“You want to order your plane ticket?” Uncle Jim practically scares me back down the rickety steps the second I make it up.
“No. I mean, not now. That’s not why I’m visiting.”
He shrugs, looking disappointed, then sits in one of the fluffy chairs. Jazzy music emanates from the stereo, probably to set the mood for a kinky boudoir scene. It is truly a testament to what a good author my uncle Jim is that this man in a Mr. Bubble t-shirt and sweatpants can become a glamorous, crime-fighting vixen.
“I have something to tell you,” I start.
“Oh, fuck, you’re pregnant, aren’t you? I should have given you the sex talk instead of just letting you read my books. What a shitty uncle…”
I interrupt with a laugh. “No, I’m not pregnant. I use condoms.”
“Thank god.” He puts his hand to his chest.
“But Lish is,” I add.
He looks dumfounded. “Little Lish? She was always such a good girl.”
“What are you saying about me?” I ask defensively.
“I’m not saying anything. Lish just has that air of innocence surrounding her that you never had.”
“I guess.” I try not to be offended.
“Anyway, so she’s pregnant. Who’s the father?” Uncle Jim asks.
“Travis,” I say with an eye roll. “Her Empty.”
“You’re still calling them that, huh?”
“Yeah. I learned that from you, you know.”
“Oh, you did?” He sounds disappointed. “I’m teaching you all kinds of bad stuff, aren’t I?”
“What’s so bad about calling them Empties?”
“Because maybe there’s more to it than we want to believe. What if it’s real? What if instead of Empty, they’re meant-to-be and they make our lives full?”
“Oh God, you didn’t,” I accuse.
“Didn’t what?” Uncle Jim asks.
“Find your Empty. You’re going to move out with her, aren’t you? Leave my mom alone?”
“It’s not like that, Agatha. I’m not moving out. But a man can’t live off fan mail and writing oral sex scenes alone, now can he?”
“So have you talked?”
“A little,” he demurs.
“Who is she? Where is she? Does Mom know?” I ask.
“Mom does know. And she is okay with it. We’re taking it very slowly anyway.”
“But how can I go to Australia if you’re leaving Mom, too?” I hadn’t realized that part of why I was comfortable going so far away was that my mom had a partner in Uncle Jim. Now what if I’m gone, he’s gone, and her MTB is dead?
“Your mom is an adult. Hell, she’s never home. Did you know she went out for coffee with that fish counter guy?”
“What?” I’m both excited and disgusted at the thought of my mom on a date.
“Your mom is a trooper. She is resilient and brave and stubborn as hell. Where do you think you got it?” he asks.
I fill with pride at the notion that I could be like my mom, who, completely without me noticing, has built a pretty cool life without my father or her MTB.
“Don’t you feel kind of like a traitor, finding your MTB?” I ask.
“Aggy, dear, it’s not the MTB that I’m so against, and I don’t think that’s what you’re opposed to, either. It’s all about choice. If I choose to find this person, and if I like them, aren’t I still making a choice? And if you don’t want to find yours, that’s your choice to make. And if Lish wants to throw her life away by having a baby at eighteen and settling down with a cowboy, who are we to judge?”
I snicker at his snark.
“My brain wants so badly not to end up with my MTB, just to prove the system wrong,” I sigh.
“But it’s not a system, is it? We don’t know what it is. The Name that’s on your body is yours alone, Agatha. And your name is out there on his body. Doesn’t that excite you in the least?”
My chest itches. My heart hurts. My stomach jumps.
No matter how much I wish he didn’t, Hendrix Cutter turns my body electric.
CHAPTER 34
A week passes, and so much and so little happen. In Lish’s life, a baby is growing, a wedding is being planned, a move is being scheduled. In my life I go to work, come home, and play video games. Luke and I, as friends, paint the wall. We’re getting closer to finishing. Only a few more detailed devils, and the wall will be back to its satanic majesty. While we paint, I pontificate about the future of the wall.
“You realize our work will be here even when we’ve long moved on,” I say. “It’s crazy to think we might not be back next summer.”
“You’ll probably be painting murals in Australia. Kangaroos and koalas and boomerangs.” I laugh. “And I’ll be … I don’t know.” He puffs out some pensive air. “I did something last night,” he tells me very guiltily.
“What?” I demand, concerned by his tone.
“I contacted Scarlett.” He looks at me from his place at the wall, where he adds flames to a faded fire. The setting sun brings out the green in his eyes.
“Oh,” is all I can muster.
“Are you mad?” he asks.
“I don’t think so,” I admit. “I feel like I could be, but, first off, we’re not really un-dating anymore. We haven’t kissed in, what, more than a week? And it’s been really nice not having the added pressure of the sex and relationship stuff.”
“Totally,” he agrees enthusiastically.
“Of course part of me wants to be eternally desired. I mean, who doesn’t want to feel wanted?” I ask.
“Right. And in a way, I wouldn’t mind if you were a little jealous because that would mean you still had feelings for me, and that’s cool, too.”
“We’re total assholes,” I say.
“But honest assholes,” Luke adds.
“So what was she like?” I ask, turning back to the wall to paint. I figure if my face belies my feelings, it won’t be a problem if he can’t see it.
“She seems pretty cool. Smart. Funny. Ambitious. She’s really into the circus arts.”
“What does that mean?” I ask, hoping the bite in my voice didn’t register.
“It’s kind of performance gymnastics. She hangs from scarves. Like Cirque du Soleil. I guess she’s really flexible.”
“I guess she’s really flexible,” I mimic under my breath. Oops. I guess I’m more jealous than I thought.
Luke must notice because he approaches me. “Do you want me to stop talking about her?”
“No, no.” I wave the thought away. “It’s fine. It’s cool. Go on,” I say completely unconvincingly.
“This is going to sound really stupid, but after talking with her, I don’t even feel like having sex with you anymore.”
“What?” I’m dumbfounded at the ridiculous statement.
“That didn’t come out the way I meant it to. I guess what I mean is that I still really like you, and think you’re adorable-slash-hot, but my body isn’t reacting to those thoughts anymore. Does that make sense?”
It’s like the same aliens who abducted Lish have now taken over Luke, and he’s spouting gibberish just so he doesn’t have to touch me anymore.
“I get it.” I look at anything but Luke. “You’re not into me anymore. You’ve moved on. It’s cool. We already agreed to be friends, so no big.”
“Aggy.” Luke gently takes my chin so that I’ll look at him. “I want you to understand. Even though we’re here, and the sun is setting, and there are a whole lot of empty boats just waiting for us to get buck naked, I don’t want to. Something happened when Scarlett and I spoke. It sounds so crazy, but it’s true!”
“It’s the whole ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ thing,” I clarify.
“But, like, for real. Not an excuse. Not a line. For real.”
I look at Luke quizzically, then dive in for a kiss. It’s a short one, no tongue, and Luke barely has time to reciprocate before I pull away. “Anything?” I ask. He looks pitifully at me. I grab
his hand and place it on my shirt-clad breast. “How about now?”
“I still like the way it feels, for sure, but I don’t want to do anything with it.”
“So it would be pathetically desperate of me to strip right now?” I check.
“If that’s what you want to do, go for it. But I’m not going to act on it. I hope that doesn’t offend you. Like I said, it’s not you.” I try not to slump and to accept what Luke says. It’s what I wanted, I guess.
The conversation dies, and we clean up the paintbrushes. At our cars, Luke warmly, and completely without sexual connotation, hugs me good night. I receive it stiffly.
I drive home baffled. Did Luke choose to stop feeling a certain way about me? Is he so smitten with Scarlett that he doesn’t have eyes (or lips or hands) for anyone else? Or is there some freaky chemical reaction that happens when MTBs meet? Maybe it’s different for everyone. Maybe Luke is an extreme case.
Maybe the only way I’ll ever know the answers is if I talk to Hendrix Cutter.
* * *
I’m home, the glow of my computer screen illuminating my dark bedroom. My uncle is asleep; my mom left a note on the kitchen table alerting me that she is out—not on a date, she stressed—with the seafood guy. I am essentially alone. Just me and the entire rest of the world that is available at the click of a button.
If I want to, I can do more than lightly cyberstalk Hendrix Cutter. I can send him a message. I can find his home address. Hell, I can order a drone right now to bring him a cookie bouquet.
I’m antsy. I need to reach out to someone, to know that I’m not the only person left over the age of eighteen who doesn’t know what she wants. Sure, there are obvious others, the zealots who tattoo over their Names, the ones who stay with their current partners, but I don’t fit into that. Maybe Sahana hasn’t succumbed to her Empty. Her parents had an arranged marriage; they could want the same thing for her. Or she could want the same thing for herself. We all still have a choice, don’t we?
I text Sahana to see if she’s home. The minute it takes for her to reply is too much time, and my eyes burn from staring at my screen’s background pic, a childhood photo of me and Lish with balloons stretching out our Phineas and Ferb t-shirts like enormous breasts. The irony. When Sahana finally gets back to me, she writes:
At my aunt’s. Can text under the table if you need.
Me: Quick question: thoughts on MTBs?
Sahana: Hardly a quick question. My mom gave me choices: College plus no dating or find my MTB and we’ll talk.
Me: Are those good choices?
Sahana: I hate making decisions, so I appreciate concrete options.
Me: This is love we’re talking about, not groceries.
Sahana: Love can grow where we want it to. My parents showed me that.
Me: So where do you want it to grow?
Sahana: Not at a local college for damn sure. I’m going to Brown. As for the love part …
Me: Keep me in suspense, why don’t you.
Sahana: I’ve been chatting with my MTB all summer. He’s adorable AND Indian, so win-win.
Me: Why didn’t you tell me?! Congrats!
Sahana: You’ve been going off on “Empties” diatribes for years. Why would I put myself through that?
Me: Fair enough.
Sahana: What’s your plan?
Me: 1) Australia
2) Fuck if I know
Sahana: Sounds like a perfect plan for you. Gotta go. My mom is giving me the stink eye.
Me: Ciao
I really am the only one I know.
But wait … Hendrix Cutter is still out there not talking to me. Therefore, I am officially not alone in my crusade against … what is my crusade against at this point? It’s not against love. I don’t even know if it’s against choosing your MTB over actual, falling-in-love love. What once felt like a crusade really just feels like me marching in protest in front of a Dunkin’ Donuts when they run out of Munchkins. Nobody else gives a damn and, really, if I’m that unhappy I should either go to the other Dunkin’ Donuts three blocks away or buy a full-size donut and be done with it.
Why do we never have donuts in the house?
At least Hendrix Cutter has a girlfriend. He has love. He has commitment. He has … MY NAME FLARING FORTH FROM HIS CHEST.
I can’t take it anymore. Whether I’m compelled to do so out of resignation or a cosmic ray of bullying, I log on to Chapbook. I haven’t visited since the night Lish told me she was pregnant. Immediately after talking with her, I shut it down. I didn’t want to see the Hendrix Cutter search; something about Lish’s news felt like a bad omen when looking at a picture of one’s meant-to-be.
Three messages await me. The first, from Lish, was written soon after she broke the pregnancy story, wondering when I would talk to her. The second was from Adam, the week I punched him, offering me a dozen virtual roses as an apology. The third was sent yesterday from Pippa Cutter.
The instant I read the last name, my heart threatens to extract itself through my mouth.
Pippa Cutter is Hendrix Cutter’s sister.
I can barely swallow as I open the message.
Dear Agatha,
My name is Pippa Cutter, and I’m fifteen years old. This is probably totally wrong of me, but I had to write to you to let you know that my brother is your MTB. You probably already know that, seeing as his Name is also on your chest. Unless it’s not, and you are one of the few unmatched people. Also, I am assuming you are my brother’s MTB and not the four other Agatha Abramses I found who are all over sixty. Do you live anywhere near Brunswick East? It’s a suburb of Melbourne, in case you live in a different state.
I’m babbling. I don’t even know what I want to tell you except that my brother is a great guy who is dating a total dag and is super stubborn about meeting you. He keeps going on and on about free will and choice, and I think he’s a dick for it. You look really cute in the pictures I found of you online. (Yes, I am stalking you, but not in a creepster way. I merely want you to find my brother so the two of you fall in love and then I get a really cool sister-in-law. Is that too much to ask?)
Please don’t hate me for being nosy, and I know this is none of my business. The thought of finding true love is just about the most romantic thing I can think of, and since I have to wait three years, I’m going to force my brother to find it if it kills me.
Also, please don’t kill me.
Signed,
Your hopeful future sister-in-law,
Pippa
PS Do you like dogs?
Clearly this family is horrible and evil and WHY IS SHE SO CUTE?! I can’t even. There is far too much info to be gleaned from this e-mail that I spend the next two hours scrutinizing:
1) Hendrix Cutter has a loving sister. A sister who loves her older brother means her older brother is probably not a dickwad.
2) She is sweet in her own right, so probably good parenting.
3) Hendrix Cutter still has a girlfriend. But she sucks. According to Pippa anyway.
4) They live in a suburb of Melbourne. If that means what I think it does, there is a realistic chance that my mind will explode and I won’t have to worry about Hendrix Cutter or MTBs ever again.
Does Hendrix Cutter live in Australia?
I text Lish, forgetting for a moment that not only is she practically married but also with child, and pretend that we are as we once were: plain-old best friends.
Me: Help! Hendrix Cutter’s sister messaged me. Need analysis pronto!
In a second, Lish texts back: TELL ME ALL
Me: Sending message over Chap.
I cut and paste the message from Pippa into a letter for Lish. Instantly a bubble from Lish pops up on my Chapbook.
Give me 5 minutes.
I use the five minutes to go to the bathroom, twice, and drink approximately a gallon of water. Then I go to the bathroom again.
When I return to my computer, Lish has sent me a highlighted and annotated versi
on of Pippa’s letter. Sections of it stand out in blue-colored blocks with handwritten notes like, “Conscientious!” “Complimentary!” “Polite!” “Honest!” Lish especially enjoyed the signature of “hopeful future sister-in-law,” as evidenced by the halo of red hearts.
As I read her comments, my Viddle rings. The second I answer, Lish’s too-close-to-camera face looms. “Find him!” she commands.
“And hello to you,” I try to make light.
“You have to find him, Aggy. He’s perfect for you!” She draws out the word perfect like she’s Catwoman.
“How do you know he’s perfect for me?” I want to be defensive, but my cheeks are fighting to smile. Why do I feel so giddy?
“Because he is stubborn just like you and claims he doesn’t believe in MTBs, just like you, but you are crumbling and so will he!” Lish clasps her hands maniacally.
“You are crackers, and I am not crumbling. I didn’t send the message. He didn’t send it. His sister did. That would be like you sending Hendrix Cutter a message.”
And before I finish saying that, I’m kicking myself.
“Thank you for your permission! Good night!”
Lish is gone. Off the phone, and off her rocker.
She’s kidding, right? She’s off-balance from her pregnancy hormones. She won’t actually do it when she knows I don’t want her to. But if I truly don’t want her to, why do I feel so stupidly excited?
CHAPTER 35
My face is bugging the hell out of me. I want this dopey smile to go away. I have no reason and no right to be happy about essentially nothing, and yet here I am making my breakfast like I’m Snow Fucking White or Sleeping Dipshit Beauty or whichever obsolete Disney princess surrounds herself with joyous animals. I swear Rugburn is dancing.
I pop a slice of rye bread into the toaster to a beat that plays in my head, and I rap on the counter with the butter knife. Hell, I blow bubbles in my orange juice glass with a straw. A straw? At breakfast? Have I lost my mind?
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