13
SUPERIOR COLLICULI: WILL YOU LOOK AT THAT?
ONE HOUR, TWENTY-FOUR minutes, and seventeen seconds.
Eighteen.
Nineteen.
Twenty.
That’s how long I’ve been in this Nissan Altima that smells faintly like lemon and faux leather and Levi’s delicious, masculine scent. And that’s how long we’ve been silent. Thoroughly, wholeheartedly silent.
It’s going to be a craptastic weekend. We’re going to play 007 while barely talking to each other. I see no flaw in this plan.
Is this my fault? Perhaps. Perhaps I initiated this—remarkably immature, I must admit—standoff, when I didn’t say “Hi” back to him this morning. Perhaps I’m the culprit. But I don’t give a flying squirrel because I’m mad. So I’m leaning in to it. I’m hoarding all of my grievances against Levi and bulking them up into a big, withering, incandescent supernova of silent treatment that . . .
Honestly, I’m not sure he’s noticed.
He did lift his eyebrow after I refused to say “Hi,” in my best impression of an eleven-year-old just done rereading The Baby-Sitters Club. But he shrugged it off pretty quickly. He put on a CD （Mer de Noms by A Perfect Circle, and God, his amazing musical taste is like a knife to my ovaries） and started driving. Impassible. Relaxed.
I bet he’s not even thinking about it. I bet he doesn’t care. I bet I’m here, playing nervously with my grandmother’s ring, sulking to the rhythm of “Judith,” while he’s probably pondering the laws of thermodynamics or whether to join the No-Poo movement. What do dudes even think about all the time? The Dow Jones. MILF porn. Their next date.
Does Levi date? I’m sure he does, given the number of people who seem to think of him as a Sexy Guy?. He might not be married, but maybe he’s in a long-term relationship. Maybe he’s deeply in love, like Shmac. Poor Shmac. My chest hurts in a messy, confusing way when I think about what he said. About Levi feeling similarly intense, scary, powerful things for a woman. About Levi doing the things Shmac talked about doing to her.
I shiver, wondering why stray memories of Levi pressing me against a wall are still popping up in my head. Wondering whether the girlfriend he might not even have would be extraordinarily lucky or the very opposite. Wondering why I’m even wondering— “I’m sorry.”
I turn so fast I pull a muscle. “What?”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?” I massage my neck.
He stares at the road and lifts one eyebrow. “Is this some educational technique? ‘Apologizing for dummies’？”
“No. I’m honestly befuddled.”
“Then, I’m sorry for calling the meeting without asking for your approval.”
I squint. “。 . . Really?”
“Really, what?”
“Are you . . . actually apologizing?”
“Yep.”
“Oh.” I nod. “To be precise, then, you did ask for my approval. And I explicitly did not give it.”
“Correct.” I think he’s biting the inside of his cheek to avoid smiling. “I didn’t heed your explicit advice. I wasn’t trying to undermine your authority, or to act like your opinion is irrelevant. I think . . .” He presses his lips together. “Actually, I know I’m overly invested in BLINK. Which makes me overly controlling and bossy. You’re right, it was the second time I didn’t discuss important issues with you.” He finally looks at me. “I’m sorry, Bee.”
I blink. Several times. “Wow.”
“Wow?”
“That was an excellent apology.” I shake my head, disappointed. “How am I supposed to keep up my very adult silent treatment for the next three and a half hours?”
“You were planning to stop once we got to New Orleans?”
“I wasn’t, but realistically: well-executed cold shoulders require an enormous amount of upkeep, and I’m first and foremost lazy.”
He laughs softly. “Should we switch albums, then?”
“Why?”
“I thought late-nineties grunge might fit your mood, but if you’re outgrowing your wrath, maybe we can listen to something a little less . . .”
“Angry?”
“Yeah.”
“What are our options?”
There’s something exquisitely weird about Levi Ward telling me his phone’s passcode （338338） and letting me poke around his music folder. His collection doesn’t include a single embarrassing Nickelback song （I hate him）。 It’s a mix of nineties bands—my decade of choice—except that they’re all . . .