by Jen Brooks
That’s a really big maybe.
Except for our footsteps on the trail and our heavy breathing, we finish our run in silence. We get across the field with a burst of speed that always comes at the end of a run. Only a couple of dog walkers are in sight as we sit back down to stretch and Kylie takes a swig from her water bottle.
Despite the cool April morning, we’re both sweating. We each sit in a hurdler stretch and reach for our toes. Her legs are the perfect length for a runner. The perfect length for a girl.
“Why haven’t you ever gone out for the track team?” Kylie asks.
“Don’t know.”
“You could talk to Coach Pereira tomorrow.”
“No point in that. There’s only a month or so left in the season, and I’m a senior, sort of, who won’t be back next year.”
“How are you ‘sort of’ a senior?”
“I don’t have enough credits to graduate. Too many absences.”
She changes to a quad stretch and leans back on her elbows. “Yeah, you do miss school a lot.”
“You’ve noticed.”
“I think everyone notices.”
“Everyone is paying attention to whether or not I show up for school?”
“Well . . . it’s more like . . . You know how people have certain reputations? Yours is that you skip a lot.”
“I skip school?” I’m offended to be known school-wide as a skipper, even though that’s exactly what I am.
Her voice drops suddenly, like she doesn’t want to be overheard. “You’re not in therapy all those days, are you?”
“No, not in therapy.”
“Okay, well, people just assume it’s a posttraumatic airplane disaster thing. That you can’t deal with people. You have an uncle who makes you go to school, but you don’t talk to anyone when you’re there.”
I try to decide if she’s one of those people who think I can’t deal. I picture her with friends, whispering diagnoses of me as I shuffle by, staring at the floor. I didn’t realize Kylie noticed me at all, never mind that she’s been speculating about my mental health. “That’s quite a lot people think they know about me.”
“That’s all you let people know about you.”
“I let them know I’m a walking advertisement for posttraumatic stress? No, I don’t. That’s an assumption people made. You can spread the newsflash that I’m not depressed, and I’m not mentally unbalanced.” Am I?
“I didn’t mean to offend you.” Her tone says I might have overreacted in my response.
“If all these people all these years actually thought I was suffering, why did they do nothing but talk behind my back and ignore me face-to-face?”
She shifts uncomfortably under the weight of that accusation. Kylie, after all, is one of those people who did nothing all those years.
The thing is, I’ve never blamed anyone for keeping their distance from me. Except maybe when it first happened, I was mad at my parents for leaving me and at God for taking them. I wasn’t angry when Hunter LeRoy told me to fetch the ball out of the poison ivy. I wasn’t angry at the whispers of “Frankenstein” or the way I was never invited back into dodgeball games after all that physical therapy helped me walk normally again. I wasn’t angry when I moved up to middle school and I ate lunch in the cafeteria by myself, or in high school when I went to Kylie-Simms-is-my-girlfriend to avoid eating lunch in the cafeteria by myself. I simply grew used to being invisible and sought what I needed in my other worlds. None of my classmates could know I chose to make worlds when they chose not to help me. It makes sense what Kylie’s saying, that they would think I skip school so I can hide from the world. That’s exactly what I do.
Kylie squints at me through a sunbeam falling between the branches above. I’m afraid she sees anger in my face, an unreasonable anger at her third-grade self of ten years ago. She says, “It’s hard for people who can’t understand what you went through. I don’t think anyone knew what to do to help you.”
She means she didn’t know what to do, which is so weird coming from her, because my girlfriend Kylie would never have been insecure about that. She would have known exactly how to drag me out of isolation and would have been confident while she was doing it. I’ve seen her do similar things a thousand times for other people.
Is kindness a quality I got wrong? Something I added when I made her?
But this Kylie isn’t insensitive or unkind. She made an effort in third grade, and she’s making an effort now. I can’t judge her for not knowing how to help me. I didn’t even know how to help me.
A piece of her hair has come loose from the ponytail and clings sweatily to the side of her face. Her cheeks are pink from the run and the cold. Her mouth is wide but not too wide, lips full but not too full. My gaze shifts down her body, that long, lean, feminine shape I have lain against so many times. In real life she let me suffer alone, but she was the only one I know of who tried when we were small. That truth conquers all.
As my eyes take her in, I notice, with a little satisfaction, her eyes sweep over me as well. Since I haven’t answered, she speaks again. “You want to know the truth? When you didn’t let me be your friend, way back when, I thought you hated me. Not hated everyone, just me, because I must have said or done something wrong. I’ve been afraid of you all this time, thinking you have a long memory and I’m the last person you’d want to talk to.”
“You’re afraid of me?”
“Well, not if you tell me you don’t hate me.”
“I don’t hate you, Kylie.”
“Yeah, but maybe you did a little, back then?”
“I’ve never, ever hated you. I can’t believe you thought I did.”
“Even if you don’t hate me, I’m still sad.”
“Why on earth would you be sad?”
She draws a deep breath and blows it out. “’Cause I’m sitting here with you and you’re a totally normal human being, and all along you were never tragically, irreversibly ruined by a horrible accident.”
“Who says I’m not ruined?” A drop of sweat beads at her throat. I want to whisk it away before it soaks into the collar of her shirt.
“You’re not ruined, Jonathan. You’re something, but it’s not ruined.” Her eyes appraise me again, except this time I don’t think it’s the outside she’s searching. She pauses at the sleeve barely covering the scars on my upper arm and then at the line on my face, but she doesn’t shift away like she’s afraid to be caught staring. She takes her time with the scars, then moves to my shoulders, my chest, my face, my eyes, all equal parts of me. She’s seeing me. She’s really seeing me as a person instead of a tragic disaster. I assume she’s adding up all she’s learned recently about the real Jonathan and comparing it to the Jonathan she thought she knew, much like I’ve been comparing her to the image of her I turned into girlfriend Kylie. It’s ironic that the only other person who’s ever looked at me this way, who’s ever really seen me, is my girlfriend.
I’m distracted by the flush that deepens her already pink face. I’m hypnotized by the rise and fall of her chest, gentle because she’s long since caught her breath. I’m enchanted by the way she’s tucked stray hairs behind her ears, an invitation for my lips to press a whisper there.
Her eyes on me say she feels it too, the urge to be closer even though we’re leaning away from each other in our stretching poses.
She sighs. “I feel like we’re making up after, like, a ten-year fight.”
Slowly we unbend and sit up like normal people while time does its own little stretch between us. She swallows nervously. I’m so tense, my lungs can’t loosen enough to get me air.
“Kylie,” I say. “Would you let me do something?”
“What?”
“Close your eyes.”
“I am not closing my eyes.”
“Okay, then.”
I slide forward until I’m about two feet away and get up on my knees. I’m in her personal space, and she leans back, an instinct to keep the distance right. I lean in, and she realizes what I want to do.
She licks her lips. The running has made them dry. I’ve already taken care of mine, so now that we’re both ready, I put my mouth to hers, as gently as I can. She flinches backward, so I freeze where I am, and she looks at me, uncertainty and something else—desire?—in her expression. I’ve pushed her where she didn’t expect to go, but I can’t tell if she wants me to back away. Better to be safe than sorry, so I retreat a few inches. She rises back up to meet me, and the pressure of her kiss meets mine, and everything turns warm and soft and salty (we’ve been running, after all), and her lips part just a little so we can kiss more deeply, which we do for about three breaths, and then we’re not mouths, only lips brushing once, twice.
We don’t withdraw. Inches separate our faces, too close to look into each other’s eyes, but looking isn’t what matters. We’re experiencing what it means to be this close to each other, our breath heating each other’s cheeks, the sound of life rushing in and out of our lungs like the vitality of a swift run. Her body rose to meet mine, but now she recedes slowly. I fall back as well until we are sitting side by side.
I will never forget this moment. My first real kiss.
She clears her throat and shifts position, a signal for me to give her breathing room. The sun is warm and bright, and it shines on her face. She doesn’t run from me but stays, thoughtful, by my side.
Campaign Jonathan Aubrey awesomeness begins.
I’m going to write her a poem.
CHAPTER 11
ON MONDAY MORNING I CAN’T wait to get to school in the real world. I’ve got a poem in my pocket, printed in my neatest writing and folded in an envelope with “Kylie” written on it. The envelope is sealed, so I can give it to her at the end of creative writing for opening later.
I don’t see Kylie before school starts, but I never normally do. I decide it would be best not to stalk her at her locker, so I go straight to Non-Western History and start counting seconds until the bell for creative writing.
Not halfway through class, the classroom phone rings and Ms. Sawyer answers it. “They want you in guidance, Jonathan.”
“Me?”
“They said you’re late for your appointment.”
I have a fuzzy recollection of making a springtime appointment, along with all the other seniors, just before February vacation. Two months is a long time to keep a guidance appointment slip.
I pack my things as quietly as possible while Ms. Sawyer returns to her lecture on Siddhartha Gautama. I travel two long hallways and past the cafeteria to get to the guidance office, where the secretary greets me warmly, and Mr. Diamond, my counselor, waves me into his tiny office in the line of counselor offices along the wall.
“Hello, Jonathan. Good to see you.”
“Good to see you, too, Mr. Diamond.” I like my guidance counselor well enough. Because of my special circumstances—not just being the victim of a plane crash but being the plaintiff in a lawsuit to get my credits for graduation—I’ve met with Mr. Diamond more than the average student.
Mr. Diamond has a file open on his desk. I sit in the chair opposite him and read the top paper upside down. It’s my transcript.
“I’ve spoken to your teachers, Jonathan. Ms. Sawyer says one more absence will put you over the limit. Mr. Eckhart says you have two absences to go. Ms. Perez and Mr. Papadakis say you’ve got more than twenty in their classes and have already lost credit.”
Ms. Perez teaches Spanish and Mr. Papadakis teaches astronomy. I like them both fine, and their classes are okay, but I spend a lot of afternoons in Kylie-Simms-is-my-girlfriend.
“Your uncle argues your special circumstances justify the truancy, and as far as I’m concerned, since your case is already before the law, my role isn’t to play authoritarian with you. I want to talk to you about what you plan to do once this school year ends. We discussed some possibilities last time I saw you. Have you made any decisions?”
“No, sir.”
“What options are you considering?”
I can’t tell him that answer honestly. The only option I have on the table is to go to college in Kylie-Simms-is-my-girlfriend, since that’s the only place where I have enough high school credits to attend college and have actually gone through the motions to apply and be accepted. I wish I could transfer my credits from that world to this one. I’m smart enough to have kept up my grades in both worlds even when absent. The difference is that Kylie-Simms-is-my-girlfriend accepts my grades despite my absences. The real world, for right or wrong, won’t credit me for classes I’ve passed when my absences go over the limit, so I can’t graduate. I’ve legitimately done all the work and passed all the tests in two separate worlds. I’ve put in the right number of class hours, too, even though they’re half in one world and half in the other. It’s more than your average high school graduate, so it really sucks that I won’t get a real-world diploma.
I chose to split my time, and this is the consequence of that choice. “My uncle wants me to go to a four-year school. So I guess I’m considering any options where I can earn back the credit I’ve lost.”
“Summer school will help a lot, since it’s only attendance, not grades, that is the problem. Have you considered an application to Northern Mass. Community College? One semester there after summer school should be enough to earn your diploma.”
“I have the application. My uncle still thinks I’ll be going directly to college, though.”
“Community college is college.”
“Tell that to my uncle.”
“Look, Jonathan. Your uncle’s an intelligent, well-informed man who certainly has your best interests at heart. BUT. Ultimately you have to take responsibility for decisions regarding your education. For decisions regarding your life.”
“Yes, sir.” My plan to get an education in Kylie-Simms-is-my-girlfriend has always been only a backup. If I don’t go to college in the real world, my life here and my life there will diverge so drastically that I don’t know if I’ll be able to straddle worlds as I’ve been doing so far. How could I be a PhD in one world and a pizza delivery guy in the other?
“Do you consider summer school and community college your best option? Or do you have something else in mind?”
“My uncle mentioned a school for gap years.”
“Boxton Academy.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s more expensive, and will take the full school year, but it’s another good option. The trick is that they have a very rigorous attendance policy. You don’t want to find yourself at the end of an expensive private school year still without a diploma.”
“I realize that, sir. It’s not like I’m just goofing around when I miss school.”
“No one knows what you do when you miss school. Not even your uncle. None of your teachers can name a friend here you might be spending time with.”
That stings a little. My teachers actually spent a few moments considering my friendships and could come up with nothing. I consider that they may actually have opinions about me, and I doubt they’re very positive ones.
“I’m not doing drugs or drinking or making destructive decisions.”
“You don’t think skipping school on a regular basis is a destructive decision?”
Of course, to someone who has only the real world to live in, all my skipping would seem destructive. To me, having other worlds is the only thing that’s kept me alive. Since I can’t make that argument, I simply say, “I do, sir.”
Mr. Diamond sighs. He’s a guidance counselor who takes his job very seriously. He wants to help me, and I guess he has helped in a lot of little ways throughout the years. It’s not his fault I have a secret I won’t tell.
The bell
rings for the end of first period. In less than a second the sounds of kids bursting forth from classrooms fill the hall beyond the guidance office. Mr. Diamond ignores the ruckus to concentrate on me.
“You told me once you wanted to be a doctor. Is this still the case?”
“I don’t think that’s possible now, even if I did want it.”
“What makes being a doctor impossible?”
“No awesome college is going to accept someone who barely squeaks out a diploma after an extra year. No medical school is going to accept someone who doesn’t go to an awesome college.”
“I’m not sure of your definition of ‘awesome college.’”
“You know, a big-name school. Not Northern Mass. Community College.”
“For you NMCC is a stepping stone to a ‘big-name school.’ It’s a good place to start and does not have to be the end of your education.”
I know this. I know my professional life isn’t necessarily doomed at eighteen. If I stick to the real world and get done what needs to be done, I can have a career. I’ve never wanted to be a doctor, though. That’s just something you say to a guidance counselor who asks what you want to be when you grow up. If only I knew what I wanted to be. Come to think of it, I probably am doomed.
But a little whisper says, Jonathan, maybe you have real Kylie now. Maybe you can live in the real world.
It’s the first time since waking from the coma that I ever, ever thought maybe, possibly there could be something for me here. The epiphany stops me cold, like I’ve just found out I’m going to die tomorrow. No, like I just found out the doctor was mistaken about telling me I’m going to die tomorrow. Something pretty awesome wells up inside me. Possibilities.
Mr. Diamond is trying so hard that I want to leave him believing he’s done some good. “I’ll talk to my uncle and let you know as soon as we make a decision. I know what I have to do. Can I just have another summer school application?”
Mr. Diamond obliges with a copy sitting on his desk, as if he knew I’d ask for it. “You never have to make an appointment to see me, Jonathan. Just stop by whenever you want to talk, whether for a minute or an hour.”