Kissing Ezra Holtz (and Other Things I Did for Science)

by Brianna R. Shrum

  I blow out a low whistle and say, “I don’t even know how to choose. Tell me what you’re going to eat tonight.”

  He shrugs a shoulder. “Anything. Where are you going?”

  “Mexican, I think.”

  “Maybe—” He cuts himself off and that hand is on his kippah again.

  “Spit it out, Holtz.”

  “Maybe I’m doing Mexican?”

  I meet his eyes, and it feels like we’re talking about more than what we’re going to eat tonight. It feels like we’re asking each other eight thousand terrifying questions that neither of us really knows how to ask or to answer. Maybe we’ll . . . maybe we’ll disappear after dinner or something and hook up. I’m sure that’s why. I’m sure that’s what he’s thinking. I find myself saying, “Right after ne’ilah, the little place without a sign down the road.”

  “Yeah, I know it. What are the odds that that’s where I suddenly recall us thinking about going.”

  “It would be so random,” I say, smiling and nervous all at once, “if I happened to see you there.”

  Ben suddenly comes up beside me and glances at Ezra, and to his credit, his face betrays very little.

  He says, “Ezra,” and Ezra says, “Ben. How’re you doing?”

  “Fine.”

  Ezra nods, that pleasant non-smile on his face. I never noticed how his eyes smile even when his mouth doesn’t.

  Ben turns immediately to me and says, “We’re going to the guided meditation thing. You coming?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I’ll go.” I turn to Ezra, and it’s stupid how hopeful my voice sounds when I say, “I’ll see you?”

  Ezra scrapes his teeth over his lip, catches it for just a half second. He says, “I’ll see you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  TEST GROUP ARIEL AND CARLOS

  SUBJ. LINE: RESIGNING. SORRY.

  SENDER: Carlos Acevedo

  CONTENT OF E-MAIL: So, listen. This shit is not working out. Thanks for trying, I guess? But we are just fundamentally incompatible. If anything, this experiment did nothing but screw us up. Not that we were destined to be friends or something (No. Way. On earth.) but we could stand hanging out like, tangentially before. We could cross paths without wanting to strangle each other.

  I’m into a good, old-fashioned hate make out like anyone else, but this is not that, it’s never going to be that, and last night we tried to grit our teeth past all this shit and make it through your last set of questions but she walked out.

  Good thing. I was going to walk out if she didn’t.

  To put it delicately, I fucking hate her. To put it scientifically, it’s mutual. I’m not going into why because I don’t think you guys need that for any reason; we’re just REALLY DIFFERENT and not in a good way. The end.

  So. Thanks, or something. But I am out.

  When September bleeds into October, and the summer hasn’t quite died yet—welcome to the south where summer never dies; at most, it has a brief coma—Skylar’s house starts to feel like a concentration of Halloween. Leaves litter the walkway up to her porch stoop and the wind feels just a little ominous, and I don’t know if I love it or hate it.

  She invited me over and of course I came because I honestly cannot tell her that I’m afraid of her cool, haunted-looking house, so obviously I’m here.

  I just want to say, in my defense, that someone did die here like a hundred years ago and sometimes at night, the lights flicker.

  Skylar and I are hanging out in her backyard, which is sort of creepy in a Haunted Mansion kind of way, but not in a “What if I get locked away in one of these creaky rooms with a vengeful ghost” claustrophobic kind of way, so it’s fine.

  She has an old swing set back here that her nephews sometimes use, and we’re swinging back and forth, back and forth with the wind.

  She says, suddenly, into the quiet, “Amalia?”

  “Sky?”

  “I miss you.”

  A frown flickers across my face. “I’m right here.”

  She’s quiet. Skylar is usually a little quiet, so by itself, that’s okay. This kind of quiet, though, it feels like the breath before something big. Feels like waiting. It makes me nervous. I pump my legs harder so I can fly into the air, high enough that my hair flies behind me and catches wind.

  I glance over at Skylar and she’s just barely swinging back and forth, barely moving, so I breathe. And I allow gravity to take me back down to earth.

  Skylar says, when I’m even with her again, “Then why do I miss you?”

  I say, and it’s a lie, “I don’t know.”

  Skylar looks at me, really looks at me, and I can’t lie to her. Not to her wide blue eyes and serious, intense face that I never, never lie to. Suddenly there’s a pit and a knot in my stomach all at once. It’s painfully empty and terribly twisted. I feel guilty for keeping secrets from her, even though they’re mine and I don’t owe them to anyone.

  It doesn’t matter.

  Keeping secrets this big from Skylar feels a whole lot like lying.

  I say, and it comes out a whisper that almost gets swallowed by the breeze: “I didn’t get into art school.”

  Skylar blinks, holds onto the swing, and says, “I’m sorry, what?”

  “I didn’t—” I choke a little. It hurts: my pride, my conscience, my everything. To tell her out loud, now, after lying to her about this big deal in my life for months. When I’ve never not told her something this big, when she’s never not told me something this big. Not since the ninth grade. “I didn’t get in. To any of them.”

  Skylar kind of coughs. She stares out at her big, tree-laden backyard. She looks back at me. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  I shrug. “I just.” I want to say It didn’t seem important. I forgot. It’s not like it involves you. But none of those are the reason. The reason I didn’t tell her is because: “I was embarrassed.”

  She recoils. Like I hit her or something. “Embarrassed?” She blinks. Processing it. “Embarrassed? What did you think I was going to do? Did you think I was going to laugh at you or something? That sucks! You didn’t get into art school! What the hell?”

  I swallow down the giant lump in my throat and say, “Of course I was embarrassed! You’re going to a conservatory! You’re an amazing bassist and you’re going to play with a symphony or something and your perfect girlfriend is gonna go off and be a singer and both of you have everything you ever wanted, and then there’s me. A fucking failure.”

  “Amalia.”

  “No,” I say. I’m blinking back tears. “You know it’s true. It’s always been true.”

  Skylar says, “I have never thought of you as a failure. I’m hurt. That you didn’t tell me. I could never keep something that huge from you, oh my god. But you’re not—you’re not a failure. You say I have everything I ever wanted but, Amalia! I’ve always wished I could be carefree like you. Cutting class and having adventures because you want to have them and making out with people and doing whatever else with them because you want to? You’re going to bounce back from this and go off and live some cool, whirling, twirling, kickass free life and I’m going to be closed in my room with my bass.”

  “GODDAMMIT,” I say, and Skylar stops swinging. Just digs her feet into the earth and stares at me, wide-eyed. “This!” I say. “This is exactly why I couldn’t tell you.”

  “Because I’m trying to encourage you?”

  “Because you’re trying to fix it! You’re trying to fix everything by making yourself tiny. By making yourself nothing, so I’ll feel amazing in comparison to you. Because you feel like the only way I could possibly feel good about who I am and what I’ve accomplished is if you play yourself down. What the hell does that say about how you see me?”

  “That’s not fair.”

  I throw my hands in the air. “How? How is it not fair? It’s always been this way. Always, always. You being amazing and thinking I’m some novelty of a person or something because I’m wild and fun and then trying
to make me feel better for being a fuck-up by saying shit like this. It’s exhausting.” I hear myself being mad, hear myself suddenly being furious and acting like a jerk, and I take five seconds to breathe. To try not to take all of this out on her—all my disappointment, all my insecurities, all the things that made it hard to be with her years ago and sometimes make it hard to be her best friend now. It’s always been kind of hard with us and I don’t know whose fault it is, or if it’s anyone’s, but we tried this the romantic way, and we have been doing this the platonic way, and sometimes it turns out every way is wrong with someone. I am hurt, I think, because hearing her say things this way confirms that whole manic pixie theory of mine. That when we broke up, I felt like this, and that even now, even as her friend, her best friend, she still sees me that way. A force. Without real problems. Fun. Fun who leaves.

  I say, quieter, more gently, consciously trying not to be a total ass: “I’m sorry. That’s not—that’s not what you’re trying to do. I’m just . . . it’s hard. To watch you. To watch Ellie. Get all these things, like you always have, and here I am. The person who’s going to bounce back from everything. But maybe I won’t. I shouldn’t be keeping my life from you, okay? And I shouldn’t . . . I shouldn’t blame you for all my multitudes of shit. But you’re so. So freaking perfect, Skylar.” I don’t even look at her; I’m wiping at my eyeliner because of course I didn’t wear waterproof eyeliner today.

  She says, “You’re being a jerk, Amalia.”

  “I know.”

  “You can’t put this on me. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”

  I’m crying more. I can’t believe I didn’t tell her either. But I just—I just couldn’t. I say, “I’m also hooking up with Ezra Holtz.”

  She says, “What?”

  I shrug.

  “For how long?”

  “Not long,” I say.

  “Have you guys had sex?”

  I shrug again and say, “With hands.”

  She says, “Jesus. You didn’t tell me that either?”

  I look up at the sky and twist the ropes, let myself spin a little. Then I let go. I’m not twisted enough to get totally out of control but enough that the momentum will take me away. Will allow me to give up control of the swing, of where exactly I am going.

  “Am I even your best friend, Amalia?” I hear the sniffling in her voice and I hate it. I hate it when she cries.

  “Yes,” I say without a thought. “You are. Of course you are. You just . . . it’s difficult, sometimes, being best friends with a person who’s so much better than you are.”

  “I’m not better than you,” she says. Mumbles, almost.

  “You’re a musician. You get good grades. You’re smart and nice and cool and you’re not a slut who people whisper about in the hallways. You’re not just wildness. Like—like I am. You’re Good. You wouldn’t hook up with a boy illicitly when you didn’t even want to hang out with him. You wouldn’t sleep with someone you’re not in love with, and I sure have.”

  “So what?” she says. “You think that makes either of us better than the other? Because we live different lives? People might call you a slut, but those people are assholes and they’re the same people who call me a prude. Well. A prude AND a slut because I’m bisexual, so I have to be both, obviously.”

  My mouth tips up. “Obviously.”

  Skylar runs her hand through her long hair. She says, “You used to tell me everything.”

  I whisper, “I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t want you to look at me and see all the things you aren’t. I love you. I love you and you’re not me and you shouldn’t want to be.”

  “I know.” I’m crying again. Like, really stupid hard. It’s embarrassing. “I know.”

  Skylar. Good, Sweet Skylar, is hugging me even though I was a jerk to her and said some things I’ll probably regret later, but she’s hugging me and making soothing noises and I don’t think I deserve her.

  We go inside.

  We watch a movie.

  Just her and me.

  It’s normal, without this big secret I don’t even know why I kept between us.

  But I don’t know.

  After everything I said, I guess . . . it feels like there’s a distance there. That I’m not at arm’s length, but then when we fall asleep, I need to keep just a few inches away. Like there’s a quiet little barrier there, now that she knows all these tangled things I’ve been feeling and keeping from her.

  She passes out before I do and I wonder if I’m making everything up.

  If this is all in my head.

  I don’t think it is.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  TEST GROUP SAM AND RILEY

  Sam: So hey

  Riley: So hey

  Sam: I miss you

  Riley: what a coincidence

  Riley: im waiting by your front door

  Sam: Are you really??

  Riley: nah, but I could be

  Sam: come

  Riley: you remember what we said, right? What we decided? You weren’t too drunk?

  Sam: Nah, Ri, I remember. I don’t . . . I don’t think I want to make out with you either

  Riley: Yeah

  Riley: Okay

  Sam: Would it be weird if I said I loved you though? I’m doing this over text because it’s weird in person

  Riley: Uh. I mean. Well . . .

  Sam: Like I love you a lot.

  Sam: It hasn’t been that long since we started to get to know each other so I know it’s weird

  Sam: And I don’t mean the way we were supposed to like . . . fall in love or whatever?

  Riley: Ok?

  Sam: I just mean that like . . . like ok. When I showed up at your house last week and your mom was being a shit to you and your dad . . . yeah. I wanted to take you to the amusement park and ride rides and whatever and get you OUT OF THERE. WITH ME. Whatever it took.

  Riley: Is that why you told me you had an emergency, then we wound up on a roller coaster?

  Sam: yeah

  Sam: Sorry?

  Riley: No.

  Riley: Thank you

  Sam: That’s how I love you

  Riley: Were you gonna win me a stuffed animal if I’d let you?

  Sam: Yeah. But like a big scary-ass one

  Riley: sounds romantic

  Sam: It’s not

  Riley: lol

  Riley: same

  Sam: I love you like you’re my friend, you’re like. Like a BEST friend. Already? Idk it sounds stupid.

  Sam: Fuck am I drunk again

  Sam: I just mean like how people say, “Dude I totally love you!” Like I’m glad ur in my life or whatever. I guess.

  Sam: Wait same like it’s not romantic or same like “Dude you totally love me!” too

  Riley: both

  Sam: ok

  Riley: ok

  Riley: Im coming over

  Sam: im kind of drunk

  Riley: good I bet you’ll agree to watch the actually GOOD star wars way easier then

  Sam: dumb little bears

  Riley: they’re great little bears

  Riley: im coming over

  Sam: ok

  Sam: bring bears wars

  I am home before anyone wakes up.

  Leaving Skylar’s house this time felt like an escape, rather than something to be disappointed about. Not that either of us was being mean to each other. Not that there’s anything explicitly wrong, even. We just . . . we both know the energy is different. That if we are being honest with ourselves, it’s been slowly becoming different for a while.

  It’s kind of like how it was back when we broke up. After the first couple weeks, when we both realized we actually did want to stay friends, that we were the only two people in history who have actually meant that, well, it was weird, still. Adjusting, figuring out how to be around each other without wanting to make out.

  It worked, eventually. I haven’t wanted to kiss her in years. She is one hundred percent my
friend. And I am certain it’s mutual.

  But now it’s like things are changing again, and this time is sadder. This time isn’t going from one good relationship type to another equally good one. It’s going from friendship to . . . well.

  I don’t want to think about it.

  All I know, all I can acknowledge in my own head is that it’s different and it feels like losing something and maybe I’m not as sad about it as I should be. And maybe that makes me kind of a bitch. Maybe it doesn’t.

  What it definitely makes me is leaving early.

  Skylar, for her part, seems fine with the sunrise departure.

  I am alone with the quiet in the house for a good half hour before Ben comes down the stairs.

  “You’re up early.”

  He shrugs. “Studying to do, sis.”

  I furrow my brow. Good lord, is everyone in this house suddenly becoming a nerd? If even Ben can fall, there’s no hope of me making a recovery. “Studying.”

  He scoffs and flicks me on the forehead, then slides into a chair at the kitchen table and takes my full cup of coffee. “Yeah, ass. I’m doing an apprenticeship? If you recall?”

  “Right,” I say. “But—you have to study for that?”

  “Christ. You’ve been hanging around that Holtz kid too much; you’re grounded. Yeah, I have to study. Gonna have to get my electrical license eventually. Plus, you think I’m just gonna nail all that electrical code without looking at it every once in a while? The book’s like a thousand pages long.”

  I would spit out my coffee if he wasn’t drinking it.

  “Yeahhhhh,” he says, smiling and gloating. “Do I need to study for that. If I don’t wanna be electrocuted, I should pay attention sometimes.”

  “No, right, sorry. Duh. I just thought not having to study shit was kind of one of the biggest benefits of doing a trade.”

  He rolls his eyes and kicks his feet up on the chair across the table. “No. The benefit is getting paid to learn shit.”

  “Point in your favor.” I look at the wood grain of the table. Run my fingers over it, suddenly thinking about the composition, all the chemistry involved in holding this solid together under my fingers. I say, “Do you like it?”