by Sarah Dessen
The real truth, I realized as the day wore on, was that even though I hardly knew Owen, I’d actually been more honest with him than anyone else in a long time. He knew about what had happened between me and Sophie, about Whitney’s illness, and that I hated modeling. This seemed like an awful lot to reveal to someone who, in the end, I couldn’t even risk being friends with. But I didn’t know it for sure until I saw Clarke.
It was after seventh period, in the hallway, and she was opening her locker. Her hair was in two spriggy pigtails, and she had on jeans, a black shirt, and shiny Mary Janes. As I watched, a girl I didn’t know passed behind her, saying her name, and Clarke turned, smiling, and said hello back to her. It was all totally normal, just another moment in another day, but something in it struck me, and I found myself going back, back, all the way to that night down by the pool. Another time I’d been afraid of conflict, afraid to be honest, afraid even to speak. I’d lost a friend then, too. The best friend, really, I’d ever had.
It was too late to try and alter what had happened between me and Clarke, but there might still be time to change something else. Maybe even me. So I went to look for Owen.
In a school of over two thousand students, it was easy to lose yourself, not to mention someone else. But Owen definitely stood out in a crowd, so when I couldn’t find him or the Land Cruiser, I figured I’d missed him. When I got into my car and pulled out onto the main road, though, I spotted him. He was on foot, walking down the center of the median, his backpack over one shoulder, earphones on.
It wasn’t until I was right up to him that it occurred to me this might be a mistake. But you get only so many do-overs in this life, so many chances to, if not change your past, alter your future. So I slowed down and lowered my window.
“Hey,” I called out, but he didn’t hear me. “Owen!” Still no response. I moved my hand to the center of my steering wheel and pushed down, hard, on the horn. Finally, he turned his head.
“Hey,” he said as someone behind me beeped angrily before whizzing past. “What’s up?”
“What happened to your car?” I asked him.
He stopped walking, then reached up, pulling the earphone out of his left ear. “Transportation issues,” he said.
This is it, I told myself. Say something. Anything. Just spit it out.
“Story of my life,” I told him, then reached over, pushing open my passenger door. “Get in.”
Chapter EIGHT
The first thing that Owen did when he got in my car was bump his head on what I hadn’t realized—until that particular moment anyway—was a pretty low ceiling. “Oof,” he said, reaching up to rub his forehead just as one of his knees whacked the dashboard. “Man. This is a small car.”
“Is it?” I said. “I’ve never really noticed, and I’m five-eight.”
“Is that tall?”
“I used to think so,” I said, glancing at him.
“Well, I’m six-four,” he replied, trying to push his seat, which was already back as far as it would go, even farther away from the dashboard. Then he moved his arm, trying to balance it on the window, but it was too big, so he changed position, crossing it over his chest, before finally letting it drop to hang beside him. “So I guess it’s all relative.”
“You okay?” I asked.
“Fine,” he said, altogether unbothered, as if this sort of thing happened all the time. “Thanks for the ride, by the way.”
“No problem,” I said. “Just tell me where you’re going.”
“Home.” He moved his arm again, still trying to fit into the seat. “Just keep straight. You don’t have to turn for a while.”
We rode without talking for a few minutes. I knew this was the time to say what was on my mind, to explain myself. I took in a breath, bracing myself.
“How do you stand it?” he said.
I blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“I mean,” he said, “it’s just so silent. Empty.”
“What is?”
“This,” he said, gesturing around the car. “Driving in silence. With no music.”
“Well,” I said slowly, “to be honest, I didn’t realize we were, actually.”
He sat back, his head bumping the headrest. “See for me, it’s immediate. Silence is so freaking loud.”
This seemed either deep or deeply oxymoronic. I wasn’t sure which. “Well,” I said, “my CDs are in the console in the center if you—”
But he was already pulling it open and taking out a stack of CDs. As he began to work his way through them, I glanced over, suddenly nervous.
“Those aren’t really my favorites,” I said. “They’re just the ones I have in here right now.”
“Huh,” he said, not looking up. I turned back to the road, hearing the cases clacking as he flipped through them. “Drake Peyton, Drake Peyton…so you’re into that frat-boy hippie rock stuff?”
“I guess,” I said. This was bad, I thought. “I saw him live summer before last.”
“Huh,” he said again. “More Drake Peyton…and Alamance. That’s alt-country, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Interesting,” he said. “Because I wouldn’t have pegged you for…Tiny? This is his most current album, right?”
“I got it over the summer,” I said, slowing for a red light.
“Then it is.” He shook his head. “You know, I have to admit, I’m surprised. I never would have pegged you for a Tiny fan. Or any rap, for that matter.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Bad assumption, I guess. Who made you this one?”
I glanced at the disc he was holding, immediately recognizing the slanting print. “My sister Kirsten.”
“She’s into classic rock,” he said.
“Since high school,” I said. “She had a Jimmy Page poster on her wall for years.”
“Ah.” He scanned the track list. “She has good taste, though. I mean, there’s Led Zeppelin here, but at least it’s not ‘Stairway to Heaven.’ In fact,” he said, sounding impressed, “‘Thank You’ is my favorite Led Zeppelin song.”
“Really?”
“Really. It’s got that kind of cheesy, power-ballad feel. Kind of ironic, yet truthful. Can I put it on?”
“Sure,” I said. “Thanks for asking.”
“You gotta ask,” he said, reaching forward and sliding the CD into my stereo. “Only a real asshole takes liberties with someone else’s car stereo. That’s serious.”
The player clicked a couple of times, and then I heard music, faintly. Owen reached forward for the volume button, then glanced at me. When I nodded, he turned it up. Hearing the opening chords, I had a pang of missing Kirsten, who, during her rebellion-filled senior year, had developed a passion for seventies-era guitar rock, which, at its height, had her listening to Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon on repeat for what seemed like weeks at a time.
Thinking this, I looked back over at Owen, who was drumming his fingers on his knee. Kirsten, of course, would never hesitate to say what was on her mind. So with her song playing in my ears, I decided to follow suit. Or try to. “So about today,” I said. He looked over at me. “I’m sorry about what happened.”
“What happened?”
I fixed my eyes on the road ahead, feeling my face flush. “When we were doing the role-playing, and I freaked out and walked away.”
I was expecting an “It’s okay” or maybe a “Don’t worry about it.” Instead, he said, “That was freaking out?”
“Well,” I said. “I guess. Yeah.”
“Huh,” he said. “Okay.”
“I didn’t mean to get so upset,” I explained. “Like I said, I just don’t do confrontations very well. Which I guess was obvious. So…I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right.” He tried to sit back again, his elbow knocking the door. “In fact…”
I waited for him to finish this thought. When he didn’t, I said, “What?”
“It’s just, to me, that wasn’t r
eally freaking out,” he said.
“No?”
He shook his head. “To me, freaking out is raising your voice. Screaming. Veins bulging. Hitting people in parking lots. That kind of thing.”
“I don’t do that,” I said.
“I’m not saying you should.” He reached up, running a hand through his hair; as he did so, the ring on his middle finger caught the light, glinting for a second. “It’s just a semantic issue, I guess. Take this next right.”
I did, turning onto a tree-lined street. All the houses were big, with wide front porches. We passed a group of kids in a cul-de-sac playing roller hockey, then some moms on a corner, grouped around a pack of strollers.
“This is it, up here,” he told me. “The gray one.”
I slowed down, then pulled over to the curb. The house was beautiful, with a wide front porch with a swing, and bright pink flowers in pots lining the steps. A yellow cat was lying on the front walk, stretched out in the sunshine. “Wow,” I said. “Great house.”
“Well, it’s not glass,” he said. “But it’s okay.”
We sat there for a second, our situation now reversed from last time, me waiting for him to go inside. “You know,” I said finally, “I just wanted to say you were right about what you said earlier. It is kind of hard to hold a lot in. But for me…it’s sometimes even harder to let it out.”
I wasn’t sure why I felt compelled to bring this up again. Maybe to finally explain myself. To him, or to me.
“Yeah,” he said. “But you gotta get stuff out. Otherwise it just festers, and eventually, you just blow.”
“See, that’s the part I can’t deal with,” I said. “I can’t take it when people are angry.”
“Anger’s not bad,” he said. “It’s human. And anyway, just because someone’s upset doesn’t mean they’ll stay that way.”
I looked down at my steering wheel, picking at the edge. “I don’t know,” I said. “In my experience, when people I’m close with have gotten upset with me, that’s it. It is forever. Everything changes.”
Owen didn’t say anything for a second. I could hear a dog barking from some house down the street. “Well,” he said, “maybe you weren’t as close with them as you thought.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning that if someone is really close with you, your getting upset or them getting upset is okay, and they don’t change because of it. It’s just part of the relationship. It happens. You deal with it.”
“You deal with it,” I said. “I wouldn’t even know how to do that.”
“Well, that makes sense,” he said. “Considering you never let it happen in the first place.”
The CD was still going, now playing a song by Rush as a minivan drove past us, kicking up some leaves. I had no idea how many minutes had passed while we’d been sitting there. It seemed like a long time.
“You sure have a lot of answers,” I said.
“I don’t,” he replied, reaching down to twist one of his rings around his finger. “I’m just doing the best I can, under the circumstances.”
“How’s that going?” I asked.
He glanced up at me. “Well, you know,” he said. “It’s day to day.”
I smiled. “I like your rings,” I said, nodding at his hands. “Are they the exact same?”
“Sort of. And not really.” He reached down, sliding the one off his left hand and handing it to me. “They’re kind of a before-and-after thing. Rolly made them for me. His dad’s a jeweler.”
The ring was heavy in my palm, the silver thick. “He made this?”
“Not the ring,” he said. “The engraving. On the inside.”
“Oh.” I tilted the ring slightly, peering along the interior curve. There, in all capital letters, in formal, very elegant type, it said GO FUCK YOURSELF. “Nice,” I said.
“Classy, huh?” he said. He made a face. “That was me pre-arrest. I was a little…”
“Angry?”
“You could say. He made this one when I finished the Anger Management course.” He slid the ring off his other middle finger, then held it up to my face. In the same type, same size, it said OR NOT.
I laughed. “Well,” I said, handing it back to him. “It’s always good to know your options.”
“Exactly.” Then he smiled at me, and I felt another flush come over my face, but not the embarrassed or anxious kind—a different sort entirely. One I never would have thought I’d feel around Owen Armstrong. Ever. The moment was broken, however, by a voice.
“Annabel!”
I looked to my right—it was Mallory. Sometime during this exchange, she’d appeared at Owen’s window, where she was now smiling widely and waving. “Hi!”
“Hi,” I said.
She gestured for Owen to put his window down, which he did, slowly, and clearly somewhat reluctantly. As soon as there was a space big enough, she stuck her head in. “Oh my God, I love your shirt! Is that from Tosca?”
I glanced down. “Maybe,” I said. “My mom got it for me.”
“You’re so lucky! I love Tosca. It’s, like, my favorite store in the whole world. Are you coming in?”
“Coming in?” I asked.
“To the house. Are you staying for dinner? Oh, you totally have to stay for dinner!”
“Mallory,” Owen said, rubbing a hand over his face. “Please stop shrieking.”
She ignored him, sticking her head in even farther. “You could see my room,” she said, her eyes wide, excited. “And my closet, and I could show you—”
“Mallory,” Owen said again. “Back away from the car.”
“Do you like my outfit?” she asked me. She stepped back so I could see it: plain white tee, short jacket over it, rolled-up jeans, and shiny boots with thick soles. After doing a little spin, she stuck her head back in the window. “It’s inspired by Nicholls Lake; she’s my favorite singer right now? She’s, like, punk.”
Owen sat back, his head bonking against the headrest. “Nicholls Lake,” he said in a low voice, “is not punk.”
“Yes, she is,” Mallory told him. “And see? Today, so am I!”
“Mallory, we’ve talked about this. Remember? Did we not discuss the true definition of punk?” Owen said. “Have you even listened to that Black Flag CD I gave you?”
“That was so loud,” she said. “And plus you can’t even sing along. Nicholls Lake is better.”
Owen took in another shuddering breath. “Mallory,” he said. “If you could just—”
Just then, a tall dark-haired woman—Owen’s mom, I assumed—appeared in the doorway of the house, calling her. Mallory shot her an annoyed look. “I have to go in,” she announced, then leaned in even farther, so her face was inches from Owen’s. “But you’ll come over another time, right?”
“Sure,” I told her.
“Bye, Annabel.”
“Good-bye,” I said.
She smiled, then stood up, and waved at me. I waved back, and Owen and I watched her climb the front stairs and head down the walk, turning to look back at us every few steps or so.
“Wow,” I said. “So she’s punk, huh?”
Owen didn’t answer me. Instead, all I could hear was him inhaling, loudly, several times in a row.
“Is this you freaking out?” I asked.
He exhaled. “No. This is me annoyed. I don’t know what it is about her. There’s just something about sisters. They can make you freaking crazy.”
“Story of my life,” I said.
Another silence. In every one that fell, I told myself this time, he was going to get out and leave, and this would be over. And each time, I wanted it to happen even less.
He said, “You say that a lot, you know.”
“What?”
“‘Story of my life.’”
“You said it first.”
“Did I?”
I nodded. “That day, behind the school.”
“Oh.” He was quiet for a moment. “You know, when you think about it
, that’s kind of a weird thing. I mean, it’s meant to be sympathetic, right? But it’s kind of not. Like you’re telling the other person there’s nothing unique about what they’re saying.”
I considered this as a couple of kids on Rollerblades whizzed past, hockey sticks over their shoulders. “Yeah,” I said, finally, “but you could also look at it the other way. Like you’re saying no matter how bad things are for you, I can still relate.”
“Ah,” he said. “So you’re saying you relate to me.”
“No. Not at all.”
“Nice.” He laughed, turning his head to look out the window. I caught the quickest flash of his profile, and remembered all those days I’d spent studying him from a distance.
“Okay,” I said. “Maybe a little.”
He turned back, facing me, and I felt it again. Another pause, just long enough for me to wonder what, exactly, was happening. Then he pushed the door open. “So,” he said, “um, thanks again for the ride.”
“No problem. I owed you.”
“No,” he said, “you didn’t.” He untangled himself from the seat. “I’ll see you tomorrow, or something.”
“Yeah. See you then.”
He got out, shutting the door behind him, then grabbed his bag and started up the steps. I watched him until he went inside.
As I pulled away from the curb, the whole afternoon seemed so strange, surreal. There was so much filling my head, too much to even begin to understand, but as I drove, I suddenly realized something else was bothering me: The CD had stopped and there was no music. Before, I probably wouldn’t have even noticed, but now that I had, the silence, if not deafening, was distracting. I wasn’t sure what this meant. But I reached forward and turned on the radio anyway.
Chapter NINE
Beauty and the Beast. The Odd Couple. Shrek and Fiona. I had to hand it to the rumor mill: Over the next couple of weeks, they came up with lots of names for me and Owen and whatever it was we were doing every day on the wall at lunch. For me, it was harder to define. We weren’t together by any means, but we weren’t strangers. Like so much else, we fell somewhere in the middle.