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3. Ari Remon (The Boy Who Wore Boat Shoes)

I like books. I like reading. I like turning off reality and visiting new places and people and things. I like words. I like the way that words sound and fit together in infinite combinations.

During the year, I read a lot. On weekdays for school. Every other weekend to make the bus ride to Santa Cruz seem shorter. It's an hour ride, sometimes more if traffic is bad. When I don't go to Santa Cruz, I read so that my mind doesn't wander into unwanted realms.

I go to Santa Cruz every other weekend because that's where Eric goes to school—University of California, Santa Cruz. It's on the water. The view is beautiful.

When I don't go to Santa Cruz, Eric comes to me at Stanford.

I like when Eric comes to Stanford. Eric likes when I go to Santa Cruz. I don't like buses. Eric doesn't like Stanford. He feels uncomfortable walking around on a campus that he left. We usually hide in my room for the entire weekend, because Eric doesn't like running into people.

He joined a fraternity freshman year. He made friends. We started dating. He made some mistakes. He spent a few months detoxing in rehab. When he got out, he withdrew from Stanford. The following fall he started at UC Santa Cruz. He was happier. The academic burden was lighter. The people were less. He found a good therapist. He changed.

I didn't change Eric Wilson. My dad thinks I did. His parents think I did. But it wasn't me. I can't take credit for his sudden interest in ecology and the environment. I wish I did that for him. But I didn't.

Eric changed on his own.

He changed a few months after he settled in at Santa Cruz. He made new friends. Real friends. They all liked recycling and bicycling. Some of them had dread locks, others unironic beards. They hated what we had done to the planet. They smoked a lot of pot.

I was concerned. His parents were concerned. His therapist was concerned. Eric wasn't concerned.

He said that he could handle being friends with those people. He liked them for who they were, not what they did on the weekends. He said that they weren't the type of people who looked down on you if you refrained from their lifestyle. Some of them, he said, were even straight edge—too clean to pollute their bodies. They were all vegans, if that counted for anything.

I met his new friends. They complimented my Birkenstocks. I told them that they were Naot, not Birkenstocks. I explained that Naot were the Israeli equivalent of Birkenstocks. Eric wanted a pair. I told him that the only way he could get a pair was if he broke them in on holy ground. Eric doesn't like flying over oceans. He traded in his boat shoes and got his first pair of Birkenstocks.

The Birkenstocks were the beginning to his decent into liberalism. He became enamored with environmental activism. This was a gateway into the political left. His parents were not happy. I tried to remain neutral during the transformation, because it wasn't about me—it was about Eric. But I was happy.

Commuting an hour each way every other weekend was not ideal. But for happiness, I'd go all the way down to San Diego.

Most summers Eric and I stay at my dad's house on the West Coast. Once we roadtripped to his parents' house in New York. This summer, before our last year, I wanted to go someplace neither of us had familial ties. I closed my eyes and put my finger down on a map of America. Boston. We went to Boston.

I didn't want to be in Boston. Too city. Too much. We found a smaller college town. I got a job at a bookstore called Paige's Turners. Eric got a job at a diner, waiting tables. I liked the books. Eric liked the monotony.

I thought the summer would be breezy and simple. Then one day a girl named Natalie Perry walked into the store.

She was glam. She was brunette Barbie. I didn't know who she was. She asked me what she should read. I asked her what she liked reading. She didn't know. We spoke.

She was a nonnative Californian, like Eric and me. Her boyfriend was a native. They were here for the summer because her boyfriend—Mason—was filming a movie. She grew up around here and she didn't want to leave him alone for the summer, so she came along. She wanted to know everything about me. So I told her:

Of Stanford. Of Eric. Of my late mother. Of my late brother. Of moving across the country. Of my friends. Of commuting to Santa Cruz. Of majoring in psychology. Of feeling like a secondary character in Eric's story. Of not feeling enough.

I didn't know why she found my life so compelling, but she did. She does.

She wanted to meet Eric and she wanted me to meet Mason. We made dinner plans.

The boys met. Eric was impartial. Mason was a jerk. Natalie was nice. Eric recognized Natalie from an ad campaign. (Sophomore year, Eric started modeling part-time, but only for eco-friendly brands). (Now in addition to the environment, Eric cares about modeling and models and ad campaigns). Natalie is a model. Not like Eric. She has contracts with global brands. Her face is on billboards in Beijing and Barcelona (and Boston).

Mason is a singer. Pop. Teen girls. Concerts. Screaming. Mason is also an actor. Action movies. Teen movies. No comedies. Mason isn't funny. Not many dramas. Mason isn't that good of an actor yet. Sometimes romances. Simple ones. He is an idol.

Natalie and Mason don't make sense to me. But they make sense to each other. They fight a lot. Constantly. Mason whines. Natalie yells. They're inseparable.

At dinner Natalie said that she wanted to become an activist. All she needed was a cause. Eric went on a tirade about global warming, wasting water, and renewable energy sources. Natalie found her cause.

Natalie also said that she needed something to do. She wanted to meet people. The book club was born.

I started by inviting Emily and her boyfriend Oliver. They come into Paige's Turners weekly. They're smart. They read faster than me. They eat books. Devour them.

Emily invited someone she knew from her summer dorm. It was Liz. Liz brought Dylan. Eric was jitters during the first meeting. Liz was lightning. Dylan was a puddle. I was fine.

Emily invited Olivia from summer camp. Olivia is Harvard. Olivia is old money. Olivia is a coil. Her boyfriend Luke isn't Harvard. Luke isn't old money. Luke works. Luke is a dark lamb. He can't be contained. He has nice eyes. He is brilliant.

We had our club. They came. We picked a book to read. Af Venner og Blomster. Danish. Of Friends and Flowers. English. Intrigue. Webs. Love. I like the book. Natalie, Emily, Oliver, Liz, and Olivia like the book. Eric doesn't mind the book. Mason, Dylan, and Luke don't read the book.

For our third meeting, Mason, Dylan, and Luke were supposed to SparkNote the book. Natalie told me that Mason didn't do that, so she had to read him the SparkNotes while he was on the treadmill. Liz comes and says that Dylan did his reading. Olivia doesn't come with the same promise for Luke. Emily and Oliver read.

We sit in the back room, circled. Olivia brought Italian pastries. Natalie burned cookies. Oliver made tea.

Dylan eats a cannoli.

Liz drinks water.

Natalie holds Mason's phone hostage.

Mason wants to cry.

Luke closes his eyes.

Olivia is stressed.

Emily smiles.

Oliver grins.

Eric is here.

We start.

"So everyone's caught up?" –Emily

"Yeah." "Yes." "Uh huh." –Natalie, Liz, Olivia

"So let's start!" –Emily

"Does anyone have any questions?" –Emily

"Why did Ida run away? I don't really get it." –Liz

"She was pregnant. Starting to show. Mikkel and Iver would've found out." –Eric, sharply

"So what if they found out?" –Natalie, combatively

"If they found out, they would hate Soren and Ida." –Oliver

"No. They never hate Ida. They can't. They love her." –Me

"So then maybe it's because of Freja. They were best friends and Ida didn't want her to know that she slept with her beloved Soren." –Olivia

"Freja would've been crushed if she knew about Soren and Ida." –Emily

"Iver and Mikkel would've been crushed, too. Their best friend slept with the girl of their dreams, got her pregnant, and then shacked up with a different girl." –Oliver

"And now their dream girl is MIA." –Eric

"Exactly!" –Oliver

"Where did, uh, Ida go?" –Dylan

Liz exhales, pleased.

"Maybe to her family?" –Olivia

"She didn't tell anyone where she was going. I think that she didn't want to be found." –Natalie

"Yeah." –Mason

Luke excuses himself from the room.

Olivia rushes after him.

We continue to talk about Ida's disappearance. How the other characters react. Iver is distraught. A mess. He cannot function. Mikkel drowns in alcohol. Mikkel becomes a cliché. Soren is relieved. He doesn't want to be a father. He wants to focus on Freja. Freja is scared. She misses her friend. She doesn't know why her friend didn't tell her—

Olivia comes back.

—that she was leaving. Ida is gone. She didn't leave anything behind. Her apartment is empty. All that's left of Ida is her memory. It isn't enough.

We speculate about what will happen next. If Ida will return. If Soren will "man up." If Iver and Mikkel will find out about Soren and Ida. If Freja will find out. Of what will happen to Iver's flower shop. Will it remain conceptual or enter the realm of actuality?

Luke comes back. He smells like Soren. Of cigarette smoke. Of beer.

We continue our discussion. We go and go and go. All of the pastries are eaten. The cookies are untouched. Half of the tea is gone.

Emily bursts. She indulges. She tells Mason that she's a fan of his work. Musically. Cinematographically.

Mason lights up. Talking about Mason is his favorite activity.

I step out.

I have to get out. I like Natalie. I've heard Mason speak of his achievements. I don't need to hear the soliloquy again.

I go over to the checkout desk. The bookstore is closed right now. There's no one here except for the ten of us.

I breathe. In. Out. In.

Luke emerges from the room.

Out.

I want to know of every tattoo that he has.

"Hey." –Luke

"Hi." –Me

I notice letters on his shoulder. They're not in English. I can still read them. Hebrew. I almost laugh. I want to say something about the letters. I don't want to seem pretentious.

"Everything does look better in Hebrew." –Me

"What?" –Him

"Your tattoo. 'Hakol nereh yafeh b'ivrit.'"

"Ohhhhhh. 'Everything looks better in Hebrew.'"

"Yeah."

"You speak it?"

"Barely. But my name is Hebrew."

"Yeah?"

"Ari is lion. Remon—my last name—is pomegranate."

"Niiiiiiiice."

I reach out my hand and graze a finger over the foreign letters, tracing them. I'm not trying to be sensual. Just. I just need to make sure that they're here. That he's here.

After my mom and brother died, I had trouble separating my nightmares from reality. Every night I dreamt of them. But they weren't real. What was real was the loss. The pain. The void. But those things weren't tangible. I couldn't touch them. I could touch my tears. I could touch the programs from their memorial service. I could touch my own two hands. To make sure it was all real, I began tracing. Like I was creating my own boundaries of truth. I trace to validate reality.

"Sorry." –Me

"It's fine." –Him

"I just..."

"You're kind of beautiful, you know that?"

I blush, bashful. Then divert.

"How long have you and Olivia been together?"

"Too long. What about you and Eric?"

"Long enough."

"Have you ever wanted to be with someone else?"

"...Yes. But I would never. Once Eric and I are done, I think that I'll be single for a while. I need the break."

"He's not 'The One'?" –Him, cynically

"He might be. But after college, he's going to need time on his own. I'm going to get a doctorate in psychology. I can't ask him to wait." –Me, practically

"With me and Liv, it's not about waiting. It's about who's strong enough to cut the cord. We've been together so long and I can't do it anymore. I'm not that strong. Liv is gonna have to cut it."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"You. You have beautiful eyes."

"If you weren't with Eric and I wasn't with Liv, I would consider kissing you right now."

"Do you ever feel like you're stuck in someone else's story instead of being the protagonist of your own?"

"Sometimes I feel like an accessory, if that counts. Like before Liv leaves, she needs her keys, her wallet, and her Luke. Like I'm a prop—not a person. I feel that all the time, actually."

"How do you make it go away?"

"You speak up. You be strong."

"And if you can't?"

"Then you stay an Else forever."

Else is the bartender in the book. She loves Iver. No one pays attention to her, because she's just a bartender. I don't want to be an Else.

"You read the book?" –Me

"No." –Him

"But I may have peeked at the SparkNotes." –Him

"By your own free will?"

"Sort of. I didn't feel like getting castrated after this meeting by one Olivia Ross, so I guess that counts an incentive fueling my free will."

Silence.

We return to the back room.

Mason is still talking.

I listen.