Again, But Better

by Christine Riccio

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  He smiles. “Well, I think we have to. I think you need to so we can move past it.” I push the ravioli around in my bowl.

  “We all have family drama, Shane. You don’t have to be embarrassed about it. We’re your friends. We’ve all got our crap … My dad didn’t magically accept me when I came out, things were weird for a good long while. He still doesn’t ever ask about my dating life. Families aren’t perfect. You didn’t have to lie to us about your major. You can talk to us about that stuff.”

  “How old were you when you came out to your parents?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “Wow, brave thirteen-year-old.”

  He nods proudly. “Gryffindor.”

  The corner of my lip turns up. “So, I’m premed.”

  “Yeah, so I’ve heard.” He cracks a smile. “It’s okay to want to also study other things.”

  I shoot Atticus a small smile. “My parents have been bragging to literally everyone and anyone about how I was going to be a doctor since I was eleven. I think the local grocery store clerks are aware of my impending doctor-hood.” I smash a ravioli with my fork.

  Atticus rests his head in his hand. “What do you want to do?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t—know anymore. I don’t want to be a disappointment. I wanted to be premed for my mom … I mean, I want to. I’m the reason she didn’t get to finish med school. She got pregnant and spent her life taking care of me.… She’s been there helping with all my math and science homework for as long as I remember.

  “Like, for all of forever, whenever I didn’t understand something, she explained it in a super-fun way and sat with me until it clicked. And it means so much to my dad that I have opportunities like this because he didn’t.

  “I know he came off pretty horrible the other day.… He’s not always like that.” I gnaw at my lip.

  Atticus stays quiet.

  “Growing up, whenever I hurt myself, he’d stop everything and make me a chocolate milkshake with a slice of watermelon on the glass because it’s my favorite. And then as I got older, he started making them whenever I was feeling sad. It sounds silly, but it always makes me feel a little better. He makes them now when I come home on the weekends from YU.” Because I always come home sad. I swipe at a fresh tear dribbling down my cheek. “Sorry.”

  Atticus presses his lips together and catches my eyes. “Don’t be sorry. It’s complicated. I get it.” He pauses, studying me. “Try not to be too hard on yourself. College is to, like, get a job and everything, but it’s also about finding yourself—and all that jazz. Out here, doing your own thing, you learn stuff. It’s good to shake things up. Haven’t you had the time of your life the last couple months? I know I have.”

  “Yeah, I guess,” I whisper. “But my parents aren’t even responding to my emails.”

  “I’m sure they’ll come around, Shane. Maybe they haven’t checked them yet,” Atticus reasons.

  I pull out my laptop because I’m crying, and I can’t continue any sort of conversation. I really want to write in Horcrux Nine, but I can’t open it without feeling like my stomach is going to fall out my ass.

  “I’m here if you want to pick this back up,” Atticus says quietly.

  “Thanks, At.”

  He takes out his laptop, and we sit in companionable silence.

  * * *

  I get an email response from Mom.

  Re: I’m sorry! <3

  ________________________________________________

  Cara Primaveri 3/6/11

  to Shane

  We’ll discuss it when you get home.

  A lump forms in my throat. There’s another email under it. From Leo.

  hey

  ________________________________________________

  Leo Primaveri 3/6/11

  to Shane

  Heard you fucked up. Are you coming home? My mom won’t go into detail.

  What does he care?

  Not yet.

  I press send.

  A response pings in sixty seconds later.

  What happened? You okay?

  I blink, eyebrows furrowing.

  Why are you asking? Looking for more shit to hold over me?

  Send.

  Another almost instant response:

  I know how they are when they’re mad.

  My vision blurs. I close the computer and retreat to my bunk.

  * * *

  I miss class again on Monday.

  I spend Tuesday morning at Packed! staring in the general direction of the Paris poster across the room. I haven’t been given a task today, and I haven’t asked for one. When Declan and Donna walk by and say good morning, I nod in response. I haven’t made any tea. I haven’t gotten up. My limbs feel heavy.

  At noon, I wander robotically toward Wendy’s office. She’s in there wearing a trendy yellow dress, working on her computer. I knock softly on the molding of the doorframe because the door’s propped open.

  “Shane?” she asks in her posh accent. She closes out of what she’s working on and her brown eyes dart over to mine. “What’s up?”

  “Hi, Wendy, I’m sorry to bother you. I just, I had to tell you—I’m quitting.”

  She shakes her head quickly as if she’s hearing things. “I’m sorry?”

  “I can’t work here anymore. I’m sorry,” I speak slowly, trying to keep my voice steady. “Thank you for giving me this opportunity.” I turn to leave.

  “Shane! Sweetie, wait!”

  I stop. Turn back.

  “What’s wrong? Why would you quit? You’re not going to get the school credit,” she says softly.

  “I’m sorry. I just can’t work here anymore.” I turn and power walk back to my desk. I pack my things. Donna stands from her desk as I start toward the door.

  “Shane?” she asks. I turn around. Her forehead’s wrinkled with worry. Wendy’s standing watching me from her doorway. I don’t want Wendy to think poorly of me, but I can’t stay. I need this time to play catch up. I need to study. I need to earn my parents’ forgiveness. I need to pass the MCAT. I spin on my heel and leave, without saying goodbye.

  What’s the point anymore? I can’t get a writing job when I go home. I have to take summer classes so I can fulfill the course requirements to graduate on time.

  * * *

  I’m too embarrassed to tell anyone I bailed at Packed! I can’t think about it for more than a second without feeling sick. My flatmates are so busy with their own jobs that I get away with it pretty easily. I spend my free time during the week in the kitchen and at Café Nero, trying to teach myself the class material I’ve missed these past three months.

  Time goes by so much faster now that I’m not enjoying it. The days smear into one another. It’s Monday and then it’s Friday and then it’s Monday again.

  I continue to barely see Pilot. It’s killing me not knowing what he knows. Does he know? How much does he know? What did Amy tell him?

  I guess it doesn’t really matter. What matters is that he has a girlfriend. A serious, flew-across-the-Atlantic-Ocean-to-see-him girlfriend. I’m not even supposed to be here. I keep telling myself that. But—the Pilot-related sinking sensation in my gut isn’t fading with time apart like I want it to. It’s intensifying as we near the semester’s end. I need to know. I need to know what he knows. I need to talk to him. I need this feeling to go away.

  * * *

  April 1, I get an email from my father detailing my work and class schedule starting the Monday I get back to New York. It’s a schedule. No words. It’s been weeks since they spoke to me. I’ve sent four more I’m-sorry emails.

  My apologies aren’t working. They’re still upset. How long will they be upset? What else can I do?

  April 2, I dig the small bundle of postcards I’ve accumulated from the beginning of every writing class out of my bag, and head to the nearest post office. I send them all to
my house in New York.

  A week a half later I get another email from Leo.

  Your postcards are the talk of the town. What’d you say in those things? The ’rents won’t stop whispering.

  I don’t hear anything from my parents.

  25. One Last Time

  Our last full day abroad comes without warning. Yesterday, I made a new Facebook chat thread for us to exchange American numbers. I need these friendships to stick. Everyone leaves their numbers, including Pilot. I stare at the digits next to his name, anger sparking in my chest.

  This morning there was a new message in our family dinner group chat.

  Babe

  FRIENDLY REMINDER: Our flat

  family dinner blowout is tonight!!

  6:00 p.m. Be there!

  I pull out two jars of sauce (my dinner contribution) and leave them on the table before heading out to do the Tower of London with Sahra and Atticus. Babe said she was too busy packing to come. Pilot just didn’t come. Maybe he went to hang out with the guys down the hall.

  Tonight, I’m confronting him.

  * * *

  We head to the kitchen at 6:00 p.m., per Babe’s instructions. Inside, the table’s all set, and the room is already brimming with the sweet smell of melting cheese and tomato sauce. Babe’s leaning against the counter with a glass of wine. Atticus enters behind me, and we all chorus a round of heys.

  “Did you start early?” I exclaim.

  “Yeah!” Babe lifts her glass. “I just set the table, and I bought some wine yesterday. The ziti’s been in the oven for around thirty minutes, so it’ll be ready in like, fifteen. I finished packing early, and thought, why not get started!”

  “Babe, we were going to help,” Atticus protests.

  “Don’t worry about it. I love cooking!” She grins, picking the wine bottle up from the table. “Who wants wine?”

  Atticus and I each pour ourselves a glass. I pull Sawyer out of my bag and put on a classic rock playlist. I place it on the couch at a low volume for background ambiance. Bruce Springsteen’s “Born in the USA” kicks things off.

  “’Merica!” Babe yells in the self-aware ironic way we do to make fun of ourselves.

  “’Merica!” echoes a male voice. I turn around to find Pilot standing in the doorway, wearing one of his classic plaid button-ups. He holds up a plastic bag. “Got the ping-pong balls! I had to go to three places, but I finally found them at Primark so all is good!”

  “I knew you’d come through.” Atticus grins.

  I tense up and head over toward Babe and Atticus, taking a spot against the counter. Pilot places the bag on the couch near Sawyer and slings his backpack off.

  “It looks like they don’t actually have solo cups here, but they had these.” He pulls a sleeve of medium-sized white cups from his bag. Babe and Atticus laugh.

  Pilot hauls a pack of beer from his bag and puts it in the fridge before cracking one open for himself. He leans up against the counter near me. We’re all leaning against the nice wrap-around counter near the window. “What have you all been up to today?”

  “Packing,” Babe drawls.

  “We went to see the Tower of London. Remember, I invited you this morning,” Atticus teases.

  “Oh yeah.” Pilot blinks. “How was it?”

  “Educational and great!” Atticus exclaims.

  “Nice.” Pilot takes another sip of his beer.

  Sahra bursts through the door. “Woo! Family dinner night,” she yells with fifty times the enthusiasm of her usual voice. “I’m so ready to drink and be American together.” She throws her purse on the couch, strolls to the table, and falls into a chair. “How long do we have till it’s ready to eat?” she adds eagerly.

  When the timer goes off, Babe grabs an oven mitt and pulls a casserole dish of steaming ziti from the oven. We pick up plates, and Babe takes charge, deeming herself the official pasta distributer. Billy Joel’s “We Didn’t Start the Fire” starts playing from my playlist. It makes me smile.

  “Do any of you know all the words to this song?” I ask. “It’s one of my life goals to know them all one day.” Babe drops a scoop of ziti onto my plate.

  “I want to too!” She laughs.

  “Doot doot doot doot doot doot doot,” I sing along quietly.

  “Wow, you already know so many of the lyrics,” Pilot says from the table. I snort as I make my way to my seat.

  We finish our baked ziti in merry chitchat, catching up on all the things we’ve missed in each other’s lives. After dinner, we clear the table for beer pong. We play three on two and rock-paper-scissor for teams. I end up on Pilot’s. We play, and Pilot and I are winning and laughing and high-fiving, and I almost forget that he’s been avoiding me for ages and might know all my most intimate thoughts.

  It’s 9:00 p.m. when we finish up a game of Kings, gather our jackets, and head out to a pub in Camden that Babe found on Yelp.

  * * *

  The inside of the pub is littered with round, dark green, fancy-looking booths. Music plays low in the background, so speaking is still an option. We pick a booth, and Pilot slides in first, followed by Sahra and Atticus.

  As I lean to slide in, Babe loops her arm around mine and pulls me in the opposite direction toward the bar. “We’re going to go grab some drinks. Hold down the table and then we can switch,” she tells them.

  She leans into to my ear. “Is there something going on with you and Pilot again? You haven’t talked about him in forever.”

  “Nothing is going on with me and Pilot,” I mumble.

  Babe shakes her head and meets my eyes, putting on a serious face. “Do you like him still?” She tries to study my expression. I never told her about Amy and Horcrux Nine. I haven’t told anyone.

  I blow out an exasperated breath. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  She sighs as we reach the bar. Babe orders her drink. I have to get Pilot alone. Maybe I should buy him a drink and lure him to a different table?

  “Can I get a glass of red wine?” I ask the bartender. I hesitate for a second then add, “And a Guinness, please.”

  “You’re getting a Guinness?” Babe asks beside me. I turn to respond to her and startle. There’s a tall, curly-haired man standing right behind her. The guy introduces himself, shakes our hands, and quickly orders us all shots of whiskey. I exchange a look with Babe, but she’s into it. They start up a line of small talk.

  I glance back over at our booth and see Pilot watching us. He raises his eyebrows at me in amusement. I look away, trying not to smile. He’s so stupidly charming.

  Four shots come on a platter and the guy distributes them: one to me, Babe, and his dark-haired, lanky friend who appeared out of nowhere while I looked away, turning our little triangle into a circle. I bring the tiny glass to my nose, take a quick whiff, and pull away. It smells like a mixture of wood and rubbing alcohol.

  “To tonight!” says the curly-haired guy. The three of them shoot the liquid down their throats. I take a sip.

  “Oh my god.” My face squishes up, and I spasm like a dog shaking the water from its fur. It burns.

  “Shane!” Babe says, laughing. “You can’t sip it!” The curly-haired guy laughs with her.

  I hand the shot to Babe. “Here, you have mine,” I tell her. I grab my wine and the Guinness from the bar and stroll back to our booth.

  I slide in next to Pilot, holding both drinks—and freeze up. I can’t lure him to another table if I’m already inside the booth. Good job thinking this one through.

  A moment later, Sahra and Atticus slide out.

  “Where are you guys going?” I ask quickly.

  “To get a drink,” Sahra answers, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

  “Pilot will stay here with you until Babe gets back.” Atticus laughs before zeroing in on my Guinness. “You got a Guinness?”

  “I, yeah, just,” I flounder as they get up and out of the booth. Atticus grins but doesn’t wait for my explanation.
I watch them walk away. Babe is still chatting up the guys over there. I slowly look over at Pilot, widening my eyes and pulling a hmm-I guess-it’s-just-us face. How do I open?

  I look at my drinks. “Uh, I actually don’t think I want this,” I say, pushing the glass of Guinness forward. “You can have it if you want.”

  He smiles hesitantly. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, please take it.” I push it toward him.

  “Thanks.” He picks it up and takes a swig. “How was that whiskey shot?” he asks with amusement.

  “Oh god, it was nasty. I felt rude not at least trying it, though.”

  He smirks and shakes his head, bringing the beer to his lips. I feel myself smile and then force my lips back down.

  I take a sip of the wine. It’s so sour. Okay, say your words, Shane.

  “How’s the book going?” Pilot lowers his beer.

  I never actually started my book.

  I swallow. “Um, not going too much. I’ve been trying to catch up on some other studying.”

  He closes his eyes for a moment. “I’m sorry about what happened with your parents…”

  “Um, yeah, I never got to say thank you for, you know, going to that, and um, attempting to prevent that dumpster fire of a conversation.” I gulp down another sip.

  His eyes find mine, and hold them for a beat, like a sort of metaphysical hand squeeze. “Anytime, Shane.”

  I glance over at the bar. Atticus and the girls are cheers-ing with the whiskey guys and downing another round of shots.

  I turn back to Pilot, twitchy with nerves. “I have to ask you something.”

  “Shoot,” he says.

  I grip my glass tighter. “Um, okay, well, um, do you know about that night in the kitchen?”

  He grins. “I think you’re going have to be more specific.”

  “Um, the night my parents visited, I lost my notebook in the kitchen…” I trail off.

  “Oh shit, did you find it?” he asks. “You must have a crapload of hilarious story ideas in there.”