by Zac Brewer
“Well, rather than give you details in short bursts throughout the day, why don’t I come over tonight and we can watch Pretty in Pink and talk all through Blaine’s dialogue?”
“That sounds amazing. We haven’t watched it in months. Let’s do it.” I wrapped my arm around his and as we headed back to the lunchroom, I marveled at how much our lives had changed in the months since my suicide attempt. Things had been so bleak back then, so hard—for both of us. But they seemed to be improving. Man, I hoped so. “I can’t believe he kissed you!”
He raised an eyebrow at me, a smirk on his lips. “Are you saying that there exists a person somewhere on this planet who’s capable of resisting my indefinable charm?”
I gave his arm a squeeze. “Not a one, Duckie. Not a one.”
As we took our seats at our usual table, Derek approached and set his tray down. He took the seat next to mine and smiled. I could feel Duckie bristle at his presence. Derek said, “So, there’s no school tomorrow because of that teachers’ in-service thing. Do you wanna do something together tonight?”
“I can’t. Sorry. Can we do it tomorrow? I kinda made plans with Duckie.”
“Oh.” His eyebrows came together momentarily, but he quickly relaxed and shrugged it off. “That’s cool. We can get together tomorrow, if you want.”
“You are awesome. Tomorrow it is.” With a peck on his cheek, the subject was closed. Could I really have it all? A life? With a terrific boyfriend and an amazing best friend? No razors, no plan? Just hope for a bright future. Was it possible?
That strange sense of lightness carried me through the rest of the day, and I wondered if it was all due to Derek or if the meds were actually doing something. I didn’t feel like I was medicated. There was no mental fog or weird drugged feeling. I just felt . . . better, somehow. Not perfect, but better.
That night at the dinner table, Dad and I were thumb-wrestling while Mom set a bowl of salad on the table. He was winning, but the salad effectively ended our match. We exchanged looks of wonder when she followed it up with a tray that held a roast and cooked veggies. As she sat down, Dad and I just looked at her. Finally noticing our disbelieving stares, she said, “What?”
“You . . . you cooked?” I tried not to sound so shocked, but my mother—the queen of takeout—did not cook roasts or make salads. So clearly something was up.
“I just thought I’d give cooking a try. So I pulled out your grandmother’s recipe book and gave it a shot. Would you rather we order a pizza?”
Dad reached across the table and gave her hand a squeeze. “It smells delicious. You’re just full of surprises, that’s all.”
Mom relaxed, and we filled our plates. Dad had been right about the yummy smells, and the taste put even those to shame. After a while, Mom said, “There is another reason I cooked. I thought it would be nice to celebrate how well you’re doing lately, Brooke.”
A smile touched my lips. “Mom, you didn’t have to do that. But thank you.”
Dad wiped his mouth with his napkin and said, “Your mother and I are very proud of you, kiddo. There’s been a big change in you lately. You seem happier.”
“I am happier.” My mind immediately turned to Derek. I hadn’t told my parents that we were dating. Not yet. What if I told them and they didn’t like the idea of me dating him? Mom hadn’t exactly looked impressed when she’d met him.
My stomach churned with guilt, and I was relieved when the subject turned to Dad’s plans for the evening. Even though Mom was super reluctant. “Drinks and dancing? I thought we’d have a nice night in.”
“We’ve had enough nights in lately. Let’s go out and have some fun.” He flashed her a look full of unspoken words—words she apparently understood.
“All right. But Brooke, you and Ronald had better behave yourselves while we’re out.”
Dad said, “Ronald’s coming over? You know it’s a school night, right?”
I swallowed the bite in my mouth and said, “We have tomorrow off. Teachers’ in-service day or something.”
The doorbell rang, and I stood, pushing my chair back from the table. “Speak of the Duckie.”
An hour later, Duckie and I had finished washing, drying, and putting away the dishes. Mom and Dad had gotten dressed to go out, and as they shut the front door behind them, Duckie and I did a little happy dance. Once their car was out of the driveway, we grabbed snacks from the kitchen and readied ourselves for a parent-free evening. Up in my room, I considered telling him that I thought my medication might be making a difference after all, but I didn’t want to overshadow his happy gossip. I’d tell him another time.
“It was perfect.” Duckie had a giant bowl of buttered popcorn in his arms. He set it on the bed, and I handed him one of the cans of soda I’d been carrying. “We were talking about how Mercutio and Benvolio are some of the best characters in the play, and I was explaining why I thought Benvolio was a better friend to Romeo than Mercutio.”
“You are such a theater geek.” I set my soda on my dresser and started making a pile of pillows on the floor at the foot of my bed. When we had Pretty in Pink nights, it was all about comfort.
“Says the other theater geek in the room.” Duckie sat on the floor and leaned back against the huge pillow pile. “Anyway. I thought it was kinda weird, because we’ve been working on the play this whole time and our conversations have pretty much covered all things Romeo and Juliet related. Lately, we’ve been talking about other stuff. Goals, dreams. Bigger stuff. So I started wondering if maybe he was pulling back, y’know? Like maybe he’d decided that I just wasn’t worth his time. I could feel this little hairline fracture in my left ventricle.”
I opened my mouth to comfort him, but he shushed me. “Wait! You’ll miss the best part. So he gets this little sparkle in his eyes, and he smiles, right? And it’s the cutest smile anyone has ever smiled. Have you ever noticed how soft his lips look? They look soft! How does that even happen?”
Opening the DVD case, I popped the movie into the machine and flashed Duckie a look to tell him to get on with the story already. “Stay on target. Are we ever getting to this miraculous kiss, or are we stuck on the texture of his skin?”
He ignored my remark. “Then he says, ‘Speaking as Romeo, I can assure you that I like Mercutio better.’”
I sat beside him, nuzzling into the pillows. “What did you say?”
“I didn’t say anything. My whole brain melted, and I forgot how to talk.” He paused, as if he was out of breath again at the mere mention of it. “And then, he got closer, put his hands on my shoulders, and kissed me.”
Grinning, I grabbed a handful of popcorn and asked, “What was it like?”
Duckie was staring at the television but not really watching it. He was somewhere else entirely. “It was like my heart imploded with glitter.”
I smiled. The menu screen was up on the television, but neither one of us had pushed play. “Between your brain melting and that, I’d say he pretty much destroyed you with that kiss.”
“Oh, in the best way possible.” Finally managing to tear his gaze away from the screen, and himself from wherever it was that he’d gone in his head, he turned to face me. “It didn’t last very long, but he was so gentle and sweet. Then afterward—because I still couldn’t talk—”
“Because of your melted brain.”
“Precisely.” He nodded. “Afterward, he just kinda pulls back and smiles at me and says, ‘I hope that was okay.’ I told him, ‘It was amazing.’”
“Ooh, good response. Who knew the cure for a melted brain was kissing?” I pressed play, but not to stop Duckie from talking. We had the movie memorized.
“I’m pretty sure that kissing might be the cure for everything.” He sighed and lay back, looking up at all the cranes for a moment. “Anyway, he looked a little surprised, and then he said he thought it was beyond amazing. Shortly after that, I went and found you.”
“That’s fantastic.” Grinning, I shoved another handful of
popcorn into my mouth.
“It really was.” He looked at me then, letting a little bit of Serious Duckie show through. “I like him, y’know? A lot. It’ll be a shame when he finally breaks my heart.”
I hated that he looked at things that way, that he couldn’t just allow himself this one day to be happy and carefree. “Maybe he won’t.”
“Brooke, we’re seniors in high school. Somebody is going to break somebody’s heart in this scenario.” The corner of his mouth lifted some in a forced half smile.
“That’s optimistic,” I said sarcastically. I reached into the bowl and grabbed more popcorn. This time, I fed it to Duckie.
As he chewed, he said, “I’m just a realist. But for the moment . . . I’m really, insanely happy.”
“Be positive, Duckman. Who knows? Maybe you’ll break his heart.”
“One can only hope.” On the screen, Andie had just run into her Duckie at school. We watched for a bit before my Duckie said, “So how are things between you and the cree—Derek? Did he apologize for sneaking in last night?”
“Things are good, and he did apologize. But I do wonder how he’s feeling about me dumping him for you tonight.”
“You’d dump anyone for me. And I’d dump anyone for you. That’s just the way it is.” It was true. Our friendship and theater: the only two things Duckie was absolutely confident about.
“I-L-Y, Duckie.”
“I-L-Y.”
We watched the movie for a while. Andie’s dad was trying to talk her into going to prom. It felt weird that I wouldn’t be Duckie’s date this year. He’d be with Tucker, and I’d be with Derek. At least . . . I assumed I’d be with Derek. He hadn’t asked me yet. Maybe I should have asked him. Maybe I would.
Because despite how I’d felt when I got out of Kingsdale, despite my irritation at Mom asking me about it, I really did want to go. It felt big, this moment of revelation. It felt . . . wonderful.
I could feel the cranes above us gesturing to my closet, but it took me a moment to realize what they were pointing at. When it hit me, my heart skipped a nervous beat. My razor was still in my closet. What if Duckie saw it? What if he thought I’d been faking my recent happiness and told my parents? I couldn’t go back to Kingsdale. Especially not now.
My phone buzzed, making me jump. When I picked it up, Duckie said, “Hey. Rude. This is our night.”
“It’s Derek. I’ll just text him back real quick and let him know I’m busy.”
“Well, while you’re doing that, I’m going to go grab another drink.” Duckie opened my bedroom door and disappeared. The moment he was gone, I hurried to my closet and retrieved my razor. I tossed it in the small trash can by my desk, making certain to cover it up with some crumpled-up papers. I didn’t need it anymore, and there was no sense in worrying anyone by keeping the stupid thing.
I settled back down among the pillows and looked at my phone. Derek’s message made me sit up a little.
He said, We need to talk, Brooke.
I typed in my response and hit send. I can’t talk right now. Duckie’s over. Can I call you after he leaves?
I was expecting a yes, but instead, he texted, I know what’s going on.
I had no idea what he was talking about. Had he been drinking or something?
What are you talking about? What’s going on?
A long pause. And then finally, his answer. I know what’s going on between you and Duckie.
I have no idea what you’re talking about. Are you okay? He had to be drunk. Or something. He was acting so weird.
I waited for a long time. Just when I thought he’d decided not to reply, another text popped up. Just tell me the truth. Are you and Duckie screwing around?
If I hadn’t been so taken aback by the ridiculousness of his question, I might have laughed aloud. You do know he’s gay, right? Of course we’re not screwing around! Why would you even think that?
I waited to see the three dots that indicate the other person you’re texting is writing something, but they didn’t pop up. I texted, Duckie is just my friend. Besides, I’d never do that to you.
I waited again, but the dots still didn’t show. I pulled up his number and put the phone to my ear. It rang again and again, until it finally went to voice mail. Something told me Derek was done talking with me for the night.
Duckie walked back into the room and immediately said, “What’s wrong? You look like you might cry.”
My bottom lip was trembling. “Derek has apparently gotten the idea in his head that you and I are screwing around.”
“Together?” Duckie looked disgusted at the very idea. “Gross.”
Tears were welling up in my eyes. Had I somehow misled Derek into thinking I was involved with Duckie in that way? Had I said something, done something to make him think so?
Duckie looked at me, misunderstanding the expression I wore. “Not gross gross. You know if I were into girls, I’d be hittin’ that—”
“No. You wouldn’t.”
“—but the very idea of you and I . . . I mean, we’re besties.” He flopped down on the pillow pile beside me, looking just as shocked as I felt.
How could Derek think I’d hurt him like that? With anyone, let alone Duckie. It was crazy. “I have no idea why he’d think something like that. And now he won’t return my texts or pick up when I call.”
Duckie looked at me. “All this happened while I went to get a drink?”
Suddenly, all the confusion and pain burst out of me in the form of crying. Duckie sat down and put his arms around me, letting me soak his shirt in tears. “Hey. Don’t worry about this. Derek just made a wrong assumption, that’s all. You’ll straighten it out.”
My voice cracked. “How?”
He looked me in the eyes as he wiped away my tears with his hands. “First, you’re going to munch on popcorn and finish watching this movie with me. Then you’re going to get some sleep and go talk to him in person first thing in the morning. Just . . . go. Talk to him.”
My lip was still shaking, and try as I might, I couldn’t stop the tears from coming. What had I done wrong to make Derek act this way? “What if he won’t listen?”
Duckie picked up the bowl of popcorn and set it in my lap. His words were definitive . . . and wise. But that didn’t make them any easier to hear. “Then it’s his loss.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The next morning, I got ready and did exactly as Duckie had suggested. I walked straight to Derek’s house. He had to hear the honest truth about Duckie and me. He just had to listen. Because this was ridiculous. It was absurd. Had he been drinking? Or was it something else?
Maybe his depression was making him act out in anger. What if he’d hurt himself? I picked up the pace, hurrying my steps until I was running to his house. Oh god, what if he’d given in to his suicidal urges because he’d gotten it in his head that I didn’t want to be with him?
By the time I reached his house, I was out of breath. His dad’s truck was in the driveway. For a moment, I debated going home and calling Derek instead. His dad didn’t seem like the kind of person who wanted anyone knocking on his door. For any reason. Ever.
It felt like the longest walk in the world to go from the road to the front door, but when I reached it, catching my breath, I found my strength. If Derek was hurt—or worse—I’d call and get him help. If he wasn’t hurt . . . if he’d just been acting possessive, I’d talk to him and try to figure out this misunderstanding. After I knocked, my heart started beating faster. When the door opened, it skipped a beat. Mostly in relief that Derek was still alive.
Derek looked like he hadn’t slept. For some stupid reason, I felt immediately guilty for having slept just fine. I always slept well after a really hard cry. It was like my body would reboot itself to recover from the trauma.
The moment he saw me, his frown deepened. He didn’t speak.
“Derek, can we talk?” My throat was still sore from crying last night. Even after the movie was over and Duc
kie had gone home, I’d sat up and cried, searching my memory for anything that I might have said or done to give Derek the wrong impression. I’d come up empty.
Derek grumbled, “Not here.”
He stepped out, and the screen door closed behind him. Just as we were stepping off the porch, a greasy man in a dirty tank top and jeans came to the door. There was an open beer in his hand and a slur in his speech. On his right hand was a ring—maybe a class ring from high school, I couldn’t tell. It had to be his dad. “You get your ass back here in an hour or else, you little shit.”
Derek didn’t respond to him. He just picked up his pace.
His dad staggered out the door and pointed an accusing finger at me. “So you’re the girlfriend who spends her nights with other guys. Boy, my son sure knows how to pick ’em. You’re a real piece of work.”
Derek gripped my arm as we walked, but I slowed my pace anyway as I looked at his dad. Relenting, Derek slowed too.
Slugging his beer down, the man swallowed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes burned into mine. “Don’t get too comfortable with my son, girly. Don’t think we’ll be staying here too long.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, to him. After a moment, Derek’s grip tightened on my bicep, and he tugged me down the driveway.
He didn’t release his hold on my arm until we reached the road, and after that, we walked toward the park in silence. Derek’s steps were hurried at first, and it took some effort for me to keep up. Once we were out of sight of his house, I said, “I don’t know why you think something’s going on between Duckie and me, but it’s not. And I can’t spend eternity repeating that to you. Do you believe me?”
He shoved his hands in the pockets of his hoodie and kept his eyes forward, his tone clipped. “You two do spend an awful lot of time together.”
It was the first time that anyone had questioned my friendship with Duckie. “We’ve been best friends practically our whole lives.”
His jaw tightened. He had yet to look at me since he’d answered the door. “You ditch me to spend time with him.”