All These Lives

by Wylie, Sarah

  By the time she’d come and gone twice both ways, I was starting to get into the idea of a tree house. Sure, it wasn’t at all like the one I’d imagined Dad building for us, but it could be fun.

  From our spot in the tree, we could hear Mom’s mournful opera music travel throughout the house. We could hide up there with our crossword puzzles and leftover candy from our birthday, and watch the neighbors come and go without realizing that we saw every picked wedgie and nose, every cigarette smothered and mouth sprayed before going in to kiss a spouse. And Jena’s tote bag, filled with the books and stuff from inside, hung down from the branch above us so we had basically everything we needed. This was going to be fun.

  I didn’t fall going up the first time. I was going back inside the house to get the half-pack of grape bubblegum on my nightstand. We could share it and compare bubbles as we enjoyed an afternoon of understated delinquency. But as I was walking along that branch, the branch that Dad complained leaned too close to the house, my ankle rolled a little to the right, and I fell.

  I only twisted my ankle, but I broke my right arm, the one that isn’t in a cast right now.

  Jena cried as Mom drove us to the hospital. She told my mother in one rapid-breathed confession that it was all her fault and that she’d made me do it. I don’t know if she thought she was protecting me, or why she felt she needed to.

  I’ve never forgotten how much my arm hurt—not because it was any worse than anything I’ve broken since, but because it was the first time. And let’s just say the discovery that humans are breakable was a monumental one for me.

  I proudly displayed the X-ray on my wall for the next five years, the grays and whites and in-between colors shifting and twirling into one another. Mom took it down the week Jena was diagnosed. I suppose it would have been a little insensitive to leave it up, though I think the sight of my right arm, whole and normal and healthy while hers isn’t, is a greater injustice.

  I haven’t thought about the time I broke my arm in years, not even after crashing Spencer’s bike and breaking my wrist. But since I woke up, it’s been all I can think about. And now, as I sit here in the library with Jack Penner, watching him work on our assignment, it still won’t leave me.

  And he notices. “You seem a little distracted.”

  “I know,” I sigh. “I’m sorry. I’m usually so present and, like, involved.”

  Jack doesn’t comment on that. “What are you thinking about?” As I turn to face him, he looks away, seemingly embarrassed to have asked the question. I’m not sure why. Why he asked, or why he’s embarrassed.

  “What are you thinking about?” I shuffle a little closer to him as he pulls the book on Great Mathematicians of the Past closer to himself.

  “The assignment.”

  I pretend to consider this for a second. “In general, what do you think about?”

  “In general?” he shrugs. “Everything. School. My family. My dog. My friends.” He’s still not looking at me.

  I decide to give him a minute to return to his natural coloring, but he surprises me by breaking the silence. “You think about your sister a lot, don’t you?”

  “I can tell,” he adds, quickly, “because that’s when you’re the most distracted.”

  I feel the back of my neck start to burn. I definitely liked Jack better when he was too afraid to talk to me. I like Jack better when he’s too afraid to talk to me.

  “I don’t know, Jack,” I whisper, moving even closer to him, letting my hand hang limply from the wrist, brushing his knee. There, that ought to make him shut up. “Right now, she’s the furthest thing from my mind.” I’m so close to him that I suspect the heat on my face is my breath bouncing onto his face and jumping back at me. So close that I don’t remember his eyes ever being this gray or unflinching or cutting into mine as they are now. But I don’t fully comprehend how close that is. Not until Jack’s lips are brushing against mine and, behind the encyclopedias and the educational magazines nobody ever reads, he is kissing me. He’s kissing me and his lips are soft and I can hear him breathing and me breathing and I think my left hand just fell off.

  Fifteen seconds. That’s how long I’d say it lasts, if I had to guesstimate. Then we’re pulling apart and my hand won’t stop shaking and Jack looks like someone painted him red. He stares at a spot in the carpet and begins to mumble something.

  The words fall out of his mouth, still tainted by my breath. “I … didn’t … I’m sorry…” Or at least, I think that’s what he’s saying.

  But I interrupt him, so I can’t be sure. “I’ve broken my arm before,” I say, and why am I still shaking? “When I was ten. And I can’t stop thinking about it.”

  Then I get up and leave him sitting there, embarrassed and stunned and anxious.

  And even now, it’s all I can think about. That time I broke my arm when I was ten. And not the fact that I just let Jack Penner kiss me. With his pant legs riding up, and his Star Wars socks exposed. And the possibility that I kissed him back.

  21

  But when I do allow myself to think about it, to really think about it, I want to kill myself. Which sounds better than it is.

  He probably irons his jeans the night before school. And, God, his underwear. I bet he irons his underwear. Two days later, and this is all I can think about.

  When the curiosity becomes too much, I tear a page from my empty math notebook and write: Do you iron your jeans? And underwear?

  I fold it into quarters, then into more quarters, and I should know how many quarters that makes total (we are in math class, after all), but I don’t. I slip my hand under the desk and hold it out to him. Then I watch him while he reads it. His face falls, because he was probably hoping it said something different. A romantic proposition about having his babies, or being his girlfriend at the very least.

  Two minutes pass before he writes back, sliding the piece of paper across the small distance between our desks. His handwriting is neat and precise, like one would expect, even though his blue pen looks like it might be running out of ink.

  My mom irons my jeans. Why?

  No reason, I write back. At the front of the class, Halbrook stands with his back to us, writing in barely decipherable letters on the whiteboard.

  I think we should talk and get it over with. I’m sorry about what happened, and I know you’ve been avoiding me.

  I don’t know why I ever thought it was a good idea to exchange notes with Jack during math class. Clearly, he has only one thing on his mind.

  Disappointing. And here I thought he was different than all the other boys.

  What do you mean we haven’t talked? I thought I said hi at the start of class. Am I hallucinating again?

  You did, but then you turned away before I could say anything back. Anyway, I didn’t mean to kiss you.

  I know—and after careful consideration, I’ve decided I won’t be pressing charges.

  I see him frown, two creases at the top of his forehead. He opens his mouth as if preparing to say something, then closes it again, remembering himself and where we are. It probably also occurs to him that there is no way I’m going to admit anything ever happened in a public forum. So, instead, he pulls out a black pen—his blue one has finally given up on life and, in turn, he has given up on it.

  I think it’s important to discuss things. It’s always better, in my experience.

  I glance up briefly to catch Lauren giving me a disapproving look. Ever since she came back from being suspended, she’s been even more devout in her commitment to schoolwork. I make a point of pretending to copy down Halbrook’s notes. I bet that’s what everybody else is doing—pretending. The only two people in the world that ever truly understand anything that Halbrook does, not to mention writes, are Halbrook and Lauren. Jack might act like he does, too, but you can never really tell with him.

  We ARE discussing things. Anyway, I’d think you’d be a little more relieved that I’ve decided to withhold legal action (for now). I’m
not usually so forgiving when boys cram their tongues down my throat.

  Jack’s response is in front of me within seconds.

  That’s not really how it happened.

  And then, before I’ve even had the chance to think about my reply, another piece of paper lands in front of me.

  All right, fine. Let’s not talk about it.

  There’s something inherently pissy about this note, even though it’s barely two sentences long. It’s in the way the letters on the page are more pointy than the ones before them, the way the i’s are dotted—intentional and angry and almost square.

  When I glance over at him, Jack has his math face on again. His focus is completely on the board ahead, and his hands are dancing all over his page, replicating in small, neat letters the illegible squiggles Halbrook has on the board.

  I squint, cock my head to the side, and struggle to see the way everybody else sees, the way Jack sees. But … nothing. Maybe I should get glasses.

  * * *

  You know when you walk into a room and you get the feeling that someone is talking about you right now? That’s the sense I get, standing in the cafeteria at lunchtime. Or maybe it has something to do with the fact that volume control and general subtlety have never been Candy’s strong suit. She is standing in the lunch line.

  “I feel more sorry for her than anything,” she is saying nonchalantly, shrugging as she brings a bottle of water to her lips. “If our roles were reversed, and by some imbalance in the universe she had Spencer, I would totally be breaking down in class, too, and, like, making out with geeks in the library.”

  Candy snort-laughs at her own joke, and the pack of girls surrounding her release their own set of hyena laughs.

  My palms feel moist and sticky as I walk toward them.

  “Oh,” Candy says when she sees me coming. She diverts her gaze from mine and faces forward in line again. I go and stand right next to her, close enough that it’s uncomfortable for both of us, but not close enough that I’m tempted to gag or hold my nose. I can’t help it, I’ve always thought Candy smelled like mushrooms.

  The girls that were cozying up to her just a second ago keep some distance between us and them, but don’t leave entirely, afraid they’ll miss some sort of throwdown. If it should come to that.

  “Did you do something to your hair?” I ask her with a bright smile. “It looks washed.”

  She swallows, but doesn’t answer.

  “I really like it. I think the last time you had it like this was in … third grade?”

  Now she narrows her eyes at me. “I heard you and Jack were making out in the library.” Her voice is unnaturally loud, even for Candy, and I feel her watching me closely, trying to measure my level of embarrassment.

  “Well, I usually don’t kiss and tell,” I reply evenly, “but I’m happy to report that he doesn’t have the same salivary condition Spencer has.”

  Candy folds her arms across her chest. “Like you’ve kissed Spencer. You’re a liar.”

  “There’s a fly stuck to your eyelashes.”

  “And a bitch,” she hisses.

  “And if you’re going to wear a nose ring, you should really keep your nose in the air less. Things don’t look quite right in there, you know?”

  Her mouth falls open. Then, she seems to collect herself. “It’s a nasal septum piercing, not a nose ring.”

  “Okay.” I nod. “Again, not right. Did you know they sometimes just fall through? Spontaneously? And then they, like, break the—what did you call it—the septum?”

  Everybody seems to be holding their breath. “Anyway,” I smile, “you girls have a nice lunch. Say hi to Spencer for me, okay?”

  Without waiting for her answer, I turn and walk away. Lauren is nowhere to be found and while I consider sitting with Jack for a nanosecond, he quickly shifts his gaze as soon as I catch it. When I’m walking past his table, I think I see him move his bag from the seat next to him, but I’m probably imagining things.

  So I head to the library, pull out one book on various eye conditions and another on cats.

  It’s quiet in here, and deserted. Mrs. Uri, who hasn’t seen me, sits huddled in her corner, reading one of those magazines she leaves out to inspire us, nibbling on a sandwich and breaking her own rule. Part of me wants to say something, since I’m in a confrontational mood today, but I end up just flipping idly through my books and watching her eat.

  I feel like I truly understand her by the time the bell rings. And she’s riveting. Especially the way she obsessively wipes down the surface of the table following each bite.

  That’s not all I’m doing, though. I’m also trying to figure out who saw and how and from where. It’s funny how one can feel invisible and unseen, eating illegally in the library or letting one’s lips be kissed by geeky boys, all the while totally unaware that you’re being watched.

  I bite into the flesh on the side of my mouth until it starts to bleed. I want to find a smaller space to hide, in between the shelves, or inside the pages of this book, or in between the letters of a word.

  Five.

  I want to fold myself inside out and disappear. Grow smaller, smaller, smaller, till nobody can see me.

  22

  The first boy to ever throw rocks at my window late at night is tall, with dark tufts of brown hair, eyes a little too close together, and a two-day shadow. He doesn’t serenade me—he can’t play the guitar—and he doesn’t help me climb out, shushing me as I giggle, entangled by bushes and my own feet. This boy is hardly worth coming down for at all, but I owe him.

  He’s my father.

  “Shh. I don’t want to wake your mother.” He breathes heavily, holding himself up on the ledge of the window by placing his full weight on his arms, like an upright, creepy-father version of push-ups.

  I blink and try to undo the image. Where is Spencer and the boom box he will use to prove how sorry he is for picking Candy over me? Where is Johnny Depp? At this point, even Jack Penner would do. It’s just my luck that it’s my father, and he’s refusing to disappear.

  “I … got something. Will you … come down and see?”

  There are so many things wrong with this scene, but all I say is, “I’ll be right down.”

  He shushes me, but I’m already slamming my window shut, worming my way into clothes I can afford to be caught dead in—jeans, an oversized T-shirt, and my coat—and heading down the stairs.

  Once out the front door, I head around the corner to the start of the driveway. Dad is leaning against the garage door staring straight ahead, his breathing still loud.

  “I don’t know if you’ve heard,” I tell Dad, hugging my coat to myself, “but lack of sleep stunts growth. Particularly in adolescents.”

  “I’m sorry, hon. But I couldn’t wait to show you this.” My eyes follow Dad’s to the end of our driveway, where a huge white RV sits, tires smothering a layer of decaying snow. “Well?”

  I open my mouth and allow saliva to gather on the tip of my tongue, wetting my words so they slip out more easily and harden in the cool, wintery air.

  “Dad,” I say slowly.

  “I know,” he nods, as if I’ve already finished my impending lecture. “It’s not a good time.”

  “And it’s winter.”

  “And it’s not at all sensible.” He sounds like he’s talking to himself, or maybe the RV, since he can’t tear his eyes away from it. “But if not now, when? You know, why not right now? Everything feels like now.”

  He turns to look at me. “Do you like it?”

  I don’t say anything.

  “There are beds and a kitchen and a TV. It’s like being at home but smaller, cozier.”

  Is he trying to convince himself or me?

  “My mother,” I say slowly, my toes tingling where the cold air chews through my holey socks, “is going to kill you.” Sure, Mom and Dad had been talking about renting an RV soon, but we all know that Soon is when we don’t have to worry about starting off the trip with
four and coming back with three. Soon is after—if—we get our miracle.

  Dad laughs, runs a nervous hand through his hair. “I went to the RV store in the morning, fell in love, and let her spend the day at Rick’s while I figured out what I’d say to your mother.”

  The obvious questions are which parts of the RV have Dad convinced it’s a “her,” and what exactly he figured he’d say to my mother. Instead, I say, “Rick?”

  “Guy from work,” he explains.

  “So you waited until Mom was asleep to sneak out and bring it home?”

  Dad looks sheepish but doesn’t say anything.

  We stand there for a long time, just staring out at the street, at the RV.

  So. Dad wants to run away. Who would have thought?

  He’s still smiling. “It’s cold. You go on inside so you don’t catch something. And get some rest or you’ll be falling asleep in class tomorrow.”

  “What about you?”

  He shrugs. “Last day before I’m exiled. Might as well enjoy the outdoor sights—find the constellations, breathe in the wind.”

  “You’re smoking again, aren’t you?”

  Dad sighs and looks down, sort of ashamed, but not quite. “Don’t tell your mother.”

  I shuffle back inside, leaving Dad to plot his own method of escape. We all have ours. Mine apparently involve ill-advised makeout sessions. My mother’s are God and my barely existent acting career. My father’s are cigarettes and RVs. I don’t know what Jena’s are, but I’m sure she has some.

  An hour or two passes, and I drift in and out of sleep. I hear the sound of the front door downstairs creaking open. Holding my breath, I listen to find out whether it’s my father coming in or my mother, having woken up, going out to behead him.