by Laura Nowlin
“It’s so nice seeing both of you,” Mrs. Morgansen says, and my mind moves back to the moment. “And it’s nice to know you’re still such good friends.”
Finny and I both glance over at each other and look away again quickly. His cheeks are already turning a deep pink. It’s not as if we can correct her.
“Or,” she asks, “are you more than just friends by now?” and I realize she has misinterpreted his blush. Finny turns red.
“No,” I say. I look back at her and shake my head, “No, no, no.” By her startled expression, it occurs to me that I’ve denied it perhaps a bit too vehemently to be polite. “I just mean I’ve been with my boyfriend for almost two years now, well, by the end of the summer it will be. So, no.”
“Oh, I see,” she says. “And what’s he like?”
“He’s fifth in our class,” I say. Finny is third. “And he’s really good to me.”
“Well, I knew that,” she says. “Otherwise Finny wouldn’t let him near you.” She smiles and I fake a laugh. Finny doesn’t say anything. “Actually, Phineas,” she continues, “I think your mother did say something about you and a girlfriend last time I asked.”
“Oh yeah,” Finny says. He stands up. “Speaking of Mom, we should probably go. We’re supposed to help load the car.”
We are hugged again. We promise to come back again sometime. Mrs. Morgansen tells me to send her some poems and, embarrassed, I try to laugh it off. Finny closes the door behind us and we head toward the staircase again. I think about Mrs. Morgansen’s memories of us. Of course she would have no reason to think we’d be anything less than the closest of friends. When I let myself remember how we used to be, it is hard to believe things could change so quickly.
I think about Mrs. Morgansen saying we hadn’t changed, and I think of the girl I used to be here, in this school. I want it to be true. I don’t want to be so different from her.
“I’m going to do it,” I say to Finny when we reach the stairs. We both stop.
“Do what?”
“I’m going to slide down the banister,” I say. I grab the railing with both hands and throw my leg over.
“Hold on,” Finny says. “Let me get to the bottom so I can catch you if you fall.” I roll my eyes as he rushes down the stairs.
“You’re ridiculous,” I shout down to him. My voice bounces through the corridor.
“You’re wearing a tiara and straddling a banister,” he calls back up to me. I let him win and wait until he is poised ready at the bottom.
They must have just polished the wood; I fly down and have to catch myself at the bottom so that I don’t fall to the floor. Finny grabs my elbow but I right myself quickly and his hand drops.
“That actually looked like fun,” he says.
“It was,” I say. Aunt Angelina stumbles into the hallway carrying a potted tree that is clearly too heavy for her. Finny rushes to take it from her and the three of us load up the car quickly.
“Can you come to lunch with us or are you going back to Sylvie’s?” Aunt Angelina says when we are done, standing by her car. Finny’s face returns to the blank look from this morning.
“I need to go back,” he says evenly.
“All right,” she says. She reaches up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “Thank you for coming to help.”
“Of course,” he says. “Bye.” He glances at me and walks to his red car across the street.
At the diner nearby, Aunt Angelina chats with me about my plans for the summer and our visit with Mrs. Morgansen. I tell her about sliding down the banister and Finny standing at the bottom. She laughs.
“Sometimes you two are just so predictable,” she says, making me think of Mrs. Morgansen’s comment again. We talk of other things for the rest of lunch, and it isn’t until we are walking to the car that she brings him up again.
“I don’t suppose he told you what’s going on with Sylvie?” Aunt Angelina says. I shake my head. “I suppose I didn’t really think so,” she says. She changes the subject again.
29
We are lying out on the grass looking up at the stars like characters in a children’s book. It came about naturally though, without any intentions of being cute, so I do not mind.
It’s Brooke’s backyard, and the ground is level and soft with the expensive grass her father slaves over. With the hand that isn’t holding Jamie’s, I stroke the cool, lush tendrils with my fingers. The others are scattered around close by. We had been laughing at something the boys had said, but a silence has fallen over the last few minutes, the kind of silence that makes you feel closer to the people you are with. I can hear everyone’s breathing, though I can’t pick out any individual rhythms besides Jamie’s. Someone—Brooke?—sighs happily.
“So what’s the meaning of life?” Angie says.
“To be happy,” Jamie says immediately.
“Really?” Noah says. “I was thinking it was to do good or something.”
“And I was thinking it was to have orgasms,” Alex says. There is a sound that I assume is Sasha hitting him.
“Isn’t that the same as being happy?” Brooke says.
“Well, that’s just one kind of happiness,” Jamie says. “I’m talking about having lots of different kinds of happiness.”
“But you don’t think we’re supposed to make the world better?” Noah says.
“Of course we are,” Jamie says. “That’s another kind of happiness.”
“Huh,” Angie says.
“I can see that,” Sasha says.
“I think it’s just to truly love somebody before we die,” Brooke says.
I add up everything I deeply want out of life: writing as much as I can, reading everything, the vague impressions of motherhood I cradle in me, seeing the northern lights and the Southern Cross. And other desires that I don’t let myself think on too long because I’ve already settled that part of my life.
I try to find the sum of these things.
“I think,” I say, “I think we’re supposed to experience as much beauty as we can.”
“Isn’t that the same as happiness too?” Jaime says. I shake my head. The grass pulls at my hair.
“No, because sometimes sad things are beautiful,” I say. “Like when someone dies.”
“That isn’t beautiful. That just sucks,” Jamie says.
“You don’t understand what I mean,” I say.
“Orgasms can be beautiful,” Alex says.
“Yeah, they can be,” I say. Even though I’ve never had an orgasm that can be described as beautiful, I agree with the idea. “And making the world better would be beautiful too.”
“But we aren’t here to suffer,” Jamie says.
“I don’t think that,” I say.
“But you think we’re here for beautiful things and you think sadness is beautiful?”
“It can be,” I say.
“I didn’t think this discussion would be so serious,” Angie says. “I thought everybody would make jokes.”
“I tried,” Alex says.
***
“Do you really not think sad things can be beautiful?” I say as Jamie drives me home. He isn’t shallow; surely he has felt what I’m talking about. His favorite song was on the radio when we got in and I wasn’t allowed to speak until now. I’ve been thinking of examples to make him understand. Jamie doesn’t take his eyes off the road, doesn’t look at me.
“Nope,” he says. “You’re just weird.”
“Why does that make me weird?” I say. I momentarily forget my arguments and examples. “Just because I think something different from you doesn’t make me weird.”
“I bet if we took a survey, everybody would agree with me.”
“That doesn’t make you right,” I say. “And you’re supposed to be against being just like everybody else.”
“It’s not about being like everybody else. When someone dies, it’s bad,” Jamie says. “That’s just something everybody knows.”
“You don’t understand,” I say.
“I do understand,” he says. He pulls the car into my driveway. “You just see things differently and that’s okay, because I like you weird. You’re my weird, morbid pretty girl.” I let him kiss me good night. I sigh.
“Hey,” he says. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say.
“What?” he asks.
“What about Romeo and Juliet?” I say. “That’s beautiful and sad.”
“But that’s not real life.”
“So?”
“There’s real life and then there are books, Autumn,” Jamie says. “In real life, it would just be sad and stupid.”
“How could two people dying for love be stupid?” I say. We are sitting in the dark facing each other in the seats, our seatbelts off.
“It’s stupid to kill yourself,” Jamie says. “That’s what cowards do.”
“I think it’s brave,” I say. “And I think it’s beautiful that they loved each other so much that they couldn’t live without the other one.”
“Would you kill yourself if I died?” Jamie asks. I look at his face in the darkness. He stares back calmly. I think about him running down the steps with the other boys. I think about the sly grin on his face before he says something to tease me. I think about him being gone and under the ground, never to be seen again.
“No, I guess not,” I say.
“See?” he says. He leans forward and kisses me again. “I wouldn’t want you to either,” he says. “I’d want you to be happy.”
“I would be very sad though,” I say. “For a long time. And I would never forget you.”
“I know. Me too.”
“But you wouldn’t kill yourself,” I say.
“No,” he says.
I add up again all of the things that I want from life. There is real life and then there are books. I try to puzzle out what is real and what isn’t, what I can have and what I never will.
“But you do love me,” I say.
“Yes,” Jamie says, “the way people love each other in real life.”
I lean forward and lay my head on his shoulder.
“I guess I love you in the way people love in real life too.”
He smiles and I feel his lips in my hair. I close my eyes and bury my face in him.
30
I’m sitting on the back porch reading after a trip to the library this afternoon. The book is old and has that dusty, musty smell I love. The author is Irish, probably dead, and someone I’ve never heard of before today. The book is surely out of print by now and I feel as if I am holding a lost treasure in my hands. I stop suddenly and close my eyes. This book is a treasure; I did not suspect it would be so good when I picked it up, but now I can feel the printed words seeping through my skin and into my veins, rushing to my heart and marking it forever. I want to savor this wonder, this happening of loving a book and reading it for the first time, because the first time is always the best, and I will never read this book for the first time ever again.
I sigh and look out across the backyard. Today is the longest day of the year, and the sun is only just reaching the horizon behind the trees. The air feels good in my lungs and my muscles are relaxed and warm in the slowly fading sunshine. I will sit here for a moment longer and be happy. Though I am dying to look down again and read more, I’ll sit here and love this book and know that I still have so much more left to read because that won’t be true for very long.
Next door, the back door slams and two voices are talking quietly on the porch. I glance up startled.
“So that’s it then,” Aunt Angelina says. Her voice is calm and even, like the voice on the phone that tells you the time and temperature.
“Yes, it is,” the other says. “I’ll be in touch later, but for now this is it.”
“Fine then. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye, Angelina.”
Kevin the Football Man walks off the porch and into his car without looking back. Aunt Angelina stands on the porch and watches him as he maneuvers out of the narrow, long driveway and disappears.
After he is gone, she continues to look out over the gravel driveway into the yard and setting sun and I look at her.
“Autumn,” she says. I start in my seat and stop breathing. She still stares straight ahead. “Try to marry your first love. For the rest of your life, no one will ever treat you as well.”
She turns to leave then and closes the door behind her.
Suddenly it is very quiet outside, and the glitter is gone from the grass and leaves, and even though the sun is only beginning to set, I think soon it will be too dark to read. I close my book and stand up.
I’ll go inside and make something for dinner and read more later. I will have to wait for the magic to come back before opening it again. I’ll wait until I remember that Aunt Angelina is happy with her life and that I will marry my first love. It will only be the first time once.
31
Sasha and I are walking to the drug store, even though she could borrow her mother’s car and drive us. It takes up more of the long, hot day if we walk, makes it more like an adventure than just something to do. Against the sound of the cicadas, our sandals smack on the sidewalk as we hike our way toward Main Street. We stop along the way to scratch bug bites on our ankles and make sure our bra straps aren’t showing from under our tank tops. We are talking as we walk, in spite of the clouds of heat that puff down our throats with each breath.
When we get there, we will sigh in the air conditioning and run our fingers through our hair. Perched side by side atop the layer of magazines on the bottom shelf of the massive stand, we will flip through articles about sex and hair. We will even balance the month’s massive bridal book on our knees and look at the white dresses and rings with a sort of reverence. Afterward, we will stroll through the aisles and pick out lip gloss and candy, nail polish and sodas. We’ll walk back to my house then, and in my room we will stretch out on my bed, our bare legs brushing, and read the magazines we bought and eat licorice.
This is the background of our day together, but the real purpose of being together is talking. Sasha and I can talk about nearly anything, and when we talk, we talk for a long time, a whole day even.
There is a sudden lull in our conversation, an unnatural pause after my story about last night’s date with Jamie. I look over at her, but she stares straight ahead down the sidewalk as if there is someone waiting for her there.
“I have to tell you something,” she says, still staring at the invisible person.
“What?” I ask. My mind is already tabulating all the possibilities; I’m the sort of person who tries to figure out the end of the book as she reads it and my conversations are no different.
“I think I’m going to break up with Alex,” she says.
“You can’t,” I say, as five different threads run through my mind and I try to sort through all the thoughts and reactions: jealous that she is so brave, smug that Jamie and I lasted, worried for Alex, surprised—
“I’m going to,” she says. “I’ve already decided really.”
“But why?” I ask, the shock momentarily overshadowing all the other reactions. She shrugs and looks down at the sidewalk to frown. Up ahead, I see the corner where we will wait at the crosswalk. In our impatience with the heat, we will push the button again and again, and even though we know it will not make the green letters appear any faster, we will stare at the sign expectantly.
“I still love Alex,” she says, “in a way. But I don’t feel about him the way I used to. Nothing is romantic anymore. It’s more like we’re old friends.”
“But that’s what long-term relationships are like,” I say. “You can’
t just throw him away.”
“I’m not throwing him away,” she says. “But I’m not in love anymore and I need you to support me.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. I stop walking and we turn to each other. I hug her and she holds me back. We’re both dewy and hot to the touch. “I’m just surprised. And sad.”
And jealous, and smug, and worried.
We let go of each other and continue our walk and our day together.
32
The breakup happens and there are days of discussion. Jamie is annoyed with Sasha, but I defend her right to end the relationship. The boys are vague in their reports on how Alex is doing. They try to tell us that they don’t talk about Sasha when they hang out, but that is too ridiculous to be true.
In August, Angie gets a new boyfriend, also from Hazelwood High, but this one is, to our amusement, on the football team and rather preppy. Angie warns us about this first, swearing that he is actually very cool and knows all sorts of good music. I wonder what kind of warning he is receiving in turn about us.
We make plans to meet Angie’s Dave on a triple date to the movies. Brooke and Noah ride with us to the mall and we laugh and wonder aloud about Preppy Dave. I’m determined to like him for Angie’s sake, but I worry a bit about the boys.
“This is going to be hilarious,” Jamie says.
“Don’t tease him too much,” I say.
“I’m not going to be mean to him,” Jamie says. He rolls his eyes even though he’s driving and I glance at the road for him. “But we might need to do a tiny bit of hazing, you know, just to make sure this prepster is good enough for Angie. Right, Noah?”