25. Caplan
I'm on the floor of the bathroom, locked in the fetal position, when Ollie opens the door.
"Mom says you live here now."
"Get out."
"She also says you have until 9:00 a.m. to get up and clean up all the vomit on the curb in front of the Morgans' house."
"What time is it now?"
"Almost eight."
I groan.
"I could do it for you…" he says.
I pull myself into a sitting position, using the rim of the toilet. "How much?"
"Fifty."
"Twenty."
"Thirty. And…" He tilts his head. "You have to make my bed every morning till you leave."
"For one week."
"Two weeks."
"How early in the morning?"
He thinks again. "Just has to be before I get back into bed at night."
"Deal." We shake. The motion makes me nauseous again. I rest my forehead back on the seat. "Mom doesn't care if we make our beds, you know. I never do."
"Yeah, well, you're sleeping on a toilet. I'm aiming higher than you."
"You can go now," I say. "You have vomit to clean."
"I like when my bed's made," he says. "It makes me feel good. You should try it."
He leaves, closing the door gently.
I lie back down on the tile and resume my staring at the dusty underside of the toilet bowl. It's not so bad here, I think. I can't mess anything up, from this exact spot. I can't let anyone down.
Eventually, the light grows brighter through the window, and I'm just considering standing up to pull the curtain closed when I hear the front door open.
"He looks like he crawled out of the ground," I hear Ollie say happily. "Go see."
I'm not sure who I'm expecting. I guess Quinn, but I don't look when the door opens.
"I heard you live here now," she says.
"I'm trying it out," I say.
"It's not so good. For a boy who loves roofs. And the tops of trees."
I roll over and look at her. She's standing in the doorway, holding a Gatorade and a box of saltines.
"Can I come in?"
"I'm not sure you want to," I say.
"Remember when we tried to sleep in a tent in your backyard and I got appendicitis and you let me throw up all over you in the car on the way to the hospital?"
I smile. The muscles in my face feel odd and stiff. Pain shoots out from my nose. Mina shuts the door behind her and sits down across from me, against the tub. She pushes the Gatorade toward me and wraps her arms around her knees.
"I don't deserve treats."
"Oh, stop feeling sorry for yourself."
I open the bottle and take a sip. To my surprise, it tastes amazing. I take another big gulp. Then I close the bottle and press it against my forehead because it's still cold.
"You're acting like you invented getting too drunk."
"Is our fight over?" I ask.
"I don't know," she says.
"But you're here."
"Yes. Because you're weak and vulnerable. So our fight is paused."
"My mom says you and Hollis carried me home."
"We had a sleepover after, actually."
"No way. Hollis hates sleepovers."
"It was weirdly fun. It made me feel better, about—I don't know. Kind of everything." She smiles at me. A real Mina smile, soft and sharp at the same time.
"No," I say suddenly. "No pausing the fight. No pity. Lay it on me."
Her eyes move slowly over my face and then my body. All at once, I feel very aware that I'm only in my socks and boxers.
"I can't," she says. "You're too pathetic looking. It wouldn't be right." She reaches out and scratches at some old, dried blood on my collarbone.
"Mina—"
"I know. It's okay."
"It's not. I'm—I'm sorry. About Quinn."
"Honestly…" She leans back on the edge of the tub. "It's for the best. I think I was ultimately going to use him for sex."
I burst out laughing. "No way."
"Yeah, that was definitely part of it."
We're both cracking up now. I realize I'm starving, and I reach for the saltines.
"Just because I can't stay angry at you doesn't mean you shouldn't feel awful," she says.
"I do. I feel totally awful."
"I mean, it would have been nice to graduate having done it at least once."
"I don't believe it," I say. "You were just… just…"
"Horny?"
"Holy shit."
"Oh, grow up," she says.
"You were horny."
"Is that so surprising?" She rests her cheek on her arms, folded on her knees. There's a funny light in her eyes.
"No," I say, swallowing hard. "No, of course not, I mean, it's natural that you'd—that you'd wonder how it would—you know—feel."
"Are you okay?"
"Course I'm okay—"
"You're bright red."
"Am not."
"And I do know how it feels, mostly," she says. "No, no not because of that. Obviously. I mean, I've figured out what I can, since. On my own. What?"
I open my mouth, and then close it, and then open it again, trying to remember the English language.
"Come on," she says. "Are you really so sexist about masturbation?"
"N-no, I'm—I mean, of course not. I just—"
"You do it, I bet."
"Well, yeah, I mean, but I just—"
"What, you think it's only for boys?"
"No, no. I know girls, women, I mean, can… can also—stop laughing at me!"
"You're being funny!"
"This is a crazy conversation!" But I can't make myself look away from her. It's the most she's looked at me in weeks. "You used to have panic attacks if people accidently touched you in the hallway!"
"Yes, well, that's different. I'm not other people. I can touch myself. Okay, close your mouth. You look ridiculous."
I do.
"I know I sort of fell apart right after it happened. And you saw the worst of it. But it's not like I didn't eventually try dealing with it on every level."
"What do you mean, on every level?"
She looks past me. "Like I know you were worried that I wasn't talking or eating or sleeping, but I was worried that I'd never be able to enjoy sex or that I'd never grow up correctly and want it, and I determined not to fall behind, you know, or not develop correctly, so I got a head start and did research and read books, and it took some time and practice, obviously."
"Pr-practice?"
"There are actually really amazing resources for girls now that didn't even exist a few years ago, things that aren't just, like, porny and gross—stuff that's very educational and unintimidating."
"Are you—are you saying you overachievered your way through—through jacking off?" She's laughing again, and I get defensive. "I'm just, give me a break, okay? This is new territory! We've never talked about this before!"
"Why in the world would we have ever talked about it? What, would you wanna tell me how many times a week you do it?"
"Well, sure, I would have, if you asked!"
"Okay. How many times?"
"Oh my god." I put my face in my hands.
"See?" she says, thrilled.
"Fine!" I yell into my hands. "Fine, can we please talk about something else? Can we go back to our fight?"
"Okay, okay," she says, "I'm done."
"With that conversation? Or our fight?"
"Both."
"Excellent."
We sit there on the bathroom floor for a moment. Now, for some reason, I can look anywhere but her face. I wish I were wearing pants.
"Want to take a walk?" she asks. "Those saltines are staying down. Maybe you could handle something more substantial."
"Sure," I say.
She stands up and offers me her hand.
I don't take it. My arms are crossed over my lap.
"What?"
"Nothing," I say.
"Come on."
"Be right there."
"Why, what's wrong?"
"I just need to, you know—I'll get dressed and be right there."
"Why are you being so weird?" she asks.
"I'm not?"
"Then get up." She reaches out to me again.
"No! I can't."
"Why not?"
"I just can't, okay?"
"You just can't?"
We stare at each other.
"Oh my god," she says.
"Stop it."
"Are you—"
I stare at her, and she stares at me. She puts her hand over her mouth.
I stand up with as much pride as I can muster, my hands folded in front of me.
"Oh my god. Oh my GOD!"
"WHAT? What do you want from me?! You came in here all looking all—and being nice to me, and… and talking about, about being horny, and about—you know—"
"Masturbating?"
"STOP! STOP SAYING THAT." I turn around, but there is nowhere to go in the tiny bathroom, so I just sort of spin in a circle and she's still right there. "I'm so sorry," I say.
"No," she says, "don't be. It's a compliment."
"Yeah. Yeah, it is."
She's pressing her lips together to keep from laughing. Then the thought comes, surging up, insisting on itself, even though it couldn't be less the time. I'm sweaty and sick in my underwear and have basically just peeled myself off the bathroom floor and desperately need to take a shower.
"Right," I say. "Let's just—you go, and I'll meet you downstairs."
But she doesn't go. She tilts her head to one side. Nothing on earth could make me look away now. I feel each beat of my heart like a gong in my throat. She looks down at my hands, still folded strategically. For a second that may be very long or very short, I don't know, I can't move or speak at all. She takes my wrists in her hands and pulls them apart. She looks there, then looks up at me. Then we're kissing. She puts my arms around her. Time speeds up, and we're pressing against each other so hard that I lose my balance and I think I pull the shower curtain off its rod. It falls on top of us, and she's laughing into my mouth and pushing the curtain away and kissing me more and then we're on the floor and she's throwing her shirt somewhere and we're rolling around kicking over the Gatorade. I barely hear the knock on the door, but she does and jerks back from my face.
"Caplan?" my mom calls. "Can I come in?"
I'm frozen, but Mina moves quickly, scooping up her clothes and stepping silently through the other door that leads to Ollie's room.
"Caplan?"
"Come in!" I say, and drop down to my knees in front of the toilet because I can't think of what else to do. She opens the door and sees the shower curtain, crumpled in the tub, and the spilled pool of red Gatorade.
"My god," she says, "did things get violent in here?"
I give a noncommittal grunt and don't take my face out of the toilet. She comes and kneels next to me, pushing the hair off my forehead.
"Oh, you're burning up!"
"I'm fine, Mom."
"Honey, you're all flushed—"
"It's nothing—"
"You feel like you have a fever." She presses her hand to my forehead and then stands to rummage around in the medicine cabinet.
"Mom, I promise I'm okay."
"Take this," she says, handing me Tylenol, "and get into bed, all right?"
"Sure, right."
"Here, I'll—"
"Mom! I've got it!"
I practically shove her from the bathroom. I rest my hand on Ollie's doorknob for one second and then throw myself into his room.
He's sitting on his bed with homework spread around him, staring out his window, with his mouth hanging open. He turns to me and points toward the window.
"Mina," he says, "no clothes, came in, bra, winked at me. Climbed out my window."
I run to the window and look down, but nobody's there.
"Did you guys just—were you just about to—"
"I don't know," I say, trying to make my thoughts go in a straight line, but her face just pounds in my head, like the bass of a song.
"Then WHY are you standing here talking to me?" He jumps to his feet, and his papers go flying, floating all over the room. "GO! THIS IS IT!"
"THIS IS WHAT?" I don't know why I'm yelling back, but it feels good.
"THIS IS THE MOMENT!"
"FUCK! OKAY!"
I run from his room and down the stairs, past my mom, mid tying her sneakers in the foyer, and out the front door. I cut purposefully across the street, not noticing anything or anyone, with my eyes on Mina's blue front door. I give the brass knocker a good smack. Nothing happens at first, and I feel like my heart is going to explode out of my throat, and then Mina's mother opens the front door.
"Caplan?"
"Gwen! Mrs. Stern! Is… is Mina here?"
"Caplan, why aren't you wearing any clothes?"
I look down at my boxers. "Damn."
"Is everything okay?"
"Yes," I say, "I mean, I think so. Sorry I said damn. I meant that to be in my head. Actually, I think things might be more than okay?" She's still looking at me blankly, blocking my way, and I feel so wired that I open my mouth and say, "Mina and I just kissed and then my mom walked in so she ran off and so now I'm here to talk to her and I'm only in my boxers cause I got too drunk last night and threw up all over my clothes, not because I was kissing your daughter with no clothes on, that part was just sort of a coincidence."
I wait for her to slam the door in my face. Then with an unreadable expression, she steps aside. I don't wait for her to change her mind. I hurtle up the stairs to Mina's room. The door is open, and she is standing there looking completely normal in her clothes again and making a very similar face with sky-high eyebrows to the one her mother just made when she opened the door to me.
"What the hell!" she whispers.
"I'm sorry!"
"What are you doing here?"
"I don't know!"
"Why didn't you put clothes on?"
"I DON'T KNOW!"
"Shhh!" She claps a hand over my mouth, and we both look toward the door, but some sort of music is drifting up the stairs. She cocks her head, confused, and I can't help but reach out and touch her face.
"Jesus Christ!" She flicks me, and I jump back and fold my hands behind my back.
"Sorry!"
"What did you say to my mom?!"
"I just—I was casual and subtle. I just told her I—that we kissed—"
"Oh my god—"
"And that I wanted to talk to you."
"And what did she say?!"
"Well, nothing, but she let me come up."
"Oh my god," she says again, looking back at the door. The music is even louder now. "What were you thinking, Caplan?"
"Um. Well. That maybe this was a moment? And I didn't—I didn't want to miss it?"
She looks at me hard. "My god," she says, "I can't believe you got a boner—"
"Stop! Stop talking about it or it's gonna happen again!"
This just makes her laugh. She puts her hands over her eyes, and her shoulders shake.
"Mina," I say weakly.
She takes a deep, shaky breath. She drops her hands and looks at me.
"Okay," she says eventually.
"Okay what?"
"That would be okay. If it happened again."
"It would?"
"Yes."