by Julie Murphy
“Yeah,” I say as I walk alongside the car on the sidewalk. “Diet Dr Pepper is my survivalist elixir. My life blood, if you will.”
“Ah,” he says. “Well, I don’t want to interfere with your oneness with nature.” Another impatient car speeds past him while the driver practically sits on the horn.
I can’t help but laugh. “You might be the cause of Clover City’s first official traffic jam.”
“Finally, something for my father to be proud of,” he says. “Let me give you a ride.”
I stop. And so does he. Walk six miles, or take a ride from the one person in this town who hasn’t thrown me under the bus at some point in time? (Yet.) I’ll take the ride.
“I think you and Dr Pepper might be the only trustworthy things left in my life. Sure you don’t mind?”
“I mean, not to objectify you, but I also like watching you walk, if that’s what you prefer. But your company is great, too!”
I feel an almost smile forming on my lips.
He reaches over his center console to open the door for me, and I hop in.
I throw my backpack in the backseat, and it crashes against piles of empty cups and clothes. “Whoa. That’s a lot of shit.”
“Listen,” he says, “my mom does not mess around when it comes to how clean she keeps our house. My room included. The backseat of this baby is like my own slovenly dirty secret.”
I shrug. “So you’re like a hoarder, but just your backseat.”
“Well, I like to think of it as more of a junk drawer.”
“A really big junk drawer.”
He smirks. “To your house?”
I nod. “Yep.”
“Are you going to tell me why you were walking, or are you going to play it cool and mysterious?”
“Cool and mysterious,” I tell him. “For sure.”
He nods silently to himself and turns the radio up. We’ve been spending more time together, but I don’t trust myself enough right now not to turn into a sobbing mess. And maybe a little part of me is scared he’ll tell me I’m being ridiculous.
When he slows to a stop in front of my house, he turns the radio down to a murmur. “Hey, um, I don’t know what exactly happened today, and you don’t have to tell me. Unless you want to at some point,” he adds. “But, um, I know you don’t have a lot of people right now, and I just want you to know that I can be your person.” He coughs into his fist.
I stare at him for a long moment. I can feel my whole body turning to mush. Like I could just nod and let this life with Mitch happen to me in the same way it did with Bryce. I like Mitch a lot. But I liked Millie, too, and look where that got me. “I need some time to think,” I tell him. “But thank you. Because I really don’t have any people at all. Not anymore. Can we just keep taking it slow?”
He tilts his chin down toward me. “As slow as a turtle race if you want.”
Millie
Thirty-One
I’m not saying my life is perfect or drama free, but I’m used to knowing where I stand, and for the first time I don’t know if I should be demanding an apology or giving one. For the first few days, I tried texting. I even tried approaching her at school. I swear, for as good as she is at pretending I didn’t exist, I think she could be an actress. I probably tried every form of contact outside of flat-out asking her mom to lock her in her closet with me.
Three days after the incident, I decided to forego texting and just give her a call, but I was promptly greeted with a message saying the person I was trying to reach had blocked my number. One thing I can say about Callie is when she’s in, she’s all in. She’s cut me out of her life with as much swift efficiency as my mother can repurpose a pile of old camp T-shirts into a summer quilt. (I’ve got the Daisy Ranch T-shirt quilt to prove it.)
I haven’t had a ton of friends in my lifetime, but I’ve never failed so miserably at being a friend. I know that what Callie did by vandalizing the gym was wrong and that I wasn’t doing anything bad by pointing out her necklace in the video footage.
Heck, we wouldn’t have ever become friends otherwise. But after I saw what she did to the dance team and how deep that cut, I should’ve said something. I was so scared to lose what we had, because it’s not a friendship that’s been tested or even lived in a little. The balance with Callie has always felt fragile, like something might just randomly click one day and she would turn back into the person who humiliated me in eighth-grade gym, or the girl who went out of her way to make Willowdean miserable last fall.
I don’t think that version of Callie is a different person, like some kind of evil twin. I believe the bad parts of us always live inside of us. It’s just up to us to take those flaws and repurpose them for good. I was scared of losing Callie, so I wasn’t honest with her. And I lost her as a friend regardless.
Oh, and because everything is a mess, Mom is giving me the silent treatment, too. She goes so far as to even talk to me through my dad. Will you ask Millie to pass the margarine? Please remind Millie to empty the dishwasher. Has Millie finished her homework? And somehow she’s still spying on me enough to make sure I don’t have any solo time with Malik.
When I get home after work, waiting for me on my desk is one single envelope from the University of Texas. When I slipped in through the garage door, my mom didn’t even bother saying anything to me or offering me any hint that the fate of my summer was waiting for me in my room.
The envelope is large. I try not to read too far into it, but I know the law of college acceptance letters is big envelope = good and small envelope = bad. I sit down in my big wicker chair and take a few deep breaths. Maybe I should take up meditation?
And then I tear into the envelope. I’ve pictured this moment for months now, the same way lots of girls imagine their engagement or wedding. In my head, I’m surrounded by friends, and they’re the kind of friends who are so sure that I’ll get into this program that after I read my acceptance letter and we all cry tears of joy, there’s a luau-themed surprise party waiting for us in my backyard. Malik would be there. My parents would be overjoyed.
Instead I’m here alone in my room. I slide a single paper out of the envelope.
Dear Ms. Millicent Michalchuk,
Thank you for applying to our summer broadcast journalism program for high school students. Each year our applicants are more and more impressive, making for a rather competitive program.
We regret to inform you that you were not selected for our program this summer; however, we encourage you to apply again in the future and
My eyes are a tearful blur as the page drifts from my fingers to the carpet below.
We regret to inform you. We regret to inform you. We regret to inform you. The words of rejection are seared onto my heart. I know that I should turn to some sort of tried-and-true motivational book or post or video that has gotten me through tough times in the past. I know I should refocus this pain into motivation.
But for right now—for this exact moment—I just need to hurt. I just need to feel bad for myself and roll around in my own self-pity. I feel so foolish for ever believing they would even accept me. This is what I get for trying so hard and demanding so much.
I don’t know when I started crying, but I am and I can’t stop.
After a while, my mother knocks on the door and says something to me for the first time in weeks. “Dinner’s ready, sweet pea.”
“I’m fine.” My voice wobbles. “Thank you.”
It’s a few moments before I hear the floor creak as she makes her way back toward the kitchen. I hear a few hushed whispers exchanged between her and my father before my dad says a little louder, “Leave her be for a bit.”
I sit there unmoving, letting the tears fall down the front of my dress. The sun floats below the rooflines of my neighborhood, and I should probably turn a light on, but I think my whole body is frozen.
My phone dings a few times and I hear a few alerts on my computer, too. Probably Amanda and Malik messaging me about s
illy things. Neither of them has any idea that the goal I’ve been racing toward for the last few months has just been snatched out of my reach. It almost reminds me of the treadmills at Daisy Ranch. There was this huge screen at the front of the room, made to look like we were walking down some picturesque New England trail. You’d walk over one hill and then another and then another, hoping to reach your goal. But the scenery never changed. You conquered one hill only to do the exact same thing over and over again.
When it’s almost pitch-black in my room, my mom quietly lets herself in and turns on the lamp on my bedside table. Even that little bit of light burns my eyes.
She sits on the bed and gives me space to talk. But I’m not ready. I don’t even know what to say.
“Did you open your mail?” she asks.
I nod.
“I’m guessing it wasn’t the news you were hoping for.”
“No,” I mumble. “It wasn’t.”
She presses the palm of her hand to my back and rubs in circular motions, just like she always has when I’m sick. After a long pause, she says, “I spoke with Ms. Georgia from Daisy Ranch. She said it’s well past the deadline, but that they were holding a spot in your cabin, hoping you’d change your mind.”
I can picture my bottom bunk at Daisy Ranch like it’s an extension of my own home. My wooden sign above my bed painted baby pink with teal letters that spell out PUDDIN’. I’ll always be that girl. I’ve run from her for the last nine months, trying to be someone else. A beauty queen. An aspiring news anchor. A girlfriend, even. But I’ll always be that girl who shows up every summer, hoping that this is the year everything changes.
It feels like defeat. And what’s harder is that I resent myself, but more than that, I resent my mom. I resent her for not believing I could be more. I resent her because I’m scared she’s right.
“That’s kind of Ms. Georgia,” I finally say.
“So I can let her know you’ll be back this summer?”
I nod. “Okay.”
“I’ll send in your deposit this week.” My mom pats my leg and then stands to leave my room, but then she stops and turns around. “I don’t want this to be some sort of ‘I told you so’ moment, but you know your father and I are strict for good reason. This is the exact type of pain we’ve been trying to keep you from. I’m glad that the pageant was a . . . positive experience for you. But, baby, the world just doesn’t work like that in real life. People are rude and hateful, and I don’t want that for you. I don’t want the world to miss out on you because of their own silly judgments getting in the way. You know that, right? That’s why your dad and I pay to send you to Daisy Ranch. We just want the world to see the girl we know has been inside you all along.”
My eyes well up with tears. But this time it’s anger. It’s all anger. Because my mother thinks some thin girl is living inside me when the truth is, I am right here. I am the same Millie inside and out. I want to believe that. I want so badly for it to be true. But I have to confront the possibility that maybe my mother is right. Maybe it’s too much effort to change the world. Maybe the only way to survive is to change myself.
I have an awful taste in my mouth at the thought.
Mom interprets my angry tears as self-resignation, and when she hugs me, it takes everything in me not to roar at her to get away from me.
In the end, she was right and I was wrong.
Callie
Thirty-Two
I’m in San Francisco. The whole team is buzzing with energy. Of course we all want to win the big prize, but at this point the fact that we’ve even made it all the way to Nationals is a dream so surreal none of us can quite believe it.
I groan into the carpet.
Except I’m not in San Francisco. I’m lying facedown on my bedroom floor, counting carpet fibers with my eyelashes. I have literally nothing scheduled for the foreseeable future. No dance practice. No loser sleepover party or whatever the hell it was. No job.
I’ve even studied. FOR FINALS THAT DON’T START FOR TWO MORE WEEKS. I have a research paper on natural selection due next week, and I turned it in nine days early. My teacher asked if it was a prank. I assured him it was not.
“Callie!” my mom calls from downstairs. “You’ve got company!”
“I don’t have any friends,” I call back, but my voice is muffled by the carpet.
After a moment, there’s a faint knock on the door. “Come in.”
The door creaks open.
“Whoa,” says Mitch. “Quite the situation we have here.”
I flip over onto my back.
I’m wearing a holey T-shirt, my most stretched-out sports bra, and paint-splattered jean shorts from when my mom decided she wanted to redo the bathroom but took nine shades of blue to find the perfect shade. Basically, I’ve sort of ghosted Mitch since he gave me a ride home, because I just have zero will to be around anyone right now.
“Well, I saw the national dance-team competition was on ESPN 2. You weren’t answering my texts, and I thought you could use some company.” He pulls a bag out from behind the door. “And as many obnoxiously flavored chips as I could find.”
I sit up. I still don’t really feel up for hanging out, but I’m not going to send him home and ruin the only decent friendship/unlabeled sort of romantic thing I have going. “You got any Flamin’ Hot Cheetos in there?”
“If they sell it at the Grab N’ Go, I’ve got it.”
I squint at him for a long moment. “How do you feel about hate-watching this dance competition?”
“You’re looking at a Guy Fieri hate-watching pro here.”
“Well, let’s hope we get ESPN 2.” I hop up and swipe the bag from his hand and race down the stairs as he follows me.
I stop abruptly halfway down the stairs and spin around. He stops short just a step above me, and my nose is practically pressed into his chest.
“Sorry,” I say. “I just wanted to say thanks for coming over.”
“Why be miserable alone when we could be miserable together? With chips?”
I smile.
“Baby,” Mama calls from the kitchen, “Kyla and I are running some errands. Y’all okay by yourselves?”
I look up to Mitch, our bodies pressing together with every exhale. “Yeah,” I say. “We’re good.”
Yeah, if we don’t kiss pretty soon I’m going to explode.
Which is why it makes no sense when the two of us settle on opposite sides of the couch, just about as far away from each other as we can manage. My first physical interactions with Bryce were usually lubricated with alcohol, so these skittish butterfly feelings I’m having right now are not something I know how to combat.
I flip through the channels until landing on ESPN 2, which is definitely not part of our basic cable package, but something Keith must have snuck in when my mom wasn’t paying attention.
I dig through the bag of chips and pull out some pineapple-and-ham-pizza flavored ones. “I want this to be my job,” I say. “Coming up with ridiculous chip flavors.”
Mitch laughs. “I can’t believe someone gets paid to do that. I would want, like, holiday-themed chips. Like Thanksgiving dinner or hot dog with all the fixings for the Fourth of July.”
“Oooh! Or like pumpkin-spice chips for Halloween.”
“Oh, gross. You lost me there!”
I toss the Grab N’ Go bag to him. “You mean you can fathom Thanksgiving dinner chips, but pumpkin is just too much of a stretch of the imagination?”
He shrugs. “It doesn’t suit my palate.”
I shake my head. “Well, just you wait. When I’m lead chip scientist or whatever, pumpkin-spice chips will reign supreme.”
I turn up the volume a little as the announcers talk about their top contenders for first place. A team from Harlem, another from Southern California, one from Miami, and the current title holder, a team out of Savannah, Georgia. I take way too much satisfaction in the fact that Clover City doesn’t even get a brief mention when they discuss p
ossible upsets.
“So they just dance?” asks Mitch. “How do you judge something like that? Like, objectively?”
“Well, there are two major categories: technical ability and artistic presentation. And then in each of those categories, they judge things like technique, difficulty, precision, creativity, use of space, and the elusive energy. Which is actually frustrating as hell.”
We watch a few routines in silence. I glance over to see Mitch’s gaze wandering as he studies a not-at-all-interesting painting of a desert landscape above the television. Yeah, even for someone who’s into dance, this is pretty boring.
I scoot across the cushion that divides us so that I’m sitting right next to him. “Okay,” I say, snapping his attention back to me. “See that kick line they’re doing? It’s actually super hard, because I bet they’re all going to land in the splits like a domino effect, but there’s always one girl who’s gotta go and screw the whole thing up.”
We watch as the team on television in their multicolored neon glittering costumes do one last fan kick as each dancer falls into the splits one by one.
“Ow, that does not look comfortable.”
“Anyone can do the splits,” I say. “It’s just about stretching the right muscles.” I point to one girl in the middle as she lands into the splits. “Look. She’s the one who threw them all off. Bye-bye, perfect score.”
“They’re barely off, though!” says Mitch.
“Doesn’t matter. When other teams are perfect, the smallest mistake comes with a big price tag.”
“So anyone can do the splits, huh?”
I chuckle and bounce up from my seat, sliding right down into the splits and then rotating on my hips effortlessly. “Voilà!”
“Whoa. If the whole team is half as limber, I think the Shamrocks might be more athletic than the basketball and football teams combined.”
I throw my hands up. “This is what I’ve been saying for years!”
He nods. “Teach me something.”
“Seriously?”
“Hell yeah!” He stands up and holds a hand out for me, pulling me up from the splits with one quick yank.