Maya’s eyes dart between us again, but they land on me. “Be sure to lock up after you leave. A lot of bodies will be roaming the halls tonight.”
“I will.”
She gives me the Vulcan Salute, and I return it before she disappears for good this time.
Garrison sets down his controller, pausing the game one more time. He rises from the rug, and I situate a mirror on my mattress. When it’s settled, I remove my glasses, grab my eyeliner and mascara and tuck my legs under my butt.
I don’t wear much makeup, except for costumes.
Garrison paces in front of my bed, running his fingers through his brown hair. At least that’s what I think he’s doing. Without my glasses, he appears mostly blurry. I can’t see him all that well, and I’m debating about wearing contacts tonight. I don’t like them, but my character for Halloween doesn’t wear glasses like me.
“So…” Garrison draws the word out. “I have a question, and you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”
I freeze, the mascara wand only halfway out of its tube. “What is it?”
“You know that questionnaire you made me take a month ago? I mean, you didn’t make me take it. But you know…that one?”
How could I forget? It’s what kind of started our friendship. When he told me that he read mine, he only mentioned how he was surprised that I hadn’t traveled. He never explained his other feelings on it or if he had any.
And I didn’t ask.
Maybe because I never probed him about his own questionnaire.
About why his relationship status was hiatus.
About what his tattoo looks like, the mysterious one over his right shoulder blade. He never takes off his shirt in front of me, so I’ve never spotted it.
Or what it meant when he answered fallen for a friend as “sort of”—a two-word combination that he’s pointed out I use more than him.
We’ve both been sitting on these things. It’s been easier to live without the full meanings; though I realize we’re both curious about them. I’m just as interested in the reasoning behind the answer as much as Garrison.
It doesn’t mean I’m not scared to find out.
“Yeah?” I say, unsure of the direction he’s about to take us.
“In your questionnaire, you said that you didn’t like any of the guys at your school and that people wouldn’t either if they knew them.” He faces me. “Why?”
I frown. “Have you been thinking about this for that long?” I drop my mascara on my bed.
He shrugs. “On and off, I guess.” He turns his head like he’s staring at the wall. I squint, but I can’t make out anything else. “I didn’t want to ask back then. I didn’t want to pry or whatever. We were just getting to know one another. It’s different…now.”
We’re better friends.
I pat my bed for my glasses. I can apply mascara if I put my face really close up to the mirror, if you’re wondering. Garrison suddenly nudges my hand, my glasses in his clutch.
“Thanks.” I put them on, the world ten thousand times clearer.
I also notice his downturned lips and worry creases in the corners of his eyes.
“They’re just not the guys you would want to date,” I try to explain. “Nothing terrible. Just…not my type.”
He contemplates this and then rests his back against my dresser. “What’s your type?”
“Not douchebags or guys who’d make fun of me…that’s for sure.”
His brows jump. “Did someone make fun of you?”
I stare at my hands. “I was mostly invisible. I don’t even think they noticed that I left.”
“I’d notice,” he says, full of conviction, enough that I believe him.
“It’s okay. I didn’t want them to notice me anyway.”
“Because they’re not your type?”
“Exactly.” It makes sense in my head. I’ve explained it to Maggie before, and she understood. Maybe you have to be there. In that school. Around those people. In my shoes. To truly feel what I feel. I let out a tense breath and ask, “What’s your type?”
He shakes his head once. “I’m not sure.” His eyes flit all over my room. Every time he’s in here, he skims every item, every thing. Like the stuff propped on the back of my dresser: a copy of Understanding Comics, a Loki bobble head, ticket stubs to Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 1 and 2.
I wonder what his room looks like, but he says that he’d rather be here, away from home. I once asked him why and he said, “My brothers are dicks. And they sometimes stop by the house so our maid can do their laundry.”
I didn’t pry further, and I never beg to see his place, even if it’s tempting to ask. He learns a little more about me when he steps foot in here. I don’t see more of him.