E. Lockhart - Real Live Boyfriends

I grabbed my bag and left the office. As I headed down the spiral steps of the math building, I could hear Noel’s footsteps behind me.

“It’s like you don’t care anymore, Noel,” I yelled up into the stairwell. “That’s what it feels like. And I’ve tried and tried to talk to you about it, but the not-caring means you don’t want to hear what I have to say about it, and then—”

“Would I be mad about you going out with Gideon if I didn’t care?” called Noel. I kept running down the stairs.

“I didn’t go out with him!” I called back. “Nothing happened.”

A mathematical-looking freshman nearly collided with me as I rounded the landing. She squeaked and ran down the hall to her class.

“Stop being jealous!” I went on, yelling up to Noel.

And what I meant was:

Believe in me.

Don’t listen to what people say.

Don’t read the writing on the walls.

You, of all people.

Believe in me.

I kept stumbling down the stairs, but Noel ran cross-country and he caught me easily. He grabbed my upper arm. “Won’t you just listen?” he said, his voice taut.

“Don’t grab me,” I said. “You don’t get to grab me like that.”

He didn’t let go. “It is so unfair,” he said, “to accuse me of not caring and then harsh on me for being jealous.”

Okay.

I could see that.

But you know what?

Through this whole argument he hadn’t said he cared.

He’d said, “Would I be mad about you going out with Gideon if I didn’t care?”

But not that he actually cared .

“Jealousy is not the kind of caring I want,” I said. “And stop grabbing me.”

“How can I trust you when you’re going out with other people behind my back?”

“Not other people. One other person.”

“One is enough.”

“You’re not really here,” I told him. “You’re not my real live boyfriend.”

“I’m not your boyfriend?”

“That’s not what I meant. I meant, you’re not acting like a boyfriend. Not a real live one. Not like the ones Meghan has.”

“I don’t know what you think one should act like!” Noel was shouting, and his voice echoed up the staircase.

“Will you please stop grabbing me?” I said.

“This isn’t making me happy,” Noel said, without letting go. “I came back from New York and I thought you would make me happy but I’m not happy.”

“Are we breaking up, then?”

Noel didn’t answer.

“Are we breaking up?” I repeated.

When he didn’t answer again, I couldn’t stand it.

“If you’re not going to answer, then what you mean is yes,” I said. I reached for his fingers, still holding my arm, and pulled them off me by force. I threw his hand away from me. “Let me go.”

Noel was wheezing, and maybe he was dizzy—I don’t know—but he lost his balance as I pushed his arm and fell down half a flight of stairs. Not head over heels, like in the movies, but awkwardly, like he was made of paper, crumpling, and like his backpack weighed more than he did. He landed on his knees with a crack.

“Shit, oh, shit,” he moaned.

I looked down at him. On his hands and knees, almost like a prayer. Breathing funny.

Had I pushed him?

Not quite.

He’d been grabbing me.

But had I pushed him, really?

A little bit. Not down the stairs but away from me. Yes, I had pushed him.

I stumbled down. “Are you okay?”

“Just go away,” said Noel, not meeting my eyes. “I’m fine, everything’s fine, just go away.”

“Do you need your puffer? Are your knees hurt?”

“I’m fine,” he said again. “Just leave me.”

“But—”

“Leave me,” he said bitterly.

And so I did.

I skipped lunch and went straight to the gym, where I got undressed and stood in the shower stall under the hot water, letting tears and shampoo stream down my face.

“I have an idea for a business,” Mom announced at dinner a week later. She had barely been speaking to me in the wake of the Snappy Dragon Debacle. I ignored her as much as possible too, because even though I knew I’d acted badly, I felt she was acting worse. She didn’t seem to care that my father was miserable, or that my heart was broken.

Anyway, we did all sit down to dinner together most nights, even though none of us had anything to say—Dad ’cause he was depressed and Mom and me ’cause we didn’t like each other anymore—but this night she suddenly wanted to communicate.

“I think we can get investors for it,” Mom said, shoveling a piece of steak into her mouth, “and I scouted a location down in Pioneer Square. The rent is ten thousand dollars a month, but for sure we’ll make a profit in the first year because there is nothing like this in Seattle. Nothing. And people are gonna love it.”

At the phrase “ten thousand dollars a month” my dad choked on a mouthful. “What’s the idea?”

“Pioneer Square is the best neighborhood for it,” Mom went on, ignoring him. “Because you get the tourist trade there as well as locals.”

“You’re looking at places to rent already?” Dad asked. “What’s the idea?”

“I started drawing up a business plan too,” Mom said. “You know I have to do more than copyediting when Ruby goes to college. If she doesn’t get a full scholarship, we’re going to need every penny I can possibly earn.”

“And you think a good plan for earning that money is to sign a lease for ten thousand dollars a month?”

“It’s not like you’re earning much,” snapped Mom. “Since your mother passed, you haven’t finished your Web site, you haven’t written any newspaper columns, you haven’t—”

“What’s your idea, Mom?” I interrupted.

“A meatloafery,” she said.

“What is that?”

“A restaurant,” said my mother. 3“With brick ovens the way they have at fancy pizza places, so you can see into them and watch the meatloaves cooking.”

Dad put down his fork and looked at her in astonishment.

“People come in,” Mom went on, “and on their table is an assortment of ground meats, different kinds of bread crumbs—like maybe garlic bread, rye, pumpernickel—and ingredients in pretty little dishes. Ketchup, barbecue sauce, onions, roasted garlic, maybe Dijon mustard, maybe chopped tomato.”

“Back up,” I told her. “An assortment of ground meats?”

“Of course,” said Mom. “I’m thinking lamb, pork, veal, beef and turkey to start. Then we can have chicken and buffalo, too, once business picks up. Buffalo meat is very current.”

“Just raw on the table?”

“Sure. How else are people going to make their own meatloaf? The best meatloaves are a mix of meats. You would know that if you’d tried the one I made on Sunday and looked at the cookbook like I asked you.”

“I’m a vegetarian,” I reminded her.

Mom went on, ignoring me. “At MeatMix we’ll be letting people choose the mix they’re in the mood for!”

“MeatMix?”

“That’s the name of the restaurant. Or maybe MoodMeat. Or maybe KitLoaf? Juana thought of KitLoaf.” She took a drink from her wineglass.

“You’re going to have hygiene issues,” I told her. “All those people mixing up raw meat.”

“We’ll have rubber gloves,” said Mom. “So people can actually mix with their hands. That’s half the fun of making meatloaf, feeling it squish between your fingers. It’s not the same if you use a spatula.” She stood up to clear the table.

“Meatloaf takes an hour to cook,” said Dad, as if coming out of a stupor. “What are people going to do while they wait for their food?”