Off Book

13. Jade

13

JADE

“Full often hath she gossiped by my side . . .” Act II, Scene I

On the list of things I thought might top my favorite college experiences, Sunday Night Bingo was not one of them. The Student Life Center hosts a bimonthly bingo night, and freshman year, Jessie and I went as a joke. And then we just kept going. Every bingo night now for three years and some change, Jessie and I have been there. Either we really like to drag a joke out or we actually like it. We don’t really talk about it—we just text each other “Bingo?” the day before and that’s that.

We sit where we always do: the third-row table at the far left end. Our board and sticker markers are ready to go, but we’re early. We’re always early. It’s tradition. Now that Jessie has a boyfriend, the time is even more precious to me, as I get less time with her without her counterpart. I love Mac, but Jessie was my girl first.

“So, I feel like we haven’t talked enough about you and Ian,” Jessie starts, shifting in her seat.

I swivel to face her, cracking open my drink. The hiss and pop of a fresh Diet Coke—music to my ears. “I’ve told you everything. The post-rehearsal kiss four days ago?—”

“Hot.”

“The ‘I’d punch a thousand Nicks for you.’”

“Romance.”

I roll my eyes at that one. “The way he always looks at me like I hung the fucking moon.”

“The puppy is in love,” Jessie says with a smirk.

“Oh my god, how dare you mention the ‘L’ word?”

“You were the one who mentioned the way he looks at you! I called it at bowling, so it must be getting worse if you’re noticing it.”

“I noticed it at bowling too.”

In fact, that’s when I noticed I was also feeling something. Just an inkling of something, but there was a feeling nonetheless.

“And you’re saying all of that and you don’t have feelings for him too? Not even, like, the teensiest tiniest bit?”

“I don’t know. I might have a crush, but it’s, like, so small and stupid.”

Jessie eyes me. She knows me too well to believe me. If I’m saying I have a crush, I have feelings. If I’m saying I have feelings, I probably have big feelings. But saying it out loud makes it real. Too real. And I’m not doing real again.

I’m about to answer Jessie when my phone starts to vibrate. I flash the screen to her.

“Mom,” I say and sigh deeply.

She shoos me away, and I answer, heading to the nearest doors to find some privacy for a call.

I wish I were the kind of person who could put my phone on “do not disturb” and just let it ring through. But if my mom needs me . . .

I rub my fingers across my forehead as I pick up, a heavy weight in my stomach.

“Hi. You okay?” I say, cutting to the chase.

“Hi, Jadey.” My mom’s voice is wobbly. She’s definitely been crying.

My stomach catapults down to my feet, and I find a wall to lean against to steady myself. She’s been dumped, and I’m going to have to go home, like, right now. My car is still not working, though, and I don’t know how I’m going to get there. Maybe Mac would let me borrow his car. I live two hours from home—it’s definitely too far for an Uber.

“Mom?”

“I don’t know.” She’s actively crying now. I recognize the change in her voice.

“What happened?” I put on my most calming voice. Now I’m in caretaker mode.

“I just think Rob might break up with me,” she says with a slight wail.

I close my eyes, a wave of relief washing over me. She hasn’t been dumped yet, so she’s probably not drinking yet. I’m not going to have to go home—yet. This bit usually precedes a breakup, so I don’t have long, but I have some time.

“What happened? What did he do?” Or really . . . what are you making a big deal about that isn’t a big deal at all?

My mom’s insecurity in relationships is what eventually ruins them. I’ve tried to tell her, but she doesn’t hear me. My grandma used to tell her too, but she didn’t hear her either. My mother believes she is a victim of her own life. It’s one of the most frustrating things about her.

“He hasn’t texted me back since last night! We went on a date, and I texted and said I had such a lovely time, and he responded with a ‘me too’ and a heart emoji, and then I texted this morning to say good morning like I always do, and I haven’t heard back all day.”

I search the depths of my soul for some patience and come up with scraps. Running my hands through my hair, I conjure the energy she needs from me right now. Scraps will have to do.

“It sounds like maybe he just had a busy day. He works, right? Maybe he couldn’t get to his phone today.”

“Yeah,” she says in her mousiest voice.

“Then probably nothing to worry about,” I say, as I’ve said a million times in the past. Of course, I was wrong all those times, and I know I’ll be wrong this time too, but what am I supposed to tell her—the truth? “Listen, why don’t you draw yourself a bath? That always makes you feel better. You got those bubbles. Light a candle. Just soak for a little, okay? You’ll feel better.”

“Okay. I do love a bath. Thanks, Jadey. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

She probably meant for those words to feel like a compliment, but they’re heavy. They come with expectations and implications and responsibilities—all things I’ve carried for way longer than I should have to or want to.

I shake my hands out and lean against the cool brick of the building, taking a few deep breaths. I don’t want to bring this stuff back into the bingo room with me. The bingo room is for fun, not dramatics.

Plus, Jessie will ask questions when I get back inside. She’ll pry, but not too far—unless I give her an inch, and then she’ll try to take a mile. It’s something I love about her, except when it comes to my mom.

She already knows too much. She knows my mom drinks, and she knows that sometimes my mom drinks too much. That is more than anyone else in my life besides my grandma knows, and some days, that feels so scary I wish I could go back in time and un-tell her.

So I like to pretend like she doesn’t know anything.

I sigh one more time, letting it all out, before rejoining the noisy bingo room.

“What’s up? Everything okay?” Jessie asks as I settle back into my chair.

“Yeah, just . . . my mom.”

“Did something happen?”

I hate this moment—the one where I have to decide how much to say to Jessie. The one that forces me to remember that Jessie does, in fact, know things, and now I have to decide if I’m going to tell her more things. Is this the time I finally open my heart and tell all? Is this the moment where I unburden myself onto my friend? I know she’ll be understanding and kind, and somehow that makes it worse.

I’m about to answer, to brush off the moment and tell Jessie that it’s all good, but Gertrude claps for attention. Saved by the bingo caller. Gertrude has been the bingo caller all four years Jessie and I have been doing bingo. In my mind, she’s always been the bingo caller in the Student Life Center. She came out of the womb wrinkled, wearing her periwinkle cardigan and gemstone bird brooch.

“You know the rules,” Gertrude drones. She sounds exactly like the administrative monster in that Pixar movie. “First one to cover the whole board gets bingo. We don’t do lines . . .”

A few snickers break out across the room. Gertrude doesn’t even blink.

“We don’t do patterns. I’ll say the number and the letter and then repeat it once, but not after that, so shut up and listen.”

A wave of giggles breaks out across the room. Newbies. They always think Gertrude is just being cute or funny, but this is what she says every single week. Neither Jessie nor I believe she actually likes being here. Our best guess is that it’s part of her staffing contract. Or maybe she just really likes to play with balls. Although when I suggested that to Jessie sophomore year, she slapped my arm.

“Let’s begin,” Gertrude says, rolling the balls around in the old-fashioned bingo ball machine. “G59.”

Jessie stamps her card, but mine stays blank.

I sometimes wonder if not telling Jessie about my mom makes me a shitty friend, but it’s my life and my choice whether to tell her or not. If Jessie had stuff going on in her life that she kept from me, I might feel sad she didn’t want to tell me, but it would say more about her than it would about me. And I know not telling Jessie says more about me than it does about her, but I’m not good at vulnerability, and I’ve never claimed to be otherwise.

“O72.”

I get to stamp my board, but Jessie doesn’t.

“How’s the one-act going?” she asks, moving the conversation along when it becomes obvious I’m not going to pick up the mom thread.

“Better than I expected it to,” I say.

“Your expectations were in hell, so I’m not sure that’s saying much. Are you guys still rehearsing every day?”

“Nah. Once he got fully off book, we didn’t see the need to meet as often. Every rehearsal is a little better than the last,” I say.

“That’s the goal, right?”

“B6.”

“BE DICKS!” all the veterans yell, including me and Jessie, who both have this one.

The newbies look startled, but they immediately giggle. Gertrude is as unfazed as always. I think she secretly loves it.

“That is the goal,” I say.

Ian was true to his word about the one-act: he hasn’t phoned it in, and if anything, he’s impressed me. He’s worked just as hard as any scene partner I’ve ever had, if not harder.

“He’s impressed me, I’ll say that.”

“Big words coming from you. So, this little crush of yours . . .” Jessie whispers. “Tell me exactly how stupid and small it is.”

She’s whispering because the serious bingo kids know that talking above a whisper is expressly forbidden since Gertrude only repeats herself once. You’ll get shushed if you’re not quiet enough; kicked out if you have to be shushed twice. There are no official rules or enforcers of this, but Jessie and I have seen upperclassmen boot people for being too noisy.

“Like, super-stupid and super-small?” I say, and I sneak a glance at Jessie, who doesn’t look convinced.

“So you have, like, a normal crush on someone, you definitely like them, and you want them to like you back,” she says.

“O71.”

Neither Jessie nor I get a stamp this time.

I hate that she knows me so well sometimes. Reads me like a goddamn book.

“He’s just . . . he’s not like other people. I really don’t think I’ve met anyone like him in, like, all the best ways. And god, the way he kissed me the other night . . . he’s, like, such a nerd, such a goddamn green bean, but I’m, like . . .”

“N64.”

“IT’S-A ME, MARIO!” a group of people yells.

I forgot about that one, but Jessie didn’t. I get to stamp for this one, but Jessie doesn’t.

“I’m like, is this a ‘lady in the streets, freak in the sheets’ situation?” I ask, still whispering.

“Probably. Mac was?—”

“Gross. I don’t wanna hear about Mac,” I interrupt and get an elbow in the ribs for it.

I stick my tongue out at Jessie. She knows I love to hear all the sordid details of her sex life, especially because I’ve been harping on at her for years about getting laid. It really is amazing how a few orgasms will relax even the most uptight people.

“Anywayyyy, I’m just saying. Not everyone is as they seem,” Jessie says. “You, for instance?—”

“I29.”

I stamp, but Jessie doesn’t.

“—are a foul-mouthed bitch with a heart of gold. You’re a marshmallow.”

“A marshmallow?” I ask.

“You know . . . like, you’re soft on the inside,” Jessie says.

“G49.”

Neither Jessie nor I have this one.

“I’m not soft,” I whisper through my teeth almost too loudly, but both Jessie and I know it’s a lie.

“You know there’s nothing wrong with being soft,” she says.

“Pretty rich coming from you.” I give her a pointed look.

She makes a face at me, scrunching her nose up and sticking out her tongue.

Jessie isn’t known for her softness either, and she knows it, but being with Mac has changed her in a million good ways. Softness included.

“B2.”

“TO BE OR NOT TO BE!” the crowd yells.

Jessie stamps, but I don’t have this one.

“Okay, so . . . you have a little crush. You like him. What’s the problem?” Jessie asks, but she’s pushing my buttons on purpose. She knows the answer to this. She knows what the big deal is. She watched me go through all my levels of sadness, as she called them, at the beginning of the semester.

“I’m not doing it again.” I tense, gripping my bingo marker harder than I need to. My knuckles go white. “I’m not doing the feelings thing again, and I’m definitely not doing the relationship thing again.”

“Shh!” A redhead in front of us turns, jabbing a finger against their lips like an annoyed librarian. I flip them off, and they turn around with a huff.

I probably was a little too loud that time, but I’m not giving them the satisfaction.

“G58.”

“Shit,” Jessie mutters, and like her, I can’t stamp either.

I lower my voice to a whisper again. “The thing is, Ian is a relationship guy. He’s not going to settle for anything else. He probably has a Pinterest board for his wedding, and even if he doesn’t want kids, he’s a family guy. He wants the family thing. He probably wants to own three dogs and buy a house twenty minutes down the road from his family and live a quiet, safe life loving the shit out of some woman who always dreamed of being a wife.”

“N40.”

We both stamp for this one.

Ian wants the kind of love my mom has been searching for her whole life. I’ve watched her fall in and out of relationships looking for this kind of thing, but if I let myself have feelings for him, it will end poorly. Ian is going to end up disappointed, and I don’t want to be the one who disappoints him if I can help it.

Do I think he and I will kiss again? I hope so. And I hope it goes further. But I’m keeping my feelings separate from those activities.

“Getting involved with him now is setting him up for heartbreak when I inevitably leave because he wants more than I can give.”

Jessie doesn’t respond to this, but I know she’s got a retort on the tip of her tongue.

“Plus, we both know I won’t get married. Who wants to kiss the same lips forever?” I say, taking the conversation to a lighter place.

“B13.”

“AGAIN? NO, THANKS!” we all shout.

Jessie and I both stamp our cards. Gertrude doesn’t even blink. A group of newbies giggles so loud that multiple bingo veterans around them glare and shush them. They stop immediately.

I fucking love bingo. I’m all over the board, nowhere close to winning, but the energy here is unmatched.

“So is Mac proposing soon?” I ask. It’ll make her squirm, and even though it’s kind of a bitchy thing to do, we’ve talked enough about my feelings that I’m uncomfortable, so now she can be uncomfortable with me.

“I don’t know! We haven’t talked about it.”

“Since last month.”

“That was one time,” Jessie says, her voice loud enough that the redhead swivels in their seat again, giving us a nasty look. Jessie mouths an apology, but I flip them off again.

“I27,” Gertrude calls, and I stamp my card. Jessie doesn’t.

“Don’t you want to get married to him?” I ask.

“I mean, maybe. Probably. I don’t know. I have to think about grad school first, and what if we go to different schools? And what if our relationship doesn’t make it, going to two different schools? What if he finally realizes how neurotic I am?”

“Oh, honey, he already knows. It’s why he loves you.”

Jessie blushes.

“I31.”

Jessie marks, but I can’t.

“Plus, you know he’d follow you to whatever school you wanted to attend,” I say.

“I know, but I don’t want to stop him from his dreams.”

I fake-gag, and in defiance Jessie presses her bingo marker on the back of my hand, leaving a bright pink circle against my skin.

“Rude,” she says.

“You’re rude,” I say and press my hand against hers. The still-wet ink transfers to her hand, and now we both have pink circles stamped on us.

“He wants to go to UC Berkley?—”

“G16.”

Neither Jessie nor I have this one.

“—and that is so far beyond my budget. I’m not even going to apply.”

“They don’t do scholarships?”

“Not really? They’ll give out partial rides, but there’s just no way I could swing it, even with a partial scholarship.”

I didn’t mean for us to veer into postgrad talk. I hate thinking about what’s next for me and Jessie. I know I’ll spend the next few years bouncing around. I want to chase opportunities. Maybe I’ll do that for a few years. Maybe for the rest of my life. Whatever I do, I know it won’t be close enough to the most stable relationship I’ve ever had in my life.

“N44.”

I have this one, but Jessie doesn’t.

“Where do you want to go to grad school?” I ask. “Or do you want to skip grad school, dump Mac’s ass, and travel around the country with me while I do shows at various regional theaters and support us with my social media accounts?”

“Tempting,” Jessie says. “But as a backup plan, I’m looking at Boston, Northwestern, and Penn.”

“Does Mac know that’s where you want to go?”

“He does . . .”

“But . . .” I prompt.

“I40.”

Both Jessie and I have this one.

“I don’t know. We don’t really talk about it,” she admits.

“That seems healthy.”

“You’re one to talk,” Jessie scoffs.

“B11.”

Neither Jessie nor I have this one on our boards, and neither Jessie nor I have anything to say. We’ve both called each other out, and we both have things we’d rather push aside, and we both know it. Our silence says all the things we’re not saying.

“O69.”

“SIXTY-NINE!” the entire crowd erupts. There’s a chorus of cheers and whistles. Some guys stand up on their chairs and thrust their hips aggressively. A group of girls in the back moans loudly. I join the group and nudge Jessie, who blushes a deep shade of red. Someone definitely yells, “OOH, DADDY,” but everyone quiets the moment Gertrude repeats the number. She doesn’t even blink at us.

“You never act up for sixty-nine,” I say, marking it off on my board. Jessie also has this one on hers.

“I’m a lady, Jade.” She pretends to clutch a pearl necklace she isn’t wearing and bats her eyes at me.

“A lady of the— You know what? That’s not even a funny joke. You’re not a lady of the night. You’re a lady of the library. Lady Booksy. Lady Nerd.”

“Are you trying to insult me? It’s actually not working. These are the nicest things you’ve ever said to me,” Jessie says.

“O68.”

Both Jessie and I stamp for this one.

“You’re close to winning,” Jessie says, pointing to my board.

I hadn’t even noticed. I just need one more spot in two places.

“It’s my lucky day,” I say, genuinely excited at this development. Considering what a drag our conversation has been, this is the exact reminder I needed that I’m here for one thing, and one thing only: to have fun. Ian, my mom, and the future can wait.

“N41.”

“Bingo!” someone else yells, and they haul ass up to Gertrude, who confirms that we do indeed have a winner.

“Round two starts in ten minutes,” Gertrude drones, starting a timer.

A handful of students get up to leave, but everyone else just stands and walks to the table to get another bingo card from Gertrude’s table. Some students grab snacks at the vending machine.

“Another round?” Jessie asks.

“Hell yeah,” I say, determined to do every chant and to shush every loud person.

It’s time to party.