“Okay.”
“But first, food.”
We stop at a tapas place and order three-quarters of the menu to go, then take our drinks and boxes of food and drive the short distance to the print shop where Bode works. He unlocks the door with his key and flicks on the lights.
“I love it,” I say. The walls are painted an awful neon green and decorated with dozens of framed prints. It smells like ink and is packed with equipment and merchandise. At first glance, it looks haphazard. But it’s actually immaculately organized. Bottles of ink and solution are arranged by color and product on a wall-sized shelving unit. Racks of T-shirts and hoodies and scarves and other odds and ends populate the floor between the entrance and the long clerk’s counter, which is tidy but covered in graffiti, its every available surface doodled on in every color of permanent marker. A bucket of them sits on top with a printed sign inviting customers to add to the counter’s artwork.
Bode locks the door behind us and takes our bags of food past the sales counter to a drafting table behind it. I follow him, admiring the printed apparel that’s for sale, the art on the walls (much of it Bode’s), and finally the screen-printing equipment itself.
“Wow,” I say, “check this thing out.”
Bode comes up close to me. “Rad, right? It’s a six-color, four-station silk-screen printing press. I’ll show you how it works after we eat. That’s why we’re here.”
We sit on stools beside each other, the tapas spread out on the drafting table, and eat, passing the boxes between us, trying some of everything and competing with each other for extra bites of our favorites. Bode plays music from his phone over a Bluetooth speaker mounted to the back wall.
We talk art class and the octopus army and favorite bands while we finish eating. This whole week has been so easy, and tonight’s no different. Except, now we’re alone and free to brush knees while we’re at the table and hands while we’re cleaning up. Free to stand closer than we need to while he explains the print we’re going to make, arms touching, fingers lacing, while we survey the colors and pick the six we want. Free for him to stand behind me, arms reaching around my either side, hands on mine, as he shows me the right way to pull the squeegee (least sexy word of all time) up and down the screen to spread the ink evenly.
Free for me to twist in his arms after he lifts the screen and, stomach to stomach, close the narrow gap between our lips.
By the time we’re done, we’ve printed a dozen shirts with his new design, my face hurts from smiling, I’ve memorized the taste and feel of Bode’s lips, and I’ve missed four more texts and a voicemail from Life2.
While Bode rinses out the screens in the slop sink, I scroll through the texts, then listen to the voicemail, lifting a finger to touch the lump of the BAN chip in my neck.
“Lucy,” Dr. Thompson’s message says, “responses to wellness inquiries are mandatory. Your heart rate and hormone levels fluctuated multiple times this evening with no acknowledgment or reply. As they’ve returned to normal and we know from your GPS that you’re located at Squid’s Print Shop, and not likely in duress, we must assume you are in good health. Know that if you continue to fail to communicate as dictated, we will take measures to protect our investment.”
I lower the phone from my ear. Behind me, the sound of Bode washing out the screens continues.
Protect our investment.
“Hey,” he says, coming up behind me and looping his arms around my waist. The skin on his hands and forearms is still warm from the water.
He rests his chin on my shoulder and asks, “What’s Life Squared?”
“Nothing,” I answer, and put the phone away. “Probably a scam.”
LUCILLE
“Here’s fine,” I say, and Taylor glances back at me, skeptical, before shrugging and pulling over at the curb instead of turning into my driveway.
My knee bounces. I unbuckle my seat belt and scoot forward. Both garage doors are shut. That’s the signal. If Mom’s not home and it’s safe for me to come in, the garage door should be open, something we never do since Boris likes to wander.
Marco reaches for my hand, but I wipe my sweaty palms on my shorts and climb out. At least the house isn’t on fire, right? Or surrounded by reporters.
He meets me at the back of Taylor’s Highlander and opens the hatch to grab my pack. I let him, then pull the door closed. As I reach for the strap of my backpack, he grins and refuses to let it go, instead pulling me closer and leaning down. His lips meet mine.
And I feel it, low in my stomach, in my arms and hips and hair. This new thing we share. Not necessarily a secret, but a thing, a moment, a whole series of moments that are only ours.
“We can see you, you know,” Taylor calls.
“And hear you,” Remi adds.
Marco’s lips stretch in a smile against mine. He pulls back enough to yell, “Don’t care!” Then kisses me again, quiet and slow.
My car drives past.
My car.
With Lucy in it.
Marco moves, starts to turn toward the road. But I yank at my pack’s straps, and he turns back.
“Better go,” I say, and struggle to loop a strap over my shoulder. My car rounds the front of Taylor’s SUV, pulling into the driveway as the garage door opens.
“Was that your mom?”
I shrug and turn to go.
Marco reaches for my pack again. “Let me carry that. I’ll come up.” He holds his hand out. “I want to meet her.”
“No.” I take two steps away, pausing by the passenger door and Remi, who’s sitting with the window down. “She’s at work.”
“So who—” he starts, while I say, “Call you later?” and Remi leans out to ask, “You coming tonight?”
I arch a brow. Behind him, Taylor clarifies, “End-of-summer party.”
Remi gives me a sly smile. “Taylor and I forced Marco not to say anything. In case you were awful.” He shrugs. “But you’re okay. So you can come if you want.”
“Thanks. I think.”
“You’re welcome.”
Marco stands back from me, hands in his pockets.
“Call you later?” I ask again.
He nods.
I walk through the side yard up to the garage with its still-open door. My mom’s SUV is gone—thank god—and Lucy’s climbing out of my car.
“Hey.”
She flinches, banging her head on the doorframe. “Fuck!”
“Sorry.”
Rubbing the back of her head, she turns to me. “Hey.”
“Where were you?”
“Getting dog food.” She moves to the side so I can see the giant bag of dog food in the backseat.
“Where’s Mom?”
“Having lunch with Ava.”
I nod.
We’re quiet. So quiet I can hear Boris in the kitchen, waiting for me—her? us?—to come inside.
“How was backpacking?”
“Absolutely amazing. We hiked to a lake tucked into this shallow valley. The water was frigid, but so clear. And we were the only ones there. We swam and laid out and ate bad dehydrated food that somehow tasted so good. Marco’s friends Taylor and Remi are hilarious, and we all—”
“Sounds great,” she interrupts.
Okay…“How was, uh, home?”
“Fine.”
“Did something happen?”
“What kind of something?”
“Something to make you…”
“What?”
I swallow. “Never mind. Do you have my phone?”
“Yeah.” She reaches into my bag she’s using, pulls it out, and offers it to me.
I step closer to take it from her hand. “And the notebook?”
�
�Upstairs. I haven’t updated it yet.”
“Oh.” I check my phone, but there are no notifications. “Why not?”
“I was busy.”
“Doing what?”
She shrugs. “You planning to go to Dad’s tonight? I’m on the schedule, but then your trip came up, and I don’t know if that changed things.”
“I’m not sure yet. Marco’s friends invited me out.”
Her eyes narrow. “Okay. Well, Mom thinks I’m heading over there now, so.”
“Right. I’ll go take a shower and let you know.” I drop my pack on the garage floor. “Can you take this up to the apartment? I’ll deal with it later. Just, it smells like campfire, so I don’t want it in my room.”
She pauses. Her face goes blank. Isobel blank. Then she smiles and nods before turning back to the car to grab the bag of dog food.
Inside, Boris greets me, whining and dancing and mashing his big wet nose into my legs as he smells the mountains. “Hi, Bobo,” I say, hugging him. I push past, heading toward the stairs, expecting him to follow, but he lies down and waits by the garage door.
I hurry up to my room. I don’t know what to do. Go to the party? Go to my dad’s? I could laugh at even having this “problem” but I already feel too much. Tired, sweaty, sore. Happy, nervous, confused. What was that in the garage? Is she pissed at me? Is she…anything? I don’t know where the line is. I mean, she’s me. But is she, does she feel things? Separate things? Or, well, different things? Usually she’s so flat and stoic. But down there she seemed almost annoyed. I wanted to tell her about my trip. Or, I don’t know. Maybe I just want to tell someone about it and she’s the only one I can. But I also figured she’d want to know.
My phone buzzes in my hand.
A text from Cass: OMFG!!! You two are SO CUTE!!! followed by at least twenty heart-eye smileys and a link to an Instagram post.
A post on my Instagram.
I click the link and see a picture of Bode and…not me.
Bode and Lucy.
Bode and Lucy in the print shop. Her, smiling with her arm held out to take the picture. Him, kissing her cheek. Both, wearing matching T-shirts printed with the image of some 1950s-looking white guy sitting down to a dinner of a giant spider. The post’s caption reads BON APPÉTIT.
LUCY
I know when she sees it. Not from a blood-curdling scream ripping through the house (that’s not Lucille’s style), but because she starts liking comments. I stand in the apartment, Instagram app open on my phone, and watch it happen.
Cass: A line of dancing red-dress ladies and FINALLY!
Liked.
Aran: Gross. Not you guys. But dude @BodePrints. Gross.
Liked.
Louise: cute.
Liked.
Finn: pls respect the no pda at lunch rule.
Liked.
Matt: Aw!!
Liked.
I know exactly how this hurts her. But, after the way she looked at me in the garage. After days of being a whole person, of expanding to fill an entire space. After take this up to the apartment, it smells like campfire, and I don’t want it in my room. I dumped the pack by the door and hurt her on purpose if only to get back at her for being oblivious to the fact that I’m also capable of being hurt.
When Bode comments with a line of spider emojis and a single black heart, I grab my bag and head downstairs.
I text her from the driveway: Heading to dads. Enjoy your night.
LUCILLE
Heading to dads. Enjoy your night, she texts. I sprint across the hall into the guest room in time to watch her back into the road and drive away.
I stare at the empty driveway until I remember to close my mouth.
Lucy went out with Bode.
Lucy went out with Bode, then posted a pic of it on Instagram.
Oh my god. What if Marco sees it?
I open my app and delete the post. Before I can think twice. Before I can wonder what that’ll mean for…who? Bode? Lucy and Bode? It already has over forty likes. Eighteen comments. Bode shared it on his feed.
Is this a panic attack? The racing heartbeat, pulsing head, and the air’s too tight. Too heavy.
The sound of the garage door again, Boris whining again. But it isn’t Lucy.
It’s Mom.
I stumble back from the window, and before I fully register what my body’s doing, I’m downstairs, pushing past Boris, opening the sliding glass door, and ducking into the yard. I’m going to puke. Crouching low so she can’t see me through the kitchen window, I cross the yard to the gate and let myself out, closing it as quietly as I can behind me. I run around the side of the garage to spy through the door.
Mom sits in her car for a minute, looking at her phone, then she hits the button on her visor to close the garage door and goes inside. I open the side door and creep up to the apartment, using the X’s I taped on the stairs to pick the quietest steps.
My backpack leans against the wall on the floor to my right. The bed’s still half-made, how I left it on my way out the door Wednesday morning. I tiptoe—step by marked step—over to sit on one of the bar stools and stare at my dirty cereal bowl, still on the counter beside the sink, while my heart rate slows.
LUCY
I feel electric. Like a closed circuit with a current sprinting round and round inside.
I may be the only one who sees it, but Lucille and I, we’re on either side of a teeter-totter. Until this is all over, the fulcrum’s our one, shared life. And I just yanked a whole load of shit (Dad, Bode, even the car) over to my side.
My phone buzzes. I check the screen (current circling), but it isn’t Lucille or Life2. I pull over to read Bode’s text that he’ll be at the print shop tonight making more spider shirts, do I want to join?
Of course. But I write back, Why are you so obsessed with me?
Boredom. Probably.
Fair enough. Too bad you’ll have to suffer through it tonight. I’m hanging with the Male Paternal Unit.
What a bizarre way to say dad.
Okay fine. Father dearest. Better?
Yes, he writes back. And not at all murdery.
Total “I do creative taxidermy in my basement” vibe.
Hey. ALL taxidermy is creative taxidermy.
I laugh, then write, Cool. Please start a new hobby and make me a dolphin-jaguar.
That’s horrifying. Poor dolphin. Poor jaguar.
I know. I’m a monster.
The second I hit send, my gut drops. Freudian-slip much, Lucy? I drop the phone onto the passenger seat, hear the buzz of Bode’s reply, but shift the car into drive and pull away from the curb, cranking the stereo to drown out my thoughts.
Because no matter how much weight I plunder from Lucille’s side and hoard to mine, we’re still sharing the same scale. I’m still partial. I’m still temporary.
I’m still only half.
LUCILLE
It’s crowded. Hot. Not so loud that a neighbor’s going to call the cops, but loud enough. And I know exactly three people here. Remi, Taylor, and of course, Marco.
I hover with them, each of us nursing a cup from the keg. Then Taylor peels off after some guy they all know, and five minutes later, Remi vanishes. Like, into thin air. One second the three of us are talking, I take a sip from my cup, then I look up and he’s gone.
“Wha—”
Marco grins. “Yeah, Remi does that.”
“It’s like a magic trick.”
“It’s an I-got-bored trick.”
“Ah,” I say, and take another gulp of my drink. Beer is gross. But I’m halfway through my first cup, and the wriggling bucket of maggots that is my state of mind right now has stopped feeling so…wriggly.
It’s gross in here,
too. Small house with smaller rooms, low ceilings, and smashed full of people, it’s a sauna. “Can we go outside? Or just somewhere less…”
“Suffocating?” Marco offers.
“Yeah, that.”
He nods, then offers me his hand, and I let him lead me through the house to the back door.
Outside, groups of people huddle in the small, overgrown backyard. They talk in low voices with the occasional laugh, cautious of the neighboring houses, tucked up close on all three of the yard’s sides. Marco makes his way over to a raised flower bed built against the rear of the house. We sit on the edge. “So,” he says.
“So.” I tip my beer gently from side to side, watching the foam. He doesn’t want to be here, didn’t want to come. When I called this afternoon and asked if he wanted to go, he suggested a movie at his house, saying it’d be loud and crowded and wouldn’t it be better to be alone? But I’m a writhing quagmire, and I knew that if I were stuck somewhere quiet with him, something would slither out.
“Want to know a secret?” I ask.
He looks over at me. It’s full dark, the yard lit by two porch lights and the orange-black city sky. “Always.”
“Okay.” I take a sip. “This is my first beer.”
“Ever?”
“Yep.”
“You’ve never even, like, stolen a couple from the fridge when you were twelve and chugged them with your cousin upstairs in your room only to end up hurling in your trash can and getting caught by your mom?”
“How specific.”
He shrugs. “Oh, you know, happened to a friend of a friend.”
I breathe a laugh. “Your mom still pissed about it?”
“Till the end of time.”
I lean into him, resting my head on his shoulder. I feel like an unfinished circuit. What am I doing here? What am I doing, period? I didn’t sign up for this mess. I signed up for time. And validation. To top off the stale hollow of Lucille Harper, Fill in the Blank. But maybe that’s bullshit, too, since what’d I really do besides swap Lucille Harper, Overachiever, for Lucille Harper, Life2’s Ideal Candidate. Different shades of the same blue.
Half Life Page 17