Maybe We’re Electric

by Val Emmich

  Do you miss him?

  Dad?

  Every day.

  Every single day.

  I just wanted to know.

  Some days I think I’m fine and I’m not.

  I do something and wonder what he would think.

  A restaurant he would have loved. Or a movie.

  My standing desk—he’d despise that!

  He was definitely a sitter.

  Same as me

  The worst is watching you grow.

  I hate that he can’t see that.

  I’m sorry. Is that ok to say?

  Yes. It’s ok.

  Thx Mom.

  You close the Nightshade account the first chance you get. Even at the very end, people are writing you messages. They still need someone to vent to. It just can’t be you anymore.

  The morning after the storm you call Neel and give him an attitude because you secretly blame him for how your night with Mac ended. It was his idea that you stop acting the victim and start being daringly honest. But that’s before Neel, on that same morning call, asks you if you’re crying, and you swear that you’re not, but you totally are.

  Neel gets you through that first torturous week. The report of how close you and Mac got in just one night makes him a bit jealous, though he’ll never admit it.

  Okay, I get it already, Neel says after the fiftieth time you’ve mentioned something Mac said or did.

  His dream is to play professionally in Europe, you say, but he knows he’ll be lucky to join a decent college team.

  Neel rolls his eyes. If you were telling Isla and Brooke the same story right now, they wouldn’t be trying to change the subject. They’d be begging you to slow down. But they don’t know this story. This is one you’re not sure you can ever tell them.

  For now, Neel has had to get used to the random questions you’re suddenly prone to asking: Do you think I have a nice voice? Is that cotton you’re wearing? Should we listen to some salsa?

  You smoke with Neel—once. Because he’s hanging out with Ezra and you don’t want to be alone, you tag along, and after one measly hit you have a nervous breakdown that takes several hours to overcome. Another night you ask Neel to stay on the phone with you while he plays video games and you read a novel you can’t quite focus on. You request his help in wiping the internet of all your posts, and he tells you it’s impossible, but he does manage to make them harder to find. Later on, much later than is right, you thank him for being wise to you on the day of the storm and also stupid enough to try to impart his wisdom on a hard-ass like you.

  People still don’t know who Nightshade was. You keep waiting for the truth to come out. Half of you wants to be outed already. (You have a confessional note saved on your phone, but you can’t bring yourself to send it.) The other half wants to lead a life deserving of your good fortune. You’re trying to reconnect with the old Tegan. You’re also trying to steer clear of social media, but it’s hard. You stumble on the latest post by Finley Wooten, the girl who motivated your reign of terror. Finley’s family dog just passed and she’s devastated. Your first instinct: Her emotion is a put-on. A play for sympathy. But you’ve learned that your assumptions about people like her have been wrong before. She and you have more in common than you once believed. You’ve both kissed the same guy.

  You create a new account under your real name: Tegan Everly. Your description reads: Weekend tour guide, sriracha lover, climate concerned, bold AF.

  You go to Finley’s post about her dog. You want to leave a comment, but this is the very act that sent you down that odious path. What if leaving a comment creates more trouble for you?

  It’s a risk you take. You’re trying to be better. That means listening more closely to your heart.

  You leave the following comment: So sorry, Finley. I know how bad it feels to lose someone you love.

  Seconds later, Finley likes your comment.

  Really? Could it have been that simple all along?

  You try it a second time. A third. You tell Erika Reyes that you love when she wears her hair up because it really accentuates her cheekbones, which, you admit, you’re totally jealous of. You reveal to Faith Ibori that you feel intense relief every time she asks a question in algebra because you never know what Mr. McKendrick is talking about and you’re too embarrassed to ask because you feel like everyone else in the class gets it.

  Little by little you try to add kindness to the world to balance out your former wickedness. It becomes your new mission—using your powers of observation for good. Instead of taking people down, you lift them up. It doesn’t excuse what you did. Most days the guilt eats away at you. How ugly you became. But you try to remember what you learned: No one is as beautiful as they seem, nor as ugly. Ugly when it’s hidden ends up seeming even uglier. Out in the open, though, ugly can look sort of beautiful.

  You invite Isla and Brooke to your house for a sleepover, the kind the three of you used to have regularly when you were younger. It’s been a while, and you worry there might be some weirdness, but it’s as if nothing’s changed. Crammed into your bedroom, snacking on veggie straws, you laugh until your stomachs hurt. You really want to tell them about your night with Mac Durant, except you don’t know how you’d explain how the night ended or why they’ve never seen you talk to Mac at school. There’s so much more you want to say to them—but not tonight. Tonight you’re just soaking up their company.

  You keep track of Mac’s socials. You can’t help it. He hasn’t posted since before the storm. You locate the feeds of some of his former teammates. None of them seem to match the person who sent you the video of Mac’s dad. Still, studying their accounts gives you an idea. You remember Mac mentioning the possibility of joining an indoor league.

  On a Wednesday night, you get yourself to the sports complex on Route 1. You expect to slide unseen onto a bleacher full of spectators, but there are no bleachers and hardly any spectators, save for a few parents standing along a narrow sideline. You turn for the exit, feeling like an idiot, but then you spot him on the field. He’s wearing shorts, bare knees exposed, running like a majestic wild feline. It’s the picture that matches the thousand words he spoke to you. He’s doing what he loves to do, and you’re getting to watch him do it. That there are hardly any spectators seems to matter little to Mac and the others. They sprint and dive and fight for the ball as if it’s the only thing in the world that means anything. Watching Mac play, focused, panting, sweaty, free, you finally appreciate his passion: It’s simple.

  There’s a pause in play. He stands still in the middle of the field, staring back at you. You’re embarrassed to be here but satisfied that he’s noticed you. You want him to know you care. But he turns away, and his turning away feels savage, seeing you and then unseeing you. You wait for him to look over again, but he doesn’t. You rush out the door.

  You want to reach out. To apologize for everything you put him through. You can’t text him. You don’t have his number. Even if you did, you’re not sure you’d be brave enough to use it. A handwritten note might work. But every time you try to put the words down on paper, you fail to capture what you want to say.

  Fortunately, you’ve learned there’s more than one way to speak your heart. As painful as it is to rehash every little detail of that night, there’s a sense of possibility you draw from the experience. Paying attention brings you a new idea. A way that you might fix the unfixable.

  1:35 PM

  I send my tour group off to explore the exhibits on their own. We are six in total. Two elderly couples and a frightened woman who gives the impression that she wandered into the Edison Center accidentally and has no idea where she is. They are an attentive group, even the weirdo, and that’s all you can ask for.

  Working at the museum was just a summer job, but now it’s a winter job, too. I’ll be “volunteering” here on weekends until the museum can afford to replace the glass display I broke. Which means I’ll be here for the rest of my life.

  I
t could have been worse. The museum could have involved the police. Yes, I’ve worked here in the past, but on the night of the storm (and on previous nights) I was trespassing, which I’m sure is against the law. I also damaged the property, another criminal offense.

  I have my dad to thank for the museum going easy on me. My boss, Maggie, wouldn’t have a job if it weren’t for my dad’s efforts to restore this place. It’s amazing how he still guides me through life, although he’s no longer around. I don’t write to him anymore. But in my head, we’re always midconversation.

  I call my group back. “Pretty cool, right?” I say, hoping that they’ve enjoyed their discovery time but also not really caring.

  “I’m sure you’ll agree, these inventions are impressive,” I say. “But Edison’s greatest invention of all was Edison.”

  It’s a line that no other tour guide uses. A Tegan Everly original. My group waits for me to explain.

  “At one point in time Thomas Edison was probably the most famous person in the world. What’s really unbelievable is that this was before he produced a working light bulb. Before he manufactured any phonographs. Other inventors like Alexander Graham Bell were working on the same projects as Edison and were even further along than he was. So what was the difference between Edison and everyone else?”

  A woman in a sari is searching for an answer, but everyone else seems to understand that it’s a rhetorical question.

  “Edison was a better self-promoter. He was an expert at selling a certain image of himself.”

  This story used to be my subtle act of rebellion, a way of chipping away at Edison’s legend. I thought Edison was a fake. But I was naïve.

  Edison never denied that he had tons of failures. Anyone who tries that hard (and he worked until his dying day) is bound to fail. He believed that stumbling was a natural part of the process and that the key to success was to keep going, to keep trying.

  Plus, it’s important to remember that one person’s failure is another person’s success. Edison’s electric pen was a flop for him, but it led to others inventing the first tattoo pen and also the mimeograph—the precursor to the Xerox machine. It’s damn impressive.

  So yes, Edison promoted his own achievements, but he also acknowledged his missteps, and I think he should be applauded for that.

  “All the celebrities today, they have their brands. Well, Edison basically invented celebrity branding. One more thing to add to his list of credits.”

  My audience is pleased. They smile politely.

  I realized something else recently that has made me ease up on Mr. Edison: People love myths. They love to believe in unbelievable things. These people in front of me don’t want to hear anything negative about their hero. They need him. They need his magic.

  It’s time for the final stop on our tour. I lead my group out the back door and down the path to the memorial tower.

  When I came back to work after the storm, I asked Maggie if it was possible that the light on top of the tower would still be able to receive electricity when the whole neighborhood was experiencing a power outage. In other words, was the tower on a separate grid or something? Did it have a dedicated generator?

  “I don’t believe so,” Maggie told me. “I can check with the maintenance guy. Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious,” I said.

  On my tour now, I unlock the door to the tower and instruct my group to gather around the pillar. I’m the last one inside.

  “This…” I begin.

  It’s painful to come back here.

  “… is the Eternal Light.”

  I recite my speech without paying attention to my own words. My mind returns to that night. The way he looked at me. Our hands touching the bulb. I wish I could erase the memory, but I also want to hold on to it forever.

  I think also of my dad. I think about the lunch we had at the Rutgers student center when I asked him what my “way in” was and he told me I need to see things. It’s not enough for me to hear them. I need to be shown in order to believe.

  I end my speech. A frail man with a patchy beard raises his hand.

  “Yes?” I say.

  “Is it true?” the man asks.

  “Is what true?”

  “That the light has never gone out?”

  People always ask. We’re instructed to leave the answer open-ended. To maintain the mystery of the Eternal Light. But I can’t help myself. I give the man an answer.

  “Yes,” I say boldly. “It’s true.”

  Leaving work now.

  What’s for dinner?

  Nothing planned.

  We had to buy a new fridge.

  How about chicken soup?

  If it’s not too much work.

  I love that idea!

  You ok with meat?

  Just broth please.

  You got it

  Charlie has a gig.

  It’s just you and me.

  Sounds perfect.

  4:11 PM

  Maggie passes me two folded twenties. “A little spending money,” she says.

  I hold the cash in my scarred palm, feeling thankful and shameful. If Maggie only knew that I allowed our precious Edison bust to get a bloody nose. I give back the money.

  “Take it,” Maggie says, closing the empty register. “You’ve been doing a nice job.”

  Gratitude overrides my shame. I pocket the money.

  Work makes the days go faster. It keeps me from thinking too much. I still have an anger in me that I don’t know what to do with sometimes. Edison says the trick is to keep going. Keep trying. Keep reinventing. That’s what I’m doing.

  “See you tomorrow,” I say to Maggie.

  I zip up my coat and grab my gift bag. As I exit, the door produces that familiar beep. I flip the sign. We’re closed.

  It’s a fifteen-minute walk to where I’m going—the opposite direction from home. It took a lot longer to reach the destination on the night of the storm because of the path taken and the nasty weather. Today the dipping sun shines unobstructed and I’m on the straightest route I can take. I walk with speed, wanting it to be over before I change my mind.

  The tan house half concealed by a tree looks different from a few weeks ago—and different from the years before that. Once you step inside a place, it changes how you see it forever. I wonder whether I’m still the only girl Mac has ever invited inside.

  At the foot of the driveway is a new mailbox. There are no bricks to be found. The new mailbox is made of plastic.

  My pace slows on my way up the driveway. The snowy night had concealed me, but now I’m exposed. I approach the house and the memories flood back. Using his bathroom. The unfinished basement. Lingering in the kitchen. It all happened so fast, I barely had time to pay attention.

  At the front porch, my boldness leaves me. I feel like turning back.

  Instead, I call my guru. “I’m here,” I tell him. “At Mac’s. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Just drop it off,” Neel says, his mouth full of something crunchy.

  “Okay. But where? I didn’t think this through.”

  “Leave it on the porch or something.”

  The top of the gift bag is wide open. “I’m scared it’ll get ruined.”

  “How about the mailbox?”

  I give it a second look. “It’s too small.”

  “Shit,” Neel says.

  “What?”

  “I think these are stale.”

  “Will you concentrate, please?” I say.

  “Sorry,” Neel says.

  His loud chewing ceases and now I detect another voice in the room. I realize I’ve been on speaker this whole time.

  “Hey, Ezra,” I say.

  “Hey, Tegan,” Ezra answers.

  I’m no longer jealous of Neel’s relationship with Ezra. He’s allowed to have other friends. As long as they’re boys.

  I guess two gurus are better than one. “Can we please focus on me and my problems for a change?”
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br />   The boys laugh, maybe a little too much if you ask me.

  “Look,” Neel says. “I think you’re going to have to ring the bell.”

  “I agree,” Ezra says.

  “No,” I say, glancing around nervously. “I don’t want to see him.”

  “You said he’s at work today,” Neel says.

  “Yeah. I’m almost positive.”

  “Then don’t worry about it.”

  “But what if his dad answers? I can’t face him.”

  Yes, I owe the man an apology, but that doesn’t mean I’ll ever be able to look him in the eyes and give it to him.

  “Hmm,” Neel says. He continues this ambiguous humming seemingly forever.

  “Hurry up,” I say. “I’m standing on his porch like a damn stalker.”

  “Just stick it against the door.”

  A face briefly appears in a downstairs window. “Oh my god. Someone saw me.”

  “Go,” Neel says. “Go!”

  “I’m going. I’m going.”

  I race as casually as physics and self-respect will allow across the Durants’ front lawn. When I reach the sidewalk, I stop at the sound of my name. I look up at the house. He’s there on the porch.

  I mutter to Neel, my lips barely moving, “It’s Mac.”

  “What are you doing?” Neel whispers.

  “Just standing here.”

  “That’s not good.”

  “You think? I’ll call you back.”

  I hang up with Neel and shout an awkward hello over the expanse of the lawn.

  Mac starts coming my way. I wait on the sidewalk, petrified, electrified. The last words he uttered to me that night repeat in my ears, the way they have in all the weeks since: You’re sick. A statement I had been telling myself repeatedly for months before that night, but to hear him say it was far worse. Being with him, I had finally felt un-sick. For the first time in so long, I felt well.