You First: A Joe Goldberg Prequel (You, #0)(18)

I don’t want to make the other kind of list in my Moleskine. It’s too soon. But it’s flashing in my mind. Neon-black fucking Sharpie.

#1 WHY ARE WE IN INDIA WITH DICK?



Dick, who went north in Costa Rica because you have to go north, and he’s like Zoolander via Rick Fucking Moody.

“Of course,” you say, as if you’ve been to Costa Rica. And maybe you have been to Costa Rica. Maybe you don’t like me anymore. Maybe it’s the flannel. Maybe you like Dick.

“What about you, Joe? Do you surf?”

Before I can answer, you do. “Ah, Joe’s a bookworm. The idea of you on a surfboard, Cusack…” And then you rub my chest—good—but then you coo like I’m a baby—bad. “Joe’s a softy, an indoor cat, you know?”

I meow—what else do I do—and play it off like it’s a joke, but men are dogs, not cats. Dick rips a piece of naan in half.

“You guys want?”

You take the naan. I take the naan. I chew slowly while you dunk it in a bowl of I CANNOT PRONOUNCE IT AND I AM TIRED OF BEING CORRECTED. The two of you are doing it again. If you’re not discussing tropical paradises, then it’s back to the fucking food.

I am my father’s son. Food is meant to keep you alive, not give you a life.

I feel ignorant and soft—The idea of you on a surfboard, Cusack—and my mouth is burning and I know I am failing you, the way you nudge me and widen your eyes. “Are you okay?”

“Fine, just a long day.”

You rub my arm, and is that soft too? “I’m sorry, Joe. If you’re tired…”

I look at you and so does Dick. What do you want? What the fuck do you want? I pick up my Diet Coke, extra ice, because no, I didn’t copy Dick and order a beer and a shot of Jim Henson or whatever the fuck you call it. Things are bad enough without the possibility of the waiter calling me a fake.

“So, what about you, Joe?”

It’s Dick, and it would be so much easier if he was a fucking dick. But he keeps including me.

“Sorry,” I say, because that’s all I say at this table, all I am, the sorry, sourpuss fuck. “I missed it.”

“It’s cool, buddy. I was just asking if you have a favorite sushi place.”

“Oh, I don’t really eat sushi.”

You gasp. “Not even salmon? I mean, never.”

“I don’t like it.”

“But did you ever try it, Joe?”

No. Ick. “Of course I tried it.”

Dick knocks back another Jim Henson and laughs. “Chicks and sushi. Such a thing.”

You press and push and why, Vail, why? “I mean, Joe, have you had a California roll? Because even if you think you don’t like sushi, I just…You are so missing out.”

And you are so hurting my feelings with this uncalled-for assault on my taste buds.

I look at you, but my eyes aren’t Polaroids. They’re glossy and burned out because of the fire raging in my intestines. “Have you ever had On-Cor Veal Parmigiana?”

Dick wants a high five, so I meet his hand. “Now that’s what I’m talking about,” he says. “That shit is the shit.”

It could be so nice. We could talk about our favorite frozen foods so that I can participate, but it’s weird. It’s like you don’t want me to participate. You cut off Dick—oh God, you do—and you start talking about your show again. You never do this when we’re alone, but it’s too soon to say never; I only did just meet you. You’re rambling about an episode where the one named Carrie goes out with a guy who hates sushi and cracks bad jokes and she concludes that he’s only good for one thing.

“Sex,” you say, and if that was a jump, you did not stick the landing. You’re not good at it, Vail. You’re not good at summarizing that fucking sitcom. You sip your water. “I know,” you say. “Enough about Carrie Bradshaw. I get it, boys.”

Dick laughs. I laugh. The waiter brings more I CANNOT PRONOUNCE IT AND I AM TIRED OF BEING CORRECTED. You and Dick have tasted everything. You’ve lived. Am I dead? Was I ever even alive? Love is the thing that makes you alive. The stories you tell that make me feel special now make me feel like a nonperson, a half person. Your parents took you to sushi when you were twelve, and Dick worked at a seafood joint with his family at their place by the lake. My heart races, and not because of you. It’s me, Vail. I don’t have stories, not like that. The spices don’t agree with me, but other people are fine. Everyone in here is noshing on their naan, their Malai Galli, so it’s not the food. It’s me. I’m not NYC Bookstore Babe.

I’m NYC loner teen runaway who lives in a cardboard box.

“Joe,” you say. Not Cusack. Not babe. Not honey. “Are you okay?”

Dick looks around at nothing, just a nice guy trying to give us a second. I don’t want pity, Vail. I want love. I force a smile onto my puffy, sweaty face. “I’m great.”

I lied to you, and you know it, and the bad list in the Moleskine of my mind is growing longer, longer than the good list. It’s too early for a night like this. Glitches where the CD skips and the page that explains the big twist is missing. You bite your lip and nod at the Malai Galli. And then Dick gets a call on his cell phone. Motorola flip phone just like yours. And it was some girl he knows, some waitress, so of course you’re talking about food again, Zagat bullshit, spice.