Jack Kerouac is Dead to Me - Gae Polisner Page 0,3

the earbuds. Some piece of classic rock, not far from the type of stuff my dad listens to, or would listen to if he were still home.

“Tongues were all broken … guns … swords…” Max sings, dropping every few words, others lifting awkwardly into the air, which makes you glance up and roll your eyes again, before returning to your oh-so-important texting.

Why are you even here, Aubrey? I want to ask, but I don’t want to make things worse. Besides, it doesn’t matter what you think. I love it when Max sings, especially when it seems like he’s singing to me, his deep, raspy voice breaking through like he doesn’t give a crap what anyone thinks of him.

Not you. Not me. Not anyone.

I turn back to you, and watch you watching him.

“What?” you finally ask, and I give you a look.

“Nothing. It’s … I’m stressed about this, Aubs.” I motion at all the packages, the equipment, the moving parts I have to get right if I want these boxes of larvae to turn into full-blown tropical butterflies in a matter of weeks. “At least he’s helping. I thought you were going to help. Wanted to help. I thought you were excited.”

“I was,” you say, adding defensively, “I mean, I am.” You type something else fast, before swinging your legs around the side of the bed to sit up. “Plus, I offered to help last night, remember? After the mall. But some of us were too busy to go.”

But you knew when you invited me I wasn’t going to. You knew I wouldn’t be comfortable hanging with those girls or, worse, being stuck inviting them over here after. Not with Mom the way she can be. Is. Not until she’s doing better. There are people you can risk things with, and people you can’t.

“But, seriously, JL,” you say, lowering your voice, “I’m still not sure what you see in him.”

Liar, Aubrey!

Sorry, but you are. Whatever people had to say about Max Gordon, or thought they knew about him, he is undeniably hot, and undeniably good with his hands. Not like you’re thinking, either—I’m not saying that. But he can make anything, fix anything. Build dirt bikes from scraps. Play guitar.

People underestimate how smart he is, too. His mother is an English teacher, so he’s read all sorts of books. More than I ever will. More than you. All the classics, and famous poems, lines he can recite by heart. So if he wasn’t Mr. Honor Society, maybe it’s because he didn’t want to be. Maybe he didn’t give a crap about that kind of thing …

And that day the Tropicals arrived? I was happy, Aubrey, happy about Max, about us being a couple, and all I wanted was for you to be happy for me, too.

But you weren’t, were you? You weren’t even willing to try.

I don’t answer you. I won’t justify your jealousy, or whatever it is, by defending Max Gordon. At least you slide back onto the floor as if you might be ready to help me. I hand you the cup with the Jezebel larvae.

“Ew, gross,” you say, peering in.

“They’re not gross. They’re cute.”

I look into the other culture that holds several tiny brownish-yellow worms with pin-sized black heads. It’s the first time I’m raising butterflies from this early larval phase, and, yeah, they’re definitely not as cute as the full-grown Monarch or Swallowtail caterpillars, with their yellow and black stripes and little Muppet-looking faces.

“Wait till you see them hatch,” I say. “They’re ridiculously pretty. And these,” I add, holding out the cup with the Glasswing larvae, “the chrysalises are this amazing iridescent, neon green, like a gemstone, and the butterflies are totally transparent.”

“Like glass,” you say, and I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic. You tip the culture cup you’re holding at me, and think for a second. “And these? Why are they called Jezebels, anyway?” Panic rises in my chest before I even know why, because there’s something in your voice, something cruel, even if you’re pretending the question is innocent. It’s as if you’ve been waiting to ask it. “Jez-e-bels,” you repeat purposefully, emphasizing all three syllables.

“I don’t know, Aubs; why?” I swallow hard. “Why would I care?”

“No reason. It’s just, I asked my mom one day, because you had been talking about the butterflies, you know, ‘Jezebels this, and Jezebels that,’ and she was watching one of those old black-and-white movies she loves, and when the commercial break was over and the title came