Thwonk (11 page)

“True love is something that you have to trust your instincts about, and sometimes those instincts get buried, you know, even though they’re there, and then one
day…splat…they gush out…like striking oil…”

“You’ve been gushing most of the day, then?”

I looked down. “Pretty much…” I wasn’t sure the gushing metaphor was helping.

“And Peter? He’s been gushing too?”

“Uh…on and off…you know…”

Mom picked up from my dresser the little crystal dog that Todd Kovich had given me when we were achingly in love. She examined it for clues. “Then why,” asked Mom, poised for truth, “were you crying?”

I stiffened, because that wasn’t the point. I wasn’t crying
now.
“It was a momentary lapse, Mother, everything is fine now—massively flawless. You and Dad won’t have to worry about me ever again.”

She took this in. “Your father will be relieved.”

“It’s been a decent day.”

Mom measured her next words carefully. I figured she had three minutes left before she folded. “I don’t want you to misinterpret what I’m about to say.”

I froze in misunderstanding.

“
Or
be defensive.”

I folded my arms tight.

“I’m glad you’ve got a guy you really like, A.J., but I think you need to walk very carefully.”

“
Mother
, I’m—”

“You
need
,” she said, gaining strength, “to look at this relationship with clear eyes—”

“You don’t even know him, Mother, and—”

“But I know
you
,” she said. “And I’ve seen the frustrations you’ve gone through with other relationships because your heart gets in the way of your mind and you close yourself off to the truth about people.”

I was ripped, but said nothing.

“Todd Kovich,” she reminded me, putting the crystal dog down, “wasn’t a nice guy.”

“I’d appreciate it, Mother, if you would never utter his name in my presence…”

“You knew the games he’d played with other girls; you saw firsthand how he used and manipulated relationships. You knew who he was, A.J., when you went out with him.”

“I don’t want to talk about this now…”

“I know you don’t…but we need to talk about it because the same thing happened with Robbie Oldsberg and Scott Zimmerman and Don Lucetti with that great cleft chin. I don’t want you to leap into another relationship without thinking. Looking for perfect is a big, fat myth because
perfect
isn’t out there.”

That was rich coming from my mother, the Emotional Gourmet of Crestport, Connecticut, who had been known to slave for hours trying to perfect her Candied Claret Pears that guests would consume in eleven minutes flat. I had seen her throw out cakes that were a half an inch too short and sneer at any zucchini that wasn’t seven inches long and perfectly tapered. I
wanted to shout that perfection sure seemed to run in the family, and that I, for one, could have it without guilt and pain. All it took was a little arrow flying through space and a reverberating
thwonk.

“I’m in the perfection business,” Mom said quietly. “The food
always
has to look great or I’m dead. I have to keep reminding myself that in the people business, perfection trips you up. The funny thing is, honey, if you ever did get a totally perfect guy, he would make you miserable.”

Jonathan peered at me from my purple hat rack.

“Lecture’s over,” Mom said, giving me a hug. “Get some sleep.”

She got up slowly and paused at the door like she had more to say. She didn’t say it, though—just tapped the door lovingly and padded off to bed.

“Your mother,” said Jonathan, floating down, “is a wise woman.”

I hugged my knees. Mom was operating on earth wisdom. I, on the other hand…

Jonathan perched on the little crystal dog and regarded it coldly.

“Listen,” I began, “I really want to thank you for what you’ve done.” Jonathan folded his wings and looked down. “I’m happy, Jonathan, for the first time in eons!”

He gazed sadly out the window; his little body went taut. “You will sleep,” he said flatly.

Peter picked me up at 7:17
A.M.
in his brown Jeep with tan interior—he was all lovesick smiles. He handed Stieglitz a Milk-Bone in friendship, but Stieglitz still hated him. He told me I looked beautiful. I was wearing my quilted green jacket, black jeans, and a patterned yellow Tee. He grabbed my father by the shoulders and shouted, “Mr. McCreary, it is
so
great to see you!” Dad drank a mug of hot coffee in one gulp.

“Well,” I said, yanking Peter out the door, “have a nifty day, Dad.”

I settled into the Jeep, wondering if Peter would turn into a werewolf; he didn’t. He sweetly handed me a freshly baked blueberry muffin. He talked about being on the debate team and complimented my outfit. He said he couldn’t believe that we’d never gone out all these years and that he must have been blind. He held my hand and didn’t get nuts. He said I was wonderful. He said he wished it was Saturday so we could be together all day. He said he’d never felt like this and that more than anything he wanted to park this stupid Jeep and hold me. My heart was pumping and my hands were shaking and I said that would be really fine with me. He pulled the Jeep over and cradled me with gentleness, kissed my head, and asked if I was going to the King of Hearts Dance with anyone.

“Not yet,” I cooed.

“Would you like to go with me?”

He was breaking the rules—girls asked guys to this dance—but rules were meaningless to the supremely succumbed. I nuzzled his cheek and said I would. A certain winged being appeared out of nowhere and buzzed around us like a mechanic checking a stalled car. I was truly grateful to Jonathan for having zapped Peter with undying devotion, but he was bludgeoning a tender moment. I signaled for him to leave; he didn’t. Peter looked at me strangely. I swatted the air near Jonathan for effect. A shaft of sunshine flashed across his quiver as he did a triple aerial loop and zipped out of the way.

“A…fly,” I explained to Peter.

Jonathan said “Hmmmph” at being called a fly and looked in Peter’s ear, which was killing the mood. He peered into Peter’s ice-green eyes, took a tuft of Peter’s hair, rubbed it in his fingers, perched on top of the steering wheel, and said, “Looks normal. I can’t explain it.”

Then go away!

Jonathan waited. Peter put his hand over his chest and bent down. “I just had this funny twinge,” he said.

“Most bewildering,” said Jonathan, flying backward right out the window.

I was standing in the Student Center by the statue of Big Ben, waiting for Peter, who had dropped me off right in front of school, so I wouldn’t have to walk across the cold, slushy parking lot. I was gazing at Ben in all his bronzeness—a jack-of-all-trades, who’d accomplished things because he had had vision. A big red bow was draped under his chin, courtesy of the King of Hearts Dance Committee; a pair of pantyhose dangled from his outstretched hand. Imagine what that man could have done with a cupid.

“You don’t have to thank me now, A.J.,” said Trish Beckman, running up beside me. “You can take your time about doing that, picking the appropriate thank-you gift, which would be altogether appropriate, because I, your best friend, am about to change your life.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I know you were mortally wounded by Peter Terris being a chump last night, but he’s a killer, A.J., who can’t be tamed. What I’m about to tell you requires immediate action!” She touched her right cheek that was swollen from dental distress. “Alex DuMont just broke up with Cassie McLaughlin!”

“Yeah…?”

“This is not rumor, A.J., I saw the whole thing. He asked for his ring back
and
his jacket right by the World Peace Bench. It was like she was getting kicked out of the army. He took it all, A.J., and said she’d
cheated on him, which she had—everyone saw her at the Pizza Pavilion with Bobby Pershing.”

I said, “That’s too bad,” and looked down the hall for Peter.

“A.J.!” Trish cried. “Alex DuMont is available and angry! He’s likely to say yes to anything at this point!”

“Even me?”

“That’s not what I meant. You ask Alex to the dance, and I”—she took a deep breath—“will ask Tucker before I lose my nerve. On the count of three…”

“I’m going to pass, Trish.”

“But Alex DuMont is
darling
!”

“I already have a boyfriend.”

“
Who?
”

I smiled, and said, “Peter Terris,” nice and slow.

Her mouth dropped open: “
When did this happen?
”

“Last night.”

“
You didn’t call!
”

“I called the first time…”

“
We always call if anything changes!
”

“I was tired. I was trying to sort things out.”

“
Tell me everything!
”

I wanted to. I wanted to confess it all. Peter ran up to meet me and put his arm tight around my shoulder. I waved to Trish, whose tongue was flapping. “It’s okay,” I said to her, then whispered, “Close your mouth.”

She didn’t.

I put my arm around Peter’s waist so you couldn’t tell where one of us ended and the other began, and we eased on down the hall, an official dating unit. I waved good-bye to Trish, my dear confused friend, who had turned into a stone statue.

I’d make it up to her somehow after she’d melted.

School with Peter by my side was exhilarating. We held hands. We snuggled. We exchanged locker combinations. Every nerve in me was alive to love. I shivered when he took my hand. My breath stopped when he kissed the top of my head—just stuck there really heavy before it got to my throat and I wondered if I would ever breathe again. He waited for me outside every class. When I got within feet of him it was like everyone else went away and I started grinning like a dodo and he was grinning too.

We sent shock waves through Ben Franklin High. Pearly saw us and positively gaped. Julia Hart saw us and turned bright crimson. She marched angrily up to Peter.

“May I speak to you,
please?
” she demanded.

Peter looked at her like she was a gnat. “Not now, Julia.”

She backed off, powerless.

This boy had succumbed!

At the sound of every bell we rushed from the prison of our classes to each other’s side. We ached, we hungered. It was pointless being in school, the waste of
two perfectly good desks. Each time Peter looked at me there was more love in his eyes. Everyone could see it. I had several sneezing fits and he gave me his handkerchief. A senior boy who carried his own handkerchief! For an allergic person this was the ultimate.

We entered the Inner Sanctum of the Student Center, where the “in” seniors gather—it was right by the coldest water fountain and no one dared go there unless they were important. There was Melissa Pageant, who had never invited me to any of her parties; there was Al Costanzo, Star Running Back, who didn’t know I was alive. There was Lisa Shooty, Head Cheerleader, bouncing away. There was Heidi Morganthaller, who had stolen Scott Zimmerman from under my nose when I had the stomach flu and couldn’t fight back except to throw up on her, which I’d considered. Peter pushed the water faucet button for me and I drank. The water
was
colder.

Melissa Pageant eyed me up and down.

We stared at each other like cats do right before they start fighting.
Get used to it
, I felt like saying, but Peter steered me away.

We walked to Mr. Zeid’s room for my seventh-period
Oracle
meeting. It was like tooling down a busy road in a brand-new Ferrari. Everyone looked. Everyone was jealous right down to their toes. Then the jealousy moved into consummate respect. I took a deep breath of the Big Time.

I was somebody!

Students parted for us as we walked by. A football player ogled me. I felt a glow of importance as Peter kissed me on the cheek and jogged off to gym class. I leaned back on Mr. Zeid’s door, positively dizzy.

Trish pounced on me.

“Explain to me, A.J., what’s happening, please! Julia Hart has gone into apoplexy! Peter Terris is hanging on to you like you’re a winning Lotto ticket!”