Not really.
Is it your mom?
Yes.
Do you want to talk about it? I’m here to listen. You’ve listened to me complain plenty about my parents.
Actually, I’d rather talk about anything but that right now.
We can do that, too.
We shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have.
But we did.
* * *
The next day, my hunt for employment finally paid off.
I got an e-mail from the bookstore at the mall, inviting me for an interview.
I sat down with the manager after school on Monday, but only for a few minutes. I got the sense they would hire pretty much anyone.
“It’s retail,” the manager, Sheila, said. “We get pretty busy around the holidays.”
“So this would just be seasonal?” I asked, a little disappointed. Any job would do, but I was going to need one well past the end of the year.
“Yes,” Sheila said. “But there’s always potential for you to be hired on in the new year, too.”
“Potential is good.”
“So you’re in?”
“Definitely.”
While I felt a little guilty about mooching off the Rushes, at least now I’d have money to pay for my gas and lunch without having to lie or borrow from Amy. I could also start saving up for new clothes, since I hadn’t packed many winter outfits when I left my house.
“Also,” Amy said when I told her the good news that night, “you can get me a discount on books.”
“Because you don’t have enough of those,” I said, gesturing to the overflowing bookcase next to her desk. “Have you even read all of those? Or even half?”
“It’s more about the collection,” she said.
I rolled my eyes. “One day, you’re going to be on a reality TV show, buried under your collection and needing a serious mental health intervention.”
“And you’ll be the concerned friend who, instead of finding me the help I need, decides to get me on TV.”
“Hey, girl. I need my close-up, too.”
We both burst into giggles, for once not worried about being too loud or waking her parents. I have to admit, it was nice to be done with the sneaking around. Between that and the new job, a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders.
Unfortunately, there were still a couple more I couldn’t seem to shake.
I had this recurring nightmare that started when I was eleven, when things with my mom began going south.
Or more south than they’d already been.
The dream began in my bedroom back home. I was doing something — homework or reading, I was never really sure — when I heard the front door slam. From there, it was always the same. I’d get up and call out to my mom, but there would only be silence. Thick, unnatural silence. Even the birds outside my window seemed muted all of a sudden. So I’d leave my bedroom and find that the house was nearly pitch-black. The sun, which had been shining through my bedroom window, vanished. I’d keep calling for my mom and hunting for a light switch, but they weren’t where they were supposed to be. And neither was the furniture. I’d reach to put my hand on the counter or go to sit on a chair and find nothing there. Eventually, I’d go to my mom’s room, sure she’d be there. Sure she’d be able to fix whatever had happened to our house.
But the door to her room was like the entrance to a black hole. The darkness was thicker. Darker than black. I screamed for Mom, but the hole swallowed it up.
That was when I’d wake up, shaking and desperate for a sound, any sound, just to know I wasn’t alone.
Sometimes I’d go months without having the dream, and sometimes it happened every other night.
It had been a while this time. I guess Amy’s snores had chased any nightmares of silence away. But the day after I got my new job, the nightmare came again.
I woke up with another scream on my lips, and I had to bite it back. The room was so dark that, for a minute, I couldn’t remember where I was. Next to me, Amy snored, loud and long. It was a small comfort, but after a few seconds of deep breaths and calming thoughts, I still couldn’t relax, let alone get back to sleep.
“Amy,” I whispered, nudging her arm and feeling only a little guilty about disrupting her beauty sleep. “Hey, Amy.”
Apparently, I wasn’t interrupting anything tonight because all she did was snort and roll away from me.
Don’t be stupid, I thought. You’re not alone. She’s right there, even if she can’t hear you. Go back to sleep, Sonny.
But the room seemed too dark, and the idea of closing my eyes, of adding another layer of blackness, made my heart thump uncomfortably in my chest.
“Screw it,” I mumbled, throwing the blankets off of me. I climbed over Amy, grabbed her cell phone from the dresser, and tiptoed out of the room.
The minute the light in the rec room flickered on, it was instantly easier to breathe. Like the darkness had actually been pressing down on me, crushing my chest. I walked over to the couch and flopped down on my back, Amy’s phone still in my hand. One of the benefits of borrowing her phone while mine was out of commission: She had a smartphone. Which meant games. I’d already downloaded a few free ones, along with some humorous, inappropriate text tones that Amy hadn’t found quite as funny as I had.
But even silly phone games with their bright colors and funny sounds couldn’t chase away the lingering nightmare. Or the knowledge that, even though the rec room was bright and familiar, I was still alone in here.
I can’t explain what I did next. It was stupid and self-destructive and wrong on many, many levels I didn’t care to think about. But I was lonely, and I needed to talk to someone. Anyone would have done, really. But there was only one person I knew might be awake at one in the morning on a school night. Which just so happened to be the first Tuesday in November. Well, I guess technically it was Wednesday now. Whatever.
So did your dad win the election?
Ryder had texted a few times in the past couple of days, but I’d either not responded or just replied with emojis that made no sense in the context of his comment or question. And when he sent back a question mark, I didn’t reply. How was that for flaky? Honestly, it was probably pretty good progress on the make-him-think-Amy-was-a-weirdo front, but here I was.
Messing it all up again.
Just as I’d expected, he was awake, and it only took him a second to text me back.
He did. Unfortunately.
Not so unfortunate for his constituents, though. I looked him up. He seems to be doing some good things.
Sure. When he’s not doing the model.
Before I could respond, Ryder sent another message.
He still wants me to come visit for Thanksgiving.
Will you?
Of course not.
But don’t you want to visit DC? I know you miss it.
I don’t think I do anymore. I’m pretty sick of DC.
I frowned. I knew things were bad with his dad, but this was a sharp turnaround for the guy who’d compared every little detail of Hamilton to the infinitely superior Washington, DC, since he’d arrived. But, thinking about it, I had seen far fewer snarky Facebook statuses since he’d learned the truth about his dad. Still, DC was his home. It was where he’d grown up. It was where his old friends were, even if they had drifted apart some. I would have expected him to take any opportunity to visit, even if for only a day or two.
He didn’t seem eager to talk about that, though, because he sent another message straightaway.
I know it’s only been a week, but I’ve missed these late-night chats.
Yeah. Me, too. I’ve been keeping my insomnia mostly at bay. But I couldn’t sleep tonight. Nightmare.
What about?
It wouldn’t make any sense if I explained it.
Try me.
I almost didn’t reply. I almost ended the conversation right there. I should have.
I’d never told anyone about my nightmare. Not even A
my. I’d called her in the middle of the night a few times, panicked and desperate to hear someone’s voice, but I’d always glossed over what the dream was about. I’d just say something like, “Something bad happened to my mom” or “I was trapped in a dark house.” I never went into details. I didn’t want to open that door. To expose that dark, broken place inside of me where all the bad things lived.
But for some reason, I wanted to tell Ryder. Maybe because — and yes, I knew this was sick — he wouldn’t know it was me. There was security in knowing he’d think it was Amy’s nightmare. Amy’s dark, broken place.
I was still freaked out and didn’t want to cut off the contact with another person just yet, so I found myself writing out the dream, taking up several long texts to do so. When I hit SEND on the last one, the one that explained my mother’s bedroom, I felt a pang of regret.
Too much, I thought. Too honest. Too close.
I didn’t think he’d reply. Maybe this would help him get over Amy once and for all.
But then:
Things really are bad with your mom, aren’t they?
Yeah.
I’m sorry about the nightmare. But they say if you talk about it, you won’t dream it again.
Does that count with texting?
I guess you’ll find out.
I smiled. Actually, I did feel a little better having it off my chest. The shaking had stopped and my heartbeat had slowed down. I might even manage to fall back to sleep if I tried to.
But right now, for better or worse (definitely worse), I wanted to keep talking to him.
Thanks for letting me share.
Of course. I just wish I was there with you.
I felt a mischievous smile tugging at my lips as I typed my response.
Oh, yeah? Why? What would you do if you were here?
For a minute, he didn’t respond, and I was worried I might have scared him off. I should’ve known better, though. At the end of the day, he was still a guy.
Are we really doing this?
Do you WANT to do this?
I do, but I have no idea how. I’ve never done it before.
You never sent sexy texts to Eugenia?
No. Have you?
No, I have never sexted with Eugenia.
You’re hilarious.
I know.
Pause.
If I were there, I would lie on the bed next to you and pull you into my arms.
I’m actually on a couch right now.
Are you TRYING to make this difficult for me?
No. Sorry. Continue.
Then I would … kiss your neck?
I snorted.
You seem unsure about that.
You make me nervous. I’d be nervous if I were there with you.
I felt my heart pound harder. There was something so sweet about him saying that. About the snobby, confident Ryder admitting he’d be nervous if we were alone together.
I’d be nervous, too.
Here’s another truth: I was a virgin. Not only that, but in seventeen years, I’d only been kissed one time, by Davy Jennings at the ninth-grade homecoming dance. His breath tasted like root beer and it had been enough to kill our fledgling romance. Most of what I knew about sex came from copious amounts of television, unintentionally hilarious Cosmo articles, and my interrogation of Amy, who had swiped her V-card at summer camp last year.
That’s something I doubted anyone would expect. That out of the two of us, I was the virgin with virtually no sexual experience while goody-goody Amy was not.
But right now, trying to think of things to say to Ryder, I found myself wishing I had more experience to pull from. He was right. This was difficult.
It’s your turn.
BRB. Googling how to do this.
LOL! So you give me a hard time, but you don’t know what you’re doing either.
OK, some of these sexting examples are hilarious. So that was no help.
We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.
No. Now I am determined to type at least one sexy thing, damn it.
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. I had to be overthinking this. I went to my imagination, where Ryder was lying next to me. Where he’d just nervously kissed my neck. What next? I tried to let the scene play out.
I’d slide my hand down your chest. Slowly.
I don’t know why, but I felt like everything sounded a little sexier when you added slowly.
I held my breath, my face scorching red, as I waited for Ryder to respond.
I’d reach for the hem of your nightgown …
Nightgown? You think I sleep in a nightgown? What century is this?
I don’t know what girls sleep in.
Well, right now I’m in just a baggy T-shirt and underwear.
Wow. That’s actually hotter than a nightgown.
We went on like this for about an hour, fumbling our way through texts that were usually more awkward and funny than seductive. But I was left giggling and feeling fluttery nonetheless.
We’ll get better at this eventually.
It wasn’t until I read that message from Ryder, though, that the dirty feeling began to sink in. Not fun, I’ve-been-sending-sexy-texts dirty either. The gross, I-need-a-shower dirty that came with suddenly remembering that all those messages, all those things he’d imagined us doing, had been for Amy. Every virtual kiss and touch, he’d imagined doing to my best friend. He’d pictured her hands, her long, thin body. Her dark, curly hair. Her face. Her lips.
And he thought we’d get better at it. That we’d do it again.
I thought I was going to be sick.
I didn’t write back after that. I didn’t say good-bye or good night. Instead, I went through and deleted every single text we’d sent over the past hour, knowing Amy would kill me (and have every right to) if she saw those messages.
When I crept back into Amy’s room, she was still snoring. I crawled over to my side of the bed and pulled the covers over my head, wishing I could hide from the guilt and the shame of what I’d just done.
The Ardmores had never been big on Thanksgiving. Or any holiday that involved gathering, really.
My dad wasn’t close to his parents. I’d only met them once, when I was five, and now all I knew about them was that they lived in Florida somewhere. My maternal grandmother had passed away a few months after I was born, and my grandfather had died when I was nine. He might have left his house to his only child, my mom, but before that, he’d been the cold, unfriendly sort. Mom never saw the point of making a fuss over a dinner for three people, and after my dad was arrested, I guess it seemed even more pointless.
The Rushes, on the other hand, loved Thanksgiving.
There were a few years a while back where Amy’s parents weren’t home much. They jetted from one business trip to another, and Amy spent most of the time at her grandmother’s. But even then, when the family seemed to be drifting apart, Mr. and Mrs. Rush always came home for Thanksgiving. They made a big deal out of it: a huge turkey, the best stuffing you’d ever tasted, and enough side dishes to feed an army of hungry soldiers. They also invited everyone they knew: their extended family, their friends, their kids’ friends. Which meant I got to be a part of the annual feast. It was always a highlight of my year, and it was always hard to go home, full and happy, to a dark, quiet house.
This year was different, though. This year I was able to experience the Thanksgiving festivities from the time I woke up in the morning until I went to bed that night.
I was incredibly excited about this, and even Mrs. Rush’s request to invite my mom couldn’t bring me down.
“There will be more than enough food. I know things are rough with you two right now, but she’s always invited to Thanksgiving dinner and we’d be here to serve as a buffer. It might be good for both of you,” Mrs. Rush said as I helped her clean the house that morning.
“I’ll see,” I said. “But I think she’ll probably have to work today. You know how retai
l is these days….”
Mrs. Rush shook her head. “Forcing people to work on Thanksgiving is just terrible.”
I nodded, relieved when there were no follow-up questions.
After that, the day was fabulous. Good food, lots of people, the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade on in the background. The Rushes celebrated Thanksgiving all day.
And into the next morning, too.
Because the Rushes not only loved Thanksgiving, they also loved Black Friday.
“I don’t understand,” I told Amy as we stood on the sidewalk outside of Tech Plus, an electronics store (the only non-grocery store in Hamilton) at four a.m. I had to work at the bookstore later that afternoon and knew I was gonna regret being up this early. “You’re loaded. Isn’t Black Friday meant for poor people like me? So you all can watch us fight to the death, Hunger Games style, over a half-price iPod?”
“We’re not loaded,” Amy said.
“Excuse me. What kind of car do you drive?”
“A Lexus.”
“And your brother?”
She sighed. “A Porsche.”
“I rest my case.”
She shrugged. “I guess my parents like deals.”
At that moment, Mr. and Mrs. Rush were in Oak Hill, waiting outside the mall to do some hardcore Christmas shopping. As much as I hated being awake before seven (okay, let’s be real, I hated being up before noon if I could help it), I couldn’t complain much. Amy and I did have the easiest of the Black Friday tasks. We just had to run in, grab the newest video game console, and get out.
“Your brother better know I was a part of this gift,” I told her. “I may not be contributing financially, but it is a testament to my affection for him that I got my ass out of bed for this.”
Lying Out Loud Page 8