Nathaniel Explains it All
One o'clock in the morning is considered tomorrow, right? I did tell Nathaniel I'd text him tomorrow…
No. Put the phone down and go to sleep, Johanna.
But I couldn't have fallen asleep even if I'd been trying. Ever since I got home from the carnival, I'd been staring up at the textured ceiling above my bed, still wearing my denim shorts and tank top, Nathaniel's jacket spread over my chest like a blanket.
Apparently, I'd accidentally walked into a maelstrom of high school melodrama when I agreed to go out with Nathaniel.
No, I shouldn't be thinking like that. I shouldn't use the words 'go out.' That makes it sounds like there's more going on between us than there really is.
What exactly is going on between us? Like it or not, I've got a major crush on my super-cute neighbor boy, and he seems to like me back—but he's moving away after the summer ends, so I can't get too attached.
It might be too late for that; I'm already pretty attached. I did almost kiss him. And I hugged him. And I'm using his jacket as a blanket because it smells just like the inside of his truck. And I'm lying awake because I can't get him out of my head.
And his girlfriend (I assume) yelled at him in front of me, then ran away crying.
Poor Melody… I hope he didn't dump her because of me.
No, Nathaniel wouldn't do that. Sure he likes me, but something had to have happened before I got here that made them at odds with each other in the first place.
…Right?
Stop it. Go to sleep.
My thoughts circled around like this for minute after tortuous minute. I tried to will myself to go to sleep, but I absolutely could not with Nathaniel's too-sad eyes haunting me every time I tried to close my own.
Just when I thought I might drift off, my cell phone gave off a muffled vibration. I searched for where I'd lost it among the tangled covers—and just as I had been secretly wishing, it was Nathaniel sending me a text. "Johanna, are you still awake?" The bright white screen made my otherwise dark bedroom glow a soft blue.
"Yeah," I responded gleefully. "Is everything okay?"
Waiting for his response was agony. The delay was only a few seconds, but it felt like ages. "Yeah, I'm okay. I was just wondering if you could let me in."
Let him in? What's he talking about? …Wait, is he—?
Movement and color that hadn't been there before caught my eye just outside the window. There he was, waving at me from the other side of the glass, still wearing the same cargo shorts and t-shirt he wore to the carnival, a slightly embarrassed smile spreading across his face.
I sprang up, almost tripping over my own feet in my haste to open the window.
Nathaniel stepped through one leg at a time. I noticed he had his cell phone and a flashlight with him, for reasons that were obvious enough—but why he also carried his red yearbook, I couldn't even begin to guess.
Once both of his sneakered feet were safely inside on firm ground, we shared another one of those what-do-we-do-now stares—but only for a few heart-pounding seconds. I dove for the composition notebook that I'd dropped on the carpeted floor beside my footboard and I fished a pen out of my still-open box of desk contents. I ripped the cap off of the pen and meant to write out one of the thousand questions that flooded my mind, but the tip hovered unmoving over the blank page because I honestly had no idea where to even start.
At first, I thought of common-sense questions, like: What are you thinking? How did you even get up here? What if my Mom hears you and comes into my room? How did you get out of your own house? What the hell is wrong with you?
Then, they evolved into more poignant questions, like: Are you sure you're okay? Was it Melody? Did she try to call you or something? Is there anything I can do to help?
I glanced up from the page to take Nathaniel in by the light of the moon. He looked back at me with eyes that were straining to see in the dark, his sepia brown irises barely visible rings around the vacant blackness of his dilated pupils. His hands were unconsciously pulling at the bottom of his shirt in an attempt to smooth out the wrinkles that had formed in the cotton, probably from him trying and failing to go to sleep, the same as me.
To stop his fidgeting, I took one of his hands in mine, and pulled him further into my room, motioning for him to join me on my bed.
He was too dumbstruck to mind the messily wrinkled sheets, but that didn't stop me from nonsensically wishing I had made the bed. It was almost two o'clock in the morning, and he dropped in completely out of the blue. I couldn't have been expected to tidy up beforehand.
What's more, I couldn't seem to find a comfortable way of sitting on the edge of my own bed. I kept fussily crossing and uncrossing my legs. I finally decided to pull both legs up and sit Indian style, like I would if Nathaniel wasn't even there. He did the exact same thing, slipping off his shoes to sit cross-legged directly across from me, only a few inches away.
He blinked heavily and squinted into the dark expectantly. His vision must not have been as good as mine. Even in the moonlight, I could see every shorn hair that tried to poke through the smooth skin of his chin—every bead of sweat that formed on his face, neck, and collarbone.
Nathaniel's body was perfection. It was all I could do not to pounce on top of him and teach him how to read my body language.
I let out a heavy sigh, then reached for my cell phone and used the screen to illuminate the white page of the notebook that rested on my folded thigh. "Could you not sleep, either?" I wrote. That was sure to get the ball rolling again.
No, he admitted with a shake of his head, taking it from me to write a response. "I don't like the way I left things. I can't imagine what you must think of me after what you saw."
"I think I only know half of the story," I countered. "So tell me what really happened."
Nathaniel sat still and thought, searching for the right words in the darkness behind my head. "I guess Melody expected me to string her along, even after I leave for Indiana. It's not that I don't like her. I do." He started to hand it to me, but at the last second he snatched it back to scribble out "do" and change it to "did."
Past tense. He did like her.
Does that mean…they're over?
"She says she's liked me since the second grade," he went on, "but she didn't bother to tell so me until prom night last month. I don't know if I really believe that. Seven years is a really long time to not tell someone something that important. I went along with it because I've always thought she was nice, and she is really pretty…"
Why did he feel like he had to rationalize his feelings about another girl to me? I knew right from the start that there had to be other girls in his past, and maybe even in his present. There were definitely other boys in my past—more than I was even willing to admit to Nathaniel at this point. But I'd never fallen for any of them the way Melody must have fallen for Nathaniel, judging from the anguish I saw on her face earlier tonight in the House of Mirrors.
With regards to falling for Nathaniel, I could definitely empathize with her.
"…She might not have the greatest sense of humor," Nathaniel wrote with a bashful smile, "but I used to be like that, too." He cracked open his yearbook and turned to a page that archived a mock United Nations summit. His expression was serious as he sat among other teenagers pretending to represent Scandinavian countries (Nathaniel was Sweden, Melody was Finland), their tiny flags proudly displayed on the table in front of them. In the picture he wore a prim silk tie, the pocket of his collared shirt full of pens and shielded from possible ink stains by a pocket protector. Yes, really—a pocket protector.
I clasped a hand over my mouth just in case any of my giggles escaped in the form of sound I couldn't hear. "Why are you dressed like a preppy Jehovah's Witness?" I jotted jokingly.
Nathaniel smiled playfully and shook his head. "Believe it or not, I used to dress like that every single day. I quit wearing the tie second semester of senior year, after I got back from studying abroad in Australia over winter break." He turned to another page and showed me a picture of himself in a yellow polo shirt, flanked on either side by a rosy-cheeked, red-haired Candace and a boy I hadn't met before. Nathaniel was smiling brightly for the camera, but he looked piqued.
The other boy—"Lysander Vespasian," according to the photo's caption—was incredible. I'd describe him as 'platinum blond,' but there was no yellow-blond in his hair, only platinum. It was practically white, dip-dyed blackish gray at the ends of his long bangs. His thin face was made even more dazzling by eyes that were two different colors.
I probably shouldn't ask about this other hot boy—not when I have an equally hot boy sitting on my bed. It'd be safer to ask about Candace instead.
"Candace studied abroad with you?" I wrote, genuinely curious. "Is that how she met Dakota?"
He pondered for a moment before he decided on, "Yes and no. It's kind of a long story, but it all turned out okay for them in the end. She's going off to college at the end of the summer, too, and he's going back home. She says they're still going to stay together."
"Long-distance relationship, huh?" I wrote skeptically.
"Yeah." He was just as skeptical as I was. "She's my friend, and I wish her all the best, but she's not realistic."
"You must know Candace pretty well. Did you and her ever have…a thing?" She was pretty cute, after all—and according to Nathaniel, she was new last year. I couldn't help but wonder if he'd shown her 'around town,' too.
"Ancient history," was all he was willing to tell me about that—and he did so with a (hopefully silent) laugh, which led me to truly believe that whatever happened or didn't happen with Candace was brief and needed no elaboration.
This must be why he brought the yearbook with him: to share pieces of his life with me—pieces that I'd missed. I felt a strange sadness when I realized just how much of his life I'd missed out on.
I guess I'd have to make up for lost time this summer.
"Candace is a smart girl," he went on, "but not when it comes to things like this. She doesn't realize what she's getting herself into." His smile faded when he had to write her name. "I didn't want to put Melody in that position. I know the guys at her college are going to be all over her. She won't have any problems finding someone else."
"Neither will you," I cut in, filling in the line underneath. "You're everything a girl could want."
He looked up at me, his face illuminated from underneath by the glow of my cell phone. He and I stayed this way so long that the screen faded to black again, leaving us blinking, trying to re-find each others' faces by the moonlight that streamed through my open window. He reached out with a hesitant hand and found my hair; he pulled his fingers down through it so gently it made me shiver.
Without warning, he whipped his head to his right and gaped at the closed door, horrified.
Does he hear Mom coming?
What do we do? he beseeched me without words, his eyes returning to mine.
Get down! I commanded him, shoving him to the floor. He rolled under the bed within milliseconds of Mom cracking open the door and peeking inside.
When she saw I was awake, sitting upright, and still wearing my clothes, she flipped the light switch. My eyes, which had become complacent in the darkness, stung when they were assaulted by the bright yellow light.
What's going on in here? she signed, still half-asleep. What are you still doing up?
I couldn't sleep, so I was writing. Neither of these statements were lies. As long as Nathaniel didn't sneeze or make any sudden movements, I could still get out of this scot-free.
Mom narrowed her eyes at me, then tisked and shook her head like she does whenever she thinks I've done something foolish. Change out of those clothes and go to bed. I need you to help me at the new studio tomorrow—bright and early.
Okay, I agreed halfheartedly. I'm sorry I woke you up. Good night.
Good night, she conceded, then turned and hobbled down the hall to the master bedroom.
I got up and crossed the room to peek through the doorway. Once I was sure she was gone, I dropped to the floor to help Nathaniel slither out from under the bed, pulling his forearm.
In the blink of an eye, I found myself on my knees, crouched over him as he lay on the floor, my hand intertwined with his.
He screwed up his eyes in an attempt to protect them from the merciless light. I should go, said his apologetic lips.
I grabbed the notebook from where it lay open on the bed, reluctantly tearing my hand away from his to write my suggestion. "Wait until she goes to sleep. She'll definitely hear you if you climb down now."
Okay, he agreed. Good point.
The truth was I didn't want him to leave any more than he wanted to go.
I turned out the lights again, and Nathaniel attentively listened for any more parental disturbances. I assumed he didn't hear any, because after a while he started to relax again, smiling shyly every time my eyes found his in the near darkness.
When my cell phone indicated it was well past 4AM, we found ourselves in a bittersweet stalemate. We'd already tried to say goodnight once before, and now it was too early in the morning to try to say it again.
The notebook, which we had forgotten about hours before, lay untouched on the floor. Both of us were too deliriously tired to muster the strength to read or write words so crudely. For the past few hours, he and I communicated by touch alone—my head on his shoulder, his arm around my back, my hand in his, our feet intertwined.
I didn't even realize I'd fallen asleep like that until I felt Nathaniel's arms lift me up from the floor and set me down gently on my padded mattress. I opened my eyes in time to see him leave the way he came in—through the window, one foot at a time, smiling his adorable boyish smile. Then I fell back into a deep, dreamless sleep—which seemed to last only a few minutes and was ruined when Mom's cruel hands jostled me awake.
You never changed out of your clothes, Johnanna? she signed exasperatedly as I rubbed my eyes.
I checked the time on my cell phone—7AM—then threw a furtive glance at the window, which was still hanging slightly open. I probably should just wear clothes to bed from now on, I said only half cynically. You never know who might drop in when you least expect it.
You're a strange child, Mom said back, lost for words. Put different clothes on. We're going to see the new studio this morning.
Part of me thought maybe Mom had seen Nathaniel hiding under my bed last night and her dragging me out into the world at this ungodly hour was a sadistic form of punishment. At the same time, I knew that if she had found us out, the consequences would be much more severe than early-morning errands.
"That was a close one," I wrote to Nathaniel in a text for him to read when he woke up. "We should do it again sometime."
And to think—that was only my first 'date' with Nathaniel Weiss.