I Never

by Laura Hopper

  I’m noticing that Luke doesn’t have a bad thing to say about anyone. He’s everyone’s best friend, and most likely the subject of many girls’ fantasies. I’m beginning to think being the guy who girls want to be with and other guys want to be like is a top priority for him. I see him flashing his million-dollar smile at girls in school. He always throws an arm around someone in an affectionate act of friendship that is no doubt the highlight of the day for the lucky owner of that shoulder.

  “Why did you break up?”

  “She went away for the summer, so we weren’t even going to see each other, and then she was starting college. It just sort of made sense to give each other freedom, and then it turned into a friendship. Very gradual. No big teary breakup.”

  I think about Luke graduating high school, going to the East Coast for the summer, and then starting college. I guess it will make sense for us to break up, too. The thought is too awful to even consider.

  “Was that your only girlfriend?”

  “Well, that was my only serious relationship,” he says with a smirk.

  “So that means there have been some comedic ones?” I ask, trying to be light even though I’m grilling him about his romantic past.

  “Ha, ha. It only means there were people I hung out with, but it never got serious.”

  “Care to give me a name?” I ask.

  “Do I have to?” he asks, smiling. He probably knows there’s really no upside to having this conversation.

  “No,” I say, and I mean it. It’s not my intention to barrage him with questions. I’m just incredibly curious about his colorful past when mine is so monochromatic.

  “Julia.”

  “Julia Zimmer, as in student body president?” I ask in disbelief.

  “That’s the one.”

  “You mean to tell me that Julia allows something in her life to be not serious?”

  “Trust me, Julia Zimmer is not looking to be tied down,” he says.

  My mind races. I assume that means that Luke and Julia were (are?) having casual sex. So Luke has had sex with at least two people. Amanda McKay, the Meryl Streep of La Jolla High, and Julia Zimmer, leader of the teenage free world. Who knows? Maybe more. For those of you keeping score at home, that’s Luke: 2+, Janey: 0.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The best part of my day at school is when Luke sees me from across the courtyard and gives me a flirtatious glance. Or when he passes me in the hall and squeezes my arm without anyone else noticing. But as much as I love the constant reminders that he’s into me, there is a worrisome paranoia that Brett might be nearby, witnessing and judging. I want to make things right with Brett. I am not willing to throw twelve years of friendship away without a fight. I feel like I have to make the effort, show Brett that I’m willing to go to battle to get my friend back.

  Brett and I have always watched horror movies together, both at home and in the movie theater. My other friends are just not interested in screaming their heads off in fear, so Brett is my go-to scary-movie buddy. Whenever one of us is home flipping through channels and comes across Insidious, The Ring, or Paranormal Activity, we fire off a text to the other and, together, relish a moment or two of terror.

  One Wednesday night after dinner, I delay my math homework and the crucial need for a shower and go to the living room to channel surf. The Exorcist has just started. This is the perfect opportunity to reach out to Brett. He and I watched The Exorcist together when we were ten. Big mistake. We were at his house and his parents were having a New Year’s Eve party. We were bored hanging out with the grownups, so we went to the playroom to watch television. We found The Exorcist and, full of false courage, thought it was an excellent and very daring choice.

  We later realized that both of us were too embarrassed to admit that we were completely freaked out, so we powered through the whole movie, each of us suffering in silence. I called my dad to pick me up as soon as the movie ended, and I went home trembling. I slept in my parents’ bed for the next two weeks, never confessing the cause of my sudden anxiety. I was afraid I would get Brett in trouble if I told my parents that we had watched The Exorcist.

  The fact that this, of all movies, is on right now is definitely a sign that it’s time to make up with Brett. I take out my phone and make a video of the scene where Regan pees on the floor. I text the video to Brett. No other words, emoji, or comments, just nineteen seconds of the movie. I clutch my phone, waiting for him to reply. Within seconds I see the telltale three dots indicating that he is typing. I am fraught with nerves, anticipating his response. Finally it comes: Pause it—​I’m on my way.

  In ten minutes, Brett and I are sitting on my sofa watching Linda Blair’s character bounce around on her bed, screaming obscenities at priests. Are we supposed to discuss our fight? Is he expecting me to say I’m sorry? I don’t think either of us owes or deserves an apology. I just think we have to accept each other as things change in our lives.

  When the movie ends, and Brett and I are adequately freaked out, I turn off the television and turn to him.

  “Thanks for coming over,” I say.

  “I could never let you watch that movie alone,” he says. “I’m permanently scarred from the first time we saw it.”

  “Me too.”

  There’s a long pause, but not an awkward or uncomfortable one. It feels like we’re both happy to be occupying the same space for the first time in a long time.

  “So,” he says, “Luke Hallstrom.”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “Pretty crazy.” He leans back on the sofa and puts his feet up on the coffee table.

  “I know,” I agree. He’s right. It is a little crazy.

  “What’s that like?” He keeps the tone light, but it’s obvious to me that he’s not so much curious as he is critical.

  “It’s good,” I say.

  “Really?” he asks in disbelief.

  “Yeah, he’s really sweet.”

  “Well, yeah,” he says, like I’ve just mastered the obvious.

  “What does that mean?” I ask him, knowing I’m not going to like his answer.

  “I mean of course he’s sweet. You’re a girl and he wants to sleep with you.” I pick up a pillow and hit him on the head. “Am I wrong?” he asks.

  “We aren’t there yet,” I say.

  “Good.”

  “Why good?” I want to know.

  “Because you’re a nice girl and I don’t want him corrupting you,” Brett says.

  “What are you, my father?” I give him another smack with the pillow. He pulls the pillow out of my hand and puts it behind his head.

  “I care about you, and I don’t want you to be one of those stupid girls who loses a sense of who she is and what she wants as soon as some popular older guy tries to have sex with her.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You’re not a stupid girl or you’re not going to have sex?” Now he’s smiling. He’s teasing me, which I know means he’s no longer mad.

  “Either,” I say, returning his smile.

  “Good to know,” he says. “Stay that way.” He takes the pillow from behind his head and throws it right in my face.

  I’ve heard parents and teachers refer to the years from puberty to adulthood as the formative years. I suppose that means that it’s a transitional period that shapes the kind of adults we turn out to be. If that’s the case, then we all need to give one another a break. We’re going to change and grow and make mistakes. We’re going to start and end relationships. We’re going to reinvent ourselves. Real friends need to give each other room to screw up, blossom, change, and figure out who we want to be.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sunday-night dinner with Dad. Now that a few weeks have passed since Dad moved out, I guess he’s feeling less apologetic about the separation and eventual divorce, because he rejects my plea for sushi. When we got back from Cabo, my parents were walking on eggshells around me, bending over backward to make sure I was content and my ever
y wish was their command. Even though my house felt empty and sad, there were a few enjoyable side effects. Like my dad’s willingness to let me choose the restaurant.

  Tonight we go to a super-casual Korean barbecue place that we’ve been to about a million times before. Dad’s idea is to get the food to go and take it back to his new apartment. I’m not at all excited to see his new place. I picture a total woman trap with speakers in every room and a bearskin rug in front of a roaring fire. Not that my dad is that type at all. I’ve never even seen him notice an attractive woman. I remember years ago when I was at the beach with my mom and dad, and a girl walked by in a tiny white see-through bikini, with a bronze fake tan and massive boobs swaying from side to side. My mom and I exchanged a glance and a giggle. My dad, however, never even looked up from the latest issue of The New Yorker. He used to stare at my mom as though he was constantly caught off guard by her beauty, but never seemed to notice a hot piece of ass nearby.

  With our piping-hot Korean takeout in hand, we pull into the underground parking garage in his building and ride the elevator up to the third floor. His apartment is airy and sparkling clean. Everything looks and smells new. There is a beautiful view of the La Jolla Cliffs and the Pacific Ocean. It’s so strange to have to remind myself that the furniture, the art on the walls, and the kitchen appliances are his and his alone. These items have no history of being part of a family or a household, unlike all the things that fill the rooms and line the shelves in what is now my house. This place has a very cool beachy feel, with warm earth tones and lots of natural light coming in through the sliding glass doors facing the water.

  I sit down on the beige tweedy sofa and put our cardboard containers on the glass coffee table. I am just about to dig in to the food when Dad stops me.

  “Don’t you want to see your room?”

  “Oh. Yeah. Sure,” I say.

  There are doors on either side of a short hallway. To the left is my dad’s room. It’s done in brown and tan, with dark wood shutters and a big mahogany dresser topped with several framed photos of me. My room is small and simple; the bed is tucked into the corner and topped with a fluffy cream-colored down comforter and a bunch of little pillows in various shades of pale blue and green. There’s an empty corkboard on the floor, propped against the wall.

  “Dad, I love it. It’s so cool.”

  “Decorate the room however you like. I want you to be comfortable here.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  “I hope that board will soon be covered in pictures and ribbons and ticket stubs,” he says.

  I know how important it is to him that I feel at home. I give him a big hug and we head back to the living room to eat our dinner. Even though I would have preferred a spicy tuna roll, the Korean barbecue is really quite tasty.

  “I’m sure it’s strange to be here, but I hope you’ll eventually see this as your place, too.”

  “It’s a little weird,” I say, “but it’s cool. I like this place.” I imagine coming here after school, doing homework out on the balcony with the ocean in the distance. I wonder if Luke will ever be here with me. If he’ll ever lie next to me on that bed down the hall.

  “So, what’s going on in your life?” Dad asks, as if he has a front-row seat to the scandalous thoughts racing through my brain.

  “Nothing.”

  “What about the boy?”

  “And what boy are you referring to, exactly?” I ask, fully aware that my mom has probably kept my dad up to speed on all matters Luke.

  “The boy who brought the pizza while mom was out.”

  I rest my case.

  “Luke,” I say.

  “Luke. He’s the one I met after sushi, right?”

  “Right,” I say.

  “What’s going on with him?” Dad asks. I know most teenage girls don’t discuss sex and romance with their dads. I certainly have no intention of filling him in about all that, but I’ve always been able to talk to him about everything. I told him, not my mom, about Tyler Stone and the umbrella.

  “I like him,” I say with genuine honesty and vulnerability.

  “Be careful. Be safe.”

  “I will, Dad.”

  “Remember: Just because I don’t live with you doesn’t mean I’m not available to you whenever you need me. You know that, right?” he says.

  “Yes, I know.” We laugh as we finish our bowls of spicy noodles and veggies.

  “Wanna sleep here tonight? I’ll take you to school tomorrow.”

  “Sure. Sounds good.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  My dad drops me off in the usual spot and Sloan is waiting, looking perturbed.

  “Where were you last night?” she asks with accusation and suspicion.

  I am totally in the dark as to why she seems so angry.

  “I slept at my dad’s.” My own words sound foreign to me.

  “I texted you like fifty times and you never responded.”

  “My phone died and I didn’t have my charger.” I’m not sure why I’m defending myself. “What’s the problem?”

  “I thought you were with your boyfriend,” she says bitterly.

  “First, he’s not my boyfriend, and second, why would that make you so angry?”

  “Because you’re changing, Janey. You don’t have time for your friends anymore.” She is seething with irritation, and I honestly have no idea what I’ve done wrong.

  Now I’m the one getting angry. I wasn’t even with Luke last night. What I can piece together in my brain is that Sloan tried to reach me, and when I didn’t respond, she figured I was with Luke and was purposely ignoring her. It’s almost like she’s looking for a reason to be mad at me.

  “Yes, Sloan. I have been spending time with Luke. And, yes, the simple math tells us that, as a result, I have less time for other things. I don’t know what we officially are, if anything. Who knows how long it will last, but I do like him, and I would think a true friend would understand that and be happy for me,” I say, surprised at my own ability to speak directly and strongly to her.

  She looks so angry that her eyeballs might burst from the steam building up in her head. “So your friends are just supposed to take a back seat, be your second choice, or third, or fourth, and sit around and wait for you to grace us with your presence?”

  “That’s not what I said. I just think friends should be understanding,” I say, trying to remain calm.

  She gets an icy, resigned look on her face, takes a deep breath, and says through gritted teeth, “I’m not the shitty friend here, Janey. You are.” She turns and walks ever so slowly into school.

  I am frozen. I have a lump in my throat and a sickening feeling in my stomach, as though I swallowed a rock. I don’t want to cry. Just as one part of my life starts to flourish, everything else goes down the toilet. First, my mom is clearly worried that her angelic daughter is being corrupted. Then Brett gets pissed at me for being secretive. And now Sloan tells me I’m a shitty friend. Have I really done so much wrong? Am I supposed to walk away from Luke to maintain the status quo and thus make other people happy?

  I don’t even see Danielle and Charlie approach from the parking lot.

  “Hey,” Danielle says. “You okay?”

  Just the sound of her voice makes me burst into tears. Big, fat, sloppy tears. The kind that come with shortness of breath and a runny nose.

  “Charlie, I’ll meet you at break,” Danielle tells him, and he takes the not-so-subtle hint to make a swift exit from the girl drama.

  Danielle pulls me into the bathroom and I fill her in on my conversation with Sloan.

  “She’ll come around. She just needs to get used to it,” Danielle assures me.

  “Did she do this with you when you started dating Charlie?”

  “She was a little bitchy, but your situation might be worse, because she’s always had a fantasy about Luke. I promise you, she’s not looking to lose your friendship over this.”

  “She’s got a funny way of show
ing it,” I say.

  “Maybe she’s struggling with the fact that you and I both have someone right now and she doesn’t.”

  “Maybe”—​I sniffle—​“but is that my fault?”

  “Of course not,” Danielle soothes.

  Danielle stays with me until I get myself together after a marathon cry. We spend the entire first period in the bathroom, and I feel bad making Danielle miss class, but she says she is more than happy to skip studio art. The last time I cried like that was when I was eight years old and I found a puppy on the street and my parents made me give it back to its owners. Luckily, Danielle is the type of girl who not only brings a purse to school, but in that purse, she happens to have all the items that might come in handy after a surprise blubbering session. My nose runs so much when I cry that I’ve been wiping and blowing it for the last twenty minutes. As a result, the skin under my nostrils is bright red, so Danielle’s concealer is a godsend. She expertly dabs at my splotches with her cover-up wand and, presto, good as new. Thanks to Danielle’s Visine, my red, watery eyes are now as clear as if I’d just awakened from a twelve-hour slumber.

  We wait until we hear the bell ring and the sounds of students filling the halls between classes. We make a quick exit from the bathroom and I walk over to my locker. I see Sloan at her locker, about ten yards away. I give her a look that begs, Can’t we just get along? She stares right through me for half a second before she turns and starts talking to Brian Burger, the computer genius who happens to have a locker right next to hers. I can’t imagine what Sloan and Brian could possibly be talking about, but it looks like he’s hanging on her every word.

  “Good morning. Did you sleep in or something?” Luke walks up from behind me and takes me by surprise. I have been standing here like a fool watching Sloan and Brian engaged in what seems to be a riveting conversation.

  “Oh, hi. No, I just skipped English this morning. Long story.” I don’t want Luke to know that I had a complete meltdown and that he was actually at the center of the drama.