by Val Emmich
He’s friends with pretty much everyone. Teachers light up when they talk to him as if they’re the ones looking up to him. Coaches, too. Mac is supposedly so gifted an athlete that he plays for some pre-professional soccer team instead of our school team.
He zips through the halls like a gazelle, never lingering, which heightens every brief sighting of him. Passing by his house one day in the passenger seat of my mom’s car, I saw him pushing a mower shirtless and have cursed myself ever since for being too slow to grab a photo. Rumor has it he does laps regularly at the YMCA, but I’m not about to wear a swimsuit in public just for a glimpse of a guy. (Okay, maybe Timothée Chalamet.)
There are more muscular jocks, more provocative personalities, more impressive brains, far suaver players, but none of them is the mesmerizing it-factor hybrid of wholesome and edgy, conscientious and carefree, that Mac is. It’s not fair, honestly, for one person to be that blessed. People who know him best call him by his last name or sometimes Doc (a play off his initials M.D.). To me, he’s only ever been Mac Durant.
Being forced to stay here with him shouldn’t be seen as a punishment. It’s a miracle. A life changer. How many times have I indulged in the daydream that some random hot guy would waltz into my life to save me from unending boredom? Well, it’s happening. Finally. Now. He’s here. For some inexplicable reason, he’s here. With me. Embrace it. For once, stop overthinking and just go with it.
I smooth out my hair and ruffle it up again in a purposeful way that seems believably accidental and head back into my fantasy/nightmare.
I find Mac in the front room, looking at one of our most popular photos. It shows the original steel tower that was built on the property, much different from the art deco replacement that stands here today.
“The Eternal Light,” Mac says, reading the placard on the wall. “Is this thing for real?”
The story of the Eternal Light is not only featured prominently at the entrance of the museum but repeated verbally to every patron who tours the inside of the tower. The story goes like this: The original steel tower was built for the fiftieth anniversary celebration of Thomas Edison’s light bulb in 1929. A special bulb was placed at the bottom called the Eternal Light. Edison named it that because he claimed the bulb would stay lit forever. Two years later, lightning struck the tower and it fell to the ground. Amazingly, the bulb never stopped glowing. Even more amazing, it’s been lit ever since. It still glows to this day.
“Just another myth,” I say, contradicting the story I’ve told thousands of patrons.
He looks confused.
“I mean, I wasn’t there, obviously. But there’s no way he made a bulb that’s been lit for almost a hundred years.”
He smiles. “If you hate Edison so much, why do you work here?”
This is what I get for being honest. Now I have to explain myself.
“Edison sold this image of himself as a genius, but the truth is, most of his inventions were failures and he was a terrible businessman. Like, the worst. His companies were always out of money. I just don’t like when people act bigger than they are.”
He nods the way you do when you don’t understand and you’re ready to stop trying.
But he doesn’t stop. This Elvis is tireless.
“Is that how it goes?” Mac says. “When you’re showing people around, are you mostly shit talking? Because I feel like I’m missing out on a killer tour.”
This guy. “I’m not shit talking. I think there’s some really amazing stuff in here. It’s just, the story we tell, this picture we present to everyone, not all of it is…”
He finishes for me. “True.”
We share a look. He seems to get it now. But what exactly he gets, I don’t know.
“Did you just get me to crank call 911?” I say. “I’m pretty sure that’s a crime.”
He exhales, as if for the first time tonight. “I actually know the guy. The guy in the garage. I didn’t want him to find out it was me calling. That’s why I asked you to make the call. It wasn’t cool of me to throw it on you like that. I’m sorry.”
Oh, an apology. That’s what’s happening here. My body uncoils.
“It’s okay,” I say.
But is it? Things still don’t add up. It makes sense that Mac would know the guy. He knew his address. He lives on the same street. But why would Mac care if the guy found out that he called for help? And it still doesn’t explain the bruised hand. I should have demanded answers. Now it seems too late to ask.
He points to another record player. “What does this one sound like?”
The phonograph he’s referring to is everyone’s favorite. It’s got a big ornate horn. When people imagine an old-timey music player, they’re usually picturing something like this.
The tour guide in me can’t help herself. I want to disprove his image of me as a bad docent. He should have seen the tips I pulled in over the summer.
“You know that phrase ‘put a sock in it’?” I prepare the phonograph as I talk. “People wanted their phonographs to be louder, so the Edison company created this one. The problem was, it was too loud.”
I start the record to show what I mean and raise my voice accordingly. I’m concerned that this sudden confidence I’ve found is undeserved and that I’m misreading his actual curiosity, but it’s too late. I’m on autopilot, reciting a memorized script.
“Women who were hosting dinner parties didn’t want their guests to have to shout to hear each other. They wanted background music. But there was no volume knob on these early machines. So how did these housewives solve the problem?”
I reach behind the player for my prop.
“They stuck a sock in it,” I say, filling the sound hole with a rolled-up pair. The volume is instantly cut in half.
The typical crowd will respond here with laughs and applause and audible ahhs. Mac is not my typical audience. He does none of these things.
I cut the music.
Mac stares at the phonograph long after it’s been silenced. “We probably have a thousand records at my house.”
The intimacy of what he’s just revealed is disorienting, but there’s another quality to it, something I’d describe as sadness if I thought Mac Durant was susceptible to such a thing.
He turns to me. “You have a nice voice.”
Every time he speaks, the universe reshapes itself. What new world am I in now?
“Say something,” Mac commands.
Suddenly, I can’t think of a single good word to say. “Cool… pizza… baby…”
Mac laughs. “It’s like that actress. The blond.”
That narrows it down.
“She’s in those superhero movies,” Mac says. “But her hair is, like, pink or something.”
I have the answer, but it can’t possibly be the right one. “Scarlett Johansson?”
“Yes! Her!”
It’s as if I just identified an obscure celebrity from the twenties (which I can actually do—museum girl) and not one of the biggest current stars on the planet. ScarJo plays Black Widow, whose hair is technically red (most of the time; Neel can explain why the color changes across the Avengers series). But we’re not talking about hair here.
“I really like it,” Mac says about my voice.
I suddenly want to assault him with syllables, but I’m too shocked to move my lips. I’m not used to compliments from guys who aren’t Neel. Also, I’ve never liked the sound of my own voice, deeper than most girls’. I always sound bored and lethargic, like a person waking from a ten-year coma and realizing that they’re not all that excited to be alive again.
“I don’t think I’ve heard you say more than two words the whole time I’ve known you,” Mac says.
Has he ever known me?
“Thank you,” I say, feeling super uncomfortable. “I’m quiet, I guess.”
But there’s more to it, and Mac senses that, his mind chewing on something.
I change the subject. “I guess I could give you
the official tour if you really want,” I hear myself say, testing out my nice voice.
“Okay,” Mac says, nodding as if he doesn’t care one way or another. “But listen…”
I am listening. I really am.
“I’m starving. I didn’t get a chance to eat dinner.”
Tell me about it. Skipping dinner is why I’m here.
“Let’s grab something,” Mac says.
“You mean, out there?”
The windows are whited out. It’s like peering through the glass of a running washing machine.
“We should go now,” Mac says, reaching for his coat. “Before the weather gets even worse.”
Well. Okay, then.
3:23 PM
Charlie was clacking on his silent keyboard in the living room, the sound streaming only to his headphones. Sheet music rested on the stand in front of him, songs to be played at tonight’s wedding. His back was to me, but I would have bet anything he wasn’t looking at the sheets. He usually played with eyes closed and a goofy smile, head bopping for an imaginary crowd of hundreds.
I lay on the couch behind him with my phone. Before Charlie moved in, the living room was neutral territory. Now with his keyboard here, even pressed against the wall and silenced (mostly), it felt like I was invading his space. I could have gone up to my bedroom, but sometimes I just need a change of scenery.
I scanned social media while I waited for Neel to text me. It had been only a few hours since we’d seen each other at the mall, but our conversation had been one of those messy types that can only be erased by having a new, clean one.
The front door burst open, sending a rush of frigid air into the house. Charlie glanced over his shoulder. Mom dropped two grocery bags inside, disappeared, and returned with two more bags before sealing the door shut.
“It was a madhouse,” Mom said, hooting like a fatigued owl. “There were whole shelves that were totally empty.”
“What’s for dinner?” I said.
“Well,” she said, ramping up the word for optimum anticipation. “I’m making a special meal.”
I lowered my phone. “What do you mean you’re making it?”
“I’m making it.”
“Why isn’t Charlie making it?”
On cue, Charlie’s tapping grew more insistent, as if he was taking a solo at the concert in his mind.
“Come talk to me in the kitchen,” Mom said. She carried the groceries away, forcing me to unglue myself from my resting place. “Grab those bags, please,” she called out.
As I reached for the bags, I stepped directly into one of her snowy footprints, and my sock got wet. Now I was extra annoyed.
“Charlie has a gig, so I’m cooking,” Mom said once I arrived in the kitchen. “I told you this morning we were doing something special.”
“Why aren’t we getting takeout?”
“What for?”
“Because that’s what we always do.”
“I can’t cook a meal?” Mom said, laughing it off.
“You can. You just don’t.”
“Well, tonight I am. I’m cooking.”
Something was going on here and I decided I didn’t like it. I dropped the bags on the floor harder than I meant to.
“Sweetie, what’s better than chicken soup on a day like this?”
There it was, her big surprise. She waited wide-eyed and smiling. I could have answered her ridiculous question if she really wanted me to, but I didn’t have the energy. I headed for the stairs.
In my bedroom, I changed my wet sock but left the dry one on. It didn’t matter that the two didn’t match. I wasn’t seeing anyone tonight, except maybe a food delivery person if I was lucky.
I exchanged messages with Isla and Brooke on our group text, each of us wondering why it never seemed to snow this much on school days. Brooke was riding out the storm at her dad’s (it being his weekend), and she was texting me on the side about her DM relationship with Anton Metza, which for some reason she hadn’t yet told Isla about. I’d known my girlfriends much longer than I’d known Neel, but in many ways my friendship with him was easier. It was more honest and usually less dramatic.
Earlier at the mall, Neel had exploded on me out of nowhere, saying I was acting crazy. How come when a girl speaks her mind in a passionate way, she’s acting crazy? I expected that type of bullshit from everyone else, but not my best friend.
I broke the silence now with a text: Still out with Ezra?
Ezra is Neel’s other friend. His little smoke buddy.
Neel replied: Still in with Nightshade?
Saying that to me in a text, it wasn’t okay.
Neel could be, for better or worse, excitable. Better when you presented him with a brilliant idea for the inventors fair. Worse when, well, right about now.
We met in eighth grade in a group called New Beginnings, and ever since, I’ve looked to him as my personal guru in all aspects of life. Not guru as in a master (and not because he’s Indian)—more like a highly overqualified assistant. In our relationship, I’m the boss. I value and appreciate his input, but ultimately I call the shots.
I thought of all the things I could write back to him, but it wouldn’t make a difference. Instead, I opened my computer and read some new messages that had come in. Time slipped away.
Before leaving for his gig, Charlie poked his head into my room and urged me in his subtle way to go back downstairs to talk to Mom. I did, and it was a mistake. If I knew what she had in store for me, I never would have left my bedroom.
You weren’t always quiet. Much younger, you would go up to kids on the playground and introduce yourself. You put yourself out there. No shame.
Mom swears you were confident, strong-willed, unafraid to voice your opinion. At a parent conference in kindergarten, the teacher reported that you were sometimes too chatty, especially when paired with Isla. The two of you had to be separated.
Then, a quieting. It happens around eight, nine. Suddenly the one tiny difference between you and them is all they can focus on. But your hand is only part of the story. It’s nothing compared with your broken heart. Once your dad is gone, forget it, you practically go mute. You’re thirteen, so it could be perceived as typical teen girl bullshit. When you do speak, your tone is biting. An edge to every remark. Or it’s a joke. Mostly you’re silent. Silent for days. Mom sees your wheels turning.
Talk to me, she says.
You don’t know how.
Talk to me.
Where do you start?
Talk to me.
Your mouth won’t open.
It’s easier to speak up on social media, but even there it takes time to find your voice. You try out several profiles to see which one fits best.
Totes Tegan: Your fun-loving, super-optimistic alter ego. Wowed by everything from video games to worms on a sidewalk. Inspirational one-liners like “Do something today that your future self will thank you for.”
Weekend Tour Guide: Life at work. Fun trivia about Thomas Edison. Stuff to make your dad proud. Also with an aim to get people to come to the museum. Maybe if they see you in action, they’ll look at you differently. No students come. Your friends don’t count.
Sriracha Girl: You leave your name off this account. The motif is food covered in sriracha. Pretzels and sriracha. Grapes and sriracha. Coffee and sriracha. For effect, not consumption. But no one feels the effect. What was your point again with this one?
We’re All Gonna Die: Melting glaciers! Destroyed habitats! Endangered species! It’s doomsday every day. Again, no mention of Tegan Everly on the account. Not even your close friends know this account is yours. Your photo of the last living white rhino gets nineteen likes, which is practically going viral for you. Meanwhile Mom gets likes in the midhundreds for her posts showing how it’s possible to find love again. Good for her.
Neel thinks you’re going about social media all wrong. What makes you truly unique?
You struggle to answer him.
Your hand
, he says. Put it out there. Flaunt it.
You hate him for this.
The fact is, you’re already sort of popular. Just for the dumbest reason. Tegan Everly is the girl with the hand. Everyone knows that. But who wants to be reduced to something so inconsequential? It’s a small part of what makes you you. Why make it the main focus? There are people in the world who choose to put their limb difference on display: YouTubers, podcasters, authors, athletes. As much as you sort of admire these figures, you’ve never understood how they do it or why they’d even want to.
Neel means well. But no, you’re not going to “flaunt it.” You’re not engaging in inspiration porn.
When your best friend can’t understand, no one can. You try to talk to Neel, to Isla and Brooke, to your mom, to the professionals you’re sent to, but you don’t know how to say what you really feel. The only one you can talk to is your dad. You can email him and say exactly how you feel about everything, no matter what it is, and he’ll never tell you you’re wrong. He just listens, and when he writes you back, he tells you only what you need to hear.
Dad,
I got a job for the summer at the Edison Center. I’m pretty sure Maggie only hired me because of you. You practically kept the place in business, so I guess she owes you. I’m way underqualified, but I’m learning. Paying attention like you taught me. The place is pretty much the same as you’d remember it—boring. Just kidding.
Love,
Tegan
Tegan,