Zenn Diagram Page 7

  After we settle on the dress, we splurge and eat at the Cheesecake Factory. Charlotte treats. But eventually the talk of all things Josh wears on me and I develop a dull headache. I’m excited for her. I am. I swear I am.

  “I’m going to get my nails done tomorrow. Do you want to come?”

  I don’t say no, but I avoid giving her an answer right away. All day our conversations have been dominated by Josh and homecoming and … Josh. The two of them have been texting back and forth the whole time like they are getting paid by the word, which means I can hardly finish a sentence without her phone buzzing and her looking down and smiling at something he “said.” At one point she offers to set me up with one of his friends, some rich-kid football player. I politely decline. (“Hell, no” is polite, right?) I have nothing against football players, per se. I just have a problem with pity.

  So in the end, even though I know it’s shitty of me, I tell Charlotte that my parents have to go to a wedding and I have to babysit the whole day. No pedicure for me.

  I don’t know why I lie.

  Or, maybe I do.

  Chapter 12

  I settle in at Java Dock on my favorite couch. The place is empty tonight. Every teenager in town (except the very coolest, like me) is either at the homecoming dance, or at some very anti-homecoming homecoming party. I’ve decided that tonight will be the night I tackle my MIT and Northwestern applications. I’ve borrowed my dad’s church laptop and have hunkered down with a pumpkin spice latte, a sugar cookie the size of a dinner plate and as much enthusiasm as I can muster.

  Before I start the applications I make the mistake of going on Instagram. I usually check it from my phone, but the computer is handy and I am rewarded by nearly life-size pictures from various pre-dance get-togethers. Some are just a couple of friends hanging out while others are groups of thirty or forty popular kids meeting at the park or someone’s house for a professional-grade photo shoot. Charlotte and I used to make fun of these parties. All the kids lined up, looking eerily the same, like some kind of cloning experiment gone wrong. Tonight the girls stand slightly angled toward one another with a hand on a hip, their dresses all equally short and sparkly, their hair curled in stiff ringlets. (Last year everyone’s hair was flat-ironed.) The boys have dark shirts and colorful ties. Whatever one does, they all do, like overly coiffed meerkats. I see a picture of Josh and Charlotte, their arms around each other, looking about as model-like as you can get. Between the tasteful dress that I helped her pick out, the hair and the makeup, Charlotte is almost unrecognizable. But rather than looking like she doesn’t belong, or like she’s one of the clones, Charlotte stands out in an amazing way. She literally and figuratively towers over all the girls and some of the boys, stunning.

  And her smile is glorious. She seems to be having the time of her life.

  Maybe those parties only seem lame when you’re not invited.

  I close the Instagram window with a forceful click and sign in to the MIT application site. Time to get down to business. I hear the door of the shop open and close, but I don’t look up. Won’t let myself get distracted every time someone walks in. Must focus.

  “Tall black drip,” is the guy’s coffee order, and for some reason I find this funny. Drip is an insult I’ve heard my non-swearing, too-polite dad use. I’m not even sure what it means, but I assume it’s a nerd? Or maybe a jerk? Who knows. It’s kind of like when my mom used to tell me I was being a pill when I was little. What is that supposed to even mean? I lose my focus and let my gaze drift up to the counter.

  Aaaand of course it’s Zenn. Why wouldn’t it be? He has a talent for catching me at my worst moments.

  While he waits for his coffee, I snuggle deeper into the couch, hoping he won’t notice me. The only thing worse than filling out college applications the night of the homecoming dance is your crush seeing you fill out college applications the night of the homecoming dance. I guess it should make me feel better that he’s not at the dance either, but it doesn’t. When guys don’t go to homecoming it seems like a conscious choice. When girls don’t go, it just seems like they didn’t get asked.

  I study him from behind the screen of my laptop. I haven’t seen him since our tutoring session on Tuesday, when I gave him the go-ahead to paint the van. He’s in his usual army jacket but tonight he has on a knit hat that would look intentionally trendy if Josh were wearing it. On Zenn it just looks functional, like he’s using the hat for its intended purpose: to keep warm. He stands with his hands in his pockets, looking at the bulletin board covered with business cards and flyers advertising band gigs, dog-walking services, tutoring. My own ad was up there until my schedule got so filled up.

  “Tall black drip!” the barista calls out, like she’s calling out his name and not the drink. Zenn is tall and dark, but there is nothing drippy about him. He is most definitely nondrippy, whatever that means. He takes his coffee and I think I am home free until he steps away from the counter.

  Crap. He sees me. I am equal parts mortified and thrilled.

  He raises his cup in a silent greeting and comes a few steps closer. He opens the lid and I try not to stare at his mouth as he blows on his coffee to cool it.

  “Hey, Zenn.” My voice sounds goofy in my own ears. Too loud in this small, cozy space.

  He takes a tentative sip from his cup. Straight black coffee, no cream, no sugar, no chocolate syrup. What a badass.

  “No homecoming for you either?” he asks.

  I close my laptop and press my hands against the warm surface. I shrug. “I’m not much of a dancer.”

  Zenn nods in agreement. “Yeah. Me neither.”

  He comes even closer and sits down on the arm of the sofa across from me. His knees are spread wide, his forearms resting on his inner thighs, his hypnotizing hands holding his coffee in the triangle between his legs. He looks so comfortable, so at ease in his own skin. How does one get that way? You wouldn’t think it would be hard — I mean, we’re born in our skin. It should be pretty comfortable by the time you hit seventeen, eighteen. But for me … not so much.

  “Homework?” he asks, nodding at my laptop.

  “Hmmm?” I drum my fingers against the cover. “Oh. Not really. Just … surfing the web.”

  Surfing the web? Do people even say that anymore?

  He nods and takes another small sip of his coffee. Swallows.

  “Lots of people posting pictures?” he asks.

  I shrug and feel my throat tighten. Oh, my God. What is wrong with me? I don’t even care about homecoming! At least I never did before. Pull it together, Eva! I look down at the closed laptop until I feel more in control of my emotions, leaving a long, dead moment of silence.

  “So … I’m on my way to work on your van.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Do you … want to come with? See how it’s going?”

  I look up. This must be a trick question. Hang out alone at the coffee shop filling out college applications on homecoming night or accompany a hot guy … anywhere? No-brainer.

  “Um. Sure?”

  He nods and gives me a small, satisfied smile. “Cool.”

  I pack up the laptop, shoving my cookie into the case. When I stand up, juggling my coffee and trying to hoist the bag onto my shoulder, Zenn reaches for the strap. “Here. I’ll take it.”

  “Oh. Thanks.”

  I never offer to help people with their things and I envy the way he can just take my bag from me like that. I envy how touch is, for most people, as easy as breathing.

  He lifts his arm in a ladies-first kind of move, and I lead the way out of the coffee shop.

  “Did you drive here?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “I walked.”

  “Okay. I’m just across the street.”

  He gestures with his coffee cup to a pickup truck, old, but old in a rounded, classic, vintage sort of way. Not in a dumpy-piece-of-shit way. It’s a deep maroon, the color of my mom’s beloved merlot.

  “Wow. That’s
a great truck,” I say, thinking maybe he does have money after all. It looks mint — shiny and rust-free.

  “Thanks.”

  It suddenly occurs to me that maybe I shouldn’t be getting into his truck, at night, to go to a deserted body shop. I don’t know him that well and I haven’t had enough experience with boys to develop a radar about these sorts of things. But my fears subside slightly when he opens the passenger-side door for me. Once I’m in, he hands over my laptop case and makes sure I’m settled before closing the door carefully behind me. It’s an old-fashioned gesture that, right or wrong, makes me feel safe.

  Plus, I’ve got my dad’s number on speed dial and there’s a Taco Bell that’s open until midnight right next to the body shop. It’s not like we’ll be in the middle of nowhere.

  The truck has a vintage smell to it: a little musty, like my grandpa’s attic. The faint 1960s scent of cigarettes and Aqua Net is embedded in the leather upholstery.

  In the absence of cup holders, Zenn balances his coffee between his knees and starts the engine.

  “Here, I’ll hold it.” I reach out. “That looks like a recipe for disaster.”

  Zenn laughs a little and hands me his cup. I’m careful to make sure our fingers don’t touch in the hand off.

  “Yeah, I guess stick shifts and hot coffee don’t mix,” he says.

  “Unless you want a third-degree burn to the groin.”

  Oh. My. God. What is wrong with me? Just the mention of his groin has made my cheeks burn. I’m so grateful for the dark.

  “I definitely do not want that.”

  His coffee cup is fractal-free, as I figured it would be. He’s only held it for a few minutes, and nothing traumatic has happened during our walk to his truck. He drives us to the body shop, making small talk along the way.

  “Did your friend go to the dance? The tall one?”

  “Charlotte?” I try to remember whether Zenn and Charlotte have crossed paths, but I can’t think of when they were both at the same place at the same time. She comes to see Josh and Josh alone. She and Zenn have never actually met, as far as I know.

  “I don’t know her name. I’ve just seen you guys at lunch.”

  Ah. So he doesn’t apparate. I wonder how he sees me but I don’t see him. Then it occurs to me that maybe he just sees Charlotte.

  “You have lunch fifth period?”

  He shakes his head. “Sixth. But I’ve seen you leaving.”

  “Oh. Right. I guess Charlotte is hard to miss.” He opens his mouth to say something — probably to comment on her increasing beauty and popularity — but I cut him off. “Yeah, she went. With Pepé Le Pew.”

  He smiles. “Mooney, huh? She’ll come home with clear sinuses, anyway.”

  “Yeah. I hope that’s all she comes home with.”

  Zenn glances in my direction. I hadn’t realized I’d sound so bitter.

  I wave my hand, dismissing my comment. “I shouldn’t have said that. Sorry. He seems like a nice enough guy.”

  “You don’t have to be sorry. I’m not going to defend Mooney.”

  “I just worry about her. She’s not used to that sort of crowd.”

  “They do take some getting used to.” Zenn pulls into the parking lot of the body shop. “I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

  “Yeah,” I agree, though the thought of what Josh might expect after his senior homecoming dance, and what Charlotte might be willing to do to keep him interested, worries me.

  We both climb out of the truck. I leave my laptop on the seat and Zenn uses his key to open the shop. He leads me through the dark to the garage, where he flips on a few lights. The van is there, though it is almost unrecognizable. Gone are the blue skies and headless sheep. It looks fantastic already.

  I tell him that.

  He nods. “Amazing what a coat of paint will do.”

  The van is now a blank white canvas. He has already sketched the artwork on the side, and the lettering. It looks amazing, and he hasn’t even started painting yet.

  He moves a pile of rags off a chair and rolls it toward me. I sit while he starts getting his equipment ready: airbrush pen, compressor and various small vials of paint. He takes off his jacket and his hat and tosses them on a tool bench. His hair is so short it isn’t even messed up, though he seems like he wouldn’t care if it were. I imagine Josh might have spent more time on his hair tonight than Charlotte did.

  It’s cold in the garage so Zenn pulls on a paint-stained hoodie. When he reaches up to tug it on over his head, his T-shirt creeps up and I get a glimpse of the smooth, surprisingly tan skin just above the waistband of his jeans. My fingers ache to know what his skin — what any boy’s skin — feels like. It makes me incredibly sad that I may never find out. Or at least without releasing a shit storm of childhood trauma and who-knows-what.

  I fold up in the chair, wrapping my arms around my bent legs, resting my chin on my knees.

  “Sorry it’s so cold,” he says as he scrolls through his phone and starts some music. “I don’t like to turn on the space heater because of the paint fumes.”

  “It’s fine,” I say. “Better cold and alive than warm and blown to pieces.”

  Zenn gives me one of his rare, full smiles, and gets to work. He applies the paint in short, quick strokes that look like mistakes, at first. In fact, I almost say something, cringing at how he’s so bold and decisive with permanent paint. But each added layer, each color, each stroke of his hand adds a new dimension. If he actually does make mistakes, I don’t see them.

  “How’d you learn to do this?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s just my thing. Like … you and math.”

  I don’t remember learning math, although I’m sure I did. It feels more like I uncovered it, like the math knowledge was always there inside me and it was just a matter of peeling away other stuff to get to it. Michelangelo said that every block of stone has a statue inside and that the sculptor’s job is to discover it. Maybe everyone has a gift like that: something that is there already, waiting to be discovered.

  “This is so much cooler than math, though.”

  Zenn pauses and raises one eyebrow at me. “I’m not sure there is anything remotely cool about airbrushing church vans.”

  This makes me laugh. “Not airbrushing vans, exactly. Just … art. In general.”

  He changes the color cup on his gun, his hands moving like he could do it in his sleep. He tests it out on a piece of cardboard, then turns to the van and starts spraying.

  “Do you ever make mistakes?” I ask.

  “Never.” His answer is immediate, purposefully serious, sarcastic.

  I laugh.

  “You make a ‘mistake,’ you figure out a way to work with it. It is what it is. You can’t let it ruin everything,” he says.

  “That sounds kind of like a whole life philosophy.”

  “Well. It’s a lot easier to do with art than it is with life.”

  I nod. “It’s so different from math. Math is concrete. Right. Wrong. You make a mistake, you get the wrong answer. A calculation error can be … catastrophic.”

  “That’s why I stick with art.”

  I watch him work for over two hours, asking questions once in a while but mostly just watching, listening to his eclectic playlist, studying the way his shoulders move under his sweatshirt. It’s nearly ten thirty when he sets down his airbrush kit and stretches.

  “I’m starving,” he says. “Wanna make a run for the border?”

  “Si,” I answer.

  “Bueno,” he says. “Vamos, chica guapa.”

  I don’t speak Spanish — I’m a French girl — but I think he called me either pretty or fat. I’m going to go with pretty.

  After we inhale eight of Taco Bell’s finest tacos between us (Zenn: five, me: three), Zenn drives me home. He pulls up in front of my house and I try to see it through his eyes. It’s not a very cute house: a split-level from the seventies. My parents would rather have one of the historic homes nearby
, but anything with vintage details like crown molding is out of my parents’ price range. My mom has made efforts to add some charm — window boxes and shutters and such. But as my grandpa always said, It’s like putting lipstick on a pig.

  Almost all the lights are out; it’s hours past the quads’ bedtime, and by now I’m sure my mom and dad have passed out as well. Insomnia is rarely a problem when you’re taking care of a bunch of little kids. Sleep always trumps waiting up for your teenage daughter.

  “Thanks for rescuing me tonight,” I say.

  Zenn tilts his head. In the dim light his skin looks even darker than usual. I wonder about his heritage, if he has some Native American in him or something.

  “Rescuing you?”

  “I was going to fill out college applications.”

  “Oh, yeah? To where?”

  Now I’ve done it. Saying out loud that I want to go to the schools I want to go to always sounds pretentious and a little bit insane. Like I’m some sort of “beautiful mind.” I shrug. “A couple different places.”

  “Don’t be modest. I already know you’re a genius.”

  I usually don’t like being teased about being smart, but he says it almost affectionately. I still don’t answer.

  “Harvard? Yale?” He nudges me with his elbow. “Oxford?” He says it with a high-brow British accent.

  I smile and shake my head.

  “Come on. Where?”

  I give him a squinty, stubborn look. He gives me one back.

  “Fine. Stanford. MIT. Northwestern. Nowhere I can afford, but whatever.”

  He nods, impressed. “Well. At least you’ll probably get in.”

  It’s true, my chances of getting in are better than most. I should appreciate that fact at least. Whether or not it’s actually affordable is a luxury that most kids don’t even get to worry about. But to me it seems it would be worse to get in and then not be able to go. It would be like … having a boyfriend but not being able to touch him.