A Taxonomy of Love

by Rachael Allen

  After school, I sneak up to the attic and look at pictures of my mom and wish I could just disappear. Or maybe jump out the window. I’m pretty high up. Ants can fall from practically any height and not die because they have a low terminal velocity or something. If I jumped, I don’t think I’d be able to walk away.

  I shake off the thought, and step away from the window. I go back to the photos of Mom and will them to pull me in. There’s one of her at a church picnic—all these families, all the same, and then her. She pops out of every photo, more vibrant, more alive than all those regular people. Sometimes I think, Well, of course she looks like that to you. She’s your mom. But other times, I know it’s not just me. It’s her. Her smile is too wild. The violet streaks in her dark brown hair scream, “I don’t belong here.”

  I flip to another photo. This one is of my mom holding a guitar—which makes sense. Sometimes I think about her singing us to sleep, and I wonder if I’m really getting her voice right. In movies and stuff, they’ll show a mom or dad leaving a kid, and whoever’s left wants to protect them, so they hide all the letters and birthday cards the other parent is sending, until the big climactic scene where the kid finds out their missing parent really cared all along, and here are the years’ worth of letters to prove it. They’re so glad they weren’t really abandoned, but also so very hurt that the other parent lied to them. You know what hurts worse than being lied to about the letters? The letters not existing at all. I used to tear the house apart trying to find them. And at first, when I couldn’t find them, I thought it was okay. My dad was smart. He was burning them or trashing them before I could ever get to them. So I made sure to be the one to check the mail. Every day for a whole year, I opened the box and reached for a letter that never came.

  How am I ever supposed to figure anything out when such a big piece of me is missing? I barely even knew her, but that didn’t stop her from totally screwing me up. I kick the support beam in front of me like it’s to blame for everything that’s wrong with my life. Something falls from the rafters and clocks me in the head. After some swearing, I note that it is a big something (the knot on my head confirms). It is also a guitar-case something. And unlike everything else in this attic, it is completely devoid of dust. I don’t understand and then I do, all at once. This is Mom’s, and Dad keeps it here. Not only that, he takes care of it. He must, like, come up here and look at it and stuff. The guitar on the inside is beautiful, too. Old. Battered.

  Before I know it, my cheeks are wet.

  I hear footsteps on the attic ladder and rush to wipe my face. I wasn’t, like, full-on crying, so hopefully it won’t show. Hope appears at the opening to the attic and creaks her way across the warped floorboards to me.

  My first thought: Thank goodness it’s not Pam, because I didn’t hide the guitar.

  My second thought: She knows I’ve been crying. I can tell by the way her face is pinching together.

  “Are you okay?” Her hand reaches for my shoulder, but I shrug it away.

  “Dean’s not up here.”

  She takes a step back. “I wasn’t looking for Dean. I was looking for you.”

  I don’t say anything, just start putting the photos back into boxes.

  “I guess you already know we’re going to the movies tonight.” Dean might have mentioned it on the way home from school. She is actually wringing her hands now. I didn’t know that was a thing people did in real life. “I’m still not even sure how it happened. Dean—he has this way of pulling people in. He’s like the sun.”

  “Or a black hole.”

  Her mouth curves up in a half smile, and the atmosphere in the attic feels 80 percent less toxic.

  Then she has to go and make the pity face. “I’m sorry, Spence.”

  “Why?” Why did she have to do that? Why couldn’t we just pretend I never liked her? It’s not like I ever told her. Now I’m permanently cast as the loser guy doomed to watch his brother date the girl he likes.

  “Because.” She gestures between us like that will explain everything. More hand-wringing.

  My eyes narrow. “You know what? I think you should go.”

  Hope makes the I’ve-just-been-slapped face, but I don’t stop there. “I’m busy with a lot of stuff right now, and I don’t really want to talk about it. You should really just go and see Dean.” I inject his name with as much scorn as possible.

  Whatever spell that was holding her frozen breaks.

  “Fine.” She holds up her hands and backs away. “I was just trying to—forget it. Maybe I will go see Dean.”

  She climbs back down the ladder, stomping on each rung as she goes.

  Part of me wishes I could get a do-over, and the other part of me knows I will always ruin it no matter how many chances I get.

  Sep 28, 7:22 PM

  Hope: are you around?

  Janie: Yeah! What’s up?

  Hope: spencer and i had a fight

  Janie: Aw, sweetie. What happened?

  Hope: i started dating dean

  Janie: Wait. WHAT?!

  Hope: oh, right. you haven’t gotten the cookies yet. details in the letter I just sent, but yeah, dean and i are going to see a movie, hence the fight

  Hope: except that makes it sound like this is all my fault, which it totally isn’t

  Hope: it is all spencer

  Hope: ALL OF IT

  Sep 28, 7:26 PM

  Hope: janie?

  Janie: Sorry. I spaced out. It’s really late here.

  Hope: oh. well, um, that’s okay.

  Hope: i just wanted to talk to you about spencer. he’s been acting so different lately and i’m really worried

  Janie: Different how?

  Hope: like really angry

  Hope: and not just about me and dean, but like everything

  Hope: and he says things that don’t sound like him at all

  Janie: Yikes. Is he, like, hanging out with different friends or something?

  Hope: no, he has not taken up with the “wrong crowd”

  Janie: I didn’t say “wrong crowd.”

  Hope: you were thinking it

  Hope: sigh.

  Hope: i want to ask him about it but i’m worried that’ll just make things worse

  Hope: plus, i’m not talking to him right now

  Janie: Ruh-roh. I do not envy him being on the other end of a Hope freeze-out.

  Hope: i don’t know what you’re talking about

  Janie: Puh-lease. Your freeze-outs are legendary.

  Hope: well, he totally deserves this one!

  Hope: i was trying to talk to him about stuff and he was all: why don’t you go see dean?

  Hope: and i get if he didn’t want to talk but he was SO MEAN about it

  Hope: he shouldn’t have been that mean

  Sep 28, 7:37 PM

  Hope: right?

  Sep 28, 7:39 PM

  Hope: janie, are you there?

  Janie: I must have spaced out again. I’m sorry. I keep doing that. Nolan’s been making fun of me.

  Hope: this is really important

  Janie: I know. I’m really sorry. I just have a terrible headache. What if I call you tomorrow?

  Hope: okay

  Janie: Love you, Hope.

  Hope: love you

  I need to talk to Hope so bad it feels like a splinter in my brain. I don’t know if I can apologize to a known Dean Dater, but when I see her parents get in her mom’s Jeep and pull out of their driveway, it’s like my feet carry me over there on their own. I picture her snuggled under a blanket with the latest Laini Taylor book. In the kitchen feeding slivers of cheese to Eponine. Stretching for a run.

  I do not picture her kissing my brother.

  I’m bounding up the steps and about to touch the door handle, when I see them behind the screen door, standing in the middle of her living room, completely oblivious to the fact that I am frozen and can’t look away.

  It’s the kind of kiss you don’t expect anyone to see. A hungry, fly
-across-the-room-the-second-the-parents-drive-away mauling of a kiss. I’ve never actually kissed anyone before, but of these things I am certain.

  Dean’s hands are running all over her—like her body is territory and everywhere he touches is a flag staked down that says Claimed by Dean Barton. Shoulders. Legs. The small of her back. Her perfect collarbones, his fingertips tracing the tan lines, like I’ve always daydreamed about doing. He traces them again, just on the right side this time, only his fingers don’t stop when they hit her shirt. He runs them under the edge of her tank top where it scoops low across her chest. He moves by degrees, maybe because he’s scared she’ll stop him if he goes too fast. Maybe because her shirt is tight against her body and he’s having trouble wedging his hand in there.

  And then his whole hand is inside, cupping her, touching her. She moans into his mouth, and the sound of it, sweet merciful Lord, my body nearly explodes. Oh, man, what it would be like to have her moan like that because of something I did.

  He kisses her jaw now, and her neck. Her eyes are closed. Her mouth half open. His kisses trail lower. Her collarbone. The top of one breast. And oh, holy crap, I manage to get myself together and turn my head away just as he pops her boob out of her shirt. It’s the thing that really snaps me out of it. It’s not okay for me to see that part of her unless she chooses to show it to me herself. I wouldn’t even want to.

  I sneak down off the porch. I also have to sneak back into my own house because Pam is doing some kind of craft project involving mason jars, and I’d rather not explain to my stepmom why I am comically hard right now. Ugh. I feel like I have no control over anything right now, even my own body.

  When I finally get back to my room and get the door shut safely behind me, I’m shaking all over. An image of his hand down her shirt flashes in my mind, and I feel like there are holes in all of my important organs.

  I wouldn’t even know what to do.

  If she was standing in my room right now in those cut-off shorts. Kissing me—an absolute mauling of a kiss.

  I’d be lucky if I could remember how to breathe, let alone figure out where to put my hands. Dean gets all these girls without even trying. One after another after another, through the revolving door of his bedroom window. He has never wondered where to put his hands.

  I try to imagine her now, but he’s all I can see. Damn it! How does he ruin everything?

  I’m not entirely sure how it happens, but I realize there is a crater-shaped hole in the wall in front of me and my hand hurts really effing bad. I’m gonna have a fun time explaining this one.

  FROM: janie.m.birdsong@gmail.com

  TO: hopetacular2000@gmail.com

  DATE: Oct 11, 5:25 PM

  SUBJECT: Good morning, Baltimore

  Hey Hope!

  Are you ready for our Skype movie date this Friday? I’m thinking Hairspray, circa 1988 or Hairspray, circa 2007. You pick!

  Janie

  P.S.—I’m so glad you and Spencer made up! ________________________________________________

  FROM: hopetacular2000@gmail.com

  TO: janie.m.birdsong@gmail.com

  DATE: Oct 11, 6:58 PM

  SUBJECT: Re: Good morning, Baltimore

  Hey! I am so ready it’s not even funny, and I choose John Travolta cross-dressing, OBVIOUSLY. (Side note: Can you believe this girl at school, Tabitha, thinks Grease 2 is better than the original? WTH.)

  And, thanks. I was so nervous, but everything turned out fine. I really feel like he listened to what I had to say.

  Also! I have to tell you this thing that happened at school because it definitely can’t wait till Friday. I think Spencer might be cool now. I mean, I don’t care, and I don’t think he cares (he’s so angry lately, it’s hard to tell). But maybe his dad cares. I don’t know. It’s complicated.

  Anyway. So you know how Spencer sometimes gets stuck on certain words? Well, we were in World History, and Mr. Siegel was talking to us about some European queen, and I guess her official title was Regina, only he wasn’t saying it like “Ruh-gee-nuh.” He was saying it like “vagina” but with an R. Ruh-ji-nuh. Can you imagine?! So everyone was trying not to laugh, and then finally, thankfully, he moved on to some war because war is like 80% of what you talk about in history class. And we were all SO relieved, and then out of nowhere, Spencer said, “Regina.” Only he said it really loudly. And people snickered a little. And then he said it again. And again. And I knew it was just a tic, but everyone in class was laughing. Mr. Siegel asked him to stop it, and he kind of did for a minute, but then it was like I could see steam coming out of his ears, and he just kept saying it. And Mr. Siegel was all, “If you say that one more time, you’re going to the office.” And Spencer was all, “Mr. Siegel, you know I can’t—REGINA.” And all the guys that make fun of Spencer were laughing like crazy when he packed up his stuff. I thought it was going to get worse, like with them teasing him and stuff. But then at lunch, they came over to our table and kept slapping him on the back and telling him how “epic” it was. Oh, and they kept calling him “S-man.” I’m telling you, it’s a miracle I didn’t puke all over my processed macaroni and cheese.

  So yeah, AND THEN, Spencer tells me he’s going to try out for wrestling. Like out of nowhere. I don’t even know what this world is coming to. Oh, but guess what! I’m trying out for track this spring! Okay, gotta go because Dad is calling me for dinner!

  XOXO,

  Hope

  Hope and Dean are ruining everything that is good in this world. I’m minding my own business, going downstairs to play video games just like any other Saturday. Before I even make it to the last step, there they are, jumping apart on the couch. Dean wipes his face guiltily, and Hope is all, “You can stay.” And I am like, “No fucking thank you,” only without the F-bomb because I am totally cool with all this. Cool like an August day with no air-conditioning.

  I go outside because at least I know they won’t be there, but the den is definitely getting added to the map of Places That Could Be Contaminated with Make-Out Juices.

  “Hey, Barton, c’mere. We need a fourth,” yells Ethan.

  He and his younger brother, Jace, and this guy Mikey are playing cornhole in Bella’s front yard. I walk over, even though I know it’s probably a bad idea. I think about asking them why Bella or her friend can’t be their fourth, but decide against it.

  “You know how to play, right?” says Ethan.

  “Yeah.”

  Mikey glances toward my house before asking, “Can you play without spazzing out?”

  I ignore him and pick up a beanbag. I’m on Ethan’s team, and it’s really pretty easy. You have to throw the beanbag and get it through a hole in a piece of wood. A bag on the board is one point. A bag through the hole is three.

  Ethan and I tear Mikey and Jace to shreds.

  “The spaz can play!” crows Ethan, slapping me a high five.

  It’s hard to know whether I’ve been complimented or insulted. I tic-sniff, and Mikey whispers something to the girls, and they snicker into their fists.

  I try to shake it off and focus on the game. I already knew where Mikey fell on the Making Fun of Tourette’s spectrum—this isn’t a surprise. My next bag soars through the hole without even touching the sides. And apparently that is the thing that puts Mikey over the edge.

  “I think Tourette’s must give you secret cornhole-playing abilities,” he says. On his next throw, he yells a cuss word at the top of his lungs. His beanbag sinks it. “Success!” he yells, holding his hands in the air like a goalpost.

  And because it worked, he does it on every turn. And then Jace starts it up. And Ethan, too. The girls are laughing so hard, they can barely keep it together. I’m annoyed, but I’m trying not to show it, because that’ll only make it worse. I hate how the swearing is what everyone thinks when they hear “Tourette’s syndrome.” I know, I know, it’s what they always show in the movies because it’s so freaking funny. But it sure doesn’t feel funny right now. Mikey really h
ams it up, making his voice sound all unhinged and screwing his face up when he screams out F-bombs and C-bombs and basically every kind of bomb there is.

  And then I rear my arm back to make a throw and, just as I’m letting go, he screams out a word that would make Pam drag him into the bathroom and shove a bar of soap in his mouth. It is not a coincidence. It is every. Single. Time. Ethan shakes his head, but he doesn’t say anything. Mikey’s eyes are mean, and the girls stop laughing. I start missing shots, but I don’t want to give them the satisfaction of watching me have a meltdown, so I force myself to hold all my sharp edges together until the game is over. Then I make a weak excuse about needing to do something inside.

  But I’m not okay the same way a powder keg or a gas leak is not okay.

  My feet carry me to the office that doubles as my dad’s trophy/weapon room and Pam’s craft room. Pam is there, repurposing an old window.

  She looks up from her work. “Hey, Spencer, how’s it going?”

  I shrug. “Okay.”

  “You feeling okay on your meds?” she asks, bringing us to a grand total of three for today. “Because we can always try something else if—”

  “I’m fine. The all-over tics stopped. I don’t want to talk about it, okay? I think I’m gonna get a snack.” This is always a good idea when you don’t know what else to do.

  She eyes me for a second longer. “Well, I just made some coconut fudge. It’s on the counter.”

  She brushes her hair out of her face and gets back to her project. I trek to the kitchen. Maybe if I eat my weight in coconut fudge, I won’t feel like everything is conspiring to wreck me. Plus, the idea of Dean finding the empty pan is pretty appealing. The sound of giggles hits me before I turn the corner.

  “Stop it. I don’t like coconut!” Hope’s voice sounds different. Softer or higher or something.

  “This will change your mind about it, I promise.”

  Dean chases her mouth with a piece of fudge. She finally accepts, taking a dainty bite so that her lips touch his fingers. He pops the rest of it in his mouth with a wink.