A Dazzle of Zebras, page 10
“Ohhh,” she says. “I got it. So you like-like this guy.”
“Okay, yes. I guess so. Yes. But my friends are acting like it’s the biggest thing to happen in the history of the world and they’re pressuring me to ask him to Winter Formal and I’m just like, Whaaaat? You know what I mean?”
She nods. “And why don’t you want to ask him to Winter Formal?”
“You, too? I thought you would understand, Cassiopeia. Cass-io keyboard. Cass…ette tape.”
She picks at a spot on the quilt. “It just seems like if you like someone, you should maybe tell them. With your words. From your mouth.”
“Oh, right. I forgot. You are the queen of dating and know everything about it.” I try to angle a toenail clipping at her, but it sails off the other way and lands somewhere in the rug, probably to be stepped on some night as I drowsily fumble toward the bathroom.
“I know more than you do,” she says.
I guess that’s fair. She has been going out with Ryan for a long time. But more than that, she just understands things differently than I do—understands people, how they think and why they do the mysterious things they do.
“Okay.” My eyes dart erratically around the room without landing anywhere, like hummingbirds. “It’s just…kinda weird, you know? Like, how do you learn this stuff?”
“What stuff?”
“Dating?” I gather my nail clippings into a little pile and toss them in the trash. “Is there, like, a podcast I can listen to, or…?”
“You just sort of…feel it.”
Now I wish I’d chucked the clippings directly at her. “Are you kiddin’ me, Andrews? You feel it?”
She laughs. “Listen, lady. If you like him and he likes you, then it doesn’t really matter if you’re awkward or whatever.”
“I do not believe that for one single second. What if I’m so awkward I kiss him like this?” I mold my face into a melty frown and move my lips against each other to make the tiniest, slurpiest kissing noise I can.
She gives an obscenely long snort and falls face-first onto the quilt. “You do not do that!”
“You don’t know.”
She presses herself off the bed with some effort and staggers back toward her own room. Pausing in the doorway, she says, “Look. Ask him, don’t ask him, it doesn’t matter. Just don’t clam up like you do. You can talk about your feelings. You won’t scare him away.”
“Right,” I say. “Okay. Thanks, Dr. Cass.”
She closes the door softly behind her. Immediately, I scramble for a pen and scribble her advice on my arm so I won’t forget it.
“DON’T CLAW MUD,” it says.
Perfect.
Seventeen
“How do you do that?” Sam asks.
“Do what?” I say.
“Fold your notes like that?”
I peer down at my tiny square of notebook paper. I’ve been folding notes like this to pass to my friends since seventh grade; I hardly think about it anymore.
“You wanna learn?”
He nods eagerly. I tear a piece of paper out of my notebook and hand it to him. Rahi holds a hand behind his head; with a smile, I tear out another page for him. He slides over to the empty seat in front of me and I make room for him to fold on my desk.
“Try to keep up, kid,” I say, like we’re in an old black-and-white movie.
They both watch carefully as I re-fold my note in half like a hot dog, and then the same again. Sam gets lost during the next part, which he dismisses as a tornado of triangles, but Rahi ends up with a very passable square note. I pull out some gel pens, which Sam huffily refuses. His paper lies crumpled in a corner of his desk, underneath his open Spanish book. Rahi, meanwhile, picks a green pen and hunches over to decorate his square.
“So,” he says quietly as he doodles, “you’ve known your friend Nick a pretty long time, huh?”
“That goob?” I say. “Yeah, we’ve known each other for…shoot, over a decade now. Which makes me feel super old. So, thanks for that.”
There’s an expectant pause before he continues, “And did you guys ever…?”
I know what he wants to ask, but since this is one of the most annoying things he could ask, I’m going to make him say it outright.
I am nothing if not petty.
“Did we ever go fly-fishing, is that what you mean? Funny you should ask. We did, once, when we were eight. And it…was…terrible. The food fell overboard, we didn’t catch any fish, I caught Nick’s dad in the nostril with my hook…you know, just your basic fly-fishery shenanigans. And then I came home sunburned all over my—”
He’s giving me a sheepish smile with one eyebrow raised. He knows what I’m doing, and he knows that I know what he’s doing, but one more thing I’m starting to learn about Rahi is that he sort of doesn’t mind when I ramble.
I tilt my head rakishly. “Is that what you meant?”
“That’s exactly what I meant.” He bends over his paper square and goes back to drawing.
Even though what went down just now was pretty blatant, and even though I desperately want to ask him why he brought it up, I stop myself. Because how would I respond to that? What would I say if he told me that…well, if he told me the reason, whatever it happens to be?
I wouldn’t know what to say.
Rahi goes back to his seat while Señora passes back our latest unit tests. When the tests reach him, Rahi stares at his own so intensely that he holds an empty hand behind his head. I swear, this kid could really benefit from a remedial course in Passing Things.
“Where’s my—” Sam snorts and catches my eye as he gently places his hand in Rahi’s. It takes Rahi at least a full minute to realize what’s going on. Blushing, he scrambles to hand Sam’s test back to him.
“What’s up, Rahito?” he says.
Rahi flashes his test, which has a jagged red D at the top. I cover my own grade with my arm.
“My parents have been on me about college stuff lately,” he says. “So this isn’t gonna be great.”
“Will they be mad?” Sam asks.
“Worse—disappointed.”
“Brutal.”
Señora starts talking then, so he whispers, “Doesn’t matter,” and turns around to face forward in his chair.
All through the rest of class I try to talk myself out of it. This can only end badly, I tell myself. He’s a wild animal, remember? The only safe distance is…well, not what you’re planning.
But despite my protestations, my wily little brain keeps on scheming, so that when the bell rings, I blurt out, “D’youmaybewannastudytogether?”
PLEASE SAY NO.
“Sure,” Sam says. “I’m up for a Triálogo Study Sesh. Rahi?”
Oh. Right. Obviously. Sam makes it safe. Sam makes everything safe! He’s like a superhero for romantic tension! The Mighty Mood Killer!
“That’d be great,” Rahi says, his eyes brightening in a way that makes me drop my pen and have to chase it as it bounces from the desk to my leg to the ground. “Thursday?”
“Oh. I can’t do Thursday,” Sam says.
SAM, NO!
“That’s the only day I can make it.”
Sam shrugs. “It’s okay. You guys go ahead. Although you will miss out on the snack I was going to bring.”
“Tracy?”
My voice comes out like a ghost wheeze. “Thursday is good.”
“It was gonna be carrot sticks,” Sam says. “The snack.”
“Library?” Rahi says.
I try to compensate and end up bellowing, “Library!” Then I add in some finger guns. To make it casual.
With a laugh, he says, “See ya then,” and leaves Sam and me at the end of the row.
Sam shrugs. “I’ll probably just cram the morning of the test, anyway. That’s what I’ve been doing so far, and it’s worked out pretty well.”
I clap a hand on his arm. “You have betrayed me, Suricata.”
Rahi left his paper square on my desk. I pick it up and run my finger along the creased edges. He’s drawn a very realistic picture of a tortoise on it. I place it carefully in the tiny top pocket of my backpack. I’m going to keep it forever. They can bury me with it next to my heart like the boy-king Tutankhamun. And then if archaeologists ever dig me up, they’ll find this folded paper with a tortoise on it and be all like, “Um, what?”
***
Wednesday afternoon, I open our locker to find at least fifty lime-green booklets stuffed inside it. They pour out like a radioactive avalanche and pile at my feet. I pick one up to find a garish headline in Nick’s handwriting: “ROMANCE AMONG THE SHELVES?” followed by an extremely unflattering picture of me from eighth grade.
Apparently Nick hasn’t entirely given up his zine.
“Despite her denials,” the blurb reads, “Pants High’s own Tracy Andrews is set to partake of a romantic rendezvous with prospective paramour Rahi Nepram this Thursday afternoon in the library. Stay posted for the tragic results of this undoubtedly ill-fated venture.”
With a scoff, I crumple it up and toss it into the trash can. But then I realize there’s more to the issue, so I gather up a great, papercut-y armful and thumb through one while I deliver the pile to the recycling. The rest of the zine features notices about upcoming meetings, clever little spoofy advertisements, a rambling diatribe on “Lifeguard Jeff’s Stupid Face,” and, on the back page, a handwritten word search.
Read the zine, I text him. Aside from the cover story, 10 out of 10, would pick up in a waiting room. For the cover story: 1 star. WOULD GIVE ZERO STARS IF I COULD.
“HI.”
Penny appears right behind me. Startled, I jump and scrape my hip painfully on the trash can. “Don’t do that, ya weirdo.”
She sits on the planter next to me and hikes her leg up to tie her shoe.
“Have you seen this?” I hold the issue up for her to see.
“That’s a solid picture of you, Trace.”
“Shut it, you.”
She laughs with a shriek. “Well, Nick aside, how’re you feeling about your big date?”
“It’s not a date,” I say dismissively. “Or—well, it’s a study date, but emphasis on the study and not the date.”
She gives me a pursed-lipped look that says, Coulda fooled me. “I’m just saying. This could be it. Your trip to Hokkaido.”
“What are you even saying, Penny?”
“I’m saying you could be spending tomorrow afternoon with your very first boyfriend.” She does a sort of snake-charming dance with her neck.
After that I think she changes the subject, but I’m unable to follow anything she’s saying. As soon as the words “first boyfriend” leave her mouth, I get this whoosh! of panic that starts in my gut and travels up to my brain, where it sloshes about sickeningly in my brain juice. It’s the same feeling I got when my schedule was messed up. Or when Penny first asked to join the group. Or in freshman year when I didn’t share any classes with my friends.
It’s the Whoosh of Impending Change.
And I…don’t…like it.
Eighteen
Ahem.
Rahi and I have been studying in the library for the last hour and a half.
We’re at one of the back tables, sitting next to each other so we can share a book, since I conveniently “forgot” mine at home. You know. That old trick. The fluorescents are dim back here. Everything is quiet. The heady scent of books is all around us. I’ve even brought my best material in case of a lull in the conversation: pictures of penguins wearing tiny suits. These have proven to be more effective than pictures of other animals because penguins are not just cute—there’s the added mystery of why they’re bothering to dress up when they already look like they’re wearing little tuxedos.
So far, though, I haven’t needed to resort to cute animals of any kind. The conversation has been a-flowin’ since he got here. We’ve talked more than we’ve studied, which is great for my budding romantic schemes but terrible for Rahi’s Spanish grade. In fact, I’m only sharing the penguin pictures now because our time has grown short and I actually do want to see what he thinks of them.
“Question,” I say, extremely aware of how close together our faces are. “Do you know what a group of penguins is called?”
He tucks his chin to consider. “My guess would be a household.” A goofy grin spreads across his face. “Because they look like little butlers.”
I do a double take. The real term is a waddle of penguins, but damn, could this boy be any cuter right now?
He assumes an overly serious expression. “I don’t mean to toot my own horn, but I also look pretty good in a suit.”
“Oh, do you?”
“In fact I do.”
“Yeah…I’m gonna need you to prove it.” LOOK AT ME. SO COY.
“Okay.” He smiles that unconscious smile he gets sometimes. “How about January twenty-fifth?”
I laugh like a 1930s society lady. “You pulled that date out of nowhere. Have you been planning this for a while?”
“Sort of.” He smiles bashfully.
“I’m impressed. So you’re really gonna wear a suit to school?”
With a confused look, he says, “In—in a manner of speaking…”
“Nice. Well, I look forward to it.” Sophia would be so proud of how cool I am being right now. The Queen of Cool, that’s what they call me. (They do not call me that. But maybe now they’ll start!) “Hey, don’t you have a thing at four?”
He stares blankly for a minute. “Oh! Shoot, yeah.” Standing to gather his things together in his backpack, he keeps giving tiny shakes of his head, which is oddly endearing. When he finishes, he exhales in a puff. “Welp, I guess I will see you tomorrow, then.”
“Yep. Have a good night, Rahi.” Damn. I’m so aloof it hurts.
He goes to leave, but then stops and turns back. “Hey, Tracy? I actually have a quick question for ya.”
“Yeees?”
“Would you happen to be free the last Saturday in January?”
“I…have no idea. Why? What’s the last Saturday in January?”
“Oh. Just the.” He swallows loudly. “Dance?”
And finally, it clicks. Saturday. January twenty-fifth. Winter Formal. He’s been trying to ask me out for the last five minutes. And here I thought I was being so suave. He must think I’m a complete moron. I am a complete moron.
My mind has stuttered to a stop. I start drawing in breath slowly and just…don’t stop. My belly fills up, then my lungs, and even though I now have nowhere else to put the air, I’m still breathing it in. It’s starting to hurt. I slam my palm twice on the table and manage to swallow. This stops the air, but I start hiccuping loudly. “That’s a—Saturday, you said?”
“Yes.”
I hiccup again. “Ah. Mm-hm. Alors, je dois vérifier mon—hiccup!—calendrier.”
He nods slowly. “Great. Well, let me know.”
“Wait. You speak French?”
“French? No. Is that what you—”
“Oh! So you didn’t—”
“What did you—”
“I thought—”
“I just assumed—”
Hiccup!
“It’s cool if you don’t want—”
“I just gotta check—”
“Oh, God,” he says. “I’m gonna go.” But he doesn’t yet. He lingers with his fingertips on the table and gives that same goofy little half smile to the chair. “I wasn’t sure what you said, but I just kind of hoped…that it wasn’t a no.” Then those warm brown eyes flick up to meet mine and it’s all over for me. Done-zo.
“‘Kay,” I say. “See ya.”
What? No. Go back. That’s not what I meant. Mouth, you have betrayed us again! I scramble to think of some way to recover, but he’s already backing away, giving me a silly little wave. I’m too late! And now he’s backed into someone. He turns around to say sorry and—oh, there he goes. He’s whacked the kid a second time. He glances over to see if I caught that. I don’t know what kind of expression is all over my face, but I feel better than I have in years. Seventeen years. My whole life. Longer.
Plus my hiccups are gone.
As soon as he’s out of sight, I snatch up my phone and text Nick.
T: AAAHHH NICK
NICK
NIIIIIICK
N: calm down
what
T: Guess who just asked me to the dance?
N: who
T: RAHI
IT WAS RAHI
RAHI NEPRAM
FROM SUMMER SCHOOL
Also, Rahi of the Summer is what I’m going to call my coming-of-age novel
N: rahi?!??!
meet me in the library
20 min
T: Okay!
Actually I’m already here
N: oh right, doy
where in library?
I scan the room for any identifying markers.
T: By the shelves
He takes a while to respond. It’s oddly satisfying to think of him getting all red-eared and frustrated as he speed-walks across campus.
N: ??
thats ridiculous
just yell something
i’ll hear you
I consider starting a chant of “Books! Books! Books! Books!” but then that would get everyone in the library going, and he still wouldn’t be able to find me. So instead I shout, “OH! DOSTOYEVSKY!”
“There you are.” He emerges from a stack directly behind me and I jump.
“I thought you were the librarian coming to arrest me.”
He sits across from me, hunches forward, and plants his palms on the table. “Tell me everything.”
So I do.
When I’m done, he whistles long and low. “Wow.”
“I know.”
“He’s smooth.”
