Optimists Die First Read online

  I blame what happened next on the endorphins still coursing through my body.

  As he straightened, I put my hands on his shoulders and kissed him.

  On the lips.

  He pulled back.

  “Sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what made me—”

  He took hold of my wrist. He pulled me close. “Has anyone ever told you you have spectacular eyes?” he said.

  This time, he kissed me.

  —

  My experience with kissing up to now went like this:

  1) One awful, spittle-filled attempt at tonguing by a boy during a game of spin the bottle.

  2) Pecks on the cheek by male relatives.

  But even so, I knew that this kiss felt right, and good. So good that when thoughts of saliva-transmitted illnesses like mononucleosis and oral herpes crept into my brain, I was able to push most of them out.

  I replaced them with these thoughts instead:

  Jacob is not “this side of” good-looking.

  He is spectacular.

  I couldn’t stop humming “Walking on Sunshine,” by Katrina & the Waves the next morning. Normally I pooh-poohed that song, because if you actually walked on sunshine you’d be burned to a crisp. But it would not leave my head.

  “Someone’s in a good mood,” Dad said as we finished breakfast. He was wearing his Billie Holiday T-shirt. Mom was in one of her favorites, too: I LIKE BIG BOOKS AND I CANNOT LIE.

  “I take it you had fun last night?” she said. Ferdinand was stretched out on her lap.

  I smiled and nodded. “What did you two wind up doing?” It had been the first time in ages that they’d had the place to themselves.

  “I read the new Kate Atkinson,” said Mom.

  “I alphabetized my records,” said Dad.

  “Seriously?”

  Neither of them would look at me, or at each other. Dad stood up. “Time for me to head into the office. I have—”

  “A lot of paperwork, yeah, yeah, yeah. You two do remember your twentieth wedding anniversary is coming up fast, right?”

  Their nineteenth had been a bust. Mom had given Dad a book on barbecuing, when we didn’t have a balcony or a barbecue. She’d obviously picked it up last minute from work. Dad hadn’t given Mom anything, not even a card.

  “We remember,” Mom said. “Now back off.”

  I shut up. Honestly, it was like being in charge of two listless employees. I was constantly trying to get them to do their best work, but all they did was phone it in.

  If they had been employees, I would have fired them a long time ago.

  —

  Half an hour later Mom had left for her volunteer shift at the Feline Rescue Association and I was in my room, watching cat videos on YouTube. There was a bunch of new ones, posted under Purrfect Pet Food’s Purrfect Cat Video Contest. Some of them were mildly amusing, but I could barely concentrate. The voice in my head was getting louder.

  Did last night mean something? Does Jacob like me the way I like him? Who am I kidding? As if a guy like him would be interested in me! OH GOD, I’M AN IDIOT!

  And on it went.

  Just when I’d convinced myself that I would never hear from him again, my phone dinged.

  Jacob.

  Editing Ivan’s video. Want to help?

  I didn’t hesitate.

  Yes.

  —

  Okay, so we didn’t work on the video. We didn’t discuss the video. We didn’t even use the word video.

  Jacob’s parents had gone to the art gallery. He pulled me into the apartment and down the hall to his room, leaving the door ajar. We collapsed onto his bed.

  This time we did more than just kiss.

  I could not get enough of him. He slipped his real hand under my shirt and I slipped a hand under his.

  Then we heard the front door open, and his parents hollering out hello.

  I practically somersaulted off his bed.

  —

  Later that evening I powered up my computer and saw that I had a Facebook notification. I hadn’t been on Facebook in ages, because what was the point? I had about four friends, and two were my mom and dad.

  It was a friend request, from K. Apostolos. It took me a minute to realize it was Koula.

  I accepted, feeling oddly pleased. Then an ambitious thought struck me: Maybe I could up my Facebook friends to the high single digits. I searched for Alonzo Perez and Ivan Bogdanovich and friend requested them, too. Then I searched for Jacob.

  A whole pile of Jacob Cohens came up. There were engineering student Jacob Cohens, doctor and lawyer Jacob Cohens, plumber Jacob Cohens, even two city councilor Jacob Cohens. But none of them were my Jacob Cohen. I looked on Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr; I couldn’t find him anywhere. For a guy who wanted to be a director, he kept an awfully low profile on social media.

  Eventually I climbed into bed, Moominmamma and Stuart Little at my feet. I kissed Maxine’s photo. I tried to read, but my mind kept wandering to Jacob, and the feel of his hands, the real and the bionic, on my body.

  My hand slipped under the covers, down to the waistband of my granny underpants. With my other hand, I turned off the light.

  “Write an essay on The Cellist of Sarajevo,” Mr. Herbert said at the end of English class on Monday. “I’ve given you five themes to choose from in the handout.” Clearly he’d given up on thinking outside the box. The bell rang. “Your marks from the previous assignment are now posted online.”

  We left class. Jacob pulled out his phone to look up our mark. Rachel came out after us. “What did you guys get?” she asked.

  Jacob’s expression darkened. “B minus.”

  “That’s ridiculous. You deserved an A.” Then she headed up the stairs with her newer, shinier friends. Honestly, these brief encounters we were having just left me anxious and confused.

  Jacob and I continued down the hall. “Herbert’s a dick,” he said.

  “He is.” I liked that we were united in our indignation.

  “Our video is better than a lot of the crap on YouTube.”

  “Definitely.” That’s when it hit me. “Jacob, we should enter our video in this contest.”

  “What contest?”

  “I saw it on YouTube yesterday. Purrfect Pet Food is running a contest for best cat video.”

  “No.”

  “Even if we didn’t win, the video would get a lot of exposure.”

  “I don’t want it posted on YouTube.”

  “Herbert would have conniptions if we got a ton of hits—”

  Jacob grabbed my arm with his real hand. “I don’t want it posted online, Petula. Okay?”

  His grip hurt. “Okay,” I said. “And, ow.”

  Jacob let go. “Sorry. It’s just how I want it.”

  “But why?”

  He struggled to explain. “I don’t want every single thing I make put out there for the world to see. Does that make sense?”

  “Sort of. I guess.” But not really.

  His shoulders relaxed. “Thank you.”

  Then he leaned in and kissed me.

  On the lips.

  In the middle of the hall.

  Whatever was going on between us, he’d just made it public.

  It only lasted a few seconds, but it was long enough for Koula to walk past and shout, “Get a room!”

  Betty turned up the lights. She’d just watched Jacob’s video of our memorial for Ivan’s mom. “What can I say? It’s wonderful.”

  Jacob’s lips curled up in a grin. I squeezed his left hand under the table. He’d finished editing the video a couple of days earlier, and he’d invited all of us—minus Betty—to a private screening at his place. Miranda laid out awesome snacks, like Walkers shortbread cookies and tortilla chips with homemade guacamole, which I didn’t get to try because Koula immediately double-dipped.

  We’d watched the video three times in a row. It was fantastic. Through his editing, Jacob had managed to create an actual story. He’d added a movi
ng sound track. Ivan loved it. Even though he was eulogizing his dead mom, he was tickled to see himself on Jacob’s enormous flat-screen TV. “I feel like a movie star.”

  For YART, Jacob had cut out the fence climbing, the security guard, and the chase sequence. “Betty gets the Disney version,” he’d told us.

  “Ivan, what was it like for you, being able to say goodbye to your mom in your own words?” Betty asked.

  “It felt good. I mean, it was sad. But, I don’t know, it was also nice, being there with all my friends.”

  “I think that’s the first time I’ve heard any of you refer to the others in the group as friends.” Betty smiled. “We are witnessing something beautiful here. Art truly can be a healing experience.”

  Safely out of Betty’s line of vision, Koula caught my eye and pretended to vomit.

  “You’ve proved that you’re more than capable of generating your own ideas, so you’re welcome to do something along these lines again if you want.”

  We looked at each other; we hadn’t thought that far ahead.

  “Or,” Betty continued, opening up her folder, “I have something fun. We can all draw ourselves as spirit animals—”

  “No!” we collectively said.

  Alonzo tentatively raised his hand. “I have an idea for another video.”

  “Yes?”

  “Remember that movement class I told you guys about?”

  “Yeah, that you’re weirdly secretive about and that isn’t a dance class,” said Koula. “What kind of movement class is it? Bowel?”

  Ivan snorted.

  “I haven’t wanted to get specific because I assumed some people might poke fun.” Alonzo stared hard at Koula.

  “We won’t poke fun,” Betty said, looking at the rest of us. “Right?”

  We all nodded, including Koula.

  “Okay.” Alonzo took a deep breath. “I’ve been studying the art of mime.”

  Koula burst out laughing. “Har-har-har-har-har-har. Right.”

  “I’m serious. A few years ago I came across the work of Marcel Marceau, the most famous mime ever. And I got hooked.” Alonzo’s face grew red as he tried to explain. “Marceau had a hard life. He was in the French Resistance. His dad was murdered in Auschwitz. But he didn’t let any of that break him. He pursued his passion. He could make people laugh one minute, cry the next, and all without saying a word.

  “I know it sounds weird, but when I’m miming—it’s like I’ve never felt more like me. I can forget about all the noise in my head…I feel liberated.”

  Koula snorted. Alonzo ignored her.

  “I’m getting pretty good. And I’ve been trying to build up the courage to take it to the streets, to busk.” He turned to Jacob. “I was thinking we could film it. It would help me see what I’m doing well and what I need to work on. And if it’s not awful, maybe I can send a copy of the video to my family.”

  “Sure thing,” said Jacob.

  Koula crossed her arms over her chest, pouting. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me. Douche bag.”

  “Koula, don’t make me get the Jar,” said Betty.

  “Sorry,” said Alonzo. “I figured you’d make fun of me.”

  “I totally would have. And I totally still will!” Koula started pretending that she was trapped inside a box. Pretty soon we were all doing the same thing, and Betty made us all put a quarter in the Jar.

  —

  We gathered on the plaza outside the Vancouver Art Gallery a week later. Koula had painted Alonzo’s face to look like a Pierrot doll, complete with white pancake foundation, black eyeliner, and bright red lips. I’d sewn him a Marcel Marceau–like costume, a black-and-white striped T-shirt and black tights.

  While Jacob and Alonzo set up, Ivan bought us lunch with the money we’d pooled. Koula and I sat on the gallery steps. She was sporting a new hairdo. Gone was her big eighties hair, except for a strip down the middle, which she’d dyed bright red and spiked up with gel. It looked oddly appropriate on Koula. She got a lot of looks from passersby, and sitting next to her I felt cool by association.

  A handful of people stopped to watch when Alonzo began his performance. First he pretended he was in a slowly shrinking box and couldn’t get out. Jacob made him do it again and again so he could shoot it from different angles.

  Next, Alonzo mimed that he was having a tug-of-war with an invisible opponent.

  “He’s good,” I said. “If you’re into mime.”

  “Which no one is,” Koula said. “Except maybe the French. But the French also like Jerry Lewis.”

  “You’re still miffed that he didn’t tell you.”

  “Of course I’m miffed. Alonzo and I are not supposed to have secrets. Not if we’re going to get married.”

  My eyebrows shot up. “Sorry, what?”

  “We’ve made a deal. If we’re both single or divorced or widowed when we’re seventy, we’re going to marry each other.”

  “Oh. Interesting plan.” Koula jiggled her leg up and down. “How are you doing?”

  She shrugged. “Okay. I go to meetings every day. Almost up to my stupid one-month chip again.” She bent over to tie her shoes and I got a close-up of her tattoo.

  “Um. About your tattoo.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. Not one but two spelling mistakes. I had a crazy night with a tattoo artist. We were both wasted. And spelling wasn’t his strong point.”

  “Can you get it removed?”

  “I’m saving up.”

  We turned our attention back to Alonzo; he was pretending to walk up a down escalator.

  Ivan returned, carrying bags of food from Five Guys. “Here you go.” He handed Koula and me each a burger and a big carton of fries.

  Koula opened the wrapper and took a huge bite. She glanced over at me. “Tell me you’re going to eat that.”

  I had not eaten ground beef in two years. Breeding ground for E. coli and all that.

  But I was starving. And it smelled so good. I took a tentative bite. Then another. It was greasy, salty, and delicious.

  Koula was only halfway through her burger by the time I’d finished mine. Which gave me ample time to pour a bunch of fries onto my burger wrapper before she dug her hand in and contaminated them all.

  Something was shifting in me. I woke up in the mornings and actually looked forward to the day. It was such a new feeling that I sometimes thought I’d spontaneously combust, and all that would be left of me was a small pile of ashes next to a smoldering cat hat.

  Jacob and I spent a lot of time together. We weren’t disgustingly inseparable at school, like Pablo and Carrie, who tongued and groped each other even on their groinage area and looked like conjoined twins when they walked down the halls. But we hung out, a lot. We talked, a lot.

  We made out, a lot.

  I finished Jacob’s dog hat, and it spurred me to do more. I knit animal toques for everyone in YART: a monkey for Ivan, a rabbit for Alonzo, and a bear for Betty. For Koula, I made a raccoon headband-style ear warmer so it wouldn’t mess up her Mohawk. “That is so dorky,” she said when I gave it to her. But she wore it. Every day.

  I also made a T-shirt tote bag for Rachel. The two of us had taken baby steps; she’d even invited me to eat lunch in the cafeteria with her and Aleisha and Mahshid a couple of times. But that was about it.

  I still missed her, a lot.

  One day Mr. Watley stopped me in the hall. “Petula. How are you doing?”

  “Fine. Why?”

  “I haven’t seen you in my office in weeks.”

  “Wow. You’re right.”

  “So things are good?”

  I nodded. “You’ll never guess what I did last week.”

  “What?”

  “Ate a hamburger.”

  “Good for you.”

  “And I crossed on a red light. At a very, very quiet intersection in a residential neighborhood.”

  “Goodness! Next you’ll be telling me you drank out of a water fountain.”

 
“Let’s not go overboard, sir.”

  “I’m glad to hear you’re doing well.” Mr. Watley gazed at me with his big, watery eyes, and I wondered if he missed me.

  “I’m happy to drop by your office once in a while if you’d like,” I said. “I could even come by today, at lunch—”

  “No, no, no need. Just pleased to know you’re doing well.” He hurried away, like he’d just farted and didn’t want to be around to take the blame when it started to smell.

  —

  My mom noticed changes in me, too.

  We were eating homemade pizza in front of the TV one night, just the eight of us—two humans, six cats. “So,” she said out of the blue, “tell me about you and Jacob.”

  “What about me and Jacob?”

  “Are you two going steady?”

  “Mom, nobody says that anymore.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  I shrugged. “I guess we are.”

  “Well, I’m glad. I like him.”

  I turned my attention back to the TV.

  “If you ever need to talk about anything—”

  “Thanks. I’m good.”

  “For example, protection and birth control—”

  “Mom!”

  “I’m just saying, if it ever comes to that, you want to double up, condoms and the pill, no unwanted pregnancies, no STDs—”

  I upped the volume by ten.

  But here’s the thing. Since Maxine’s death, we hadn’t had a lot of genuine mother-daughter conversations.

  So even though I’d drowned her out, I was still deeply touched.

  She was acting like my mom again.

  One morning I was flipping through the events section of the paper when something caught my eye. “Oh my God. Oh. My. God!”

  I grabbed the phone to call Rachel.

  Then I remembered.

  While we were walking to school, I told Jacob about what I’d seen, and how I wished I could invite Rachel. He wore his dog hat and I wore my cat hat. It was sunny and mild; cherry blossoms were starting to bud on the trees. “So do it. Just ask her,” he said. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

  I tried to conjure up something terrible. But the worst I could come up with was “She says no?” I turned left to avoid the construction site.