Page 35 of Given Our History

I closed the sliding keyboard on my phone with a sheepish smile. “Sorry.”

“Seriously,” Izzy said, but it was very hard to take her seriously when her arms were folded over a Team Edward shirt, Robert Pattinson’s pale face peeking out from behind her colorful jelly bracelets. She’d flat-ironed her thick black waves until they were pin-straight just for the occasion, with a side part so dramatic that a chunk of hair kept falling over her right eye. “Didn’t Einstein say in his theory of relativity that the more time you spend waiting around for something, the longer it takes to actually happen?”

“I’m pretty sure the theory of relativity has nothing to do with waiting on a text message,” I pointed out, unzipping my backpack to tuck my phone away. Out of sight, out of mind. “I won’t check it again until we’re in the theater, and then I’ll mute it. Promise,” I tacked on, because she didn’t look convinced.

Teddy was nearing the end of his second semester at Northampton Community College, and between that and working to graduate high school a year early, the past few months had kept him incredibly busy. Texting had made things easier—instead of needing to boot up the computer to log into Myspace, we’d send messages throughout the week, but his responses grew less and less frequent. We’d had to put The Long-Distance History Club on hold because he said he couldn’t keep up. A paperback waited patiently on my dresser, pages marked with colorful sticky flags. He swore he’d make time over winter break, and he’d already asked whether I could fit a few of my favorite books in my suitcase for him to borrow this summer, but that was a long way off.

Whatever feelings I’d started to develop for Teddy, I’d shoved them down for the sake of preserving our friendship. Sort of like packing my suitcase for camp every year: slightly overfull of unvoiced thoughts and words and emotions, but if I rolled some of them into a tight little ball and threw my weight against them, I was able to make it all fit long enough to zip it closed. But I still found myself checking my phone a little too often, my heart skipping a beat whenever I got a text message notification.

They didn’t let us into the theater until half an hour before showtime. While Izzy extracted contraband bags of Sour Patch Kids and Flaming Hot Cheetos from places I didn’t even know they could fit, I unzipped my backpack and checked my phone. No notifications. Which meant he still hadn’t answered the message I sent over fourteen hours ago, but I opened my texts anyway.

“You’re obsessed,” Izzy hissed, shoving a box of Mike and Ikes at me.

“Am not,” I muttered, even as I reread our messages from this morning.

Teddy: Good morning. What are you doing today?

Clara: Meeting Izzy in Baltimore! We’re going to the mall and then we’re going to see the new Twilight movie

Clara: I know it’s kind of silly but Izzy’s read all the books

Clara: Speaking of reading I was wondering what have you been reading for school? Anything interesting? I was thinking we could restart Long-Distance History Club(1/2)

Clara: if I read some of the same books that your teachers are assigning you. That way you don’t have to do a bunch of extra work. What do you think?(2/2)

The lights dimmed around me as I stared at the bright screen. Why hadn’t he replied? Perhaps my last couple texts simply hadn’t gone through. That sometimes happened with the longer texts—only one half of the message would find its way to the other end, the other half lost in cyberspace. I typed out a follow-up text asking whether he’d received the messages, but hesitated before hitting send. Would it look desperate if I texted him again?

I deleted the drafted message and silenced my phone before shoving it in my backpack. If he didn’t answer by tomorrow, maybe I’d text him again then. Or maybe I wouldn’t—at least, that’s what I told myself. It wasn’t like he was my boyfriend, and the last thing I wanted to be was obsessed. We were friends. Nothing more.

We filed out of the dark theater, moviegoers chattering excitedly around us. I fished my phone out of my backpack. I had several missed calls from Mom, but more importantly, Teddy had finally texted back.

Teddy: Sorry for the delay, have a paper due tomorrow

Teddy: That sounds good. I’ve got a bunch of assigned reading. Just a minute

Teddy: How was the movie?

He followed this with a grainy photograph of a course syllabus, packed with unfamiliar articles on early American history. The texts were hours old already, so there was a very good chance he’d already gone to bed, but I typed out a quick reply.

Clara: No worries! Movie was pretty good.

Clara: I haven’t read any of those. I’ll have to see if I can find them

“I can’t decide who’s hotter: Robert Pattinson or Kristen Stewart.” Beside me, Izzy was chattering happily about the movie as we made our way across the chilly parking lot. “I mean, did you see that moment when Edward was about to expose himself to all those people? Goose bumps just thinking about it. Goose bumps. Look at my arm.” She shoved the arm in question out in front of me, nearly clotheslining me because my eyes were glued to the phone screen.

“I’m not sure ‘expose himself’ is the right choice of words,” I said, pushing her arm down.

“Whatever, you know what I mean.” She scrunched her nose. “And can you please stop obsessing over your phone? Staring at it isn’t going to make him text you back any sooner.”

“I know,” I said with a sigh, tucking my phone in my pocket so that I could feel if it vibrated. We climbed into my car, a 1999 Volvo S40 that I’d bought with money earned babysitting for the next-door neighbors, the peeling blue paint tinged greenish by the warm glow of the streetlight. I’d left the volume turned up on the stereo and it blasted a Taking Back Sunday song as soon as the engine turned over. I turned the dial to low and drove to the nearest McDonald’s because it was the only fast-food place still open. The air inside the car was thick with tension and cheap pine-tree air freshener. Izzy had her hands in her lap, twisting and stretching a pale pink jelly bracelet she’d pulled from her wrist.

“You need to just talk to him,” she said after we placed our orders and I pulled up to the first window. “Like, tell him you want him to text you more often or something. That way you’re not just sitting around”—she made a vague gesture at me, jelly bracelet still in hand—“obsessing.”

I opened my door to dump out the remnants of an iced coffee. “I’m trying to talk to him.” I tossed the cup over my shoulder and into the back seat, where it would join the rest of my hoard because I hadn’t cleaned my car out since the day I bought it off some guy on Craigslist. “But I can’t just ask him to text me more. It’s not like that.”

“Okay, then you need to do something about it,” she argued instead. “It’s like Bella with Jacob, right?”

I was a little distracted as I accepted my change from the cashier. “I’m not following.” I dumped the coins in one of the drink holders.