Sloane was staring at the door when I walked in, so she saw me coming. She was already scowling, so it’s not like I provoked that one. But I could definitely feel her throwing up the wall of silence, with a small slot left open for coffee orders. Her supervisor was standing right behind her—that older guy, Ray-MOND, who’s always giving you your horoscope while the barista’s waiting for the espresso to become pourable.
“Hey, man!” Raymond called out when I got to the counter. “What’s your usual, and are you having it today?”
“Hey, Raymond,” I said. “I’ll just have a medium drip. And I’d love to have a word with Sloane too.”
Sloane’s scowl coalesced into a glare.
“I’m working,” she said flatly.
Raymond let out a one-syllable laugh. “I think I can spare you for ten minutes so you can talk to your boyfriend here.”
I could see how much Sloane wanted to scream FUCK YOU right in his face. But I guess after she got fired from Starbucks over Christmas, she actually learned how to speak to a boss.
“I only need two minutes,” she told him instead. She didn’t even bother to take off her apron. Instead she stormed out the front door. As I followed, Raymond yelled out, “Good luck, man! I’ll hold your order until I see you survived this.”
Sloane didn’t wait for me in front; instead, she went by the trash cans on the side of the building. They smelled more like egg sandwiches than coffee grounds.
“What?” she said when I got there.
“I just want to talk,” I said.
“So talk.”
“Why are you being so pissy with me?”
“I’m not being anything with you, Ezra. I’m no longer obligated to put up with you, so I’m no longer putting up with you. I thought that was obvious.”
“Okay, fine,” I said. “That’s fine. But I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what happened with you and Bea.”
“Why don’t you ask her?” she asked. And she got me, Bea. She saw me thinking before I could say a word. So she immediately pressed on with, “You’ve talked to her, haven’t you? That’s so fucking typical.”
“I haven’t talked to her,” I spun. “And why is that typical?”
It is entirely possible that I don’t know the difference between the way scorn and pity look on a person’s face, because I swear to god, Bea, I couldn’t tell which one was dominating as Sloane glared back at me.
“Your sister’s a user, Ezra. Which means she always needs someone to use. She’s run out of any power she had over me, and she’s grown tired of sucking all the life out of Joe, which leaves…you. Because I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but she didn’t have any other real friends. I wonder why that is?”
Even though I knew you’d left her—even though you’d told me you were worried about your friendship—I wasn’t expecting her to be so cold when she talked about you. She’s the only person who ever came to our house as a friend, the only person who ever joined you in stepping through the minefield, even after she knew there were mines there.
“What happened?” I had to ask. “You were like sisters.”
Sloane sighed. “Yeah, well—not all sisters talk to each other when they get to be adults. That’s just life.”
“I know you’re pissed she left. I’m pissed she left. But—”
“No,” Sloane interrupted. “To be pissed, I’d have to be surprised. But I saw this coming.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I’m not stupid. I can tell when someone’s keeping a secret. And things with your sister and me? It used to be that when I saw that she had a secret, I could also figure out what the secret was. Because there weren’t the walls there. Then suddenly, she was building the walls. And the most fucking offensive thing of all is that she thought I didn’t notice. So I let her have her walls. I was sick of everything being on her terms. And, frankly, I was sick of seeing Joe fall for her act too, even if he refused to see it himself.”
“But you don’t talk to Joe anymore either, do you? Why not?”
“Because he’s only going to want to talk about her. And I want to change the subject. That’s what she wanted. And it’s something I’d strongly suggest you do too.”
“Look,” I said, “I’m trying.”
Only said is the wrong word here. When the words came out of my mouth, it was like I was that annoying ten-year-old brother again. I was whining.
And this, of all things, got through to her. For just a moment.
“I know,” she said. “I get it. And when I heard that you’d gotten out of your house—I’ll admit it, Ezra—I fucking cheered. I thought, There’s hope for him yet. But you have to do the same thing with Bea, before she drags you down too.”
“How did she drag you down?” I pressed.
Sloane shook her head. “Nope. Time’s up. You’ve gotten all you’re going to get from me. I’d tell you to ask her what happened, but all you’ll get is a lie. That’s how it is. Now—I don’t want you pulling this shit again. Leave me alone and I’ll leave you alone, okay?”
(Those were her exact words: Leave me alone. It was only on the way home that I thought—we say this all the time, but who the hell really wants to be left entirely alone?)
I looked for a way to argue. I wanted to appeal to something in her, something that would make her talk to me more. But also, I kind of got it. If she was through with you, she was through with me too.
“Don’t come back in,” she said, straightening her apron. “I’ll tell Raymond you canceled your order. If you want coffee, go to fucking Starbucks, or pick a time I’m not here.”
That was it. I can’t say it helped much. I guess I’m certain now of how angry she is, and that things went bad. But I’m still unclear why.
And as for her warning me away from you—well, I’m writing all of this to you now, right?
* * *
—
I know this is all over the place. I got home in time for dinner with Joe’s family, and that’s when Mom called, and then Terrence texted to tell me that Mom called there too, and then I played video games with Joe for a couple of hours and did homework for considerably less time, and now everyone else is asleep and I’m downstairs, and I’m sure one of the reasons I’m thinking of all of these things at once is because I’m not letting myself think too much about you meeting our father tomorrow. I know you’re really hoping he shows up, and I guess you’ve got me hoping he shows up too, if only because I also want answers, Bea, even if they’re only half-answers or answers that reveal themselves in the form of lies for us to disprove.
So yeah. Good luck. Let me know how it goes.
I love you in a way that Sloane clearly doesn’t anymore,
Ez
Subject: Sloane
From: Bea
To: Ezra
Date: Wed 17 Apr 22:57 CST
This is so typically Sloane.
So Franco has gone home and I’m waiting to see if I hear from my little brother once more before I sign off for the night, because, you know, I’m meeting our father tomorrow after fifteen years and I’m chewing past my fingernails into the actual skin of my fingers and I’ve thrown up again, and I should probably try to get at least a few hours’ sleep.
I’m going to paint you a picture, Ez, because it will be the fastest way to do this.
The part of the Best Friend will be played by Sloane. The Boyfriend by Joe. The Villain, of course, by me.
The time is last December. The setting: Bradley Hoyt’s holiday party. You know how much I love parties—especially high school parties—and by love I mean I hate them with everything I am. But Best Friend said, Come on, Bea, just this once, you never do anything I want to do, you’re always in your own mind, lost in your own world, consumed by you you yo
u, the least you can do is go to this fucking party with me. And on and on until I decided to play nice because I can’t afford to lose Sloane too, right? And so I went to the fucking party.
Only I was late because that was the night Darren decided to take all the presents from under the tree and relocate them to the driveway. You remember the great Christmas Present Trample of Last Year. Not that there were a lot of presents, but did he have to run over all of them?
Anyway, I wasn’t exactly in a party frame of mind, but you were with Terrence, and Sloane and Joe were both at Bradley’s, and there was no way I was staying home.
So, like you, I walked. Because sometimes walking is the only thing that makes sense. And by the time I got to the party, Best Friend was nowhere to be found. And Boyfriend was nowhere to be found. But I’d come all this way, don’t you see, and what reason did I have to go home? To watch Mom clean up all the wrapping paper and ribbons that were blowing around the yard? To watch her peeling shit off the driveway?
So I stayed, and I had a drink, and I talked to Bradley Hoyt’s idiot friends, and I stood there like a regular, normal, ordinary person with a regular, normal, ordinary home life—someone whose presents currently sat under the Christmas tree instead of smashed into the concrete—and I thought, This is easy. I should do this more often.
I pretended I was Bea Ahern, just a regular girl. I laughed and chatted my stupid face off, and I could see how surprised they were, Bradley and all his friends, as if I was an animal believed incapable of making human conversation until that very moment. You should have seen me.
At some point, I went in search of the bathroom, and that’s when I found them. Best Friend and Boyfriend. Sitting in that room Bradley’s parents use to store all the workout equipment they don’t use. Best Friend was perched on a treadmill and Boyfriend was sitting at her feet. Only they weren’t doing what you’d expect them to be doing. They weren’t in the throes of some illicit passion. I didn’t walk in on them naked. I didn’t even walk in on them kissing. I walked in on them talking about me. About how selfish I am. About how I always let everyone down. How I say I’ll meet you at a party, only I don’t show. How I say I’ll love you forever, but then I try to break up with you. How even when I tell the truth about the land mines, I’m a liar because I’m a shitty and disappointing friend who can’t ever seem to put herself aside long enough to think about what other people might be going through. I mean, sure the land mines are bad, but I’m not the only person in the world with land mines to deal with. Best Friend has them. Boyfriend has them. Maybe not the same land mines. Maybe not to the same degree. But does that keep them from being there for others? No. Does that keep them from being on time to parties? No.
And then they did kiss, which is so cliché, and from where I was sitting it was pretty sloppy, like two dogs licking each other’s faces. But that’s not what bothered me. I couldn’t have cared less about that stupid kiss. What I did care about was listening to the two people closest to me—next to you, that is—talking about what a shit I am. I mean, it was pretty nice for a while, believing that someone in this world other than you, my own brother, believed I wasn’t all bad.
So I left the party. At least I walked out. Into the night. Into the cold. I sat in the yard for a while because I didn’t want to go home. I think I texted you. Did I text you? I can’t remember. I wanted to.
So I sat.
And I sat.
And I waited, but I wasn’t sure for what. Maybe for enough time to pass so that I could go home and home would be different and the presents would have magically reappeared under the tree and Mom would say, “There you are. We were worried about you. Come in out of the cold and let me fix you something hot to drink,” like she did sometimes when we were little, back before Darren.
I was still there, outside Bradley’s house, when it happened. The stuff that came after. Sloane making out with Reggie Tan, and Reggie going back to school and telling everyone she slept with him when she didn’t because she’s waiting till college. That’s what Sloane blames me for most. Because if I had been there, Reggie wouldn’t have happened because she wouldn’t have been drinking, not as much anyway, and she wouldn’t have been mad and she would have been having the time of her life. And my not showing up wouldn’t have left her on her own. Again.
And I’m not lying. Don’t you think if I were I’d think up something better than this?
The truth is always sadder than lies anyway. Smaller and sadder and so much more complicated. Just like real life versus fiction. Just like us.
Small, sad us.
I’m going to bed now. You can believe Sloane or you can believe me, Ez, I really don’t care.
Except that I do care. I’m just too tired right now to try to win you over to my side again.
Love,
Bea
Subject: THE MORNING OF
From: Bea
To: Ezra
Date: Thurs 18 Apr 08:29 CST
I was up at five. After staring at the ceiling and chewing at the skin where my fingernails used to be, I finally got out of bed and got myself ready. I even put on makeup and attempted to do something with my hair, and then I went out into the store.
I worked on the unboxing and pricing, first the olive oil, then the tapenade, then the crackers, then the olives. Each bottle, each jar, each package was so beautiful. I handled them delicately, like they were diamonds. Most of them had traveled from far away. I thought of closing myself up in one of those boxes and sending myself to Italy, to New York. I imagined being unboxed in a place with noise and life and color and electricity, and all these strangers who didn’t know me, who didn’t know anything about my former life. I set the jars and the bottles and the packages one by one on the shelves where they belonged and thought about how far they’d traveled to get here, just like me. It was a very reflective moment for me, Ez. You would have been proud.
Then I found a broom and swept the entire place, corner to corner, and the whole time I pretended I was sweeping my old life away. I swept and swept, and then I got down on my hands and knees with paper towels and Pledge and crawled around on all fours scrubbing away—goodbye Mom, Darren, Joe, Sloane, the old Bea—till the wooden floors shone clean.
At some point the lock in the door turned, and in came Franco. He stood blinking at me, at the shelves, at the floors, and then he nodded. He held up a white bakery bag and said, “Come eat.”
We sat on stools behind the long wooden counter and ate donuts, still warm from the shop. Franco’s eyes traveled around the store, and I watched him as he took in the neatly stocked shelves, the shine of the floors, the way they gleamed in the early morning light. Seriously, Ez. I’m a messy (okay, slobbish) person, but you know how cleaning helps me think. Well, this was some of my best work. It was my way of thanking him and Irene for believing in me and for taking me in without actually saying it, which would have made ol’ Franco run for the hills or maybe boot me back out onto the street.
I ate donut after donut. Finally he nodded at the store and his eyes left the shelves and the floors and settled on me. “Very nice,” he said. Short but sweet.
We ate for the rest of the time in silence. And it was very nice. All of it.
Whatever happens today, Ez, I love you too.
Subject: ALMOST THE AFTERNOON OF
From: Ezra
To: Bea
Date: Thurs 18 Apr 15:49 EST
I don’t know how I’m going to look at Joe now without punching him in the eye. Or the balls.
Which you don’t need to be thinking about right now. Or any of what I’m about to say. Mostly I’m just saying it to get it out of my head. Mostly I am very aware that the next time you write to me, you’ll have news about our father. Or not. Depending on whether he shows.
Putting aside all the shit that you’ve just thrown my way re: Joe and Sloane, there’s something she said to me yesterday that is sticking with me—it’s the thing I want to get out of my head. Because as I walked around school today, I kept thinking this:
Why don’t I have more friends?
I mean, I’m not a total loner. I have Terrence. I talk to him all the time. And after that, there’s
What I’m trying to say is, when I’m talking about people I actually talk to, not just people I sit with at lunch, there’s Terrence and then there’s
My good friends,
Shit.
I’m walking through the halls today, seeing all these familiar faces, but then I’m asking myself how familiar their lives are to me. It’s not like I don’t pay attention. I know who’s dating who. I know who’s going to spout shit in class and who’s going to stay silent. I know which kids will get called on and which ones get picked first in gym. I generally know who will end up sitting where in the cafeteria.
But that’s not friendship.
Especially when I ask myself how much they know about me.
Which all leads to me asking:
Have they spent all these years hiding from me? Or have I spent all these years hiding from them?
I don’t even feel I’ve been lying to them. I just created so much distance that no one could ever ask me the truth.
Terrence has plenty of friends. Church friends. Childhood friends. Yearbook friends. Track friends. And none of them seem to mind when I come along. But except for five-minute conversations in the halls or while we’re all out together, it’s not like I’m ever alone with them or know them as me, not as Terrence’s plus-one.
I can’t see any way to bring this up with Terrence without pushing him away more. He feels bad about what went down with our moms, and how his family is now guarding itself against me. (That’s not how he put it.) He keeps saying things like, We’ll get through this and I can talk to them and You’re always welcome, no matter what they say. It’s sweet—I know it’s sweet. But it’s like he’s rallying around a flagpole that’s missing its flag. I’m standing outside the rally, with the flag caught in my throat.
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