Crash Test Love (11 page)

GARRETT

Who knew that a couple of perfectly selected DVDs and a monologue about Woody Al en would help me worm my way into Henry Arlington’s heart?

Oh, that’s right.

Me.

Which is why I’m standing in the middle of his living room, just before Friday night becomes Saturday morning, about to go upstairs to his bedroom.

Take that, J Squad.

I look around; pictures of Henry at various ages stand everywhere like “Statues” (Foo Fighters, 2007). There’s a long leather couch, a few vases with dried owers, a gorgeous grand piano, and some interesting framed posters on the wal .

I fol ow Henry into the kitchen and watch him pul two beers from the fridge. “Take whatever you want,” he says, motioning to the pantry. I open it and nd a smorgasbord of chips and cookies; I grab some Oreos and raise them in silent victory. Henry laughs and together we go upstairs, into his room.

Henry’s room is not what I expect. It’s pret y minimal. His bed is against the wal , and opposite it is a large at-screen TV atop an elegant black dresser. Next to that is a glass desk with an oversized Apple monitor; on either side of the desk is a rectangular speaker sit ing on a narrow stand.

His wal s are stark white. There’s a framed picture of Elvis Costel o and three enormous windows that overlook his backyard. A tiny nightstand with a lamp. A navy blue bean bag chair next to his closet. Oh, yes—and there are DVDs. Hundreds of them. Three bookshelves that stretch from oor to ceiling, and they’re packed.

So this is where Henry sleeps. This is where he lives.

“We’l have to keep the volume kinda low—I don’t want to wake up my dad.”

“Where’s your mom?” I ask.

Henry inches. It’s a slight reaction, but I notice it nonetheless. “She’s dead.”

“Oh,” I say, immediately regret ing my question. “I’m so sorry, Henry. I had no idea.” He shrugs. “It’s okay.” He opens a beer and passes it to me. It’s tangy and sweet. “Ever had Tsingtao?” I’m not a huge drinker in general, but I do like this. “Nope. It’s real y good, though.”

“My dad is kind of a beer connoisseur,” he says. “He usual y has the fridge stocked with stu I didn’t even know existed. He doesn’t care if I have one or two, as long as I’m not driving.” He looks at me. “So, actual y, you shouldn’t be drinking that. If you’re gonna drive home.” Is he suggesting I should stay the night? I put the beer down. “You’re right.”

“Unless you want to drink. Then I won’t, and I can drive you home.”

“That’s okay,” I tel him. “But thanks.”

“I stil can’t believe you’re such a lm fanatic. I thought when you took the job at Huntington, wel , that you were—”

“Lying?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize. My father is a lm professor, so I’ve grown up with an appreciation for truly great movies. And truly bad ones.” He laughs and says, “Wow.” Usual y when I tel people what my dad does they think it’s interesting, but it’s never a big deal. To Henry, though, it real y is.

“Get ing to study and watch and talk about lms every day sounds like a dream come true,” he says, kicking o his sneakers. He’s wearing white socks that cut o just below the ankle, and his jeans are tat ered in al the right places.

“I guess,” I say, slipping out of my own shoes. I sit on the edge of his bed. “Maybe you should become a professor.”

“Nah,” he says, taking another sip of his beer. “I like to keep to myself. If you haven’t already noticed.” I have.

“I’d like to write movies. To be a screenwriter, you know? I just real y want to be a part of them. A part of something that’l last a whole lot longer than I wil .” He blushes. I doubt he’s ever said those words out loud before. “That must sound so corny.”

“Not at al ,” I tel him. “It’s good to have a goal, and clearly you know a lot about lm. Do you write a lot?”

“Some. Not much.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Why?”

“You seem like someone who has stories to tel .”

He smiles an I’m-embarrassed kind of smile. “So what do you want to do with your life?” he asks.

This is going to sound ridiculous, but I have absolutely no answer. And truthful y, it’s the rst time anyone (other than my parents) has asked me this question. When Henry speaks about screenwriting, there’s real passion there. I don’t have anything I feel that way about. Except music.

“I don’t know,” I say.

“I don’t know,” I say.

“You must want to do something. Candy striper? Go-go dancer?”

“No, I mean … I don’t know what I want to do. I honestly have no idea.”

Henry rubs his chin. “Why do you think that is?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not trying to make you feel bad,” he says, “it’s just that most people have some idea what they want to do when they grow up. And if you don’t, I guess I’m curious why.”

I ash a smile. “Are you sure you don’t want to be a therapist?”

“De nitely,” Henry says. “I can barely deal with my own issues, let alone other people’s.” He sits down next to me. “So. Spil . If you could do anything in the world, what would it be? And you have to answer.”

I try to think of something impressive-sounding. Doctor? No. Lawyer? No. Executive producer of a reality TV show? Maybe. But no.

“You’re taking too long. What’s on the tip of your tongue? Just say it. I won’t judge you.” Somehow, I believe him. “I’d want to work in the music industry,” I say.

“Doing what?”

“Maybe producing albums, or writing lyrics, or helping discover new artists.”

The words leave my mouth and I think, Whoa. Where did that come from? I’ve never real y thought about music in terms of a career. Okay, that’s not exactly true. I have thought about it, just never seriously. I’m not good enough to be a recording artist, but why couldn’t I nd some other way to be involved in the industry? Why did it take Henry’s asking me point-blank to make me admit this desire?

“That’s awesome,” Henry says, sliding his hand over my knee and squeezing. His touch feels “Wonderful” (The Beach Boys, 1967).

Then I freeze. What am I doing? I shouldn’t be talking about this kind of stu with him. I don’t actual y want to date him. I want to play him. I try to ignore the fact that we seem to have incredible chemistry and when I’m around him, al thoughts of Ben are completely gone. I remember how Henry lied to people about us hooking up, and how many hearts he’s broken in the past. I remember my desire to be the one in control. It’s time to take my plan to the next level.

I’m stil wearing my Huntington Cinemas uniform; in my bag is a low-cut long-sleeved shirt and a pair of jeans. “Do you mind if I change?”

“Go for it,” he says.

I fol ow his directions to the bathroom and close the door behind me. I change at a leisurely pace. I remind myself I don’t want a boyfriend—especial y not Henry Arlington. I shake my hair out and x my eyeliner where it’s smudged. I study myself in the mirror. I wonder what Henry sees when he looks at me.

When I return, I ick o the overhead light. “Ready for the movie?” I ask. Henry inserts the DVD into his computer, which is hooked up to his TV. I crawl to the far side of his bed. Is it weird to lie down on his pil ow? I’m not sure. I do it anyway.

“We can watch it from the beginning if you want.”

“Nah,” he says, pressing Play and get ing on the bed with me. “I know this one pret y much by heart.” The moment feels incredibly intimate even though we aren’t touching. I can smel him on the comforter and in the air surrounding me; I never realized that Henry has a smel , but he does. It’s intoxicating and completely indescribable. It’s just him.

We’re at the part when Diane Keaton and Woody Al en have split up for the rst time but then she cal s him to kil a bug in her apartment and they get back together. I think about the time my mom found a colony of bees living in our basement in Chicago—she started crying and cal ed 911. Then I think about the time I was home alone and found a roach in the kitchen, and made Ben come over and kil it. The thing I love about this movie is how it’s funny and sad at the same time, how very much like life it is.

Somehow, while we’re watching, Henry and I move closer. We’re not on top of each other or anything, but rst my leg, then his, my foot, then his, my arm, then his, slowly inch together. When we nal y touch, it’s magical. The invisible hairs on my arms are shocked; my skin tingles and my blood ows more easily.

By the end, we’re overlapping. Neither one of us moves even though the credits are rol ing.

“So,” he says, breaking the silence. “Bet er the second time around?”

“Yeah,” I say, my hand resting in the middle of his chest. I think: Al that is between my skin and his skin is a thin layer of cot on. It’s been a few weeks since I’ve touched a boy; I remember how much I love it. Being held. Holding someone. “Do you think they should have wound up together?” I ask. “Alvy and Annie?”

“I don’t know.”

“Wel , what do you think?”

“I think, you know, love is … complicated. And scary.”

“Why scary?”

“Maybe scary isn’t the right word,” he says. The room is dark; al I can see are his eyes. “More like terrifying.” I laugh. “I’l second that.”

We stay this way for what seems like a very long time. I’m confused by tonight’s discovery: a side of Henry Arlington that I never knew existed, a side that was hinted at the rst time I met him but had yet to expose itself again until now. And even though I know the J Squad would be very disappointed in me if they knew I was in Henry’s arms, in Henry’s bed, and nothing happened between us—and, frankly, I’m disappointed with myself—I can’t bring myself to make a move. I silently curse Henry for making my plan more di cult than I imagined.

“Do you think it would be bet er if they’d never met?” Henry asks. “Then he wouldn’t have to go through the heartache of get ing rejected. Of seeing her with someone new. It’s awful to have someone who’s, like, your entire world for so long and then have her disappear from your life completely. I can’t imagine anything worse.”

I want to ask if he is talking about his mother. He must be.

“You’re right,” I say, “but if they’d never met then he wouldn’t have got en the chance to experience loving her. Love is the most powerful emotion there is. And in the end, he’s grateful for that.”

“Is he?”

“Yeah,” I tel Henry, “I think so.”

“Yeah,” I tel Henry, “I think so.”

“It doesn’t work out, though. Their relationship was a failure.”

“Just because two people don’t wind up spending their entire lives together doesn’t mean their relationship was a failure.” Henry is silent. Final y, he says: “I guess….”

“I think that’s sort of the point of the movie,” I say. “That love is terrifying and hard and awful but it’s also amazing and beautiful, and there’s something about us, as humans, that wants that perfect relationship even though we know it’s probably unat ainable, and even if we do manage to get it, holding on to it, helping it grow into something that wil last a lifetime, wel … it’s daunting in its impossibility. At least, that’s how my dad describes it.”

“Your dad must be real y smart.”

“He is,” I say, and then: “But we stil want it.” I wonder if I am trying to convince Henry or myself of this.

“Want what?”

“Love.”

He turns his head and our noses touch. He is so close. “Maybe we do.”

His breath warms my face, and he pul s me closer. He is about to kiss me. And even though this is a good thing—the next step in get ing Henry to cal me his girlfriend and take me to Destiny’s Sweet Sixteen, in get ing the J Squad to induct me as a legitimate member—that I want him to kiss me is a bad thing, and what’s going to make this al the more di cult in the end.

HENRY

INT.—EAST SHORE HIGH SCHOOL, MONDAY MORNING

School is di erent now. I’ve never worried what a girl thinks about me post–hooking up The feeling is nerve-wracking.

Exhilarating.

Paralyzing.

DUKE

So, dude, no explanation?

Duke and Nigel are standing at my locker. They’re pissed I didn’t meet them at the party on Friday. Right now they are mirror images of each other: arms crossed, backs straight, faces scrunched.