Outside the glass walls, a warm July drizzle over the lake.
Inside, Roo and Noel sit together on a wooden crate too small to hold both their butts.
Roo wears her new rhinestone-studded glasses and a T-shirt of Noel’s that reads DEATH: OUR NATION’S NUMBER ONE KILLER. The gap between her two front teeth keeps showing because she’s smiling so much. Noel’s hair has too much gel in it and his arms look scrawny. His eyes are laughing.Roo: The inauguration of my digital video camera.Noeclass="underline" (doesn’t say anything; looks at his hands)Roo: I bought it this morning with money I made mucking out stalls at the zoo and selling Birkenstocks to people with disgusting feet.Noeclass="underline" (stares like a deer at the camera)Roo: (turning) Are you going to say something?Noeclass="underline" I feel dumb. The camera makes everything seem fake, suddenly.Roo: I feel dumb too. But let’s shoot some footage so I can practice editing.Noeclass="underline" Okay.Roo: Just get past the dumb.Noeclass="underline" You got it.Roo: Today is July eighteenth, I think. We’re sitting in my dad’s greenhouse and …Noeclass="underline" (starts kissing Roo on the neck)Roo: (laughing) What are you doing?Noeclass="underline" You said ignore the dumb.Roo: Yeah, but—Noeclass="underline" And you said you wanted to practice editing.Roo: So?Noeclass="underline" (still kissing) So I’m ignoring the dumb and giving you something to edit out.
I spent a lot of time at Noel’s place that summer. He lived with his mom and stepdad in a Victorian-style house in Madrona. He had two little half sisters and his folks were always around, cooking or scolding or complaining about the clutter. It was a nice place to be. Mrs. DuBoise told me flat out I could stay for dinner any night I wanted.
Noel didn’t have a summer job1, but he was expected to take charge of his little sisters two days a week. He’d bring them to the zoo while I was working for the landscape gardener there. They would bring spearmint jelly candies and feed them to me ’cause my hands would be covered in soil. Then when I got off work I’d take them to the Family Farm area and lift the little girls up to pet the llamas and feed the goats.
One day, when Noel went off to buy juice for us all, I helped the girls write notes on zoo stationery to Robespierre, my favorite pygmy goat. We stuck our letters in the bright blue box marked WRITE TO OUR FARM ANIMALS.Dear Robespierre,You are a nice goat. I did not know goats were so hairy as you. I thought you would have more like fur.
Love, SydonieDear Robespierre,Why am I not allowed to feed you my apple? I want to feed you my apple and see you eat it up.
From, MarieDear Robespierre,That was my real live boyfriend, Noel!Did you see him? Did you?Don’t be jealous. You are a pygmy goat and I am a human. It could never have progressed beyond ear scratching, you and me. Besides, you have Imelda and Mata Hari, both of whom obviously prefer you to that scraggly little pretender of a goat, Kaczynski.When you write back, please tell me: Do you think it’s all going to come crashing down? Do you think this is real life? Can I be this happy?
Love, Ruby
After my shift ended, Noel would usually drive me back to his place. I’d take a shower there and change into normal clothes.
Like I belonged in his house.
With him.
And it was just right.
I was in love.
In love. Yes.
It wasn’t anything we said to each other, but it was how I felt.
And how I thought he felt.
I even told my shrink.
Just in case you haven’t familiarized yourself with the painful chronicles of my high school career, I have a shrink because sophomore year—after Jackson broke my heart and Kim and all my other friends ditched me—I nearly went insane. I have managed to reach my senior year alive only because it turns out you can’t actually die from embarrassment and misery. You just start having these awful, can’t-breathe, heart-exploding episodes. Panic attacks.2
Now I have to go to therapy once a week.3
“Love is a big word,” said Doctor Z when I told her about Noel. She popped a piece of Nicorette and waggled her Birkenstock off the end of her foot.
I played with the frayed hem of my jeans and didn’t answer.
“This is the same Noel who hid his asthma from you, am I right?” she went on.
“Not his asthma. The fact that he hadn’t been taking care of his asthma.”
“And the same guy who wouldn’t let you explain about the incident in the library? You two weren’t speaking for a while?”
I sighed. “Same guy.”
I hate it when Doctor Z asks questions that roundabout way. It’s so shrinky-shrinky.
What she really meant was: Do you honestly think this Noel is going to be a good boyfriend? Because he already has an iffy track record. And you, Ruby Oliver, can hardly afford to risk your precarious mental health for a guy who might turn out to be a jerk.
“It’s the same guy who gave me his hoodie when my clothes got soaked in chemistry class,” I told her. “Same guy who took me home from the Spring Fling when no one else would give me a ride. Same guy who made me a valentine. And baked me chocolate croissants. And said he knew all the gossip about me wasn’t true.”
Doctor Z didn’t answer. She just blinked her big brown eyes at me.
“You’re thinking I’m too defensive now,” I said.
Again, no answer.
“Now you’re thinking I’m getting all cranked over a silly high school thing, making it sound important, like some big romance, when in the larger scheme of my whole entire life, none of this will really matter,” I said.
More silence.
“And you’re gonna say I’m too boy-oriented, and I should be focusing on developing my friendships and not have Rabbit Fever all the time.”4
Doctor Z recrossed her legs and straightened her orange chenille poncho. But still, she said nothing.
“I’ve been in therapy a year and a half now,” I told her. “I know how it works. I know what you’re going to say before you say it.”
“I’m not saying anything, Ruby.”
“You’re thinking it.”
Doctor Z paused. “Maybe you are thinking it,” she offered.
Here’s Doctor Z: African American. Fortysomething. Seriously fashion-challenged to the point of wearing horrible crocheted ponchos and patchwork skirts. Cozy office in a generic office building. Mistress of the shrinky silence. Nicotine fiend.
Here’s me: Caucasian. Nearly seventeen. Vintage dresses, fishnet stockings and Converse. Suffering from panic attacks and Rabbit Fever. Plus a general inability to relate to other human beings in a way that leads to happiness.
Here’s what we have in common: We both wear glasses. We both live in Seattle. And we sit in this room together every week, discussing my problems.
Therapy is deeply weird. You talk and talk and someone else listens. This grown-up your parents pay money to, who has never met your friends, never been to your house, never seen your school—in other words, a person who’s had no contact whatsoever with any of the things that are giving you angst.
You tell that person everything. And she listens.
“I ran into Nora the other day at Pagliacci’s,” I said, to change the subject.
“Oh?”
“Ever since I supposedly stole Noel from her, we just avoid one another. But two days ago I saw her and her brother getting pizza.”