A Taxonomy of Love

by Rachael Allen

  Taking your things off the walls makes me feel like I can breathe for the first time in months. Like your ghost isn’t suffocating me. I can’t purge the memories, but this is the next best thing. I feel whole and empty at the same time. I’ve scrubbed my heart with fire, and now I get to find out if it was worth it. This is me taking care of myself. This is me saying good-bye. I love you, Janie, and I’ll never forget you, but I have to stop the vigil.

  Missing you. Every second of every day.

  Hope

  What kind of freak gets a boner while their best friend is crying over her dead sister? There I was, patting her back while she cried into my T-shirt, wishing like anything I could siphon away all the terrible things she was feeling and inject them into my heart instead. And then her hip shifted just the right way against the inside of my leg, and little me was all, “Hi, Hope, how do you feel about sympathy boners?”

  I backed away as fast as I could, but I knew she felt it. I could see it in her horrified eyes. And even though certain physiological responses are automatic, even though I wasn’t thinking anything dirty while I was hugging her, she could see in my eyes every time I thought about her while I was alone in my bedroom. I just knew it.

  And I wanted to tell her, “You’re not just some girl I think about with the lights off. You’re my best friend, and the coolest girl ever, and the most important person in the whole world.”

  But instead I choked out an “I’m sorry” and ran out of her bedroom like the creepiest mouth-breather alive.

  The next few weeks go like this:

  Hope sighting #1: After several days of careful hiding and James Bond–esque subterfuge, Hope and I nearly run smack into each other on the trail that cuts into the woods behind our houses. We narrowly avoid getting our limbs all tangled up kraken-style, but the embarrassment factor is still an eleven because neither of us seems capable of normal human interaction. After silence and making goldfish faces and seconds that feel like days, we both turn really red and walk in the opposite direction.

  Hope sighting #2: We are both at the grocery store, me with Pam, her with her mom. They stop their carts, like, oh, yes, let’s just chat away the entire day next to these artisanal cheeses and totally ignore the fact that we are causing our children LASTING PSYCHOLOGICAL DAMAGE. So, yeah, I’m tic-sniffing up a storm, and Hope and I are scuffing our feet and looking everywhere except at each other, but then I finally hit this wall where I just cannot read the same goat cheese label again or I will literally die.

  I look up.

  And she’s staring right back.

  I feel my face flush again, and she turns away, but she’s got this tiny smile, the kind that escapes even though you’re trying to keep it to yourself.

  I start to wonder if maybe this is the good kind of nervous—the kind that might lead somewhere. I wave at her as we walk away, and her cheeks go red and the tiny smile comes back. I know what I have to do: I will finally stutter out the most embarrassing apology of all time (in my head, this plays out without me ever saying any of the words for boner, but with her still knowing exactly what I mean), and we’ll finally go back to being friends. Maybe more than friends, if I’m lucky. Except . . .

  Hope sighting #3: I’m wheeling my bike out of the garage when I hear voices coming from Hope’s porch. I’m just about to say hi, apology speech at the ready, when I see who’s sitting next to her on the porch swing. Bella Fontaine.

  Yeah, that speech is gonna have to wait. Maybe I can ride by without them noticing me. That’s probably the safest bet.

  But it’s like I can feel Bella’s eyes hit me, singeing me up one side and down the other with her laser harpy vision. I know I shouldn’t, but I turn and look over my shoulder at them. Bella whispers something in Hope’s ear. Neither of them is smiling.

  Hope sighting #4: Today is the day. I slip up Hope’s porch steps, my thoughts one long string of all the best scenarios. You got this, man. You can do this.

  But the moment she opens her front door, I can feel my plans crashing and burning around me. She isn’t blushing this time. Her face has rearranged itself into all angles and hard lines.

  “Hi.” The word falls out of her mouth and rises like a barrier between us.

  I manage to squeak out a hi of my own. And then I wait for the bad thing that is coming next because even though I don’t know what that thing might be, the fact that it is bad, I am sure of.

  “Bella told me about what you did,” she says.

  “Um . . .”

  “She saw you digging through my trash.”

  I feel like I’m choking. Like metal bands are squeezing my throat, and I can’t get any words past them, can’t even swallow. I look at Hope, my eyes begging her to understand.

  “Oh, damn, Spencer. You really did it.”

  Spencer. Not Spence. She’s about two seconds away from crying.

  She swallows hard, pulling herself together. “She said you used to do the same kind of stuff to her. That you’re, like, a stalker or something, and you get desperate when girls aren’t interested. I didn’t want to believe her, but then Tabitha Silverman said you did it to her, too.”

  I know I have to do something, and it has to be right now. I find a hidden reservoir of Hulk strength, and I pop all the bands, and the words come pouring out of me.

  “It wasn’t what you think. I mean, it was with Tabitha. I used to follow her home from the bus stop and put stupid notes in her mailbox when I was eleven, and everybody used to tease me about it. But with you, I was only trying to help. I know how hard it’s been for you since Janie—” I pause, but now that I’ve started, it’s easier to keep going. “Dean didn’t get it. And I’m so sorry he didn’t. Because you deserve someone who gets things.”

  I’m supposed to be explaining about the trash, but instead, everything I’ve felt for the past three years comes spilling out. A flash flood of feelings.

  “I could be that guy, I promise. I’d be the best boyfriend you could ever have. If you’d just give me a chance.”

  The weight of what I’ve confessed settles on my shoulders, and I watch for her reaction with something that feels a lot like terror.

  “I really need a friend right now,” she says through the lump in her throat.

  We’re going to be okay. I exhale. “Of course. I’m here for you.”

  “Thanks,” she whispers.

  She closes the gap between us, slumping against me in a hug that makes me totally unsure of what to do with my hands. I hold them straight out behind her back, while her breath comes in sharp bursts that make her chest jump against mine. I ticshrug a couple times, but she either doesn’t notice or ignores it. I’m unsure how to classify the change in her behavior. Girls don’t do this unless they like you, right? She’s tucking her head into the place where my neck meets my shoulder—that’s supposed to be some kind of sign, isn’t it? She squeezes me closer while she cries, grabbing a fistful of my T-shirt in a way that makes me forget how to breathe. I give her hair some tentative pats, moving on to strokes once I feel brave enough, and that seems to be okay, too.

  But when she finally pulls her head away, there are tears meandering down her cheeks in zigzag paths, and she looks as broken as I’ve ever seen her.

  “Aw, man, I’m so sorry.” Our bodies are still touching, our faces inches apart. I wipe her cheeks as gently as I can.

  If we’ve ever been this close before, it has never felt like this. She closes her eyes, still shaking from the crying, and I know exactly what I have to do. I let my hands slide down to her arms, stopping at the spot just below the shoulder. And then I press my lips against hers, and the entire world melts away.

  I do not expect her to jerk backward. Or to whip out of my embrace self-defense-style. Or to say, with a look like I’ve wounded her, “What are you doing?”

  The world stops melting pretty quickly at that point. And the reality that it crystallizes into seems a whole lot harsher and more confusing than it did a couple seconds
ago.

  “I . . . I thought—” I grab her hand, trying to keep her from slipping away from me.

  “Just—” She yanks her hand back like I’m a hot stove. “Just stay away from me, Spencer. I mean it.”

  My mouth might have fallen open. I don’t actually know. All I’m sure of is the hurt. An ocean of hurt. I am no longer a human, but a collection of gashes and scrapes and clinical incisions that sliced clean to the bone. I don’t know how much time passes before she speaks again.

  “I don’t know what’s going on with you right now, but I need some space.” She waits for me to say something, but I can’t make the words, can’t even form a coherent thought. Not until she starts closing the door.

  “Wait.” But I already have so many exposed wounds, I can’t bring myself to tell her about the maps. What if she thinks it’s dumb? Or weird? Or worse, what if she doesn’t care at all? “It’s not what you think,” I finally mumble.

  She shakes her head slowly, arms crossed over her chest, keeping her safe, keeping me out. “I still think this is the best idea right now. At least until I work some things out.”

  She closes the door before I can say anything back.

  Part Four

  16 years old

  A TAXONOMY OF SPENCER AND HOPE

  Fact: Every morning, without fail, I do two things. I check on Lord Voldemort. And I weigh myself.

  The first thing involves peeking into the terrarium on top of my bookcase as I rub the sleep from my eyes. Lord Voldemort (aka the coolest tarantula in the Western Hemisphere) burrows further into the tunnel of silk he’s been building next to his flowerpot. I put my hand on the tank.

  “Hey, Voldy. How’s it going? I gotta go to school, but I’ll see you later, okay?” He doesn’t really respond, but I think at least one of his eight eyes winks at me. I just fed The Dark Lord a cricket yesterday, so he should be good.

  Now it’s time for the moment of truth. I walk down the hallway to the bathroom I share with Dean, hop on the scale, and wait for my fate to blink at me from the little rectangular screen.

  146.

  Water splashes against the shower curtain next to me, intermixed with the sound of Dean growling. He always sounds like a zombie when he’s trying to wake up in the morning. I step off the scale and then back on just to be sure, but the display says the same thing: 146. So when you factor in eight to ten pounds for water weight, cutting to 138 should be no problem. The 145 weight class is way too close to my actual weight—those guys will probably be cutting from 160. They’ll be giant. And there’s no way I can cut all the way to 132 unless I want to remove a couple internal organs, so 138 it is.

  Which would be fine. Better than fine. I could be killer at 138. But you know who else wrestles 138? Ethan Wells. The guy still hates me, and now I’m giving him the chance to kick my ass as part of a legit, school-sanctioned activity. We’ll be paired off, every day after school, gunning for the same spot and each other’s weaknesses. Starting today.

  I step off the scale and debate weighing myself one more time, maybe trying to pee again first, when Dean drags open the shower curtain.

  “Can you hand me a towel?” He shakes the water from his head like a dog.

  “Sure.” I pass him one without leaving my spot in front of the scale.

  “It’s not going to change,” he says.

  “I know.”

  “Not unless you want to spit in a cup or run a few miles wearing trash bags.”

  “I know that.” We go to our separate rooms to throw on some clothes, which for me means going down the hall, but for him means going down to the basement. But when we pop into the kitchen at the same time, we pick right back up like conversations have pause buttons. “It doesn’t even matter. It’s not like I have an official weigh-in or something.”

  Dean smirks. “Then why are you freaking out?” he asks, just as Pam says, “Well, then, there’s nothing to keep you from eating a good breakfast.”

  She sets a bowl of oatmeal and an egg-white omelet on my place mat, which has a real cloth napkin because we are real southerners, and pushes me toward the table. “Eat.”

  “First wrestling practice is today,” I say around bites of oatmeal. “And since I grew four inches and gained about twenty-five pounds since the end of last season, I won’t be wrestling at 113 anymore. I’ll be in 138 hell with your buddy Ethan.” I tic-shrug. “Kill me. No, wait. You won’t have to because Ethan will.”

  “Do you even know if Ethan’s still at 138?” Dean shovels in eggs and muffins like they’ll evaporate if he waits too long. Pam clucks her tongue at him as she slips my Tourette’s meds onto my napkin.

  “No. But I’m pretty sure. It’s what he wrestled the last two years.”

  Dean used to wrestle, too, but he quit last year so he could focus on football and baseball. He hated the wrestler diet. Sacrificing to make weight. The complete and total abstention from alcohol during the season. Come to think of it, he hated pretty much all of it. Except the part where you get to knock people around, he liked that part. But he still gets to do that when he plays football.

  My dad comes in carrying an unassuming black case. “Hey, Dean, check it out. We got some new fixed blades in.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Few things can tear Dean away from Pam’s homemade blueberry muffins, but shiny new weapons are an exception.

  Dad pops open the case of glittering knives. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was a serial killer. These are the knives from every scary movie you’ve ever seen—serrations across their spines, lethal blades, points that hook back like shark fins. Dad and Dean are throwing out phrases like “flat grind” and “through hardened,” and I’m thinking the six inches between me and the edge of my dad’s knife case feels like a canyon.

  I lean over the table to get a better look at the knives. “That Camillus looks pretty cool.”

  Dean snorts. “That’s a Gerber.”

  “Oh.” I shrug like it’s no big deal even though I suddenly want very badly to say something cool about that knife. “Well, it’s got a mean gut hook,” I try.

  Dad studies the knife and smiles. “Yeah, it kind of reminds me of my old Bubba Blade.”

  “Hey. Hey, Dad.” Dean’s eyes are glowing at the mention of my dad’s old knife. I think I know where this is going. “Remember the time Spencer tried to dress his first buck, and he puked all over your Bubba Blade?”

  I roll my eyes. It’s not my fault deer insides smell the way warm feels. “Hey, Dad. Remember the time Dean told the same annoying story every day for the past seven years?”

  My dad laughs, but I can’t tell which one of us he’s doing it with. Probably Dean. He’s still got the case turned in that direction and everything.

  “Don’t forget your medicine,” Pam calls from the kitchen.

  I swallow the pill with a big gulp of water. Even though they make me sleepy as all hell for a couple hours after, my new meds are totally worth it. No full-body tics. No twitches keeping me up all night (well, most nights). And, best of all, no mood swings.

  I hurry to finish my breakfast and get ready in time to meet Dean at the truck. Rule Number One of sharing a vehicle with my brother: Dean always drives. No exceptions. Even though the license I got last month is burning a hole in my wallet, and it is technically our truck, which you would think means I get to drive it half the time. And my parents won’t let me drive solo because they’re worried that the meds drowsiness and my tics will get me in a wreck. The idea of me suppressing my tics until I get to a stop sign or red light completely freaks them out. Which, okay, they’re parents, and it’s their job to worry, but plenty of people with TS drive, and it’s not like any of my tics impair my vision or make me jerk the steering wheel or anything.

  The horn blares from outside while I’m in my room shoving stuff into my backpack. Rule Number Two of sharing a vehicle with my brother: The correct time to leave for school (or anywhere) is as soon as Dean is ready. He lays on the horn again, a good
two seconds this time. I swing from the top of the stairs and land at the bottom with a thud.

  When I slide into the cab beside Dean, he has a book cracked open on the steering wheel.

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “I got a book report due third period,” he says, flipping a page.

  “And you’re just finishing the book now?”

  “Yeah. I’ll write it during first and second.” He tosses the book beside him with a toothpaste-commercial grin. “And Monroe will give me an A, because it’ll still be better than anything anyone else turns in.” He faux-sighs. “We can’t all be me.”

  “I kind of want to punch you in the face right now. Do you know I was up until freaking two am trying to figure out The Scarlet Letter?” (Side note: I’m pretty sure you’d fall asleep reading that book even if you weren’t on my meds.)

  “Didn’t you already get an extension on that?”

  My shoulders hunch up like they’re trying to protect my ears. “Some people need more time on stuff.” Plus, tenth-grade English is kicking my ass.

  Dean shakes his head. “Must be nice. Getting special treatment and shit.”

  “Dude—” I want to say a lot of things, but he waves me off.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. That wasn’t cool. I’m just . . . I bombed my chem test last week. Whatever. I’m dropping my APs next semester. Senior year was supposed to be easier than this.”

  Dean, bombing a test? These things just don’t happen. The idea of him not being able to hack it gives me this sick, happy feeling, but it’s followed pretty closely by an I’m-a-total-dick feeling. “You sure you don’t want me to drive so you can work on that?”