Holding Up the Universe (37 page)

Caroline (dark skin, smells like cinnamon, beauty mark by her eye) and I are in Kam's sister's room. Literally every inch of wall is covered in posters of Boy Parade, so it's a little like sitting in the middle of a very small arena full of twenty-year-old guys. Their faces are everywhere, and their eyes are glued to us. They are smiling these unnaturally white smiles that glow in the dark.

She thinks I've brought her in here to make out. But instead I'm trying to see once and for all if I can trick sweet Caroline into coming out and having a real conversation with me. Because I miss Libby. Because I miss talking to someone the way I can talk to her.

After all this time, Caroline and I have our routine memorized. Until recently, I try to get in her pants, and she takes off her clothes because I'm not allowed to in case I mess up her hair. What comes next is we will almost have sex, and I'll hold her for a little while, and then I'll lie there wondering
When when when?

Usually my heart's not in it, only my body, and my mind cooperates by going blank. But tonight my mind is in charge. Like Mr. Levine, it wants to know why.
Why are you doing this? Why are you even sitting here with this girl? Why do you keep ending up with this person? Why don't you just stop, Jack? Why don't you just live your life and be yourself?

Which is why I go, “What's the best thing that's ever happened to you?”

She blinks at me. “I'm supposed to say ‘Jack Masselin,' right?”

“Only if it's true, baby. Come on, I want to know. In the whole history of your life, what's the best thing that's ever happened to you?”

“I don't know, maybe when Chloe was born.” Chloe is her little sister.

“What's the worst thing that ever happened?”

“When my cat Damon got hit by a car.”

The worst thing that ever happened to me was fucking up my relationship with Libby Strout, but I say, “There's got to be something else.”

“Why?”

“Because you used to be different. Shy. Quiet. Dorky.”

“God, don't remind me.”

“Okay, so what's one thing people don't know about you?”

She frowns down at the bed. “I hate the color brown. I don't like turtles. And I got my wisdom teeth out when I was fourteen.”

Boring, boring, and boring. I almost say
I have a neurological glitch in my brain that keeps me from recognizing faces. Boom! Muahahahahahahaha.

But instead I ask another question and another, and the whole time she answers in this flat, dull voice and picks at the comforter. As she talks, I'm barely listening to her answers. Instead I'm thinking,
All this time, I thought she was a security blanket, but there's no security here. How can there be when she doesn't see me any more than I see her? I might as well be alone.
And, of course, I am alone.

And then suddenly she lifts her shirt over her hair and drops it onto the floor. She readjusts her bra strap and leans back seductively. She bites her bottom lip, which is also part of the routine. A couple of years ago, the bottom lip thing slayed me.

I'm about to say something along the lines of
Please put your shirt back on
when this shift happens, before my eyes, and Caroline grows paler and fuller until she's no longer sitting there. It's Libby Strout, leaning back on one arm, plucking at the strap of her electric-purple bikini. But she's talking and telling me things and laughing and asking me questions, and I'm talking, and then she's sitting up and leaning in, and we're both just talking until she says, “Um. Hello!” And snaps her fingers in my face.

And it's Caroline again.

I stare at her, hoping she'll morph back into Libby, and she goes, “What is your problem? Why are you being so weird?” And she's got this sexy bra and this sexy body, and there isn't a single guy at MVB High, even the ones who are afraid of her, who wouldn't want to be me right now. I lay my hand on her leg and it's smooth and feels like satin, and all I can think is:

I don't love Caroline. I don't even like Caroline.

I force myself to think of things I like about this Caroline right now, the only one who's here.

She smells good. Her teeth are very…um…even. Her eyes are okay. Her mouth is nice.

I mean, I guess. But the shit she says? Not so nice. Libby has interesting things to say that aren't cruel or selfish.

I say to my brain,
Why are you doing this? Why can't you stop thinking about Libby? Why are you fucking with me?

And as I'm sitting here having this in-depth conversation with my brain, Caroline goes, “I'm think I'm ready.”

“For what?”

“It.”

I'm trying to look into her eyes, but the room is dark except for the light that slips in under the door and her phone, which goes bright every other minute from all the texts coming in.

“
It.
Sex, Jack. I'm ready to have sex. With you.” And then here comes the attitude:
“Unless you don't want to.”

I've only been wanting to since birth, but inexplicably I hear myself say, “Why now?”

“What?”

“Why are you suddenly ready now? After all this time? What changed?”

Apparently my mouth has a mind of its own because it won't stop talking. My manlier parts are going, STOP TALKING, YOU IDIOT! SHUT THE FUCK UP! But my mouth isn't listening. Why isn't it listening?

“Are you gonna
argue
with me about this?”

“Is this really where you want to do it for the first time? I mean, look around you.” I point to the walls of posters. I dislodge a stuffed animal from under my back and wave it in her face. “You wouldn't really want to do it in front of this little guy, would you?”

“Are you freaking kidding me?” And she shoves me so hard I go flying off the bed.

Mick from Copenhagen and I are dancing, his hair flashing blue-black, blue-black, and his smile flashing white, white, white. We are making up dances as we go—actually, I'm making them up and he's trying to follow along. “I call this the Wind Machine!” And then I act like I'm pushing through a windstorm. “I call this Shoes on Fire!” And then I'm jumping around like my shoes are on fire and I don't want to touch the ground.

When a slow song comes on, he holds out his hand and I take it. Dancing with him is different from dancing with Jack. For one thing, Mick is about fifteen feet tall, so my face is pressed into his chest. For another, he kind of just sways back and forth and shuffles his feet.

Stop thinking about Jack Masselin. Jack, who doesn't want you, at least not enough to give it a chance. Focus on Mick from Copenhagen and his shiny teeth and his giant hands.

When Mick says, “Come with me,” I go with him. As Bailey watches, mouth open, I follow him up the stairs into what must be Dave Kaminski's bedroom. Mick turns on the desk light and sits down on the bed. I stand in the doorway staring at him. He smiles and I smile, and then he says, loud enough so I can hear him all the way over here, “I was wondering if I could kiss you. I've wanted to kiss you from the moment I saw you.”

And even though he's not Jack Masselin, or maybe because he's not Jack Masselin, I walk across the room and sit down next to him, and suddenly we're kissing.

My neck is twisted, and I want to move it, but I don't want to move it because it's Mick from Copenhagen, and now I'm getting a cramp in it, so I shift just slightly, and now I'm getting a cramp in my calf. It is
the worst pain of my life,
but here is a gorgeous boy kissing my face off, so I soldier on.

In spite of the fact that my body is seizing up everywhere and I'm in excruciating pain, he's a good kisser. I'm guessing he's had a lot of practice, because it feels like he's showing off a little, doing all these intricate circle dances with his tongue. He's working it like a ringmaster, and don't get me wrong, there's nothing bad about it. This is probably the way they kiss in Copenhagen. He's probably been kissing people like this since he was two.

Then the kiss is over and we pull apart, and I feel this weird urge to applaud because it seems like he expects it. He says, “Wow.”

“Yeah,” I breathe. “Wow.” Because what else am I supposed to say?
Next time, don't try so hard.
And
Excuse me while I walk off this cramp.

“Have you ever been to Scandinavia?”

“No.” I haven't been anywhere except Ohio. I wonder then if he knows I've spent part of my life locked inside my house.

“You should go sometime.”

But what I hear is
Maybe I'll take you there. Maybe we'll go back and I'll show you where I'm from and you can meet my relatives and I will love you forever.

And even though I don't want to meet his relatives and I don't want him to love me forever, I kiss him again. Because while I'm kissing him, there is no America's Fattest Teen, at least not for tonight. No cranes or hospitals. No dead mother. No Moses Hunt. Most important of all, no Jack Masselin. There is just me. And this boy. And a kiss.

I've never seen Caroline cry before, so for a minute I sit there, completely stupid, trying to figure out what to do. She is hiccupping and wheezing, like she's trying to catch her breath. I start petting her like she's a dog, and she shrugs me off.

“Why don't you want me?” She sounds small, like she's folded herself in half and then another half and then another. “What is it about me?” And now I go even more stupid because here is a side of Caroline I never knew existed.
Is it possible she's as insecure as the rest of us?

I say, “You're beautiful. You're Caroline Amelia Lushamp.” But this isn't what she's asking me.
Tell her you want her.
But I can't because I don't, not like that. I start to scramble. I give it my all. I tell her over and over again who she is and how beautiful she is, even as she's pulling on her clothes, even as she's grabbing her phone. Even as she says, “I can't do this anymore,” and throws the door open, letting the light in. I'm temporarily blinded, and by the time I can see again, she's gone.