The Truth About Forever

by Sarah Dessen

  “What’s at issue here,” Bert said as we headed down the hallway, passing a closed door and another bedroom along the way, “is dots or stripes. What do you think?”

  He pushed open the door to his bedroom, going inside, but once I hit the threshold I just stood there, staring. Not at the two button-up shirts he was now holding out to me, but at the huge poster behind him, which took up the entire wall. It said, simply, ATTENTION:ARMAGEDDON and featured a graphic image of a blue earth being shattered to bits. The rest of the room was decorated the same way, with posters proclaiming THE END IS NEARER THAN YOU THINK and one that said simply MEGA TSUNAMI: ONE WAVE, TOTAL ANNIHILATION. The remaining wall space was taken up by shelves, all of which were packed with books featuring similar titles.

  “Stripes,” Bert said, shaking one shirt at me, “or dots. Stripes or dots. Which one?”

  “Well,” I said, still totally distracted, “I think—”

  Just then the door behind me opened, and Wes emerged from the bathroom, hair wet, rubbing his face with a towel. He had on jeans and no shirt, which, frankly, was almost as distracting as the mega-tsunami. Or even more so. He started to wave hello to me, then stopped. And sniffed. Twice.

  “Bert,” he said, wincing, “what did I tell you about cologne?”

  “I’m hardly wearing any,” Bert said, as Wes put a hand over his nose, disputing this. He held up the shirts again, clearly willing to take all opinions. “Wes, which should I wear? First impressions are important, you know.”

  Wes’s voice was muffled, through his hand. “My point exactly. Were you going for overpowering?”

  Bert ignored this, turning back to me. “Macy. Please. Stripes or dots?”

  As always, I found myself feeling a kind of affection for Bert, in his weird bedroom, wearing his nerdy undershirt, one piece of tissue still stuck to his face. “The stripes,” I told him. “They’re more grown-up looking.”

  “Thank you.” He dropped the polka-dotted shirt on the bed, slipping on the other one and buttoning it quickly. Turning to face himself in the mirror, he said, “That’s what I thought, too.”

  “Are you wearing a tie?” Wes asked him, walking back into the bathroom and tossing the towel over the shower rod.

  “Should I?”

  I said, “What kind of impression are you going for?”

  Bert thought for a second. “Mature. Intelligent. Handsome.”

  “Overpowering,” Wes added.

  “Then yes,” I told Bert, who was now scowling. “Wear a tie.” As Bert pulled open his closet door and began rummaging around, I turned to look at Wes, who’d walked into his own room and was now pulling on a gray T-shirt. Unlike Bert’s, Wes’s walls were bare, the only furnishings a futon against one wall, a milk crate stacked with books, and a bureau with a mirror hanging over it. There was a black-and-white picture of a girl taped to the mirror, but I couldn’t make out her face.

  “The thing about the Armageddon social,” Bert said to me now, as I turned around to see him struggling to knot a blue tie, “is that it’s the one time of the year EOWs from all over the state get together.”

  "EOWs?” I asked, watching him loop the tie, start a knot, and then yank it too tight before dismantling it and starting over.

  “End-of-worlders,” he explained, trying another knot. This time, the front came out way too long, almost hanging to his belt buckle. “It’s a great opportunity to learn about new theories and trade research tips with like-minded enthusiasts.” He looked down at the tie. “God! Why is this so hard? Do you know how to do this?”

  “Not really,” I said. My father had never been the formal type, and Jason, who wore ties often, could do one with his eyes closed, so I’d had no reason to learn.

  “Kristy promised she would help me,” he muttered, yanking on the tie, which only made the front go longer. His face was getting red. “She promised.”

  “Calm down,” Wes said, stepping around me into the room and walking up to Bert. He untangled the tie, smoothing the ends. “Stand still.” Then Bert and I both stood and watched as, with one cross, a twist, and a yank, he tied the knot perfectly.

  “Wow,” Bert said, looking down at it as Wes stepped back, examining his handiwork. “When did you learn that?”

  “When I had to go to court,” Wes told him. He reached up, plucking the piece of tissue off his brother’s face, then straightened the tie again. “Do you have enough money?”

  Bert snorted. “I prebought my ticket way back in March. There’s a chicken dinner and dessert. It’s all paid for.”

  Wes pulled out his wallet and slid out a twenty, tucking it into Bert’s pocket. “No more cologne, okay?”

  “Okay,” Bert said, looking down at the tie again. The phone rang and he picked up a cordless from the bed. “Hello? Hey, Richard. Yeah, me too. . . . Um, striped shirt. Blue tie. Poly-blend slacks. My good shoes. What about you?”

  Wes stepped back into the hallway, shaking his head, and went into his room. I leaned against the doorjamb, taking another look at its sparse furnishings. “So,” I said, “I see you’re a minimalist. ”

  “I’m not into clutter,” he replied, opening the closet and pulling out something, “if that’s what you mean. If you don’t see it here, I don’t need it.”

  I stepped inside, then walked over to his bureau, leaning in to look at the girl in the picture. I knew I was probably being nosy, but I couldn’t help myself. “So, is this Becky?”

  He turned around, glancing over at me. “No. Becky’s skinny, angular. That’s my mom.”

  Wish was beautiful. That’s what I thought first. And in this picture, young, maybe her late teens or early twenties. I immediately recognized Bert’s round face in her features, and Delia’s dark curly hair and wide smile. But more than anything, she reminded me of Wes. Maybe it was the way she was not looking at the camera but instead just beyond it, half-smiling, nothing posed or forced about her. She was sitting on the edge of a fountain, her hands resting easily in her lap. You could see water glittering behind her.

  “She looks like you,” I said.

  He came up behind me, a box in his hand, and then we were both framed in the mirror, peering in. “You think?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I do.”

  Bert came out of his room, walking quickly, a lint roller in one hand. “I’d better go,” he said. “I want to be there right when the doors open.”

  “You’re taking the roller?” Wes asked him.

  “There’s always the possibility of car lint,” Bert told him, sticking it in his front pocket. “So I look okay?”

  “You look great,” I told him, and he smiled at me, genuinely pleased.

  “I’m staying at Richard’s tonight, so we can recap,” Bert said, pulling the door open. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

  Wes nodded. “Have fun.”

  Bert disappeared down the hallway, and seconds later I heard the front door slam. Wes grabbed his keys and wallet off the bureau, shifting the box he was carrying to his other arm, and we started toward the living room, me taking one last look at Wish before he shut the door behind us.

  “I should go, too, I guess,” I said, as we came into the living room. Again, I was struck by how cozy it was, unlike my house, which, with its high ceilings and huge rooms, always seemed to feel empty.

  “Don’t tell me,” he said. “You’re going to the Armageddon social, too?”

  “How’d you guess?”

  “Just a hunch.”

  I made a face. “No, I’ll actually be studying. Doing laundry. I don’t know, I might get really out of hand and iron some clothes. With starch.”

  “Uh-oh,” he said. “Now you’re talking crazy.”

  He pulled the door open and I stepped outside, stopping on the stairs as he locked it. “Okay, fine, Mr. Excitement. What’s your plan?”

  “Well,” he said, holding up the box in his hand, “I have to drop by this party in Lakeview and give a friend of mine these car parts I found at
the salvage yard.”

  “A party and car parts?” I said. “Don’t hurt yourself, now.”

  “I’ll try not to.”

  I smiled at him, digging my own keys out of my pocket.

  “You want to ride along?”

  I was sort of surprised that he asked me. And even more surprised how quickly I answered, no hesitation, as if this had been what I’d been planning to do all along. “Sure.”

  The party was big and in full swing by the time we pulled up twenty minutes later. As we walked up to the front door, dodging people grouped along the driveway and front lawn, I was, as always, aware of the fact that we were being stared at. Or that Wes was. He hardly seemed to notice, but I wondered how he’d ever gotten used to it.

  Once inside, I’d barely crossed the threshold when someone grabbed my arm. Someone in a denim miniskirt, cowboy boots, and a hot pink bustier. One guess.

  “Oh, my God,” Kristy hissed in my ear, yanking me sideways to the bottom of the stairs. “I knew it! What are you doing? Macy, you’d better start talking. Now.”

  Wes had stopped in the middle of the foyer and was looking around for me. When he finally spotted me and saw I was with Kristy, he mouthed he’d be right back, then disappeared down the hallway past a clump of cheerleaders, who watched him go with wistful expressions. Not that I could focus on this, as Kristy was about to break my arm.

  “Will you stop?” I asked her, wrenching myself out of her grip. “I think you sprained something.”

  “I can’t believe,” she said indignantly, not even hearing this, “that you and Wes are out on a date and you didn’t even tell me. What does this say about our friendship? Where is the trust, Macy?”

  I felt someone bump my other side and looked over to see Monica, a bottled water in one hand, looking out at the crowd in the living room with a bored expression.

  “Did you see who Macy is with?” Kristy said to her.

  “Mmm-hmm,” Monica said.

  “I am not with him,” I said, rubbing my elbow. “He needed to drop something off, I was over there helping Bert get ready for the Armageddon social, and he just—”

  “Oh, shit!” Kristy put a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide. “I forgot about the social. God, please tell me he didn’t wear that polka-dot shirt.”

  “He didn’t,” I told her, and she visibly relaxed. “Stripes.”

  “Tie?”

  I nodded. “The blue one.”

  “Good.” She took a sip of the beer she was holding, then pointed a finger at me. “Now, let’s get back to you and Wes. Do you swear there’s nothing going on?”

  “God, calm down,” I said. She was still looking at me, as if this was not an acceptable answer. I added, “I swear.”

  “All right then,” she said, nodding toward the dining room, where I could see a bunch of guys gathered around the table. “Prove it.”

  “Prove it?” I said, but she was already dragging me down into the foyer, across the living room, and into the dining room, plopping me down in a chair, and perching herself on the arm. Monica, true to form, arrived about thirty seconds later, looking winded. Not that Kristy seemed to notice. Clearly she was on a mission.

  “Macy,” she said, gesturing down the table to a heavyset guy in a baseball cap, another in an orange shirt, and, at the end, a hippie-looking type with blue eyes and a ponytail, “this is John, Donald, and Philip.”

  “Hi,” I said, and they all said hello in return.

  “Macy’s currently sort of between relationships,” Kristy explained, “and I am trying, trying, to show her that there is a whole world of possibilities out there.”

  Everyone was looking at me, and I felt my face redden. I wondered when Wes was coming back.

  “These guys,” Kristy continued, gesturing around the table, “are totally undateable. But they’re really nice.”

  “The fact that we’re undateable, however,” John, the one in the baseball hat, said to me, “did not stop her from dating all of us.”

  “That’s how I know!” she said, and they all laughed. Donald handed her a quarter and she bounced, missing, and drank. “Look,” she said to me, “I’m going to go do a preliminary sweep. When I come back, I’ll walk you through and introduce you to some prospects. Okay?”

  “Kristy,” I said, but she was already walking away, patting John on the head as she passed him.

  “Your turn,” he said, nodding at me.

  I picked up the quarter. While I’d seen this game played before, I’d never tried it myself. I bounced the quarter like Kristy had, and it landed in the cup with a splash, which was good. I thought. “What happens now?” I asked Philip.

  He swallowed. “You pick someone to drink.”

  I looked around the table, then pointed at John, who raised his cup, toasting me.

  “Your turn again,” Philip said.

  “Oh.” I bounced the quarter again: again, it went in.

  “Watch out!” Donald said. “She’s on fire!”

  Just barely: with my third bounce, I missed. Philip indicated that I should drink, which I did, and pushed the quarter on to John. “Oh well,” I said. “It was fun while it lasted.” He made it, of course, and pointed at me.

  “Bottoms up,” he said, so I drank again.

  And again. And again. The next twenty minutes or so passed quickly—or at least it seemed that way—as I missed just about every bounce I took and was picked to drink whenever anyone else landed one in. Dateable or not, these guys were ruthless. Which meant that by the time Wes slid into the seat beside me, things were seeming a little fuzzy. To say the least.

  “Hey,” he said. “Thought you were lost.”

  “Not lost,” I told him. “Kidnapped. And now, a colossal failure at quarters. Did you find your friend?”

  He shook his head. “He’s not here. You about ready to go?”

  “Beyond ready,” I said. “In fact, I think I’m a little—”

  “Macy.” I turned around to see Kristy, hands on hips, looking determined. “It’s time to do this.”

  “Do what?” Wes asked, and I was wondering the same thing, having totally forgotten our earlier conversation. Not that it mattered, as she already had me on my feet, stumbling slightly, and was dragging me full force into the kitchen. Oh, right, I thought. Prospects.

  “You know,” I said. “I don’t think I’m really—”

  “Five minutes,” she said firmly. “That’s all I’m asking.”

  Fifteen minutes later, I found myself still in the kitchen, which was now packed with people, talking to a football player who was named either Hank or Frank: it had been too loud to make it out exactly. I’d been trying to extract myself, but between the crowd pressed all around me and Kristy watching like a hawk as she talked to her own prospect, it was kind of hard. Plus I was feeling a bit unsteady. Make that a lot unsteady.

  “Don’t you date Jason Talbot?” he said to me, shouting to be heard over the music that was blasting from a nearby stereo.

  “Well,” I began, pushing a piece of hair out of my face.

  “What?” he yelled.

  I said, “Actually, we’re—”

  He shook his head, cupping a hand behind his ear. “What?”

  “No,” I said loudly, leaning in closer to him and almost losing my balance. “No. I don’t.”

  Just then, someone bumped me from behind, pushing me into Hank/Frank. “Sorry,” I said, starting to step back, but he put his hands on my waist. I felt dizzy and strange, too hot, entirely too hot.

  “Careful there,” he said, smiling at me again. I looked down at his hands, spread over my hips: they were big and hammy. Yuck. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, trying to step back again. But he moved with me, sliding his arms farther around my waist. “I think I need some air,” I said.

  “I’ll come with you,” he said, and Kristy turned her head, looking at me.

  “Macy?” she said.

  “She’s fine,” Hank/Frank s
aid.

  “You know,” I said to Kristy, but I lost sight of her as a tall girl with a pierced nose stepped between us, “I think we should—”

  “Me too,” Hank/Frank said. I could feel his fingers brushing under my shirt, touching my bare skin. I felt a chill, and not the good kind. He leaned in closer to me, his lips touching my ear just slightly, and said, “Hey, let’s go somewhere.”

  I looked for Kristy again, but she was gone, nowhere I could see. Now I was feeling totally woozy as Hank/Frank leaned into my ear again, his voice saying something, but the music was loud, the beat pounding in my ears.

  “Wait,” I said, trying to pull back from him.

  “Shhh, calm down,” he said, moving his hands up my back. I yanked away from him, too hard, then stumbled backwards, losing my balance. I could feel myself falling fast, into the space behind me, even as I tried to right myself. And then, suddenly, there was someone there.

  Someone who put his hands on my elbows, steadying me, pulling me back to my feet. The hands were cool on my hot skin, and I could just feel this presence behind me, solid, like a wall. Something to lean on, strong enough to hold me.

  I turned my head. It was Wes.

  “There you are,” he said, as Hank/Frank looked on, annoyed. “You about ready to go?”

  I nodded. I could feel his stomach against my back, and without even thinking about it I felt myself leaning back into him. His hands were still cupping my elbows, and even though I knew this was weird, that I’d never do it any other time, I just stayed where I was, pressed against him.