How to Live on the Edge

by Sarah Lynn Scheerger

  “They’re also erogenous zones,” I note with a smirk. “That makes them important.”

  Saff flushes but nods. “I know,” she says in a businesslike way. “But I’m pretty sure women lose their sensitivity when they have a mastectomy, so that’s a moot point.”

  We’re in the paper goods aisle now. She starts examining various celebratory-themed napkins.

  “So are you saying you don’t support Aunt Tee’s booby-replacement plan?”

  “I support whatever she wants to do. I just don’t know if I’d bother with it if it were me.”

  Ugh. I don’t like the thought of Saff going through any of this. Having to decide how much of herself to chop off and scoop out just to improve her odds of making it to forty.

  She compares the prices of two sets of compostable plates. “I mean, no one suggests we should get fake tonsils if we have our tonsils removed.”

  “Bad example. No one can tell if your tonsils are removed because they’re inside you.”

  Saff rolls her eyes. “Exactly my point. Who cares what anyone else thinks? If a woman wants reconstruction because it makes her feel more whole, that’s great. But she should do it for herself, not for other people.”

  This conversation is making me feel more uncomfortable than I want to admit. “New topic. What type of appetizer is the most like a honker?”

  Saff puts one package back on the shelf and tosses the other one into the cart. “Meatballs?”

  “Ugh. But they’re so bumpy. Maybe we can make a pastry that’s boob-like.”

  “Remind me again why we’re symbolizing the ingestion of breasts?”

  “Because the whole point of this party is to have fun. To lighten something awful. Okay?” I soften my voice. I know this is hard on her. It’s hard on all of us.

  “Fine,” Saff says. “Only I don’t think everything we serve has to be boob-like.”

  “Ooh, you said boob!” I practically shout.

  “So what if I did?” Saff slips into a sheepish half grin—like she’s sort of proud of herself but also mortified by me. “I can say it if I want to. It’s context and intention that matter.”

  “Or maybe I’m wearing off on you.” I can’t help but hug her. I’m surprised by how good it feels. I guess I haven’t hugged her in a long time.

  Saff laughs, and her half grin shapeshifts into a real smile with teeth and everything. When she stops laughing, she reaches for her comeback. “God help us.”

  ✱✱✱

  For the first couple weeks after Mom died, I brought cinnamon graham crackers into bed with me and ate them under the covers at night. Not great for my teeth, and hard to hide the crumbs from Aunt Tee, but there was something so private and comforting about filling myself up with a sweet and crumbly treat. I needed filling up back then. I felt like my insides had been hollowed out.

  My thighs are grateful that Tee caught me and put an end to my binging, but every night there’s a moment before sleep sucks me in, when I crave something for myself. Something to fill up my insides. I used to drag a stuffed animal into bed with me, even when I was way too old for such nonsense, but now I pack my bed with extra pillows and wrap my arms around them while I sleep.

  I’m lying in bed, listening to the sounds of night. Lorelei is at bay, since I’m not remotely close to dozing off. My brain is just spinning and spinning, twitching at the slightest sounds—even a low cough or the squishy noise when someone flips over. Gradually those sounds settle and all that’s left is the overhead fan and the ticking of clocks. A moment of emptiness hits me, and I consider foraging through the pantry for something.

  I stumble out of my room, pausing by Saff’s door. I spy the journal on her nightstand. She’s submerged underneath the comforter. I tiptoe in and gently edge the comforter down, away from her nose. I wait until her chest rises and falls a few times before I snag that journal.

  I ease my door shut, climb under the covers and read. Something about it fills my empty core, settles my spinning mind, making sleep seem possible.

  Dating Advice

  You might be thinking to yourself, what exactly makes Mom qualified to hand out dating advice? I concede. My relationships clearly didn’t last. Although I have the best daughters in the world, so I must’ve done something right.

  I did learn something from my mistakes though. Perhaps you can learn from mine.

  Here goes:

  Dating takes practice. You have to practice who you are within a relationship. And you have to practice picking the kind of person you want to be with. There are some qualities you’ll think you want but that turn out to not be that important, and there are some qualities you don’t know you want that really ARE important.

  When you’re all gaga over someone it may not seem to matter if they’re doing all the talking, but if you’re looking for someone for the long term, they’ve got to value what you have to say.

  No matter how much you think you agree with your partner, they’ve got to be able to compromise—because I guarantee you will someday disagree about something, and they’ve got to be able to see your side too. They have to care enough about your opinion that they’re willing to put their own aside at least some of the time.

  Look for someone who’s hardworking (this trumps intelligence any day).

  Look for someone who knows when to say when. People who party a lot may seem fun and exciting, but that gets old fast. Nothing kills a relationship more than when one person grows up and the other doesn’t.

  Find someone who makes it easy to love yourself. If your partner’s critical of how you look, for instance, that’s a red flag. I hope you’ll be with people who see you as beautiful (and encourage you to see yourself as beautiful), whatever your body type or shape or size might be.

  Similar interests are important, so that you don’t get bored of each other when you’re no longer in that lust phase. But you can also appreciate and support your partner’s interests even if you don’t share them all.

  I know people often have to make their own mistakes to learn, but some mistakes cannot be fixed. Even if you do learn from them, they may leave your life forever altered. So keep your eyes open, girls. Be mindful of every choice you make.

  For a moment, I wonder if she was referencing Saff and me when she said, “some mistakes cannot be fixed.” I’m guessing we were both “accidents.” If so, she made the same mistake twice in a very short period of time.

  I shove that thought aside and think about Axel instead. He pretty much meets her criteria.

  Listens and compromises—as much as any other guy.

  Hardworking—when he wants something.

  Makes it easy to love myself—definitely. And he’s super into me.

  When to say when—that boy doesn’t drink a drop, so yeah.

  Similar interests—a big fat yes! We love all the same things.

  This sparks a warm feeling in my chest, because Mom would’ve liked Axel. I probably would’ve dated him regardless, but this is a definite plus. I turn to Saff’s entry.

  Fletch —Saffron

  Fletcher fits me like a wetsuit.

  His hand molds to mine,

  His glasses hug his nose.

  Even his name . . . stretches around him

  Compact and strong.

  Smart and thoughtful

  And I feel something for him

  That I think might be love.

  It’s warm and comforting.

  It’s a hot chai latte,

  Warming my insides with a tiny spark of caffeine

  To bubble up my heart.

  Is that love?

  These entries transport my mind into some distant, foggy, contemplative place that makes me want to curl up. I quietly close the journal and stumble back to Saff’s room to return it to its place.

  I gaze at her sleeping self. She looks so peaceful and pure. I know I shouldn’t be reading how she feels about Fletch, but it reassures me. I’m glad she’s at least thinking about whether he’s ri
ght for her. Aside from the fact that he’s boring and they have no chemistry, they seem happy together. She’s so innocent, really.

  I fall back into my own bed, and sleep wraps around me. Warm, comforting, like the chai latte in Saff’s entry.

  For the rest of the week, sneak-reading Mom’s journal becomes my new late-night snack. I devour it after everyone’s asleep. My brain has gotten used to this. It fills me up, just like the graham crackers did, but without crumbs or cavities. After reading, I’m primed for sleep, so my brain bypasses that halfway point where Lorelei lurks.

  My mind digests the entries, and the feelings they’ve awakened, over the course of the night. I know my wheels are still turning, because I dream all night long. I wake during the night sometimes, my throat tight, but by the morning everything in my psyche feels neatly organized.

  I don’t feel empty. I feel full. I know now that I haven’t just been hungry for something, I’ve been starving.

  Chapter 11

  Micah messages me Friday during fourth period. I play it cool for about ten minutes, but I’m just dying to read the text, so I ask to use the restroom and sneak the phone in there with me. You coming to watch another video diary entry this weekend?

  Saff’s been bugging me to go back on Saturday. Possibly.

  We’ll leave the key under the door for you.

  I close myself into a stall and text back, What? We won’t get to enjoy your sunny personality?

  Not this time. We’re driving up for a meet and greet at Cal. One of those early action picnics.

  Oh, I see. So your future is more important than your oldest friends in the world? I add a smiley emoji so he knows I’m joking.

  If my oldest friends in the world want to hang out with me, they know I live ten minutes away.

  Low blow to use logic against me.

  And they have my cell number. And they drive.

  Okay, okay. You made your point.

  After a few seconds, Micah adds, Stay as long as you like. Make yourself at home.

  An idea sparks. Can we use your hot tub?

  As long as you don’t drown. Don’t swim alone. Smiley emoji.

  Thank you, O wise one.

  Je t’en prie.

  Your autocorrect just went wacko.

  It’s French. It means that it’s my pleasure.

  I’m reminded why I don’t hang out with Micah. He’s way too academic for me. Now you’re just showing off.

  That’s also my pleasure.

  ✱✱✱

  I entice Axel to join me at Micah’s for the hot tub. Saff will meet me here in an hour, and Axel will take off when we’re ready to watch our video. I give him the grand tour first, leading him throughout the house, showing him the laptop on the porch where we watch our videos, and winding our way out to the hot tub.

  “This place is epic. It’s like they stole a farmhouse from the Midwest and plopped it down in the middle of California.” Axel takes off his shirt and helps me with mine. I’m wearing his favorite purple bikini under my clothes, and I can tell he’s very happy about that. God, he smells good. Some combination of hair gel, cologne and salt.

  He pulls me into the water. It’s intensely hot but strangely refreshing. The water laps at my skin, the bubbles popping up all around me. He slips his hands around my waist, sliding me directly up against him. I wrap my legs around him. His bare skin glistens, his body firm against mine. He kisses my collar bone from one end to the other, then pulls back to admire. “You are hella hot, you know that?”

  “Glad you think so.” My cheeks feel warm, maybe from his compliment or maybe from the heat of the spa. My purple push-up bikini top does wonders for my boobs.

  He kisses me, tasting of strawberry and lemonade . . . and everything melts out of my reality. I could do this all day. And all night.

  After what seems like moments, but probably is more like twenty minutes, Axel whispers in my ear. “You know what I want to do right now?”

  I can imagine. He’s like a little kid in a toy store—he sees no harm in asking for what he wants. Maybe someday I’ll say yes.

  Between kisses, he whispers, “Tightrope across the roof.”

  “What?” Oh. Okay. I try not to feel insulted.

  He peers into the backyard. A ladder rests against one side of the house, where perhaps someone has been repairing the roof. I consider this. “Can’t we just stay right here forever? Please?”

  He trails his finger along my cheek, stroking the slight cleft in my chin. “Ten more minutes. Then we’ll take a walk.”

  The ten minutes pass quickly. If there’s an award for kissing, Axel would win it. He’s somehow both delicate and strong simultaneously.

  He scoops my hand into his, and we walk to the ladder. He tests it to make sure it’s secure, and we climb, dripping. The wetness makes the ladder slippery. I grasp each rung firmly before moving my feet. Each time my foot slides, I feel a tiny surge of adrenaline. And once we make it to the roof, we stand, gazing at the view. I can see for miles, because the land is so flat here.

  “Beautiful, huh?” he whispers.

  “Totally.”

  I realize he was one hundred percent right to want to climb up. This moment doesn’t detract from the ones before, it accentuates them. He kisses my neck, and goose bumps layer my skin. God, I love him.

  “What the hell?” Saff’s voice is so scalding it practically blisters. I’m surprised I didn’t hear her drive up; Aunt Tee’s hatchback, which Saff uses on the days Tee doesn’t work, is a heartbeat away from the junkyard.

  “Want to join us?” I call down to her, knowing she never will. I balance on one foot and extend my other leg behind me, dancer-like.

  “What is wrong with you? Come down!”

  I don’t appreciate being told what to do, thank you very much. I’m going to walk across before I get down.

  “If you break your neck, I’m not changing your diapers!”

  I call back, laughing, “If I break my neck on this roof, I’ll sue for a million dollars and hire a live-in diaper changer.”

  Saffron storms into the house. Sometimes I feel sorry for her.

  ✱✱✱

  My suit is still wet when I peel it off. I change, kiss Axel goodbye, and dash off a message to Micah. Hey Brainiac, thank you for the hot tub. You having fun at the picnic?

  He must be bored because he immediately texts me back. Meh. I hate this get-to-know-you crap.

  It’s called being social.

  More like being fake. Everyone’s trying to impress each other. I’m not impressed.

  YOU MUST BE SOCIAL. THAT’S AN ORDER. PUT YOUR PHONE AWAY.

  Aye, aye, captain.

  I mean it. Stop!

  I’m a polite texter. If you text me, I respond. It’s called etiquette.

  I send a smiley emoji.

  See, you have etiquette too.

  I send another smiley.

  Okay, fine. Goodbye.

  I resist the urge to say goodbye back. About sixty seconds later, he messages again. Okay, maybe you don’t have etiquette.

  Goodbye, asshole!

  This time he sends a smiley, and I put my phone away.

  Chapter 12

  “Hey there, my sweets!” The screen focuses on Mom. “I think it’s about time for me to tell you more about your names. And your history.” Saff and I have hijacked Alicia’s porch to watch the next video. She hasn’t said a word to me since her diaper comment, and she’s sitting as far away from me as possible. We could fit four people in between us.

  “So when I was preggo with Cayenne, I craved everything savory—pickles, chana masala, salsa, even hot Cheetos. Who knows why? I started calling Cayenne my Hot Lil Peppa, just to be silly.”

  Saff scoots closer to see the screen, and I’m grateful for Mom’s distraction. Maybe Saff will forget she’s mad at me.

  Mom is filming herself in the kitchen, stirring a big bowl with a wooden spoon. She wipes her forehead with her arm, setting her blue beanie as
kew. She’s more angular than before.

  “I remembered an old folk tale. It’s about this princess who compares her love for her father to her love for salt. At first he’s offended to be compared to something so common, and he banishes her. Many years later when they reconnect, she serves him unseasoned food, and he realizes how salt and spices make life flavorful. During my pregnancy that story kept appearing in my dreams, and I figured it meant something.”

  Mom’s voice is starting to sound familiar. I’ve gotten used to hearing it. I can even hear her voice in my head now. Not in a hallucinatory way, just like I can imagine what she’d say to me, and how she’d say it. This is new.

  “Now technically salt is a mineral, not a spice, but that story made me want to name my kid after something spicy. I played around with different options—like Pepper for example—but Cayenne was the best one. Saff’s pregnancy was much more mellow, so I named her after a spice with a subtle taste. By now you two probably either love your names or hate your names. I’ll take credit, but I won’t take blame, how’s that?”

  I elbow Saff. “You like your name?” I realize she might still be giving me the silent treatment, but I ask anyway.

  “Sometimes I love it. Sometimes I hate it. You?”

  “Yeah. I’m used to it, I guess.” I relax. I know it’s ridiculous to care whether Saff is mad, especially when I go out of my way to piss her off, but her silence gets under my skin. I’m glad she’s talking. “Thank god Mom didn’t get more creative and pick a name like Paprika or Cumin or Turmeric.”

  “I’m proud of your names, and I’m proud of how hard I’ve worked to cultivate curiosity and a love of learning in you two. Every night we read for an hour before you go to sleep.”

  Pause.

  “Do you remember that?” I ask.

  “Kind of. I remember lying in Mom’s bed, the three of us, one on each side, all cozy.”

  Play.

  “We went to the library twice a week for story time, and each time I checked out the full twenty books allowed. Okay, some of them were for me. But most of them were for you two. I’ll admit we lost a few over the years, but I figured the fees were a small price to pay for raising two ravenous readers.”