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eleven

He pulls my chair out for me, and I thank him before blushing and sitting down. The hostess leaves us after placing two identical menus down on the table, and then we’re alone. It’s just the two of us. Him. And me. But we’ve been alone in the past, so this time isn’t any different. It always feels a bit strange to be alone with him, but maybe that’s because of his connection to Jay or just because he’s, well, him. Maybe it’ll always feel weird, and maybe it isn’t even because of his association with my brother or because he’s him. Perhaps it’s because we’re us, and things are just always going to be perpetually peculiar when it comes to our interactions. But right now I try to shove those thoughts down, and focus on the here and now.

           “Why is always so dark in restaurants at night?” he wonders aloud, his fingers reaching for a menu, but stopping.

           “I know, right? Like, I don’t care about the ambiance—it’s dark outside, so wouldn’t it make sense to be light in here?” I laugh in utter agreement.

           “Exactly!” he exclaims like I’ve just stated something worth branding on billboards across America. “We come into a building expecting to, like, see, ya know? And then it’s darker in the building than it is outside, and that’s just so screwed up, isn’t it?”

           “So screwed up!” I nod ardently.

           “Like, if I can barely see anything in this lighting, how do they expect me to read their menu?” he continues, and I just keep on nodding along. Because while our conversation is utterly idiotic, it’s still a conversation, which is better than the awkward alternative: silence. We’re not good at silence, as I’ve learned over the past few weeks. When muteness consumes us, nothing good can come. So we talk. Even if it’s about nothing at all. Anything is better than taciturnity, no matter how absurd.

           So I say, “Kyle, one day you’re going to be the guy to put an end to dark restaurants at night.”

           “Damn straight, Sal!”

           “Your slogan can be something like, ‘We like bright lights!’”

           “Yeah, or ‘The lights are ALWAYS on!’”

           I laugh. He laughs. The discussion has come to its terminal point, so to avoid the inevitable awkwardness that will soon follow, we each instinctively grab a menu and busy ourselves with gazing at the options. It’s an unsaid excuse as to why we’re not talking, but it’s a sucky one and a falsehood. My eyes skim over the selections and the prices and the amount of calories that everything has. Then, I’m interrupted by a third individual. And so is Kyle.

           “Hi! I’m Vivien, and I’ll be serving you this evening,” greets a twenty-something brunette with enough energy to power a Prius. “Can I start you off with any beverages?”

           Kyle looks over to me, signaling that I’m first to voice my choice of drink. “Just a water, please,” I request as politely as I can.

           The waitress turns to Kyle expectantly as she scribbles down my order, and he says, “I’ll have a water, too, please.” She nods at the both of us, and she is about to retreat to go and retrieve our glasses containing two parts hydrogen and one part oxygen, but then Kyle adds, “Oh, and can we actually get one more water, please? We’re waiting for someone else.” The waitress nods, adding it to the list, and then she’s off, leaving Kyle and I unaccompanied, once again.

           “Uh, whom else are we waiting for?” I ask in confusion. This is a date. Typically, dates consist of two people. The addition of another person transforms a date into a mere outing of amicability. From what I’ve gathered, though, this is a normal date. But now Kyle is implying that that’s about to change, and I don’t know how I feel about it.

           “Sal,” he begins, and I realize that he’s about to diverge onto something else, instead of explicitly answering my question. “Do you like me?”

           “Uh, yeah, of course I do, Kyle,” I reply, caught off guard by the seemingly random topic.

           “No, I mean really like me,” he presses. “Like, do you think about me constantly?” Nope. “Or do you ever get nervous talking to me?” Uh, not really, dude. “Sal, do you even want to take the next step and be my girlfriend?” No. I don’t. “Because I don’t want to take the next step, Sal.”

           My eyes bulge as his words float down a different course than I initially thought they were going. So I’m like, “You don’t want to take the next step, Kyle?”

           “No,” he says, “and neither do you.”

           “Neither do I?” I reiterate, not about to deny it, because it’s the truth.

           “You don’t like me, Sal,” he continues, his eyes lifting from the food of his menu, only to connect with mine. “You never have, and you probably never will.”

           “Kyle, that’s ridiculous! Of course I like you!” I insist.

           “But not as boyfriend material.”

           And I find myself nodding along as I repeat somewhat somberly, “But not as boyfriend material…”

           “And it’s okay, Sal, because I don’t like you either.” I’m about to interject something about his rude bluntness, but then he goes on, so I don’t have a chance to: “As girlfriend material, of course. As a person, I think that you’re great, Sal, I really do, but can you honestly imagine us as a couple? Because I can’t. You don’t like me that way, and I don’t like you that way. So why force it?” It feels like he’s dumping me, even if we were never officially together. And like with most dumpings, I can’t say that it’s the happiest moment in my life.

           “So why force it?” I ask myself, repeating his words that sound like a beacon of wisdom at a time like now.

           “Sal, I have something to tell you, but you have to promise to not hate me forever, okay?” All I can do is nod along numbly, consenting to his basic parameters. “So, uh, when I first asked you out—shit, this is harder than I thought it’d be—well, uh, it wasn’t actually my idea in the first place.” My eyes widen, and he takes that as a sign that he should start explaining, and FAST. So he does: “I know it sounds bad, Sal, but, uh, honestly, it isn’t that bad. I swear. Look, when Ezra first started practicing with you, Jay basically thought that it was the end of the world—”

           “Why doesn’t it surprise me that Jay is somehow in the middle of all of this?” I interject with a remorseful shake of my head.

           “Let me finish,” he begs with a sigh. So I close my mouth, and get my listening ears on. “Anyway, when you two started practicing, Jay wasn’t happy. At all. So, he thought the logical solution was to set the two of us up—”

           “Why?” I interrupt once again, not comprehending how Jay thought that pushing Kyle and me together would solve the whole Ezra crisis.

           “He didn’t want you falling for Ezra,” Kyle answers as seriously as he can. The tone in his voice suggests not even a hint of humor is meant in his words, but even so, I can’t really take them serious. Me. Falling for Ezra. It’s absurd, isn’t it? “So, he figured that if we went out on a few dates, you wouldn’t even consider liking Ezra, ya know, like that.”

           “Why would Jay think that I would like Ezra like that?”

           “Because Ezra likes you like that, Sal!” Kyle explodes, not sparing me any time to mentally prepare for his assertion. As his words play back in my mind, I can’t tell if I’m dreaming or living in reality. It just seems to freaking crazy. Like, Ezra doesn’t like like me, ya know? We’re, uh, friends or something. He can’t like me like that. It’d just be too freaking weird.

           “Ezra doesn’t like me,” I dismiss the notion almost immediately.

           But then another individual who isn’t Kyle or the waitress argues, “Actually, he does.”

           I glance up from the thick list of plausible meals, and my eyes meet up with a pair of apathetic ones that are trying their hardest to conjure as much emotion as they can retain without bursting. It feels as though my very soul is being scrutinized with the intensity, but I don’t have the power to look away. So I just keep looking, and looking, and looking. Maybe I’m searching for an explanation or more affirmation or something else entirely. Regardless, at least I know that I’m seeking for something, which I guess is, like, a good thing. Right?

           “He does?” I finally find myself reiterating right back. Thus far this evening, I’ve pretty much taken on the conversational skills of a freaking parrot, but I just can’t help it! It’s one bombshell after another, and unlike those people on those stupid reality shows, I haven’t been warned, prior.

           “Has he not been forward enough?” dryly laughs the person who I can only assume is joining us. He sits down beside Kyle, so that he can keep staring at me, but I just glance down, desperately wanting to look anywhere but at him.

           “Uh…” is all I can say, a bit thrown off by the continuation of the use of third person.

           “Did you already explain, or should I?” he asks Kyle.

           “Go ahead,” Kyle replies in validation.

           So he’s about to elaborate on whatever the heck the two are rambling about, but then the waitress comes over, and is all like, “Here are you drinks, and—oh, it looks like we have somebody else joining! Hi, I’m Vivien. Can I start you off with anything?”

           He reviews the water that he has just been given, and shakes his head. “No, thanks. Water’s just fine.”

           So she nods her head, and switches her attention from Kyle to me and then from me to Kyle. “Are you two all set to order, or…” she probes hesitantly.

           I’m about to open my mouth and request some food, because at least then I’d have something to wait for and busy myself with, but then Kyle’s all like, “We’re still figuring things out.” I want to punch his attractive face at the double meaning hidden within his words. But I don’t, because violence is bad, and, like, yeah.

           The waitress accepts his reply, and walks away. This time, though, I’m alone with two boys and an untold story.

           “As you were saying, Ezra?” I prompt, proud that I’m able to say the few coherent terms without coming across as an absolute ditz.

           “Right,” he mumbles. “Well, Sal Berkley, I suppose this is the part where I tell you some big confession, so are you ready for this, or what?”

           “I was born ready,” I determine, forcing myself to connect my eyes with his.

           “Sal, the reason I stopped being friends with Jason and Kyle and their friends was because of you,” he states articulately, and I’m still trying to process how he’s here, on my not-so-date date with Kyle, and how everything in my mind is being more muddled by the minute. But then I process what he has said, and I open my mouth to say something—anything—but he’s talking once more, so I can’t: “Remember when I was a freshmen and I used to come over to your house and we would play video games together and just chill?” He doesn’t give me a chance to respond, but I wouldn’t know what to say, even if he had. “Yeah, well, somehow along the way, I started to like you in a not-at-all-platonic sort of way. I told your brother, and that was probably my first mistake. He told me to back off, and got all protective. I told him that I couldn’t. So then he basically stopped talking to me all together, and so did our other friends—totally not trying to offend you, Kyle—but anyway, freshman year wasn’t that fun.

           “Then basketball season came around, and I tried out for the team, just like Jason. I was offered a spot on varsity. So was Jason. You know your brother, and you know how, well, strong he can be about his views at times, so I decided to not play, because I didn’t want any conflict. He was already pissed about me liking you, so I didn’t need things to escalate by the two of us competing for recognition on the same team.

           “Sophomore and junior year passed by in a blur. I kept to myself and basically just focused on school and getting into a good college. I was still playing basketball, but for out of school teams, and I was still crushing pretty hard on you, but from afar. Senior year came around, and I thought it was going to be the same as the previous two. But then I saw you in the gym that one day, and I knew that if I didn’t say or do something, I would miss my chance. So I offered to help you with basketball. It was a legitimate offer, and I think that you’ve definitely improved over these past few weeks, but it was also kind of selfish of me. I was in it for an ulterior motive, instead of just trying to be a genuinely nice guy.

           “I wanted to get to know you, Sal. I liked you, but I thought that it was just some stupid crush I had as a freshman, because you were one of the only girls that I had ever talked to. Then we started practicing and talking and being near each other. The crush resurfaced, and I knew that I was so dead when you started kind-of-dating Kyle. I liked you, but you were with sort of with another dude, which had been Jason’s intent all along. He knew I was a good guy, so he knew that I wouldn’t try anything with you if I knew that you were taken. He was right.

           “But then last week, right before the scrimmage, Kyle explained everything to me. He told that he didn’t like you in that way, and about Jason’s plan. So, I talked to your brother, and he apologized for screwing with fate. We had our words, and then he thanked me for helping you with basketball and for not being a total scumbag. He told me that it was okay if I wanted to, ya know, pursue you. Then we decided to scrimmage, and that was when you and your friend came in.

           “So, Sal, just to be overtly clear, I like you. A lot. I think you’re absolutely beautiful—and I know this is really cheesy, but I don’t care right now—on the inside and out, and it’s been a pleasure getting to know you better over these past few weeks. You’re different than Jason Berkley’s little sister who I was strangely infatuated with at age fourteen—you’re better. I don’t know where your head’s at, but I’m sure it’s confused, and I know that I’m shit at telling stories and all that, so sorry that you’ve had to endure a long one. So, that’s it. What do you think, Sal?”

           “You’re not shit at telling stories,” I blurt, it being the only thing I’m certain of right now. As for everything else, well, it definitely makes a heck of a lot more sense, but then again, it’s also complicated by tenfold. I want to be able to tell Ezra something mushy about how I’ve had a crush on him since forever, too, but that just isn’t the truth. I like Ezra, I really do. But I’ve never really thought about liking him like that. I can definitely conceptualize a brighter and better future with him than I can with Kyle, but he’s Ezra! It’s all just so much to take in.

           “Thanks,” he says with a smudge of a smile.

           “And I like your face a lot, too,” I add bluntly, mentally pondering whether or not Alisa’s brain has been swapped with mine. “And your hair. And your, uh, body.”

           “Thanks,” he says again, this time with a smidge of a smirk. Then, he suddenly asks, “Can I take you somewhere?”

           And being the idiot that I am, I’m like, “What about Kyle?”

           And being the sweetheart that Kyle is, he’s like, “I’ll be fine. Go.”

           So then I’m being whisked away from the table by an Ezra who claims to like me (I know, it’s crazy), and I decide that as dates go, this is probably amongst the most unsuccessful. We flit past the hostess who seated Kyle and me, and exit through the two large doors. I’m not entirely sure why I’m condoning this excursion, but I can’t say that I’m not the least bit curious. It’s exciting to have someone who likes you, even if you’re not sure how you feel about them. It feels good.

           We come to the parking lot, and then we climb into Ezra’s messy car, and the memory of the day with the rain floods my mind, and I smile. Ezra starts the car, and then we’re moving farther and farther away from the restaurant and from Kyle and I feel bad about leaving Kyle alone, but he’s a big boy, so I don’t feel that bad. The dark streets are hardly lit by lampposts, and though I’ve lived in this town since before I can remember, I don’t know where we’re going. I know the town during the day, but when it’s cloaked with night, well, it’s like an entirely different place.

           Time passes by soundlessly, and then after a while, Ezra stops the vehicle in an empty parking lot. I know where we are now, and since it’s the weekend and I’ve spent all week in the place, I’m not exactly thrilled to be here. But Ezra is, and as he unbuckles my seatbelt and then his, I can practically taste the palpable excitement that’s radiating off of him. So we get out of the car, and start walking towards the sleeping structure. It’s a Saturday night. There’s no one here.

           “Isn’t it locked?” I ask when we reach the entrance.

           Ezra doesn’t respond, though. Instead, he disproves my theory by sticking a hand out, and opening the front door. I hesitantly step in, having ominousness take over me, for I’m almost positive that we’re trespassing. But Ezra doesn’t seem too concerned, so I attempt to bury my qualms. We walk through the halls in a simple silence, and then stop right before another set of doors. Just like the last, Ezra eases through them, and so I.

           We’re in the gym of our high school. The place in which we’ve spent a considerable amount of time together. A single light hangs overhead, barely illuminating the expansive space. I’m not sure why we’re here, but Ezra seems to have a pretty good idea, considering that he’s the one who took us here, and all. Then he’s moving away from my side, and sprinting over to a corner. I watch him as he retrieves something from the ground, and then runs back to me. In his hand is a basketball.

           He throws the object to me, and expecting it, I catch it. I’m standing a ways away from the basket, and I’m not really sure what to do with the ball. So I look over to him, but he isn’t giving anything away. I throw him the ball. He catches it, and then tosses it back to me. Sighing, I bring my arms up and just accept that the ball is to be in my position. My knees bend, and I form those perfecting freaking angles with my elbows and stuff. Then I find myself shooting the ball instinctively, as if it’s a mere reflex that I can’t help.

           I don’t even really watch as the ball dully nears the net. Though it’s a cocky outlook, I know that I’ve just taken a good shot, but it’s nice to hear the authorizing swish as it goes in.

           “Nice shot,” Ezra compliments, grinning.

           “I know,” I say.

           “Your shoulders could’ve been squared off to the basket more, though.

           “Yeah, I guess.”

           “Hey, Sal,” he continues casually, “do you want to be my girlfriend?”

           And I can’t help but gape, as I say a flustered and not-at-all-emotionally-ready, “Uh, like, maybe…”