Tell Me Three Things

by Julie Buxbaum

  Me: You’re American, right?

  SN: yeah, why?

  Me: PEPPERONI! Not liking pepperoni is like not liking apple pie.

  SN: will that analogy be on the PSATs?

  Me: So you ARE a junior?

  SN: relax, Nancy Drew.

  Me: I’m doing homework today. Calc is kicking my ass.

  SN: and what a fine one it is.

  Me: Shut up.

  SN: was that objectifying? sorry.

  Me: Have I mentioned lately that you’re a weirdo?

  SN: I seem to recall you saying something like that.

  Me: Later I have to work. Do you have a job?

  SN: nah. my parents won’t let me. rather give me an allowance and have me focus on my schoolwork.

  Me: How Wood Valley of them. I’m glad they’re supporting your Xbox habit.

  SN: I know we’re all ridiculous to you, and I couldn’t agree more. where do you work?

  Me: I’m not sure I want to tell you.

  SN: ?

  Me: Too stalkerish.

  SN: yesterday you were begging to meet me, now telling me where you work is too stalkerish?

  Me: I wasn’t begging.

  SN: sorry. poor word choice. asking.

  Me: Guess.

  SN: where you work?

  Me: Yeah.

  SN: ok, but let me ask a few questions first. (1) do you like it? (2) do you come home dirty?

  Me: (1) Actually, yeah, I like it a lot. (2) NO!

  SN: coffee shop?

  Me: Nope.

  SN: The Gap.

  Me: Are you making fun of me?

  SN: no! why?

  Me: Never mind.

  SN: I got it. I forgot for a minute that you’re a book nerd. Barnes and Noble. am I right??? I’m totally right.

  Me: Close. Book Out Below! Up on Ventura. You should come visit.

  SN: so fickle. now you want me to visit?

  Me: Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t.

  • • •

  Me: So…

  Scarlett: If you must know…

  Me: I MUST, I MUST.

  Scarlett: My hymen is intact.

  Me: Surely you could have told me in a less graphic fashion.

  Scarlett: I know, but it wouldn’t have been as much fun.

  Me: I’m hungover.

  Scarlett: Me too. And my face is all chafed from Adam’s beard. I think he must have practiced a lot after smooching you.

  Me: What makes you say that?

  Scarlett: Dude, THAT BOY CAN KISS.

  —

  When I come downstairs, my dad is in the kitchen wearing an apron that says CHEF BITCH, which I assume belongs to Rachel but could just as easily belong to Theo. Music is playing in the background, something country, an overly sentimental ode to pickup trucks and short denim shorts. What Scarlett calls WPM: White People Music.

  “Pancakes, sweetheart?” my dad asks, full of annoying morning cheer. He looks all wrong in this kitchen. He’s never made pancakes. That was my mom’s job. Syrup and flour congeal on the pristine marble countertops. Does he feel at home here, comfortable enough to man the stove and serve up pancakes barefoot? I feel awkward when I use the microwave. I don’t want to leave crime-scene splatters on its insides, or any other evidence of my existence.

  “Umm…” Will I be able to eat breakfast without throwing up? No choice. I’ve never once turned down a carb, and I don’t need my dad getting suspicious about my drinking. “Sure,” I say. What I don’t say: What’s going on? Are we staying? Are you suddenly really happy or is this an act? “You made breakfast? This may be a first.”

  “Gloria’s day off.”

  “Right.”

  “Listen, we need to talk,” he says. My stomach drops out, and vomit pushes its way up. Clearly, this whole kitchen act is a sad departure gift. My dad and Rachel are breaking up, and we are leaving. They are unraveling that which never should have been raveled in the first place. That’s what this faux happy performance is about: a way to butter me up before the news. I put my head down on the cold counter. Screw it. Who cares if he knows I’ve been drinking? He’s guilty of much bigger transgressions. In fact, he’s lucky I’ve never had the energy to seriously rebel. I should win a Trouper of the Year award. Should have been given a little brave golden man statue or some sort of plaque to hang on my wall.

  This breakfast must be a last hurrah before we have to hit the road. Makes sense that my dad would take advantage of his final chance to use a Viking range and fancy-ass pans and organic pressed coconut oil in a perfectly measured spray. I should run upstairs and wash my hands with that delicate, monogrammed soap that still has a price tag on it. Learn what a hundred dollars gets you in the soap world.

  “Here, these will help settle your stomach.” My dad places a stack of perfect circles on a plate and puts them in front of me. They smell surprising, not like the thing itself but like a representation of the thing. The fragrant-candle version of a pancake. “Just tell me you didn’t drive last night.”

  “Of course not. Dri did,” I say.

  “Dri?”

  “I have friends, Dad. Don’t be so surprised. Did you think that I wouldn’t talk to anyone ever again?” I don’t know why I’m being mean, but I can’t help it. For once, my words are one step ahead of my mind, not the other way around.

  “No, I just…I’m happy for you, that’s all. I know it hasn’t been easy.”

  I laugh—not a laugh, exactly, more like a nasty neigh. No, no it hasn’t. Nothing has been easy for a long, long time. Even last night, my first attempt at fun since we moved, ended with a sociopathic blonde calling me a skank.

  “I guess I deserve that,” my dad says.

  “So what now? Are we leaving?”

  “What? No. Why would you say that?” he asks, and his surprise seems genuine. Did he not realize the entire city of Los Angeles heard his fight with Rachel? That the other night he basically admitted that this whole thing has been a huge mistake? Doesn’t he know that I’ve spent the entire week psychologically readying myself for another departure?

  “Your fight with her.”

  “It was just an argument, Jess. Not the end of the world.”

  “But she said—”

  “I sometimes forget that you’re just a teenager. But I remember that—how everything feels bigger or, I don’t know, somehow just more when you’re your age.”

  “Don’t you of all people dare be condescending,” I say. There’s a sharpness to my tone, and of course, I’m a hypocrite, accusing him of talking down to me while acting like a stereotypical teenager. All snark and pouts.

  But screw him.

  Seriously.

  Screw. Him.

  My dad sighs, as if I am impossible, as if I’m the one who doesn’t make sense.

  “She said ‘leave and don’t come back.’ I heard her.”

  “Stop saying ‘she’ and ‘her.’ Rachel. Her name is Rachel. And people say stupid things when they’re angry.”

  “And people do stupid things when they’re grieving, like get married and move across the country and not give a shit about their kid.”

  “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?” I’m yelling now. I don’t know when my control slipped. Because here it is. The anger delivered, whole and solid. Hot and unwieldy. Placental.

  “Do you want to leave? Is that what you’re saying?” he asks.

  I think of SN, of Dri and Agnes, of Ethan with his electric-blue guitar and his dismissive “hey.” No, I don’t want to leave, but I don’t want to feel like this either. Like an interloper in someone else’s home. If I do throw up today, which is more likely than not at this point, I don’t want to have to worry about soiling Rachel’s bathroom. I don’t want to feel in constant danger of eviction.

  No, none of that is important. What do I really want? I want to punch my dad in the face—connect fist to nose, crush, crunch, make him bleed. Kick him hard and watch him bend over and squeal and scream the words “I�
�m sorry.”

  This feeling is new. This anger. I’ve always found a way around the pain, have never burrowed straight through like this.

  My dad doesn’t look delicate right now, not like the other night, not like most of the last few years. Why have I been the one wearing kid gloves all this time?

  “I’m not saying anything. Forget it, Dad. What did you want to talk about?” My fingers are pulled into actual fists. I can trust myself not to throw an actual punch, right?

  “I just wanted to see how you’re doing. How school is. Just checking in. I know I’ve been busy. And the other night, I didn’t even ask about your day. I felt bad about that.”

  “Busy? I can count the number of conversations we’ve had since we’ve moved.” The rage stays clean and pure and red, like last night’s drinks. Does he have any idea what my life has been like? Funny that he checks in only when I’ve finally started to find my footing.

  Too little, too late.

  “I just. Wow. I didn’t know—”

  “Know what, Dad? That moving here has been hard for me? Are you serious right now?”

  “Let’s—”

  “Let’s what? Talk about this later? Sure, great idea.” I push away the plate, resist the urge to throw it in my father’s face, and storm out of the room.

  “Trouble in paradise?” Theo asks, because of course he is coming down the stairs as I’m marching up, two at a time. I’m shaking with anger, vibrating with the pulse of it. My mouth tastes bitter, full of bile. I imagine switching targets, connecting my fist to Theo’s jaw. Ruining his pretty, pretty face.

  “Screw you,” I say.

  He shrugs, nonplussed.

  “Rage is totally your color.”

  —

  Later, at Book Out Below!, I sip herbal tea and play Candy Crush on my phone. Only two purchases so far, and one jerk who took a picture of a book to buy online. By late afternoon, just as evening seeps in and I start to feel bored and lonely, the bell dings: new customer. My head snaps up, full-on reflexive now, and I gasp in surprise.

  Caleb.

  Kilimanjaro gray-T-shirt boy. Who I saw texting at the party. No one from school, other than Liam, has ever walked into this store while I’ve been working, not even Dri, though she promises to visit. I told SN just this morning about this place. So it doesn’t take great powers of deduction to conclude that this must be him before me, finally, in the flesh. My heart squeezes—so this is the person I’ve been spilling my guts to for the last two months—and I wait for the disappointment to hit. It doesn’t.

  Instead, I feel disoriented, the same thing that happens after I ask someone for directions and then forget to listen, realize that I’m still just as lost as before. It’s hard to imagine SN’s words coming out of this guy’s mouth. He’s attractive, yes—hot, even—but in a normal, run-of-the-mill way. Generic. A variant of the presumptive prom king type you find in any high school in America. No special sauce. What do I say? Do I introduce myself? Play dumb? Act like I assume this is all just a strange coincidence?

  He is wearing the same gray T-shirt as last night and as the first day of school, when I literally applauded him for climbing a mountain. He must have felt bad for me then, must have seen that I needed some help since I couldn’t even manage to find the right homeroom. Hopefully, somehow, he didn’t notice the grass stuck to my ass.

  Mind officially blown. Sploof.

  Kilimanjaro gray T-shirt guy.

  “Hey, is Liam here?” he asks, and smiles down at me, like he’s in on the joke, though this doesn’t feel particularly funny. Just uncomfortable. Is this why he hasn’t wanted to meet until now? Knew it would feel this awkward and random?

  “Um, no, sorry. He doesn’t work today.” Jessie, this is SN. Up your game.

  “Oh, I think he has my phone,” he says. “I lost it last night at the party. You go to Wood Valley too, right?”

  “Yeah, I’m Jessie,” I say, and reach out, too formally, I think a moment too late, to shake his hand. His fingers are long and dry, his shake a bit limp. A mismatch to his voice.

  “Caleb,” he says. “Nice to meet you.”

  “You too.” I smile back, try to say with my eyes what I don’t have the nerve to say with my mouth: I know it’s you. This is a weird game we’re playing, but I guess so is IM’ing anonymously.

  “So how do you like it so far? School, I mean.”

  “I guess you could say I’m still adjusting.”

  “Yeah, cool, cool.” Caleb turns to leave—is he as nervous as I am?—and I suddenly feel desperate to make him stay, to reestablish our connection. I feel like I’ve already screwed things up. All it took was thirty seconds face to face.

  Should I ask him about Tanzania? That’s where Kilimanjaro is, right?

  “Um, would you want to have coffee sometime?” Did I really just say that? Out loud? Take a deep breath. Slow your roll. “I mean, I just, I’m trying to meet new people, that’s all.”

  He seems surprised, tilts his head to the side as if to get a better look. He’s checking me out, and he’s not subtle about it.

  This whole thing is vaguely insulting.

  No doubt we should stick to IM’ing.

  “Sure. Yeah, why not? What’s the worst that can happen?” he asks, with a mysterious grin, an obvious reference to the same question I asked him just last night. I’m about to answer, I have a million things to say, but it turns out he’s just being rhetorical, because he has already walked out the door.

  SN: how was work?

  Me: It was nice of you to stop by.

  SN: funny.

  Me: not the word I’d use.

  SN: ?

  Me: ?

  SN: okay, then. moving on. spent so much time with my Xbox today that I actually got bored. #neverthoughtthedaywouldcome

  Me: Sore hands?

  SN: rising above obvious joke. aren’t you proud of me?

  So this is how we’re going to play it. Pretend this afternoon never happened. Maybe this is for the best. Maybe SN/Caleb has been right all along. Writing is better.

  Real-life talking? Way overrated.

  CHAPTER 20

  “This is a long-ass poem,” Ethan says. “And it’s kind of annoying and complicated. I can’t keep all the voices straight.”

  We’re back at Starbucks, what I now think of as our Starbucks, which I would never admit to Ethan in a million years. I’m sipping the latte he bought for me after asking if I wanted the same as last week. He even remembered that I like it extra hot. He was so casual about it—ordered, slipped a credit card out of his wallet—I didn’t even feel weird about not offering to pay. Next time I’ll say something like “I got this one” or “This one is on me.” Or maybe not.

  “I agree. I mean, I write terrible poetry, but I don’t know. I can’t help but write in my own voice. I am who I am who I am. Whether I like it or not.”

  “A rose is a rose is a rose. Jessie is Jessie is Jessie.”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve read Gertrude Stein?” I ask. My mom was a huge Stein fan, so when she got sick, that’s what I read to her out loud. Mostly The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas, but some of her poetry too. “Sacred Emily”: a soothing nursery rhyme of a poem and, it turns out, where rose is a rose is a rose comes from. Not Shakespeare, which would have been my first guess.

  Other things I learned then: Chemo blinds you. Steals your hair and blinds you. My mother couldn’t even read at the end.

  Rose is a rose is a rose.

  “Not much. Just Toklas. Talk about writing in someone else’s voice.” How does he find the time to read everything? Had I not insisted on working on this project, no doubt he would have delivered me an A. Come to think of it, I may end up actually bringing our grade down.

  “My mom was an English professor at our local college, and she always used to quote Gertrude Stein. Called her G.S., like they were friends or something. Actually, for her fortieth birthday, my dad and I got her a vintage edition of The World Is R
ound. It’s this bizarre kids’ book. So random that I just thought of that.” I stare out the window to regain my equilibrium. I don’t talk about my mom to anyone, not even to Scarlett. Certainly not to my dad. Talking about her is like acknowledging that she’s gone, a jump into the unfathomable. Rendering true that which cannot be.

  But we are talking about Gertrude Stein, which means we are already talking about my mom, and, I don’t know, the words just came out.

  Ethan looks at me and waits a beat. He’s comfortable with silence, I realize. He’s comfortable with everything.

  Ethan is Ethan is Ethan.

  “I just want to say I’m sorry about your mom. People talk around here. Anyhow, it fucking blows,” he says. “I know that’s a crazy understatement, but it fucking sucks that people have to die and there’s nothing you can do about it. And so yeah, I just wanted to man up and say I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks,” I say into my coffee cup, because I can’t look at him. I am not brave enough to lift my eyes. I don’t know what I’ll see there: pity or empathy. But I’m going to add “brave” to my inner Ethan tally, and “honest,” and “right,” because it does fucking blow and he is the first person to actually say that to me. Everyone back at FDR mumbled “sorrys,” probably because their parents told them they had to, and they were so obviously relieved when the words were out, the requisite box checked, that they could move on, even if I couldn’t. Not that I blame them. Death makes everything awkward.

  “Yeah, we don’t have to talk about it, but I hate how when something like that happens, people just like to pretend it didn’t because it’s uncomfortable and scary and they don’t know what to say. Not knowing the right thing to do is not an excuse for not doing anything. So,” he says.

  “So,” I say. I do it. I bring my eyes to his. “I will show you fear in a handful of dust.”

  “And I’m not the only nerd who memorizes ‘The Waste Land.’ This first section is called ‘The Burial of the Dead,’ you know.”

  “I know.” I smile, because I like Ethan and how he’s not afraid of anything, except maybe sleeping. And a smile is, in some ways, the same thing as saying thank you.