And while you could argue that Meghan’s male-oriented outlook on life was all about the fact that her dad died when she was twelve and that’s why she’s the only other teenager I know who sees a shrink on a regular basis, there was no denying that she was being truthful when she said she didn’t know what I was writing about. She and her boyfriend, Finn, who was making espresso behind the counter at the B&O right that very minute, got together just before Spring Fling junior year and were as real and live as real and live could be. And before Finn, Meghan had been real and live with Bick.
And before Bick, with a guy she met at camp.
And before that, with Chet, who moved away.
And before that—you get the idea.
Meghan didn’t know much about how it felt to wonder if a guy still liked you. She didn’t know about half-boyfriends and awkwardness and partial breakups and all that human weirdness—partly, yes, because she is one of the most oblivious people I’ve ever met and really might not know human weirdness if it bit her, but also because she somehow knows how to connect with boys. Not like they’re Neanderthals or wildebeests or aliens or pod-robots, but like they’re normal human beings.
Which obviously they are.
Only, it is extremely hard to tell sometimes.
“A real live boyfriend is more of a boyfriend than a lot of boyfriends,” I told Meghan.
She took a sip of her mocha and shook her head. “If you were going out with a guy, why wouldn’t you sit with him at lunch?”
I shrugged. “He might be having Dude Time.”
“Dude Time?”
“You know, time with the guys. Time where they bond and don’t want their girlfriends hanging on their arms.”
“No,” said Meghan decisively. “They get plenty of that at soccer practice. It is completely unacceptable to have Dude Time when your own girlfriend is in the actual room with you, eating tacos. What kind of guy would do that?”
“Lots of guys do that.”
“What do they say?” asked Meghan. “Hey there, Roo, don’t come near me at lunch today ’cause I’m hurtin’ for some Dude Time?”
“No.” I ate the last of my cake. “They don’t call it Dude Time at all. That’s what I’m calling it. They just give off a Dude Time feeling. Like they want you to leave them alone.”
“That’s dumb,” said Meghan. “No normal guy would do that. You just had a bad experience with Jackson.”
“No,” I said. “I mean, yes.”
“What’s with this part?” Meghan wanted to know. She was rereading what I’d written. “ ‘You do not wonder if he will call. You do not wonder whether he will kiss you.’ ”
I nodded. “Don’t you ever wonder whether Finn will call?”
“No!” she laughed. “He calls me every morning before I leave for school and every night after dinner.”
I sighed and yelled over to Finn, who was wearing an apron and reading Studs Terkel behind the counter, since the coffee shop was basically dead. “You’re a real live boyfriend, Finn, you know that?”
He looked up. White skin, blond crew cut, big eyes. He’s got nowhere near Meghan’s level of sex appeal, but then, no one does. “I’m a what?” he called.
“Never mind,” Meghan told him, giggling. “Roo just thinks you’re nicer than most guys.”
“I am,” he said. “But she’s only saying that ’cause I give her free cake.”
“Okay,” said Meghan, back to business. “But what is this here, about not kissing? If he’s your boyfriend, wouldn’t you be kissing all the time?”
“Only if he’s your real live boyfriend,” I said. “Not if he’s a scamming mate1 or a friend with benefits2 or even a kind-of, sort-of, it’s-all-very-confusing boyfriend.3”
“Ruby Oliver,” said Meghan, “you are certifiable.”
Yes. That, I thought—that’s the trouble with me.
I am.
Because here’s what I was really thinking about during that whole conversation:
Noel.
Asthmatic, funny, scrawny Noel. He of the combat boots and the cross-country runs, the painting classes and music magazines. Friends with everyone, best friends with no one, secretive, beautiful, witty Noel.
Long story short: I was crazy about him but he wasn’t speaking to me. We’d had one amazing kissing extravaganza, then an atrocious misunderstanding late in junior year, the result of various complicated debacles partly involving the fact that my best friend Nora liked him first and he was therefore officially off-limits to me—and partly involving the other fact that in the eyes of most people at Tate Prep, I am a famous slut.
Noel, Noel, Noel.
It was insane to even be thinking of him.
I forgot that I had written all that stuff about real live boyfriends in my Chem notebook, and when my mother offered to quiz me on formulas for the final, I handed it over.
Mom was lying on the floor with her head on Polka-dot, our dog.4 I was standing at the fridge feeling a wave of ennui because of the severe lack of deliciousness therein.
My mother was on a raw food diet.
We’d had salad for dinner, and our fridge contained two bunches of kale, celery juice, pickled carrots, peanuts soaking in water, and a number of other items too horrible to mention.
“Why don’t we ever have dessert anymore?” I complained, shutting the fridge again. I don’t know why I even bothered to open it. Just habit, I guess, left over from the days when there might have been pie or something chocolate in there. “Just for me and Dad, if you don’t want to have it.”
No answer.
“And don’t tell me a banana makes a nice dessert,” I went on.
“Can’t you be supportive of the raw food way of life?” Mom said.
“I could if you didn’t make me live it with you.”
Mom ignored me. “Kevin, come look at this!” she called. Dad got up from his computer, where he was editing his garden catalog/newsletter, and bent over her shoulder. I figured she wanted him to decipher my writing on some part of the Chem notes.
“Did you read that, Kevin?” said my mother.
“Uh-huh.”
“So?”
“So what about it?”
“So I’m not sure you’re my real live boyfriend.”
“I’m your husband,” he said, kissing the top of her frizzy head.
“Ag!” I shouted. “Are you reading my personal things?” I stomped over and snatched the notebook out of her hand.
“Sure,” Mom said, ignoring me and turning to Dad, “but I’m not sure you’re my real live boyfriend because you don’t always call me when you say you will.”
“Elaine!” he moaned. “I forgot once last week when I was at Greg’s playing Wii.5 I wasn’t even home late.”
“No. You forgot that other time,” she said accusingly. “When you said you’d call from the grocery store to talk about what we were having for dinner.”
Dad winced.
“I was sitting on the bench outside my yoga class,” Mom went on, “waiting for you to call. Finally I gave up and went inside, but I missed all the chanting.”
“You don’t even like the chanting.”
My mother coughed. “I’m learning to like it. Anyway, I was waiting for you to call and you never did.”
“We’ve been married twenty years. I’m your real live boyfriend, okay? If that’s what you want to call it.” My dad went back to his desk in exasperation.
“Mom!” I waved my hand to get her attention. “Don’t read my stuff. If it looks remotely personal, don’t read it. Even if you’re holding the notebook for some completely justifiable reason. It’s not your business.”
She held up her palm to silence me. “Ruby, not now. I’m talking to your father.”
“It’s hard enough to have any privacy living in this tiny houseboat without you reading my notebooks,” I went on. This was something Doctor Z had suggested I do when the opportunity came up. To make very clear to my mother how I’d like to be treated and ask her to respect my privacy.