Tell Me Three Things

by Julie Buxbaum

  Me: You only gave me 2.

  SN: (3) I like you.

  Me: (3) I like you too.

  Crap. I did it again. Hit send without thinking. Who do I like? Who is this person? It’s not a lie. I like his words. I spend my day looking forward to writing to him, hearing his thoughts on stuff. But to just come out and say “I like you” without knowing who he is, with this ridiculous imbalance—he knows who I am, probably where I live—is just plain stupid. I’m asking for some sort of cosmic smackdown. Can I take it back? How do I do that? Do I just let it lie, enjoy for a moment that a guy—and yes, I realize I say that hopefully, that he is an actual guy from Wood Valley and not some sort of joke, or something totally weird I hadn’t thought of, like a cop who tries to catch child predators online or something—actually likes me? Me. I’m not sure that, other than maybe in sixth grade, when Leo Springer passed me a note that said Let’s go out!!! and was then my boyfriend for approximately twenty-two hours because I forgave the excessive punctuation but not his excessive hand sweating, which I later felt bad about when it turned out he had a serious glandular issue, any guy has ever said anything like those words to me: “I like you.” Screw it. I’m going to take a moment to revel.

  No. This is too weird. I’m not reveling.

  I’m freaking out.

  Me: This is too weird. I don’t even KNOW WHO YOU ARE. Let’s dial it back.

  SN: dial it back from “I like you”? okay, not sure what that means.

  SN: I like you in my world means I think you’re cool, whatever. relax, lady, i’m not proposing.

  Me: Shut up. It’s just. Forget it.

  SN: it’s just, what?

  Me: Never mind. Seriously, forget it.

  SN: come on. tell me.

  Me: It’s just weird that you know who I am and I don’t know who you are. It’s not fair.

  SN: life isn’t fair.

  Me: Fine. Whatever. Gotta go.

  I put my phone down for a second. I’m angry. Deflated. So he doesn’t like me, he just thinks I’m cool. It wasn’t like I was saying he thinks I’m the best thing in the world. It’s just…It felt good to be liked, whatever that means.

  SN: wait, stop. come back. I’m sorry.

  Me: And?

  SN: it’s just that I like talking to you here. like this. I meant it. I do like you. irl, you make me nervous or something. it would just be different to actually talk-talk. and this works, right?

  Me: Yeah. But…

  SN: I’ll give you three more things: (1) I like music and books and video games more than people. people make me awkward. (2) I used to sleep with a blanket when I was little, which I called…wait for it…Blanket, and okay, fine, I still do. (3) a year ago, I was a totally different person.

  Me: Why? Who were you?

  SN: happy. or happier. simpler. a bit more normal, if that’s even a thing.

  Me: And then…

  A long beat. I wait.

  SN: my sister died. suddenly. long story. and now. well, you know how it is.

  Me: Yeah.

  SN: your mom died, right? am I allowed to ask that?

  Me: How did you

  SN: Theo. I mean, he didn’t tell me, but someone told me that you’re his stepsister, so I sort of put it together. is it okay that I asked you that? I seem to have lost all sense of what you are allowed to say to people.

  Me: Yes, it’s okay. To ask, I mean. The fact of it is…well, not okay. I don’t know. It’s…

  SN: yeah, it’s.

  Me: Right.

  SN: how long ago?

  Me: 765 days, five hours, twenty-two minutes. You?

  SN: 196 days, one hour, three minutes.

  Me: You count too?

  SN: I count too.

  I think about SN’s sister. I don’t know why, but I picture a twelve-year-old girl, pigtails, sick. But of course that’s all in my imagination. I have too many questions: How old was she? How did she die? Then again, she’s no longer here. That’s what matters. The “hows” are, again, mere detail.

  Later. Not now. Maybe I’ll ask later.

  SN: so yesterday, I saw a rainbow, and my annoying phone was dead from IMing with you, and it was almost like it didn’t happen because I didn’t take a picture. please tell me you saw it too.

  SN: because sometimes I feel like I’m losing my mind. I want to know for a fact that it happened. you know that feeling?

  I pause. Yesterday, on my way to work, it rained for no more than thirty seconds—the first rain I’ve experienced since moving here—and then the clouds shifted, and yes, SN is right. There was part of a rainbow, arched across half of the sky, so rainbowlike in its rainbowness it made me feel almost silly, like I lived in a cartoon. And I’m embarrassed to admit it, but for a second, I thought it was a message from my mom, or that somehow it was her, in a way that I could not and still cannot explain. I took a picture but didn’t bother to Instagram it. I didn’t want to seem like I was trying to be all free-spiritish, which I am not. In any way. Should I send it to SN?

  Me: I saw it too.

  I find the picture on my phone. No need to even use a filter, because unlike absolutely everything else, it is perfect as is. Hit send.

  • • •

  You have an IM from Liam Sandler.

  Liam: Can you work tomorrow after school? Band practice.

  Me: Sure.

  Liam: You are a lifesaver.

  • • •

  Me: You ever realize how many of our day-to-day expressions are about death? Like someone just called me a lifesaver.

  SN: yeah. since, you know…it’s everywhere. dead meat. my mom’s going to kill me. died and went to heaven. but the worst part? as soon as someone says it, they look at me all apologetically. like I’m going to be offended or freak out or something. so whose life did you save?

  Me: Just taking an extra shift at work.

  SN: that’s nice of you.

  Me: Not really doing it out of the goodness of my heart. Will do anything for extra cash.

  SN: hmm…anything?

  • • •

  You have an IM from Ethan Marks.

  Ethan: From Merriam-Webster: Tuber: “a short, thick, round stem that is a part of certain plants (such as the potato), that grows underground, and that can produce a new plant.”

  An IM from Ethan. Eight p.m. on a Thursday night. Which meant he was thinking about me, because you can’t message someone without thinking about them first, right? Or maybe he was thinking about “The Waste Land,” which isn’t exactly the same as thinking about me, but close enough. The poem and I are now aligned. I’ll take it. This is the sort of ridiculous analysis you engage in when you have a ridiculous crush.

  Which I do not.

  Me: Huh. Kinda makes sense. The whole feeding a new life part of the poem.

  Ethan: But why are they dried?

  Me: No idea.

  Ethan: I like the word “tuber.” Makes a good insult.

  Me: ??? Example, please.

  Ethan: Gem and Crystal? Total tubers.

  Although I know Ethan heard Gem be rude to me that first time—he was, of course, the whole reason for the what are you looking at? fiasco that somehow set her off hating my guts—I didn’t realize he hears all the crap she mutters under her breath in English class. Great. It’s one thing to be mocked daily; it’s a whole other thing when cute guys bear witness to it.

  Today, the target was the stickers that decorate the back of my laptop. Scarlett made them for me for my birthday last year, and they are awesome. All the tattoos I would get if I were the sort of person who had the nerve to get tattoos, which I am decidedly not. Instead, I’m the kind of person who has spent hours debating said theoretical tattoos, despite my crippling fears of both needles and long-term commitment. Hence painless, temporary stickers: two Korean characters that Scarlett swears say “Best Friend”; the line to thine own self be true, written in Gothic script; and lastly, a snake, which was not on my list but which Scarlett added bec
ause she thought I should be more badass, even if only theoretically. Gem’s brilliant take: “I bet that says ‘loser’ in Japanese.”

  Me: Total dried tubers. And thanks.

  Ethan: For what?

  Me: I don’t know. Defending me, I guess.

  Ethan: I didn’t.

  Me: Okay then.

  Ethan: It’s just that you don’t seem like the kind of girl who needs defending.

  • • •

  Dri liked a photo of you and her on Instagram.

  I click. Dri and I at the lunch table, Agnes just out of the frame. Was she cropped out? I can’t remember. Maybe. Possibly. I think so. That shouldn’t make me happy, but it does.

  • • •

  Scarlett: Not that you asked, but homecoming dress has been procured. FLUORESCENT YELLOW.

  Me: You’ll definitely stand out.

  Scarlett: Don’t need a dress to do that.

  Me: How’s Adam? Psyched?

  Scarlett: Think so. Having major breakout issues. Not just little ones, but big-ass whiteheads. Takes all my willpower not to attack them with my nails.

  Me: Gross.

  Scarlett: Too bad that wouldn’t count toward our community service requirement.

  I’ll admit it. I take a screen shot. Four conversations at once. Four different people who have something to say to me. True, one was about work, one was about a school assignment, one is with Scarlett, who doesn’t count, and one is with someone I don’t even know, but still, I’m going to count them all. Proof that maybe I’m starting to have something resembling a life again.

  CHAPTER 14

  SN: three things to kick off your morning: (1) I’m terrified of flying. I hate every second I’m on an airplane. man was not meant to fly.

  Me: Don’t love to fly but LOVE airports. Great people-watching.

  SN: best hellos and goodbyes.

  Me: Exactly.

  SN: (2) I was a vegetarian for all of 8th and 9th grades, but I stopped because: bacon.

  Me: Mmm. Bacon.

  SN: (3) I spend way too much time playing video games. and you?

  Me: Not so into video games.

  SN: you: three things.

  Me: Oh, right. (1) I generally don’t like vegetables, but I hold a special place in my heart for the brussels sprout.

  SN: mmm. with bacon.

  Me: (2) I’m a night person. Mornings suck. Why does school have to start so damn early? WHY?

  SN: then I’m honored you’re talking to me before 8 a.m.

  Me: Three cups of coffee. Gloria makes it strong. Have I told you about Gloria?

  SN: ?

  Me: The steppeople’s house manager. I was skeptical at first. It’s weird having someone who does all this STUFF for me. Don’t tell, but now I’m kind of in love.

  SN: independence is overrated. as is being able to list laundry under mad skillz.

  Me: (3) I’m a lefty, but when I was about 12 I decided I wanted to be a righty instead, so I trained myself to be ambidextrous. But now I think it’s cooler to be a lefty, so there’s 3 months of my life I’ll never get back.

  SN: I’m a righty in all the things. ALL THE THINGS.

  Me: Was that an attempt at innuendo?

  SN: your use of the word “attempt” suggests that I failed.

  Me: #innuendofailure

  SN: I just said the word “innuendo” a bunch of times in my head and now its lost all meaning. innuendo. innuendo. innuendo. innuendo.

  Me: Word ruined for me forever.

  SN: ruinuendo.

  Me: You are a dork.

  SN: yes, yes I am. good that you find this out now.

  CHAPTER 15

  “It’s literally just sex. I’m not sure why everyone makes such a big deal about it,” Agnes says, and rolls onto her back on Dri’s bed so her head is hanging off the edge and her bangs fall backward. She has a large forehead. The bangs, it turns out, are less about being hipster-cute and more tactical. It’s Friday night, and instead of staying home with Harry Potter, I am here eating potato chips from a jumbo-sized bag, flipping through the Wood Valley yearbook, and chatting with Dri and Agnes, as if this is what I always do on weekends. And it doesn’t feel too weird. When I start to get a little nervous that Agnes doesn’t want me here, I remember that Dri invited me, even added a “come on, loser” when I said I might need to stay home and study. I chose to interpret her use of “loser” as affectionate.

  “Since when are you an expert?” Dri asks, and throws a pillow at Agnes. “I don’t care what you say. Technically, you’re still a virgin.”

  “I am not! I totally technically lost my v-card,” Agnes says with faux indignation. They sound like an old married couple who has had this particular fight before and neither cares how it turns out. The fun is in the fighting.

  “Technically? What does that even mean?” I ask, and look at Agnes. “Please don’t tell me you’re one of those weirdos who, you know, count, um, oral.”

  “Course not. There was just a minor penetration issue,” Agnes says, and giggles. “But it counts. It definitely counts.”

  I start laughing too, though I don’t really get it.

  “What the what?”

  “Agnes was half penetrated. She got slipped a half peen.”

  “Half peen, that’s hilarious,” Agnes says, and soon we’re all laughing so hard we have tears falling down our cheeks.

  “Literally, I have no idea what that means. You have to tell me the whole story,” I say.

  “Okay, here’s what went down,” Agnes says.

  “No pun intended,” I say.

  “Touché. So, last summer at drama camp, and yes, I know, cliché, blah, blah, but at least it wasn’t prom. Anyhow, this guy Stills and I are hooking up outside my bunk, and we’re on the ground, and I think, Okay, let’s do this. I was kind of bored of the whole virginity thing, and so we get a condom, because safety first, right, and start to you know, have sex, with, you know, some penetration, and then all of a sudden he totally freaks out. Apparently, he’s all into, and I quote, his ‘bro J.C.’ and wants to wait till marriage.”

  “No way,” I say. “He actually said ‘my bro J.C.’?”

  “Yup. Humiliating on so many levels. So that’s how I lost my virginity. It counts, right?” Agnes asks me, and I decide that maybe I’ve been too quick to judge her. She’s funny and super honest and willing to laugh at herself. I get now why she and Dri are best friends.

  “I vote yes,” I say, because it’s a hell of a lot closer than I’ve ever come to having a penis inserted into me.

  “But Dri’s right too. I totally got half peened. How about you?” Agnes asks so casually it’s like she’s asking what my favorite subject is.

  “Not yet. I mean, I’m not waiting till marriage or anything like that, but, yeah, no real opportunity has presented itself,” I say, which is the truth. What I don’t say: that I wouldn’t mind if it happened with someone I liked and found attractive and who liked me back. I assume I won’t lose my virginity until college, because that’s when it seems to happen for girls like me.

  “Me neither,” Dri says. “And to go back to my original point, I’m not saying it’s some huge deal or anything, but, come on, it’s not nothing.”

  Agnes says, “So my sister goes to UCLA, and she’s like this huge hobag there, right? And she says that sleeping with all these randos is her way of owning her sexuality.” Agnes now sits up and faces both Dri and me, her bangs restored. “She even has a file on Evernote where she keeps track of everyone she’s slept with.”

  “You kind of have to admire her commitment,” Dri says. “Banging for feminism.”

  We laugh again, and I think about Scar and how she’d feel right at home here. I continue to flip through the yearbook, looking but not looking for SN.

  “Hey, can I ask you guys a question?” I ask.

  “Course,” Dri and Agnes say at the exact same time. Scarlett and I used to do that too. We called them our mind meld moments.

&n
bsp; “Do you know anyone in our class who had a sister who died?” I know I shouldn’t try to figure out who SN is, that finding out might just ruin the best thing to happen to me in forever, but I can’t help myself. I have this one nugget of information, and I want to run with it.

  “Don’t think so. Why?” Dri asks.

  “Well, there’s this guy…,” I say, and wonder how to tell this story without making it all sound weird. SN and me, our constant texting despite his anonymity. How I feel like he’s really starting to know me, to see me, even though we’ve never even met.

  “So many great stories begin ‘There’s this guy.’ ” Agnes giggles.

  “Shut up,” Dri says. “Let the girl talk.”

  And so I do. It feels like I’m in a safe room, and not despite Agnes’s teasing, but maybe because of it. These are people who, if they aren’t already, are well on their way to becoming my real friends. I don’t mention the specifics: our new three things game or how he told me to befriend Dri in the first place. The former, at least, belongs only to us. But I confess that I like him, whatever that means when you’ve only talked online.

  “You totally want him to half peen you,” Agnes says.

  “A girl can dream,” I say.

  —

  Later, when I get back to Rachel’s house, I find Theo lingering outside our parents’ bedroom, obviously eavesdropping.

  “You are not listening to them, you know, doing the nasty. Please, please, please tell me that’s not what’s happening here,” I demand.

  “Ewww. Gross, no. And shush. They’re fighting,” he says, and pulls me next to him, right near the door, so I can hear them too. Turns out that’s unnecessary, because soon they’re shouting so loud I’m sure the neighbors have turned off whatever reality show competition they are watching to tune in to this instead. “I think they might be breaking up, and then this long national nightmare can come to an end.”

  “ ‘Long national nightmare’? Seriously?” I ask.