Nothing Like You Read online

  I perssed the sole of my sneaker against his shiny orange door. “Anytime.”

  “Tell Jeff hi for me, okay?”

  “Will do.” I pushed backward then, out of his office and back down the hall.

  “Jesus, Nils, watch the windows.”

  Nils was all over some dumb girl, backing her into my driver-side car door, his grubby little fingertips pressed against the glass.

  “Oh. Hi Hols, hey.”

  “Hi. Move , please.”

  He and the girl pushed sideways so I could get my key in the lock. “Much obliged.”

  The girl giggled and turned toward me. Oh, no. Not her.

  “Hey, Hols? You know Nora …” Nora Bittenbender. From my Calc class. Before Nils she’d supposedly slept with two teachers: David Epstein and Rick Hyde. Pretty girl but way bland for my taste. Fair and freckled with these jiggly, big pale boobs she was always jamming into push-up bras and too-tight tank tops. Her weight fluctuated nonstop—skinny one week, chubs the next—and her taste, Jesus, seriously questionable. School ensembles that bounced between cheesy nightclub clothes and oversized, heather-gray sweats. Sexy.

  “Do you want a ride or not?” The hood of my car was covered in ash. I slid a finger through the dusty gray soot, then hopped inside. “I promised Jeff I’d take Harry out for a run after school, so either get in or I’m leaving.”

  “Right, yes! Okay.” Nils ran over to the passenger-side door. Nora trailed him, holding on to the back of his shirt. “But could you drop Nora off on the way? She lives right by us, on Pawnee Lane.”

  No. “That’s fine,” I said. “Get in.”

  Nils crept into the backseat. Nora took shotgun. “Holly, thanks,” she said. “I missed my bus.”

  “Yup.”

  “We have gym together, don’t we?”

  “Calc,” I said, flooring the accelerator and, three seconds into my drive, nearly crashing into pedestrian Paul Bennett. Good one, Holly. I pulled to a stop and rolled down my window.

  “Crap.” He looked really great. He was wearing this old, thin, button-down with a small tear at the collar. His bangs lay on a diagonal across his forehead, hitting his eyes just so. “You missed me by a millimeter!”

  “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! Are you okay?”

  Paul started toward my window, then, spotting Nils and Nora, stopped short and readjusted his backpack. “I’m fine. Just”—he waved his hands in the air and smiled—“startled, is all.”

  “Right. Sorry.”

  I watched his hair blow backward as he turned and walked on toward his car. Then I lightly pushed down on the gas and rolled out onto the main road.

  “I didn’t even know you knew Paul Bennett.” Nils had scooched forward in his seat so that his face was floating somewhere over my armrest.

  “I don’t, not really.”

  “You sure?’Cause he seems to know you.”

  I felt something un-nameable tickle my gut. Regret? Longing? I shook my head. “I mean, we have a class together. He knows my name, I guess.”

  “Maybe he likes you,” said Nora, poking me in the shoulder.

  Nils scoffed. “No offense, but, I don’t think Holly’s really Paul Bennett’s type.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I turned sideways and gave Nils the icy eyeball. “What’s Paul Bennett’s type? Please! Pray tell.”

  Nils folded a stick of cinnamon gum into his mouth. “You know, blond. Willowy. WASPy. The anti-Holly.”

  “Saskia Van Wyck,” said Nora, nodding.

  I rolled my eyes. “Of course. Saskia Van Wyck, the anti-Holly.”

  “That’s a good thing, Hols. She’s plain spaghetti.” He looked at me lovingly. “No sauce.”

  Nora twisted around in her seat so that she was facing Nils. “Can I have a piece of that?” She was biting Nils on the neck and pulling on his pack of gum. “I love cinnamon. I do.”

  We spent the next twenty minutes stuck in traffic on the PCH. In my rearview I watched Nils make eyes at Nora. He’s better looking than her, smarter than her, he’s just better , I thought. They were mismatched. Like fast food and fancy silverware. Or spray cheese and sprouted bread.

  “Oh, hey! This is me. I’m up here, on the left,” she said, “the green one with the tree.” There was a porta potty parked on her front lawn next to a tall stack of aluminum siding. “We’re expanding the kitchen. And adding a half-bath.”

  I turned up her steep driveway and stopped ten feet short of the garage. She kissed Nils on the mouth. Smooch, smooch.

  “Thanks again, Holly.” And then, to Nils, “Call me.”

  “Will do.”

  She was gone.

  I kicked the car into reverse and started backing up. “Okay, get up here. I am not your chauffeur.” Nils scooched from back to front, contorting to get through the tiny space between seats. We were side by side now. Neither one of us talking. I drove quickly back down Nora’s twisty street and out onto the main road, where we passed my favorite rock. White and long and crater-faced; like a slice of the moon.

  “Okay. What the hell, Nils, Nora Bittenbender ?”

  “So cute.”

  “Of course. Cute. What beats cute?” I snipped.

  “Boobs.”

  “Right … of course. Boobs beats cute.” I glared at him sideways. He had his head turned and tilted back, his hand hanging languidly out the window.

  “You don’t even know the girl, Holly.”

  This thing with Nils and girls started junior year with Keri Blumenthal, a pool party, and a stupid green bikini. Then before I could blink, my friend was gone and in his place was this dumb dude who loved Keri Blumenthal and lame bikinis and even though I’m loath to admit it, this is when things really changed for us. Keri Blumenthal wedged a wall between us. Fourteen days they lasted and still, when they went bust, that dumb wall stayed intact. “She talks like a baby,” I said.

  “Holly.”

  “And why does she wear those clothes?”

  “Comfort … social conventions …”

  “Not any clothes, pervert. Those particular clothes.”

  “Holly. Come on.”

  “Seriously, what’s the deal with her and Epstein? Is that for reals, or no?”

  “I dunno …”

  “I just don’t understand why you like her. You’re better than—”

  “Holly.” He sat up really quick and grabbed my hand. “Stop it. Okay?” He tightened his grip and creepy tingles rolled up my arm. “I’m not gonna marry the girl.”

  I looked back at the road, mimicking Nora’s babyish lilt. “You’re not?”

  Nils dropped my hand. “You’re a weirdo, Holly.”

  I pursed my lips. “At least I’m not a baby with … big boobies.”

  “Weirdo.”

  I slapped him hard on the arm and turned up my driveway. We both laughed.

  I parted ways with Nils and beelined for the fridge. Harry was at my heels begging for food, so I unwrapped a single slice of American-flavored soy cheese, rolled half into a little ball, and dropped the other half on the floor. He inhaled the thing in two seconds flat, not even stopping to chew.

  I walked to my bedroom, simultaneously nibbling on my little ball of fake cheese and taking off my clothes, item by item. I slipped on my running shorts and a tank, grabbed Harry’s leash, and poked my head into Jeff and Mom’s room on my way to the back door. She’d been gone six months and somehow, the entire place still smelled like her: rose oil and castile soap. I don’t know how that happens, someone dies and their scent stays behind. Jeff hadn’t changed a thing. All her clothes were still on their racks in the closet, her perfume on the vanity, her face creams and make up in the little bathroom off their bedroom. Most days it was easy to pretend she was still around. Out at the store. On a walk. In the garden. Out with Jeff.

  So I took the dog out running. Up the canyon, past Ms. Penn’s place with that wicker chair she has tied to a rope so it hangs from her tree like a swing; up Pawnee Lane, past
Nora Bittenbender’s, past Red Rock Road, and out into town. I bought a ginger ale at the Nature Mart and walked back most of the way, trying to keep twigs and rocks out of Harry’s mouth.

  Later that night, around seven, Jeff came home.

  “Hi, Dollface.” He kissed my forehead and took a bottle of seltzer out of the fridge. He held it to his neck, then took a long swig, settling into his favorite wooden chair. “What’s for dinner?”

  “Tacos, maybe? I was thinking I’d drive down to Pepe’s. Another night of pasta, I just might hurl.”

  Jeff laughed his sad little Jeff laugh and kicked off his loafers. “’Kay, sounds good to me, whatever you want.” Then he handed me a twenty. I put Harry in the car because he loves hanging his head out the window at night while I drive, and we sped down the hill, to the beach, to Pepe’s, where I bought eight tacos: four potato, two fried fish, two chicken. I kept the warm white bag in my lap on the drive back, away from Harry, and thought about Mom for a second or two. Specifically, her hair: long and thick and dark, like mine. I sang along to a song on the radio I didn’t really know the words to, and when my cell rang, I checked the caller ID but I didn’t pick up. I didn’t recognize the number.

  Jeff and I ate in front of the TV that night, watching some cheesy dating reality show that he loves and I hate, but I humor him because he’s my dad and his wife is dead and anything that makes him happy now, I’m into. So we finished dinner, I kissed him good night, and then I went out back to The Shack with my cell to listen to the message from my mystery caller. “Hi, Holly,” said the voice on my voice mail, “it’s Paul. Bennett. I’m just calling to see what you’re up to tonight. Gimme a ring.” Click. My heart shot up to my throat. We’d never talked on the phone. In fact, we’d never really talked.

  I held the phone to my chest and considered calling back, I did, but the whole sex-in-his-car-at-the-beach thing had really struck me as a one-time deal. I called Nils instead.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s me.”

  “You out back?”

  “Yeah. Jeff’s asleep in front of the TV and I’m bored.”

  “Be right there. I’m bringing CDs, though, okay?”

  “Whatever you say.” I flipped my phone shut.

  “Holly-hard-to-get. Hi.”

  Paul and I were standing shoulder to shoulder outside my Chem class. He was wearing a battered old pair of khaki cut-offs, black aviators, and a brash grin. “You don’t return phone calls?”

  I stared at him, mystified, as he shuffled backward. I shook my head.

  “Too bad.” He blinked. “What do you have now, Chem?”

  “Mm,” I managed.

  “You stoked?”

  “What for?”

  “Class.” He cocked his head sideways, scanning my face for signs of humor, no doubt. “I’m kidding.”

  I looked at him blankly. Why were we standing there, talking still?

  “Holly?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, yeah. Tired, I guess.”

  “Well … are you busy later?”

  I nodded yes I’m busy, sorry, can’t hang out and watched, rapt, as he swung his pretty head from side to side. “I don’t get you,” he said.

  I hugged the door frame as a couple of kids tried squeezing past me. “What’s to get?” I asked, because seriously, what’s to get? I was baffled, really perplexed by his sudden and obsessive interest in me. I wore ratty Levi’s and dirty Chuck Taylors to school every day. I rarely brushed my hair. I had one friend besides my dog, and spent nights with my checked-out dad in front of the TV. What about me could possibly hold Paul’s interest?

  He flashed me one last look, gliding a hand along the wall, then disappearing into a crowd of kids in flip-flops and jean shorts standing around in a big square pack.

  Was this some big joke or was I suddenly irresistible? Did I even like Paul? Did Paul truly like me? I peeled myself away from the door frame, turned a quick pivot, and shuffled into class.

  Nils had his elbows pressed against the black Formica desktop and was fidgeting with some metal contraption with a long, skinny rod. I dropped my books down next to him. “What’s that?”

  “It’s a Bunsen burner.” Nils considered me. “What’s wrong with you?” He moved sideways, making room. “You look pinched.”

  I grabbed a stool, dropped my bag to the floor, and plopped down next to him. “Just, no. Just—” I ran a finger over a crooked little heart that had been etched into the side of the desk. “Why Nora? Like, why go after her? Do you like her even?”

  “Yeah, sure thing.”

  “No but, do you like her like her?”

  “I like her enough.” Ick. This sort of thing was classic New Nils -speak. Nils post Keri Blumenthal. Yes, maybe he’d had some experience this past year, and yeah, maybe I hadn’t even gone past kissing with anyone pre-Paul … still , that didn’t give Nils the right to be cagey and smug when I needed real, straightforward answers.

  “What does that mean?”

  Nils looked at me. He shrugged. “She’s a nice way to pass the time.”

  I flinched. “Oh. Duh, of course.” Then I opened my Chem book to the dog-eared page and pretended to read. So that was it. Sex. A way for Paul Bennett to pass the time. Holly-pass-time. Holly-ho-bag. I pressed my forehead to the crease in my textbook.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Resting.”

  “What do you care about Nora Bittenbender, anyway?”

  “I don’t.”

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  I sat up. “I’m fine.” I gestured toward the Bunsen burner. “Come on. What the hell are we doing with this thing, anyway?”

  “We’re making s’mores,” said Nils, pulling a misshapen Hershey’s Kiss from his pocket and a crushed packet of saltines off the neighboring desk.

  “Gross,” I said, smiling for real this time, feeling a smidge better. “Just gross.”

  Chapter 4

  Alone after school, I meandered through the canyon replaying my conversation with Paul from earlier, trying to decode our exchange as if it were a riddle or an exercise from my Spanish workbook. I don’t get you. I don’t get you. I ran the sentence on a loop in my brain, hoping I’d hear some hidden clue in Paul’s inflection or phrasing. But no, no clue. In all my obsessing, I’d only succeeded in making myself dizzy and agitated. So I tried refocusing my energy. I took a breath, held it, and sprinted down the hill to the Old Topanga intersection, where I found myself stopped not ten yards off from that tiny hippie gift shop.

  I went inside.

  “Hi, there.”

  “Hi,” I said.

  There, across the room, sat this new-agey lady, reading a book behind the register. “Can I help you find something?”

  “Oh, I’m just looking. Thanks.”

  I zigzagged to the other side of the shop, past a creepy trinket display, complete with ceramic gnomes, scented oils, and cruelty-free, color-free lip gloss. I stopped to linger by the books.

  The new-agey lady wandered over. “Looking for anything specific?”

  I turned back to the bookshelf to survey the selection: electromagnetic therapy, transcendental meditation, medium-ship. Then, a thought: Mom on a cloud with a megaphone, waving enthusiastically. “Do you have any books on, like, the afterlife or life after death or … ?”

  She bent down beneath me and picked a book of the shelf.

  “Visitations ,” I read out loud.

  “Mm. That one really put everything into perspective for me. Wild.” She was round, the shopkeeper lady. She wore a flowy, floor-length skirt and a button-down linen top she kept tied at her waist. Her earrings were miniature teakettles.

  “Thanks.” I flashed a polite smile and flipped through the first few pages.

  The lady took another step toward me. “Looking for answers?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.”

  “Did you recently lose someone you love?” />
  “No.”

  She smiled and scrunched up her eyes. “I have a friend. Wait here.”

  She shuffled back to the cash register, picked a small tin off the countertop, and pulled a business card from beneath the lid. She was back before I could blink. “A friend of mine is a medium. Really terrific. My sister passed not too long ago and he was able to make a connection. Blew my mind.”