Olivia Christakos and Her Second First Time

by Dani Irons

“No.” She places her hands on her hips and it reminds me of Cora.

  “Well, what did I used to call you?”

  She pauses. “Just Natalie.”

  That doesn’t sound like much fun either. “Do you...like Wyatt?”

  “Yeah...” Her voice is small and cautious.

  “And all that stuff you said about us going to prom and everything...that’s all true?”

  I twist my neck as much as I can to see her expression. The lamp on the other side of me casts an orange glow on her face. She looks older, serious. “Very true.” And without waiting for my response, she’s gone, tugging the door closed behind her.

  I don’t like how matter-of-fact she was. Sounded kind of false. Maybe I’m reading too much into it. She’s only eight, after all.

  Chapter Ten

  Sixth Grade

  “This dance is a joke,” Lacy Willems said, making a beeline to the punch bowl. I let her go. She’d been complaining ever since we got here. The cafetorium, as our school conveniently dubbed the place where we eat as well as hold any event, was lit with Chinese lanterns and decorated with multicolored balloons and white crepe paper.

  Chloe and I stood against one wall with the other girls in the sixth grade, the boys on the other side. Only Jackson Parrish and Ashley Feldspar, who claimed at recess last week that she now wore a size D cup, were dancing. And everyone else watched.

  Wyatt and I were sitting at my kitchen island mixing up strawberry milk when he asked me if I was going to the dance. “No,” I’d told him, because I didn’t want him going and letting out our secret arrangement into my social circle. I’d been able to keep him a secret for two years and I was going to keep it that way. “Are you?”

  He shook his head. “Not if you’re not going. Steven doesn’t want to go, either, so I won’t have anyone to talk to.” I nodded. Steven was Wyatt’s best friend and fellow Cub Scout. They’d been inseparable since last year.

  But there Wyatt stood, staring across the dimly lit dance floor at me. What a liar. I avoided all eye contact.

  “You should get James Declan to dance with you!” Chloe squealed, her headband slipping backward as she jumped. She adjusted it.

  “God, I wish,” I told her. “But he should ask me, right?”

  “Yeah,” she said with a sigh. “But remember that article we read in Teen Girls magazine, about how a boy likes a confident girl? I mean, I totally can’t do it, I’m not like you. You’re ballsier than I am.”

  That was when Wyatt Rosen started walking toward me. “Fine,” I told her. “I’ll do it.”

  I angled myself towards the boys’ side so that it didn’t look like I was walking toward Wyatt, rounded the refreshments table, and kept my eyes on James. Cute, popular James who had been caught with his hand up Shantel Johnson’s sweater last winter. In the band room of all places. Neither Shantel nor James played any instruments.

  I had begged my mom for days to buy me the dress I was wearing: purple, short and low-cut. She’d agreed, but had told me not to try it on in front of my dad. This dress was going to win me a dance with James. When I stopped in front of him, he looked right at my chest. “Dance with me?” I whispered as quietly as I could over the new Pink song, “Stupid Girls.”

  James nodded without looking up from my chest. My stomach floated up to my throat and I was suddenly nervous. I hadn’t been nervous walking over here, so why was I now? His hand was cool and soft as he led me next to Jackson and Ashley.

  Despite the song not being slow or romantic, James squished me to him and nuzzled his face in my hair. I’d spent an hour curling it and it hung in ringlets down to my waist. We danced like two awkward Frankensteins put together, but at least we were doing it together. “My Immortal” by Evanescence started playing then, and I could feel the words down to my toenails. I put my chin on James’ shoulder.

  He spun me around again and that was when I saw Wyatt. Dancing slowly with Chloe and taking great care to hold her just so. He whispered something into her ear and she actually giggled. It was then I noticed what Wyatt was wearing. Holey jeans and a too-large, blue button-down short sleeve. He can’t wear something like that to a dance and then dance with a girl who took two and a half hours to get ready! One who’s wearing an $80 cotton-candy-pink dress with a tulle skirt!

  I broke away from James and stomped my way across the dance floor, pushing people who’d finally gotten the nerve to dance out of my way. I grabbed her arm. “Let’s go!” I yelled, dragging her out of the cafetorium, into the hallway and out a back door.

  “What are you doing?” she hissed when we were finally outside. A chilly wind swept over us and we both rubbed at our bare arms.

  “You shouldn’t dance with him,” I said.

  She sighed. “You’re probably right. But I felt bad.”

  I allowed her to think the reason she shouldn’t have been dancing with him was that he was Tartar Sauce, the weird boy who was bullied and who smelled like fish. But I knew the real reason I didn’t want them dancing together: I was jealous.

  Chapter Eleven

  Now

  I wake up with a start, feeling someone watching me sleep again. It’s not a good feeling. Maybe I should tell Cora to make sure people leave me alone while I sleep. Before my eyes can focus, someone speaks.

  “Liv! Oh, my God.” The voice is young, girly and overly energetic. “Wyatt called me last night and told me you were home. I can’t believe you woke up. I mean, I’m so glad you did, of course. But I mean, look at you! Even though you can’t feel too great and have broken bones—oh, crap look at that cast!—you look gorgeous. How do you do that?”

  Apparently, I have a nickname.

  A girl about my age is sitting in the chair by my bed. She’s pretty, like a porcelain doll, with blond curls and chubby cheeks. She’s wearing a perma-smile and enough makeup to beautify an army of drag queens.

  “I was at the hospital almost every day,” she continues, “but then my mom got sick and I had to come back here to work because technically,” she sighs, her hands moving around frantically, circulating the air around us, “Mom was filling in for me at the store. I threw the biggest bitch, but there was nothing I could do and I didn’t know when you’d wake up and oh, Christ. I’m sorry.” She takes a deep breath. “I wish I’d been there when you woke up. Or sent flowers or something. Forgive me?”

  She pets my fingers. I nod, unsure of what else to say.

  My pills are on the nightstand again, this time with orange juice, which at the hospital I decided I loved. Instead of trying to figure out who this is, I take my time swallowing medicine and sipping at my juice.

  “Wyatt told me you have amnesia,” she whispers, like she’s filling me in on a terrible tragedy. Her bottom lip quivers. “Oh, my God. I can’t imagine. How are you feeling? Do you need something? Are you in pain?”

  “I’m all right. Thanks.” I offer a small smile.

  The girl looks at me a long moment, studying me, as if trying to figure me out, her eyes narrowed. “I’m Chloe,” she says finally.

  Ah, the mysterious Chloe. I wondered when she was going to turn up. She sticks out her hand. I take it. Luckily, my right arm—my dominant one, it seems—is also my good arm. I like that she doesn’t have one of those limp-fish handshakes, but it feels awkward and a little ridiculous to be shaking hands at all.

  “This is so weird, isn’t it? Like reintroducing ourselves? I mean, I guess it isn’t really a reintroduction to you. Does it feel like you just met me? Is this weird for you?”

  “Yes. It’s weird.” I take another sip of juice. “The doctor said you were the one I was with that night? That you called the ambulance?”

  “Yep. That was me. I can’t believe what happened. I was so, so scared. I’ve never been so scared in my entire life. I thought you were dead.�
� Her voice tightens. “Do you remember anything yet, anything at all? Because I was hoping you’d remember me. I’m your best friend.” She says best so emphatically, it makes me wonder if I gave her a kidney or something once. She stares at me expectantly.

  I blink back. I don’t know this person and cannot pretend to feel the tight bond that she obviously believes we have.

  “We grew up together,” she continues, her voice a little sadder, “go to college together, but we’ve never lived together. We decided we’d drive each other nuts, you know? But other than that, we’re together all the time. Inexorably.”

  I cock my head at her use of the word inexorably. It feels out of place and possibly grammatically incorrect. “What kind of things do we like to do together?”

  “We shop, party, go to the beach. You like to collect smooth sea glass in a pile and when there’s enough, we play Mancala in the sand.”

  “Mancala?” Sounds like a made-up word.

  She nods. “It’s a fun game. I’ll show it to you sometime. You know, when you’re feeling better. Is there anything I can get you? Do for you? Want me to fluff your pillow?”

  I shake my head and ask, “How did I get hit?” I’d asked my parents the same question, but they weren’t sure how I’d gotten myself in the middle of the road.

  “Hmm?” she asks, suddenly distracted by her fingernails, which are painted in pink and yellow stripes. Obviously professionally done. “Oh. The car? Well...” Her hands fall to her lap as she stares at the ceiling, like she’s trying to remember. “You were drunk and you thought you saw your boyfriend’s car. You ran out into the street to check.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Wyatt’s car?”

  Her lips press together, perhaps in annoyance, but her eyes go slightly wide, which makes me think she’s more surprised. “Um. Yes, of course. Wyatt’s car. You thought you saw him and stepped out to check.”

  “What does Wyatt drive?”

  “Hmm?” she says again. “Oh. I don’t, um. I don’t really know.”

  Suspicion claws at the back off my mind. “So you’re telling me my best friend doesn’t know what kind of car my boyfriend of four years drives?”

  Her expression grows confused. “I thought you guys had been together five years?”

  Crap. I was testing her.

  “He lives down here in Santa Barbara,” she explains. “We go to school up in Los Angeles. When he visits and we hang out, we usually take either your car or mine. I don’t know exactly what he drives because he won’t let me see. He’s embarrassed. Says it’s a hooptie.”

  So not only is my boyfriend a huge dork, but he also has a crappy vehicle. What the hell?

  The great thing about me having amnesia is I get a second shot. If I don’t want him in my life, I don’t have to have him. But thinking that makes me feel bad for Old Liv. Like she’s this separate person, someone I have possessed. Old Liv had a cool nickname and friends and drank and diddled around with school majors. New Olivia is blank as of now, except for the small family pieces that edge her big puzzle. I can be anyone I want.

  Truthfully, I feel like a bad houseguest. I don’t want to ruin everything for Old Liv if she comes back. I kind of want to keep things the way she left them, but I don’t know how. Maybe I should leave things better than how I found them. Maybe I should take this opportunity and do things she might want done. Like break up with a dorky boyfriend. Pick a major.

  “So I have a car?”

  She nods.

  “Where is it?”

  “Probably back in L.A. If nothing’s happened to it, it would still be at Ava’s. We all met over there and then she drove.”

  “When I’m allowed out of here, would you take me up there? I want to go through my stuff. Maybe it’ll help get my memory back. Do I have a place or something up there?”

  “Um, sure,” she says, her voice is doubtful. “You did have a place. You were living in Hendrick Hall, but I’m pretty sure you got all of your stuff packed up in your Corolla to come home or whatever, for the summer. But...”

  “What?”

  She bites her lip. “It’s just that...being there...you know, where you got hit...it might be hard for you?” I wonder why she’s phrased it as a question.

  “An emotional shove might be what I need.” The doctor had used the phrase, emotional shove, when he’d explained why it was important for me to return to this house with my family.

  “So what do you want to do today?” She changes the subject so fast, it’s obvious she doesn’t want to talk about going to L.A. I hope she’s just feeling weird about the accident and isn’t hedging my questions.

  I’ll play along. For now. “I don’t know if I’m allowed to do anything. Cora wants me to stay put for a few days.”

  “Hasn’t stopped you before,” Chloe says automatically.

  “What do you mean?”

  She pauses, her face blank. “Um...” I can practically see her brain scrambling, like she’s backpedaling. “I just meant, you know, normal mom and daughter stuff. You were a bit rebellious.”

  “Was I?” Sounds like me, actually. Feels right. “Like what?”

  “Like...going out with boys, staying out late, talking back. Like, typical stuff.”

  “Boys? Like boys other than Wyatt?”

  Again, she looks blank, like a deer in headlights. Her eyes go wide, but she recovers quickly this time. “No, not really. Just Wyatt. But, you know, there were other guys there because I hung out with some sometimes too.”

  I nod, but I get the feeling that she’s lying. “You sure that’s it?”

  “Yeah, pretty much. How are your legs feeling with all that laying down? You don’t really like sitting down for long periods.”

  Her change of subject is jarring. “They hurt actually.” I pull them out from under the covers and move my feet around to stretch them.

  “Hand them over,” she says, waving to her direction. I give her a weird look, but I put a leg in her lap. It’s more than awkward.

  “We used to do this all the time,” she says. So I allow it. For Old Liv.

  My legs are super hairy and I try not to laugh as poor Chloe’s skin is sloughed off, but she insisted. She didn’t complain about the hair, though, mercifully.

  Cora comes in with a breakfast tray while I’m walking around the room a few minutes later. By her expression, you would have thought I was shooting up. “What are you doing?” she shrieks, setting the tray down on Chloe’s lap and rushing over to me. She pulls me by my elbow back to my bed, chastising me like a child.

  “My legs are sore,” I tell her. “I think I’ve lost a lot of my muscle.”

  “You could get dizzy and fall down.” Her voice is stern. “You need to stay in bed for a few more days.”

  “Is that what the doctor recommends?” My voice is sharp and annoyed. I’m twenty years old, for Christ’s sake!

  I detect a bit of a headshake from Chloe. Like, don’t second-guess her.

  Cora gives me a look that could reheat soup. I know this is the defining moment: do I placate her and let her treat me like a baby, or defy her and end up feeling even more awkward around her than I already do? What would Old Liv do?

  My decision surprises me and I slip under the covers. Actually, both Chloe and Cora look surprised that I listened. Apparently Old Liv would have fought with her longer. My legs throb from the little bit of exercise and massage, but it feels better than the numb ache that was there before. “Where’s D-dad?” I ask, nearly saying Dion. I don’t want to hurt them by calling them by their names.

  “He’s in the living room, working on business stuff.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “Christakos Creatives. It’s our small family business. Signs and stuff. Not very interesting.”

  I re
cognize the name Christakos Creatives, but only barely. Like I dreamed it. It takes me a minute to remember that I read it last night on Natalie’s shirt. At least I was able to retain my new memories while I hoped for the old ones to return.

  Cora places the breakfast tray on my lap and it’s cool on my legs from the yogurt and fruit. A small glass of milk and an even smaller mug of coffee stand are on there as well. I add some of the milk to the coffee, guessing this is what Old Liv would have done, and recline on my pillows, staring at the large ornate cross painted on the tray. I noticed several crosses throughout the house when they brought me home—hung on the walls, mostly. More evidence of my Greek Orthodox religion, I guess.

  “Thanks for breakfast,” I say, sipping at the coffee. It’s good. Dark roast and piping hot.

  Chloe’s lips purse, staring at my food.

  “Are you hungry?” I ask. “Would you like some?”

  She shakes her head. “We don’t normally eat breakfast.”

  “We? As in you and me?” She nods. So, Old Liv wasn’t a breakfast person. No Nutella, no breakfast...she doesn’t sound like much fun. I look down at my body as if for the first time: skinny, small, nearly non-existent boobs, long legs. I feel the same way about my body as I did my face the first time I looked at it in the mirror: not good or bad, just shapes.

  “Did I always look like this?” I ask them.

  “Like what, sweetie?” Cora sits on the edge of my bed.

  “Was I always this skinny?”

  Chloe jumps in. “You’ve lost like ten pounds while you were in the hospital,” she says with a flip of her hair. “Lucky.” She eyes my waist.

  Cora’s eyebrows try to jump off her face. “Lucky? That’s not exactly how I would describe someone who’s lost weight due to a severe injury, lack of nutrition, and now probably stress.” She glares down at Chloe. “She’s always been too skinny, anyway, and now that she wants to eat because she’s feeling better you’re going to tell her how lucky she is to have lost weight? What’s wrong with you?”

  Chloe’s mouth falls open. “Yeah, of course. I’m sorry. That was super rude of me.” Her voice is robotic, like she’s had to apologize to Cora many times before.