Imagine Us Happy

by Jennifer Yu

  “Why don’t you just text him?” Lin asks at lunch on Wednesday. The food is miserable today, and it’s so cold and windy that it’s no longer enjoyable to sit in the courtyard. Some of the athletes are still outside, but then again, they probably have a winter coat’s worth of insulation permanently wrapped around their bodies in the form of muscle, so there’s that.

  “I can’t text him,” I say. “I don’t have his number.”

  Katie stares at me in disbelief. “After all this,” she says. “After all of that flirting and ditching school together and—and you still don’t have each other’s numbers?”

  Katie slumps in her seat. It seems that my romantic incompetence has really done her in this time around. Even the purple of her hair seems to fade a little bit in despair.

  “You don’t have to tell me that I’m pathetic, Katie. I already know.”

  Lin puts her copy of The Moon Is Down on the table and looks at me sympathetically. Then she says: “You know, the word pathetic derives from the Greek pathos, which means ‘suffering’ or, more broadly, ‘emotion.’ I guess most experiences involved suffering in those days. Anyway, my point is that if you break it down to the roots, the word pathetic just means ‘full of feeling.’ ‘Evocative,’ oftentimes in a sad or melodramatic way. ‘Emotionally rich.’ It’s not a bad thing.”

  “Thanks, Lin.”

  “That wasn’t helpful, was it?”

  “No, it was totally helpful. I mean, not with Kevin, really, but if I work it into the English paper I have due tomorrow, Mrs. Trout might be impressed enough to give me an A.”

  * * *

  Kevin hightails it out of philosophy so quickly on Thursday that I’ve barely even had time to gather my notebook and pencil before I’m watching the back of his head disappear out the door. On Friday, I arrive at the library for study hall to find Yago sitting in a corner desk and Kevin nowhere to be found.

  Enough is enough, I think, and I do the only thing I can think of. I march up to Yago, pull out the seat next to his and stare expectantly at him until he looks at me.

  Yago is doing homework for AP Physics, which is an oddly incongruous picture. I can’t even imagine Yago doing homework for a regular class, much less trying to learn—it takes me a minute to read his paper upside down—how to calculate the magnetic field of an infinitely long wire with a current of 9.5 amperes running through it. Lin mentioned that he was in AP Lit with her, but writing ten-page papers about how a bright green light in the distance is actually a symbol for the American dream while high is one thing, and doing equations that involve more letters than numbers while high is a whole other thing entirely.

  “Hey, Stella,” Yago says uncertainly.

  “Hey,” I say. “How’s—”

  I wave at his paper, because why make awkward small talk with words when you could instead make awkward small talk with vague hand motions?

  “It’s fine,” he says. He flips his paper over like he doesn’t want me to see it, which is weird. I’m not even taking AP Physics this year.

  “Listen, do you know what’s up with Kevin?” I ask.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” he says, and swallows so hard that his Adam’s apple dips.

  “You are a terrible liar, Yago,” I say.

  “I think he’s been stressed about homework,” Yago tries.

  “Yago,” I say, exasperated. “We’ve had a dozen study halls together and I’ve never seen Kevin so much as pick up a pen for a class other than Mulland’s. Will you tell me what’s really going on?”

  Yago buries his head in his hands and mumbles something that sounds like, “Knew I never should’ve gotten involved in this crap.”

  “Hmm?” I say.

  He lifts his head out of his hands. “I said, ‘I knew I never should have gotten involved in this crap.’”

  “So what’s going on?” I say. “Is it his parents? Are they upset with him ditching the homecoming rally?”

  “Huh?” Yago says. “No, that’s—Kevin’s mom isn’t like that. She doesn’t care about that stuff.”

  “So what is it, then? I thought there was a chance that he liked me, but then he just—”

  “He does like you,” Yago says, as if it’s obvious.

  “But then, if it’s not his parents, then why—”

  “Look, Stella,” Yago says. “He likes you. God help me for telling you this, but I think he actually likes you a lot. Kevin just has some—some extenuating circumstances going on right now, I guess,” Yago says.

  “Extenuating circumstances,” I repeat flatly.

  “Yeah, those,” Yago says.

  “Extenuating circumstances,” I say again.

  “He probably just needs some time to come around.”

  “How much time is ‘some time’?” I ask. “I’m not just going to wait around for Kevin to pull his head out of his ass because some ‘extenuating circumstances’ prevent him from talking to me.”

  “And that’s totally fair,” Yago says. “I’ve told him that he’s being an idiot.”

  “You told him that he’s being an idiot?”

  “Yes,” Yago says, sounding more and more exasperated. “Because he is being an idiot. But he won’t listen to me. He’s consulting Nietzsche instead.”

  I try to come to terms with the fact that this is my life now: pining over a guy who consults Nietzsche for relationship advice.

  “I really need to do this homework now, Stella,” Yago says. “I have band practice after school today.”

  I look at Yago—the pleading expression on his face, the constellation of acne across his cheeks—and sigh. “All right. Thanks, though. For...you know. Talking to me about this.”

  “Sure,” Yago says. He smiles.

  Yago is a nice guy. It’s too bad about his asshole friend.

  “And could you just—” I start.

  “I won’t tell Kevin we talked,” Yago promises.

  His head is already back in his worksheet.

  19.

  In the coming months, I’ll often think back to the two weeks between the afternoon Kevin and I spend at Prospect Park and the night things finally come together. I’ll think of how ironic it is, the way I was just starting to forget about him and put those endless daydreams of miraculous get-togethers and movie-scene proclamations of love out of my head when, all of a sudden, there he is in front of me again, standing outside underneath the night sky with a knowing smile and a half-finished PBR in his hand, wearing a black T-shirt and a pair of ripped jeans.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself. Because the chain of events that gets Kevin and me together that night goes back, way back, so much so that it almost does seem like some mischievous cosmic force must have been tugging at strings all along. Where this story really starts is with Ashley Kurtzmann’s party in September. It starts with Brian Patterson, captain of the Bridgemont football team, getting way too drunk and deciding it would be fucking hilarious to replace all of the water in Ashley’s parents’ fish tank with beer from the keg. Needless to say, Mr. and Mrs. Kurtzmann aren’t too thrilled when they come home and find a) their fish tank full of beer, and b) all of their fish dead. They ground Ashley for the rest of the calendar year, which is devastating for Ashley, because now she can’t leave her house after 6:00 p.m., and also devastating for the rest of Bridgemont, because now the annual Halloween party is off and everyone has to find somewhere else to blow off all their repressed sexual frustration. That is, until Katie—the softhearted, purple-haired angel that she is—begs and pleads until her parents finally cave and agree to let her have the party at her house. Lin has finally submitted her Brown application, which means that she has no excuse for not going, which means that I have no excuse for not going. And that’s how I end up at Katie’s house on the night of Friday, October 28, wearing head-to-toe black and a ski mask.

&nb
sp; “What are you, a robber?” Katie says, wrinkling her nose as she opens the door to let me in.

  “I was going for ninja,” I say, voice muffled by the mask. “But close enough.”

  Katie is in a gold-and-black number with flashy geometric cutouts, piles of costume necklaces and a Cleopatra wig. Behind her, the party has already started. Bobby and his friends are standing around with beers, someone has plugged their phone into the speakers and is blasting the latest pop hit, a few girls mill around in heels that I could never walk in. I note the costumes as I walk to the kitchen to get myself a drink: Becca, in a black leotard and Catwoman mask; Victoria Lee, a pirate in a bustier and very little else; Chrissy, a cowgirl in plaid and denim. And then men: Jesse, a shirtless firefighter; Casey, a shirtless Aladdin; Bobby L., a shirtless Indiana Jones. And, of course, Jeremy and Jennie, looking like they belong on a Hollywood movie set instead of a high school house party, as Marilyn Monroe and James Dean.

  “What’d you tell your parents?” Katie asks.

  “Oh, I just said I was sleeping over for the night,” I say.

  “What?” Katie says. She frowns, and pulls the ski mask down so that it’s around my neck instead of covering my mouth. “Points for effort, but I can barely hear anything you’re saying. Try again.”

  “I told them I’m sleeping over,” I repeat. “They’re in the middle of fighting over who should be responsible for driving me to cross-country meets on Saturday, so I don’t think they’ll even notice I’m gone.”

  Katie makes a sympathetic face, but before she can comment, Lin comes up behind us and throws one arm over each of our shoulders. “Looks like your dream of having your house taken over by a bunch of intoxicated buffoons might finally come true,” she says to Katie.

  I hand her a beer. “And here’s to your dream,” I say, cracking one open for myself, “of submitting the perfect college application essay. How’s it feel to be done?”

  “Feels good,” Lin says. She pauses, takes a sip of beer. “Actually, it’s pretty freaking stressful. Nothing to do now but wait, you know what I mean?”

  “Lin, if Brown doesn’t let you in, I will personally spearhead a boycott and convince everyone else at Bridgemont not to apply there out of protest. That’s how ridiculous it would be.”

  “What would I do without you?” Lin says drily.

  Lin is wearing a billowing forest-green dress with lacy sleeves and puffy shoulders. Her hair is in some kind of complex French-braid combination that looks like it must have taken hours. I’m pretty sure she’s dressed as a character from a Jane Austen novel, but I haven’t read any of them other than Pride and Prejudice from our freshman year summer reading list, and I’m afraid that if I ask which one, she’ll launch into an impassioned ten-minute speech about Victorian society, marriage and feminism. I say this because two years ago on Halloween, Lin dressed as a character from a Shakespeare play, and when I asked which one, she launched into an impassioned ten-minute speech about Elizabethan society, marriage and feminism. Since then I’ve learned not to ask.

  I can’t believe I’m saying this, but Katie’s party is actually pretty fun. People rotate in and out of the house all night, but I spend most of the first two hours hanging out with Katie, Bobby, Jeremy, Adrian, Jennie and Victoria. Although a more accurate assessment is that I hang out with Katie, and Katie hangs out with Bobby, Jeremy, Adrian, Jennie and Victoria, none of whom have the heart to reject the host’s ugly duckling best friend. I don’t say very much, because the conversation revolves around the latest hit television show (which I don’t watch) and the big play that won us last week’s football game (which I didn’t go to) and whether or not Ashley and her boyfriend, Taylor, are really done for good this time (which I don’t care about in the slightest). But it’s interesting, watching Katie blend seamlessly into the conversation, so comfortable that it almost seems like she’s always been a part of that social scene. The conversation takes a sharp turn sometime around eleven, when everyone—myself included—is three or four drinks in and really starting to feel it.

  “This guy,” Bobby says, slapping Jeremy in the chest, “is a beast. You guys know that? He’s the one making our quarterback over here look good.”

  “It’s ’cause I have a great team around me,” Jeremy says. But you can tell he’s pleased with himself.

  “But I gotta tell you, his real talent,” Bobby continues, “lies off the field. Lay? Lays? Fuck that word.”

  Bobby picks up a can of beer and hands it to Jeremy.

  “Oh, God,” Jennie says. “Do we have to do this every party?”

  There’s a crowd forming around us now, which is disorienting. I mean, I’m usually the one standing in the corner of the room as the crowd forms, staring judgmentally at all of the football devotees who have nothing better to do than throw themselves at guys like Bobby and Jeremy just because they look good without a shirt on and can throw and catch a ball. Now I’m standing in the middle of it all, so close that I can almost feel the excessive testosterone radiating from their bodies.

  Bobby pulls out his phone. “Personal best is 4.7 seconds,” he says.

  “You know I’m gonna crush that shit,” Jeremy says, grinning. He pulls out his keys and lifts the beer can to his mouth horizontally. You can tell that he really feels at home here, half-naked in front of the crowd, which is so ridiculous that it’s almost admirable.

  “One...two...three,” Bobby says, and on three, Jeremy sticks a key into the beer can and chugs it in one, smooth motion. The people around us actually cheer while this happens.

  Jeremy turns to me and Katie, grinning, like the entire exercise was for our benefit.

  “Wow,” Katie says. “I mean—wow.”

  I nod vigorously. “You are ready for college, J. Did I just call you J?”

  Jennie, standing next to me, laughs. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here—have you seen his calc grade?”

  “Aw, babe,” Jeremy says. “Don’t throw me under the bus like that.” But he’s got this goofy, boyish smile on his face, and he slides his arm around her shoulders as he talks. It is remarkably cute. And remarkably revolting.

  “I’m gonna catch you later,” I tell Katie. She and Bobby have split off into their own conversation, and Katie keeps playing with her necklaces and giving him that look from underneath her eyelashes, which means that it’s only a matter of time until they’re making out. I figure I should do what any good friend would do in this situation, which is to get the fuck out of there.

  “Cool,” Katie says. She says the word without taking her eyes off Bobby, and in a tone of voice that sounds way more like “take me now” than “cool.”

  “Text me if you need anything,” I say. “Like another beer. Or a condom.”

  Then I fight my way through the crowd before Katie can hit me.

  I run into Lin in the hallway back to the kitchen. “Stella!” she practically shouts. “Where have you been?”

  “I’ve been with Katie and Jeremy and that whole crowd,” I say. And then, upon seeing the look on her face: “It’s a long story. Jeremy shotgunned a beer and then Jennie acknowledged my existence via conversation. It was bizarre. Where have you been?”

  “No time for that now,” Lin says. “Listen. Kevin is upstairs.”

  The first thing that happens is that my stomach drops, so immediate and forceful that I have to take a couple of deep breaths before I can talk again.

  The second thing that happens is that I get really freaking annoyed. I’ve spent the better part of three weeks trying to get over this guy, refusing to look at him during philosophy class, generally ignoring his existence, pushing him out of my brain every time his stupid blue eyes show up in a daydream. And all it takes is one mention of his name and now here I am, caught up in that feeling that’s at once sickening and giddy and terrifying and desperate. There’s something profoundly unfair about that
.

  “What?” I say.

  “Kevin is upstairs.”

  “No, I heard you. But...what?”

  “They’re on the balcony. Him and Yago, I mean. I don’t know, Stella,” Lin says. “Katie did send the Facebook invitation out to the entire senior class. But still, I wasn’t expecting him to actually show up. Like, whose house does he think this is? You’re Katie’s best friend. He should leave. I should—I should go tell him that he needs to leave.”

  Lin narrows her eyes and sets her jaw. It’s the same face she had the entire two weeks leading up to her SAT date.

  “No,” I say, grabbing her arm before she can go upstairs and a) cause a huge scene, b) maim Kevin, or c) both of the above. I drag her into the kitchen. “I can handle this.”

  “Can you?” Lin says.

  All the beer’s gone, but there is a bowl of punch sitting on the counter. It’s green, slushy and surrounded by bottles of liquor.

  I ladle myself a cup.

  “Trust me. I can handle this.”

  “Stella,” Lin says. “Stella, listen. I know you think—Jesus, are you trying to drink all of that at once? Oh my God, Stella!”

  Lin pulls my arm down and looks in the now-half-finished cup. “I don’t really see how aggressive inebriation is going to help you here.”

  “Liquid courage,” I say. And then I finish the rest of the cup.

  “How much have you had?” Lin says.

  I think back: the first beer, right when I arrived two hours ago. Another, halfway through the conversation with Jeremy and Bobby. And one right before Jeremy shotgunned the beer.

  “Just, like, a couple,” I say to Lin.

  “A couple,” she repeats.

  “One or two,” I say.

  I turn around to make my way up the stairs.

  “Wait, Stella, listen,” Lin says. She runs so that she’s standing in front of me and grabs my hands like she’s about to give me the most important pep talk of my life.