by Karen Rivers
She texts back a kissy face.
“Gotta go,” I say. I raise my hand in farewell to avoid another painful hug. I walk away carefully up toward the house, avoiding the barnacles on the jagged rocks, not looking back to see which way he decides to go, the smell of the fiberglass hanging in the air like the fog, like everything I didn’t say.
“Sloane!” he calls after me, but I don’t slow down. The crunch of my feet on the rocky sand swallows whatever he was going to say and everything I feel.
* * *
“He takes my breath away,” Piper says. She’s lying on her bed, fresh from the shower, wearing yoga pants, a wrap top. “You know?” Her voice is breathy and almost unfamiliar.
I try to take my feelings (non-feelings) about Soup and remove them from my feelings about Piper, doing human math, to decide: Is Piper changing or am I? The differential of who Piper is now and who she used to be is Soup. The inverse of me and Soup is her. Math is hard, says Barbie. “I have so much math homework to do, I can’t stay. If I flunk this math final, I’ll have to repeat it next year and it will wreck everything.”
“You’ll do fine,” she says. “You always say that you’re going to fail and you get, like, a B.”
“Yeah, well, you always say that you’re going to ace it and then you do,” I point out.
She giggles. “Well, sorry. What? Anyway, why are we talking about math?”
“Because I can’t stay long,” I say. “Are you going to puke, or do you want some more ginger ale?”
“I don’t know. I can’t decide,” she says. “I feel strange. Floaty. Is that love or a hangover?” She sigh-smiles.
“Someone probably put a roofie in your punch,” I say. “Do you have blank spots in your memory?”
“Not even a little,” she says dreamily. “I remember every detail; want to hear?”
“No,” I say, too quickly.
She leans up on her elbow and gives me a confused look.
“I mean, of course,” I say. “I was kidding. But quickly because math.”
“Oh. Math is priority one. Gotcha. Well, first of all, the photographer took a million photos of us. He kept telling us that we were the most interesting couple at the dance. That says something, don’t you think? Anyway, Soup is so deep.”
“Deep how? Did you talk about the meaning of life?” I mean it sarcastically but she doesn’t seem to notice my tone.
“Yes! We totally did. We’re so on the same page. He’s like me. He wants to spend his life being creative and moving around, traveling, you know?”
“Um, you mean like what I want?”
“Yes! Like you, too. Basically, he’s like the boy version of you, which makes him so perfect for me. Oh God, I’m going to hurl again. Be right back.” She leapfrogs off the bed and over me, barely making it to the toilet before retching. I follow her in to hold her hair. She spits into the toilet and sits down on the tile floor.
“He’s a really good kisser,” she goes on, like she hasn’t just been throwing up. She wipes her mouth with toilet paper. “He’s so good. We need to find you a boyfriend now. It’s time.”
“Why is it time?” I ask irritably. “We had a deal.”
“It was a dumb deal,” she says. “We made it when we were, like, fourteen and we didn’t know. Now I know.”
“I don’t want a boyfriend,” I protest.
“I know just the guy,” she says. “You’ll see. I met this guy at work and he’d be great for you. Perfect, even. Not a boyfriend. Maybe a friend with benefits. You don’t even have to be friends.”
“No!” I say. “I don’t want a boyfriend. I have to go. Math o’clock.”
“Fine,” she says. She yawns, leans her head over on a pile of towels. “God, I’m so tired. Are my lips swollen? They feel swollen.”
“No,” I lie, even though her lips do look chapped. There is something in my veins that’s like poison; I can feel it creeping through me, envious and deadly. “Yes,” I add. “Maybe.” I try to smile, try to laugh, to remember how to be normal. How to be myself.
“I fixed Mr. Aberley’s boat,” I say.
“Oh, great!” she says. “I would hate to sink in that water.” She shudders. “Can you imagine? All those jellyfish.”
“And it’s cold,” I say. “But you can swim. I mean, we’d survive it.”
“Right,” she says. “Maybe. You would. You’re a better swimmer than me. I’d drown in five seconds. I hate being cold.”
“I’m a crummy swimmer,” I say. “Remember when I couldn’t get my sixth badge? I took those stupid classes eight times before I gave up. Maybe I should go back and get it now. I’d be, like, the oldest one in a class of ten-year-olds.”
She laughs. “You’d get it now. You’re good!”
“Aw, thanks,” I say. “Flatterer.”
She yawns again. “I’m going to nap. Want to stay?”
“Nope, I’m going to study,” I say.
“Math,” we say at the same time.
“Boooooring,” she says. “Later, gator hater.”
“While, vile ’dile,” I reply. I help her get into bed, tuck her in, kiss her forehead. “Happy dreams,” I whisper.
She laughs. “You’re the only one who ever says that to me. You’re a better mom than my mom.”
“Ha, don’t ever forget it,” I say, leaving, pulling the door shut tight behind me. I stand there for long enough to hear her making the sound she always makes in her sleep, a lip smacking that used to make sleepovers with her pretty hard to sleep through (not that it stopped me). “I love you,” I whisper as I leave. But I’m starting to wonder if it’s even still true. Can you stop loving someone? And do you know when you have? Or does it happen all at once, like a tree falling over?
If a tree falls in the forest, does anyone hear?
* * *
I am sitting on a log named Seth and I am drunk and it is Piper’s birthday and Soup has given her a spray-painted portrait of herself and he is here and she is here and his stupid buddies are here and I know that I’m drunk. I’m at the point of being drunk where the best thing to do would be to rewind time and not drink the last thing that I drank, which was a beer. I never drink beer. I’m trying to talk to the log we call Seth and the log isn’t answering because logs don’t talk.
“I’m a mess,” I tell Seth. “Why do we call you Seth? I can’t even remember our own stories.”
Seth rolls his eyes.
Logs don’t have eyes.
They have knots.
Seth rolls his knots, I amend.
It is a party.
Piper’s party.
We are on the island. This was my idea and it was a terrible idea because it’s impossible to leave without swimming or stranding people. My mouth tastes like a field of corn rotting in the sun, and something worse: manure or death. I lie down in the wet sand. The tide is high enough that it is licking at my bare feet and I’m probably cold but I can’t tell. The music from the party is above me like a thin layer of wispy clouds, between me and the stars. I can hear loud laughter emerging from behind the rock that separates me from the fire and the group. Soup is playing the guitar. I close my eyes. He’s really good at it. Well, duh. Of course he is.
When I open my eyes, Piper is beside me. Her face swims in and out of focus. “Sit up,” she says, and I do. Talking seems like too much trouble, so I lean on her. “You’re wasted,” she says. “Thank you for this, it’s a perfect party. Drink some water.” She puts a metal bottle in my hand.
I nod, because opening my mouth to talk feels impossible. I try to sip water without opening my lips: also impossible. I open them a crack. The water is delicious.
“This is the best water,” I slur. “The best ever.”
“You’re the best,” she says. “Always and forever.”
I nod again. I am the best. That’s me: the best.
Me and the water.
Then I shake my head. Wait, no. I’m not the best.
I’m the worst.<
br />
Remember?
I should tell her. I should say it out loud. I love Soup, I should say. I’m sorry, I should say.
Then she’ll give him to me. A birthday present.
It’s not my birthday.
“It’s not my birthday,” I say out loud.
“No, it’s Piper’s,” says a voice, which is a boy’s voice and not Piper’s voice.
I look beside me and she has morphed into Charlie Nevers. Weird. Never, Charlie, never. That’s what we used to call him. He is Soup’s best friend for reasons I can’t even begin to figure out. He was one of those jockish, terrible, loud boys when he was little and he has grown up into being the kind of boy who makes you aware that you’re not much more than a collection of body parts that he may or may not find attractive. I am breasts. I am hair. I am a body. A girl.
I laugh to myself, a mumbled choking sound. “I am a body.”
Charlie Nevers leans back on Seth. How dare you touch Seth? I think-yell.
I feel Seth shift into the sand.
“Rude,” I mumble.
I can smell cheap boy cologne and smoke. I squint at him in the moonlight. He is talking. My voice is rising and falling in cadence with his, like music. What am I saying? He closes his eyes and takes a breath, lets out a low whistle. Then he says, “Do you ever look up at the stars and feel totally insignificant?”
“Deep,” I manage, meaning for it to be sarcastic.
“I have hidden depths,” he says. “You probably didn’t know that about me. Anyway, now that Soup and Piper are hooking up, I’ve been thinking—” His sentence stops before the end, abrupt. Definite.
I pull myself up. I glare at him. I don’t know whether to laugh or throw up. Too much to drink, too much. “No,” I say. “Ablosutely not.”
“I didn’t ab-lo-sutely finish,” he says. And then before I can do anything or stop him, his mouth is on my mouth. His tongue is touching my tongue and I’m biting down, I’m pushing, and it’s like a music video, all broken images and static and I’m kicking him and I’m screaming and then there is Soup, pulling Charlie Nevers off me, and Charlie is wiping his mouth and saying, “That ho bit my tongue.” And then Soup is flattening him and Piper is screaming and I’m so cold that what I do is I get into Mr. Aberley’s boat and I push it and push it, wading out to my knees, and then I start rowing and I go home, leaving the bright fire of the island, the rising smoke, the loud voices, and Charlie Nevers behind.
“Goodbye,” I say. “Goodbye.”
* * *
“Are you coming?”
Mom pushes open my bedroom door, tentatively. She’s using her extra-quiet voice. Her migraine voice. I have a hangover, not a migraine. I deserve to feel terrible. I deserve to have a headache. The room spins.
“I’m looking for my pants,” I lie, sitting up. Then, “Mom?”
“What’s wrong?” she says, stepping over a pile of clothes on the floor. She climbs up onto the bed awkwardly, perching on the edge. “Whoo, you stink. Campfire? Maybe you want to skip yoga and take a shower instead.” She laughs. I don’t. My bed is tall and her legs don’t quite hit the floor. She looks like a kid. “What’s going on?”
“I can’t find my yoga pants,” I say, then I start to cry.
“Sloaney?” she says. “Is this about the party? Did something happen?” She tentatively pats my shoulder like she’s not sure where to touch me, or if she’s allowed. I lean into her and we both fall backward onto the duvet. She struggles to sit up, pushing her hair back behind her ears as she does. She isn’t a lying-on-the-bed kind of mom. “Do you need to talk? Is this where you tell me you’re pregnant?”
“Ha ha, Mom,” I say. It’s an old joke of Mom’s, that whenever I say I need to talk, I must be about to tell her exactly that. “I mean, Grandma…” I poke her in the ribs and she laughs obligingly. “I’m still a virgin,” I add for good measure, wondering if it’s still true. I think about Charlie Nevers and his tongue. My memory contains a huge black spot. There he was, trying to be deep, looking to get into my pants, and I was fighting, and then there’s a great, cavernous blank.
“I know you’re a virgin, Sloaney,” she says, which is sort of offensive. She doesn’t know half of it. Or even a quarter. She smells like some kind of vanilla perfume, toothpaste, the brisk, efficient scent of someone who is a good mother.
“Mom,” I say quickly so I don’t chicken out. “I feel like maybe something is wrong with me.”
She looks at me. “What do you mean?” she asks.
“I don’t know. I’m anxious,” I admit. “I’m really anxious. Like in too much of a way, not a normal way. In a bad way.”
She frowns. “Is it Piper?”
“What? Piper? This is nothing to do with Piper! God, Mom. Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“When there’s something wrong, it’s always Piper’s fault! You always do that! Maybe this is about me, not her!”
“I’m sorry!” she says. “It’s just that sometimes she’s pretty, you know, strong. She’s a strong influence in your life. And maybe her choices are a bit uncomfortable…”
“MOM,” I say. “Stop. Please.”
She stands up, awkwardly thumping onto the ground from the height of the bed. “Ouch.” She rubs her ankle. “This bed is crazy. Why is it so high?”
“I have no idea,” I say as coldly as possible. I roll over and face the window so I don’t have to look at her.
“Oh, Sloane, I’m sorry. I did that wrong, didn’t I?” she says. “I’m always making mistakes with you. Parenting is harder than you’d think, it turns out.”
“That actually doesn’t help either!” I say. “This isn’t about your parenting! You don’t need me to give you an A in parenting! You’re fine! I wanted to … I was trying to…” I start crying harder. “I’m just really anxious!”
She takes a deep breath. “It’s pretty normal, I think,” she tries. “This is your last summer holiday. Maybe you should get a job to fill the time, so you don’t sit around and worry so much. I can understand. It must be a lot of pressure. Twelfth grade is looming. You’re going to be graduating. Everything probably feels like pressure, like a big deal. Maybe there’s even pressure on this summer to be perfect. Is that it?”
“Mom,” I say. “I think it’s not only that.” I relent. “Maybe it is a little that. But sometimes my heart beats really fast. I can’t breathe. I forget how to breathe. How can I go to Europe if I can’t breathe? How can I do anything?”
“Oh,” she says. “Well, to start with, you are actually breathing.”
“I know, but if I don’t think about it, it all goes wrong. I can’t do it properly.”
“When that happens to me,” she says, “I hold my breath. Then, when I can’t stand holding my breath any longer, the breathing seems to click back to normal. Does that sound crazy?”
I shake my head. “No, it sounds like it sort of makes sense.”
She smiles. “See? I’m not so bad at this!”
“Yay, you,” I say weakly. “I’ll have the trophy engraved right away, Number One Mom!”
“Seriously,” she says. “Do you want to talk to … someone? A therapist?”
I shrug. I do, but I also don’t. “No,” I say. “Yes.” Then, “Maybe.”
“When you do, please tell me, honey. I’ll set something up for you.” She lays her hand on my forehead, like she used to when I was little and I was sick.
“How’s my temperature?” I say.
“Normal,” she says. “And it’s yoga o’clock.”
I roll my eyes. “Okay, okay. First, I have to change.”
She steps out into the hallway while I change my pants. The ones I’m putting on smell musty, but yoga is mostly an exercise in farting and sweating. It may bill itself as something scented gently with patchouli and flowers, but once you’ve done a couple of classes, you learn to hold your breath. Maybe that’s why breath holding soothes anxiety. It prevents the smells from filtering
in.
“I want you to know you can always talk to me,” Mom calls from the hall. “About anything.”
For a second, I hesitate, hovering between moods. Choosing. I could tell her about the party. About Charlie. About how I felt. About how I fought. But I can’t and I won’t and I don’t and I’m so mad, for a second I forget that it’s not her I’m mad at, it’s me.
“Forget it,” I say as I join her. “I’m fine. Yoga will be good. Helpful. Calming. Hippies do yoga, right? And they’re always calm! No one ever says, Hey, look at that agitated hippie!”
She smiles. “It may have something to do with the pot, too. NOT that I’m advocating for that. Don’t do that!”
“Mom, it’s fine. I’m not. I hate the smell of it, for one thing.”
“Me, too,” she says. She looks at her wrist, where she wears a Fitbit that doubles as a watch. “Okay, we have to run! I love this class. This class is the best. But if we’re late, we miss my favorite part.”
“Sure, Mom,” I say, letting her off the hook. “Hurrying.”
My heart skitters a bit, but the wave of panic doesn’t come. I follow her down the stairs to her car, which is a sensible Mom-style white Land Rover. It still has that new car smell. The window is down, so I push the button, and the way that it firmly closes makes me feel safe. I turn on the radio and lean back. The car rolls softly on the road and Mom hums and the green leaves blow brightly against the blue sky in the hot wind and the air conditioner silkily cools the car and my heart beats normally and I hold my breath and then breathe and everything is okay. It is okay. I swear it.
I’m okay.
I dig my nails into the palm of my hand and check my phone again.
Nothing.
I shut it off and let it drop onto the floor.
The tires crunch on gravel as we pull into the yoga studio.
“All set?” says Mom cheerily.
I grin, which probably looks like a rictus, which is fair because I feel dead inside. Piper still hasn’t called. Not to say “R U OK?,” not to get mad at me for abandoning her, not for anything.
She has Soup now, so she doesn’t need me.
Something jiggles at the corner of my memory from last night, in combination with the wave of hangover nausea. Soup, his fists raised. Soup, pushing Charlie into the water.