laying.”
He sits down next to me on the steps, right near my head. I look up at him, then turn toward the yard so that he can’t see my face. The whole situation is suddenly too shameful for words.
“Then I’m just laying,” I say. “What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?”
“I live here,” I say, rolling my eyes. Duh.
“Yeah, but what are you doing here, out on the porch, just laying?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
He looks me up and down. I’m still in my Cooley’s uniform, my eyes are wet and my body is lethargic.
“Not really,” he says.
“I’m depressed.” God, do I really need to spell it out for him? I thought Noah was supposed to be smart.
“About what?”
“About what? Are you seriously asking me that question?”
“I know about what,” he says. “I just meant has anything new happened? Because you seemed fine a little while ago.”
“Yes,” I say. “There was a pink Jeep in Sebastian’s driveway.” I look up at him from under lowered lashes, gauging his reaction to this critical piece of information.
Obviously, he’s too dense to get the ramifications, because his response is to look confused and then repeat, “A pink Jeep?”
“Yup,” I say, turning back to look out into the yard. “A pink Jeep.” A mosquito lands on my leg, probably to suck my blood and give me a huge itchy bite and maybe even some West Nile. But I’m too upset to move, and so I just let it do its thing.
“Is Sebastian . . . is he . . . I mean he’s not . . . he isn’t gay now, is he?” Noah asks.
“No!” I smack his leg. “Are you saying I could turn a man gay?”
“No,” he says. “I just heard pink Jeep and Sebastian and it was the logical place to go. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with being gay.”
“The pink Jeep,” I say, “Belongs to her .”
“Her?”
“The sophomore,” I report. “And,” I rush on before he can say anything else, “she has a bumper sticker that says ‘Sophomores Do It Better’.” I sit up then, fast, and my head goes a little woozy because I’ve been lying down for so long. “Is that true?” I ask him. “Do sophomores really do it better?”
“God, no,” Noah says. I lie back down, satisfied.
“So what are you doing here?” I ask.
“Ava said you left her a message sounding kind of upset, so she asked me to come over and check on you.”
I sit up again. “Are you serious ?”
“Yeah.” He uncrosses his legs.
“I can’t believe her!” Suddenly, I’m fuming. “Why wouldshe send you here when I left her a message? She couldn’t call me or text me?” I pick up my phone and check it. “Nothing!” I say. “Not one call. Not one voice mail. Not one text, not even an email or a Facebook message!”
“She didn’t have that much time,” Noah says weakly.
“What. Ever.” I’m so upset, that I burst into tears.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Noah says calmly. “No crying.” If he’s startled by the fact that I’m now sobbing, he doesn’t show it.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I just . . . I just . . .”
“Come on,” he says, standing up and holding out his hand. “We’re going for ice cream.”
I stop crying. “Any kind I want?”
“The secret to a great ice cream,” Noah says fifteen minutes later, as we stand in line at The Big Dip Ice Cream Stand, “is crunch coat.”
I look at him, aghast. “ Crunch coat ? Oh, Noah darling, you are so wrong.” I almost wish I hadn’t heard that, it’s so upsetting. He gives me a look, like he wants an explanation. I sigh. “Everyone knows that you ruin ice cream by putting crunch coat on it,” I say. “Crunch coat isn’t even peanuts, it’s . . . I don’t know what it is, some kind of weird, synthetic . . .”
“Crunch coat?” he offers.
“Exactly.” The line shuffles forward, and we shuffle with it. The line’s pretty long, but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s eight o’clock on a gorgeous summer night—one of thosenights where
He sits down next to me on the steps, right near my head. I look up at him, then turn toward the yard so that he can’t see my face. The whole situation is suddenly too shameful for words.
“Then I’m just laying,” I say. “What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?”
“I live here,” I say, rolling my eyes. Duh.
“Yeah, but what are you doing here, out on the porch, just laying?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
He looks me up and down. I’m still in my Cooley’s uniform, my eyes are wet and my body is lethargic.
“Not really,” he says.
“I’m depressed.” God, do I really need to spell it out for him? I thought Noah was supposed to be smart.
“About what?”
“About what? Are you seriously asking me that question?”
“I know about what,” he says. “I just meant has anything new happened? Because you seemed fine a little while ago.”
“Yes,” I say. “There was a pink Jeep in Sebastian’s driveway.” I look up at him from under lowered lashes, gauging his reaction to this critical piece of information.
Obviously, he’s too dense to get the ramifications, because his response is to look confused and then repeat, “A pink Jeep?”
“Yup,” I say, turning back to look out into the yard. “A pink Jeep.” A mosquito lands on my leg, probably to suck my blood and give me a huge itchy bite and maybe even some West Nile. But I’m too upset to move, and so I just let it do its thing.
“Is Sebastian . . . is he . . . I mean he’s not . . . he isn’t gay now, is he?” Noah asks.
“No!” I smack his leg. “Are you saying I could turn a man gay?”
“No,” he says. “I just heard pink Jeep and Sebastian and it was the logical place to go. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with being gay.”
“The pink Jeep,” I say, “Belongs to her .”
“Her?”
“The sophomore,” I report. “And,” I rush on before he can say anything else, “she has a bumper sticker that says ‘Sophomores Do It Better’.” I sit up then, fast, and my head goes a little woozy because I’ve been lying down for so long. “Is that true?” I ask him. “Do sophomores really do it better?”
“God, no,” Noah says. I lie back down, satisfied.
“So what are you doing here?” I ask.
“Ava said you left her a message sounding kind of upset, so she asked me to come over and check on you.”
I sit up again. “Are you serious ?”
“Yeah.” He uncrosses his legs.
“I can’t believe her!” Suddenly, I’m fuming. “Why wouldshe send you here when I left her a message? She couldn’t call me or text me?” I pick up my phone and check it. “Nothing!” I say. “Not one call. Not one voice mail. Not one text, not even an email or a Facebook message!”
“She didn’t have that much time,” Noah says weakly.
“What. Ever.” I’m so upset, that I burst into tears.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Noah says calmly. “No crying.” If he’s startled by the fact that I’m now sobbing, he doesn’t show it.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I just . . . I just . . .”
“Come on,” he says, standing up and holding out his hand. “We’re going for ice cream.”
I stop crying. “Any kind I want?”
“The secret to a great ice cream,” Noah says fifteen minutes later, as we stand in line at The Big Dip Ice Cream Stand, “is crunch coat.”
I look at him, aghast. “ Crunch coat ? Oh, Noah darling, you are so wrong.” I almost wish I hadn’t heard that, it’s so upsetting. He gives me a look, like he wants an explanation. I sigh. “Everyone knows that you ruin ice cream by putting crunch coat on it,” I say. “Crunch coat isn’t even peanuts, it’s . . . I don’t know what it is, some kind of weird, synthetic . . .”
“Crunch coat?” he offers.
“Exactly.” The line shuffles forward, and we shuffle with it. The line’s pretty long, but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s eight o’clock on a gorgeous summer night—one of thosenights where
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