Jodi Picoult - House Rules

I stare down at the table, still thinking about Mark’s sweatshirt.

“Mark,” Jess says, sliding his hand out of the back of her shirt. “Come on. We’re in public.” Then she addresses me. “Jacob, while we’re waiting for the food, let’s practice.”

Practice waiting? I don’t really need to. I’m fairly proficient at it.

“When there’s a lull in the conversation, you can toss out a topic that gets people talking again.”

“Yeah,” Mark says. “Like: Chicken nuggets are neither chicken nor nuggets. Discuss.”

“You’re not helping,” Jess mutters. “Are you looking forward to anything this week in school, Jacob?”

Sure. Rampant dismissal and abject humiliation. In other words, the usual.

“In physics I have to explain gravity to the rest of the class,” I say. “The grade’s half on content and half on creativity, and I think I’ve found the perfect solution.”

It took me a while to think of this, and then when I did I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it before.

“I’m going to drop my pants,” I tell her.

Mark bursts out laughing, and for a second, I think maybe I’ve misjudged him.

“Jacob,” Jess says, “you will not drop your pants.”

“It completely explains Newton’s law-”

“I don’t care if it explains the meaning of life! Think about how inappropriate that would be. Not only would you embarrass your teacher and make him angry but you’d be teased by other students for doing it.”

“I don’t know, Jess… you know what they say about guys with long IEPs…,” Mark says.

“Well, you don’t have an IEP,” Jess answers, smiling. “So there goes that theory.”

“You know it, baby.”

I have no idea what they’re talking about.

When Jess is my girlfriend, we will eat pizza without mushrooms every Sunday. I’ll show her how to enhance the contrast of fingerprints on packing tape, and I will let her read my CrimeBusters journals. She’ll confide that she has quirks, too, like the fact that she has a tail that she keeps hidden under her jeans.

Okay, maybe not a tail. No one really wants a girlfriend with a tail.

“I have something to talk about,” I say. My heart starts pounding, and my palms are sweaty. I analyze this the way Dr. Henry Lee would analyze any other piece of forensic evidence and store it away for the future: Asking girls out can cause changes to the cardiovascular system. “I would like to know, Jess, if you would like to accompany me to a movie this Friday night.”

“Oh, Jacob-well done! We haven’t practiced that in a whole month!”

“On Thursday I’ll know what’s playing. I can look it up on Moviefone.com.” I fold my napkin into eighths. “I could go out on Saturday instead if it’s better for you.” There is a CrimeBusters marathon, but I am willing to make a sacrifice. Surely that will show her how serious I am about this relationship.

“Holy shit,” Mark says, grinning. I can feel his eyes on me. (That’s the other thing about eyes; they can be hot as lasers, and how would you ever know when they’re about to be turned on full force? Better not to risk it, and to avoid eye contact.) “He isn’t showing you some communication skill, Jess. The retard is actually asking you out.”

“Mark! For God’s sake, don’t call him-”

“I’m not a retard,” I interrupt.

“You’re wrong. Jacob knows we’re just friends,” Jess says.

Mark snorts. “You fucking get paid to be his friend!”

I stand up abruptly. “Is that true?”

I guess I have never thought about it. My mother arranged for me to meet with Jess. I assumed Jess wanted to do it because she (a) is writing that paper and (b) likes my company. But now I can picture my mother ripping another check out of the checkbook and complaining like always that we don’t have enough to cover our expenses. I can picture Jess opening the envelope in her dorm room and tucking that check into the back pocket of her jeans.

I can picture her taking Mark out for pizza, using cash that came from my mother’s bank account.

Gluten-rich mushroom pizza.

“It’s not true,” Jess says. “I am your friend, Jacob-”

“But you wouldn’t be hanging out with Forrest Gump if you didn’t get that sweet check every month,” Mark says.

She turns on him. “Mark, go away.”

“Did you say what I think you said? Are you taking his side?”

I start rocking back and forth. “Nobody puts Baby in a corner,” I quote under my breath.

“This isn’t about sides,” Jess says.

“Right,” Mark snaps. “It’s about priorities. I want to take you skiing for the afternoon and you blow me off-”

“I didn’t blow you off. I invited you along to a standing appointment I had, one that I couldn’t just change at the last minute. I already explained to you how important plans are to someone with Asperger’s.”

Jess grabs Mark’s arm, but he shakes her off. “This is bullshit. I might as well be fucking Mother Teresa.”

He storms out of the pizza place. I don’t understand what Jess likes about him. He is in the graduate school of business and he plays a lot of hockey. But whenever he’s around, the conversation always has to be about him, and I don’t know why that’s okay if it’s Mark talking but not if it’s me.

Jess rests her head on her folded arms. Her hair is spread out over her shoulders like a cape. From the way her shoulders are moving, she is probably crying.

“Annie Sullivan,” I say.

“What?” Jess looks up. Her eyes are red.

“Mother Teresa saved the poor and the sick, and I’m not poor or sick. Annie Sullivan would have been a better example to use, because she’s a famous teacher.”

“Oh, God.” Jess buries her face in her hands. “I can’t handle this.”

There is a lull in the conversation, so I fill it. “Are you free on Friday now?”

“You can’t be serious.”

I consider this. Actually, I am serious all the time. Usually I get accused of not having a sense of humor, although I am capable of that, too.

“Does it matter to you that Mark is the first guy who’s ever told me I’m pretty? Or that I actually love him?” Her voice is climbing, each word another step on a ladder. “Do you even care if I’m happy?”

“No… no… and yes.” I am getting flustered. Why is she asking me all these things? Mark’s gone now; and we can get back to business. “So I made a list of the things people sometimes say that really mean they’re tired of listening to you, but I don’t know if they’re right. Can you check it?”

“Jesus Christ, Jacob!” Jess cries. “Just get lost!”

Her words are huge and fill the entire pizza place. Everyone is watching.

“I have to go talk to him.” She stands up.

“But what about my lesson?”

“Why don’t you think about what you’ve learned,” Jess says, “and get back to me?”

Then she stomps out of the restaurant, leaving me alone at the table.

The pizza lady brings out the pie, which I will have to eat by myself now. “Hope you’re hungry,” she says.

I’m not. But I lift up a slice anyway and take a bite and swallow. It tastes like cardboard.

Something pink winks at me from the other side of the napkin dispenser. Jess has left behind her cell phone. I would call her to tell her I have it, but obviously, that won’t work.

I tuck it into my pocket and make a mental note. I will just bring it to her when we meet on Tuesday, when I have figured out what it is that I am supposed to have learned.

For over a decade now, we have received a Christmas card from a family I do not know. They address it to the Jenningses, who lived in the house before we did. There is usually a snowy scene on the front, and then inside there is printed gold lettering: HAPPY HOLIDAYS. FONDLY, THE STEINBERGS.