by Don Zolidis
“Huh.” You could tell the wheels were turning in his head to see if this was a “real job” or not. “Just don’t let him pay you in comic books.”
“Sure.”
He stopped and put the mop back in the bucket, resting his hands on his hips. “Oh shit, Craig.” He sighed deeply with his back to me. “I thought I’d have something by now.”
“I know.”
“Buddy, I’m really sorry.” He still wasn’t looking at me.
“It’s okay—”
“No, it’s not. It’s not okay.”
“Dad—”
“We didn’t have a whole lot when I was growing up. Grandpa had that store, but it was always just barely scraping by. We had to borrow money from Grandma’s family—she had to take extra work when she could get it. There was never a possibility that I was gonna go to college…. I got that job at Parker Pen early.”
I knew the story. Usually it was followed by something along the lines of I worked my ass off and that’s why you need to do your homework, damn it.
But his eyes were red when he looked at me. “And I thought that it wouldn’t be the same for my kids. No matter what I did, I was gonna make sure that you and your sister had the chance to go to school. I mean, that’s why I went to work every day.”
He wiped a tear away from his eye.
“I mean, that was the point, Craig,” he said, his voice cracking. “To make things better for you than they were for me.”
He wiped away another tear with a shaking hand. I took a step toward him, feeling the space between us for a moment, then reached out and held him.
“The shitty thing is that I thought I had done it,” he said. “I was on the path—and they just throw you in the garbage right at the end. They don’t give a shit. It’s all about money for them. I wanted to send you to that fruity school, damn it. If that’s where you wanted to go, with all the lesbians, that’s fine.”
“I don’t really know how many lesbians there were, Dad.”
“Seemed like a lot.” He took a deep breath. “I feel like I failed.”
After he left, I stayed in the basement, taking in the emptied room. How many hours had I spent down here with my friends? How much money had Mom and Dad spent on all this stuff? All the Christmas presents they’d gotten me, all the birthday presents. It was all still right here. They’d given me the space to be weird, to find my own way. And here it was, the gray concrete mopped down and clean.
I’m sure I wasn’t the son my father was envisioning. Welp, I’m a red-blooded American male with a big gun collection, I sure hope I get a trench coat–wearing Dostoevsky-ish nerd with no athletic ability whatsoever. I hope he hangs out with a guy who has a safety pin for an earring. That would be peachy.
And yet he loved me. He didn’t understand me, but he loved me.
And he had given up so much.
I knew what I had to do.
Kaitlyn was watching a 90210 marathon when I found her.
“This is rotting your brain,” I said.
“No doubt.” She had a bowl of Cheetos and was popping them into her mouth one after the other.
“So…uh…I want you to go to Madison next year.”
She turned to look at me, her cheeks chipmunked with Cheetos. “Wha…?”
“I’ve thought about it. I’ll stay at home and take some classes at U-Rock. You go to Madison. You can run track and do whatever it is you need to do.”
Kaitlyn tried to argue. “I thought we were gonna arm-wrestle for it.”
“Just accept it, okay? I’ll be fine. I’ll transfer in after a year or two, once Dad gets a job. All right? It’s not the end of the world.”
Kaitlyn seemed moved. She looked back at me.
“Thanks.”
“This show sucks, by the way.”
“Screw off.”
THINGS TO DO ON GRADUATION DAY
Put on a weird dress thing.
Take pictures with relatives you’ve never met.
Sit in the sun for a long time.
Not think about Amy.
How do they find the guest speakers for graduation day? Does someone just throw a dart at a wall? We had a guy who was the president of a bank or something. I guess the administration felt that, since he had made a lot of money, he would be a good person to give the graduation speech. Like, Hey, kids! Look at the man in the suit! He made money! You can too! I bet he worked hard in school and had high expectations!
I’m going to call him Bob.
Bob was the worst speaker in the history of humanity. My guess is that they made Bob president of the bank because he had started talking and it had been the only way to shut him up.
When you’re a twin, you quickly realize that, through the magic of alphabetical order, you will be sitting next to your twin at every event ever. As if I hadn’t seen enough of this person in the womb. Someday, when Kaitlyn and I are both dead, we will be buried next to each other. Anyway, so we were both in plastic blue dresses with funny hats and listening to Bob.
I had told my parents about my plan and it had caused an uneasy atmosphere of kindness to fall over the house. We weren’t quite sure what to do with it. I could sense Kaitlyn wanting to say something mean, then remembering my niceness, which kind of short-circuited her a little bit. Anyway, as she sat next to me listening to Bob, I could sense the weirdness coming from her.
Bob spoke slowly, as if all of us had both hearing and mental problems. “When. You. Look. Around. At. Your. Class. Mates. You. Will. See. People. Who. Changed. Your. Life.”
“Kill me now,” I said to Kaitlyn.
“You. Know. How. I. Became. Presi. Dent. Of. The. Bank?”
I started imagining that scene from Raiders of the Lost Ark when the Nazis open up the ark and murderous spirits melt their faces off. Blood spurts out of their faces, and they clutch their evil Nazi hats; and then they turn white (because they were made out of wax), and then they all scream and dissolve. I started hoping that would happen to Bob.
“It. Might. Be. A. Cliché. But. Hard. Work. Pays. Off.”
After two or three hours of this, in which no fewer than four birds committed suicide overhead, Bob was finished. There was a smattering of weak applause from the assembled graduates, who were too numb to do anything but bump their hands together like brain-dead seals.
Our principal, whose name was Mr. Johanssen and who was inexplicably from Sweden, took the microphone and wiped the sweat off his pale forehead. “Okay! Ya. Okay! And now a few words from our valedictorian, Amy Carlson.”
Amy somehow managed to make a shapeless blue dress and weird hat look great. Her hair fell over both shoulders, and there was probably a chorus of angels somewhere in the background.
“Don’t even look at her,” said Kaitlyn.
She started her speech.
“Don’t even think about her.”
“I can’t help it. She’s up there.”
Kaitlyn elbowed me. “Stop looking at her.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “I’m cool.”
“You are so not cool.”
“I want to talk about our dreams,” said Amy. “About holding on to our dreams in the face of reality. About holding on to the people who are important to you. Because we are going to face tragedy in the future. It is inevitable that there will be pain and suffering in our lives, and it’s a fact that we aren’t all going to make it to our reunions.”
Kaitlyn elbowed me and whispered, “This speech is a downer.”
“Yeah,” I said, smiling. “She’s doing great.”
“But, according to Fyodor Dostoevsky, suffering is the sole origin of consciousness.”
She paused just a bit to let that sink in, but I was the only one with a tear in my eye.
Afterward, there was a gauntlet of photos to survive. Elizabeth’s mom was first in line. She made eye contact with me and gave me a little wink.
“Okay, smile!” she said, bracelets jangling as Groash, Elizabeth, Brian, and I crowde
d together. We smiled.
“Okay, now just Brian and Elizabeth!” Brian and Elizabeth stood next to each other, arms around each other. They were adorable.
“Can we do one where we’re kissing?” asked Elizabeth. “Before his parents get here?”
“Yes!” said Brian.
“I’m in,” said Groash, grabbing Brian and trying to hump him just as his parents arrived with their tripod.
Brian’s father was lean and wiry, but you could tell by the crows-feet around his eyes that he was the kind of guy who smiled continuously. Even though I’d been friends with Brian for eight years, I’d only met his dad a few times. He spoke English fine, but his accent was thick and sometimes it was hard to understand him.
Brian’s mom was there as well—she was petite, and her black hair was swept up into a complicated bun-thing. She had a dazzling smile and was deeply involved in telling her husband how exactly to set up the tripod.
I thought about the sixteen months she had spent bringing food to Brian’s father while he was in a prison camp. That was longer than my entire six relationships with Amy. They spent two weeks together in the bottom of a cargo ship. They somehow managed to make a home in the middle of Nowhere, Wisconsin, and they were still in love.
And now their son had graduated, was going to a good school next year, and was a pretty damn good Dungeon Master.
They had made it. Maybe I could make it too.
“Hey,” Amy said, coming up from behind me.
“Hey,” I said.
“My mom wants to get a picture of the two of us.”
“Really?”
“Don’t act so surprised! Did you like the speech?”
“It was awesome. You’re great at making everyone feel terrible.”
She poked me with her long fingers. “I didn’t want it to be clichéd, you know.”
“Reminding everyone how some of us were going to die soon was a great way to do that. I’m kidding. It was great. It really was.”
“Thanks.”
“You probably should have made it more depressing. Talked about how most of us were going to fail.”
“They made me take it out, actually.” She smiled. “I was going to say, ‘Remember that half of you are below average.’ Or maybe I should have been like, Prepare for your low-wage jobs at Walmart, subhumans!”
“You should have been like, Kneel before Zod!”
Chelsea swept over. As vice president of the junior class, she was forced to attend because there was some sort of passing of the torch that needed to occur. She was wearing a red floral dress specifically designed to make everyone feel self-conscious in their shapeless blue wizard robes. “Oh my God,” she said. “That bank guy? I felt my brain starting to slide out of my ears. I thought about passing out just to liven it up.”
“Yeah, he was wonderful,” said Amy.
Chelsea hugged her. “You were wonderful. You kicked ass.”
“Thanks.”
“We should have you back next year to give the speech again.”
“Oh, there they are!” It was Amy’s mom.
She had a bandana over her head and was walking using a cane, but at least she was walking. Amy’s dad was helping her along, and Glenn was there, listening to his Walkman.
“Hey there,” I said as she hugged me.
Amy’s dad held out his hand. “You’re wearing a dress.”
“Yep. Yes I am. I was thinking of going nude under this—”
Amy’s mom laughed. “He is so funny! Don’t you think so, Dan?”
“He’s a comedian.”
“You know, Dan here did stand-up once. 1971. Milwaukee. He gets up—”
“Um…guys?” said Amy. “Can I talk to Craig alone for a minute?”
“Oh, sure, don’t mind us. We’ll just be over here.”
Chelsea raised her eyebrows and smiled.
Amy and I walked toward the side of the school. She kept her shoulder close to me.
Her hand slipped into mine.
I REPEAT: HER HAND SLIPPED INTO MINE.
In my mind’s eye I could see my friends screaming in slow motion, leaping to stop me. They’re too late. It’s over. All my dreams are coming true.
“So, hurm,” said Amy, taking a deep breath. “So here’s what I’m thinking.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I feel that now school is over, I’m in kind of a better place.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And I know that we have tried this before….”
“Uh-huh.”
“But I was thinking…”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
“Can you let me say this first?”
“Sure.”
Basically my negotiating stance was total surrender. Amy took my hand.
“I was thinking about the year. And about us. And my theory is that I’ve been thinking too much, you know? Like I’m resisting things because I’m worried about outcomes that I can’t really control. I should just let things…occur. You know what I’m saying? Like, change.”
“Change is good.”
“And just…I felt this way when we were in Milwaukee, that if there was one person I wanted with me, it was you. It was you. So…”
“Yeah.”
“So I think maybe…let’s go back to that place.”
“Done,” I said.
Amy shook my hand a bit. “I want you to think about it first.”
“Already did.”
“No, I mean take some time. Ask other people. Really think about it. Is this something you want to be getting back into?” There was a little pause when she realized what she had said. “That was a poor choice of words.”
“Okay, I’ll think about it.”
“Take twenty-four hours. After twenty-four hours, if you still want to go out, we can do that.”
“I feel like I should tell you now.”
“No, I want you to wait.”
“But what if you don’t feel the same way tomorrow?”
“Twenty-four hours. Okay? And I want you to think about what I wrote in the letter.”
My eyes went blank. “What letter?”
“The letter I wrote to you when we broke up.”
“Which time?”
“The fourth time, maybe.”
“Oh.” I hadn’t read that letter. “Yes. The letter.” I was about to play it off and then I stopped. “You know, I didn’t read that letter. I’m sorry I was…I was messed up, obviously, so I…I couldn’t really look at it.”
“Oh.”
“But I will. I’ll read it, and then I’ll find you tomorrow.”
Craig,
I’ve thought a lot about how to say this. That’s probably my problem in a nutshell: I think too much. Always thinking, even when it would be better to just be.
I think, and this sounds weird, that I know you better than you know me. You’re always open, and I think I’m always closed. I’m sorry about that. Maybe this letter will help explain me to you.
I’m just gonna come out and say this: I can’t be the person you want me to be. I don’t know that I’ll ever be that person for you.
Mabye you’ll say I’m scared and running away from you—maybe I’m doing that. Mabye I’m so fucked up on the inside that I don’t think I deserve love. Or I’m going to destroy it. Or destroy you. I watch my parents and I think about them, and their relationship is far from perfect, and I think my mom is controlling and everything, but that’s not it either.
I know I told you I got held back when I was little. But I was also tall and awkward and ugly as a kid. Other kids thought I was dumb. Add to that the fact that nothing I ever did was ever good enough for my mom—I could never be prety enough or skinny enough or smart enough. I was a very sad girl for a very long time.
I made a conshus decision in middle school—I was going to make myself something better. I wasn’t going to be the wierd girl anymore. I spent a lot of time building Amy Carlson. I pretend to be something. I built some kind
of statue of myself. Her skin is like marble, and she’s beutiful and smart and gets straight A’s.
She got popular. She started getting invited places. She started having boyfriends. She went out with Chad Darby because she thought it looked good. But none of that was true. None of that was the real me.
The blow-up with my friends—I told you about that—but mostly I told them all to go to hell. I broke up with them too. I broke up with Chad. I break up with everything. I have a theory it’s because I’m expecting to get hurt. I am wounded on the inside and I can’t be there for you. It hurts me to admit this. I feel like I’m carrying around an anchor. I need to be honest with you. You have tried so hard, you’re trying to do everything right, but I can’t have someone that does everything right in my life.
There’s that Amy that I built in middle school, and there’s the real Amy, who is a frightened, scared little girl still in there somewhere. There’s the girl who got picked on in school, who was ugly, who was dumb, whose real parents didn’t even want her. I was that girl. So I don’t trust it when people say they like me. Why would they like me? Would they like the real me? Maybe they just like the fake Amy Carlson that is the student body president and the valedictorian. Maybe they have no idea who I am.
So I run. I blow everything up. Because I don’t trust anyone. Because I’m afraid that I’m a lie.
I keep hurting you. I know I’m breaking your heart all the time. It kills me that I do this.
I realize your letters are funnier than mine. Sorry. I feel like I should put jokes in here.
I wish this letter was better. I wish I was better.
But I can’t keep doing this. I have to find a way to stop. And I think that has to mean being by myself for a while—until I can figure out which person is the real me, and be able to love you in the way you love me. And I know you love me. You love me in your way—openly, sweetly. And I can’t love you like that.
I’m sorry.
I’m so sorry.
Amy.
I set the letter down on my bed.
The window was open; the cool breeze fluttered in, reminding me of the night we had spent together, when we had kissed for hours in my bed. When it seemed like kissing was all that was necessary to be in love, to be in the same space with someone, full of joy. Maybe that had never been enough for her.