Character, Driven Read online

  So I ended the day without an idea, but I did get another book. The title seemed like a good match for my life: Stranger in a Strange Land. Much to my delight, it bore the I DIDN’T GIVE YOU THIS sticker.

  Thursday, in Art, I noticed Jillian’s first painting, with the Buddha and the onion, was in the corner, leaning against the wall. “Hey, want a frame for that?” I asked.

  “I’d love one,” she said. “Do they have them here? I didn’t see any in the supply closet.”

  I explained about the woodshop, then picked up the painting. “Let’s go look for one.”

  We headed into the school. “I have to warn you, Mr. Xander is a scary guy. I think one of his parents was an ogre.”

  “I’ll just have to use my charm,” Jillian said.

  “I’m not sure his heart could stand that,” I said. Uh-oh. Too much? I risked a glance in her direction. She was smiling. Maybe I had a little bit of charm myself.

  As we passed the teachers’ lounge, who should come out but Mr. Yuler.

  He pointed at my hand. “Painting?” he asked.

  “Yup,” I said. But I kept walking. I was pretty sure he’d like Jillian’s artwork, but I didn’t want to take a chance that she’d get trashed like I did. And I really didn’t care about his opinion when it came to art, whether he was praising something or belittling it.

  Now I was smiling, too.

  “What’s so funny?” Jillian asked.

  I shared the story with her. Then she charmed Mr. Xander, who, it turned out, kept a secret stash of extra-special frames for students he liked. We picked out a stunning frame made of walnut burl and headed back to the Art House.

  We were now definitely spending a lot of school time together. I’d even moved over to the empty seat next to her in Physics. I was pretty sure it would be safe to suggest another visit to the diner. But Butch was right. It was time for me to step up to the plate. By the end of the week, the best idea I’d come up with was miniature golf. I figured I’d wait until school was over and ask Jillian out when we were leaving Government.

  As I was getting up from my seat, Ms. Ryder said, “Cliff, can I see you for a minute?”

  “Sure.” My mind launched into a search for transgressions.

  I headed toward Ms. Ryder’s desk. I couldn’t tell anything from her expression. Maybe I’d accidentally copied something in my last paper. I try to be really careful about citing my sources, but I’d rushed to finish the report the night before it was due.

  Was my mind drifting in class? Had she caught me staring out the window, or at the clock? There are times when I don’t pay as much attention as I should.

  Jillian flashed me a sympathetic smile and patted my back as I walked past her. What if I got detention? I felt an urge to ask her out right now. But if I stopped to talk with her while Ms. Ryder was waiting for me, I’d definitely get in trouble.

  I remembered something else. Earlier this week, I’d made it to class right before the late bell. That wasn’t the first time I’d cut things close.

  “What did I do?” I asked when I reached her desk. I searched her eyes, trying to gauge how annoyed or disappointed she was with me, but found no clues.

  “Just a moment. I want to talk to you in private.” She waited until the classroom had emptied, then pulled a small envelope from her purse. “I can’t use these. I figured I should give them to someone who would enjoy the show. They’re for tomorrow.”

  I took the envelope and looked at the pair of tickets inside. They were for a production of Romeo and Juliet at the college. It was part of a tristate tour featuring several big-time Hollywood actors. “Wow. Thanks.”

  “You’re very welcome.”

  As I was about to ask, Why me? she added, “For you and a friend.”

  I froze. Those were the words I’d written on the Mack and Mary tickets. Did she know? Was I that transparent?

  “Are you sure you can’t go?” I said. “These are great seats. It looks like the third row.”

  “They’re definitely great seats,” she said. “But I have to go to a development training session. They announced it after I’d already bought the tickets. At least I’ll know someone is enjoying the play. It’s short notice, but I’m sure you’ll have no trouble finding a friend to ask.” She glanced toward the door, where Jillian hovered.

  Yeah. I guess I was that transparent. On top of which, Ms. Ryder had a front-row seat for everything that happened in class. I thanked her again and walked over to the door. I held up the tickets—and flinched as a memory punched me in the gut.

  But Jillian wasn’t Patricia.

  “You, me, and Billy Shakespeare?” I said, handing one of the tickets to Jillian so she could read the details.

  “Sounds perfect,” she said. “Can you get off work?”

  “No problem.”

  Huge problems: what to wear; how to get there; whether to bring her flowers and, if so, what kind; whether to wear cologne (I didn’t even own any); what to say; where to look; and on and on. Jillian had told me that her mom let her use her car sometimes. But it would feel even less like a real date if I asked her to drive us.

  I will spare you the details of my thoughts over the next thirty or so hours and sum things up with: slightly dressy, the bus, no flowers, no cologne, let her lead the conversation, try not to stare at her breasts.

  I couldn’t switch shifts at Cretaro’s, so I just told my boss I couldn’t come in. She didn’t seem upset. It’s nice to know I’m somewhere far below irreplaceable in the supermarket food chain. When it was time to head out for Jillian’s house, Mom was in the hallway, holding something.

  “Take this,” she said, handing me a handkerchief.

  “I don’t have a cold,” I said. “And those things are gross.”

  “These things are essential,” she said. “Every gentleman should carry one. Especially when he is going on a date.”

  “I’m not—” I bit back the lie and glanced into the living room, where Dad was napping on the couch. Why was I hiding this from Mom? She wasn’t the one who mocked everything I did and hammered me about my lack of worth. And was it really even a date? I still wasn’t sure. I hadn’t planned it. And Jillian had seen Ms. Ryder hand me the tickets.

  “Just take it,” Mom said. “You’ll thank me later.”

  It was easier to take the handkerchief than to argue that I didn’t need it, or to explain that my plans weren’t a big deal. Even though they were. I put the handkerchief in my right front pocket. “Thanks.”

  She reached out and straightened the back of my collar. “Have a good time.”

  “I will.” I opened the door.

  “Wait.” She put a hand on my shoulder as the warm air from outside pressed against me.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Where does she live?”

  “Off West Rismore, near the pool.”

  “Want a ride?”

  “That’s okay. You’re tired.”

  “It’s hot. That’s a long walk. You don’t want to show up like a ball of sweat.”

  “Good point.” I realized Mom would know a lot more than I would about what makes a good or bad date. “Thanks.”

  “I’ll get my keys.”

  When we reached the car, she said, “Don’t worry. I’ll drop you off at a safe distance. She won’t discover you have parents.”

  I laughed. “I guess it would be okay if you met her someday.”

  “But not today?”

  “Right.”

  “Understood.”

  Mom dropped me off across the street from Jillian’s house. “Have a good time. Be yourself.”

  “Thanks. I’ll try.” I crossed the street.

  Play Time

  JILLIAN ANSWERED THE door. That was good. I was afraid I’d have to get grilled by her parents, but I guess she wasn’t any more eager than I to cross that bridge.

  “Hi,” she said. She was wearing khakis and a black short-sleeved button-down top. It wasn’t dressier than my cl
othes, or less dressy. I’d gone with a dark blue polo shirt. I unpeeled a second layer of stress from my stack of worries, now that I knew I hadn’t made a wardrobial error. Maybe I should start painting pictures of onions.…

  “Ready?” I asked.

  “Almost. I just have to grab my purse. Come meet my mom.”

  I entered the den. Her mother was sitting on the couch, looking through a scrapbook. She seemed younger than my parents, but I’m terrible at guessing the age of adults. There were photos on the wall behind her. I saw some of Jillian, including a series of school photos that proved she’d been pretty from the start. I also saw photos of two different men. I made note of all of this. Jillian had mentioned a stepfather. I guess the first marriage had ended without any major battles, or there wouldn’t have been photos of two men. Unless one was an uncle or something. But only one of the men looked at all like her, and they weren’t together in any of the photos.

  I realized Jillian was talking.

  “Mom,” she said, “this is Cliff. We’re in the same Art class.”

  “And Calculus,” I added. I’m not sure why. I guess I didn’t want her to think I was some sort of poser who spent his day walking around with a sketch pad and couldn’t do serious math.

  Her mother didn’t look up. I was used to being invisible and inaudible to girls my age, but hadn’t expected to become stealthy around adult women until I got older.

  “Mom.” Jillian raised her voice slightly. “Cliff’s here.”

  She looked up. I held out my hand. She took it briefly and said, “Nice to meet you, Cliff.”

  I responded with similar words. She returned her attention to the scrapbook, which was open to what looked like vacation pictures.

  “I’ll be right back.” Jillian touched my arm as if to reassure me that I wasn’t being abandoned.

  She left the room. As I stood there, wondering whether to try to make conversation, Jillian’s mom said, “Don’t let her fall in love with you.”

  What? That was so far out of left field, it curved back into right field. I ran the memory through my mind, trying to find a different set of words that sounded similar. There wasn’t one that made any sense. I had to have totally heard her wrong, but I wasn’t going to ask for an instant replay.

  “Uh, okay. I’ll try not to.”

  “All set.” Jillian came back in, rescuing me from I’m not sure what. She gave her mom a kiss, and we headed out.

  “I hope she didn’t ask you anything embarrassing,” Jillian said.

  “Not at all.”

  It’s hard to get embarrassed at stuff you don’t understand. I pushed it aside. The whole encounter, with that cryptic warning, was too weird for me to digest at the moment, especially when I had a minefield of other issues to tap-dance through. I looked back at the house and tried to imagine what my mom would say if she were alone with Jillian. It would be something nice. I didn’t want to think about the sort of crap my dad would greet her with, or shovel out on me after she left.

  We caught a bus right after we got to the stop, a half block from her house. It wasn’t crowded. We’d have no trouble sitting together. More fears allayed. I stepped past a pair of empty seats, so she could slide in first. The bus pulled away from the curb. There were only six or seven stops before the college, four in town, then two after a ten-mile stretch of highway.

  As I was wondering whether this was a date, Jillian said, “So, this is a date? Right?”

  “Right. I guess. I mean, yeah. If you want it to be.”

  She slipped her arm through mine and leaned against me. “I want it to be.”

  Nice. I pushed back guilty memories of Nola and allowed myself to enjoy the contact with Jillian. Her hand rested on her leg. I thought about putting my hand on top of hers. Just a friendly, casual touch. But Nola’s words drifted through my mind. “Why do guys want to touch girls?”

  The bus dropped us off right in front of the theater. When we got seated, I pointed to the word “Tragedy” in the program and said, “Spoiler alert.”

  “Maybe this time will be different,” Jillian said.

  It wasn’t. The young lovers perished. But they did so quite magnificently and eloquently. There was a reception in the lobby afterwards, so people could meet the cast, mingle, and sip watery red punch.

  “I’ll get us a drink,” I said, heading to what I realized could be referred to as the punch line, though I didn’t share that joke with Jillian. I might not know a lot about girls, but I did know their affection wasn’t won through bad jokes.

  As I turned toward Jillian with our drinks, I saw her talking with the guy who’d played Romeo. He was in his early twenties, and was often featured in the entertainment news in the presence of assorted models, celebrities, and bad singers. He smiled, said something to Jillian, and put his hand on her shoulder.

  Something wet splashed over my right hand. I looked down and saw I’d crushed one of the cups as my fists clenched, and dented the other. I tossed the crushed cup into the trash, rinsed my hand at the water fountain, and hurried over to Jillian.

  “Here,” I said, handing her the cup.

  “Thanks.” She took the cup and turned away from the guy. “Let’s go.”

  “What did he want,” I asked after we’d crossed the lobby.

  “He invited me to a party,” she said.

  I felt like someone was trying to yank my balls out of my body by way of my throat. “Did you tell him you’re in high school?”

  “I told him I was with someone,” she said.

  Wow. She hadn’t ditched me for Romeo, even though there was no way I could compete with him. I guess I’d assumed I’d always get dumped the instant a better choice came along. Maybe it was Shelly, like Patricia, who was flawed. But what did that say about my dating choices? I hoped there wasn’t a pattern. Jillian seemed perfect.

  We had to wait awhile for the bus, but it was nice sitting on the bench, looking at the stars, and talking about the best parts of the play. I was almost sorry to see the Rismore bus in the distance as it turned onto College Avenue. But I was pretty sure this wouldn’t be our last date.

  “I’ll be riding this a lot,” Jillian said when the bus pulled up to the curb.

  “You’re going here?” I asked. I’d been afraid she’d be flying off to California for college, or Neptune.

  “Commuting,” she said. “They have a five-year program for engineering. What about you?”

  “County, for now. I’m still not sure what I want to do.”

  We had no trouble finding seats together. Not that I was worried. As the bus passed the Green and turned onto West Rismore, Jillian said, “Let’s walk.”

  “Sure. That would be great.” I pulled the cord to signal the driver to let us out. The air had cooled off a bit. And even if I worked up a sweat, it would be at the tail end of the date. She’d had several hours in the company of damp-but-not-soaked Cliff.

  As I walked with Jillian and marveled that nothing had leaped from the shadows to ruin our first real date, she put her hand in mine. Our fingers interlaced. I liked the feel of her palm against my bare flesh, even if it was only the flesh of my hand.

  “They were doomed from the start,” she said.

  “It’s just a story,” I said.

  She was quiet. I got the feeling she had more to say. It took a minute for the next words to come.

  “Do you believe in curses?” she asked.

  “Curses?” A shiver ran down my spine as her mother’s warning came back to me, along with an image of the star-crossed lovers lying dead in a tomb at the end of the play. “What do you mean?”

  “Bad luck you cause yourself,” she said. “Because of things you do.”

  “Not really.” I wondered what this was leading to, and remembered my own dismissal of any cursed connection between my words and Nola’s fate. “I don’t believe in stuff like that.”

  “Neither do I,” she said. “But I don’t believe in coincidence, either.”

&
nbsp; “Like what?” My mind raced through every interaction we’d had, wondering how any of them fit with coincidence or curses. Nothing came close.

  “My father died when I was six. He was in a train crash.” Her voice couldn’t hide the lingering hurt.

  I thought about the guy in the photos who had Jillian’s smile and her eyes. “That’s rough.” Since she’d mentioned she had a stepfather, I figured her first dad wasn’t around all the time. But I never would have guessed he was dead. I waited to see if there was more.

  “My stepfather got caught transporting heroin,” she said. “One of his sketchier friends offered him a lot of money to make one run. It was the only time he’d ever done it. We needed to cover the rent.”

  “Oh, man,” I said. “I know how rough it can get when there’s no money.” I tried to picture my dad selling drugs. I think he was more the type to rob a bank or mug someone if things got really desperate.

  “He was supposed to go to the county prison, but they sent him downstate. He got stabbed four days later.”

  “How old were you?” I asked.

  “It was last year,” she said. Her grip tightened.

  Ouch. Fresh wounds. That was so much for one person to cope with. Jillian was watching me, as if waiting for the right time to tell me more.

  Bad things happen in threes. Two deaths would be a tragedy, but probably not evidence for a curse.

  “What else happened to you?” I asked.

  Jillian stopped walking and faced me, but didn’t let go of my hand. “My little brother,” she said. “He was born seven months after Dad died in the train crash.”

  “The baby in the photo?” I realized I hadn’t seen any little-kid debris in her house. No toys. No discarded socks.