Things I’ll Never Say

by Ann Angel

  I would never bring Gano here. Obviously, Ingrid has been over. We’ve seen each other through a lot of shitty times. Like when Ingrid’s father died and we spent the wake lying on the cool unfinished cement floor of her basement, allowing the mold to get in our noses, the dust to settle on us, the spiders to weave webs in our hair. We slowed our breath and willed our hearts to beat less.

  I feel stupid even missing my father around Ingrid, because my father is just gone, not dead, like hers.

  But Gano is still amazingly unaware of everything. I want to keep it that way. He thinks I’m normal. I don’t want him to see our apartment: wine-stained carpet, the cracked glass coffee table. Or meet Mom: the waltzing; her wide-open, vacant fish eyes; the way she jitters around the room, never still.

  I don’t want him to know that part of me.

  I just want to be the Imogene he knows: mediocre at trumpet but good in school, fun at parties, great at kissing. That Imogene is bright and happy. That Imogene isn’t silent and shadowed.

  I’m trying to figure out how to turn into her permanently.

  “They’re busy,” I say. Meat Loaf sings “Heaven Can Wait.” A terrible song. Definitely in 4/4 time.

  “I would love to be a teenager again,” Mom says. She trips over one of my feet. “No responsibilities.”

  Responsibilities? Who gets Magda ready for school? Feeds her dinner? Makes sure that our bills are paid? Wakes up in the middle of the night and checks that Mom is still breathing?

  “I’m done waltzing,” I say.

  It’s best to end before she gets to “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” or else she’ll insist that we sing it together. And she makes me do the wailing female part. Then complains that I’m not theatrical enough. And she stomp-waltzes, complete disregard for my feet, in triple time, during the peak of the song.

  My mother smiles and waltzes away, into the kitchen. I sit down on our worn leather couch. I love used furniture. I think that even if someday, for some reason subpar trumpeters make a lot of money, I might still buy secondhand furniture. Bobby must love old couches, too, because even though he has his own apartment, most nights he sleeps here. I think he’s trying to make up for all the time he and Mom didn’t have together. Mom had Bobby when she was fifteen and promptly left him with our grandmother to raise. Even when she met Dad and had me, Bobby only came over on weekends, like a cousin or a friend.

  Mom comes back into the living room with one of her slim plastic bottles. This is where we are at in this whole thing. It’s no longer a game, like tossing bottles off of balconies. It’s just there, just is.

  Mom smiles. She begins to waltz again. Alone.

  I picture Magda sitting in the bottom bunk, tapping her fingers on the bars of the bed frame like it’s a xylophone. I wake up sometimes to her tapping, and I reach over the side of the bed, grasp Magda’s hand, wait until I hear her raspy breaths. Then I go back to sleep.

  I know that someday Magda will realize how screwy we are. For now, I try to absorb it all. Take all Mom’s crazy, all her waltzing, all her unattached sentences.

  I just want to give Magda a chance.

  “Let’s duet ‘Paradise by the Dashboard Light,’” Mom says. “Duets are like waltzes, right?”

  (No. No, they are not.)

  Ingrid says that there’s no way Gano can really love me if he doesn’t know this part of me. She says our backgrounds make us who we are.

  That’s what I’m afraid of.

  Sometimes I think I am like an experimental composition — full of dissonance, phrases that don’t mesh together, mixed rhythms and styles.

  Mom sips and waltzes and addresses half of her increasingly nonsensical comments to me and half to Meat Loaf. I sit patiently and wait. The thing about dances is that they always end. One can only da capo for so long. She’ll be done soon.

  I will accept that in the morning Mom will not remember that we waltzed or that my boyfriend’s name is not Greg or that she’s supposed to take care of us.

  My band director calls what I am about to do “muscle memory.” When you do something enough that you just start to do it without thinking. I will wait until she passes out, and then I will pick her up — she breathes like a fish when she is passed out, big gape-mouthed gulps — and put her into her bed.

  Routine.

  I will make sure Magda has brushed her teeth. Tuck her into bed. Then I will go out to the party. Make my voice hushed as I tell Gano that I sneaked out of the house. Pretend to be nervous. Pretend that someone cares if I am gone or not. Kiss and kiss and kiss. Be the Imogene I like to be.

  And then I will come home, and I will make sure that my mother is not dead, and I will make sure that the front door is locked and the stove is off, and I will make sure that Magda is still sleeping, unaware, and then I will go to bed, and in the morning I will stretch my muscles, erase my memory.

  Start again.

  Just about the time the sun drops behind the trees, me and the guys show up in Rick’s backyard. His parents only pretend to be keeping an eye on us while we take over the fire pit. “Over here, Luke,” Rick says, and I join him on a log that serves as one of the benches around the fire pit. I stow my backpack behind the bench and pretend, along with all the other guys, that we’re not watching the road for our girlfriends. But I’m watching for Sarah. And scoping out a private space in the tall grass that slopes down to the creek. It’s the perfect place to be together. As in together together.

  Me and the guys sit around the fire, cracking stupid jokes about one another while our girls slowly filter in and join us. Our stash stays behind the benches until dark, when we pull out the warm beer and water bottles filled with vodka. Vodka is our drink of choice because everyone knows parents can’t smell it, even though my mom grounded me for a week in June because she swore she could.

  But I’m not here for the vodka or the chance to rank on the guys. I’m just passing time until Sarah and I can be alone.

  Rick starts bouncing a soccer ball on his knee, and we all count to see how long he can balance it. Tomorrow at dawn, we’ll all be standing on the school soccer field doing the same. By noon tomorrow, we’ll each know if we’re playing this season or sitting it out.

  I’m hoping to be a starter. But I let soccer practice go this summer. I let it go for Sarah. And missed even more practices when I was balancing between Wendy and Sarah. But no one knows about that.

  I poke the fire with a stick and wait to recognize her car’s headlights. There’s serious heat between me and Sarah. It’s been hot ever since we connected last May at this very fire pit.

  The minute I spot her car lights pulling up, I swear the heat creeping around my ribs goes red. Her car door slams and her voice reaches me, making that hot spot spread out. It sounds like she’s talking to Rick’s girlfriend as they wander into the backyard. Without actually making it look like it’s the plan, each girl finds her guy. Their moves prove familiar after an entire summer of Friday nights.

  Sarah wanders toward the fire pit and toward me. Man, she’s amazing in every way. And she’s mine.

  She’s got this great smile flashed on me. It makes the sweet burn of wanting to be with her all the stronger. Worries about tomorrow’s soccer disappear. When she sees me, that high-beam smile blurs the reality that this is our last Friday before school starts. I love my Sarah.

  As Sarah slides a leg over the wood bench and leans into me, I reach to her thigh and rub the inside of it with my thumb, pulling her closer.

  Someone pops open a beer. Sarah slides a bit away and reaches behind our bench to pull a water bottle from my backpack. But she doesn’t open it; she rolls it between her palms. Then she leans so close I can smell the lemon in her hair. “Can we go somewhere alone? So we can talk?”

  She’s up before I can answer, heading toward the tall grass near the creek.

  I stand up and follow her, anticipating how one thing will lead to another like it always does. Her hips sway as she walks, and I feel the go
od feel of knowing what’s coming. I try not to trip on my own feet as I make my way over the uneven grass.

  Only Sarah stops just short of our favorite place near the creek.

  I catch up and put a hand on her shoulder to turn her toward me. I lean in, expecting to kiss her, full up with wanting her, like always. I am anticipating the way her mouth will taste. I’ll hold her close and move my hand to her breast, which is just the right size, just big enough to fit inside my hand. I love that about her, the way we fit together like that. So much better than with Wendy, who was shorter and rounder — but in a cute way, not beautiful like Sarah.

  Just as my mouth is about to connect, Sarah shoves me, and she falls to her knees. She’s kneeling in the tall grass, looking up at me, her cheeks and collarbone lit white by moonlight.

  I’m standing there not sure what just happened. Did she just trip on the ground? I ask, “Are you okay?”

  Her eyes are intense. So intense. Maybe scared.

  I kneel next to her and wrap my arms around her to make her feel safe. I brush hair from her face, and I see tears just waiting at her bottom eyelids to spill over. So I pull her down on top of me, and we’re hidden in the grass. I let my hands roam over her back and down her arms. “What’s the matter, baby?”

  Sarah arches her back away from me and her knees come up on either side of my ribs. “You gave me something,” she says. Tears tip over her bottom lids.

  I hate when she cries.

  She pushes away and sits up so that she’s straddling me, then grabs hold of my arms — in a surprisingly painful grip, like she wants it to hurt — as she tells me, “You did this to me.”

  She raises a hand. I’m thinking that hand looks like a white torch in the moonlight, and so it takes a second for me to notice the swift downward movement. She slaps my cheek. She raises the other hand and slaps me again. She’s crying and slapping, and crying some more. “You ass,” she cries. “You ass!”

  “What?” I ask. “What are you doing?”

  Slap. One cheek, then the other. Slap. And I’m still not sure what she’s talking about. “What?” I ask. I try to stop her arms, saying, “Come on, Sarah. It’s okay. It’s okay.” I figure this is something bad. But it’s something we can fix. Oh, God! I hope she isn’t pregnant.

  I’m lying there on my back and trying to hold her wrists to stop her slapping me. “What are you talking about?”

  She hisses the words. “I have herpes.”

  The air feels suddenly damp and cold. The wet grass is soaking my back. I drop her hands.

  She fills in details I don’t want to hear. She’s in pain. I gave her blisters. She slaps me again. She tells me in a voice filled with quiet rage, “I hate myself.” She wipes her eyes against the back of her arm. “I hate that I still love you.” Then she tells me, “I’ll find a way to hate you.” She stands over me and cries, “How could you? How could you tell me you love me and then do this?”

  I get up on my knees. But everything is quiet. So quiet because Sarah is already walking away.

  She doesn’t go back to the fire pit. Instead she makes a straight line for her car. I’m wondering how she can be serious. I never had blisters. Not even a rash. I watch her headlights as her car makes a U-turn and she leaves. She leaves me kneeling in that long, wet grass. How could she have herpes if I never had a sign? And I keep wondering if I heard her right. Did she really say what I think she said?

  We’re three weeks into school when my mom starts asking about Sarah. She’s gone, I want to say. Just gone. Rick tells me that Sarah goes the long way around school to avoid passing my locker. He always asks, “Man, what did you do to make that girl wish you were so invisible?”

  But there are some things I just cannot say, so I tell my mom Sarah’s busy with the girls’ soccer team. “I’m working to keep starting rank myself,” I add.

  My mom asks if we broke up.

  I could tell her, We broke up even though I really love Sarah. But the problem is I loved too many girls. But how does a guy tell his mom he cheated on the girl he was going out with?

  My mom won’t let up today. “It isn’t just that Sarah’s not around anymore. Except for soccer practice, I don’t see you hanging out with anyone lately.”

  I wonder what she would say if I told her the truth. I’m not hanging out with anybody anymore. Because I’m a dirty kind of guy.

  I wonder how the truth would change the way my mom loves her boy.

  Instead I say, “Don’t worry, Ma. I’m just focusing on important stuff. Like soccer. And Calculus. Calculus is wicked hard.”

  Somehow my mom thinks it’s her job to ask me about friends every single day. Seriously. I finally say to her, “You’re obsessing, Ma. You have to let it go. You have to just stop.”

  My mom is not someone to let it go, though.

  We’re into October. I’m passing Calculus but sat out the last soccer game because Coach said my head wasn’t in it. And my mom’s asking about girls again. She’s hoping I’m over Sarah and moving on. She’s asking if there’s anybody I like. Like like, she means.

  All I want is breakfast. I drop bread in the toaster and slam down the little bar on the side that always tries to pop back up.

  “Yeah, Ma, there are lots of girls I like,” I say. “Lots.” Only not that way. Not anymore. But I can’t say that. I can’t tell my ma how I used to love girls, couldn’t get enough of how soft they are. So I screwed around a bit — well, a lot — with Sarah.

  But I think all girls are bitches. No, that’s not true. Not Sarah. Sarah is definitely not a bitch. She’s not. She just hates me now.

  “Really, Luke.” My mom studies my face, like what’s going on with me is written right there for the world to see. “Your friends are all dating. I just see you missing out on things like dances, is all.”

  I work at making my forehead go smooth and my eyes go wide, erasing anything like emotion. “Dances?” I repeat. “Dances are lame.”

  “It’s social,” she says. “You used to be social.”

  The toast pops up, saving me from looking at her. It’s a little too dark, smoking on the edges. I grab a knife and slather a hunk of butter on the burnt toast. “So now I’m not social? I’m just sick of things.”

  “Oh, Luke. You spend way too much time alone lately.” She taps the lip of her coffee cup with her finger. That’s a sign she’s trying to figure out how to say something that will probably tick me off. “It might pull you out of this blue funk if you did something social.” Her tapping finger slows. She’s getting to the point. “Homecoming is a week away.”

  She taps.

  “Mrs. McKay says Wendy is still hoping to be asked. You two used to be such good friends, and it’s been hard for Wendy since her dad left.” She taps again.

  I know what’s coming. I drop the knife in the sink.

  “It would be nice for you to ask her. You’ve hung out with her. . . .”

  “You want me to ask Wendy McKay to Homecoming?” I’m holding the toast, grateful that I haven’t bit into it yet. “I don’t think so.”

  She gets the teasing-mom look now. “You two used to be cute trick-or-treating together.”

  “We were little kids. We loved the candy.”

  If I told her the truth, would that end this? How do I tell my mom I cheated when I slept with her best friend’s daughter? Then I might even have to tell her how much of a mistake Wendy was.

  She cups her coffee mug between two hands. “Come on, Luke,” she says. “I’m worried about you.”

  “Don’t be. Please, Ma, just don’t be worried.” I reach over and give her shoulder one of those reassuring squeezes my dad’s so good at. I must not be as good at them, though, because as I ease around the kitchen, I catch her frown.

  I picture giving my mom the whole ugly truth. Wendy gave me herpes, I would say. And I passed it on.

  I can hazard a guess that my mom might be spitting out her coffee at that part. After all, I am her boy, and she has rais
ed me to be a good one. I don’t even think she would expect me to be hooking up.

  Behind me, my mom waits for something more. She’s doing that thing where she hopes I’ll open up so she can help.

  If I was going to tell my mom the truth, I’d have to say, Are you getting all this, Ma? Because this is important. Sarah got the worst of it. I picture telling my mom, I’m the cheater who spread this shit to his girlfriend.

  And now that I know this about myself, I’ll probably never have another girlfriend. Ever.

  I shove the toast in my mouth and chew, almost gagging on the taste and the memory of Sarah telling me she had blisters, thanks to me. No. This is not a recollection to share with my mother. I drop the toast on the counter.

  “I love you, Ma.” I grab my keys and backpack and open the door. I step outside and tell her just before the door is blown shut by the wind, “But I just can’t take Wendy to Homecoming.”

  I jangle my keys as I head for my bike, and I look at the sky to see black clouds scudding past. This probably isn’t a great day to drive the bike, but I’m not gonna ask my mom for a ride.

  Movement across the street catches my eye. Well, speak of the devil. The very girl who ruined everything is in her driveway. Wendy and her mother are getting in the family sedan. Wendy does one of those girlie finger waves and calls out, “Hey, Luke. Do you maybe want a ride today?”

  I pretend I don’t hear. Grab my helmet, jump on my bike, and start it up. I screech out of the driveway in second gear, thinking, There’s no way in hell I’d go anywhere with that girl.

  It’s cold and damp the night before Homecoming. If I stay at home instead of going to the bonfire at school, I’ll probably spend another night searching the Internet for signs and symptoms. Can I be a carrier without ever having a sore?

  Apparently.

  How many times can I clear my search history before I make a mistake and leave a clue? Maybe I should go to a doctor and have it checked out. Maybe not.

  I clear my history and head out.

  The night-before-Homecoming bonfire in the field next to the football field is intended to get us all jazzed up for tomorrow’s big game and dance. I don’t have a date. But no problem, there are always a couple of us guys who show up at the bonfire without dates. This year one of them is Rick. His girlfriend just broke up with him to take a football player to the dance. So Rick and I and two other guys on the soccer team all go to the bonfire together to watch everyone get crazy.