the thought of them made me sick to my stomach. It was like he had taken something that was just between us and given it to my replacement.
One day, in the middle of all the horror that was going on sophomore year, I had found myself alone by the cubbies. I was late to class, so no one was in the halls.
In Kim’s cubby was a note from Jackson.
I know it is completely wrong and also psycho, but I took it. I shoved it down in the pocket of my jeans, where it felt like it was burning a hole into my leg, and ran into a stall in the girls’ bathroom to read it.
K—
I’m in Global Studies, and I’m looking out the window
And I see you late for class because you went to buy a sticky bun.
You’re licking the icing as you walk across the quad
And I like the way your tongue looks, licking,
And I like the way you walk,
as if you like the way your sandal-feet are tickled by the grass.
So it’s like you’re with me now,
as Kessler hands us out a pop quiz
and I haven’t done the reading, ’cause
last night I was with you.
Tears ran down my face and I had to stay in the bathroom for twenty minutes, blowing my nose, splashing water on my cheeks, putting on lip gloss, and then crying again and having to do it all over.
It seemed so wrong to see that note in Jackson’s writing, that note with his blue-black pen, that note that only a month before would have been addressed to me, and to know it wasn’t mine.
To know I’d never have another note like that, never again.
And now I had one. We hadn’t spoken since the end of last March, and here, in my hand, was a note. I opened it.
Saw you from afar at Northgate yesterday.
Proof: you were drinking a purple smoothie.
Then you got in the Honda and drove away, you legal driver, you.
Happy (late late late) birthday.
Jackson
At that moment—and I know this is certifiably insane—I missed Kim so much. It was Kim I’d always talked to about everything. She’d dissected Jackson’s notes, analyzed his gifts, listened to the blow-by-blow of any argument we’d had.
If this was last year, Kim, Nora, and Cricket and I would have spent the entire lunch period discussing the possible meanings of Jackson’s note, after which we’d have written a new entry in The Boy Book —if not several new entries.
I couldn’t talk to Noel. He was a guy. Plus, he was on the cross-country team with Jackson, and they didn’t like each other much, so he wouldn’t be objective. And I couldn’t talk to the girls from swimming. I didn’t know them well enough. So I grabbed Meghan an hour later as we were going into Am Lit.
“Jackson wrote me a note,” I whispered as the teacher 1 tinkered with the connection of his laptop to a projection screen. He was all cranked to show us these Web sites about Colonial Boston and Puritan women in preparation for reading The Scarlet Letter . 2 But he wasn’t technically adept, so someone from the AV club was supposedly on his way over to help.
“What did it say?” whispered Meghan.
“Happy birthday.”
“Is it your birthday?” Meghan smiled. “No, wait, I gave you something in August. Lip gloss.”
“He saw me driving the car the other day, so he figured out I turned sixteen.”
“That’s so sweet!” Meghan has no eye for the subtleties and weirdnesses of human drama. “When I turned sixteen,” she said, “Bick brought three dozen roses to my house at like six in the morning, and left them in a vase outside my bedroom door. He arranged it ahead of time with my mom.”
I didn’t say anything. Bick, Bick, Bick.
“He’s like that,” Meghan said, and turned her attention to the Bostonian Society Web site, which was finally up on Mr. Wallace’s screen.
At lunch, I didn’t see Jackson anywhere. Seniors drive off campus a lot and get lunch at Dick’s Drive-In or wherever. Nora and Cricket were sitting with Katarina, who had started going out with the nefarious Cabbie shortly after he
One day, in the middle of all the horror that was going on sophomore year, I had found myself alone by the cubbies. I was late to class, so no one was in the halls.
In Kim’s cubby was a note from Jackson.
I know it is completely wrong and also psycho, but I took it. I shoved it down in the pocket of my jeans, where it felt like it was burning a hole into my leg, and ran into a stall in the girls’ bathroom to read it.
K—
I’m in Global Studies, and I’m looking out the window
And I see you late for class because you went to buy a sticky bun.
You’re licking the icing as you walk across the quad
And I like the way your tongue looks, licking,
And I like the way you walk,
as if you like the way your sandal-feet are tickled by the grass.
So it’s like you’re with me now,
as Kessler hands us out a pop quiz
and I haven’t done the reading, ’cause
last night I was with you.
Tears ran down my face and I had to stay in the bathroom for twenty minutes, blowing my nose, splashing water on my cheeks, putting on lip gloss, and then crying again and having to do it all over.
It seemed so wrong to see that note in Jackson’s writing, that note with his blue-black pen, that note that only a month before would have been addressed to me, and to know it wasn’t mine.
To know I’d never have another note like that, never again.
And now I had one. We hadn’t spoken since the end of last March, and here, in my hand, was a note. I opened it.
Saw you from afar at Northgate yesterday.
Proof: you were drinking a purple smoothie.
Then you got in the Honda and drove away, you legal driver, you.
Happy (late late late) birthday.
Jackson
At that moment—and I know this is certifiably insane—I missed Kim so much. It was Kim I’d always talked to about everything. She’d dissected Jackson’s notes, analyzed his gifts, listened to the blow-by-blow of any argument we’d had.
If this was last year, Kim, Nora, and Cricket and I would have spent the entire lunch period discussing the possible meanings of Jackson’s note, after which we’d have written a new entry in The Boy Book —if not several new entries.
I couldn’t talk to Noel. He was a guy. Plus, he was on the cross-country team with Jackson, and they didn’t like each other much, so he wouldn’t be objective. And I couldn’t talk to the girls from swimming. I didn’t know them well enough. So I grabbed Meghan an hour later as we were going into Am Lit.
“Jackson wrote me a note,” I whispered as the teacher 1 tinkered with the connection of his laptop to a projection screen. He was all cranked to show us these Web sites about Colonial Boston and Puritan women in preparation for reading The Scarlet Letter . 2 But he wasn’t technically adept, so someone from the AV club was supposedly on his way over to help.
“What did it say?” whispered Meghan.
“Happy birthday.”
“Is it your birthday?” Meghan smiled. “No, wait, I gave you something in August. Lip gloss.”
“He saw me driving the car the other day, so he figured out I turned sixteen.”
“That’s so sweet!” Meghan has no eye for the subtleties and weirdnesses of human drama. “When I turned sixteen,” she said, “Bick brought three dozen roses to my house at like six in the morning, and left them in a vase outside my bedroom door. He arranged it ahead of time with my mom.”
I didn’t say anything. Bick, Bick, Bick.
“He’s like that,” Meghan said, and turned her attention to the Bostonian Society Web site, which was finally up on Mr. Wallace’s screen.
At lunch, I didn’t see Jackson anywhere. Seniors drive off campus a lot and get lunch at Dick’s Drive-In or wherever. Nora and Cricket were sitting with Katarina, who had started going out with the nefarious Cabbie shortly after he
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