House Rules: A Novel Read online

  Owen: Get the fuck away from me, freak.

  Jess has gone all red in the face. “The good news,” she says evenly, “is that you tried to initiate a conversation. That’s a really big step. The fact that you chose to discuss semen is unfortunate, but still.”

  By now we have reached the table in the back where Mark is waiting for us. He is chewing gum with his mouth wide open, and wearing that stupid orange sweatshirt. “Hey, Chief,” he says.

  I shake my head and take a step backward. That sweatshirt, he wasn’t wearing it when I first saw him. I bet he put it on on purpose, because he knows I don’t like it.

  “Mark,” Jess says, after glancing at me, “the sweatshirt. Take it off.”

  He grins at her. “But it’s more fun when you do it, baby,” he says, and he grabs Jess and tugs her into the booth, practically onto his lap.

  Let me just come out and say I don’t get the sex thing. I don’t understand why someone like Mark, who seems completely hell-bent on exchanging bodily fluids with Jess, isn’t equally excited to talk about the fact that snot, bleach, and horseradish can all give you false positives for blood during presumptive tests. And I don’t understand why neurotypical guys are obsessed with girl breasts. I think it would be an enormous pain to have those sticking out in front of you all the time.

  Fortunately, Mark does take off the orange sweatshirt, and Jess folds it up and puts it on the seat where I can’t see it. It’s bad enough just knowing it’s there, frankly. “You get me mushroom?” Mark asks.

  “You know Jacob isn’t a fan of mushroom …”

  There is a lot I’d do for Jess, but not mushrooms. Even if they’re touching the crust on the far side of the pizza, I might have to vomit.

  She pulls her cell phone out of her pocket and sets it on the table. It is pink and has my name and number programmed into it. It might be the only cell phone that has my name in it. Even my mother’s cell phone lists our number as HOME.

  I stare down at the table, still thinking about Mark’s sweatshirt.

  “Mark,” Jess says, sliding his hand out of the back of her shirt. “Come on. We’re in public.” Then she addresses me. “Jacob, while we’re waiting for the food, let’s practice.”

  Practice waiting? I don’t really need to. I’m fairly proficient at it.

  “When there’s a lull in the conversation, you can toss out a topic that gets people talking again.”

  “Yeah,” Mark says. “Like: Chicken nuggets are neither chicken nor nuggets. Discuss.”

  “You’re not helping,” Jess mutters. “Are you looking forward to anything this week in school, Jacob?”

  Sure. Rampant dismissal and abject humiliation. In other words, the usual.

  “In physics I have to explain gravity to the rest of the class,” I say. “The grade’s half on content and half on creativity, and I think I’ve found the perfect solution.”

  It took me a while to think of this, and then when I did I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it before.

  “I’m going to drop my pants,” I tell her.

  Mark bursts out laughing, and for a second, I think maybe I’ve misjudged him.

  “Jacob,” Jess says, “you will not drop your pants.”

  “It completely explains Newton’s law—”

  “I don’t care if it explains the meaning of life! Think about how inappropriate that would be. Not only would you embarrass your teacher and make him angry but you’d be teased by other students for doing it.”

  “I don’t know, Jess … you know what they say about guys with long IEPs …,” Mark says.

  “Well, you don’t have an IEP,” Jess answers, smiling. “So there goes that theory.”

  “You know it, baby.”

  I have no idea what they’re talking about.

  When Jess is my girlfriend, we will eat pizza without mushrooms every Sunday. I’ll show her how to enhance the contrast of fingerprints on packing tape, and I will let her read my CrimeBusters journals. She’ll confide that she has quirks, too, like the fact that she has a tail that she keeps hidden under her jeans.

  Okay, maybe not a tail. No one really wants a girlfriend with a tail.

  “I have something to talk about,” I say. My heart starts pounding, and my palms are sweaty. I analyze this the way Dr. Henry Lee would analyze any other piece of forensic evidence and store it away for the future: Asking girls out can cause changes to the cardiovascular system. “I would like to know, Jess, if you would like to accompany me to a movie this Friday night.”

  “Oh, Jacob—well done! We haven’t practiced that in a whole month!”

  “On Thursday I’ll know what’s playing. I can look it up on Moviefone.com.” I fold my napkin into eighths. “I could go out on Saturday instead if it’s better for you.” There is a CrimeBusters marathon, but I am willing to make a sacrifice. Surely that will show her how serious I am about this relationship.

  “Holy shit,” Mark says, grinning. I can feel his eyes on me. (That’s the other thing about eyes; they can be hot as lasers, and how would you ever know when they’re about to be turned on full force? Better not to risk it, and to avoid eye contact.) “He isn’t showing you some communication skill, Jess. The retard is actually asking you out.”

  “Mark! For God’s sake, don’t call him—”

  “I’m not a retard,” I interrupt.

  “You’re wrong. Jacob knows we’re just friends,” Jess says.

  Mark snorts. “You fucking get paid to be his friend!”

  I stand up abruptly. “Is that true?”

  I guess I have never thought about it. My mother arranged for me to meet with Jess. I assumed Jess wanted to do it because she (a) is writing that paper and (b) likes my company. But now I can picture my mother ripping another check out of the checkbook and complaining like always that we don’t have enough to cover our expenses. I can picture Jess opening the envelope in her dorm room and tucking that check into the back pocket of her jeans.

  I can picture her taking Mark out for pizza, using cash that came from my mother’s bank account.

  Gluten-rich mushroom pizza.

  “It’s not true,” Jess says. “I am your friend, Jacob—”

  “But you wouldn’t be hanging out with Forrest Gump if you didn’t get that sweet check every month,” Mark says.

  She turns on him. “Mark, go away.”

  “Did you say what I think you said? Are you taking his side?”

  I start rocking back and forth. “Nobody puts Baby in a corner,” I quote under my breath.

  “This isn’t about sides,” Jess says.

  “Right,” Mark snaps. “It’s about priorities. I want to take you skiing for the afternoon and you blow me off—”

  “I didn’t blow you off. I invited you along to a standing appointment I had, one that I couldn’t just change at the last minute. I already explained to you how important plans are to someone with Asperger’s.”

  Jess grabs Mark’s arm, but he shakes her off. “This is bullshit. I might as well be fucking Mother Teresa.”

  He storms out of the pizza place. I don’t understand what Jess likes about him. He is in the graduate school of business and he plays a lot of hockey. But whenever he’s around, the conversation always has to be about him, and I don’t know why that’s okay if it’s Mark talking but not if it’s me.

  Jess rests her head on her folded arms. Her hair is spread out over her shoulders like a cape. From the way her shoulders are moving, she is probably crying.

  “Annie Sullivan,” I say.

  “What?” Jess looks up. Her eyes are red.

  “Mother Teresa saved the poor and the sick, and I’m not poor or sick. Annie Sullivan would have been a better example to use, because she’s a famous teacher.”

  “Oh, God.” Jess buries her face in her hands. “I can’t handle this.”

  There is a lull in the conversation, so I fill it. “Are you free on Friday now?”

  “You can’t be serious.�€