Chapter 7: I Hate This Tangled Web Of Emotion
"I can see the problem here," Esmeralda says as she flips over the omelet. We're at her house, sitting in the cluttered kitchen. Tina, Esmeralda's mom, collects everything. The walls and shelves are crowded with all manners of knickknacks, from cutesy cookware, mugs, and kitchen tools, to animal figurines, framed posters, pictures, elaborate jars, and boxes.
I love the chaos of this kitchen. I find it remarkable that somehow, amidst the endless mess, Esmeralda manages to cook.
"It's your first time feeling this way, but the second you talk to him, it'll all be over."
"We sorta talked today," I say, biting into a baby carrot as I mull over what this all means in the scheme of things. "I threw a sandwich at him."
"You what?" Esmeralda turns away from the stove to stare at me. I shrug, and she turns back to transfer the omelet to a plate and cut it in two. "Crazy bitch."
"Thank you." I'm touched. That's a huge compliment coming from Esmeralda.
"How come I only hear about this now, from you? Wasn't anyone looking?" she asks as she comes over with the omelet and two forks, pulling up a chair and sitting beside me at the table. In our school, something as weird as sandwich-throwing would be talked about far and wide.
Unless, like in this case, no one knew it happened aside from the parties involved.
If a tree falls in a forest . . .
"He came to talk to me in my corner during lunch," I explain, spearing my fork through steamed asparagus.
"In the spider hole?"
I nod. "Maybe I should just come up to him tomorrow and tell him."
Esmeralda's omelet-laden fork pauses in its journey to her mouth. "Tell him what?"
"Landon, I think you're hot. Let's fuck, no talking," I try.
Or not.
I'm not sure I can pull that off. If I wasn't a virgin, maybe.
Esmeralda has to brace herself against the table as she hollers with laughter.
***
"I forgot to ask you," Esmeralda says as we both lounge on the bean bags in her "alternative" living room, doing our homework.
At least, I'm doing my homework. Esmeralda has her laptop propped on her lap and is messaging with her mysterious new "star."
"What's the deal with you and Shawn Henderson and that Ashley chick?"
I plead guilty. I don't tell my best friend everything. "They just ran out of people to mess with so they're trying to mess with me."
Esmeralda gives me a long look. She knows that's not everything, but the full story doesn't seem important enough for us to waste our breath over it. "They're going to be so disappointed," she concludes.
That's the bottom line. They can try to mess with me, but all they'll find is: "Whatever," I say.
I nod at Esmeralda's computer. "Did you meet her yet?"
Esmeralda snaps her computer shut, wearing a distinctly bashful expression. "Sorta." She frowns. "Not really."
"It's not going well?"
She waves her hand in the air. "Complicated."
"Mmm?" I know when to back out, and when it's time to listen.
"She isn't one hundred percent out yet," Esmeralda admits.
I nod. Esmeralda needs a lot of encouragement to talk about these things. She came out pretty early, when we were fourteen, and while she stays comfortable in her skin and brave about it, sometimes she's invaded by fear and insecurity.
"But we clicked. We really clicked," she continues. "And she wants us to go out. We can't stop talking. You know, she's crazy about Escher too."
"The Dutch guy? The one who designed the cover of that Pink Floyd album?"
Esmeralda is an art freak. That's not quite the same as an artist. She wants to run a gallery when she grows up. She suffers from Stendhal syndrome and gets higher from a painting than people who take LSD.
Escher, the Dutch painter and graphic artist, is Esmeralda's biggest hero. She practically starts smoking at the ears when she describes his works. I've once gone with her to an exhibition when one of his original works was on display, and she fainted from excitement, literally. I rode next to her in the ambulance.
"I kinda really like her, Soph," Esmeralda says quietly and dramatically. "She's so beautiful and smart and funny."
"But she still needs time?" I ask.
"Yeah."
"Then give her time."
I don't plan to follow my own advice, though. I'm going to approach Landon on the first opportunity I see. He's wonderful fantasy-fodder, and it will be a shame to ruin it, but I hate this tangled web of emotions that's brewing in my mind. There's always the possibility I won't have to stay a virgin until college. And if Landon takes my virginity, then I'll have the upper hand with Shawn. I'm not saying the Shawn thing won't happen, but it has to happen on my terms or not at all.
"I will," Esmeralda says, "but I'm confused."
"About what?"
"She wants us to go to Dean Marklin's party together, with matching costumes." So, mystery girl is from our school. Every year since freshman year, Dean Marklin's parents actually give him permission to throw a Halloween party in their huge basement. There's a rumor going around that they even provide the booze.
I've never gone to a high-school party. I hate them by default and have nothing to look for in them. But I know that Esmeralda always goes.
"Maybe that's the time she needs?" I hazard a guess. Esmeralda still looks dubious.
"Soph, if it comes to that, can you please come with me—"
"No," I say flatly before I, or anyone else, can stop me.
"Soph . . ." She does the puppy-dog face. You know those stuffed animals with the huge eyeballs? That's what she's doing.
Even for a heartless potential serial killer such as myself, it's a slap of cuteness right in the gut.
"Okay. Whatever," I say in resignation. It's nearly two months away. So much could change in that time.