Five
After Prince Albert died, Queen Victoria wore black for forty years mourning the love of her life. Not to be dramatic, but it’s been more than a month and I’m already thoroughly sick of myself.
Sure, if you’re going to split hairs, it’s technically been several months, but it was harder to stress about this when I was hundreds of miles away in Denver. At the time, I was just glad there were fewer people I had to talk to on the phone.
Now Josh is shoved in my face on the daily, and I’m not handling it with any degree of grace. He’s all the way near the front of the class, gold hair glinting under fluorescent lights, and I can still feel his murmurs in my toes. His dimple is in my soul. I lean forward across my desk, as if being a few inches nearer to his warmth will fix any of this.
“And that’s a wrap on chapter three,” Ms. Chris says, clapping her hands. “I’m going to give you the last twenty minutes to check in with your group project partner. I’ve only received three book selections and the rest of you need to make some big decisions. These next three months are going to disappear before you know it.”
“If Tiffany thinks I’m going over to her first, she’s even dumber than any of us have guessed,” Odette says, sinking lower into her chair.
“We’re in an AP class,” Poppy says, shaking her head. A sparkly parrot barrette falls out of her curls.
“AP doesn’t preclude you from dumbassery.”
Poppy doesn’t bother to respond and pulls out her physics book.
“Are you also making a stand with Billy over there?” I ask her, when she makes no move to get out of her seat.
“Of course not. We’ve already decided on our book.”
“What? When?” How is it the beginning of the semester and I already feel hopelessly behind?
“I don’t know, within a day of becoming partners, I suppose. He had strong feelings, I didn’t.” She casually turns a page.
“Well?” Odette asks.
Poppy looks up, remembering we’re still here. “Cyrano de Bergerac, by Edmond Rostand.”
“Is that the catfishing book?” Odette says, taking a second look at Billy.
“It’s an allegory on inner versus outer beauty,” Poppy says, closing her book with a roll of her eyes.
“So… the catfishing book.”
“Where does the catfishing come into play?” I’m dragging my feet, but it’s not like Ash is rushing over here either.
“Cyrano is a talented soldier with a big nose, and despite his many talents he thinks he’s too ugly to be loved.”
“People were dicks in the 1800s.” Odette shrugs.
“He falls in love with this woman named Roxane, but realizes she’s into this other guy, Christian. Cyrano finds out that Christian loves her back but thinks he’s not smart or witty enough to date her.”
“But he was a total smoke show.”
“Real helpful, Odette,” Poppy says. “Anyway, Cyrano offers to write these extremely romantic letters for Christian, and Roxane falls in love with the faker and marries him instead.”
“Got to say, not really loving this so far.” I chew on the end of my braid, wondering how long I can realistically stay over here. Nobody said we had to work with our partners in person. Maybe I could just email Ash from right here.
Poppy shrugs. “Christian dies in battle not too long after the marriage, and Cyrano refuses to ruin her memory of her husband by confessing it was him all along. She goes into a nunnery and fifteen years later Cyrano gets into an accident and is brought there on his deathbed. He confesses, she tells him she loves him, and then he dies.”
“He what?”
“Dies,” Odette says, about ten times too loud.
Heads turn in our direction, and I frown at them both. “He dies? Just like that?”
“If I remember correctly, it’s not just like that, and actually takes him several speeches to get on with it.” Odette rolls her eyes and opens her laptop.
“That’s a little dark.” I flip through the syllabus. “Nothing with Disney vibes on this book list?”
“It’s kind of a garbage story,” Odette agrees.
“I mean, I am paraphrasing,” Poppy says.
“Are you paraphrasing the part where everyone is a shallow, narcissistic liar?” Odette’s typing her usual million words a minute, and I know we’re close to losing her interest.
“Billy’s thesis is that it was romantic how Cyrano was willing to sacrifice his own feelings to make sure the woman he loved was happy.”
I snort. “Happy to marry a secret himbo?”
She shrugs and returns to her textbook, but not before a pointed look between Odette and Tiffany.
“I mean it, Poppy. I’m not moving.” Odette sinks even lower in her chair.
“Nobody is questioning your dedication to spite or power moves,” I say, leaning forward to look around her. Ash is scribbling away in a black notebook and hasn’t even glanced in my direction. We haven’t spoken since my less-than-flattering accusation, so he’s either deeply insulted or couldn’t care less about my continued existence.
Can it be both? I’m going with both.
“Good luck trying to out-Tiffany Tiffany,” I tell Odette, pulling myself to my feet.
It’s just one stupid project. Maybe we can start over and find a good balance. He can keep his weird reasoning for being my partner a mystery, and it won’t kill me to not know the answer to everything.
I stop right in front of his desk and wait for him to acknowledge me. The collar of his black jean jacket brushes against the stray wisps of hair that have escaped from the knot on top of his head. The lines of his shoulders tense, and he slowly puts his pen down and closes the notebook with a sigh.
There are plenty of places to sit, as if there’s a force field around him that repels anyone else who might get too close. I slip into the desk on his right and quietly unpack my stuff. I boot up my laptop, pull up the syllabus, and wait for some cue. That I’m welcome? That he remembers he (very publicly) made me his partner? That he’s going to tell me what to do next? He gives me nothing but silence.
“Look—” I begin, not even sure where this sentence is going to take me.
“Have you gone through the list?” He steamrolls ahead, shifting his body and words slightly in my direction. “We should start there. I’ll pick what I’m interested in, you do the same, and we’ll see if anything matches.” He nods in the direction of my syllabus and opens a new document on his laptop.
Why, so happy to have you join me, Marlowe! I hope you’re having a good day as well. You’re not a burden at all. You’re not some piece of baggage that people are annoyed at being saddled with.I clear my throat, the words clamoring to spill past clenched teeth.
“Did you say something?” His voice is low and gruff and does not contain an iota of inflection.
“Nope,” I say curtly, scanning the list. Some of them I have a passing familiarity with, but nothing jumps out at me. He punches keys methodically, the sound hammering away at my skull and reminding me that he’s either way better at this than me, or he’s playing computer games and waiting for me to get on with it.
He finally pauses long enough to slip out of his seat, grab the bathroom pass, and disappear out the door without a single acknowledgment in my direction.
Tiffany’s shrill laugh surges above the murmurs, and every tangled feeling in my brain swells to a crescendo of awfulness. I’m so sick of group projects, Ash’s stupid typing, and having excellent seats to the Tiffany-and-Josh show every day in first period. I just need one thing to not be difficult in here. One task I can focus on until all of this fades into the background.
A noisy exhale rattles out of me, and my greedy little fingers slide Ash’s laptop toward me before I can talk myself out of it. He has a document open on Wuthering Heights, with bullet points on theme, setting, and characters.
Fine, so it’s not computer games. I cycle through the tabs and similar breakdowns on King Lear and Invisible Man. The words blur together until the last window pops up.
This document is different, and stanzas float down the page. I lean closer, scrolling over words that I’m pretty sure aren’t Shakespeare.
Frozen fingers, frozen heart,
it’s not this cold where I come from.
You dull the chill, and warm my side,
I know it’s wrong, we still collide.
Cross my heart and say goodbye,
keep your words to justify.
I’d rather stay outside than burn,
I’m no longer your concern.
Why are you the only one
that brings me back to life?
Why are you the only one
that brings me back to life?
A part of my brain turns on enough to say Hey, cool, this is a song! Or a poem! Or a curse! Another part perks up and says This… this is personal. His syllabus is on the desk in front of me, doodles spilling into the margins. Curling loops of forest green that yell NEVER MIND THE MONSTERS in different fonts. Sketches of hands, gravestones, and a perky little cat pepper the sheet. The synapses in my brain finally find the connection.
This is more music for his band. I go back to the document, scrolling through with new, hungry eyes.
The laptop snaps shut, almost catching my fingertips, and I shrink as it’s yanked from my grasp.
A shadow looms over me, as a low “Are you lost?” falls between us like a stone, and I recognize how badly I’ve fumbled this entire thing.
Sure, the autism makes me different, but not an asshole. I know I crossed a line with his privacy. I saw almost immediately it wasn’t schoolwork, and I kept going. I recognize boundaries, as people usually have no issue stampeding past mine.
I force myself to tilt up into the full force of his feelings. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t sure I was doing what you wanted me to do and I was too nervous to ask you. I thought I could figure it out if I could see what you were doing, and I overstepped before I realized.” His eyes are dark and distrustful, but I don’t look away. I’m sorry, and I want him to know I mean it.
His mouth snaps shut, and he sits down, angling his computer away from me.
The shame smothers me like a blanket. “I really am sorry. If you’d like to look through my computer, it’s only fair.”
He starts typing again, determined to ignore me.
I’m more determined. “I don’t have any secret documents on mine, but I do have a folder with my school pictures from middle school.”
His fingers pause over the keys.
“There were braces, and a brief bowl-cut phase.”
“Fine.” He leans back, expectant. His eyebrows tell me he doesn’t believe me. “Let’s see it.”
“Seriously?”
“I thought you were sorry.”
I pull up fourth-grade Marlowe, her smile a grimace. Bright turquoise orthodontic bands clash painfully against a lime-green sweater vest.
“Wow.” His consonants are crisp, without the meandering that comes with being born south of the Mason-Dixon Line.
“I know.” I turn the laptop away, and close the folder my grandpa insists I email him every few years when he buys a new computer and doesn’t know how to transfer anything over.
“Was this a Velma from Scooby-Doo phase?”
“More like an I-was-scared-of-hair-salons phase, and my aunt Birdie slapped a cake-mixing bowl on my head and cut away while she tossed back a few whiskey Cheerwines.”
“And is this your normal currency for apologies?”
“Well, the home videos are all at my house.”
Down south, we’re people pleasers at heart. Our entire life’s purpose is to make each other more comfortable. A soft smile here, a pat on the back there. We’re hospitality to our core. A person could run over my hamster on the street, and through my tears I would beg them not to think anything of it.
Ash does not struggle with this.
I fidget while he stares, as if he’s still trying to decide whether to forgive me.
“Fine.” My shoulders sag as I turn my computer back around. “I’ll show you the second grade, but I will not enjoy it.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, and I pause. Was that an almost smile? It feels thrilling, that flutter of muscle. Somehow hard-won.
I want to do it again.
“Just forget it,” he says, opening another browser and shrugging out of his jacket. “All I want you to do is look through the list and help me pick a book.”
I nod a little too quickly. I can do that. I can focus and pick out the best book on this list. He will be staggered by my ability to pick books.
I scroll through the list again. And again. I open a tab and find the Wikipedia entry for Robinson Crusoe. I scroll some more.
I try to hold it in as long as I can before it slips out. “Was that a song?”
His typing falters, and he punches the backspace key pointedly several times before answering. “What do you think?”
“I think I would like to hear that song.”
“I don’t play that one.” I can hear the hard stop in his voice. He’s done talking about this, and I swallow the next question back down.
I comb through what I know about him. That song hinted at a heart broken, and although he looks like nothing in the world could touch him, someone clearly did.
I remember hearing about him dating Brandon Stewart shortly after getting to town last year. I think that might have gone on for a few months. I didn’t hear much about a breakup, but there were whispers of him and Rebecca Marson being off and on toward the end of junior year. Pretty sure she literally wrapped herself like a present and parked her butt on the hood of his car for his birthday.
I cock my head. I wonder if Rebecca is the only one who brings him back to life. I wonder what Josh would say if I ever said something like that to him. He’d probably fall over in shock. I shiver, imagining the delicious look of surprise on his face.
I narrow my eyes at the laptop, now protectively close to Ash. What if I did say something like that to Josh?
“Ash, would you consider yourself a romantic?”
His fingers jerk, and again with the backspace key. Tap. Tap. Tap. “I’m having trouble following your train of thought.”
“Just a question. Would you consider yourself romantic? That song seemed pretty romantic.” The almost smile has made me bold.
“Which is none of your business.” He draws the barriers between us again.
I cautiously poke them. “I’ll answer it for you. You clearly know what you’re doing, and I’m hoping you can help me.”
“Help you?” he asks, his stormy face lightening, like confusion has made him forget to keep glowering.
“Yes,” I say, scooting my desk closer. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I used to date Josh.”
“I know,” he says flatly, pulling the clouds back in place, too polite to drop the “no shit” I know is lurking behind his teeth.
I clear my throat. “I think our breakup was a poor decision, and you might be able to help me get things back to normal.”
He closes his laptop, turning all his attention to me. “How so?” Disbelief drips off each word.
I focus on a spot over his head, the newly forming plan feeling shakier under his microscopic gaze. “It seems Josh did not feel like I was very romantic or that I really knew how to be as loving as a girlfriend should be.” I smile, like it’s the easiest, breeziest thing in the world. Just your normal little relationship hiccup. “And that’s where you come in!”
He pinches his nose. “He said what to you?” I fixate on the skull ring staring at me from his middle finger. It looks sympathetic.
“Of course, it’s just a huge misunderstanding.” The idea is building rapidly in my brain, and I feel like I’ve jumped off the high dive without holding my nose. This could actually work. “You can help me Cyrano him.”
“Cyrano him?”
I take a deep breath. “You see, Cyrano was a soldier who had a lot of gifts—”
“I’m familiar with the story, Marlowe.”
“Okay, so you could write some letters, or songs about him, and I can give them to him, and prove I’m romantic, and everything will go back to normal.” My chest loosens a little. The sun has finally come out from behind weeks of smothering skies.
“I have so many problems with this, I don’t even know where to begin.”
I frown and pull open my notebook to draw out a plan of action for him. I must not be explaining myself well.
“Actually, I do know where to begin. He’s an absolute dipshit.”
His voice carries to the front of the room, and he punctuates his words by pointing in Josh’s direction. I see golden hair turn toward us, and I snatch his hand out of the air, curling black-painted nails back into his palm.
Ms. Chris moves toward us, sensing drama she needs to squash before it blossoms. “Everything okay over here?”
“Everything is perfect!” I say, overly bright. “We were just finalizing our choice.” Ash yanks his hand back.
She raises an eyebrow, waiting.
“In fact, we’d like to pick now.” I smile at Ash’s impassive face. “Umm… we’re going to go with Wuthering Heights.”
She smiles. “A tortured gothic tale about revenge and the nature of love. Quite a bit to sink your teeth into there.”
I perk up, feeling like I’ve passed a particularly challenging test.
“I’ll make a note of it,” she says as she turns away from us. “Odette Norman and Tiffany Bridgers, y’all better be done with this project if you’ve got this much time to not sit together.”
Ash at least waits until she marches away before pouncing. “Do you even know anything about Wuthering Heights?”
“Sure, it’s a tortured gothic tale about revenge and the nature of love.”
He groans, and I almost feel sorry for him.
“Oh relax, I’ll read everything I need to know about it later.” I wave off his concern and pour every ounce of energy into a smile I aim at him like a laser beam. It promises best friendship, my undying devotion, and a framed picture of my second-grade school photo. He just has to help me with this one little thing. “So, do we have a deal? You’ll help?”
He shakes his head. “Just be glad you’re done with him.”
I’m surprised, but not discouraged. “It’s not like I expect something for nothing! I’m fully prepared to make an even trade.”
“I don’t want anything from you,” he says, packing up.
I blink, ignoring the sting of his words. “You don’t even know what I have to offer.”
“I know everything I need to know. You have a shitty ex-boyfriend and he’s done you the favor of removing himself from your life. Consider it a win.”
The bell rings and he eases out of his seat.
“Ash,” I say, my voice catching on his name and keeping him in place.
He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know what this breakup has done to me. He doesn’t know how much this matters. If he did, how could he say no?
“I love him.” My voice is as small as I feel.
He pauses for just a moment. “It’ll pass.”