by Nina LaCour
I close my eyes.
Violet.
“Hold on,” I say. “I just need to get my phone.”
I take my time walking down the hallway. You graduate in nine days. You graduate in nine days. I’m getting light-headed; my hands are trembling.
I unzip my backpack and sit down on Mark’s carpeted floor.
A text from Lehna: Is this some kind of publicity stunt? Because you are nowhere close to being famous enough to pull that off.
I type back: I need Violet’s number.
A moment later, my phone buzzes: Unbelievable.
I wait to see if a number will follow, but it doesn’t.
I don’t know what I’ll tell Mark when I get back to the living room. I could tell him the truth, I guess: that I worked hard on my paintings and sent in my portfolio. That I did so knowing that I wouldn’t get in, because the art program is competitive and my work wouldn’t stand out among the thousands of other applicants. But then I got the letter in the mail saying congratulations, and my parents cheered and my grandparents took us all out to dinner, and not a single time did anyone ask if this was what I really wanted.
Or I could give him the stock answer I’ve thought up for extended family members and friends of my parents: that I’ve heard the professors are amazing, that I’m looking forward to the beach and the sun and meeting new people.
Mark would see through that story. He would see through to me.
And the truth? The truth is that I don’t think I deserve any of it.
Just as I reach the end of the hall, the front door opens and Mark’s parents walk in, and I’m rescued by introductions and small talk about how Saturday night turned out. Then I hug Mark goodbye, hold him tightly around his neck. I want to tell him that I don’t want to leave him. I want to know what he’s going to do now. I want to hear about Ryan, and what exactly he said, and if there is still any chance of something between them.
But I really don’t want to talk about me and how afraid I am.
I let go and I look him hard in the eyes. I don’t know how much, if anything, his parents know about last night and I don’t want to spill his secrets. So instead, since there is no chance of misinterpretation by anyone involved, I grab his face and I kiss him on the cheek.
“Mr. and Mrs. Rissi,” I say. “I really love your son.”
His parents beam, and Mark shakes his head, and I walk to my car.
When I get to my driveway I’m surprised to find the house dark, until I realize my parents are probably on their way to the city to catch the end of the reception after their days at work. I’ll need to let them know I won’t be there.
I turn to find my phone lit up with a text.
A single, short sentence from a number not in my contacts. I reach for it, bring it closer.
Make it up to me.
13
MARK
I don’t want her to go.
There are about twenty minutes total while we’re watching Gilbert Grape that I actually forget what’s happening to me. Ryan has stepped out of the room and it’s just me and Katie and the movie. My mind can relax. My body is comfortable. I am not a wreck.
But the movie ends and my parents come home and even though I don’t want her to leave, Katie jumps away like she’s finished babysitting and, no, she doesn’t need my dad to drive her home. She kisses me on the cheek, tells my mom how great I am, and breezes away. I should be mad, maybe, but really I can’t blame her. If I can’t stand my own presence, how can I expect anyone else to? I’m grateful for the short forgetfulness she gifted me with I’m grateful that there was one person left in the world who knew I had to step out of it for a while.
Now here I am with my parents, and even though we’re in our den and I’m back on the couch, it’s like I’m stuck in the backseat on a long, long car ride, with my mom constantly scrutinizing me in the rearview mirror. I know I’m a mess. I know she notices. She notices everything. Especially messes.
But with my father here, she won’t ask if anything is wrong. Because he’ll tell her to butt out. His rough way of sticking up for me.
“I’m tired,” I say, gathering myself together and making for the stairs.
“It’s not late,” my mother points out.
It is for me, I think.
I hope Katie’s going to her opening. It was sweet of her to placate me instead of forcing me to go with her. I hope I haven’t made her miss it.
I feel like a horrible friend for keeping her for so long, and for wishing she’d come back.
I dig my phone out from the bottom of my hamper, almost nostalgic for the person who wore the dirty clothes I’m throwing aside. I’m only getting the phone so I can wish her good luck.
But before I can do that, there’s another text I have to see.
Are you okay?
How dare he ask me that. How dare he make it that easy. How dare he only ask it once.
I swore I wouldn’t check my phone, and now that I’ve broken that vow it’s like the other ones are null and void. Like any addict, I’ve built my floodgates out of tissue paper. In one strong rush, I am opening my laptop and checking every site or app where Ryan could have posted anything—I want to see how his night was, how his day was, how the story has gone on without me. I am Tom Fucking Sawyer (or is it Huckleberry Fucking Finn?) attending his own funeral, but I’m only fixated on the reaction of a single mourner. Except the mourner hasn’t bothered to show up, because as I’m looking in window after window, there’s not a word from him to be found, no image, no afterlife to be glimpsed. All I get on Facebook is that he’s attending Katie’s opening. It doesn’t say whether or not he’s plussed one.
I click on his list of friends. I type Taylor into the search box. Five people pop up. Two are girls named Taylor. Two are guys whose last names are Taylor. And one is the antichrist.
I know that’s not fair. But it’s not fair to see how pretty he looks in his profile picture, wearing a pink tank top in front of the Golden Gate Bridge, sunglasses tucked in the pocket over his heart, tattoos spelling out sentences that I don’t dare zoom in to read. It’s not fair to click on his profile and find that he plays water polo and has had poetry published in some Bay Area alternative weekly. It’s not fair to see a post from 11:13 last night with a photo of Taylor with his tattooed arm around Ryan, sitting on a lime-green couch with two other guys, a feast spread out on a coffee table in front of them.
I wonder what time Ryan got home last night. If he got home.
Are you okay? No, I am not okay.
I am back on Ryan’s page. There are no photos of Taylor in his timeline, but there are plenty of photos of us. Nothing remotely romantic to the outside eye. But I am seeing them with my inside eye, the one that knows that after the shirtless shot on the beach we went into the woods and kissed against a tree. The project we did on Krakatoa needed to be done in one night because we spent two weeks causing our own explosions instead of working on it. The snapshot of the two of us with our friends Lisa and Aimee after we watched Frozen—I know it looks like I’m leaning into him so I can be in the shot, but really I was leaning on him so I could put my arm around his waist, so I could hold him and feel my head angle into his. My inside eye sees the tenderness. My inside eye has been seeing these things all along.
My crying is so stupid. How does it actually help?
I should have told Katie more. Or maybe I should have thought about how this was a big night for her before I pulled her into the black hole my life has become. Only she didn’t treat her big night like it was a big night. I don’t know. My inside eye can’t see beyond me and Ryan.
Which is also so stupid.
Are you okay?
Why is my phone back in my hand?
Why am I typing NO in capital letters?
Why am I hitting send?
This voice in my head says, Get your shit together, boy. But I’m confused. I don’t recognize the voice. It’s not Ryan. It’s not me. It’s like this milita
ry version of me. This serious guy with a deep voice. Why is he in my head? Does my mind honestly think I’ll stop falling apart if it sounds like a drill sergeant?
I check my phone. Ryan hasn’t replied.
It’s been seven seconds.
I think about texting Katie and apologizing for taking up her time. Or thanking her for coming over. Or begging her to come back.
My mother’s voice is somewhere in the air. It’s calling me to dinner.
This is all my fault. For going into the city. For speaking up. For not leaving it alone. For forcing him.
I knew I would lose him if I said something.
I said something.
I lost him.
How can I blame him for that?
That knocking noise isn’t in my head. It’s my father at the door.
“You coming, kiddo?”
Ryan loved that my dad called me this. He would say, “If my dad called me kiddo, maybe I could tell him the truth.”
He didn’t mean about us. He meant about him. Which was tied to us.
I realize I haven’t answered. My dad is waiting for an answer.
“I don’t know,” I tell him.
“You don’t know if you’re coming to dinner? Since your mother made it, I think a better answer would be ‘yes.’”
That would have also been the better answer to Are you okay?
I check my phone.
“Mark.” My father is getting impatient.
“I’m sorry,” I say. I have no idea if I’m talking out loud or just saying it in my head.
What are you doing, Mark?
Okay, that one was definitely in my head.
You’re acting like he’s dumped you.
He hasn’t dumped you.
In order to break up, you have to be together first.
“But we were together,” I say. Out loud.
Luckily, my dad has already left the room.
I know I have to eat, and I know that my parents want me at dinner, and all of these obligations propel me to the kitchen, where my parents are already eating salad.
Ryan always thought it was funny that my parents started every meal with a salad. His parents weren’t into vegetables.
I have no idea why I am thinking of them in past tense.
He is not dead.
He hasn’t gone anywhere.
He even texted me to ask if I was okay.
(I check again. The phone will not leave my hand.)
“I hope Katie knows she could have stayed for dinner,” my mother is saying. “I didn’t get to talk to her much—but I like her.”
“She had an opening to go to,” I mumble defensively. I sound like she’s accused me of chasing Katie away.
“Whose opening?” my father asks.
“Her own. At AntlerThorn.”
My mother puts down her fork, even though there’s still some lettuce speared on its tines. “What?”
“Her artwork is on display at this gallery. Tonight’s the opening.”
“Why aren’t you there with her?”
Because I’m a shitty friend, Mom. And, incidentally, not worth dating.
“I don’t know,” I say.
She’s standing up. Why is my mother standing up?
“Let’s go,” she tells me.
I don’t understand what’s happening.
My mother is looking up the address on her phone.
“I know where it is,” I say.
And like that, it’s settled.
* * *
As if he’s some big gay bloodhound, Brad sniffs me out before I get through the door.
“Oh, thank God!” he cries, rushing over. “Audra was sharpening the pike for my head! And that’s not the kind of head I like to give, ha-ha! Let me tell you, there’s a fine line between fashionably late and fashionably deceased. And you do not cross that line with Audra. No, sir. But now that you’re here, let me show you—”
Brad cuts himself off, because he’s looked over my shoulder and found my mother, not Katie.
“Where is she?” he asks. “Please tell me she’s parking the car.”
“Who is this?” my mother asks. “Is he a friend of yours?”
The way she says friend, it’s clear she means special friend. Like, boyfriend.
“It’s so nice to meet you,” she says, offering her hand to Brad. He checks out what she’s wearing and approves.
“She’s not parking the car,” I murmur. Then I push into the gallery before Brad can throw more of a fit.
The space is barely recognizable from yesterday, because now it’s packed with people. There are some faces from school, but mostly it’s adults. Serious adults. Wearing serious jewelry. Having very serious conversations about Art. Or, at least, gossiping and making it sound like very serious conversations about Art. I am looking for Ryan and not finding him. Then I am looking for Katie and not finding her.
“You. Yeah, you.”
I am not paying attention because I worry it will cost me too much. But when I feel a kick against my leg, I turn around and find Katie’s friend Lehna. Her angry friend Lehna. Her other two friends are behind her. I feel awful, but I’ve forgotten their names.
“Where the hell is she? What the hell have you done with her?”
I ignore Lehna and look over to see my mom is still talking to Brad. From the way she’s holding her purse, I think they’re discussing where she got it.
Lehna kicks me again. “Focus, fratboy,” she demands. “Katie has been acting weird ever since she met you. I want an explanation.”
Do I want Ryan to be here? Why isn’t Ryan here? Is he with Taylor?
Lehna is waving her hand in front of my face.
“Leave me alone,” I say, and start to push toward Wall Six.
“Not so fast,” Lehna says, grabbing my shirt. More people are watching us now.
Ryan is one of them.
Ryan.
I want him to look awful, but he doesn’t look awful at all.
He doesn’t look happy, either.
He looks checked out.
I cannot see him without it having an effect. I have never been able to look at him without having some kind of reaction. Happiness. Desire. Weakness.
Lehna is pulling harder.
I reach up and take her hand off my shirt.
“Don’t touch me!” she yells.
I don’t see Taylor. Ryan was talking to someone, but it wasn’t Taylor. It was Anna from school.
Of course. Taylor wouldn’t be here.
Taylor is still a secret. Because Ryan still has a secret.
I want to laugh. And at the same time, I start imagining punishment. It would be so easy. All I have to do is go up to him and kiss him. No. All I have to do is tell four gossipy people the truth. No. All I’d have to do is tell my mom, who will mention it to his mom. No. All I have to do is kiss him. All I want to do is kiss him.
Everyone will know. And if everyone knows, there will be no reason to hide. And if there’s no reason to hide, there will be no reason to be apart.
I think Lehna is screaming at me. But that doesn’t matter. I am walking his way and he is watching me walk over and I think, yes, I actually have the power here. All I have to do is kiss him in front of all these people. All I have to do is kiss him like it’s the most natural thing, like practice has made perfect.
I love that he has no idea. As I’m getting closer, he has no idea. He is pretending that he doesn’t feel anything. He is pretending that everything’s okay. He is pretending that it is no big deal for me to walk across a crowded room for him after crying all day.
I am going to do it. I am going to show him. I am going to show everyone, and then it will be all right.
No. Don’t.
That’s Katie’s voice. In my head. I stop, look around a second to find her. But she isn’t there. She isn’t one of the dozen people looking at me.
You found the weapon—now throw it away.
I am looking into Rya
n’s eyes and I know I am going to take that public kiss, that kiss that would have changed everything, and I am going to fold it up until it is too small to ever be found again.
Our eyes meet for a second. He looks sorry. Not happy. Not desiring.
Sorry.
“Where’s Katie?” he asks.
And then Lehna is back in my face, back between me and Ryan. “You can’t just walk away! Answer me!”
“I don’t know where she is,” I tell him, I tell her, I tell everyone. I don’t mention that she was with me before. That’s not theirs.
Ryan still looks sorry. He asked me because he didn’t know what else to say. Now he’s trying to think of the next thing. And because I was thinking so hard about kissing him, now all I’m feeling is the act of not kissing him, of having him here, but not really.
All of a sudden it’s like the whole room is pressing on me. Lehna is angry and Ryan is blank and the constellations in Katie’s paintings are spelling out a warning. I feel the two men behind me, kissing over all those years, and I see Audra cross like a hurricane over to my mother, and see Brad blow away from her, chastised. People are looking at me, but nobody’s seeing me, and the pink walls are starting to waver in the corners of my vision, as if we’re trapped in some crowded ventricle, some noisy heart.
I need a new life, and I need it right away.
I don’t say goodbye to any of them. I push toward the valve, swim toward the door. I ignore every voice, every look, everything but my own thought to get out of here. I hit the sidewalk and turn left, go to the side of the gallery, the back of it. I sit down on the curb. I put my head down. I hold my head together.
There’s a burst of incandescence, a rainless bolt of lightning. I look up into it, and when the blindness shifts back to seeing, I find Garrison, the photographer from that night, smiling down at me.
“Sorry about that,” he says, lowering his camera. “But I couldn’t resist. Such beautiful desolation.”
“It’s not beautiful,” I tell him. “Desolation is not beautiful.”
“It is from the outside.”
“Well, I’m not on the outside.”
He sits down next to me on the curb. “You will be one day. I know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but someday you will be.”