“If I do nothing, it’ll be like going down to her level.”
“Hold on a second, now you’re suddenly morally superior?”
“Edge! You know how this is messing with me. I’m trying to figure it all out, but my gut is telling me there’s something here worth saving.”
We walk over to one of the modular couches under a huge, white umbrella. The place is mostly filled with gay men, but sure enough, Gwendolyn and two other girls are gathered by the edge of the roof, taking group selfie after group selfie.
Edge groans.
I notice one of the girls has a giant water bottle with a red-colored liquid in it, and by the way they’re passing it to each other and laughing, I’m guessing it’s not cranberry juice.
“This music,” Edge says, “it’s unlistenable house.” He puts his headphones on as I continue to watch the girls. They’re most likely laughing at someone else’s expense, or at some tasteless joke. I get nauseous just thinking about it.
I look around the roof. Two guys are dancing in their tight bathing suits, and one of the pool attendants is shaking his head. A nervous-looking woman is texting on her phone, and she spills her iced tea. The attendant comes to her aid, and she swipes him away, not wanting his help.
The girls are still taking pictures, completely unashamed of their utter narcissism. Gwen is the one closest to the roof’s edge. My heartbeat inches up to my throat. Is it going to happen right now? I stand.
Edge pulls one headphone off.
“They’re getting buzzed,” I tell him.
“Duh. Probably on Daddy’s Grey Goose.”
“She’s getting close to the edge—what floor are we on?”
“Fourth.”
Edge looks at them, but not like most boys look at them. He seems only mildly interested.
“So you really don’t like rich girls?” I ask.
“No. Especially ones that were mean to you.”
My smile is so big it might break my face. Edge has once again said the absolute right thing. I remember the day my father drove me to my eighth-grade dance. He was a chaperone, which would normally be totally embarrassing, but he was not that kind of father. I would never ask him to drop me off across the street, like I’d done with my mother. He always said the right thing.
I was wearing a white collared, button-down shirtdress from J.Crew. I was hoping Brian Mallory would ask me to dance. He had a girlfriend, but she lived in another town, and Jenna informed me that the girlfriend was on her way out and wouldn’t be at the dance (she always knew the dirt on everyone). Dad parked, then turned to me and said, “Ready, pretty girl?”
I looked at the little mirror in the car’s sun visor, and I was pleased. My lips were coated lightly with my favorite raspberry lip gloss, and there were two clips in my hair. “Yes,” I said, flipping up the visor.
As we were walking in, he said, “Pretend I’m not here, okay? I’m not going to be hovering around you. I’m going to eat as many cookies as possible without seeming gluttonous.” I smiled, knowing he’d only eat a couple. That was the difference between my mom and dad. He would indulge in sweets without feeling guilty. It was something we shared together. Secret ice cream trips.
The gym was decorated in shiny ribbons and a big homemade sign with a bad drawing of a wolf, our school’s mascot. There was a DJ wearing a cheap black suit and a red tie. No one was dancing. The strobe lights flickered over a shiny but empty wood floor. Before we separated, my father gave me a slight nod. In that simple gesture, there was a lifetime of us knowing each other. The nod said, Go, be you, you’re great. I walked over to where my friends were sitting in a circle under one of the basketball hoops. I joined the conversation, but the whole time, I was searching the periphery for Brian Mallory.
Finally, I saw him, standing with some friends, laughing. He looked completely hot in jeans and a sport coat. Eventually, everyone started dancing, but not in couples, more like clumps.
As I was debating approaching Brian, Gwen appeared next to me in a white silk dress that shimmered.
“I heard you have a thing for Brian Mallory,” she said, like it was really cute to her.
“I guess.” I never knew what to say around popular girls.
Then her voice got lower and she said, “Watch and learn,” before strutting away. She walked directly up to Brian, said like, two words to him, and then led him by his arm into the corner where they proceeded to make out.
I was seething. I’m pretty sure smoke came out of my ears. Gwen could have had any boy at that dance, and she chose my crush? Why did she hate me so much? Because I beat her the year before at regionals in the 200 meter?
I walked over to my father to ask him if we could leave, even though I knew as a chaperone, he had to stay until the end. He said he’d take me home and come right back. When we were in the car, my father said, “The cookies were dry. But I still ate two. And did that DJ really play One Direction?”
I laughed. “Yes. It was all pretty sad.”
“Well,” he said, pulling into our driveway, “you were the prettiest girl there, and I’m not saying that ’cause you have spectacular genes on your father’s side.” I smiled, got out of the car, and went inside. In the kitchen, my mother started asking me question after question, but I tuned her out. Instead, I watched my father drive away, wishing he didn’t have to go back.
Now, watching Gwendolyn, I can see nothing has changed about her. She is super pretty and does whatever she wants, but her smile isn’t genuine. It’s laced with malice. At that dance, I probably could have done the same thing with Brian Mallory. I didn’t have the confidence. Yet.
As the three girls pack up to go, there’s one who keeps dropping her sunglasses and laughing. She has a streak of blue in her hair, and a giant bird tattooed on the back of her neck. She doesn’t seem to fit with Gwen’s standard friends. We follow them down to the street, taking the stairs after they get into the elevator.
Edge takes off his headphones and says, “Are we still going to save the Frosted Flake?”
“It’s a life, Edge. Like Tom’s.”
I look at him, making sure he acknowledges that, and I’m thankful to see sympathy in his eyes.
“I know. I was only trying to be funny.”
A little way down the block, the three girls approach a parked SUV, and the tipsy one with the tattoo gets into the driver’s seat. Edge and I are pretty close to them. If I called Gwen’s name, she would hear me. It hits me that she’s about to make a choice. A really, really bad choice. And I could stop her, even though she’s consistently made my life miserable. Edge is looking at me like, do something!
Just before Gwen closes the door, I yell, “Hey!”
She turns and looks at me, her eyes furrowed. “Tegan, what the hell are you doing?”
“Can I talk to you for a second?”
“We don’t talk.”
The three of them laugh like idiot canaries. I have half a mind to walk away, knowing the kind of person she is, but I know it’s not an option.
“Please, just a second,” I say.
“Oh my God. Hang on, girls.”
She sighs and steps onto the curb with me, closing the car door.
“This better be good,” she says. I can smell the alcohol on her breath.
“Oh, it’s good,” Edge adds from behind me.
“What the hell is going on here?” She starts to fix her hair a little, but is clumsy about it, and it kind of makes it worse.
“Gwen, listen. It’s best you don’t know all the details, but you can’t get in that car. You have Uber, right?”
“Duh.”
“Make up some excuse for leaving. Blame it on me. Your friend is too drunk to drive—who knows what will happen? Call an Uber.”
“What are you, a freaking psychic?”
“Just do it,�
� Edge says evenly.
She looks Edge up and down, then at me, like she’s impressed that I’m hanging out with such a cute boy. It makes me happy, but it also makes me want to scream.
“You guys can’t tell me what to do.”
She turns to get in the car, and I know I have to do something more. It’s as if my movements are involuntary now. I grab her Louis Vuitton bag off her shoulder and start running down the sidewalk, away from the car. My breathing is heavy. When I get to the end of the block, I stop and look back. Edge is standing on the sidewalk with her. It looks as if she’s arguing with the girls, and they drive off in a huff. I walk back slowly to where they’re standing.
“WTF!” Gwen yells, grabbing her bag back. “You are such a psycho.”
“Gwen.”
She’s fuming, her eyes popping out of their sockets. Edge is getting a kick out of the whole thing.
“Get away from me!” Gwen yells, and the two of us back away slowly. Gwen is furiously tapping on her phone, obviously getting an Uber. When we turn the corner, Edge starts laughing.
“I didn’t know you were such a good bag snatcher.”
“There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me.”
“Good. I like it that way,” he says, and I’m not sure if I should be happy about that statement or not.
Edge looks at his phone for a minute, and then he leads me down to 17th Street where the Holy Crepes truck is parked.
“I saw this was here on Twitter. We need to distract ourselves with food. It goes with death. Or near death.”
“Really?” Then I remembered all the casseroles my mom and I never ate after my dad died, all the fruit baskets and cheese baskets and loaves of fresh bread. “I never understood that correlation.”
“It’s about sustenance,” he says, and his boyish expression makes me smile. I briefly forget about all the messed up stuff that’s been happening. We stand in line at the truck, and he holds my hand.
“They’re mostly savory,” Edge says. “That’s how crepes originated. Americans, of course, bastardized them and made them sweet. In France, they make only a couple of sweet ones, like Nutella, but today we are going with savory. My personal favorite is the ham and gruyère.”
“Okay, let’s get two of those.”
We sit on a nearby stoop and eat our crepes, served on paper plates with plastic forks. I check under my crepe. No name.
It tastes so good, but I’m not sure if it’s because of who I’m with—the sweet, funny boy who took me here.
“Takes a ham-and-cheese sandwich to another level, huh?”
I didn’t even think I was hungry, but after the first bite I’m ravenous.
“Are you kidding me? Try another galaxy.”
He smiles, knowing I said that because he likes other galaxies.
We eat in silence, watching people walk by. At first I think one of them is the ghost man, but it’s a skinny random with gray hair.
After a minute, Edge says, “What if her Uber gets hit by a bus?” I glare at him, then we both laugh.
“Seriously, though, should we have stopped the whole car?”
“How?”
“I don’t know. Slashed a tire?” It doesn’t sound like my voice.
“Wow. Breaking the law now. Do you like this playing God thing?”
“I wouldn’t say like, but I do feel as if I’m some kind of, I don’t know, vessel…”
“A vessel for goodness. Or maybe you’re really clairvoyant.”
As we head back to the Dupont Circle Metro station, he puts his earphones on my head and tells me to listen to the song. It’s got a fast beat. I think about Gwen, how pissed she was. I wonder if the car is crashing as we speak. Please, I think, let them live. I don’t care if they’re from the Gwen tribe. Everyone is significant.
When we part, Edge kisses me a little longer than usual. Then he says, “You did the right thing.”
“Hope so.”
When I get home, my mother asks me how my day was.
“Okay,” I say. “Edgar and I hung out. We got crepes.”
“You really like this boy, don’t you?”
I feel my face get hot. “Yes.”
“Do I get to meet him?”
“Soon,” I say, though I have no plans of them meeting. “He’s busy a lot. His mom is needy.”
“Ha! Do you consider me needy?”
“No.”
There was a time, after Dad’s first deployment, that my mother was pretty needy, but I understood. We hung out a lot together, because we both missed him so much. We’d go to the movies and sneak in food from home. We’d feed the pigeons in Thomas Circle, which I always did since I was a kid. But mostly, we would sit in the kitchen and talk. Me about swimming, her about her nonprofit and all the interesting people she worked with. She also turned me on to the Moth podcast, and we would listen to stories together, at dusk, the tree tapping the window. It helped us to temporarily escape from our own drama for a short while and go into someone else’s world.
“Well, we were both needy for a while…”
Her look tells me she knows exactly the time I’m referring to. It feels like we’re each pushing the wall between us, but it’s too strong. The weight of his absence is too strong.
The news is on the small TV in the kitchen, and there’s a picture of a car wrapped around a tree. My heart palpitates, until I realize it’s not the same color as the tattooed girl’s SUV.
“You okay, honey?” My mother is half reading a magazine.
“Yes, just tired.”
“Okay. You know I love you.”
“Yeah.”
In my room, I collapse on my bed and my thoughts drift back to Gwen. I try to remember a time when she was actually nice to me. I can only recall one time, on an overnight field trip. Her parents didn’t pack her a snack, and one of the chaperones asked me to share mine with her. I was reluctant, but she seemed very grateful. She was nice to me the next morning, too. But then she went back to being Gwen. Popular, rich, smart, bitchy, fastest swimmer on the team (besides me).
My mother checks in on me before she heads upstairs, and I tell her I’m fine, which I am. Just tired. Having second sight, or however Edge put it, is exhausting. I fall asleep easily, though, knowing I did what I could to help someone, even if that someone was Gwen.
* * *
The next day at the pool, after stretching, I sit on the diving board with my legs dangling over, waiting for Coach. There’s barely anyone here, and the water is calm, but it’s not exactly peaceful. In the corner of the patio there’s a child’s bike with one training wheel missing, abandoned and lying on its side. I hear a siren in the distance. It’s hard to pinpoint why, but I can feel something is going to happen. The air is heavy, and so are my thoughts.
A few minutes later, a girl comes up to me, in tears. She’s practically hyperventilating. It takes me a minute to realize it’s Gwen. Her perfect façade has crumbled. Her face is all splotchy, and her hair’s a mess.
She’s trying to talk, but the words can’t escape between her sobbing and catching her breath.
“Shhh. Calm down, it’s okay,” I say.
“No, it’s not!” she yells that clearly. Some people in the pool turn their heads at us. I lead her a little farther away by the water fountain.
“I know it’s not okay, but you’re okay, right?”
“Morgan crashed the car!”
“Is she, are they…”
“No! Tegan, what the hell is going on? How did you know something was going to happen?”
“I had a feeling. Your friend was drunk.”
She starts to quiet down a little, staring at me like I’m from another planet, like she’s never known me at all.
“You had a feeling? This is completely insane.”
She s
tarts pacing and making exasperated noises.
“Just be glad you followed my advice. And let me give you one more piece. You should be kind to people.”
She stops and stares at me, her eyes wide, as if she’s registering what I’ve said in her brain. Her crying calms to a slight whimper.
“Are your friends okay?” I ask.
“Morgan’s in the ICU…” She starts the heavy sobbing again, and I grab her hand.
“And the other one?”
“Harper is okay, only scratched.”
I don’t tell her she wouldn’t have had the same fate. In spite of all the horrible things she’s done and said to me, I hug her, right there beside the water fountain.
“Now that’s something I didn’t expect to see,” Coach says, approaching with flippers and his giant parachute bag.
Gwendolyn nods to Coach, but then abruptly leaves, her body rigid and her head down. Coach doesn’t pry; he knows that what happens between girls is between us girls. In fact, he looks a little intimidated, bless his heart.
“Okay,” he says awkwardly, and leads me over to where we do our warm-ups.
Then, as a bunch of people gather around to watch, he straps me in.
The hardest thing in swim training is a parachute swim. You put a parachute on your back and swim laps. It’s like you’re dragging the weight of a house behind you. But when I do it, I’m more determined than I’ve ever been, and it makes me wonder how hard I could actually push myself.
If I can hug Gwendolyn, I can pull this parachute to kingdom come.
11.
do the best you can
My mother has asked me if I want her special smoothie a million times, so I finally take her up on it. And it actually tastes good. We sit in the kitchen, the early sun sifting through the tree branches outside our window, making gauzy patterns on the table. She starts to tell me what’s in the smoothie, and I hold up my hand.
“I don’t need to know all the ingredients.”
“Okay, okay.”
She’s in her yoga clothes, her hair pulled up in a loose bun.
“I’m having dinner at the Jasons’ later,” she says. “It’s been forever.”
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