Lars and Jessa Ch. 02

"For a start, just pounding me as fast as you can isn't going to do it."

"I don't get many complaints."

"Most girls don't know any better."

He chuckled indignantly at me. "But you clearly do. So what would you suggest?"

"Maybe try understanding what a girl responds to, what's working for her."

"I'd say it worked pretty well for you," he replied. He was just baiting me now, and it was making me angry.

"You asked for my advice and I gave it to you. I'm sure you think you gave me the fuck of a lifetime but honestly, all I'm going to remember about tonight is how sore I was the next day."

He stared at me blankly for a moment and then leaned back and laughed. "I doubt that very much," he said.

"And that took like what -- five minutes? If I'm being generous?"

"You're the one who wants to leave," he said, patting the bulge in his sweatpants. "I'm here all night."

"Yeah, no thanks." I stood up and headed for the door. I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of provoking me into a rage. He stood up, blocking my way.

"We should see each other again," he said. "Second time's a charm."

"I really don't think so."

"Because you know it's true."

"You had your shot."

"Just think about it," he said, moving aside to let me pass. "You'll be back here soon enough and we can have some real fun." I brushed past him and out the front door without another word. Before closing the door, I turned back for a second.

"Oh, and work on the dirty talk," I said. "It's fucking corny."

CHAPTER 4

Mom has tonight off so we're having mother-daughter night which traditionally consists of Chinese food, followed by a movie which Mom always chooses, and which is always from before 1980. Since we both share a love of spicy food, our go-to for Chinese is Szechuan Mountain House. Mom is partial to Ma-Po Tofu and I order Dan Dan Noodles and a pile of spicy pickled veggies.

On mother-daughter night, Mom always asks me if there are any special guys right now. Invariably, the answer is no. I tell her I have no interest in seeing anyone.

"You've said that before," she says, "but I've never understood why. Did you get tired of boys?"

"Not all of them. I just don't want to, you know, date them."

"Dating just means you spend some time with someone, see if there's a connection."

"I don't need to date anyone to be in a relationship," I tell her. "I can get to know them naturally, you know -- organically."

"Organically?"

"Just hanging out with a guy, on my own terms. No bullshit. No obligation. If it happens, it happens."

"And the guys are fine with this?" she asks.

"I mean, they don't have much choice."

"Okay," she says, "so let me ask my question differently. Are there any guys you like just hanging out with, on your own terms?"

Yeah, mom, I think to myself, I met this swell guy Archer last night, what a sweetheart, let me tell you. Hung like a horse, and you know, the reason I spent all day on the couch was because he railed me so hard that I was too fucking sore to walk.

What I actually say is: "Not really."

I think about it for a moment. "I hung out with this guy Lars from school last week, he helped me with a paper."

"Tell me about Lars," she says.

"I dunno. Not much to say really. He's kind of shy and bookish but he's a nice guy, not some asshole."

"Is he cute?"

"Yeah, fine, mom, he's cute. Happy now?"

You going to spend time with him again?"

"I doubt it."

"Well, whatever happens, try to be nice to him," she says. And like that, the discussion is over and then we're clearing the take-out containers and putting the leftovers in the fridge.

Once dinner is cleaned up, we retire to the couch. Tonight's movie is "Bringing Up Baby," which has an off-putting title, but it turns out "Baby" is really a disobedient pet leopard and it stars Cary Grant as the world's most dashing palaeontologist. The ritual demands that after the movie is over, we discuss it over a pint of Ben & Jerry's.

"I liked it," says Mom. "I didn't know Katherine Hepburn could be so funny."

"What bothers me is that the character's just a male fantasy. The quirky mystery woman who magically appears to show the stuffy scientist what he's been missing his whole life."

"Well, it was made eighty years ago," Mom says.

"It happens in movies all the time."

"I suppose."

"And now there's all these guys convinced that they need some unpredictable, free-spirited girl to show them the way."

"You meet a lot of these guys?" she asks.

"Yeah. Some."

Mom is yawning and it's not long before she heads to bed. Once her light is out, I dig what's left of that joint out of my desk drawer and head up to the roof of our building.

It's a cloudy night and no stars can be seen. I light the joint and take the smoke deep into my lungs. I wish I hadn't brought Lars up at dinner, but he's been on my mind lately. It's been nine days since he was over here and I've very obviously been avoiding him at school. Boys can get so attached the moment you show them any interest, so I've found it's best to set boundaries. On the other hand, I can't just keep avoiding him, it's not practical. And, in fairness, Lars isn't just any boy. Somehow it feels like we've been through a lot together even though it was really just a single night. I'm starting to feel bad about blowing him off. If nothing else, I owe him an explanation.

Mom thinks I'm afraid to be in a relationship, but I'm not interested in her outdated definition of what a relationship is supposed to be. It's not some guy and girl sharing a milkshake like a fucking Norman Rockwell painting. It's however I choose to connect with someone, no one's telling me how I have to do it.

I must be high as fuck. There's some leftover Dan Dan Noodles in the fridge and that's where I'm headed next.

CHAPTER 5

The next day after school, Lars is waiting outside the entrance. He's clearly waiting for me, because no one else is around. It took me thirty minutes after school ended to find the damn art history book I need in in the library, and apparently Lars has been waiting patiently here the whole time.

"Hey, Lars," I call out.

'How are you?" he asks. "I've haven't seen you all week."

"Yeah, I'm sorry -- I know I've been kind of distant."

"Well—me too, I guess."

I'm standing next to him now, practically kissing distance. He looks nervous, like he's afraid of what I'm going to say next.

"Listen, Lars, I had a good time with you."

"Yeah, me too. Absolutely." We're both quiet for a moment.

"It was kind of a strange night, don't you think?"

He thinks about it for a moment. "You know it was my first time, right?"

"Yeah, I knew."

"That obvious, huh?"

"No, it's just that -- girls usually know."

"It was different from how I'd imagined it. Not in a bad way though."

"Different can be good," I say, trying to force a smile but not really feeling it.

"So what happens now?" he asks.

"I don't know. What do you think?"

He hesitates for a moment. "I guess I was hoping I could see you again."

"Look, I need to be honest with you," I say, "I don't really ever date anyone. It's just not my thing."

"We don't have to date," he says. "We could just hang out, or whatever."

"I don't think it's going to work," I say. "It's complicated, Lars—I'm sorry. I'm not trying to tell you to get lost, I'm really not. It's just you—you should make other plans, you know?"

"I don't have other plans," he replies, staring down at his feet. I can tell he's hurt and angry. I've been in this situation before, and I've always just told myself that I didn't owe it to any of these guys to see them if I wasn't feeling it. But this time, it's hard to justify exactly why I'm treating Lars this way. I'm hurting him for reasons that don't really make sense to me anymore.

The silence is excruciating, I need to say something, I can't just blow him off and I really want to try to make him understand.

"It's got nothing to do with you. It's me -- I can't -- I'm just not able to . . . be anybody's girlfriend."

"Yeah, okay. I get it." He jams his hands into his pockets, turns and walks away. I want to call after him but I don't know what more to say and I'll probably only make things worse.

CHAPTER 6

My fears had now been officially confirmed. I was just a dumb inexperienced guy who got himself all tied up in knots over nothing. I had simply misread the situation. Made a huge deal out of something that was clearly routine for Jessa. I beat myself up afterward for not explaining more thoroughly how I felt, but really there was nothing I could have said that would have made any difference. The truth was, I liked her a lot. She was sensitive and smart, and her sexual confidence and assertiveness really turned me on. She seemed lonely, and I wanted to be someone that could make her feel like she was needed and loved.

But it was not to be. I thought we had made a connection, but it was now clear that she had viewed me as a conquest, and having succeeded, she'd moved on. I didn't really understand exactly how things had ended up this way, but I couldn't help feeling hurt.

I moped around school for the next few days and spent my lunches in a quiet corner of the cafeteria reading "One Hundred Years of Solitude," which had just been assigned in Contemporary Lit. On Wednesday afternoon, I looked up to see Rosanne Milton and Violet Woods approaching my table. Roseanne was Jessa's best friend, and I wondered what possible interest she could have in me at this point. But it was Violet who commanded my attention.

Violet Woods. There were no other girls like Violet, and her name was spoken reverently and wistfully by nearly every boy at Rindge & Latin. Today she was wearing a tight black leather jacket and a dark miniskirt that accented her astonishing curves and slender, shapely legs, laced up in black mid-calf Doc Martens. When she walked her hair cascaded down her back like a waterfall at sunset and her wide hips swung to their own marvelous rhythm.

It's been my blessing and my curse to be in the same class as Violet every year since Kindergarten. Even in high school, we've had at least one class together each year. Violet has always been the prettiest girl in any class, and in junior high, her mere physical presence was enough to utterly flummox and distract me and the other boys, to the point where teachers would deliberately seat her on the far side of the classroom. In grade school, when Valentine's Day arrived, I would spread my store-bought Valentine's Day cards across the dining room table and then agonize over which one best conveyed the depths of my feelings for her. At age 10, I filled three spiral bound notebooks with romantic reflections. I wrote love sonnets in iambic pentameter. I was smitten.

The flame that burns twice as bright burns half as long, and by the time I turned fourteen, my ardor had cooled. It was not that Violet was any less desirable. Rather, I'd come to the realization that she was unattainable and I, as a mere mortal, should focus my sights on more realistic goals. But really, I had never stopped carrying the torch for her.

Today Roseanne was wearing her characteristic look of thinly-veiled disgust, as if someone had just farted under her nose. "Hey Lars," she said, "put down the book and talk to us." She pulled out a chair and sat down in it backwards like a detective in the interrogation room. Violet remained standing beside her and gave me a shy little smile when she caught me staring.

"So Jessa got an A minus on her paper," said Roseanne. "Heart of Darkness. Just thought you'd want to know."

"I'm happy for her," I said.

"I guess some actual studying occurred when the two of you got together."

"Yes, it did."

"That's good to hear. Surprised you found the time, though."

"Why am I even talking about this with you?" I asked. I didn't care much for Roseanne and I was in no mood for her games.

"I usually try to stay far away from Jessa's romantic entanglements," she said. "But this one seemed particularly intriguing. Violet thought so too."

"It's like there's this whole side of you that we never knew about," said Violet, curling a strand of amber hair around her finger.

"What do you mean?" I asked. No one answered, but Violet sort of giggled and Roseanne sneered at me.

"So are you and Jessa like, a thing now?" asked Violet.

"She told me to get lost yesterday."

"Don't take it personal," said Roseanne, "she's always been funny about boys."

"Funny like how?"

"Listen, I know you're dying to figure her out, but it's a lost cause. I love her dearly, but she's a crazy slut. And there's plenty of fish in the sea." She stood up and without another word, sauntered off across the cafeteria. I thought Violet would follow but she didn't move.

"Lars, can I ask you something," she said.

"Sure, what is it?" I asked, wondering what Violet Woods would possibly need to ask me.

"I need a research partner for that paper in Euro History. You have one yet?"

"No," I said.

"So -- will you be my partner?" she asked, smiling flirtatiously and cocking her head to one side.

"Yes. Of course." I couldn't comprehend why she would want to be my partner, after showing no interest in me whatsoever for the last thirteen years, but there was no way I could refuse her. Probably she figured that since I helped Jessa, I could to help her too.

"You're the best." Her smile lit up her beautiful face, emerald eyes sparkling, and I wondered how on earth I was going to be able to concentrate on schoolwork if we worked together.

"Text me and we can figure out a time to get together," she said, reaching into her jacket pocket and handing me a business card under the name "Ultra Violet Productions." I was about to ask her about this but when I looked up, she had disappeared.

Had Violet Woods just given me her phone number? Indeed, she had. It was certainly a significant turn of events. My head was swimming, and I felt like I was in the seventh grade again and Violet had just asked to borrow my pen and I was positively glowing with the knowledge that she had spoken to me and acknowledged my existence. And then I felt ridiculous for feeling this way, a grown man, at age eighteen, swooning because a pretty girl talked to him. But I made sure to tuck the card snugly in my wallet so there was no chance that it could fall out.

CHAPTER 7

On Thursdays I volunteer in the greenhouse, which is located behind the science classrooms on the third floor. It's a relaxing and undemanding job, mostly I inspect the plants, water them, trim dead leaves, and check the water quality in the various aquatic environments. Today's Tuesday, so I'm not working, but I made plans to meet Violet here to go over our research project. Ostensibly, we are supposed to be discussing our research on Britain's involvement in World War I. But the truth is, I haven't been able to stop thinking about Violet, and how she's sort of forced her way into my life. I feel like there's something here that I'm missing, that maybe some cruel joke is being played on me that everyone else is in on.

Violet's already ten minutes late, giving me plenty of time to ruminate. For all my fantasizing about her, Occam's Razor certainly applies here. Which is the simpler explanation? Violet needs help with the research paper and is being nice to me so I will help her? Or alternatively, somehow, after 13 years, Violet has developed a sudden romantic interest in me that she never had before? The answer seems pretty clear.

"Lars?" I turn to see her standing in the doorway. "Sorry I'm late." She winds her way through the rows of plants to where I'm standing. Her hair is fastened in strawberry blonde pigtails and she's wearing skin tight jeans and a black tank top that's struggling in vain to contain her ample breasts. It's hard not to stare and I have to remind myself to act casual.

"No worries," I say, feeling relieved that she's actually shown up.

"What are these?" she asks, pointing to some small distinctive looking plants in a pot beside her.

"Monilaria obconica. They call it rabbit succulent."

"Oh my God, that's so cute," she says, "they totally look like little bunnies popping out of their burrows!"

"Yeah. The ears keep growing and eventually they don't look so much like rabbits anymore, so you caught them at the perfect time."

"This place is so cool!" she says, looking around. "I don't think I've been in here since freshman year."

"Let's find a place to sit." I lead her to the far corner of the greenhouse where there's a beat-up couch, surrounded by the larger leafy tropical plants.

"It's like being in a Rousseau painting," she says, sitting down beside me and looking around.

"Yeah, I like it here. Sort of an oasis." I brought a peanut butter and banana sandwich, which is normally a favorite, but I'm suddenly embarrassed to be eating it in front of Violet, so I take a furtive bite and shove it back in my bag. For a moment neither of us says anything. My mind is going a dozen directions at once; overwhelmed with being alone in this lush, damp greenhouse with Violet Woods. The only sound is the gurgle of the aquariums where the aquatic plants grow. It seems to me that electricity is building in the air, like before a summer storm, but I'm probably just imagining it.

"Lars," she says, "are you okay? You seem preoccupied."

"No, I'm fine. We should get to work."

Violet doesn't seem very interested in getting to work. "This is literally the only peaceful place in this school," she says, "I would totally just come here and meditate if I was having a stressful day. You ever do that?"

"Not really. But I have taken a few naps in here."

"That's good too," she says. We sit in silence for a moment and I'm thinking we should probably get to work before lunch ends.

"Did you realize that you and I have been in the same class together since kindergarten?" she says, resting her hand nonchalantly on my knee.

I'm shocked that she's even aware of this fact. It threatens to upend the whole narrative in my mind that Violet has barely been aware of my existence.

"Uh—yeah. I think that's right," I reply. I pretend like her hand on my knee is the most natural thing in the world.

"You remember Mr. Torrance?" she asks.

"Oh, yeah. That terrible substitute. Fifth grade, right?"

"He used to make us listen to those military marches."

"That one time he threw Craig Ordal's lunch across the room and it splattered all over the blackboard."

"Did you know that he tried to ask my mom out?" she says. "During a parent teacher conference!"

"What a creep."

"He knew she'd just been divorced. She told him to get lost. Totally not her type."

"Dodged a bullet there. What if they'd hit it off?"

"Meet your new dad!" Violet laughs, her hand squeezing my knee. We sit in silence for a moment. I can smell her perfume, the same scent she's worn since freshman year. I'm not sure what's going to happen next, but somehow it feels comfortable just sitting here with her.

"We've known each other almost our whole lives." she says, thoughtfully. "Thirteen years. How come we hardly ever spoke to each other?"

I tried to talk to her many times, but it never seemed to go anywhere. She had no recollection of this because she'd probably never thought twice about it.

"I don't really know," I say.

"Was I ever mean to you?"

"No, not at all. It's just that I was—I didn't know what to say to you."

"Was there something you wanted to say?" she asks.

Her big emerald eyes are fixed on mine now, piercing and incandescent, and I'm transfixed by them, like a rabbit staring into oncoming headlights. It's as if they're gazing inside me, laying bare my secret fantasies and obsessions. It's an overcast day, but the greenhouse feels hotter than it's ever been, condensation dripping down the walls. A little voice inside tells me that if there was ever a moment to be honest with Violet, this is that moment.