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Sounds like Eugene needs to back off.
“Anyway, the thing is, the entire time I was with Eugene, I actually had a crush on a boy named Corey.” She sighs. “It’s complicated. Corey used to be kind of mean to me. To everyone, really. But it’s because his parents were going through a divorce.”
I’m sorry, is the kid sitting beside me 8 or 48?
“So what happened?”
“Oh, I dumped Eugene and now Corey is my boyfriend. We’re in love.”
“Does he let you play with your friends at recess?”
“Of course. There’s a whole group of us. We play tag or hide and seek almost every day. Corey’s the best.”
“Do you guys like…hold hands or anything?” I ask, wondering how far adolescent love goes these days.
Harper scrunches up her face, absolutely disgusted by this idea. “Ew, no.”
Phew, good. I wasn’t sure if I was going to have to give some watered-down version of the birds and the bees talk right here in the zoo. Harper, you see how that male monkey is like really interested in jumping on the back of that female monkey? Well guess what…
“So anyway,” she continues, “I can give pretty good advice. I’m really smart about this stuff.”
I don’t say anything. Instead, I watch the snow monkeys groom each other.
She bumps her shoulder against mine. “Is it about Michael? Because I don’t think you really love him.”
My eyes widen in alarm. “What makes you say that?”
“Because…I don’t know. Just little stuff I see. Like okay, that one time we went to lunch with you guys, we were standing in line to order at the deli counter and he tried to wrap his arm around you and you moved away before he could.”
I don’t even remember that.
“I must not have realized he was trying to do that. I was probably having a hard time deciding what sandwich I wanted to order.”
This is a lie, of course. I order the same thing every time I go to that deli.
She frowns. “No. You order the same thing every time we’re there.”
Dammit. She’s smart.
“You do that everywhere we go. You like things the same, always. Dad says you’re borderline OPD.”
I think she means OCD, which like, okay…the shoe fits, but STILL.
She perks up and turns halfway toward me as she remembers something else. “And you also didn’t laugh at his joke later when we were eating. It was something silly, I can’t remember it, but it made me laugh and I looked at you and you weren’t even paying attention. You were staring out the window.”
God, now I feel bad. Have I really been that checked out lately?
I sigh, feeling sadder. “You done with that?”
She hands me the remnants of the cotton candy and I tip the bag into my mouth, reveling in the last few morsels of sweetness.
“Maybe you’re in love with someone else?” Harper says, all innocent and naive.
WHAT. A cotton candy cloud gets lodged in my throat. Once I hack until I think I’ve dislodged a rib, I crush that plastic bag between my hands like I want it to die a painful death and then I stuff it into a trash can nearby.
“Nope, that’s definitely not it.” I stand. “You ready to go?”
That night, Sophia and Daphne set up shop to watch the Pinstripes away game in the living room, but I beg off with an excuse about being tired. I slink into my room where I end up watching the game on my laptop in bed. I don’t know why I do it. Maybe I just don’t want to deal with more prying questions. Maybe I want to sulk in peace. Maybe my head hurts from scrubbing off all that hairspray. Who knows?
Grant plays well—he gets a line-drive triple in the fourth inning and a great double play in the eighth—but even still, the Pinstripes barely come out on top. During postgame press, the reporters ask Grant the usual questions and the camera zooms in on his face. I study him in a way I’m never able to in real life, with unblinking, unflinching interest. The bead of sweat trickling down his cheek must be a paid actor at this point. The stadium lighting shines so beautifully on him. There’s stubble on his jaw, which he usually shaves, but I like it. Of course I like it.
Since the live feed I’m watching lets me pause and rewind, when his interview is over, I treat myself to a rewatch, lying back on my pillow, closing my eyes, and listening to the heady cadence of his voice.
In the morning, I wake up, roll over onto my side, and stare out at the street with the full realization that it’s time. I need to be honest with Michael about my feelings.
He texted me last night, wanting to hang out, and I blew him off. That’s not nice. I’m not being nice. However long it took me, I’m at least aware of that now.
