn’t brought up the g*y thing, and lord knows i haven’t either.
I wait until last period, knowing that if the pressure’s on, she’s more likely to say yes. even though we’re sitting next to each other, i take my phone out under the desk and text her.
me: whatre u doing tmrw night?
maura: nothing. wanna do something? me: i wish. i have to go to chicago with my mom.
maura: fun?
me: i need you to sub for me in mathletes. otherwise s&d are screwed.
maura: ure kidding, right?
me: no, theyll really be screwed.
maura: and y would i?
me: because ill o u 1. and ill give you 20 bucks.
maura: o me 3 and make it 50.
me: deal.
maura: im saving these texts.
truth? i probably just rescued maura from an afternoon of shopping with her mom or doing homework or poking a pen into her veins to get some material for her poetry. after class, i tell her that she’ll no doubt meet some other deadbeat fourth-string mathlete from some town we’ve never heard of, and the two of them will sneak out for clove cigarettes and talk about how lame everyone else is while derek and simon and that stupid freshman get smashed on theorems and rhombazoids. really, i’m doing wonders for her social life.
maura: don’t push it.
me: i swear, it’ll be hot.
maura: i want twenty bucks up front.
I’m just glad i didn’t have to lie and say that i had to go visit my sick grandma or something. those kind of lies are dangerous, because you know the minute you say your grandma’s sick the phone’s going to ring and your mom’s going to come into the room with really bad news about grandma’s pancreas, and even though you’ll know that little white lies do not cause cancer, you’ll still feel guilty for the rest of your life. maura asks me more about my trip to chicago with my mom, so i make it sound like it’s necessary bonding time, and since maura has two happy parents and i have one bummed-out one, i win the sympathy vote. i’m thinking about isaac so much that i’m completely scared i’m just going to blurt him out, but luckily maura’s interest keeps me on my guard.
when it’s time for her to go her way and me to go mine, she makes one more stab for the truth.
maura: is there anything you want to tell me?
me: yeah. i want to tell you that my third nipple is lactating and my butt cheeks are threatening to unionize. what do you think i should do about it?
maura: i feel you’re not telling me something.
here’s the thing about maura: it’s always about her. always. now, normally i don’t mind this, because if everything’s about her, then nothing has to be about me. but sometimes her spotlight clinging drags me in, and that’s what i hate.
she’s pouting at me now, and, to give her credit, it’s a genuine pout. it’s not like she’s trying to manipulate me by pretending to be annoyed. maura doesn’t do that kind of crap, and that’s why i put up with her. i can take everything on her face at face value, and that’s valuable in a friend.
me: i’ll tell you when i have something to tell you, okay? now go home and practice your math. here . . . i made you flash cards.
I reach into my bag and take out these cards i made seventh period, kinda knowing maura was going to say yes. they’re not actually cards, since it’s not like i carry a set of index cards around in my bag for indexing emergencies. but i made all these dotted lines on the piece of paper so she’ll know where to cut. each card has its own equation.
2 + 2 = 4
50 x 40 = 2000
834620 x 375002 = who really gives a f**k?
x + y = z
cock + pu**y = a happy rooster-kitten couple
red + blue = purple
me - mathletes = me + gratitude to you
maura looks at them for a second, then folds the piece of paper along the dotted lines, squaring it together like a map. she doesn’t smile or anything, but she looks unpissed for a second.
me: don’t let derek and simon get too frisky, okay? always wear pocket protection.
maura: i think i’ll be able to keep my maidenhead at a mathletes competition.
me: you say that now, but we’ll see in nine months. if it’s a girl, you should name her logorrhea. if it’s a boy, go for trig.
It does occur to me that because of the way life works, maura probably will get some hot math-reject guy to put his plus in her minus, while i bomb out with isaac and come home to the comfort of my own hand.
I decide not to tell maura this, ’cause why jinx us both? maura gives me an actual ‘good-bye’ before she goes, and she looks like she has something else to say, but has decided not to say it. another reason for me to be grateful.
I thank her again. and again. and again.
when that’s done, i head home and email with isaac once he gets home from school - no work for him today. we go over our plan about two thousand times. he says a friend of his suggested we meet at a place called frenchy’s, and since i don’t really know chicago that much outside of places where you’d go on a class trip, i tell him that’s fine by me, and print out the directions he sends me.
when we’re through, i go on facebook and look at his profile for the millionth thousandth time. he doesn’t really change it that often, but it’s a good enough reminder to me that he’s real. i mean, we’ve exchanged photos and have talked enough for me to know that he’s real - it’s not like he’s some forty-six-year-old who’s already prepared a nice spot in the back of his unmarked van for me. i’m not that stupid. we’re meeting in a public place, and i have my phone. even if isaac has a psychotic break, i’ll be prepared.
before i go to sleep, i look at all the pictures i have of him, as if i haven’t already memorized them. i’m sure i’ll recognize him the moment i see him. and i’m sure it’ll be one of the best moments of my life.
friday after school is brutal. i want to commit murder about a thousand different ways, and it’s my closet i want to kill. i have no f**king idea what to wear - and i am not a what-do-i-wear kind of guy at all, so it’s like i can’t even begin to comprehend the task at hand. every single goddamn piece of clothing i own seems to have chosen now to reveal its faults. i put on this one shirt which i’ve always thought made me look good, and sure enough it makes my chest look like it actually has some definition. but then i realize it’s so small that if i raise my arms even an inch, my belly pubes are on full display. so then i try this black shirt which makes me look like i’m trying too hard, and then this white shirt which is cool until i find this stain near the bottom which i’m hoping is orange juice, but is probably from when i tucked before i tapped. band t-shirts are too obvious - if i wear a shirt from one of his favorites, it’s like i’m being a kiss-ass, and if i wear one for a band he might not like, he might think my taste is lame. my gray hoodie is too blech and this blue shirt i have is practically the same color as my jeans, and looking all-blue is something only cookie monster can pull off.