Meant to Be

by Julie Halpern

  “We can head over to Madame Grizelda’s tent after lunch,” I joke. Luke’s dead-serious expression makes me wish I could take back a dorky joke about a psychic.

  “What I’m trying to say is: What do you think of me and you together? Like, for the summer? One last go before…” He trails off into the unknown.

  I’m dumbstruck. I want to stick my napkin in my ears and clean them out so they make a squeaky cartoon sound. Luke is saying exactly what I’m feeling, what I’ve fantasized coming out of someone else’s mouth, particularly one as tempting as Luke’s. When I take some time to think, he says, “I’m a tool. I know it sucks to hook up with someone when you know it can never last, and I don’t want to put you in an awkward position.”

  “Yes!” I interrupt with a probably too enthusiastic high-pitched cry. “I will absolutely be your noncommitted girl person.” Please put me in whatever awkward position you deem fit.

  Luke’s gray eyes glint naughtily. “Just for the summer, right? And pretend like the future doesn’t exist?”

  “What’s the future?” I snicker. Why is it he sounds like someone from a John Hughes movie, and I sound like a snorting Full House character?

  Who the hell cares? He wants to be with me. Time to stop asking questions.

  “All right, then.” Luke grins. I melt at those dimples. He looks at the clock. “Lunch is over.”

  “I wouldn’t want to keep Keely waiting. I’m sure she’s dying to eat her Ring Pop for lunch.”

  “And then an entire bag of cotton candy for dessert. I’ve seen her do it.”

  “Ah, the spoils of youth,” I say as we walk back to our rides. This time, when Luke hangs his arm over my shoulder, I hold his hand and lean in. Future be damned.

  CHAPTER 14

  Besides texting and/or messaging through any of seven different apps on my phone, my social media site of choice (for the last six months, so you know it must be good) is Chapbook. Embarrassingly enough, my mom got me into it. In her teens she created and sent real paper minibooks of poetry, pictures, questionnaires, comics—some pages meant only for reading, other pages with quizzes and multiple-choice surveys, some pages even left blank. She and her friends, whom she mostly met in the backs of teen magazines (that really used to exist. People would list their addresses in magazines so they could find pen pals with similar hobbies and obsessions. Seems like the perfect recipe for stalking and kidnapping, but my mom swears it was different back then. Don’t remind me), traded these “chapbooks” with each other so that they could, I guess, delve into one another’s minds and get the answers to pertinent questions like, “Would you rather drink a bottle of Tabasco sauce or your own pee?”*

  Since no one has time anymore to make and trade paper chapbooks (I don’t think. They for sure aren’t splaying out their home addresses in magazines for every Tom, Dick, and Scary to see), a brilliant woman of my mom’s generation invented Chapbook.com. The format is so gloriously old school, with each entry looking like a crappily photocopied book, and it offers a multitude of page formats for everything from a daily journal to a photo album to a survey where I, too, can ask my friends (and mild acquaintances, plus friends of mild acquaintances) if they would rather drink Tabasco or their own pee. (My own pee, by the way. Tabasco is gross.)

  What I like the most about Chapbook, aside from the creative slant as opposed to the complete “Look at me” parade of most social media sites, is that I don’t have to see anyone else’s crap unless I click on their icon. A list of Chapbook friends lines the side of the screen, and the only way I’ll see what they’re doing is by clicking on them. I much prefer it to looking at puffed-lip selfies and grammatically abhorrent updates.

  I click on Lish’s face, a picture that I took of her pretending to sun herself with a reflective panel (really a disposable turkey pan). I flip through the pages of her Chapbook, mostly filled with doodles about graduating high school and the start of summer. What begins as a smattering of posts about MTBs turns into a full-on assault by the end of her Chapbook. She obviously has Travis on the brain. I stop on a page with a quote: “We do not choose. He chooses it for us, and we are guided by our hearts.” —Susan Lobel.

  Huh? I know Lish is enamored with the idea of Travis, that he is The One, but is she seriously drinking the True Lover Kool-Aid? I don’t know who Susan Lobel is, and technically the He in reference may not be God, but why am I finding out such revelatory information on my best friend’s Chapbook?

  Or am I reading too much into it? Did she merely repost a quote about love because she’s feeling lovey-dovey?

  I close Lish’s book and flip through a few other friends’ Chapbooks. The themes of many are the same: true love, destiny, The One. Am I really in the minority here? I guess I’ve always known that I am, but here is solid Internet proof that even the people with whom I’m closest don’t share the same ideals as I do. If that’s the case, then maybe it’ll be infinitesimally more difficult to find partners who want to explore the world with me without the constraints of an Empty. What if I’m alone, and I don’t want to be alone, and therefore I am forced to find the one man who, based on my FLESH, is meant to be my man? What if I’m bullied into falling in love with Hendrix Cutter because there is no one left?

  My phone cackles at me, a sound byte from Hocus Pocus, and it’s Lish over Viddle, our video chat app of choice. Reluctantly I answer. “Travis will be here tomorrow!” I’ve never seen her so giddy. Well, maybe when she discovered the flippy-haired, gap-toothed beauty that was Zac Efron in High School Musical at age nine. And I don’t care what angle you’re shooting from—Travis is no Zac Efron.

  I wonder who Zac Efron’s MTB is. Seems the paparazzi never catch him with his shirt off anymore, even at the beach. Shame.

  While I’m thinking of something supportive to say, Lish carries on. I don’t think she’d notice if I hung up the phone. Or walked away to make a sandwich. I kind of want a sandwich.

  “We chatted for two hours today. Two hours! We have so much in common. How did my body pick the perfect guy for me? It’s insane.”

  Insane is one way to view it. “Maybe you shouldn’t be talking for such long chunks of time. What if you run out of things to say? What if you’ve already run out, and he arrives tomorrow and all you can say is hello?”

  Damn, I’m being a shitty friend. I try to reel in my cynicism for Empties. “But probably not. I’m sure you’ll have lots to talk about. And if not, you can watch a movie and discuss it. Or read a book. You could start a book group!” I enthuse. “But remember: Don’t invite me. Because if there’s one thing that stops me from reading a book, it’s the accountability of a book group.”

  I’m blathering about book groups.

  “Which outfit did you choose?” I ask, hoping I sound genuinely interested, which I would totally be under normal circumstances. Lish and I have dressed over the phone for countless bar mitzvahs, birthday parties, school dances, and first dates. But dressing for her Empty, for Travis (will I ever be able to say his name without disdain?), gives me that icky tummy knot you get when the seat belt light pings mid-pee in an airplane bathroom.

  My discomfort is not necessarily with Travis proper. For all I know, he’s a great guy and a suitable match (I refuse to use the word perfect) for Lish. But for frak’s sake, does it have to happen now? When we’re only eighteen? Why couldn’t the Names appear when we’re twenty-five instead? When we’ve had time to percolate, mature, explore, experience, graduate college … for those who want to do that. Or travel the world seeking out new and unusual amusement parks, if that’s what floats our boats. Finding your partner for life at eighteen is putting an expiration date on youth.

  Lish and I have been partners for a solid fifteen years. When we were little, we played Star Wars and My Little Ponies and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. We made them fight and fall in love and fly on airplanes. I had the travel fantasy even then, and none of our story lines were impeded by a lack of free will. Then the Naming happened, and e
ven though we were getting too old to technically play with toys, we still did so, on occasion, holed up in Lish’s bedroom. The story arcs began to morph. Princess Leia knew from the get-go she was looking for Han Solo. There was never an uncomfortable kiss with her twin brother, Luke. Instead of looking for help to save the galaxy, she was seeking her MTB.

  And it wasn’t just me and Lish who changed history with the Naming. Pop culture jumped on that shit quicker than me flying out of my bed when I spot an earwig. Existential art films examining the pull of destiny versus choice, of old loves broken, became award-season fodder. Big-budget romance flicks of lovers overcoming great obstacles to find their MTB. Reality TV following young men and women on their searches. Follow-up reality programs about life with the newlywed MTBs. Science-fiction novels about futuristic MTB technology, where scientists can synthesize the proteins involved in creating the Name at birth so you can actually start dating at one week old. Pop stars crooning about serendipity; indie rockers warbling over love lost when Empties are found; clothing lines specifically designed to showcase the Names.

  If I didn’t see it on my own skin, I would dare to say the whole thing was a complete scam devised by mass media corporations.

  Lish, while more enamored with the concept of an MTB than I, still managed to share a relatively normal high school existence with me. There were giggles and boys and curfews and fights and fencing club and after-school jobs and good-enough grades that we both aspired to go to college.

  I guess we both changed a bit on that front.

  Not that either of us doesn’t want to go to college. Sort of. Someday. Lish is all forward momentum, choosing a local university with a promising chemistry program. I’m technically still registered at another nearby school (until the Wizard gives me some courage and I tell my mom my actual plans) with a decent art history program as well as graphic design. Not that I necessarily want to pursue careers in either of those fields. How am I supposed to know what I want to do for the rest of my life? And to top that off, the universe decided it also needed to throw who I’m going to spend the rest of my life with into the mix?

  I can only hope having Travis around doesn’t change things too much between me and Lish. I don’t know if I could take that.

  “So I have a little guy news myself,” I segue, hoping my prior fears about Lish’s judgment go unfounded.

  “Hendrix found you! I knew it!” Lish bounces on her bed.

  “Calm down, Lish. Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m talking about Luke.”

  “From work?” I detect an air of skepticism. Or maybe I’m projecting.

  “Yes. He doesn’t have a girlfriend anymore, and he looks ten times more tasty than he ever has, which is saying a lot because he was already a six or whatever on your fancy ice-skating scale. He kind of asked me to go out for the summer.”

  Her face reads mom-level concerned, and I watch as she deep breathes herself down a couple of notches. “Just for the summer?”

  “That’s what I said. For the summer. But it would be perfectly okay if it lasted longer. I mean, what if we really like each other?” I don’t know who I’m trying to convince more, me or Lish.

  “That would be … nice?” I give Lish friend points for her attempt at supporting me. Not that there’s anything to support. Luke and I said we’re together for the summer, and that’s that.

  But what if it’s not?

  How does one casually date when the future has been vehemently laid out in dissenting directions?

  I don’t want Lish to hear the confusion in my voice. “Don’t worry, my little Lish loaf. One fun summer is not going to kill my romantic future. Enjoy your Travis dreams. I can’t wait to hear all about your first day together. I’m sure it is meant-to-be perfect.” I chuckle.

  We hang up, and instead of feeling happy for Lish’s big day or for my destiny-free summer, I merely feel aimless.

  Isn’t that what I wanted?

  CHAPTER 15

  I wake nursing a strange combination of anticipation and dread. My aim is to suppress the negativity over Travis’s arrival by focusing on the newly established relationship with Luke. Relationship might be the wrong word. Is he technically my boyfriend? Do people have “boyfriends” once they grow their MTBs? Am I theoretically cheating on Hendrix Cutter? I wonder how that would make him feel. I wonder if Hendrix Cutter wonders how I feel. I wonder why I can’t stop myself from wondering about Hendrix Cutter.

  “Luke Jacobs,” I say his name aloud as I brush my teeth in my underwear. Spit. See. That wasn’t so hard. Well, it wouldn’t be if Hendrix Cutter’s name wasn’t staring at me from above my bra. So rude.

  I slide a clean Haunted Hollow shirt over my head. I made sure to wash it last night, seeing as it might be in close proximity to Luke. I wouldn’t want the daily rank of working nearby a funnel cake stand to overshadow our freshly formed …

  There it is again. What are Luke and I if we’re not each other’s MTB?

  I am already bored of postulating, and the monstrosity only blossomed on my chest days ago. Is this why people get together with their Empties? Because they are driven mad by the constant reminder? It’s like, “Fine! I don’t want to meet this person, but I can’t stop thinking about him and I would like to presume he can’t stop thinking about me so let’s get it over with and fall the fuck in love already.”

  Bloody romantic.

  I sit next to Uncle Jim on the couch. He watches DVR’d episodes of Maury every morning before he writes. Some days I join him, even though the monotony of the show’s theme annoys the shit out of me. Particularly over the last week.

  Maury looks into the camera and says a string of words he has spoken countless times over the last six years. “We have three sets of eighteen-year-old friends. Some are certain they are each other’s MTBs. They have yet to reveal the Names on their chests and have come to us today to find out the truth.”

  “Ugh,” I groan, sitting down with a piece of raisin toast. “The biggest morons go on this show. Seriously, you can’t just ask the other person? Peek down their shirts? Bust in on them ‘by accident’ in the shower?”

  “They want the drama. They want to be on TV.” Uncle Jim sips his coffee knowingly.

  “Do they think looking like a dumbass on a show only watched by total weirdos—present company completely included—is going to lead to fame?” I sound worked up, but I love that shows—and people—like this exist. Because then I get to watch and laugh at them. They get their fifteen minutes of Maury fame, and I get to feel superior to a subset of my fellow Americans.

  This at least makes sense to me.

  Plus, Uncle Jim and I have this conversation once, maybe twice a week.

  Back on Maury, the first couple has donned their “soul mate suits,” a ludicrous creation that looks like a set of scrubs with a plastic window sewn into the chest area. Concealing the window is a patch of fabric, clinging for dear life with Velcro and covered with clever question marks, as though the Riddler designed the ensemble.

  The slow reveal is expertly dragged out by Maury, honed through years of practice back when his catchphrase was “You are NOT the father!”

  When the young man and woman finally rip their Velcro veils from their shirts, Maury yells out, “You are NOT the soul mate!”

  The young woman on the television sobs, while her anticipated beau jumps onto his pleather chair to celebrate. “I told you! I told you!”

  “Romance never looked quite so beautiful.” I shake my head, wiping away a fake tear. “Time to go to work,” I announce and peel myself off the couch. Before I leave the house, I feel the need to glean my uncle’s opinion on the Luke state of affairs.

  “Uncle Jim,” I call from the front door. He looks up from his WHAT WOULD BUFFY DO? coffee mug and crooks an eyebrow at me. “Remember that guy I told you about from work? Luke?” Uncle Jim switches eyebrows. A gift. “Well, we’re kind of going to go out this summer. Like, date, I guess. I don’t quite know what it means, since
we both have MTBs now and it’s supposed to just be for the summer, but he’s really cute and funny and I’ve always liked him and…”

  Uncle Jim finally puts the eyebrows to rest and speaks. “Aggy, you do what you want. Don’t let any letters on your chest dictate your life. Go have fun. Ask yourself what Savannah Merlot would do,” he offers. “Just don’t tell me too many details.” He grants me a coy smile and returns to sipping his coffee.

  Feeling puffed up by the advice, I open the door to leave. As I shut it behind me, I hear Uncle Jim shout, “Wear a condom!”

  Is this happening?

  It’s not like I haven’t had a boyfriend before or been in a relationship or hooked up or whatever. But this is a new era.

  And it is Luke Jacobs.

  He of the newly expanded shoulders and shaggy, grabable hair and mysterious mood-ring eyes. And I have not forgotten every delectable moment of last summer’s kiss. What if that’s all he wants? A summer booty call? Would I be okay with that?

  He is überlovely, but I also kind of like him. Enough that when I’m alone in my bed on a lazy Saturday morning, it’s him that I think about. That when I eat a caramel apple during the fall, long after the gates of Haunted Hollow have closed for the season, I reminisce about the time Luke and I were practically attacked by bees as we attempted to eat candy apples during one of our breaks. And I like him enough right now that I don’t want to admit to myself that the anticipation of seeing him is probably the reason I have to poo when I get to work.

  I wonder if love equals poo in anyone else’s world.

  Not that I love Luke. I don’t know him well enough to go that far. So let’s just say I like him and I better stop getting red lights or I’m going to have to call in sick as a result of not making it to a bathroom in time.

  This conversation in my head has been brought to you by the Irritable Bowel Syndrome Society.