We Can't Be Friends

by Cyndy Etler

  WHEN GOD CLOSES A DOOR, HE OPENS A WINDOW.

  So that’s what I did. I got up off the toilet and opened the window. It’s like the birds were out there waiting for me, because they started swooping and singing, and I swear, they were talking to me. Not in English, exactly, but—I don’t know how to explain. Just, I suddenly understood some things, as I stood there watching and listening to them.

  They were so happy, arcing back and forth like hacky sacks. They reminded me of Mack. Who’s dead. Who shouldn’t be dead but who is dead. The birds told me I didn’t want to be dead. They told me that inside, underneath what’s happening on the surface, I’m like Mack; I’m like them. Happy for no reason. And it’s not right to kill what’s happy. Even if the happy isn’t showing yet.

  So I decided, again, not to die. Kind of for Mack. Kind of for the birds. Kind of for me. I decided, instead, to tell my mother that she needs to take me back to the psychiatrist. That I can’t wait for my six-month-dosage evaluation; I need to go now. I even made the appointment myself, so my mother couldn’t pretend to forget to do it.

  She was pissed. As she told me in the car on the way there. “Do you have any idea how much you’re costing me right now? Just the gas to drive to this appointment alone is—”

  But I did something unbelievable: I cut her off. I reached through the space between us, clicked on the radio, and turned it up, loud. If you don’t believe in miracles yet, you will now. The song that was playing? The Grateful Dead. The one where he tells us, over and over, that he’s gonna survive.

  Which is so true. The song and the message from God about closing doors and opening windows. Because Blanca’s been here all along, a window locked tight. All I had to do was close the door on Club 12, and fwoosh! The Blanca window opens, and all this fresh air rushes in.

  Here’s how it happens. I’m shuffling into school Monday, gripping my scungy Dunkin’ mug. I’m late-late, as usual. But this semester, my first class is math with Mr. Gomez, and he doesn’t think late arrival is cute. So whenever I click open the door and try to smile my way to my seat, he’s always, “No thanks, Etler. Go sign in at the office.” Which means detention.

  Monday, though, when I see Blanca walking toward his class on her way back from the lav, I’m like, “Blanca! Sneak me in!”

  And she smiles and goes, “I gotcha.”

  So she clicks the door open, and she smiles at Mr. Gomez, and when he looks back down at his grading, she finger curls at me and I slip into the room behind her. One door click, two students, no Gomez the wiser. After we slide our butts into our seats, Blanca turns around and gives me a thumbs-up. Which feels, swear to God, as good as “Welll…hey!”

  The next day, before English class, Blanca and Candy McAllister are talking about college rejection letters. Blanca turns to me and asks, “Where’d you apply, Cyndy?”

  And I say, “Smith.”

  And Candy says, “Only?”

  And I say, “Only.”

  And Blanca says, “Accepted?”

  And I say, “Rejected.”

  And Blanca says, “Ouch.”

  And I say, “Ouch.”

  The weird thing is, this conversation about getting rejected makes me feel accepted.

  “What’d you do when you got the letter?” Candy asks.

  “I went out dancing.”

  Which makes them both laugh.

  “You’re such a trip, Etler,” Blanca says.

  “Not the acid kind, though,” I say. And they both laugh even harder. Which feels better than a hug.

  Then Mrs. Skinner comes in the room. She looks at the three of us talking, and she tilts her head and smiles. And suddenly everything’s okay, like the first day of spring.

  Mrs. Skinner says to copy the notes from the board, but Blanca writes me a note instead. It says, “I’m going dancing Saturday. You in?”

  On a little slip of paper I write back,

  OH

  MY

  GOD

  FUCK

  YES

  She reads it, then turns and gives me another thumbs-up. Blanca Halliwell. The cheerleader. With the perfect blond curly hair. Oh my God, fuck yes.

  • • •

  To get to Blanca’s club, we take the Merritt, not 95. The Merritt’s a whole other world, more trees than traffic. We get off at an exit for Greenwich, but didn’t we just drive by a “Welcome to New York” sign? In the dark, I couldn’t tell. Blanca’s got the sunroof open and a new wave mix tape playing, so we can’t really talk. Which is awesome. Because what could I talk about with a cheerleader?

  Before I got in her car, she had said, “I like your outfit,” which made me feel great. It’s a mishmash, my outfit: Guess jeans, black pumps I got from Deanna, and a sweatshirt I sliced up to look Flashdance. Then, when Blanca was curving the car around the exit ramp, I think she said, “I’m psyched you came out.” Which made me feel delirious, but also mortified. Because who thinks in words like “delirious”? And who gets delirious about having a new friend?

  Her club is a black box in a black parking lot surrounded by black woods. It’s called the Haven, even though there’s no sign. She pushes the black door open, and there are a few people in a hallway and a door guy who says, “Age?” and Blanca says, “Eighteen.” She gives him a ten and he gives her a turquoise wristband.

  He says to me, “Age?” and I ask, “Why?” and he says, “Twenty-one and up to drink.”

  I look at Blanca with my stomach doing somersaults. “Drink?”

  She says, “Just give him a ten.” So I do, and he gives me a turquoise wristband.

  The next thing I know, we’re in the black cubicle of the club. There are zero windows, and there’s a bar with glass shelves and fluorescent lights and bottles. I’m scared. Because no windows. Because alcohol. Because it’s half Straight, half everything Straight warned me about. Because what am I doing here? Because what if alcohol spills on me? What if I slip and have a drink? What if Blanca realizes what a loser I am?

  I’m spinning in a tornado of fear. I can’t be here with all this alcohol, but I can’t get home on my own! If I ask Blanca to drive me home, she’ll never talk to me again, like Deanna. I’ll be back to zero friends. But I can’t endanger my sobriety! But—but—but then these needles of sound shoot out of the speakers with these soft, fast drums behind them. They pierce me and thump me, and everyone’s going to the dance floor and moving together with their heads down. Every angel in Heaven’s going aaaaaaahh down a big, metal tunnel and all of this sound—all the needles and drums and Heaven—it’s all tangled together. I’m not worried about anything anymore. I’m in a cradle and everyone else is too. We’re all wrapped together in this soft, sharp, drum tunnel sound. Everything makes sense—the way I’m moving, the way they’re moving, the tanging cowbell from the left speaker, the whip-crack from the right.

  The song fades out like the last gift under the Christmas tree. You grab it all excited, but the tag has your sister’s name on it.

  “What was that?” I ask Blanca.

  “‘Blue Monday,’” she says back.

  “Blue, as in depressed?” I ask, louder, because the next song is rolling in like migrating birds.

  “Bingo,” she says.

  She’s dancing now, her hands swirling around in front of her, looking like no Blanca I’ve ever seen at school. So I keep my next question in my head. But…everybody in here danced to a song about…depression? Like, everybody? So maybe…maybe I’m not the only one who gets that way?

  This song is beautiful and gentle and kind, and everybody who’s dancing has on this soft smile, like they have honey on their tongues. The drums roll upward and the singer belts it out from the back of his throat, sing-yelling how it’s his life. His.

  How have I never heard this music before? This must be the stuff that made Deanna jump from MTV to VH1 o
r vice versa when it came on. “Soft stuff. Gross,” she’d say, jabbing at the clicker like she wanted to break a nail.

  The next song starts like a marching army. Blanca goes to sit, so I follow her.

  She sings along, grinning like she’s in on the joke. I hope I don’t look as awestruck as I feel, but what did I just walk into? They’re selling alcohol and stomping and laughing? What the fuck, I’m here with a cheerleader? I should be fucking terrified. But I’m not. I actually feel safer than I ever knew I could.

  Some kids walk up to say hi to Blanca, but I can’t see them because I’m blinded by the one. The boy, tucked in the back of their group. The one glowing like a night-light. I force myself to turn and watch the people dancing, but then Blanca—my own personal Jesus—grabs my hand and pulls me into their circle.

  “This is Cyndy, my friend from school,” she says. “She’s practically an anarchist.”

  Her friends don’t ask her what the fuck she’s talking about, or if she has any idea what I’m really like inside. Instead, they smile and nod. All but the glow boy. Glow boy moves toward me and puts out his hand out, but kind of low, like he’s not assuming I want to shake it.

  “I’m Seth,” he says. I put my hand in his. It’s soft, and it’s warm, and—does it have to hurt when you get electrocuted? Because that’s how it feels, touching Seth’s hand. Like getting soft, warm electrocuted.

  I let go of his hand and sit back, because I don’t know what else to do. Glow boy stands there, semi-behind his friends. A new song starts, so sweet, with the sound of waves swishing in. Everything’s fine. I’m here, and everybody’s here, but it feels like there’s nobody here at all, because nobody is staring at me. Nobody wants anything from me. We’re all just…here. Together.

  I lean over to Blanca and ask, “What’s this place called again?”

  “The Haven,” she says.

  The Haven. One e away from Heaven.

  33

  APRIL 1990

  THREE YEARS AND ONE MONTH OUT

  I’m in a car that’s driving fast and blasting music again, but this time, the car’s being driven by a girl. And this time, it’s 8:00 a.m. on a school day. And this time, I know where we’re going. New York. Me and Blanca. Swear to God.

  She’s playing another mix tape, but this time it’s all one band: Pet Shop Boys. They’re the most delicious thing I’ve ever heard. We’ve got the sunroof open and the windows closed, so we have air rush and music. I’ve got my hands up in the wind and my ear pressed to a speaker. The beat is rolling as fast as the tires, and this man—this sad, sad man who still somehow kept living—is singing about how everything he is and does, all of it’s a sin. It’s tragic and happy all at once. It’s thrilling and heartbreaking and scrambled and hopeful. I could fucking live in this music.

  The next song starts with the tick of a cotton-wrapped second hand, staggered by the thump-thump of slow-approaching feet. Something’s coming, something bad, but then these tender violins are pulling a blanket over you and tucking in the edges, so it’s okay. You’re okay. And he starts singing about wanting to put a gun to your own head.

  Wait. The Pet Shop Boys have felt that way? And they’re telling us about it? Instead of doing suicide, they make gorgeous music about it?

  When Blanca ejects the tape to flip it, I can’t keep my thoughts to myself. “I never knew this stuff. Where did you find it?”

  “What do you mean, ‘find’? This is old! It came out almost five years ago! Where have you been?”

  Luckily she pushes the B side in, so I don’t have to try to answer that question.

  We spend the day doing unbelievable things: trying on gowns in Saks Fifth Avenue, looking at the hoi polloi through the windows of Tavern on the Green, riding the merry-go-round in Central Park. It’s like we’re in our own Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. It’s like I’m a normal, laughing teenager. When we go by the pond with the rowboats stacked outside, I get a little sad that Deanna’s not my friend anymore. But only a little. And when I tell Blanca about that night, about being stuck in the pond with no paddle, she starts laughing. So I start laughing. And suddenly I get what the Pet Shop Boys songs are saying. You can have sad but still be happy. You can have both at the same time.

  On the drive home, I’m digging through Blanca’s backseat junk for another tape she wants to play me, and my fingers sweep through a pile of crackles. Her pompom. I turn back front and hold it up, this whisper-light red-and-white winner’s trophy. I know it’s wicked ballsy, but I shake it. I can’t not.

  “I love this,” I say.

  “My pom?” she asks, in the same tone as, “I know, right?”

  “I’ve always wanted to be a cheerleader,” I tell her.

  “You? Seriously?” she says. As if my desperation to be her isn’t so obvious, you could see it from outer space.

  “Oh my God, yes. Always.”

  “Well, fucking come on! We need an extra for all the end-of-year events, since Ashley broke her leg and Candace moved away. We can’t do our routines with a girl missing.”

  “Nuh-uh. Seriously? Me?”

  “Seriously! Can you yell? Uh-huh. Can you jump? I’m sure. Can you look good in a short skirt? Hell yes. So fucking why not?”

  I can’t say anything, because if I opened my mouth, all the confetti’d bits of my heart would come spraying out. Instead, I shake her pompom in time with Depeche Mode.

  • • •

  We’re back at the Haven, and I’m having this…experience. The music has found the fault line in my brain, and my psyche is, like, detonating.

  I’m standing in a corner, trying to be invisible. Trying to close off my front and sides, so no one can sneak up on me, so I can 100 percent focus on the people, the dancing, the whatever it is that makes this place so nice. I’m leaning on a chest-high speaker when this song comes on faintly, like the gentle fingertips of Jesus on a lamb. A violin starts and someone presses piano keys, one at a time. A voice matching the violin comes in, lungs wide open in a cry, a question directed at God.

  Whhhhhhhy?

  The violin-voice describes a kid who’s kicked around, who’s laughed at by everyone. Then it delivers a hard, sharp truth: the kid’s not gonna find any love at home. Not ever. This song’s about me.

  My brain blasts apart and clicks back together. I understand now: everything Straight taught me, everything my mother said, it was all a lie. I’m not a bad kid who made her mother’s husband touch her, who ran away to be a druggie. I’m a sad kid who made too much noise when life hurt. Who ran away to try to make it stop.

  I can’t cry at the Haven. I need to not cry at the Haven. I need to think about the next song as it stutters in, a distorted heartbeat. This searing song, it tells me I’m human, and that everyone needs to feel loved. The Haven takes over my brain again and I get it. We all do. We all need the same fucking thing, and we’ll try and try and try until we find it. We just—we just all need to feel loved.

  I leave my spot at the speaker and blend into the moving crowd. I’m like them, and they’re like me. I’m not a druggie whore. I’m not. They’re not. We’re all just kids. Dancing. Needing love. A cage full of doves breaks open inside my chest. I’m flying and I’m dancing and I feel okay. I feel so okay.

  When I lift my head and shake my hair out of my eyes I see Blanca, sitting in a chair and talking to that glow boy, Seth. They’re beautiful. A beautiful song is playing. The world feels like it makes sense, like everybody’s doing what they should, to get what they really need.

  The glow boy looks up at me and smiles. His face gives me this light, free feeling, like seeing the “Welcome to Florida!” sign after a long drive in a stuffy car.

  34

  STILL APRIL 1990

  THREE YEARS, ONE MONTH, AND ONE WEEK OUT

  Mrs. Skinner has us write a reflective essay today to practice for the SATs. Here’s the q
uestion that was on the chalkboard when we came in the room:

  What is the most important element of a successful life, and what have you learned in your high school career about how to obtain that vital element?

  I’m gonna have to plead the fifth if they ask me to read this one out loud. I don’t even know if I can let Mrs. Skinner read it. I might have to give her a second draft after I heavily revise. But here’s draft one.

  Love and Cookies

  There is one ingredient every life needs, in the same way that every cookie needs flour. That one ingredient is love. No flour? No cookie. No love? No life.

  Love has different nicknames, including popularity, acceptance, and boyfriend. I have tried different tricks in my attempts to get each of them, and I have learned a lot in the process.

  I started, at a young age, with my mother. She was really distracted, so it took a lot of work. Over the years I tried gluing myself to her, asking her questions, apologizing when she was in a bad mood, blaming everything that went wrong on myself, and telling her, “I love you.” I just recently realized that some people don’t find love at home.

  I also tried to get love from relatives when I was around them. My ploy there was to tell them how much I liked being with them. That was a flop too. They liked my older sister instead of me, even though she was just there, doing what they did. That lesson, I guess, is that blending in will get you accepted, but being excited won’t.

  When I realized I wasn’t going to find my place with family, I found a place with a new friend, Joanna. With Jo, I actually got in. She really accepted me, which then got me semi-accepted by her very cool guy friends. But to get in, I had to do some bad stuff. I smoked pot a couple times. And some other things I don’t really want to describe here. I got so in I had hope for having love from real friends. I got so much hope I ran away from my mother’s house and husband. But running away put an end to that love because it got me signed in to Straight.