minutes.
Dear Abby,
The boy that I sleep with asked me what I believe in and I couldn’t answer him. Why does everyone need something to believe in? Really, I don’t see why faith is so necessary. He believes in fires and beer and New Jersey, for God’s sakes. As if those are things to build your life on.
I know what I don’t believe in, though. Isn’t that something? I don’t believe in God. I don’t believe in destiny. I think that life is made up of random events. I don’t think there is a point to any individual’s existence. You aren’t put on this earth for any one reason. And I don’t believe in soul mates. People are drawn together due to pheromones and physical attraction and they choose whether to do the work to stay together or not. I don’t believe in couples staying together for the kids.
My list of what I don’t believe in has been growing lately. Almost exponentially. I could go on for pages. My sleep is filled with making these kinds of lists. What the hell is wrong with me?
There is suddenly a hand on my shoulder, a heavy patting I recognize, which never fails to annoy me. Weber wakes me up in the morning, or sometimes in the middle of the night, by patting the palm of his hand against my shoulder. I don’t know if it is the repetition of the gesture that annoys me, or the gesture itself. Weber always seems to be coming up from behind, startling me.
“What are you doing here?” This is my one hiding place. My one escape. How dare he find me here?
He seems to read my mind. “I’ve always known this is where you go. It’s not like you’re well hidden. Your car’s right outside.”
“Why were you looking for me?”
“I wanted to talk to you.”
“And it couldn’t wait?” I have my arm over the letter I have been writing. I am furious that he thinks it is okay to disturb me here. I have been successfully hiding in libraries since I was a child. Everyone else in my life—my mother, father, sister, even Gram—knows better than to bother me in my libraries.
“I’ve met everyone in your family now,” he says.
I stare at him, still so angry I can barely absorb what he is saying.
“I went to visit your grandmother today. She was the last one.”
I can only repeat his words. “The last one?”
“Well, I already knew your lovely sister, so she doesn’t count. But now I’ve spoken to each of the others, your mom, dad, and grandmother. I introduced myself. It’s been really interesting. Educational, even. Seeing the different parts of Lila Leary scattered around her family.”
I remember at the last moment where I am, and manage to strangle my voice into a whisper. “Why would you do that? Are you insane? Who did you introduce yourself as?”
“Your face is turning all splotchy,” he says.
“Can we leave here, please?” I say. “Right now?”
Weber shrugs. He is draped over the study carrel behind me, perfectly relaxed. He is wearing an old pair of blue shorts and a Bruce Springsteen T-shirt. He has a vast T-shirt collection centered around New Jersey bands. There is an intricate value system to his collection that he explained to me one afternoon. The performers are ranked by the quality of each of their albums: Bon Jovi is at the top, then Bruce Springsteen, then the Fountains of Wayne and someone named Slapstreet Johnny, and then a series of local bands I’ve never heard of. As a means of protecting his collection, Weber wears the most valued T-shirts only once a month so they don’t wear out. The Born in the USA T-shirt he is wearing now is one of his favorites.
“Sure thing,” he says. “I have the afternoon off. Where do you want to go?”
I stand up, careful to block my letter from his sight until after I have closed the notebook and stuffed the letter in my pocket. I walk past him, down the stairs. He follows, and we travel down two more floors, then through the newspaper section, past the mimeograph machines, and out the front door.
In the hot, sticky summer air, he says, “My vote is Dairy Queen.”
I am still working on what he said, on what that means. I say, “You talked to my mother?”
“I didn’t have to go see her, actually. I ran into both her and your father. I only had to specifically visit your grandmother. I