Never Look Back. Robert Ross

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СКАЧАТЬ look at them, acted as if she hadn’t heard a word they’d said. But she walked just a little bit faster.

      The laughter made him angry. He wanted to punch the smiles right off their asshole faces. He knew what it was like to be made fun of—which was part of the reason he worked out so hard. When he’d arrived at Thomas More, he’d already been six feet tall and weighed a hundred and forty wiry pounds. His bones showed through his skin, and he could count his ribs in the mirror. Then one of the gym teachers, who heard a bunch of boys calling Chris the “Jolly Green Giant” in the locker room one afternoon, suggested he start lifting weights. It turned out that Chris liked it, and he started getting up early in the mornings to lift before class, when the weight room was deserted.

      He liked having it to himself, liked the sound the weights made when he set them down in the otherwise silent gym. He’d grown another three inches since then, but had put on thirty pounds. But getting his mother to buy him a gym membership so he could keep working out during the summer had been a battle.

      “Shouldn’t you be spending the summer expanding your mind?” she’d insisted. “I gave you your reading list, didn’t I? I can add more books if you need more things to do. And I thought you were going to be my research assistant.” She’d offered to pay him five dollars an hour to look up information on the Internet for her.

      But for once his father intervened. “I don’t see what it can hurt. Come on, Lois, he can’t spend the whole summer cooped in here with a book. He has to keep his body sharp, too—remember? Body, mind, spirit?”

      His mother, startled by this rebellion, had stared, her mouth opening and closing. She wasn’t used to being opposed by anyone, and finally she just threw her arms up in the air. “Fine! But if it interferes with your reading or your work, it’s over.”

      Chris sat back on the bench and wished again he had worked up the nerve to say hello to the girl. It had been more than a month; the summer was almost over. Would he ever get to meet her?

      Why did they call her Spook? Just because she wore black all the time? That’s just stupid. It’s not like she’s ugly or anything. She’s pretty even if she doesn’t do anything with her hair or wear makeup. Why are the kids so mean to her? What did she do to them? Can’t they see how pretty she is?

      He wanted to say to her, “Don’t listen to them—they’re assholes. They’re gonna grow up and be garbage-men or something like that, and have rotten little lives with wives who can’t stand them and kids who won’t listen to them.” Chris closed his eyes, imagining himself reaching out and stroking her hair. “They don’t know what they’re talking about. They’re idiots, ignore them.”

      He’d practice in the mirror at night before bed, before brushing his teeth and washing his face, trying to see which facial expression would be the most reassuring, the friendliest, the studliest—which one might make the girl respond to him. He’d stare at himself, wondering how she would see him. Would she think he looked like Ichabod Crane? Would the goddamned Adam’s apple that stuck out so far from his long thin neck make her recoil? Would she think he was tall and dumb-looking? Would he be able to get the words out, or would he stammer and blush and make an ass out of himself like he did at the dances at school?

      Every day, he’d venture out into the streets, keeping an eye out for the spook-girl, steeling his nerve to actually talk to her. And every day, he’d see her. He’d sometimes walk behind her for a while as she looked into store windows or stopped into a coffee shop. He’d get a cup of coffee himself and sit on the steps of Spiritus Pizza, keeping his eyes on her, drumming up his courage to say something. Maybe she’s gay, he got to thinking. After all, so many people in P-town are. But she never said a word to anyone, male or female.

      Not once had she ever acknowledged his presence. Day in, day out, as more and more tourists filled up the town, as the shops and restaurants and cafés filled, as the beach became wall-to-wall bodies glistening with oil.

      Now he was leaving in less than three weeks, and he still hadn’t said a word to her. He cursed himself as a dork, loser, jerk, at every missed opportunity. He worked his way through his reading list—Simone deBeauvoir, Germaine Greer, Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, and all the other books his mother felt were mind-expanding and “important” for him to read.

      It’s now or never, you big loser, he thought, getting up off the bench and following her yet again.

      She turned in at the library, a narrow three-story building with peeling white paint shaded by an enormous oak tree, and he followed her inside. Up she climbed to the top floor, heading without pause to a section in the back, started scanning the titles in the stacks. Outside he could hear the whoops and whistles of the tourists on vacation, but inside the library all was quiet and still. Keeping his eye on the girl, he fumbled through the magazine rack, scanning the covers of Time, Newsweek, U.S. News and World Report, Good Housekeeping, and Oprah. He had to move quickly when the girl headed back downstairs with three books in her arms.

      The older lady at the counter didn’t even look at the girl as she processed the books. “Find everything you needed?”

      “Yes, thank you,” Spook said so softly that Chris barely heard her. She shoved them into her bag and started back toward the front door.

      “Hey,” Chris said as she walked past him, leaning up against the wall in what he hoped was a sexy pose. He forced a big smile on his face.

      She stopped, looking at him. “Hey,” she replied. She searched his face for a moment, then turned and walked out the front door.

      Feeling stupid, Chris started after her. Nice move, slick, he told himself as he turned to follow her.

      She stopped and sat down on a bench, withdrawing a crumpled pack of Parliaments from her bag. She lit one.

      Okay, big guy, this is your shot.

      Taking a deep breath, Chris sat down next to her. “Those are bad for you,” he said.

      She took a deep inhale, blew the smoke out through her nose, and looked at him without expression. “Are you stalking me?” she asked. Her voice was low, quiet, soft, and feminine.

      He flushed, losing what little composure he had. “Um, no.” He stuttered a bit. “My name’s Chris.”

      She didn’t answer, just kept staring, the cigarette burning between her fingers.

      “What’s your name?” he asked, knowing that his face was surely as red as his T-shirt. He wiped sweat off his brow. Come on, come on, answer me, please!

      She kept staring, then turned her head and pitched her cigarette into the street. “I don’t know why I smoke. They taste like shit.” She shrugged. “Kind of a stupid thing to do.”

      “Well, then why do you do it?” What the hell am I saying? Smooth move, idiot. You’re lucky she doesn’t laugh in your face.

      “Jessie,” she said finally, still looking at him. “My name’s Jessie Kaye.”

      “Nice to meet you.” He held his hand out, but she ignored it until he finally let it drop back to his side.

      “Yeah, whatever.” A group of shirtless men in their midthirties passed, laughing and joking.

      “This place sure is full of queers,” he said.

      She turned and looked at him. “Queers are people.” СКАЧАТЬ