I’m embarrassed to be seen with him. He is shorter than me by at least six inches and has a lot of hair that sticks straight up on his head. The top part is blonde—“frosted tips” for the soccer season. He’s athletic and wears red or green gym shorts brighter than traffic lights. You can see him walking down the hallway from a mile away, even if he does get buried in the crowd, what with his height and all. What bothers me most is this height difference between us, but also that he is unrelenting, which I notice immediately upon meeting him.
“Hey,” he says to me. We’re seated next to each other in a Technical Theatre class, a class I have little interest in. He squeezes into the desk next to mine—not difficult for him to do, being so small. When he sits down, I see that his socks are pulled up to his calves, as is the current style among freshmen guys. But his legs, little toothpicks, disappear under the white socks, and the effect is off-putting.
“I’m Ammar.” He reaches into his backpack and whips out a red folder that has seen better days. He throws it onto his desk.
That folder doesn’t have anything in it, I think, so I start to ask, “Why doesn’t your folder have anything in it?” And at the same time, he says, “I like your bracelets.”
I pull my hand away from his hot fingers which have reached for my wrist, and the rest of the class I spend leaning on the opposite side of my desk, trying to put as much space between us as possible.
He always tells me that he liked me from the beginning. Well, I tell him, the feeling isn’t mutual. I don’t like him, plain and simple. He’s weird, but popular enough to be mostly considered cool. Just not in any way that I think is cool. In class, he always hums a certain Rhianna tune and I tell him to stop, again and again, because it’s the kind of song that attaches to your brain like a parasite and clings to you until bedtime, when you’re tossing
and turning, doing anything you can just to get it to go away.
Go away! I say to him.
Okay, he says—but circles back minutes later, a mosquito not yet satisfied, my forearm already itching.
Despite these annoyances, I am unwilling to abandon the friends I’ve had since middle school, and for reasons unknown and unimaginable to me, they have taken a liking to Ammar. So I became his friend in order to remain part of my group, part of my pack, without whom I’d be an ant—less than an ant, less than nothing.
In Tech Theatre, I learn how to coil a cable. Or cable a coil? According to Mr. Fox, cable-coiling is an extremely delicate art. One must be efficient and adept.
THROW with your HEART! Mr. Fox sings, demonstrating. Orange cable flies through the air. Some people, he tells us, spend their whole lives trying to nail the perfect throw.
One afternoon Mr. Fox is tinkering with the soundboard in the back of the auditorium. The class is gathered around. Ammar is standing close to me, too close for comfort. I feel
his breath at the base of my neck, which is pretty much where his head reaches, because of how short he is. I lean uncomfortably on my left foot so as not to feel suffocated by his presence. My ankle is starting to cramp when Mr. Fox grabs a set of thick brown cords and waves them in front of our faces.
“This is called the male plug,” he says, gesturing to one of the plugs in his hand. “And this is called the female plug. I have no idea why.”
He puts the class in pairs of two to practice differentiating between the plugs. “You,” he points to me. “And him.”
Ammar nods and shifts next to me, closer. Too close.
“Now let’s practice coiling again,” Mr. Fox says. “Throw, and coil!” He paces back and forth to observe us.
When Mr. Fox gets to Ammar, he pauses, standing aside to watch. Ammar struggles with the cord. In his small hands, the cable seems like an anchor chain.
“Some people,” Mr. Fox says, “spend their whole lives trying to nail the perfect throw.”
**
A year goes by and to my relief, a lot of things change. My hair is longer now and touches my shoulders and I can put it in a braid if I want to, which I do, most of the time. Generally, everyone seems to have changed a bit over the summer. I am in new classes, too. I take Art History instead of Tech Theatre, though Art History will prove to be less exciting than the course description led me to believe. Some of my friends are in the same classes as me. Ammar isn’t in any of them.
**
Mrs. Monroe is my English teacher this year. Liking her is a task that requires optimism and persistence. I’m a good student. I try to like all teachers, even ones like Mrs. Monroe.
And yet I agree with the majority. Everyone calls her a witch. This is mostly because when she paces the room the joints of her knees snap like twigs. Each day I wonder, Will today be the day her knees finally give out? I try not to harbor too much ill-intent toward The Witch, though, because I do have one reason to like her, maybe even to be indebted to her: she places me directly in front of Robby.
Curly golden hair. Shorter than me, but not like Ammar is, that is to say, not so painfully obvious. Word on the street is that he deals Adderall to both the JV basketball team and the Mathletes. Of course, I know the truth of the matter, which is that Robby is a drug dealer only by chance and circumstance. Robby is different. I know this because he sits behind me in English for the whole year.
This is not the first class I’ve shared with Robby. What provoked him one morning in World History I’m not entirely sure, but whatever it was, it moved him enough that he pulled down his shorts and there they were, his navy Fruit of the Looms. ROBBY, the teacher yelled. But she had a streaky blonde bob and always wore scarves, and this made her unable to control a classroom, much less someone like Robby.
Sitting in front of him this year, I’m able to learn a lot more.
It works like this: if I lean back far enough, the ends of my hair graze the top of Robby’s desk. He leans forward, and I can hear all the things he mumbles under his breath. He knows that I can hear him because I laugh, and then he jokes more, and so on. Under different circumstances, I wouldn’t laugh at his brand of jokes (crude at best and vaguely sexist at worst) but I don’t make the rules with Robby. I lean back and he leans forward. My common sense walks out the door and takes no hall pass on its way out. I become enamored.
I ask Ammar about Robby because they’re both on the soccer team. Ammar tells me simple things like “Robby’s trying out for varsity on Monday,” but other things too, like how “Kai Lee wanted revenge, as you know, for the AMC incident, which is how Robby came to find that rat on his windshield” that morning. To bring up Robby, all I have to do is slip him into the conversation. An easy task since Ammar and Robby are close. Am I obsessed? I ask myself, What would anyone else do? And I don’t feel guilty for using Ammar this way, mostly.
So I call Ammar often. Often turns into almost every night. Sometimes these calls last hours. One night my dad walks in and sees Ammar on the screen.
“A boy!” my dad exclaims, giving me eyes. I hide myself from the camera, make a face, and shake my head as if to say, nothing to worry about here, Dad.
I understand my father’s reaction. I know how it looks. Each time the screen lights up, I pray Ammar’s wearing a shirt. When he’s not, I feign nonchalance. I’m learning what it’s like to be friends with guys.
In these outstretched hours of the night, I sometimes remember things. Hot fingers on my wrist. I pull away from his touch as if he has reached through the screen. But that was two years ago. Now we sit and talk, telephone lines connecting our opposite sides of town. There are no warm fingerprints on my hand.
**
I learn a lot about Robby through Ammar. Ammar is a valuable resource. It turns out that neither frosted tips nor shortness of stature prevent one from possessing a wealth of information. Ammar quickly proves himself an expert on Robby. I inhabit both worlds and reap all benefits. If the fieldwork is sitting with Robby during English, then the key to the archives is Ammar’s late-night phone call conversation. Ammar’s calls make accessible all of Robby’s tumultuous personal life and family history. This sort of interior access provides the ideal ecosystem for a growing infatuation.
One particular Tuesday night finds me unraveling string from a cream-colored throw pillow. I’m on the phone with Ammar again, a video call, his face large and animated on my computer screen. He’s just finished telling me a story in which Robby has accidentally walked in on Kai Lee and Lili Winter doing scandalous things “in Robby’s bed!”. The story is a long one. There are a lot of holes (For example why were they in Robby’s bed? How did they get into Robby’s house?) and anyway we’ve been on the phone more than two hours already. The clock reads nearly twelve. I’m mulling over the story, picturing the look on Lili’s face when Robby walked in. I rip the string from the pillow completely and twist it around my finger, flirting with my circulation. Why were those two even at Robby’s house in the first place? I wonder. Did they have a key?
“Did they have a key?”
“You know, I love you.”
Lili’s face vanishes from my mind.
“What?”
“I just love you,” Ammar repeats. “I love you. I love everything about you. You are wonderful. I just had to tell you.”
What am I supposed to do? My face burns in surprise and I can feel it.
And at almost the exact moment I realize my surprise, I also think: I’m not that surprised. I hide my cheeks in my hands and Ammar goes on and on through the screen of my computer, and all I can think is, How do I stop him from going on this way?
So I say, Wow, wow.
I say, Wow Ammar, I don’t know what to say.
I say I have to go.
If he has any regret about confessing his love, he does not show it. He is smiling until the moment I hang up. When his face disappears from the screen I stand. I unwind the string from my finger, which is now deep red, and let it fall to the hardwood floor. I pace the bedroom. I address the laundry pile on my bed. With disappointment, I realize my mauve hand towels are still damp. I fold them anyway. I feel around my mouth with my tongue.
I’ve bitten my cheek and now I only taste blood.
**
What happens after this is difficult to recount. I remember leaning back in my chair during English class, The Witch pacing the room, her knees snapping in rhythm. Tell me what Brontë meant by this.
Robby taps me on the shoulder. Ignites a fire there. “Psst. Heard you’re going to the soccer formal with a special someone.”
He is referencing Ammar here. I shake my head, turning my face toward him just enough for him to see my profile.
“No, I’m not,” I whisper.
“Really?”
“Yeah. I mean, yes, I’m not going.”
“Bummer.”
Robby leans back again, away. A few beats of silence pass between us. I had not considered going to soccer formal. Why would I?
“Are you going?” I ask him.
“Hell no,” Robby says.
“Oh,” I nod as if to say, ‘Obviously’.
“Well, the truth is, actually, yeah,” Robby says. “Coach forces us to go to these things. It’s ass.”
“Oh?” My hands are clenched around my water bottle, forming little lakes of sweat. My thoughts unfold in a row, beat by beat, to the rhythm of knees cracking.
“But,” Robby says, leaning forward again— “You should come.”
I laugh. “No. No, I don’t know. I don’t know.”
**
When Ammar asks me to attend the soccer formal with him, I feel the redness rise in my cheeks again. Okay, I say, making sure to appear hesitant toward the whole idea. Okay, I say, I guess I’ll go.
**
I go to the formal and naturally spend the evening searching for Robby. He eludes me at every turn. Ammar is not like Robby in this way. Ammar sticks to my side like glue.
I wear a red dress with lace sleeves and I don’t have a bra, it’s one of those dresses where you just have to go braless. At first, I don’t feel self-conscious about this, but as the night wears on I start to question my choices.
Eventually the night ends. I fold my arms protectively to cover my chest as Ammar and I walk down the stairs, out of the building, and toward the street. The night air is warm and dry. The formal is over. It seemed to be in a perpetual state of almost ending, until at last it did, and I’m glad to finally be leaving.
We cross the street to Ammar’s car. Below my foot, a cricket twitches on the cement,
magnified, made powerful by the streetlight.
“Ammar!” a voice calls. A car rolls down the street, Robby’s head sticking out of its unrolled window. “Guppy's afterparty! Gonna get smashed! Come with!”
“Nah,” Ammar yells. “Pass!”
This denial surprises me because I know how much Ammar loves to party.
From the car window, Robby smirks. “Screw you, man!”
“Screw you, man!”
They wave goodbye to each other and the car speeds off.
“That was nice,” I say. I have to look down a bit to see Ammar. I’m constantly reminded of our height difference. Sometimes when I stand next to him, I can feel him stretching upwards, to be taller.
“I don’t care about Guppy’s party,” Ammar says. “His house smells like cat shit.”
I don’t know what to say to this so I just raise my eyebrows.
“Cricket,” he points down. “Anyway, I don’t go to those things anymore,” he says.
“Oh?”
“Yeah.” He kicks the cricket, sending it screeching down the street, into the shadows.
“Why’s that?” Sometimes I already know the answer before I ask Ammar a question.
He knows I know, and I know he wants me to ask anyway. I brace myself.
“Because,” Ammar says, looking at me. “You know.”
I have trouble meeting his eyes. He’s right. I know.
**
After the night of the formal, Robby doesn’t come to class for three weeks. The desk behind me sits vacant and English becomes unbearably dull. On the seventh day, with no sign of Robby, The Witch asks,
“Alright, where’s Robby? Does anybody know?” The Witch and Robby share a unique affair, one sustained by hatred and light verbal abuse. Notable, then, for her to show this sort of concern.
Kai says, “I don’t know man, probably went home to BFE. Or he’s getting stoned with Guppy. Possibly both.”
Lili whips around in her chair. “With Guppy?”
“In Nowhereville,” nods Kai. “His hometown. You know, I’ve been there once. New Year’s, last year. Wouldn’t go back with a gun.”
This gets the class talking, and The Witch doesn’t truly care about Robby’s whereabouts. 9QUIET! She yells. And that is that.
I hear this all happen, but it only passes through my ears, enough for me to register the basics. For a few days there has been a ringing in my head. Words, repeating themselves: You know, I love you.
**
At lunch I watch his mouth move as he talks. He is saying something to us about why goalies suck so much and Lili says Shut up Ammar no one cares. But Ammar explains goalies anyway. Like clockwork, every ten seconds his hand goes up to his head and he runs his fingers through his hair. It’s grown and back to dark brown, normal, with no frosted tips. And as he talks his lips move, parting, then coming together again; he laughs and they stretch into a smile, he has very white teeth. He smiles and keeps talking even though Rory says Shut up Ammar no one cares… Shut up Ammar no one cares.
Like clockwork his hand through his hair.
And with a sinking feeling deep in my chest, I meet his eyes, and he sees.
**
We take a drive one night, just the two of us. (“No destination,” he says.)
I’m in the passenger seat, my feet on the dashboard. At a red light I realize my sneakers might be dirtying his dashboard, but I don’t move them, and if it bothers Ammar, he doesn’t say anything. Part of me knows he won’t say anything anyway, even if it does bother him.
Ammar drives us into nowhere and as the car rolls down the highway we talk about things. I ask him if he is trying out for varsity soccer again next year. He says he doesn’t want to be midfielder anymore and I ask him what a midfielder is. He says, I want to quit but Robby’s practically forcing me to keep playing, and I say, Well, if you want to quit then that’s what you should do.
He says, You know, I love you.
I look at him. His eyes dart between me and the road. They are like warm drops of rain.
**
I start encouraging him to pursue Janie Yeoh.
She’s so pretty, I tell him. Pretty and smart. A two-in-one, so to speak. National Merit Scholar and whatnot, at least I’m pretty sure she is. Let me check. Yep, she is. Don’t you think she’s pretty?
No, Ammar says.
Come on! She’s gorgeous, I say.
Why are you pushing this? He asks.
**
At some point it catches up to me. It’s unfair. It’s difficult. Whatever the reasoning. I’m trying out different names for guilt.
Ammar and I stand under the oak trees in the driveway of my house. A storm siren howls in the distance. The clouds roll in as I tell him. It has to be over. He can’t like me anymore.
“You like me, too,” Ammar argues. His eyes like warm drops of rain.
I just shake my head.
I could have done something else then. But the important part—important because it haunts me—the important part is that I don’t. I just stand in the driveway and shake my head and say, Ammar, it’s over.
I watch him get in his car. I trail his brake lights down the street. With relief I let out a sigh. I tell myself it had to be done.
Thunder cracks overhead. His brake lights flash once more, and then they are gone.
**
Robby never comes back. He never again sits at the desk behind me. This devastates me. Each day I hope he will walk through the door and sit down, lean forward, and whisper something funny in my ear.
Each day I hold out hope that he will return, but he never does and never will. It turns out Mrs. Monroe’s class is unendurable without him, a fact that doesn’t surprise me. She is a sour woman. Liking her is a task that requires optimism.
**
I never see or speak to Robby again, except for one day, five years later.
I’m pushing open the doors to the gas station. I need a soda for my long drive out of town, back to Boston. It’s New Year’s Day.
Voices bounce around from the back of the store and in a few moments, a handful of figures emerge. They rustle past me, right up to the checkout counter. My first thought is, of course: teenagers. Then I lock eyes with Robby.
Afterward, I sit in my car and replay the scene. I try to recall something in his eyes, any sign of life, but there was nothing. Only a sense of vacancy. My chest feels how his eyes looked.
By the time I’m on the interstate I have already forgotten. As if I’d never cared, or known him at all.
**
It’s been years and a lifetime since then, though I like to think of myself further removed from these events than I actually am. The truth is, it was only a matter of years ago. And still I try to distance myself.
These are the memories I don’t revisit. At least not on purpose. And yet I frequently find myself pulled back home, back to school, back to the orange cables we tossed outward and coiled up again, back to Ammar.
In these outstretched hours of the night I sometimes remember things. A cricket under streetlights. My sneakers on the dashboard. Storm sirens start to sound like words. I hear, as if they are memories, the things I still want to say.
Where are you now? What are you doing? Who are you with? I’d start there. I’d say, We don’t have to talk too much—just enough to cover the basics. I’d probably say, I heard you moved to Boston. And then I’d say, Funny thing, I’m in Boston, too. Do you like the city? I do, too. Don’t tell them I said this but I like it better than our dry town.
I would say, Maybe we could get coffee sometime. Do you like coffee? You never used to drink it. Then again neither did I.
I would say, Maybe we could talk. Only if you’d want to. Only if you like coffee.
I would ask him, Do you remember when Mr. Fox taught us about the male and female plugs? And how stupid was that! I would say, Do you know that he’s still teaching?
I would say, I’m sorry.
I would say, You were right.
I hope I didn’t get your dashboard dirty. (But even if I did):
I’m so glad you took me for that drive.
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