The Book - E Lockhart

He is absolutely on my radar.

Titus.

Titus.

Titus.

Touch my arm by accident like you did yesterday.

Notice me.

Notice me.

“Gretchen?” It’s Glazer.

“Huh?”

“Vermin.” She’s obviously repeating herself. She sounds annoyed. “The word. I asked you to define it.”

“It’s a bug, right?” I say. “Like a cockroach.”

“It can be,” says Glazer, smirking. “Most people do assume that Kafka had his protagonist, Gregor Samsa, turn into a cockroach. That’s the standard interpretation of ‘The Metamorphosis.’ But if you all turn to page five, you’ll see that the word Kafka used in German—and the word in our translation—is not cockroach or bug, but vermin —a ‘monstrous vermin,’ Kafka says—which can be taken to mean any kind of animal, especially those that are noxious or repellent in some way: rats, mice, lice, flies, squirrels.”

No idea what she is talking about. I just know the story is about some guy who turns into a bug.

Whatever.

Titus.

Titus.

Titus.

God, he smells good.

“Titus?” Glazer, calling on him. He actually put his hand up.

“Doesn’t it also mean disgusting people ?” Titus says. “Like you could say people who—I don’t know—molest kids or steal from their mothers—they’re vermin.”

“Absolutely.” Glazer lights up. “And by extension, you sometimes see the word used as a derogatory term for the masses—for large groups of ordinary people. Or for prisoners. It expresses contempt. Now: why would Kafka use such a word to describe Gregor’s metamorphosis?”

Titus did the reading.

He just seems good, somehow.

Like the core of him is good when the core of other people is dark, or sour. Like he’d do the reading even if no one was checking, because he cares about stuff.

I wish he didn’t hang with those Art Rats. I have class with them every single day, but I can’t figure those guys out.

Because they’re boys, I guess, and because they try so hard to seem slick and sure. They’re nice one minute and cruel the next.

And with Shane around all the time, I can’t talk to Titus.

At least, I can’t talk and make any sense.

Truth: with Shane around I can’t talk to anyone.

The bell. “Finish through page sixty for Monday and enjoy the weekend,” calls Glazer. A rustle of books and backpacks.

“Hey, Titus.” My voice sounds squeaky. (Shane, thank goodness, is out the door.)

“Yeah?” His mouth looks so soft.

“Oh, I—”

Hell. Was I going to say something? Did I have something to say?

Oh hell,

oh hell,

he’s looking right at me, I’ve got nothing to say.

“Do you—”

What?

What?

“—do you remember what the Kensington is?”

Titus bends over to pick his pencil off the floor. There’s a strip of skin between his shirt and the top of his jeans in the back. I can see the top of his boxers. Plain light blue. “Sketch three sculptures of the human body at the Met, remember?”

Of course I remember. If I had a single bone in me I’d ask him to go there on Saturday with me.

I should ask him.

I should ask him.

I should ask him.

“Oh, right,” I say. “That’s it. Thanks.”

Oh! I am a coward!

Spineless, boneless, vermin girl.

“Sure. See you in gym.” I try to smile at him but it’s too late. He’s gone.

later that afternoon, Sanchez the gym teacher makes us play dodgeball, which leaves bruises all over my legs. I’m not that fast, and I get hit a lot. Titus hits me twice.

“Do you think it means something?” I ask Katya after gym, sitting on the locker room bench in a towel.

Katya is naked in the shower like that’s a normal way to have a conversation. She’s washing her hair like she’s just everyday naked in front of people.

Well, we are everyday naked in front of people. Gym is five days a week, shower required. But anyway, Katya is having a naked conversation like it doesn’t even bother her, which it obviously doesn’t—even though she’s not built like a model, just regular.

The locker room is so cramped and tiny that I can feel the warm spray of her shower water on my knee as I’m sitting on the bench.

“It would have meant something if we were sixth graders,” says Katya, scrunching her eyes as she rinses out the shampoo.

“Like what would it mean?”

“You want to hear me say it?” She’s laughing.

“Yes.”

“It would have meant that he liked you back.”

“I didn’t say I liked him,” I mutter.

“Oh please,” Katya says, ignoring my point, “that’s very sixth grade. You know, how boys were always teasing the girls they liked, pulling their hair. But we’re way too old for that crap now. So I don’t think it means anything if he hits you with the dodgeball. Sorry.”

Katya is always such a realist. She’s soaping her underarms like she’s alone. I could never do that.

I make a quick dive out of my towel and into my bra and a T-shirt from the second Spider-Man movie, covered with pastel dust. “I didn’t say I liked him,” I say again.

“Oh, don’t give me that.”

“What? I’m analyzing the cruel and particularly complicated sociodynamics of sophomore dodgeball.”

“No, you’re not.” Katya is drying off now. In the next row over, annoying Taffy is stretching and showing off her dancer’s body while listening to our conversation. I hate this tiny-ass locker room.

“What, it’s that obvious?” I ask.

“It’s all over your face, all the time,” Katya says, grinning. “Titus, Titus, Titus.”

I’m blushing. I can feel it. And my Chinese half makes it so that once my cheeks go pink, they stay that way for hours.

Katya never turns pink. Broad, Russian American face and a lumpy nose and long pale brown hair—you wouldn’t think she’d be pretty if you made a list of her features, but somehow she is. She’s mysterious. You can’t read what she’s thinking.

“Well, he’s better than the others,” I say, conscious of Taffy in the next row, trying to sound less obsessed.

“Whatever.”

“He is. Let’s be objective. He’s cuter than Brat Parker. Nicer than Adrian Ip. More interesting than Malachy.”

“What’s wrong with Malachy?” Katya sounds annoyed.

“He never says anything. Like having his ears pierced makes him so slick he doesn’t have to talk.”

“You don’t have to be so mean about everyone, Gretchen.”

“I’m not being mean. I’m doing an objective comparison of the Art Rats.”

Which isn’t true. I am being mean.

I feel mean. I don’t know why. This school is making me evil, maybe.

“It’s not objective. It’s subjective. ” Katya hooks her bra behind her back. “It’s just what you think, not the truth.”

“Don’t bite me, Katya. I’m only talking.”

“Well, you’re talking about people you barely know.”

“I know them. They’ve been in practically every class with me all year. I know Shane.”

“We all know you know Shane. Enough with Shane.” Katya gets into a dress she made herself on her mother’s sewing machine.

“Wanna get a slice?” I try changing the subject.

“Can’t. I’ve got to pick the monsters up at day care.”

I wish she didn’t have three little sisters. Wish she didn’t live an hour-fifteen away from school on the F train, all the way in Brighton Beach.