“Maybe we should go down to Florida next year, see Grandma and Grandpa.”
“Ugh.”
He chuckles. “Yeah.”
“At least Hanukkah doesn’t have a big food requirement,” I say. “We’ll be set there as long as you can make it home by sundown.”
“Sundown’s pretty early this time of year, munchkin.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll do my best,” he says, but we both know what that means. I guess it’s better to let me down a month in advance than to walk in at half past eight on Thanksgiving. “You could come to the hospital and we could do it in my office, like we used to.” Mom and I would go over every night to light candles, if we weren’t waiting around there already, and then come home. She hated it. I loved it, or I would have if she hadn’t sat on the subway with that sour look on her face and then exchanged angry, whispered words with my dad all through the blessing.
I mean, what exactly are these happy holiday memories we’re trying to re-create? The one day my mom stepped up? Eight nights of them doing exactly what they did every other night? Whose lives are we pretending my mom left, because they aren’t ours. We’re not holiday people. We’re barely everyday people.
“I’m gonna go get some homework done,” I say.
He gathers up our plates like he’d been waiting to do it. “I know this was a disappointment, baby,” he says. “I’m sorry. Next year we’ll be better. We just need to get into a groove.”
I put a smile on. “Yeah. Totally. Don’t worry about it.”
I go up to my room, answer a few happy thanksgiving!!! texts from the girls with equally enthusiastic texts of my own, and then put my phone down and stare out my window. I don’t want to do homework, but my usual ways of wasting time are out because everything on the internet right now is Thanksgiving stuff that I don’t feel like dealing with. I’m looking through my bookshelf, trying to find some book that won’t make me feel worse, when my phone rings on my desk.
I almost don’t even check it, because I can’t remember the last time someone called me who wasn’t my dad or some cruise line trying to sell me a vacation package, but I do, mostly because I’d like to scold a telemarketer for bothering me on Thanksgiving right about now, and…it’s Sasha.
He’s supposed to be upstate.
Is something wrong? Why is he calling me? What does he think I can do?
“Hello?”
“Hi, Isabel.” Okay, he doesn’t sound like anything’s wrong.
“Um…what’s up?”
“Just calling to say hi. Are you busy?”
“No…”
“Something wrong?”
“I mean, do you know what decade we’re in? It’s nice to hear from you and all, but people don’t really talk on the phone anymore. And didn’t you say you hate talking on the phone?”
“You said texting hurts your hands,” he says.
I can’t believe he remembered that.
“Wow,” I say. “I’m a jerk.”
“I forgive you. How’s your Thanksgiving?”
“Oh, it’s…” I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to lie to him. It feels like there’s a big difference between sending my friends a lot of exclamation points and telling him I’m okay, and I don’t know if the difference is that it’s out loud or that it’s him.
So I just trail off.
“Well, mine has been an adventure,” he says. “All my cousins are here, and… Okay, first of all, you should know that I don’t come from a very, uh, politically diverse family. We’re, y’know, Jewish, and as a group pretty gay, and they all have a chronically ill family member they love very much. But then my cousin David, he comes in and announces that he’s been watching Fox News, and…”
“Wow.”
“There were tears. Honestly, it’s pretty fun watching my family just shut it right down. We are not having it.”
“He can go hang out with my dad’s parents. He’d fit right in.”
“I’ll let him know, if I get any urge to say words to him. Right now he’s in the living room, trying to convert my dad. My dad. Imagine.” I don’t really know enough about Sasha’s dad to get all the nuances of this, but I like Sasha acting like I do. Plus, I like that his dad is firmly against Fox News. “And I am outside in the freezing cold because if they knew I’d chosen a phone call over hanging out with the family for five minutes I’d probably be exiled worse than David.” Somehow that’s enough for me to form a whole picture. I have no idea what his grandparents’ house looks like, obviously, but I create one in my mind, make a little yard out front for him to stand in. Give him clothes to wear. Make him bounce a little on his feet to keep warm, blow on his hands. Glow a little under the porch light.
I clear my throat. “Your family sounds intense.”
“They are.”
“So who’s gay, besides your moms?” I say.
“Four of my cousins. Out of seven. We did pretty good. And then there’s just me being like, possibly bi, but they don’t know that, so I’m mostly just a disappointment.”
“At least you don’t watch Fox News.”
“Yeah, and I’m sick, so I’m still, y’know. Interesting.” His voice is so warm. “Are you okay?”
“What? I’m fine. I’m just in my room.”
“Where’s your dad?”
“Downstairs, cleaning up from our lukewarm pizza feast.”
“Eesh.”
“Not the best Thanksgiving.”
“I mean, it’s just Passover without the singing, anyway.”
“That’s true.”
“I don’t even know why we celebrate it. Just to make the gentiles feel better about themselves, I guess.”
I flop down on my bed. “Well, you’ll have to carry that torch alone this year.”
“We can make up for it on New Year’s.”
“New Year’s?”
“Yeah, next closest nonreligious holiday. What do you do on New Year’s?”
“Nothing.” That’s not true; Luna always throws a party, but for some reason I don’t say that.
“Well, this year we’ll do something,” he says.
Maybe that was why. “I’d like that.”
“Me too,” he says. “So, see? No problems.”
“No problems now, huh? You’ve fixed everything?”
“Yeah, sure. Why think too hard?”
“Do you know what I like about you?” I say. I can’t help it.
“I mean, hopefully a lot.”
“You’re not old.”
He laughs a little. “And you are?”
“Yeah, I’m like a million. You said it yourself.”
“I was flirting with you.”
“Well, you were right.”
“I was right to flirt with you? I knew that already. Listen, I should get inside before I freeze to death. It’s very cold and I don’t have my scarf.”
“You told me to keep it!”
“I know. And I do have a scarf. Just not my favorite scarf.”
“You told me—”
“Yes. Now it’s with my favorite person.” He pauses. “Is it okay that I called?”
“I liked it.”
“So I’ll call again?”
I snuggle into my pillow. “Right now?”
“Yeah, right now.”
“Okay,” I say. “Sounds good.”
“See you,” he says.
“Bye.”
I hang up and let my phone rest on my chest and just lie there for a little with my eyes closed. I can hear my heart pounding like I’ve done something other than lie still and listen to that boy’s voice.
Or like I’ve done just that, I guess.
His voice. It’s always a little scratchy. Crackly and deep. Like a campfire.
I am so incredibly screwed and I do not care right now. I just want to think about the smile in his voice, and how he called instead of texting, and how he asked if it was okay, and how he said I was his favorite person.
And of course it all happens on a day that seemed like it was otherwise created to remind me why Sick Girl does not date. Like, this would be the hardest day in existence for someone to convince me it’s overkill for me to put absolutely any safety measure in place to make sure that thirty years from now I’m not leaving Sasha and a teenager alone to eat cold pizza on a national holiday.
I don’t know what to do, which seems like a ridiculous thing to think, because it’s not as if Sasha’s asking me to do anything. He’s not making demands. He’s not rushing me. We’re not even talking about it. We’re just…
Somewhere in the background I can hear a ticking clock.
It’s so slow. It’s so inevitable. It’s like I’m watching a movie I’ve already seen before. Or watching a car crash in slow motion.
Or sitting on the train, waiting for that moment between Court Square and Queensboro Plaza when the train comes up for air and you see the skyline and everything is all right in the world.
Maybe it could be like that.
I am so incredibly screwed and I don’t know how to not care.
There’s a knock on our front door. I sit up and listen to my dad go and answer it. I entertain this idea for a minute that maybe it was all some setup, that Sasha isn’t actually upstate. The whole time I was picturing him outside his grandparents’ made-up house, he was actually on my block, waiting to rescue me from my shitty Thanksgiving. Hopefully with pie.
But I recognize the voice immediately. It’s Maura.
Come to rescue me from my shitty Thanksgiving.
She comes up to my room with Tupperware containers full of pie and kisses my cheeks and primps in my mirror, and I sit there and smile at her.
“This is really sweet of you,” I say.
Maura says, “I figured…you know. It might not be the easiest Thanksgiving.” She sits down on the bed next to me and gives me a hug. “I made lemon meringue pie just for you. Everyone was like, why is there lemon meringue pie on Thanksgiving, and I was like don’t you dare even touch it.”
“Thank you,” I say. “This is exactly what I wanted.”
Who’s the last person you talked to on the phone?
I literally have no idea. Oh! I do. It was the Seamless guy. He couldn’t find my apartment. Do you remember when Seamless had all those ads on the subway that were like, order food like a New Yorker. Use Seamless. And we were like, are they trying to get tourists to use Seamless while they’re here, or are they trying to shame us into feeling like we’re not real New Yorkers unless we use Seamless? Anyway. This Seamless guy couldn’t find my apartment. I feel like this happens so often. And like, are they real New Yorkers if they can’t find anything? Maybe they should try ordering from Seamless instead of just delivering for them, and that would turn them into real New Yorkers who can…you know. Find shit. I am so sick of having them call me and ask for directions. If I wanted to talk to someone, I’d just go to the restaurant! It’s two blocks away!
—Maura Cho, 16, New Yorker
I had to do that dreaded phone call home to a parent a few nights ago. And no, I can’t tell you what it was about. I can tell that teachers hate them probably more than the kids do. All right, probably not that much. But a lot. Can you guys stop being jerks so I don’t have to do them? I’d consider it a personal favor.
—George Mattrapolis, 42, 11th grade History teacher at The Markwood Academy
You’re expecting me to say you! Ha! But you’re wrong. It was actually my mom’s wife. She called last night to wish us a happy Hanukkah. It is, as I’m sure you’re aware, not Hanukkah. My mom said she told her that as some kind of a prank, but knowing my mom, she legitimately forgot what day it is. My mother is a lovely woman, but she only has focus for bonobos. They’re doing lovely, if you were wondering. My moms, but also the bonobos.
—Sasha Sverdlov-Deckler, 16, enthusiast
My mother. She has to work really hard, but she says I can always call her if I need her and she’ll drop everything to be with me. I try not to bother her because I know her work is important and we need the money. She’s been fired because of me before. But she’d still never turn her back on me. She’s my everything.
—Claire Lennon, 16, dead
Anyone who knows me well enough to have any business calling me knows not to call me.
—Betty Ronan, 19, babysitter
Chapter Ten
Sasha calls again on Saturday, the day he gets home from upstate. “I am so tired,” he says. “I think my bones aged thirty years while I was gone.”
“You’re just trying to catch up to me.”
“Doing my best. How are you?”
“I’m okay,” I say. “I’m at the hospital.” I’m sitting on the edge of the big fountain in the atrium with my books spread out around me, but I’m mostly just people watching. My dad said he’d have a lunch break in an hour.
“Appointment?”
“No, I just come here to study sometimes.” A woman walks by with four kids she’s trying to wrangle all at once. She looks like she’s been crying.
“On a Saturday?” Sasha says. “That’s bleak.”
“It’s not bleak! It’s proactive.”
“Isn’t that the name of that yogurt for middle-aged women? See? Bleak. Why do women need their own yogurt, anyway? Judging by commercials, all yogurt is for women.”
“Are you high?” I say.
“No, I just really like yogurt.” There are kids chattering in the background.
I pull my legs up under me. “Are those your brothers?”
“Yep. Want to come meet them?”
“I’m studying!”
“Yeah, and I’m worn out as shit. Want to come babysit them so I can take a nap?”
“Ah, there it is.”
“Plus we have to watch more of…whatever it was. That scary show.”
I watch a man rush by me. He looks happy, so maybe he’s here for a baby, or maybe he’s one of those people who looks like he’s about to laugh when his world’s falling apart. I’ve seen a lot of those. “I’ll come over on Friday,” I say. “How about that?”
“Friday. Damn. You really are trying to have a guy grow old. Okay. Friday.”
“Are you mad?”
He laughs. “What? No, I’m not mad. I don’t get mad.”
That can’t be true, but at the same time, I can’t possibly imagine him mad. Sometimes he gets a little pissy when he talks about his dad, but even that is nicer than me at my mildest.
I used to be like that, but it was a long time ago.
“See you, Isabel,” he says. Like always.
“Bye.”
There’s a text from my dad waiting for me. Something came up. Lunch is going to be delayed.
Screw it. Delayed for him, maybe. I dig my sandwich out of my bag, take a bite, and watch the people.
…
He calls me on Monday, during my lunch break at school.
“Do you have your infusion today?” he says.
“I do.” I’m standing in the corner of the cafeteria by the trash cans after I hastily made some excuse about my dad calling to get away from my friends. They’re looking at me and whispering, and I realize they probably think this has something to do with my mom.
“Mine’s tomorrow,” he says. “I’ll keep you company today if you keep me company tomorrow.”
“Deal.”
My friends look at me with questions in their eyes when I get back, so I make up some excuse about my appointment being rescheduled. They say “Oh, okay” and change the subject immediately. I knew it would work.
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…
I call him on Thursday. “What are we doing tomorrow?” I ask. I’m painting my toenails with my feet up on my desk. It’s a good day.
“Ew, we have to do something?” He coughs.
“Well, we have to eat something. I’m gonna want to eat. And your apartment doesn’t have a lot of food.”
“We have tons of food!”
“Yeah, but it’s all, like…ingredients. You have lots of parts of food.”
“That’s how you make the food.”
I fold up and blow on my toes. “Seamless is how I make the food.”
“Okay, well, I’ll make something.”
“Brick chicken?”
“No way. You only want my dad’s brick chicken. Trust me. I’ll make brisket.”
“That sounds hard.”
“It’s not. I’ll teach you.”
I dig through my cabinets for a different color polish for my fingers. “What do I need to know how to make brisket for? Can’t I just sit there while you make it for me?”
“I don’t know, maybe you’ll want to make it for your dad sometime.”
“He’ll think I’ve been body snatched.”
“Okay, well you can make it, and I’ll make it, and my dad can make it, and we’ll have my brothers and my sister do a taste test, and then we’ll eliminate one of us, and then the other two go on to make dessert, and then the winner of that gets a million dollars.”
I put the nail polish down. “Can we do that tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“You have to teach me how to make dessert first.”
“On it.”
…
He calls me at 3 a.m. between Monday and Tuesday.
“Did I wake you up?” he says.
I keep my voice low. “No, I’m still up studying.”
“Your school works you too hard.” His voice doesn’t sound right. Pinched and heavy at the same time.
“They don’t, really. I just couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d get some work done. You okay?”
“My stomach’s all fucked up. I took my meds without enough food, and sometimes that… It’s…gross. I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”
Sick Kids In Love Page 9