I Love You, Stupid! Read online

  “I liked it, but I felt sort of out of it. I kept thinking about my friends in Buffalo who are graduating.”

  “That’s tough,” he agreed. “Did you see what Pfeff was wearing under his graduation gown?” She shook her head. “His No Nukes shorts. I was waiting for him to flash them when he was on the stage.”

  “That would have livened things up.”

  They strung lanterns and lights along the porch, and out to the swings, and back to the corner of the house. Marcus held the ladder while Wendy hung the lights. “I suppose we’re still friends,” he said.

  Wendy looked down from the ladder. “I suppose we are.”

  And he couldn’t keep himself from saying, “The way we were: that’s over then?”

  She hesitated, hooked a light over the wire, then nodded. “Yes, that’s over.”

  Later, when he went home to change he almost didn’t go back to the party. Every time he saw Wendy, he began to hope, and then afterward he felt the way he felt now. Sally, though, wouldn’t hear of his not going. “No, Marcus, Grace wants to see you. And Bill and I want to go. What would we be celebrating without you there?”

  That night at the party there were some kids he knew and some he didn’t know. Doug had set the stereo speakers in the living room windows and people were dancing on the grass. The horses and boards had been covered with white sheets and were laden with cold cuts, rye bread and rolls, pickles and relishes, a pot of baked beans, and a pan of Aunt Ginny’s special chili.

  Wendy, her hair caught with a ribbon, brought out more food. She was barefoot, wearing a long peasant skirt, and carried a tray from group to group, smiling, talking to everyone, offering them food. She had something for everyone but nothing for him.

  Turn around, he commanded. It was a message from his head to hers, like the mental telepathy game they’d once played—it seemed ages ago—when they had only to look into each other’s eyes to know. Turn around, Wendy. If she turned and looked at him it would prove they were still on the same wave length. But she remained untouched, or if she heard, unmoved.

  He strolled around with his pipe in one hand, beer in a paper cup in the other. There were people all over the lawn, chairs turned over, paper plates and cups. His mother and Grace were sitting talking on the porch, Bill and another man on the railing nearby.

  Grace was, as always, dazzling, her blond hair in a bun, wearing gold hoops in her ears. He had adored her when he was younger, thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world, and he still admired her.

  “Marcus, my dear! I haven’t seen you in so long. You’ve grown. Sally warned me. Now tell me, how tall are you?”

  “Seven or eight feet.”

  “Marcus!” She pinched his cheek. “Wendy tells me that you’ve written a wonderful story, and that it’s going to be published.”

  He smiled, remnants of his old pleasure and embarrassment near Grace still clinging to him.

  Wendy came up behind him. “Cookies, anyone?”

  “I don’t dare,” Grace said.

  “Have a cookie, Marcus,” Wendy said.

  He held up his paper cup. “Beer and cookies don’t mix.” They walked along together. “I’m feeling let down,” he said, “Do you feel it?”

  “Graduation blues,” she said.

  “Something’s over that will never return.”

  “Sentimental.”

  “That’s me.” He felt the emptiness of their conversation. This is the way it would be when they met from now on. They’d smile and say meaningless things. He’d said they were friends, insisted on it, and she’d agreed. Yes, they were friends, but not the way they’d been friends in the beginning, or afterward either. Maybe Wendy was right: sex had come between them, poisoned their friendship. He didn’t like to think so, didn’t like that idea at all! But did it matter anymore what he liked or believed? Whatever they’d had, friendship or sex, friendly sex or sexy friendship, it was gone now. It was as if a crack had opened in the bottom of the sea, and what was warm, brimming, and vital had all drained away.

  He was surprised to see Alec and Helen Wing. They came late. Alec embraced Wendy, lifting her in his arms and kissing her on the mouth, and she couldn’t stop smiling. “I’m so glad you came, Alec.” They stood with their arms around each other.

  Marcus reminded himself it was none of his business what went on between Wendy and Alec, but he couldn’t control the spurt of lava in his chest.

  He spoke to Helen Wing, whom he knew from Sweeny’s class, gesturing toward Alec. “Where’d you find him?”

  Helen blushed. She was one of those girls who couldn’t hide her feelings. “I heard about your story. Mr. Sweeny told us.” Her eyes, her whole face shone. “I think it’s wonderful.”

  “Don’t tell him that,” Alec said. “His head is too big already.” He released Wendy. “You and Marcus want to cut out with us later? How about it, Marc?”

  Marcus just stared at him. “No, I don’t think so,” he said, and walked away.

  Why was he hanging around? What was he waiting for? Was anything plainer than what he’d just seen? It was the end, it was over. How many times did he have to prove it to himself. Whatever had been was over with now. Friends? He couldn’t handle it. Better to forget her, end it now, leave before he made a fool of himself.

  But as he looked around for Wendy he started a farewell speech. Wendy, you’ll never … Stopped himself. Nothing he said would change anything.

  She was in front, near the hedge, talking to some people. He tapped her on the shoulder. “See you, Wendy.”

  She turned. “Marcus, are you leaving already? When am I going to see you again?”

  What? It finally got to him, all this hypocrisy. “Come on, Wendy, knock it off. What do we have to see each other for?” She started to say something, but he wouldn’t let her. “All this talk about being friends! You don’t mean any of it.” It felt so good, finally, telling her what he felt. He’d been tiptoeing around her long enough.

  “You’re putting it on me,” she said. “You’re starting to fight again.”

  “Look, I don’t want to fight. I just came over to say good-bye. We set out to do something, we did it. I thought it was good. You didn’t.” He put up his hands. “So be it.”

  “It didn’t have to end this way,” she said. “It was good in the beginning, but you didn’t care about my feelings.”

  “Feelings!” he exclaimed. “What do you know about feelings? You don’t know anything, you don’t see anything. I’m trying to tell you something.” He spun around and walked away.

  “Well, say it,” she called after him. “What? What?”

  He turned and looked her right in the eye. He could have hit her, she was so thick. “I love you, stupid!”

  What he said stunned him. Where had that come from? He waited for her to laugh, wanted to laugh himself.

  “Did you hear what you said?” Wendy said.

  “I heard it.”

  “Do you want to say it again?”

  “Do you want to hear it again?”

  “Yes, I would. I really would.”

  “I love you, stupid.”

  They were walking around and he said, “Do you love me the way I love you?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know what to think.”

  She put her arms around his neck and squeezed hard. “Yes, you dumbbell.”

  Later she said, “When did you know?”

  “I didn’t,” he said, “not till I said it. When did you know?”

  “Oh, a long time ago when we were on the hill in the park, and you said Karen’s name.”

  “Why didn’t you say it?”

  “Why would I? When you said Karen’s name I felt betrayed.”

  “Just the way I felt when I saw you with Alec.”

  They turned down a dark street of little stores, and rolled from doorway to doorway, kissing.

  “How am I doing?” he said.

  “Getting better an
d better.”

  They stopped near a model shop. There was yellow paper over the door. Inside they could see the miniature trains, and cars, and a doll’s house with perfect tiny rooms. They pressed together in the doorway and kissed.

  “Your eyes are open,” he accused.

  “So are yours.”

  “Mine were closed until just now.”

  They held hands and moved on. “What about Alec?” he said.

  “What about him? Alec’s a nice guy. He let me talk when I was down.”

  “Oh.” He had to let that one go.

  At dawn they went into a diner, bought a morning paper, and sat next to each other in a booth. When the waitress came they ordered sausage, eggs, and home-fries.

  “I want the funnies,” Wendy said.

  “I always get the funnies first.” He handed her the front section.

  “Marco, I have to read Doonesbury first thing every morning.”

  “That’s tough.” But then he handed her the funnies. “I’ll read the weather report.”

  When the waitress brought their food she made a mistake and reversed their orders. Wendy got the sausage and fries, and Marcus got the poached eggs. They waited for the waitress to leave, then Wendy reversed the plates.

  They were both hungry. “Salt,” he said, “Pepper.”

  Wendy nibbled a sausage from his plate. “This food is so good.”

  “I love these home-fries,” he said. “Pass the ketchup.”

  “Not so much,” Wendy said. “I hate ketchup on my food.”

  “You disagree about everything, don’t you.”

  “Pass the fries. I could say the same thing about you.”

  They ate. The sun rose over the rooftops. After a while Wendy handed him the funnies and he handed her the front-page news.

  About the Author

  Harry Mazer is the author of twenty-two novels for children and young adults. Best known for his acclaimed realistic teen fiction, Mazer has been recognized with the New York Library Association’s Knickerbocker Award for Juvenile Literature and the ALAN Award for contributions to young adult literature, as well as several best-book designations from the American Library Association, among other honors.

  After graduating from the Bronx High School of Science, Mazer joined the US Army Air Force, serving in World War II from 1943 to 1945 as a sergeant. He received a Purple Heart and an Air Medal after his B-17 bomber was shot down in 1945. Mazer’s wartime experiences later inspired several of his novels, including the Boy at War series.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1981 by Harry Mazer

  Cover design by Heidi North

  ISBN: 978-1-5040-0999-7

  This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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