by Laura Steven
Gabriela pulls up, and Keiko jumps in the front seat. She won perennial shotgun in a bet with me a few years back, when I told her I didn’t think she had the stomach to eat an earthworm. She did it, Vati filmed it. It might sound like we were kids, but we were literally fifteen years old. It still makes me queasy thinking about it.
We chat for a while as Gabriela follows her satnav out of town. I tell them about the run I went on this morning and how good it felt when my lungs burned in my ribcage. Keiko calls me a freak and a masochist, but in an affectionate way. Then:
‘Oh,’ she adds, eyes lighting up with excitement. ‘I forgot to tell you, I found this cool athletics store in the city where they measure your gait and fit you with the best running shoes for your body. How cool is that? We should totally swing by on the way home and get you the right gear.’
This makes me beam like a damn lighthouse. She researched something she doesn’t care about, just for me. There’s no way she knew what gait was before looking up that store. She cares, really really cares, about the things I love. Just because I love them.
Gabriela tells us about Lizzie’s stint in the mall jail as though it’s the funniest thing that has ever happened to anyone, and we laugh politely, not wanting to piss on her chips, but still a little mad that she’s been too busy with the crime squad to ask about Keiko’s career stuff.
I agonize over whether or not to tell them about the pills. It would be so easy not to, although they’ll probably find it weird when I go back to school tomorrow and everyone’s totally over me. I push the thought of Haruki’s inevitable ‘oh my god what was I thinking’ moment out of my mind.
Selfishly, I want to keep Keiko’s compliments earlier for myself. I want to feel like I have full ownership of them; like I earned them fair and square.
But before I can even make the decision myself, disaster strikes. Keiko goes rooting in my purse for my spare USB cable, and pulls out a pill packet I forgot was in there.
‘What’s this?’ she asks, frowning at the foil wrapping.
‘The pill,’ I lie quickly.
‘Uh, why’s the writing in Spanish? Are these FDA-approved? They don’t look like any pill I’ve ever seen before.’
‘It’s . . . a new . . .’
‘Whatever. I’m Googling it.’ My heart sinks as Keiko types the words into a translator, then into Google. ‘“Otherwise known as pheromones, chemical (olfactory) signals are released by an organism to attract an individual of the opposite sex, encourage them to mate with them, or perform some other function closely related with sexual reproduction”.’ Keiko looks up from her phone. ‘Wikipedia.’
I nod. ‘That sums it up.’
Gabriela turns the volume down on the radio. Keiko swivels in her seat to face me, even though it causes the safety belt to cut into her neck. ‘Finally, the truth.’
Now I really do stare out the window at the rolling corn fields and peach orchards, my cheeks burning with shame. ‘Yeah. So . . . the reason a ton of people in school were suddenly into me in school was because I started taking these pills that boost your sex pheromones.’
The words seem so small, considering how much I built them up, how much I convinced myself there was no way I could tell the truth. I feel weirdly lighter for releasing them.
Keiko raises her hand like we’re in school. ‘Where the hell did you buy these sex telephones?’ she asks, still half-reading the article. ‘And can I get in on that action?’
‘The internet. And I flushed them down the toilet last night.’
She launches her phone into the footwell and tears into a bag of Hot Cheetos. ‘What? Are you crazy?’
I chew the inside of my cheek. ‘Basically, I was biologically manipulating Haruki into being into a relationship with me. I mean, was he even really consenting? Did he have bodily autonomy? It’s gross.’
‘You’re too hard on yourself,’ Keiko says. ‘It’s like perfume, no? Ooh, like those women who dip their finger in their own musk and –’
‘Okay, yes, very good,’ I say hurriedly. ‘Gabs? What do you think?’ I’m keen to include her in the conversation. She’s not the type to force herself in there if she hasn’t been directly asked something.
‘I’m glad you got rid of them,’ she says. ‘And I disagree with Keiko. I think it’s pretty fucked up what you did to Haruki.’
‘Fair enough. I deserve that.’ It’s a weird sensation, being told off by Gabriela. She normally tries to keep the peace at whatever cost. But I appreciate her honesty.
Checking her wing mirrors even though there’s no traffic behind us, Gabriela adds quietly, ‘Does this mean things’ll go back to normal now?’
‘Yes. No. I don’t know,’ I admit. ‘I haven’t seen Haruki since I ditched the drugs. Who knows whether he’ll still be into me once the drugs are out of my system.’
A soft pause. Then, ‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘Oh,’ I say, frowning. ‘What did you mean?’
An even longer pause. I practically hear the mental pep talk she’s giving herself. Finally, she mumbles, ‘I guess it’s just been hard for me lately because . . . oh god this sounds so ridiculous.’
Keiko wipes her hands on her jumpsuit and turns to Gabriela, surprisingly earnest in her tone. ‘I promise you, it won’t. We just want to know what’s going on with you.’
Gabriela stares straight ahead, hands gripping the wheel tightly. ‘You both . . . you both have such big personalities these days. And I love that about you. I promise I do. But I don’t have that. I’m not like that, no matter how hard I try to keep up. And I guess I just feel a little inferior sometimes. Especially lately, with Caro’s . . . you know. The way you’ve been.’
This is not what I expected. Thankfully, Keiko recovers before I do. ‘That’s crazy. You don’t have to be just like us in order to be our best friend. That’s what makes us great. We’re all different.’
‘I’m sorry if I made you feel that way,’ I say. ‘The pills . . . they made me feel so much more confident. I guess I didn’t think how that would feel for you.’ Immediately I regret my apology. Keiko isn’t sitting here trying to minimize herself to make Gabriela feel better. So I add, ‘But this is how I want to be. From now on, even without the pills. More like myself. I hope you can be okay with that.’
‘Of course,’ Gabriela says, but it sounds forced. ‘Just . . . don’t go thinking I’m boring, okay?’
‘You’re not boring,’ I insist. ‘I know there’s a delightful little weirdo beneath that perfect makeup.’ Then, realizing Kiks is typing furiously on her phone, I add, ‘Keiko, what are you doing?’
‘Writing to the manufacturers of your miracle pills. I think I’ve nailed it.’
I take the phone and read it aloud. ‘“Your scientists were so preoccupied with whether or not they could, they didn’t stop to think if they should.” Plus a whole bunch of dinosaur emojis.’
Keiko and I laugh until we cry, and Gabriela watches us through the rearview mirror with a wistful combination of affection and resignation. And in that moment, I can tell she’s not done with what she wants to say to us.
Wiping away a rogue laughter-induced tear, I say softly, openly, ‘Is there anything else, Gabs?’
Now she really does look uncomfortable, but she perseveres, and I appreciate the effort that takes. ‘While we’re being honest, I still want to hang out with the cheer squad. More than I do now. I know they’re not your kind of people, but I really like them. And they like me, I think. And I feel good when I’m around them.’
Subtext: she doesn’t feel good when she’s around us.
And I understand. I think of her face when Ryan couldn’t stop staring at me, the tears in her eyes when Keiko steamrolled her for the millionth time. The guilt is heavy on my chest.
We did this. We pushed her away. But when the only way to bring her back is to round off our edges, to turn down our volume . . . is that really friendship at all?
I don’t know anymore. A f
ew months ago, I’d have undoubtedly apologized and made extra sure that I wasn’t being Too Much. I’d have expected Keiko to do the same and got mad when she didn’t.
Now . . . it doesn’t seem that simple. There must be a way to make sure you’re being yourself while also not hurting others, not being obnoxious, not crossing lines. Not steamrolling or stealing attention that isn’t rightfully yours. But it’s a hard balance to strike, and since I’m pretty new to the idea of being myself, I don’t have all the answers yet.
Besides. Consent is all about boundaries, and respecting each other’s lines. Honoring the decisions other people make without trying to influence them one way or the other. I guess that goes for friendships, too. We have to respect what Gabriela wants.
All I can say in the moment is this:
‘Love you, Gabs.’ I lean forward in my seat and rest my hand on her small shoulder. ‘No matter what.’
Her reply comes out a little choked, as her shoulder sinks with relief. ‘Love you too.’
So I guess this is it. The thing I’ve been fearing the most – the landscape of our friendships shifting as we prepare to go our separate ways. I spent so long agonizing over losing Keiko that I missed what was right in front of me. Gabriela doesn’t feel at home in our trio like she once did.
It’s painful, of course it is, but I’m actually more okay with it than I expected to be. When it comes down to it, I’d rather Gabriela was happy hanging out with people she feels comfortable around than know she’s hanging out with us and feeling shitty.
Growing up and becoming who you really are comes with more challenges than I ever expected. The more unapologetically yourself you become, the more chance you have that people won’t like it. Even your best friends. And only you can know whether that’s the dice you’re willing to roll.
21
We reach the amusement park and I burst out laughing. It’s the most ramshackle hodgepodge of rides and kiosks I’ve ever seen – peeling paint and faded signs and blinking lights as far as the eye can see.
Despite the absurd quantity of junk food we ate in the car, Keiko and I both buy candyfloss, and Gabriela eyes it jealously until she finally caves and buys herself a small cone too. We walk around chatting and pointing out funny things we see – seagulls eating fries, three raccoons squabbling over a squashed ice-cream cone, two middle-aged folk getting to second base behind the Haunted Mansion.
We take a ride on the bumper cars and the log flume, then I veto the Scrambler because extreme motion sickness is not my idea of a good time. That may sound unreasonable and absurd, but it’s true. In any case, Keiko and Gabriela have a great time being flung around in the air at a billion miles an hour, so each to their own.
When the sun gets high in the sky, we find a patch of grass near the Ferris wheel and lay out a picnic blanket Gabriela had in the trunk of the car. We all lie looking up at the Ferris wheel, pale autumn sun shining down on our log-flume-soaked clothes.
‘Do you want to talk about your mom?’ Keiko asks. Her right arm is pressed against my left. Gabriela lies on my other side, a few inches away.
‘No,’ I say quietly. ‘I think I want her to be just mine for a while.’
Gabriela asks, ‘Does it feel like she’s here? In the air?’
I think about it; try to feel some kind of vibration that lets me know she’s around, watching over us. But there’s nothing. All I feel is the breeze in the air, the scratch of the blanket beneath me, and Keiko’s skin on mine. ‘I don’t think so,’ I admit. ‘Maybe I’m too much of a science cynic to believe in that stuff. Souls existing after we’re gone, and all that. But it’s nice to be somewhere that had significance to her. Makes me feel like I know her, if only a little.’
Then, something funny happens.
Keiko moves her hand just slightly, so her knuckles graze mine. Then, slowly and cautiously, she links her pinky finger through mine.
Something flutters in my belly. We’ve held hands before, and hugged, and linked arms, and all that intimate best-friend stuff. But the flutter . . . the flutter is new.
The moment is broken too soon, and it leaves me yearning.
What is happening?
‘Hey, do you wanna ride on the carousel?’ she asks.
Gabriela stifles a yawn. ‘I think I’m gonna nap here for a bit.’
‘Caro?’ Keiko says, and there’s a weight to my name that makes me think she really wants me to come with her.
‘Sure,’ I say softly, rocking forward on to my haunches, then standing up with a creak of the knees. I offer Keiko a hand up, and she takes it. When our palms touch, the flutter takes off once more.
There are barely any kids around, on account of the fact that this is a derelict hellscape-comma-raccoon-sanctuary, so Keiko and I take the fanciest white horses we can find on the carousel with worrying about being those weird old ladies who batter children for the best seats in the park.
The ride starts up with a heaving groan that sounds like a thousand horses dying at once, and soon we’ve picked up speed. By speed I mean we’re going at around a quarter of a mile per hour. But still.
‘Hey, so, here’s a question,’ Keiko says, bobbing up and down as the ceramic horse simulates a gallop.
‘Shoot,’ I say, and the look on her face makes me nervous.
‘The pills you were taking.’ She fiddles with her French-plaited lilac braids. ‘The sex telephones. Did they . . . do they . . . are they effective on girls too?’
I suddenly feel dizzy despite the lackadaisical speed of the carousel. Is she asking what I think she’s asking?
My pulse roars in my ears. Okay, stay calm. Don’t get ahead of yourself. It’s just a question. Besides, she’s dating Marieke. She’s probably just checking I won’t steal Marieke’s attention the way I did Ryan’s.
‘I’m not sure,’ I say carefully. ‘I’ve had trouble figuring out the rules. In the beetles, the pheromones only worked on the male of the species. But it seems a lot more complicated in humans.’
I can’t tell if this was what she wanted to hear or not, and I only just manage to avert my gaze before she catches me staring at her impenetrable face.
‘Oh.’ She runs a white acrylic nail down the horse’s pink mane. ‘I was kind of hoping you’d say like . . . definitely yes.’
The thudding in my chest is so loud I’m amazed she can’t hear it. ‘Why?’
‘I . . . I don’t know, Caro.’ I’ve never heard her so unsure, so cautious. ‘The things I said earlier, about you being more . . . everything. All of it has me a little confused. Feeling confusing things. For, um . . . for you.’
The flutter is there again, threatening to lift me off my perch. ‘Keiko –’
‘I feel like I’m losing my mind,’ she says, voice cracking with emotion. ‘You’re Caro. Caro. My best friend since forever. Am I . . . am I crazy? Are you . . . do you . . . god, what am I asking?’
Shaking so hard I have to grip the horse’s neck as though attempting to strangle it with my bare hands, I say, ‘What are you asking?’
‘This thing.’ She presses a hand to her chest. ‘This new thing between us. Is it really there? Or am I going crazy?’
The whirling scenery around us intensifies. It feels like my entire world hangs on this answer. I need to get it right. I need it to be right.
And the truth is, I no longer understand my feelings for Keiko.
So many of the things I used to find frustrating about her – the narcissism, the relentless banter, the self-assurance – I now find comforting. Inspiring, even. She’s so unapologetic. Maybe now that I’m starting to feel that way too, I’m no longer threatened by it. It no longer reminds me of what I’m not, but instead shows me what I could be if only I let go of my insecurities.
It’s intoxicating. She’s intoxicating. Being with her . . . it ignites something in me. But I don’t know whether I idolize her or covet her. Whether I want to be her, or be like her, or be with her – or whether it’s all of th
ose things at once.
I love her. I know that. I’m just not sure what shape the love takes; whether it’s platonic or familial or something new and terrifying.
I fluttered when she touched me.
When I heard the song, something long dormant awoke.
The small kindnesses I always wanted from a relationship . . . I get them from her. She calls me beautiful and sends me science stuff, she makes me terrible brownies and researches where to buy the best running shoes. She writes songs about me and skips school to go on road trips to visit my dead mom. She’s been doing that stuff since kindergarten, and I’ve been taking it for granted when I should’ve realized it was everything.
This is impossible to wrap my head around.
I used to think love was a precise blend of biology and chemistry. Lust is governed by both estrogen and testosterone. Attraction is driven by noradrenaline, dopamine and serotonin. Long-term attachment is governed by a different set of hormones and brain chemicals: oxytocin and vasopressin. Each of these chemicals works in a specific part of the brain to influence lust, attraction and attachment.
It’s all very neat, right? It’s comforting in its simplicity. It exists purely in dimensions we can comprehend.
But maybe . . . maybe love is physics.
No matter how astrophysicists crunch the numbers, the universe doesn’t add up. Even though gravity is pulling inward on space-time, the universe keeps expanding outward faster and faster. It doesn’t make sense. So astrophysicists have proposed an invisible agent that counteracts gravity: dark energy.
Dark energy is a cosmological constant. An inherent property of space itself. It has negative pressure driving space apart, so as space expands, more space is created, and with it, more dark energy. Based on the observed rate of expansion, scientists know that the sum of all the dark energy must make up almost seventy percent of the total contents of the universe. Seventy percent. There’s more dark energy than there is anything else, right? But no one knows how to look for it. Nobody knows what it is.