Weird Girl and What's His Name

by Meagan Brothers

  “We can talk about it, if you want to. Or we can not talk about it,” she said.

  “I want to,” I said, my voice cracking. “I wish I could tell you . . .”

  “Tell me what?”

  “Everything.” I looked up at her. I really wanted to tell her everything. I’d already told her a lot. But I wanted to stay right there on her weird pointy sofa and tell her everything in my hollowed-out heart. I wanted to hold on to her and breathe her in and be like her and have her tell me how to do that, how to become some entirely other person, some Not-Lula, someone who had a real life and went to Paris and had mysterious Southern doctors fall in love with her on their way home from Iraq.

  But I knew that was impossible. I was stuck in myself. That was always the problem. Even back in Drama Camp. I could memorize the lines, I could put on a costume and some silly wig. But at the end of the day, underneath it all, I was still Lula. The surplus baby. The kid who got left behind. I wanted to ask her if it would always be this way. If I would spend my life waking up disappointed. Never smart enough, never delivering the punch line on time. Was I always going to be Weird Girl? Why is it that I don’t feel so weird with you, Sam? Would she tell me that? Would she call me kiddo again? Would she explain to me why Rory would rather make out with his creepy old boss than with me? Would anybody ever hold me the way his creepy boss held him? Would anybody ever want me like that? Would she?

  So, I don’t know. I kissed her.

  I’d only ever been kissed on the mouth once before. Daniel Casey, right after the eighth grade dance. It was gross. He had lips like a snake. This was not like that. This was not like that at all.

  “Lula!” She laughed. “What are you doing?”

  I opened my eyes. We weren’t kissing anymore. Instead, this woman that I adored was, well, recoiled in horror. Looking at me like I was nuts. Worse than nuts. Looking at me like I was the creepy lightning kid in that episode of The X-Files. Looking at me like she was Scully and I was the tail-baby guy who shapeshifted into Mulder in order to seduce her. Except I forgot to shapeshift into somebody handsome first. I was just some girl from the back row of Advanced English 11. Some girl. Wow, does this mean I’m gay now?

  “I’m sorry,” she shook her head, touching the back of her hand to her mouth. Wiping my spit off her lips. “I didn’t mean to laugh at you.”

  “No, I shouldn’t have—”

  “Lula—”

  “I should go—” I stood up and accidentally knocked the glass of water all over the in-class essays.

  “Shit,” Mrs. Lidell swiped the papers out of the way. I righted the glass.

  “Here,” I gave her the Kleenex I hadn’t used. “I’m sorry—”

  “Wait, wait a second.” She slopped the papers down on the far end of the table. I waited. I don’t know why.

  “Is this why you came here tonight? To put the moves on me?” When she put it like that, it sounded awful.

  “No—not exactly. I didn’t know where to go. Rory and I were supposed to be studying. But he . . . was with somebody else.”

  “Somebody else?”

  “He had a date.”

  “I see.” Sam sighed, her hands on her hips. “So this is revenge or something?”

  “No.” It was weird how calm I felt all of a sudden. I was already getting this feeling. It was kind of like that script feeling I had before. A feeling like I already knew what was coming next.

  “I wasn’t using you to get back at him, if that’s what you mean,” I explained. “I keep thinking about you. I don’t know why I like you so much. It’s weird. Because I like him, too.”

  “Rory?”

  I nodded. “I mean, I think I love him. I even slept with him. I mean, we didn’t have sex. But we slept in the same bed. I thought, maybe, that was even better somehow. But . . .”

  “But he’s dating someone else?”

  “Dating.” I kind of laughed. “Something like that. Rory is fucking his boss.”

  “What?” Now Sam looked really incredulous. “Doesn’t he work for Andy Barnett? Andy’s Books and Coffee?”

  “Yeah. He does.”

  “Lula. I know Andy Barnett. He’s divorced with two kids; one of them is almost Rory’s age.”

  “I saw them. I saw them . . . together.”

  “Maybe you misunderstood a friendly gesture—”

  “Sure, if you call sticking your hand down somebody’s pants a friendly gesture.”

  “Lula.”

  “You think I’m lying.” I said quietly. It struck me suddenly how quiet the house was. In that quiet moment, I wanted to memorize every detail I could about Sam Lidell. The way she stood, with one hand on the curve of her hip. Her dark hair curling behind her ears. Her almost Scully-esque look of skepticism. I wanted to file it all away for later. I was overwhelmed by this certain feeling that I was never going to see her again.

  “Actually, I don’t,” she said. “I don’t think you’re lying. That’s the problem.” She rubbed her forehead, closing her eyes. “Jesus, kiddo. You’re kinda blowing my mind, here.” She laughed softly. “I should call Rory’s mother.”

  “Good luck. Maybe if she sobers up, she’ll remember she even has a son.”

  “Then I’ll call Andy Barnett. This isn’t right. Rory’s underage.”

  “So am I,” I said for no good reason. I looked up at her.

  “Oh, Lula, don’t. Please don’t do this.”

  “Don’t do what?”

  “Fall in love with me.”

  The dark corners of her living room felt like they were squeezing in on me. I wished I could be swallowed into the Persian rug, into the hardwood floor. It occurred to me that I still had to take her midterm. I had to sit there in class with her in front of me and Rory beside me and pretend I’d never kissed her and I’d never seen him kissing Andy Barnett and lying about it. Pretend I still believed him. Pretend I still looked at her and felt . . . what did I feel? I didn’t even recognize myself anymore. I didn’t recognize any of us. Rory and I weren’t the people I thought we were. We weren’t Mulder and Scully, bonded in trust, telling each other everything. And Sam and I weren’t—well, we weren’t anything. Not even friends.

  “What if we just pretend this whole night never happened?” I asked. “What if I agree to, like . . . evaporate?” I wished I really could. Just vanish into a puddle of goo, like one of those shapeshifting aliens. Those damn shapeshifters again. Lucky jerks.

  “That’s not what I mean,” she insisted. “Don’t be melodramatic. It’s just that—Lula, I’m straight. I’m married. And, above all, you’re my student. My seventeen-year-old student. What did you expect?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t plan this.” I really didn’t. “I just . . . didn’t want to be alone anymore.”

  “Lula.” Samantha Lidell cringed as if I’d hurt her. “Don’t say that. You’re not alone. But you shouldn’t be here.”

  “Then where should I be?” I asked.

  “Home,” she said, softly. “You should be at home, studying for my midterm.”

  Ha ha. I gave her half a smile. Home. Where’s that, anyway?

  “Trust me on this, will you?” she sighed. “Go home and write this down. You’re still keeping that journal I assigned? Just go home and put this in it. Put everything in it. You don’t ever have to show it to me if you don’t want to. You can tear it up and burn it, for all I care. But, before you do anything else, will you please promise me that you’ll write this down?”

  Write this down. I almost laughed.

  “Will do, Teach.” I gave her a little salute, and turned quickly, darting out the door. Feeling like I already had evaporated. I walked back the way I came, pushing my bike alongside me. The air was cool and damp. I felt, oddly, like something was clicking into place. Like I had truly shed every last bit of my skin. My guts, my muscles, my blood. I was plain bones walking around now. Walking without a shadow. Just write it down. Okay, Sam. You want a chronicle, you got it.

&nb
sp; ten

  I WALKED ALONG THE EDGE OF the school parking lot, my hands jammed into my black hooded jacket. The game was won. Everybody was leaving. Cars in a line, headlights on, honking. Maybe one of them would hit me.

  “Lula! Tallulah Monroe!” Somebody yelled out of one of the cars. I kept my head down. The car caught up to me. A big old Buick station wagon with wood panels on the side. I knew it by heart. Rory’s car. The Beast. The guy in the passenger seat calling out to me was Sexy Seth Brock, the Fighting Eagles’ undefeated varsity quarterback.

  “Yeah?”

  “Need a ride?” Sexy Seth asked.

  “No, thanks.” It was only ten more feet or so until the break in the fence. I could slide in and cut through the woods.

  “Are you sure? We don’t mind taking you home,” Seth chirped. I looked over at him, leaning out the window with his floppy blond surfer hair, his perfect cheekbones, his long, sunburned nose. Rory kept his eyes on the road. The line of traffic stopped. I kept walking. Then I stopped. This was why I came, wasn’t it? To talk to Rory. To try and fix this. Isn’t this what I wanted? I never knew what I wanted.

  I turned back around. Walked to the car, opened the back door. Next thing I knew, I was climbing into the backseat of the Beast, shoving aside a pile of cleats and helmets and sweaty shoulder pads that smelled like wet goat.

  “Sorry about the mess,” Seth apologized. “So . . . how’s college?” How’s college? Weird. Why was Sexy Seth speaking to me as if we were friends or something?

  “It’s . . . fine, I guess.” What was I supposed to do, get into a whole long thing about community college? Rory inched the car forward. He looked different. Older, maybe. He’d grown a little scrap of a beard, just some chin scruff. I wasn’t sure how I liked it. A car blew by, going the other direction, blasting music and honking the horn. A girl leaned out the back window and shrieked Rory’s name. Rory gave a little wave and beeped the horn.

  “Man, you guys are like rock stars.” I couldn’t believe some random girl just shrieked Rory’s name. My Rory.

  “People love football,” Seth said, attempting modesty. “Hey, we’re having some people over—you wanna come? Just, you know, kick back, celebrate the win.”

  “Oh my God, are you serious?” I leaned forward and smacked Rory on the shoulder. I couldn’t help myself. “Theodore, are you hearing this? Weird Girl is being invited to a Sexy Seth party. Has the polarity of the earth shifted? Might pigs actually fly?”

  Sexy Seth actually laughed. “What did you call me?”

  “Sexy Seth. Come on. You have to know. It’s what everybody at school calls you.”

  “Sexy Seth? Man.” He chuckled. “I thought it’d be Stupid Seth or Slovenly Seth or Smartass Seth. Sexy is a step up. I can live with that.”

  “You don’t wanna come over.” Rory finally spoke. “You won’t like it.”

  “Maybe I will. Maybe I’ll have the time of my young life. I think I’ll take you up on that offer, Sexy.”

  “Right on. It’s a party now.”

  The car lurched forward. There was finally a break in the traffic, and Rory wheeled the roaring Beast out into the street.

  THE PARTY AT SEXY SETH’S WAS not at all what I expected. There were about fifteen or twenty people down in the basement, playing Wii Tennis and pool. There were Foo Fighters songs playing really low in the background. Nobody was drinking or smoking. There was fruit punch and pizza and healthy snacks. Seth’s mom and dad were upstairs, chaperoning. It was all so civilized. Rory immediately busied himself at the pool table, taking charge of a very competitive mini-tournament. Meanwhile, Seth was going completely overboard trying to make me feel welcome.

  “Can I get you another drink?” he asked. “We’ve got tea upstairs. We don’t drink soda, but I think there’s some Dr. Pepper one of the neighbors brought last time we had a barbecue.”

  “I’m fine, thanks. You guys really don’t drink soda?”

  “Nah, my mom’s all about organic food, no high fructose corn syrup. Hey, my iPod died, so I was gonna run upstairs and get some CDs. You wanna come see the house?”

  “Sure.” Did I want to see the house? What am I, a real estate agent? I didn’t really care what Seth’s house looked like, but I couldn’t help feeling like he had a room full of supermodels in a hot tub hidden away somewhere. I followed him up the basement steps. “I gotta tell ya, Seth. I always thought these post-football parties were like, total Roman Empire debauchery. I’m a little disappointed I’m not being ravaged by linebackers right now.”

  “Nah,” Seth laughed. “That’s Speed’s deal. I mean, he doesn’t ravage anybody. But he’s a serious party guy. You know Speed Briggs, right?”

  “Everybody knows Speed.” Speed Briggs was probably the only guy on the team who was bigger than Rory. His nickname was a testament to the notion that even a football dumbass can grasp the concept of irony.

  “Yeah, he’s definitely Mr. Popularity. Hey guys—Mom, Dad, this is Lula. She’s a good friend of Rory’s.” Seth paused outside the den and introduced me to his parents, who were parked on the sofa in front of an old Regis Philbin-era episode of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. “Lula, these are my folks, Sherry and Don.”

  “Hi Lula, nice to meet you,” Sherry waved. She was so pert and blond, like the mom on The Brady Bunch. Seth’s dad was older—they both were, but not as old as Janet and Leo.

  “What is the Colorado River?” Seth’s dad shouted at the TV.

  “Honey, you don’t have to answer in the form of a question. That’s only on Jeopardy.” Seth’s mother patted his arm.

  “Right, right.”

  “Say hi to Lula, honey.”

  “What? Oh, hi Tallulah Honey. Rory’s friend, right?”

  “Yes, sir,” I answered.

  “Glad to have you back in town.”

  “Regis, I’d like to phone a friend,” the contestant on the show said.

  “See you guys later,” Seth ambled up the stairs.

  “Nice meeting you.” I caught up to him.

  “Sorry about that,” he said over his shoulder. “You can’t talk to my parents when they’re watching Millionaire. Even in reruns.”

  “It’s cool. Your dad’s funny.”

  “Yeah, he’s awesome. Anyway, Speed’s the one who throws the huge parties. I’ve been a couple of times, but it gets rowdy. You, like, wake up at four in the afternoon the next day, face down in the backyard. And you don’t even know whose backyard it is.”

  “Ahh, male bonding.”

  “I know, right? I figured I was either gonna get arrested or end up in the hospital if I kept going to Speed’s, so I started doing my own thing, having a few friends over, you know, keep it simple. It’s mostly kids I know from church. Anyway, here’s the upstairs. Not much going on. That’s my parents’ room down there. Bathroom. That’s my brother’s room. And that’s Rory’s room. This one’s mine.”

  “Rory’s room?”

  “Yeah.” He flipped the light on in his bedroom. “Rory came to live with us when his mom threw him out. I thought you knew.”

  “No, I didn’t. So.” Wow. Okay. “How long has he been living here?”

  “I dunno, couple of months? Since the summer.” Seth flipped through a tall stack of CDs on his desk next to his laptop. His room was immaculate, the furniture dark wood, the bedspread dark green. There were posters on his wall of football players—Tom Brady, Tedy Bruschi, David Garrard, Drew Brees, the names in bold, all-caps print. And then there was—

  “Is that . . . a Guided by Voices poster?”

  “Yeah! You like GBV?” Seth brightened. “My brother gave me that poster, right before he died. They’re basically my favorite band of all time, ever. How do you know about Guided by Voices?”

  “Um, there used to be this DJ who played them, on the college station—”

  “Midnight Pete?”

  “You’ve heard Midnight Pete?”

  “Have I heard Midnight Pete?” Seth exclaimed. “Dude!
I’ve met Midnight Pete!”

  “No way!” I couldn’t believe it. I thought it was basically me and ten other insomniac losers listening to Midnight Pete. He used to play all this old stuff like the Pixies and Pavement and eighties REM, and really old stuff like Elvis Costello and the Ramones. Sometimes he’d even play these crazy rockabilly songs from the fifties, or some random sixties stuff like Herman’s Hermits. Almost every night of the week from junior high through sophomore year, I fell asleep with my clock radio tuned to Midnight Pete.

  “My brother actually took me to hang out with him in the studio one time,” Seth told me. “I can’t believe you used to listen to Midnight Pete.”

  “I can’t believe you met him. How much did it suck when he finally graduated and left us with Midnight Steve?”

  “Dude. Midnight Steve bites the big one. All he ever plays is, like, stale emo.”

  “Don’t remind me,” I sighed, leaning back against Seth’s bureau. “So, what did he look like? I mean Midnight Pete.” I’d always been curious.

  “He kind of looked like a fat version of that guy from The Cure,” Seth said, still in obvious awe. I giggled. “Seriously. Donnie met him at this party, right after he moved back home, and they hung out a bunch before he got too sick. The night Donnie took me to hear Pete do the show was like going to the Super Bowl or something.”

  “Right awwwn, man,” I imitated Midnight Pete’s drawl. Seth laughed. “But, uh, seriously,” I said. “I’m sorry your, um. Your brother died.”

  “Thanks. Uh. It’s been a few years now. He was twenty-six. Twelve years older than me. I was the Accident Baby.” Seth gave an apologetic half-shrug. “You wanna see his room?”

  “Um. Okay,” I said. Seth walked across the hall, opened the door to his brother’s room, and flipped on the light. I hung back. This felt a little strange.