You and Me and Him Read online

  “Find what you wanted?” I ask, bagging up the records.

  “I think so.” Tom rests against the counter and leans in close.

  I can smell the cherry cough drop he’s been sucking on.

  “Okay,” he says. “What do I need to know about Cedar Ridge?”

  “Not much to know,” I say. “Smallish town. Smallish minds. A place people move to, to keep their kids safe from the temptations of Seattle.”

  “And what do Cedar . . . Ridgians? Ridgites? Ridgers? What do people here do for fun?”

  “I’ll go with Cedar Ridgians,” I say. “And Nash will tell you there’s nothing fun to do here.”

  “True story,” Nash says, his face grim. He hops onto the counter, sitting next to where Tom’s leaning. Tom elbows Nash’s knee, and Nash gives him a gentle kick.

  “And what would Maggie say?” Tom asks. He starts picking up things off the counter and putting them in different spots.

  “Maggie would say she doesn’t know.” I return each item to its original location.

  “There must be something?” Tom grabs a bundle of pens and starts arranging them into a spiked bouquet.

  I remove the pens from his hands and throw them back into the cup on the counter with a tiny bit more force than is technically necessary. Persistence may be admirable, but it can also be damn annoying.

  “I read. Hike. Work here,” I say, flashing Quinn a sycophantic smile.

  “You hike?” Tom sounds a little surprised.

  “Ughhhh!” Nash groans. “Please don’t tell me you’re a hiker. How can you be a hiker when you’ve lived in all those lovely, non-nature-infested cities?”

  “Sorry to disappoint, but living in cities has made me love being outdoors more,” Tom says.

  Nash gives a shudder. “Well, Maggie’s your girl, then. Hiking’s almost an illness with her.” They both eyeball me as if trying to make this piece of information fit the image before them.

  I know the nice thing to do is invite him along. I like to hike alone, but he’s new and probably bored and lonely. And he’s trying. Shit.

  Quinn gives me a look, the one he gives when I need to be nicer to customers.

  “Um, I’m hiking to the waterfall this weekend,” I say. “I, uh, I guess you can come if you want?” But my heart isn’t in the invitation.

  “Great! Where should I meet you?”

  I give him the details, and Nash and Tom leave the store, Tom whistling “It’s Not Unusual” in a perky, annoying way that also makes me a little fluttery in my chestal region.

  “Hmmmmm,” Quinn says as the door closes behind Tom.

  “What?” I say, but before he can answer, the bell rings and Kayla Hill walks through the door.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter under my breath.

  I would be shocked if Kayla knew a turntable from a trampoline. And I’m surprised to see she’s alone. Kayla’s a pack animal for the most part. But she says hello.

  “Hi.” I retreat behind the counter.

  She looks around awhile in that disinterested way people do. You can always tell. They flip through the records too fast, moving from section to section without paying real attention.

  I watch her while I browse through the milk crate again, looking up and greeting customers as they straggle through the door.

  After a bit, Kayla meanders up to the counter with a compilation entitled Disco Duck.

  I look at the album, then at her. “Really?” I say.

  Quinn kicks me under the counter.

  “Ow! I mean, will that be everything for you?”

  Kayla laughs her tinkling little laugh.

  I bag up her album and hand it over.

  “Thanks, Maggie,” she says.

  “Yeah. You’re welcome.”

  She’s halfway to the door when she turns around. “We should hang out sometime,” she says.

  I stare at her.

  Quinn clears his throat.

  “Um, sure,” I say.

  Kayla smiles, then turns and leaves, clutching her Disco Duck album like it’s a solid gold hit.

  “That was weird,” I say.

  “I know,” says Quinn. “I’ve been trying to unload that record for, like, two years.”

  “Not the record,” I say. “Kayla. Talking to me. That’s the third time this week. Actually that’s the third time in four years.”

  “Wait, what am I missing? Why shouldn’t Little Miss Sunshine talk to you?”

  “It’s complicated,” I mumble, putting Kayla’s money in the cash register.

  “Tell. Now.”

  “She doesn’t talk to me. We don’t talk,” I say. “Not since seventh grade.”

  “And what happened in seventh grade?”

  I think for a minute, trying to figure out how to describe what happened that shifted Kayla and me from friends to . . . well, to whatever we are now, which isn’t anything, really.

  “Well, we were friends, kind of: definitely one of my better friends besides Nash,” I say, trying to explain without it sounding stupid, explain it in a way that communicates how much it sucked. “And then in sixth grade everything got weird—people started using the p-word.”

  “‘Popular’?” Quinn says.

  I nod. “Anyway, Kayla and I were still okay. Or at least I thought so. Over the summer we hung out a little, but just the two of us, never with her other friends, and I told her some things, about a guy I liked and about . . . other things.” Here I get stuck, not sure how to make things clear.

  Quinn raises his eyebrows.

  “Girl stuff. Kayla and I . . . matured sooner than some of the other girls, so we talked about the ins and outs of our emerging womanhood. I love Nash, but he’s useless when it comes to girl parts.”

  “Understandable, considering he only has boy parts and is only interested in boy parts,” Quinn says.

  “Still, does he have to cover his ears whenever I mention anything remotely related to my nether regions?” I ask. “Anyway, I couldn’t talk to Nash about that, so I told Kayla.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Yep. Big uh-oh. The first day of seventh grade, all these kids knew about my period, my bra size, the boy, all of it. Turns out everything I told Kayla, she blabbed at a slumber party the weekend before school started.”

  “That bitch.”

  “Tell me about it,” I say. “It was not an auspicious beginning to my middle school career. And the boy? Tyler? He was in one of my classes—math, I think. He came up to me before class and told me, in front of everyone, that I was crazy if I thought he could ever like a girl who was ‘bigger’ than him.” Even four years later, my face burns hot thinking of Tyler’s words.

  “Ouch.”

  “I told him he was crazy if he thought I could ever like a boy who was dumber than me.”

  “Well done,” Quinn says.

  “Yeah. But it still ranks up there in my top ten most embarrassing moments. And I’ve had quite a few to choose from. All because Kayla couldn’t keep her mouth shut at some stupid sleepover.” I brush imaginary lint off my sleeve. “But whatever, we were twelve . . .”

  “That’s bad behavior at any age,” Quinn says, pursing his lips.

  “Anyway, we never really talked about it, never talked about anything, and that was four years ago, and now she’s speaking to me again.”

  “Well, just because she’s talking to you doesn’t mean you have to listen.”

  “I know,” I say. “But maybe I should give her a chance? She’s been going out of her way to be nice. She even said hello in the cafeteria the first day.”

  “Oooo,” Quinn gushes. “In public?”

  “It sounds lame, doesn’t it? She’s probably just after Tom.”

  “Yep and yep,” Quinn says.

  “But still, we used to have fun.”

  “Make nice if you want, but proceed with caution.”

  I give him a knuckle punch in the arm. “Gotcha, boss.”

  “So, Nash h
as the new guy locked up—any worthy young men on the horizon for you in this brand-new school year?”

  “Sure! I’ve been fighting them off with a stick as usual. I mean, how could they resist?” I sweep my hand down my body as if to show off desirable curves.

  “Maggie, to the right person your dress size won’t be any more important than your shoe size.”

  “I know that, and you know that,” I say. “But nobody else seems to know that.”

  “Don’t make me invoke the wisdom of Billie Holiday!” Quinn warns, shaking a finger at me. Quinn introduced me to Billie Holiday when I first started coming in. She’s the ideal soundtrack for my unrequited love life. “What would Billie remind you of if she were here today?” Quinn asks.

  “Avoid heroin and teen pregnancy?” I ask.

  Quinn crosses his arms and waits.

  I sigh and recite, “She would remind me that my lover man is out there somewhere, and it ain’t nobody’s business what I do.”

  Quinn nods, satisfied at last.

  I pick up the stack of records. “Now, can we please listen to something cool and get back to work?”

  Quinn flips through the RTP (records to play) bin by the turntable.

  He pulls out an album, places it on the turntable, and drops the needle. Without warning, the chorus of “Rock You Like a Hurricane” by the Scorpions blasts through the store. Quinn is cracking himself up, waiting for a reaction.

  I don’t oblige. I stand there, records under my arm, waiting.

  He stares at me for a minute, then grabs another RTP, drops it, and James Taylor is wailing the opening bars of “You’ve Got a Friend.”

  This one gets the merest hint of a smile out of me, but I’m still waiting for something I can work to.

  He pulls another record, places the needle, and a rich but scratchy orchestral intro flows into the store. Billie Holiday starts to croon “Embraceable You.”

  Not what I was expecting, but it works. I make my way down the Classical aisle, my stack of records dwindling as Billie explains that just one look made her heart tipsy. I know how she feels.

  Chapter 6

  Nash calls that night, but between work, homework, and fending off Mom’s efforts to enroll me in some sort of hybrid cycling-yoga-torture class with her, I don’t have time to chat. I send him a text saying we’ll talk at school. Besides, I don’t really know what to say about Tom. He’s perfectly nice, almost too perfectly. That’s kind of what bugs me about him. But during school Tom’s presence thwarts any dishy conversation concerning his relative merits.

  By the next day, Nash looks like he’s going to pop. As we’re leaving the cafeteria, he pulls me aside, his voice low. “Our spot. Six o’clock. Come alone.”

  “Our spot” is the ancient swing set that faces the lake near the boat launch in the Cedar Ridge City Park. About five years ago, the city built a hideous new plastic playground on the other side of the park. They tore out the original playground toys, including an amazing old metal merry-go-round. I used to get that thing going crazy-fast, then jump on, lie down, and hang my head over the edge. Nash hated it, said it made him want to hurl, but he’d keep me spinning once I was on.

  The only vintage playground equipment left is the creaky old swing set. Most people never go near it, but Nash and I meet there when we want to be alone, or be left alone. When I get to the park, Nash is already waiting.

  “I have been busting to talk to you about Tom. By the way, do not”—at this Nash wags a finger at me—“do not ignore a call from me when you know I am feeling neurotic about a boy. That is Best Friend 101. Page two of the user’s manual.”

  “Duly noted,” I say.

  “Here’s what I’ve learned: There’s the moving around, which you knew. His mom’s great. Older brother at UC Berkeley. Dad’s gone a lot. No pets. Keeps a journal. Favorite color is green.”

  “Wow, did you give him a survey or something? What’s with all the random factoids?”

  “People talk to me, Maggie. It’s a gift. Anyway, your turn. Spill. Your impressions of Tom?”

  I take my seat, always the swing on the left as we face the lake. “He seems . . .” I search for a word that will be both honest and neutral. “He seems nice,” I finish. So much for that SAT vocab we’ve been doing in English.

  Nash blinks. “‘Nice’?” He stares at me. When I stay quiet, he gets out his iPod and starts to put in the ear buds, his mouth a hard line. “Okay, ‘nice’ is nice. If you don’t have anything else to say . . .”

  “Nash, I’m sorry. He’s great. And he seems to like hanging out with you. It’s just . . . well . . . don’t you find him a little annoying? He’s so . . . friendly. To everyone. And he said it usually only takes him a couple days in a new town to figure everyone out. What the hell does that even mean? Do we lack originality to the extent that there are stock versions of us in every town he’s ever lived? Anyway, sorry. I didn’t want to rain on your New Guy parade.”

  He takes out the ear buds and stares at me again. “Let me get this straight. You find his pleasant demeanor and interest in people irritating?”

  “Yep, in a nutshell.”

  “Jealous much?” he says. “I admit I wish he was a little more standoffish with some people. Kayla, for instance. I don’t trust her as far as I could throw her into a vat of boiling hot lattes. I don’t mind if we lose Tom to someone worthy, but I will be more than a little disappointed in the young man if he doesn’t see through the Kayla . . . thing. Whatever that is. Anyway, don’t worry, Mags. Next new guy is all yours.”

  Nash smiles. I know as the best friend it’s my job to ask the tough question. “So, do you think he’s, like, into guys?”

  Nash’s swing goes still. He turns and stares at the lake for a minute. The light is fading behind the range of tree-spiked hills across the water, the shapes dissolving in those muted shades of purple and gray possible only in that moment between sunset and true dark.

  “I honestly have no idea, Maggie.” He doesn’t look at me. “He’s not from here, which means there’s a chance, at least more of a chance than I have with any other guy in town. Until I escape Cedar Ridge’s clutches, an out-of-towner like Tom is pure catnip for me.”

  I can tell I’ve killed his crush-buzz. Crushes are serious business to Nash. He has this book of boys he’s fallen for. Nobody knows about it but me, and I’ve only seen it once. It’s not a creepy, stalker kind of thing. It’s actually sort of beautiful and sweet. It’s more a way for Nash to figure out what he likes about his crushes and what he wants when he finally finds a real boyfriend. Once in a while he’ll include a yearbook photo, but most of the time he does a portrait of them from memory. It’s amazing what Nash can do with pen and ink. Sometimes we watch those reality shows about tattoo shops. It seems like every other episode someone’s coming in to get a portrait tattoo of someone who’s died. Nash could knock every one of them out of the park any day of the week.

  Anyway, the book doesn’t have real names, just nicknames he’s given them, though his drawings would be enough to reveal each guy’s identity in a heartbeat. But the important part to Nash is what he writes there. He once described it to me as “an anatomical study of unrequited love.” He starts with what he likes about the guy, then as the crush evolves he adds to it, until the end, when he writes down why his feelings went away. He says it’s a Crushology book, a way for him to know himself well enough to be able to identify the real thing when it comes along someday. When the stars align and he finds his match.

  “Anyway, I can’t help who I care about,” Nash says, his voice quiet and serious now. “And I can’t make someone love me back. I survived my dad leaving, and my mom too, in a way. If Tom’s not into guys, it won’t be the first time someone who mattered to me didn’t want me. Or the last. I’ll survive it.”

  Between the two of us, Nash and I have had more unreciprocated crushes than Cedar Ridge has stoplights. And if there’s one thing it has taught me, it’s that you don’t die of
a broken heart. Nash is right; he’ll survive. We both will. I bump him with my shoulder, and he bumps me back. We swing for a few minutes in silence before going home.

  As I pass my parents’ bedroom on my way upstairs, my mom calls out, “Maggie, come in here.” Mom is propped on the bed, student papers in tidy piles on either side of her. She frowns. “What’s wrong?”

  I paste on a smile. “Nothing,” I say. “Why?”

  “You look . . .” She waves a hand up and down at me. “Maybe it’s your posture. Stand up straight, honey! It’ll take ten pounds off you like that.” She snaps her fingers.

  I don’t say a word.

  “Sorry. Where have you been, anyway?” she asks.

  “With Nash, in the park,” I answer. “Swinging.”

  “Oh, good. How’s Nash?” she says.

  “Nash is fine.” I wait. “Mom? Did you need something?”

  “Hmmm?” she says, already distracted by her papers again. “Oh, your laundry’s in the dryer. Make sure you get it out before you go to bed or everything will be wrinkled.”

  “Yep, I sure will, Mom.” I give her a big thumbs-up and a cheesy smile. Pulling the door shut behind me, I wander to the kitchen to see what I missed for dinner. Chicken, veggies, and rice. Again.

  I think about baking more cookies, but I have too much homework and my conversation with Nash has made me weary and unsettled. I forage in the cupboards for something starchy and sweet. The closest I come is a box of Cheerios, so I fill a bowl, pour the milk, and scoop sugar on top. Sitting at the counter I think about Nash and Tom until I hear the spoon scraping the bottom of the dish. I don’t even remember eating the cereal.

  I haul my laundry from the dryer, groaning as I dump it on my bed upstairs. About halfway through folding it, I transfer the pile to my chair and keel over onto my bed. I think about doing my homework, but before I can reach for my backpack, I’m asleep.

  Chapter 7

  Between work and school and listening to Nash ramble on about Tom, the week crawls by. When Saturday arrives, I am more than ready for some time in the woods. The sun reaches through the trees, dappling the road to the trailhead as it winds through the park. I’m half hoping Tom will have gotten lost along the way. I’m not an antisocial person, but I like to hike alone. When I was younger, our chocolate Lab, George, went with me so my parents wouldn’t worry. By the time he died a couple years ago, they were so used to me going off into the woods, they kind of forgot that I didn’t have a hiking partner anymore.