I hadn’t realized an Internet window was even open, but when I clicked around for a second, I discovered I had an instant message on my e-mail server.
From Ryder Cross.
RYDER: I know I’m not the most well-liked guy right now, but that e-mail really wasn’t necessary.
RYDER: I was putting myself out there, and I don’t appreciate you and your friend (I know you didn’t work alone) mocking me.
I shrank back into the cushions, shame writhing in my gut. I didn’t give a shit if I was a jerk to Ryder, but I hated that he thought Amy had been part of it. I mean, she had, but not willingly. Neither of us had actually wanted to send that e-mail.
I sighed and, since I promised Amy I’d apologize to him, started to write back.
ME: I know. I’m sorry. We got carried away. It’s not an excuse, but I had a shitty day and I took it out on you. We really never meant to hit send. I’m sorry.
A second later, he responded.
RYDER: I accept and appreciate your apology.
RYDER: I’m sorry about your bad day.
ME: Thanks.
I opened my Word doc again, thinking that was the end of it, but barely two minutes later, there was another ping and I groaned.
“Damn it, Ryder. I already apologized. What more do you want from me?”
But when I saw his instant message, I couldn’t help but smile a little.
RYDER: I know this is random, particularly since we’re not in the same class, but you have Mrs. Perkins for English, right? Have you written the paper on Julius Caesar yet?
ME: Funny. I was literally about to start on that. I know. I’ve procrastinated.
And then, because I couldn’t help myself:
ME: I bet the kids back at your school in DC weren’t so irresponsible.
RYDER: Ha-ha. I know. I bring up my old school too much. Is it that annoying?
ME: Yes.
ME: Incredibly.
RYDER: Sorry.
RYDER: But, if it helps, whether the kids in my old school procrastinate or not, I do. At least with English.
RYDER: Especially with Shakespeare.
ME: Not a fan of the bard?
RYDER: I wouldn’t say I’m not a fan. But I am not the best with iambic pentameter. Every word of dialogue goes right over my head.
ME: Alert the press! Ryder Cross just admitted he’s not perfect at something. Quick, has hell frozen over?
RYDER: Never mind. Forget I said anything.
ME: I suck with Shakespeare, too.
RYDER: Yeah?
ME: Yeah.
It was true. I was the most miserable translator to have ever touched the work of Sir William. Last year, when we were studying Macbeth, I got so lost trying to understand it that at one point I threw my book across Amy’s bedroom and swore I’d never go to school again. “Who needs English?” I’d asked her. “I’ll be a mime. I’ll join the circus. Screw my education!”
Lucky for me, Amy is excellent at deciphering Shakespeare’s long monologues, and she taught me a trick — it all starts making sense if you hear it. Seeing the words on the page is too much, too difficult to find the rhythm, but if you hear it, it becomes clearer. And lucky for me, Amy, who would make a brilliant thespian if she weren’t so painfully shy, was willing to read to me.
I’d gotten an A on my Macbeth paper because of her, and now I was about to have an encore performance with my Julius Caesar paper. Amy had read me the play two nights ago, and she hadn’t had to do nearly as much explaining this time.
ME: It helps to hear it.
RYDER: What?
ME: If you can get someone to read it to you — someone who understands it — it starts making a lot more sense.
RYDER: Oh. I don’t really have anyone who could read it to me.
RYDER: My mom could, but I’m not asking her.
ME: What about a study buddy? Someone else from English class?
RYDER: Again, I’m not the most well-liked guy at school right now. Even the teachers can’t stand me.
I didn’t know why, but somehow his honesty about this surprised me. Not that it was a secret. No one really tried too hard to hide their disdain for Ryder, but he was so arrogant, so conceited, that I just assumed he thought the world was as fond of him as he was of himself.
But just then, he didn’t seem too conceited. Actually, he was almost tolerable.
RYDER: Which, if you ask me, is entirely unprofessional. Not that I’m surprised. Most of these people are hardly qualified to call themselves educators.
Scratch that part about tolerable.
ME: I’m going to ignore that.
ME: Maybe you could watch a staged play? I bet you could find a video online. Or at the library?
RYDER: That’s not a bad idea, actually.
When he didn’t type anything else, I assumed the conversation was over. I went back to my paper, but after writing, deleting, rewriting, and deleting the first paragraph, I realized there was no way I could focus right now. Something Ryder said had lingered in my head, and perhaps I am nosy, but I just had to ask.
ME: Why won’t you ask your mom for help?
RYDER: It’s … complicated.
A minute later:
RYDER: Do you really want to know?
ME: Sure. It’s not like I’m doing anything else right now.
RYDER: What about your paper?
ME: I already told you I’m a procrastinator. I’m sure your parental drama is far more interesting than Brutus’s betrayal of Caesar.
ME: Though hopefully less bloody?
RYDER: LOL. Yes, less bloody.
ME: My, my, Ryder Cross. I never took you for the chat-speak type. LOL indeed.
RYDER: That’s my dirty little secret. I sometimes write like an actual teenager. Don’t tell anyone.
ME: Too late. I now have dirt on you. Mission accomplished.
He wrote back with an emoticon of a face sticking its tongue out at me. I laughed.
ME: More dirt! This is my lucky night!
RYDER: Damn it. I’m playing right into your hands, aren’t I?
ME: That you are, sir. That you are.
Whoa, wait. Was I bantering with Ryder Cross? My archnemesis? The Lex Luthor to my Superman? The Loki to my Thor? The peanut butter to my jelly? Okay, I know most of the world thinks those last two go together, but I personally find the combination rather abhorrent and just ew.
But I totally was. Ryder Cross and I were teasing each other in a surprisingly nonhostile way. I suppose this was the power of the Internet.
ME: So … your mom?
It took Ryder a little while to type out his response.
RYDER: My mom left my dad. But instead of just divorcing him and moving to a new house and letting me continue at the school I’ve been attending since I was five, she insisted on packing up everything, moving hundreds of miles away, and dragging me with her. It’s like she didn’t care what I wanted. I had friends in DC. I had a girlfriend. I was at one of the top schools in the country. But that didn’t matter. She had gotten a new job and I had to come with her to this tiny town in the middle of nowhere. I freaking hate it here.