We went to Dick’s, this drive-in burger place that I’d always heard juniors and seniors talking about, but that I had never been to, since at that point none of my friends was old enough to have a driver’s license. I’m a vegetarian, so I got fries and a milk shake. Jackson got a burger and a root beer float. We sat on the hood of his big old boat of a car, a Dodge Dart Swinger that had once belonged to his uncle.
He told me a little about Japan. He spoke some Japanese for me when I questioned his ability.
I did my riff on my family.
He said he wanted to row crew this spring, but he was worried, since he hadn’t been in a boat since before he went away. He talked about the food in Japan, and said he ate raw fish. I said that French fries were better with Dijon mustard.
He said he was a ketchup man all the way.
I said, If you tried the mustard, you’d become a convert.
He said, I have tried mustard.
I said, Was it Dijon?
He said, No. Just regular.
I said, Then you haven’t tried it.
Oh, he said, have you tried mayonnaise?
I said, Mayonnaise is gross.
He leaned in close, and said, Really, you don’t like it?
Ick, I said.
And he kissed me, and whispered, “I love mayonnaise.”
He kissed me again—
—and I didn’t feel like a loser
—and I didn’t worry that I couldn’t kiss right
—and my glasses didn’t get in the way
—and I didn’t wonder if he’d tell his friends
—and I didn’t wonder if it was a joke.
This is Jackson Clarke, I thought, who put the frog in my cubby. This is Jackson Clarke, who used to have braces. This is Jackson Clarke, who’s been to Japan. This is Jackson Clarke, whose tongue tastes like root beer. This is Jackson Clarke, who used to seem ordinary. This is Jackson Clarke.
I kissed him back.
He drove me home.
And there actually was a sunset.
1 I am an idiot, I know.2 Doctor Z says, maybe I wanted it to be discovered and put my feet up subconsciously on purpose. I say, if I did that, I must have been some kind of eleven-year-old masochist (someone who enjoys pain) because I had never been so embarrassed in my life; it was so embarrassing it actually hurt. And if I was a masochist at eleven, then imagine how messed up I am by now. Just commit me to the asylum and be done with it.
Doctor Z says, Maybe there were larger reasons you wanted people to know. Maybe it was a way of being honest about your feelings?
I say, Maybe not. Maybe I’m just an idiot.
And she sighs and says, Okay, Ruby, I can see you don’t want to talk about this right now. We can come back to it when you’re ready.3 Okay. Now I know that every single ninth-grade boy in America wants to be a musician. They play air guitar in their bedrooms and pretend they’re rock stars. But I didn’t know that, then.4 If I had half a brain, this episode would have cured me of putting any of my thoughts about boys into writing. It is way too dangerous. But I obviously didn’t learn my lesson then, and haven’t learned it now. I keep doing it, even after what happened with the Boyfriend List. Look at what you’re reading now! Pure evidence of my idiocy.5 Mr. Wallace is fourteen years older than me. At least. But I don’t need to ask Doctor Z to know that liking him is certifiably insane.6 Movies where the couples hate each other half the time: Ten Things I Hate About You. One Fine Day. When Harry Met Sally. You’ve Got Mail. Intolerable Cruelty. The African Queen. Addicted to Love. Bringing Up Baby. The Goodbye Girl. How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days. As Good As It Gets. French Kiss. Groundhog Day. A Life Less Ordinary.7 Movies where after breaking up, it turns out the man actually loves the woman madly and can’t exist without her: Pretty Woman. An Officer and a Gentleman. Bridget Jones’s Diary. The Truth About Cats and Dogs. Reality Bites. Jerry Maguire. Persuasion. High Fidelity. Say Anything. Plus, Notting Hill, Grease, Four Weddings and a Funeral and Runaway Bride—only the woman comes back to the man.8 Doctor Z says it’s a good anxiety release to express your anger. So in the interest of preventing further panic attacks, I’m venting. Not too bad, huh?
5. Ben (but he didn’t know.)
Ben Moi was at my summer camp after sixth grade. He didn’t know I existed.
“There’s nothing to say about him,” I told Doctor Z. “I liked him. Everyone did. He was golden.”
“What did you like?”
I didn’t have an answer. “There was something about him. He always had a girlfriend. He had like three different ones over the course of the summer.”
“But not you?”
“One time, I sat next to him at a camp sing-along and I pressed my leg against his, trying to be sexy, but he kept moving it away. He was going out with this girl Sharone, anyway.”
“Then why did you put him on the list?” Doctor Z was chewing Nicorette again. I can’t imagine her smoking, but she must light up like a fiend as soon as her workday is done; she chews that gum like an addict.
“I used to think about him all the time,” I told her.
“Like what?”
“Huh?”
“What did you think?”
“I don’t know. Normal stuff about a boy you like.”
Doctor Z was quiet for a minute. “Give me a hint, here, Ruby,” she said. “Something.”
“I just wanted to go out with him. Like when I got dressed in the morning, I’d think about whether he’d like me better in jeans or shorts; or I’d wonder if he’d notice I put mustard on my French fries, and would he realize that I was unusual?”
“Did you think about kissing him?”
“Not really.”1
“Did you like talking to him?”
“We never had a conversation. Except once, he told me my shoe was untied.”
“Did he make you laugh?”
“No.”
“Was he talented, or interesting?”
“Um. Not particularly, I don’t think.”
“Did he make you feel special?”
“He made me nervous. I always felt sweaty and ugly whenever he was around.”
“Really?” Doctor Z leaned forward. “Why like someone who made you feel sweaty and ugly?”
“He was hot,” I explained. “Ben Moi was just the guy that you want as your boyfriend.”
“But why?”
“Can’t you just want someone?” I asked. “Does there have to be a reason?”
“This is therapy, Ruby.” Doctor Z sounded exasperated. “It might be helpful for you to try to articulate something about something.”
So I told her the truth: I thought about how it would be to have such a perfect, popular boy for a boyfriend. How with someone like Ben Moi, I’d know I was all right. I’d know I was pretty. I’d know my clothes were right. I’d know someone wanted me.
“Validation,” she said.
“I guess so.” It didn’t sound so good when she put it like that—but it didn’t sound untrue, either.
“And when you had a boyfriend, with Jackson, did you feel all those things?”
“Yeah,” I answered. “I did.”
It was amazing how simple it was, how fast Jackson and I went from strangers to spending every minute together. He met my parents. I met his parents. We did homework together. We kissed for hours. His dog liked me.
I never imagined that having a boyfriend would mean having someone to hang around with, someone who’d drive over to my house to eat dinner with my parents on a Wednesday night, stay to play Scrabble, then sit on the couch reading his history assignment while I did my math. In fact, what it was like with Jackson was completely different from how I thought about dating in the first place.