Remember Me (On Hold)

vii

vii.

"This was interesting," Mr. Thompson says. "A real array of songs here." He walks up and down the aisles of desks, dropping our essays facedown. "Only two A's though. Ara, Ruby, nice work. The rest of you didn't go deep enough. There are layers of meaning in poetry. You need to look closely, not just skim the surface."

I glance over at Ruby. She sees me and looks away. When Mr. Thompson hands her paper back she drops it into her backpack without even reading what he wrote.

Walking to my locker, I decide on the words to use. It's been a while since I've put any effort into talking to people. When I get there, Ruby glances at me but doesn't say anything. She has a small poster of two girls in her locker.

"Who are they?" I ask.

"They're this band that I like. These cute queer girls from Canada."

"Oh," I say. I think about all the things that I've heard about her and I decide to just ask. It's like I have anything to lose. "So are you?"

"What." She smirks. "From Canada?"

"No," I say. "Queer." I try to say it as if it isn't the first time I've ever asked someone that, like it's no big thing at all.

She reaches for something in her locker and leans in so far that I can't see her face. I hear her say "Yeah," and it echoes a little bit.

I try to think of a response, but suddenly my brain is like a television that doesn't work; just static. So I stand there, quiet. She finishes filling up her bag with books and lean towards me.

"This is the part of the conversation," she says, "where you tell me something about yourself. Something similar to what I told you. This is where the interrogation turns into an exchange."

"You're asking if I'm queer?"

She lifts an eyebrow at me. I feel stupid.

"No," I say. "I'm not."

She closes her locker. "Well I know it sounds crazy. But I've heard that your kind and my kind can coexist quite peacefully."

She smiles and this time it's in a nice way. "I'm going to the noodle place on Shatira," she says, and I realize that she isn't going to ask me to come again. She isn't desperate

"I'll go, too," I say.

We walk out of the science hall.

"Do you have a car?" I ask her.

"No," she says, like I just asked if she had a hundred bucks she wanted to loan me. "Do you know how many problems would be solved if people stopping using oil so much? Wars, terrorism, air pollution . . . Just to name a few."

As we step on the street, Elaine Harper stares at us from the window of her boyfriend's Corolla. I pretend I don't see her.

•••

The noodle place serves Thai soups in huge bowls, but inside it looks like the diner it used to be—posters of Elvis on the wall, lit-up jukebox by the entrance. We slide into opposite sides of a booth with red vinyl seats. Even here, Ruby slouches. She drums her finger on the table and reads the menu. She doesn't seem to need to talk to be comfortable. I, on the other hand, am desperate for something to say. I read the menu and decide on coconut-milk pineapple soup. Ruby orders hot and sour soup with mushrooms and green beans and a large coffee. She looks so rowdy, but she's really polite to the waiter. She smiles and says "thanks" like she mean it.

"So why did you change your mind?" she asks me.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean what happened the first time? When I asked you if you wanted to come, you just weren't hungry or something?"