The Book of Ivy, Page 23

480) when I noticed the small tattoo on the neck of the girl in front of me.

  It’s a symbol—infinity. There’s a cursive word included in the bottom of one of the loops, but I can’t read it because one of the girl’s short curls is in the way.

  Before I realize what I’m doing, I sweep away the hair at the nape of her neck. She shudders and spins around so fast that my hand is still midair. Flames of embarrassment lick at my earlobes, and I wonder if I should be shielding my man parts from inevitable physical brutality.

  “What’s your problem?” Her hand cups her neck, covering the tattoo. Her pale skin flushes and her pupils are black holes in the middle of wild blue seas, but since I’m not coughing up my nuts, I’m already doing better with this girl than any before.

  She’s waiting for me to explain.

  It takes too long to find words. She’s too beautiful with that raven-hued hair and those eyes. “I wanted to see your tattoo.”

  “So, ask next time.”

  I nod. She turns back around.

  The curl has shifted.

  The word is “hope.”

  “Rapido, Chuck. J’s pissing his pants because we’re going to be ‘tardy,’” Greta says, using her shoulders to wedge the door open so she can make air quotes around James’s favorite word. “God, it smells good in here.”

  Greta McCaulley has been my best friend since our freshman year at Brighton. On the first day of Algebra II, Mr. Toppler held a math contest, like a spelling bee only better. I came in second, one question behind Greta. Since then, her red hair, opinions, and chewed-up cuticles have been a daily part of my life. She has a way of ignoring the stuff about me that makes others want to punch me. And she’s equal parts tenacity and loyalty—like a Labrador/honey badger mutt.

  She’d also beat the crap out of me if she knew I’d just thought of her as a hybridized breed of animal.

  Outside, her boyfriend James unfolds himself from the cramped backseat of my car, and rips open the heavy doors. “People of Krispy Kreme, I will not be made tar—” He takes a quick breath and loses his concentration. Krispy Kreme’s sugary good smell remains invincible.

  Greta stands beside me in line, while James drifts toward a little window to watch the donuts being born in the kitchen. Greta and James have been together since the second quarter of ninth grade. If I wanted to continue to hang out with Greta, her Great Dane of a boyfriend would have to become part of my small circle of friends.

  Actually, it’s not a circle. It’s a triangle. I’d need more friends to have a circle.

  The girl with the tattoo steps up and orders a glazed and a coffee. She’s about our age, but I don’t know her, which means she must go to my sister’s high school, Sandstone. It’s for the regular kids. I go to Brighton School of Math and Science. It’s for the nerds.

  Greta leans into my shoulder, and I know I’m not supposed to notice because a) we’ve been friends for a long time, b) James is four feet away, and c) I just fondled a stranger’s neck, but Greta’s left breast brushes against my arm.

  “So what’s with the girl?” she asks. “I saw her turn and—”

  My ears feel warm. “Shhh.”

  Mercifully, Greta whispers, “I thought she was going to punch you.”

  “Me, too.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “She has a tattoo,” I say, shrugging.

  “And?”

  “And, I may have touched it.”

  Greta’s mouth hangs open, a perfect donut.

  “Fine. I touched it.”

  “Where?” Greta quickly turns and scans the girl. “Oh, thank God,” she breathes, touching the correlating spot on her own bare neck. “I thought maybe it was a tramp stamp.”

  I must look blank because Greta points to her lower back, just below the waistline of her khaki uniform skirt.

  “God, no,” I say, too loudly. The girl with the hope tattoo glances over her shoulder. Greta and I both look at our shoes.

  James steps in front of us, and for once I’m thankful that the width of 1 James = 2 Charlies + 1 Greta. His large frame blocks us from the girl’s glare. James taps the face of his watch.

  “I know,” I say. “Look, both of you go back to the car. I’ll be right there. We have plenty of time to make it before the first bell.”

  They turn to leave just as the girl is stepping away from the counter, coffee in one hand and donut in the other. I should let her walk away and be thankful she didn’t punch me, but without thinking, I touch her arm as she goes by. I can feel the muscle of her bicep tighten under my fingertips.

  I’m locked in place, like when an electric shock seizes all the muscles in your body so that the only thing that can save you—letting go of the electrical source—is the only thing you can’t do.

  “Yes?” she asks, her jaw looking as tight as her bicep feels.

  “I wanted to apologize.”

  “Oh,” she says. Her muscles relax. “Thanks.”

  She smells amazing. At least, I think it’s her and not the warm donut in her hand. Either way, I have to force myself to focus on what I was about to say.

  “So, I’m sorry.” Now, walk away. Go, Hanson. “But I’m afraid you’re mistaken about infinity. Infinity is quantifiable. Hope is immeasurable.”

  Her expression shifts, like Tony Stark slipping into his Iron Man mask. She shakes her arm free from my slack grip. “So if it can’t be measured, I shouldn’t count on it? That’s bleak, man. Very bleak.”

  She turns and pushes through the door.

  Subject: Girl with the hope tattoo, first day of senior year,

  Method: Grope her neck. Follow with a lecture on topics in advanced mathematics,

  Result: No physical harm, but left doubting whether I’ll ever figure this relationship stuff out.

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