I pick up my phone, debate turning it back on. But who would I call? I shut it off in the first place to avoid talking, to avoid Willa’s messages. To avoid the certainty that Aidan would—or wouldn’t ever—contact me.
And I recorded a new message, about having the flu, said I’d be in touch when I’m feeling better. I posted a gut bug status online, too—very thorough—just to buy some peace. As if peace will ever be possible again.
SUMMERTEENS starts in a little under four hours. I skipped last night, don’t think I can face them tonight either, though a part of me wants to. I’d take center circle, stand on a chair, transfix the crew with my latest selection. I’d call it “Pond of Horrors.” I’m sure it would get a major reaction.
Realizing I’ve been gawping at my phone as if it’s morphed into some exotic and dangerous creature in my palm, I put it down.
Opening my journal just wide enough to slip out the workshop contact list folded inside the cover, I slide my finger down the page. I’m searching for Eleanor’s number.
I opt for the kitchen phone, punching in her digits before I can lose my nerve. As it rings, I suspend breath, praying I get a machine.
Quite the opposite. On the fourth ring, someone answers. It’s a guy. No surprise Eleanor has a boyfriend. Flummoxed, I only manage “Uh” before ending the call.
Barely a minute later, the phone chirps in its cradle. I let the machine handle it. Brenda’s bored mumble advises the caller to leave a message. After a short pause, I hear his voice.
“Hello? Teddi, did you just call?” It’s Ed. I resist grabbing the phone, and he continues. “If you’re there, pick up. I just want to make sure everything’s okay. I . . . everyone missed you last night. I hope . . . we’ll . . . see you at workshop tonight. ’Kay, later.”
I should call him back, tell him I won’t be making it to the library. That I’m contemplating never leaving the house again. That I’m not sure I belong out in the world anymore, now that the world has changed so fundamentally.
But of course, I don’t.
Some stupid part of me apparently continues to operate under the delusion that things—manners and relationships and people’s feelings—matter. I mean, I get it. That’s all bullshit. Nothing really matters. But that’d be sort of hard to explain to somebody, especially when he’s just calling to check on you. Just calling to be nice.
As I stand at the kitchen counter, aching to decode the meaning of it all and coming up empty, my eyes return to my cell. Curiosity getting the best of me, I press the button and watch the screen illuminate. Against the alder leaf background, a little yellow envelope winks. When I tap it, a number swirls up and out, hovering center-screen. Eight messages.
Scrolling through the list, I see only two—one voice mail, one text—are from Willa. She’s shown remarkable restraint.
I listen to the voice mail. She says she wants to make things right between us, that we should meet at Sprinkles to “exorcise the bad mojo” as soon as I’m better. The text is typical Wills, a laughing selfie with Nic, captioned Freedom! We both quit 12th Night!
Hmm, We quit, not Nic got booted. Wonder what he told her.
My heart stumbles when I see the other six messages are from Aidan. I’m wary of the voice mails, recalling his angry roar at the pond. Figuring a blow-off will be easier to take in print, I swipe the first text, from yesterday afternoon.
It’s just one word, along with a little heart symbol: Sorry
The second text is from late last night.
T – stopped @ brary to c u but u weren’t there
that ed dude said ur sick everything ok?—A
Since the voice mails came after the texts, I’m willing to risk listening, assuming he won’t lapse into prickdom so shortly after apologizing. I click the icon, and his soft voice joins me at the counter.
“Teddi, I can’t blame you if you don’t ever want to see me again, but I need you to believe I’m sorry. For everything. I know Willa told you about . . . what happened. And I want to make one thing clear. It wasn’t her fault. At all. I was pretty messed up, and—” He’s run out of time; robo-lady cuts his soliloquy short.
“Damn, it was just getting good.”
Fighting a wave of guilt, I decide to listen to the next message. Yes, it makes me selfish, caring about relationship stuff post-Corey, but I can’t help it. I kind of really do.
Corey, I wonder how he’d weigh in. If he’d be on Team Aidan or Team Ed. If he’d remember our long-ago promise to get married one day like Croc Hunter and Terri.
I press the v-mail button.
This message is a continuation of the last.
“I was angry, yes. But . . . hurt, really. And I wanted to hurt you back. I’m not sure why. I had no right to assume you’d say it back to me. ‘I love you,’ I mean. Anyway, if . . . if you want, call me. When you feel better. If you think we’re worth another chance.”
A tear splats the screen as I contemplate second chances, realizing how rarely they happen. Blotting the phone with my thumb, I listen to message number seven.
“Morning, Teddi. So, I stayed in last night. Contemplating us, and hoping I haven’t managed to commit the biggest mistake of my life. Because it would be, losing you. And believe me, I’ve made some real freakin’ whoppers. Teddi . . . Please call. If you want.” Then after a thought-filled silence, he ends with “Love you.”
The final message, another text, is time-stamped just a couple minutes ago. I’m puzzled at the brief contents, two seemingly random words: front door.
As I glance in that direction, Binks suddenly leaps from his couch spot. Growling, he hurls himself at the blinds, as though he’s deflecting a zombie assault, or defending our turf from a member of the Jehovah Squad that roams the neighborhood.
Ignoring the impulse to duck behind the couch, instead, I attempt to meld, unnoticed, into the refrigerator door. Then I hear a brief tap on the glass.
Approaching the front door, I can see through near the bottom where Binks has savaged the venetians, but I can’t make out any movement. Crouching closer, I see it.
On the blacktop, just outside our door, someone has drawn a chalk heart. Inside it, speckled with condensation from the day’s heat, is a container of Marini’s Lemon Ice. Balanced atop it are two paper-wrapped spoons.
Taking Binks by the collar, I herd him into the bathroom. Kicking Cinnamon Girl through the crack, I slam the door, sealing them in.
Returning to the front door, I rest my fingers on the metal bar and peer through the crack in the blinds at the offering outside. As I watch, a small disk of moisture spreads. It’s joined by a pair of bare feet, one on either side of the ice cup. I’d recognize those bronzy calves anywhere, even without the large, Aidan-shaped shadow.
The blacktop must be scorching. I can tell not just because of the melt spot from the Italian ice, but because of the way those handsome feet sizzle-dance, seeking shade.
My heart melting as fast as the Marini’s, I swing open the door, catching Aidan off guard, almost causing him to fall into the apartment. Gaining balance, he grins and goes down on one knee to retrieve the lemon ice. Eyes downcast, penitent, he steps inside.
Before I can say anything, Aidan puts one finger to my lips. Peeling back the cup lid, scraping a spoonful, he deposits a scoop of sugar-tart chill on my tongue. Then he presses his lips to mine.
My eyes close. I’m savoring the surprise, when he steps back and says, “Oh! Are you up to this? From the sound of your message, you’ve practically been on your deathbed.”
“I’m better.”
He trains those berry eyes on me with sincerest concern, kissing me again. Something in the back of my throat dislodges. It’s like when Prince Charming kissed Snow White, loosening the apple, bringing her back. Awake. Only for me, Aidan’s kiss looses a torrent.
I can barely speak, and I know I’m freaking him out, mostly because he says, “Okay, Teddi. You’re freaking me out here. Do you . . . do you want me to go?”
Beating
back panic, I shake my head and manage a loud “No!” that has Binks protesting from behind the bathroom door.
Arms encircling me, Aidan pulls me close. Resting his chin on top of my head, he says, “You’re safe, Teddi. I’m here. You’re safe.”
When no other words will come, I blurt, “Corey is dead! My best friend, Corey. Eli. He ki-killed him. Corey’s dead. Oh God, he’s really dead.”
Several incoherent minutes later, my rant finally ceases. We’re on the couch. Aidan must have led me here or—God, not again—carried me. I’m astonished to see Binks occupying a cushion, one furry elbow resting on Aidan’s knee.
Mopping my forehead with a damp cloth, Aidan says, “Hope you don’t mind me letting the little guy out. I was afraid he’d hurt himself trying to bite his way through the door.”
Voice quivery, I say, “Binks likes you? Wow, he hardly likes anybody.”
Aidan replies, “Nope. Binks likes these,” as he pulls a fortune cookie from the pocket of his cargo shorts. Cracking the cookie open, he puts the fortune aside and says, “Watch this.” Then, standing, he holds the cookie aloft and asks, “Do you like cookies?”
Going bipedal, Binks launches into this viral video–worthy dance. Laughing, Aidan palms him a cookie. The little mooch runs to his bed and lies down, crunching.
Joining me on the couch, Aidan says, “So.”
I echo, “So.”
Clearing his throat, he grasps for the right word. Then, wearing this lightbulb–moment expression, he raises his hand as he says, “Fortune time!”
I stop him. Taking the slim paper strip from his hand, I squash it into a tiny ball, and cross to the sink. Opening the cabinet, I drop the fortune in the trash.
Aidan says, “You’re pretty brave, tossing destiny aside.”
To myself more than to him, I answer, “I wish I could.”
Joining me at the counter, Aidan puts his hands on my shoulders and repeats, “So.” Then he kisses my lips once, briefly. Serious again, he cups my face with his palms before saying, “Teddi, I’m really worried about you. You were . . . um . . . out of it for quite a while there.”
“Out of it?”
“Yeah, it’s almost four o’clock. I’ve been here for over an hour, just . . .”—he blushes—“holding you and . . . listening to you talk and, sort of . . . moan. And of course, cry.” He’s close to crying as he says, “So, are you? Okay?”
I take a moment before answering, “Not really.”
“Teddi, who’s Eli? And what did you mean he ‘bashed Corey’?”
“We’d better sit down again.”
We cross to the couch, and Binks appears at Aidan’s side, pressing an insistent chin against his knee. When Aid says, “Sorry, bud. No more,” Binks mopes his way upstairs. Watching him go, Aidan says, “Guess he figures we could use some privacy.” When he looks back at me, his smile disappears.
Studying Aidan’s face, I’m unable to speak. Of course, I don’t want to burden him, but it’s more than that. It’s about not wanting to voice Corey’s death into truth. The more people who hear it, the more real it will become.
“Tell me, Teddi. Trust me.”
And I do. I start by apologizing. “I’m just warning you. Some of the details are soggy, because I was real little when it happened. I can’t quite remember it all. And parts of it are going to sound impossible”—I look away—“even crazy to you. But I need you to believe, Aidan. If I’m going to tell, I need you to believe.”
“I promise.”
I expect his face to go hard when I say, “Even if Pool Girl is part of it?”
And his expression does change. His eyes fill, and those beautiful lips quiver.
I ask, “What is it?”
Wiping his eyes, Aidan says, “I was a shit, Teddi. A total prick when you kept insisting you saw her. I’m sorry. You needed me then, too, and I blew it.”
Pressing his hand to my heart, I say, “That’s done now. And I learned some things about her these past few days.”
He can’t help looking nervous as he asks, “So you’ve seen her again?”
In the interest of putting it all out there, I reply, “Aidan, I am her.”
“Wait, what?” His look of confusion would be comical in any other context.
Picturing my toes slipping from the high board, I say, “It seems she was me at seven. That’s when the bad thing happened, when my friend was killed. Somehow, a part of me got sort of stuck there.”
“But that’s—” He stops himself.
“Impossible? Yes, it is. But it happened. I’m not sure whether my visions of her were for real. If she was actually here. Or if they were some kind of . . . visible ripples of memory. Either way, she—I—needed to show me. To lead me back to Corey. Back to truth.”
For the next forty minutes, Aidan barely says a word beyond “whoa” or “shit” as I tell my story. At several points, especially when I describe the pond, I’m unable to continue. Aidan calms my quaking with kisses, his soothing voice.
When I talk about Corey’s murder, I’m all eerie calm, focused on my upturned palms. As I finish, our eyes meet. Aidan’s face is slopped with tears, his eyes puffy.
In that moment, I realize I’m ready. Pressing against him, I kiss his neck. Then, holding his gaze, I say, “I love you, Aidan Robert Graham. I love you.”
He says, “I love you, too, Teddi Middle-Name-Unknown Alder. And if I thought you were amazing before, I’m more convinced now. I can’t believe what you went through and . . .” He breaks down again. Catching his breath, he says, “Poor Corey . . . and his family.” Stroking my cheek, he says, “We’ve got to tell someone.”
Smile overwhelmed by shaking, I say, “We?”
Aidan says, “I’ll go with you, Teddi, to the police, wherever.” Pulling me close, he continues, “I’ve screwed up all along the way with you, but that’s over. You can count on me from now on.” Then, his brow creasing, he breaks our embrace and sighs.
“What’s wrong?”
“You probably don’t want to talk about this right now, and after what you just told me . . .”
“What, Aidan?”
“Willa, the kiss.”
“Oh, God. We really don’t have to—”
“Yeah, Teddi. We do. I need to apologize for real.”
“You already did, Aid.”
“Not face to face.”
“Your text and your message were really sweet.”
“That’s not enough. If we’re going to make this work, I’ve got to be totally honest. I need to warn you.”
“Warn me?”
“I already told you about the anger stuff, and well,” he looks embarrassed, “I’ve sort of gone out of my way to demonstrate it, haven’t I?”
“Aidan, nobody’s perfect. I, for example, am lactose intolerant and prone toward sarcasm.”
“Please don’t joke. I . . . I need to say this. I do this thing, Teddi. I can’t tell you why, but I do. When a relationship is going well, I just can’t seem to keep from wrecking it. I ruin things. And I don’t want to anymore. I don’t want to ruin us.”
“Well. Then don’t.”
He pauses, searching. Finally, he says, “Good advice.”
We kiss again and, though I try hard not to imagine Corey alongside us on the couch, I can’t help sensing him there. Smashed skull resting against the back cushion, he swings his sneakered feet.
29
Below the clip-art megaphone, the flyer screams YOU’RE INVITED! in ginormous cursive. Enthusiasm continues with JOIN A HARDWORKING CREATIVE GROUP OF SUMMERTEENS WRITERS FOR THIS SPECIAL READING OF THEIR WORK! All the pertinent details follow.
WHEN: FRIDAY, JULY 26, 6:30-8:30 P.M.
WHERE: L718, THE LIBRARY’S SPECIAL EVENTS ROOM
In bold italics, it promises:
FRESH FICTION! GREAT CONVERSATION! REFRESHMENTS! FREE! FREE! FREE!
Willa says, “So, what’s the admission fee?”
Standing between her and Aidan in fron
t of JJ’s Town Happenings board, I manage a laugh. It’s my first outing, following three straight days of visits from Aidan, and Willa and Nic. They even came to see me together yesterday.
The kiss thing has totally blown over, and we’re seemingly back to status quo, Willa faux-flirting with Aid, Nic feigning outrage. They’ve made no mention of Nic’s expulsion from the play, and I don’t intend to bring it up. I’m content saving that drama for another day.
I have no expectation of life ever being quite normal again. Still, when I’m with them, I feel a bit less like I’m being squeezed to death and digested by some giant boa constrictor of grief.
Willa’s been her best possible self where Corey’s concerned, totally fierce and supportive since I told my story. It was hard getting through it, and even though she knows my humor better than anybody, she said I was horrible for ending with “So, Wills, it’s official. You no longer have competition for the position of best friend.”
It was a stab at lightening the moment, badly aimed. Might have been more successful if we weren’t both sob-wracked. Willa just kept blowing her nose and repeating, “I wish I’d had a chance to know him.”
I’m working hard to approximate a new ordinary, with limited success. When I try to be respectful of Corey, to own what happened as the worst sort of tragedy, I fear I’ll blow into pieces.
And there’s no chance I can re-forget it, much as I want to. So I’m hoping it’s okay to approach it as I do most things, head-on, with a double shot of humor.
But people—and by people I mostly mean Brenda—just don’t get it when I make some “inappropriate” remark. For instance, the other day, I said, “If it was me, I wouldn’t be caught dead in a Gordy the Cereal Frog T-shirt.”
Brenda just gawked as if I’d told her Binks and I had eloped. Then she said, “I’ll never understand it, Teddi, how you can be so cold.”
Of course, she’s never exactly known how to take me. Never really known me at all, I guess. Yeah, I’m being a tad melodramatic, but I’m entitled. This whole discovery has sort of magnified all the ways Brenda’s failed me as a parent. All the ways she continues to fail. I’d never say it to her, but I don’t really need to. Her lockbox overflows with evidence.
The Precious Dreadful Page 21