When I got to my English homework, I flipped through The Works of Shakespeare to decide which characters to compare and contrast to Macbeth. Last year we studied Othello, Hamlet, Romeo, and Julius Caesar. They’d all died hideous deaths, which meant either Shakespeare or Mrs. Harris liked to see men in misery and ruin.
I chose Othello because he would be easy to compare to Macbeth. They were both power hungry leaders with trust issues.
Since it was an easy comparison, I was clearly not jumping through any hoops. I could have chosen Romeo, who would have been more difficult. Romeo’s downfall had been love and rashness and a complete inability to communicate with Juliet about important issues such as faking one’s own death.
When you thought about it, a lot of Shakespeare’s characters had communication problems. I flipped through some more pages, wondering if that was a dramatic device or if it was an underlying theme of Shakespeare’s work. Maybe it said something about his personality.
Now that would be an interesting paper—a psychoanalysis of Shakespeare using his plays and sonnets to decipher his personality. I didn’t have time for that sort of research before this assignment was due, but I could do it someday. Maybe in college.
I was estimating how long it would take to read the complete Works of Shakespeare and simultaneously wondering if the fact that I was thinking about reading more Shakespeare meant I was hopelessly boring, when Mom called, “Cassidy, someone is here to see you.”
I knew it was Elise. Who else would have shown up at my house instead of calling my cell phone? I wondered if she had come to apologize or just to ask me where the easiest place to buy liquor was.
I slowly left my room. I didn’t want to see her.
When I reached the staircase, I saw Mom talking with someone downstairs. Two steps later I saw that it wasn’t Elise. It was Josh.
He was looking at some of Mom’s paintings on the wall but turned when he heard me coming down the stairs. “Hi, Cassidy.”
“Hi, Josh.”
“Well,” Mom said, “I think I’ll go start dinner now.” It was an obvious exit and made me feel even more awkward. I tried not to blush.
Josh gazed at me hesitantly. “Can we talk for a minute?”
“Sure.” I walked into our living room and sat down on the couch.
He sat down on the loveseat beside me. He leaned forward, keeping his voice low. “Look, I’m sorry about the way Elise acted on the way home.”
“It wasn’t you’re fault. Why should you apologize?”
He hesitated. I could tell he was debating what to say. “You wouldn’t know it now, but Elise was a straight-A student from kindergarten through junior high. She’s got an IQ that would let her run for Mensa president. But last year she got in with a bad crowd—a jerk of a boyfriend and a bunch of dimwit fashionistas who were always skipping school to get wasted. It’s one of the reasons my parents moved here. A fresh start and all that.”
His blue eyes fixed on mine earnestly. “She needs good friends, and I can tell you’d be that for her.”
It wasn’t a question, and yet it was. He was waiting for my answer.
“I don’t think she wants to be my friend,” I said.
“She doesn’t know what she wants right now . . . well, except to bother my parents. She’s pretty clear about that goal.” He tapped his hand absentmindedly against his armrest. “I’m the one who had to move during his senior year, but the way she carries on you’d think it was the other way around.”
I felt a tug of sympathy for him then. It would be hard to start at a new school your senior year, especially if one of the reasons you moved was that your younger sister had been expelled from your last high school. Most guys would be angry at their sister for that, but Josh was here in my living room trying to convince me to be Elise’s friend.
Sitting across from him, I noticed for the first time what a pretty shade of blue his eyes were. Bright blue. Almost like Chad’s.
“She’s actually fun,” Josh said, “when she’s not drunk or angry.”
“What percentage of the time is that?”
He let out a chuckle. “Do you want an estimate or empirical data?”
Empirical. I didn’t know what the word meant, so I couldn’t answer. Which bothered me. Vocabulary was one of the things they tested on the SATs. I definitely needed to read more Shakespeare.
“Look,” Josh said, “would you give Elise another chance? Just let her know you’re still willing to be her friend?”
I hesitated. I didn’t want more car trips like the one this afternoon. And our first meeting where Elise had let her gigantic dog sit on me—yeah, I could do without that sort of thing too. The rational response would be to tell Josh that I wished Elise the best, but we were obviously too different to be friends.
I didn’t say those words though. Maybe it was thoughts of Anjie struggling to fit in at her new school. Maybe I saw a little bit of myself in Elise. Or maybe I just didn’t want to see a good IQ go to waste. I let out a deep breath and said, “Okay.”
Josh smiled. “Great. Can I pick you up tomorrow for school?”
“Sure.”
“Can I pick you up at the bus stop so Elise doesn’t know I’ve talked with you?”
“What if she doesn’t want you to pick me up tomorrow?”
“She will.” He got up, and sent me another smile. “Thanks, Cassidy. See you later.”
“See you.” I walked him to the door.
Within seconds my mother poked around the corner. “Who was that guy?”
“Josh. He’s Elise’s brother.”
“Is he psychotic too?”
“I don’t think so.”
Mom peered out the blinds and watched Josh walking down the sidewalk toward his house. “He looks old. How old is he?”
“He’s a senior.”
Mom raised an eyebrow. “Mmm-hmm.”
“It’s not what you think. He just came over to talk to me about Elise. He wants me to give her a second chance.”
“Does he know you’re only a sophomore?”
“I don’t think it matters to him.”
Mom turned back to me. “Well, it matters to me. I don’t think it’s a good idea to date a guy who’s eighteen.”
“Then you shouldn’t date him,” I said, heading up the stairs. “I fully support that decision.”
“Very funny,” Mom said, and went back to looking out the blinds.
This was not the end of the discussion though. While I helped make dinner, she kept making little dating comments like, “Standards are more important than looks when you choose a boyfriend,” and “You know, it would be better if you dated boys your own age; then you’d be on the same experience level.”
Most of the boys my age had passed my “experience level” sometime around the seventh grade. I didn’t tell Mom that, though. It would have only made her panic.
At dinner Mom told Dad about Josh’s visit. “A boy came to see Cassidy today.”
“It wasn’t a real boy,” I said.
“He wasn’t a real boy?” Dad asked.
“No, I mean he didn’t actually come to see me.”
Mom poked at things on her plate. “He certainly didn’t come to see me.”
“It was only Elise’s brother. He came to talk to me about Elise.”
“He’s a senior,” Mom told Dad, “and very handsome.” The way she said it, handsome sounded like some terrible character flaw.
Dad cut into his lasagna and let out a disapproving grunt. “Perhaps we need get to know him better.”
“No, you don’t,” I said firmly. “I don’t want you saying anything to him. You’ll embarrass me.”
Mom stopped eating. “We won’t embarrass you. We know how to make casual conversation with your friends.”
“You’ll embarrass me.”
“Ohhh,” Dad said. He sounded like Sherlock Holmes discovering something.