by Jen Brooks
She clears her throat softly. “We haven’t been together much in the real world, and I have to admit my friends have given me a hard time over my behavior lately.” Her fingers come up again, stroke my cheek again. Then her hand falls gently away. “I’m not sure what we are now. You know, as ‘us.’ I remember it being both ways. This world remembers it only one way.”
What the world remembers shouldn’t have anything to do with this, I want to say, but it’s not true. The world and its opinions and under-breath remarks have always intruded on my life. I doubt Kylie will let her friends have the final say on our relationship, but their thoughts will matter to her, especially since she has spent the last week or so incapable of thinking properly for herself.
“I’ll do whatever you want,” I say. “I just need to know that you’re okay. I wasn’t sure what you remembered.”
She settles with her back against the door. Cars are filling in around us. Students emerge laden with books and bags. The volume of their voices wavers through the closed windows.
“I remember everything,” she says, “But it’s not as bad as I thought it would be. Of course, I was also surprised to wake up this way.”
God, that freaks me out. It’s like two heads talking out of one mouth.
I don’t want her to make any big decisions right now. I don’t want to make her say she loves me or she doesn’t, so I don’t ask. “Maybe we should just go in separately, like always. I’ll see you in creative writing, and you can decide if you want to see me later.”
She relaxes a little, relieved. I’m glad I didn’t ask, because the answer would have been, Let’s just be friends for now. I know it. Which would have been fine, except for how I would have felt crushed by a giant mountain.
I don’t wait for her to say anything more, just tug on the door handle and let myself out. I ignore the stare of a classmate noticing whose car I get out of, and walk with blinders on to my locker, then on to first period.
* * *
When the bell rings, I make the familiar trek to creative writing class. I arrive before Kylie and help Mr. Eckhart arrange the desks in a circle. When the work is finished, I choose a seat. Zach and Emily land in seats opposite me in the circle, and when Kylie arrives, without hesitation she joins them. She gives me a little friendly wave across the gulf between us, though, so at least I can be assured she didn’t have a meltdown in first period.
I’m disappointed but understand how she might want to reconnect with the friends she’s snubbed the past few days. At least the wave means she still doesn’t hate me.
When everyone settles into their seats, the bell rings and Eckhart goes to the board. “Today is free writing day. I’ll take suggestions.”
The class makes excited sounds, as usual, because most of us like free writing. Even if we don’t want to write, we appreciate having a quiet, easy class.
Claude, of course, volunteers a suggestion. “Write about what the world would be like if everyone woke up tomorrow a person of the opposite sex.” The class giggles, all except me and Kylie. I wonder how she remembers her transformation in the bed.
Kaitlyn Frost pipes up. “What if the only colors in the world were green and white? Or, I guess, what if the world had only two colors?” Eckhart dutifully writes this on the board.
“Describe your perfect prom night.” That’s from Janie Majewski.
“Write an alternative ending to Pride and Prejudice.” That’s Luis Alves. We all had to read P&P for Brit Lit this year.
A couple more suggestions, along with Eckhart’s additions, make it onto the board. Then the circle breaks. Kylie moves to her position by the window. I, as usual, don’t move at all, but I’m nicely placed to spy on her through the whole period.
More than any other time recently, I’m jazzed to write. I don’t want to do something heavy. No poems for me today. No explorations of my troubles. After careful consideration and a reminder to myself that no one is forced to share anything aloud during circle time at the end, I decide to write a list of three things I know about each person in the room. I start with Kylie because I want to get it over with.
Kylie Simms: the fastest sprinter at Pennington; graduating somewhere in the top ten (I think she’s third in the real world, but I’m not 100% sure); favorite food is chocolate, closely followed by mashed potatoes (I’m not sure if this is true anymore)
Mr. Eckhart: teaches creative writing; is passionate about literature and likes teaching it (wish someday he’d share with us something he wrote); once asked to work with me after school on a story he thought had a lot of potential (I declined—why?)
Kaitlyn Frost: very creative; likes fantasy worlds; makes me feel like I’m not a total loser, because she’s nice to me
Luis Alves: prefers mystery novels; plays baseball; tried to talk to me once outside of class—thank you, Luis
Claude Arsenault: writes the funniest stuff in class; went to Alaska over the summer (at least he wrote a spoof about going to Alaska); once complimented something funny I wrote, which helped me out on a bad day
Janie Majewski: popular girl; broke her arm last year in gymnastics; used to have a locker next to mine in middle school and would say hi to me every morning
I find it easy to say three things about everyone, and an obvious pattern develops. Almost all of these people have meaningfully spoken to me at some point in class and in life—i.e., to them I’m not invisible. The shock of this revelation stops my pen. Why did I never see this before?
I check to make sure Mr. Eckhart’s attention is not on the class, and chance a good look at my classmates. Every one of them is hunched over a notebook writing. Harmless. Following directions. Not ignoring me or pretending I’m invisible, but concentrating on what they have to do. My three-things-I-know list shows that each of them has noticed me, but what incentive was there to keep noticing when they reached out and I never reached back?
For ten years I’ve been indulging in self-pity over what’s happened to me. I’ve been avoiding the real world like it’s treated me unfairly, and perhaps it has, but in many ways maybe my loneliness is my own fault. Kylie-Simms-is-my-girlfriend showed I am capable of making friends. Maybe it’s too late to suddenly become Mr. Popular at Pennington High, but after graduation in June, I have schooling to look forward to with people I haven’t met yet. I can’t assume any longer that people will shun me before they know me.
I was the only one to think I didn’t exist. For these people, and surely others in the world, I’ve been here all along.
My pen’s too still, and I have to think of something else to write. Since I’m on a roll about knowing my classmates, I decide to take a risk in my notebook and write down one thing that might happen to each person in the future. I start with Claude: Someday Claude Arsenault will assassinate a world leader by making him laugh to death. I skip Kylie because I’m pretty nervous about where I stand in her future, and I’m trying to be fun here. Kaitlyn Frost will marry an elf and start up a bed-and-breakfast on their unicorn ranch. I’m halfway through the class when Eckhart announces it’s time to circle up.
Throughout free writing Kylie has sat, intent either on her notebook or on the view out the window. Technically, staring out the window is against the rules, but her expression has been serious. Every stare outside was followed by something written on her paper.
“Let’s get a quick summary of what everyone did today,” Eckhart says.
The few people between Eckhart and me give their summaries. When it’s my turn, I say, “I wrote three things I know about each person in the room, and then I started forecasting futures for everyone but ran out of time.”
A few people raise eyebrows. It’s the first time I’ve ever gotten anything more than a yawn for the subject of my free writing. I bet everyone wants to know what Jonathan Aubrey thinks he knows about each of them. I won’t share, though. I never do.
We continue around the circle, giving summary statements. Kylie simply says, “I wrote a poem,” which no one finds surprising. When all have made confession, Eckhart opens the floor.
“I want to hear Jonathan’s,” Luis says. My head shakes No in a gut reaction. Luis looks at me with friendly eyes. I don’t think he’s trying to pry secrets. I think he’s trying to encourage me to come out of my shell. He wants me to share because he knows the class is interested and he thinks a little push might give me the courage I need.
“Jonathan?” Eckhart says. His way of giving me the floor.
“Not today,” I say. Kylie watches me as I shrink back into my seat. It kills me that I might be disappointing her by being withdrawn. What I’ve written is harmless but reveals a little too much of what I’ve discovered about myself this period. “Sorry, Luis.”
Luis shrugs. “Maybe next time?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“I’ll go,” says Claude, and the pressure is off. Claude has a mad lib today, so he takes nouns, verbs, and adjectives from the class and reads a very funny story about a boy who wakes up as a girl.
Throughout his turn, and the sharing that follows, I’m fixated on Kylie. She smiles and laughs and makes eye contact with each speaker, the epitome of gracious listening, but her hands curl around her notebook. Her fingers pinch the pages. She’s thinking about sharing, but she’s not sure. Time is running out in class.
The circle erupts in applause for a list of the top ten things Claude Arsenault will miss about Pennington High, written by Zach. It’s always fun to make fun of the funny guy.
“Thank you, Zach. Who’s next?”
There’s a hesitation. All the people who were eager to share have had their turn. Now it’s down to people who are nervous about sharing but might if no one else does.
Kylie looks around the circle. The top of her notebook lifts from the desk, like she’s angling it to read. “I’ll go,” she says.
“Okay, Kylie. Go for it,” says Eckhart.
She slides her chair back and stands, holding her notebook out like it’s sheet music and she’s about to sing. She looks straight at me, and I know what’s coming. The class looks at me too.
She clears her throat and swallows. Takes a deep breath. Begins.
The class falls stony silent. Not a single foot shuffles. Not a single paper rustles. My chest freezes. I will not breathe again until this is over. Kylie’s eyes move between her paper and me while she reads.
FOR JONATHAN
by Kylie Simms
A vase broke once.
I tried to glue it together,
But the cracks showed,
So I left it, empty.
It sat on a shelf,
Patient and alone.
I wasn’t even sure
It was there anymore.
But today I picked flowers
And needed a vessel
To fill with myself,
Double myself, if you will.
Imagine my surprise
To find that vase
Filled with the sweetest water
For me.
It takes a second for everyone to realize she’s finished. Kylie’s poetry is often a bit obscure. Now one girl in the circle sighs “Ohhhh,” while everyone else gapes openly at me. Even Mr. Eckhart. My skin prickles with something that is not the cold. My lungs open, and air flows in.
Kylie’s face is red to her ears, and her hands are shaking, but when my eyes meet hers, she smiles, tentatively. I think what I want to do is run over and kiss her, but that would be a little much for creative writing class. Because it’s all I can do, I smile back. I read somewhere that when you’re down, if you just smile, it opens up the air passages in your face and you feel better. I give Kylie a smile that opens up everything.
For the first time in a very long time I dare to feel happy. I dare these people to tell me I shouldn’t be happy that Kylie loves me after all.
* * *
“So you’ll pick me up at six?”
We’re standing at the track making plans. She wants to tell me about what it was like for her last night, how it felt to wake up this morning. I get the feeling it was not horrific for her, and I wonder if something of what Tess did to me was happening in her. It’s all so strange, but we need to talk about it.
“Six o’clock,” I say, “If you don’t mind the red car.”
“First of all, I’d like to meet your car. Second of all, when have I never liked riding in your car?”
Again, two heads, one mouth. She seems to think it’s funny, though, and I think eventually, if we’re together long enough and we make a single set of memories together, the disconcerting double-talk won’t happen anymore.
“It’s weird,” she says, “that you’re going home. I know you’re not on the track team, but you’ve always been at every practice with me.”
“It’s weird you can be so casual about remembering me both ways.”
“Well, you’re not on the team now. I’ll get used to it. Or you can join.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Okay, see you at six.” She doesn’t give me a peck on the cheek or blow a kiss as we part. Girlfriend Kylie would have done that, but it’s okay. She seems happy, so there is no reason for me to regret walking home without a PDA.
It takes me twenty minutes. I almost never make this walk after school because I go to practice in Kylie-Simms-is-my-girlfriend. It saddens me to have lost that. It’s like another death in the family.
I can’t be too sad, though, because I couldn’t have hoped for a better outcome with Kylie. I’ll go running on my own, and it will be fine.
At Uncle Joey’s I go directly upstairs and change into running clothes. My legs are pretty loose, considering all the tension I’ve had in the last twenty-four hours. I stretch lightly and plan a route that won’t take me near the high school or, hopefully, the distance runners if they’re on the roads today.
Five miles is a good distance. I start off faster than normal, probably because I’m thinking about being with Kylie tonight. When I hit the first big hill, I tackle it as if it’s the only one on the course. At the top I lengthen my stride to keep up my pace. The rest of the run passes in a series of uphills and downhills, main streets and side roads. By the time I get back to Uncle Joey’s, I’m eager to get out of my shirt because I’m sweating so much. My watch says I ran about two minutes faster than normal. It feels so good.
I go into the backyard to stretch because it’s too nice out to stretch inside. I find myself wishing my uncle had a bird feeder, because the birds would be decent company. They chirp in the big maple tree, but I don’t see them. The grass spreads around me, cool and soft, and I lie back in it, letting it tickle my bare back. The sun is low enough to touch the trees, a soft yellowy-white through the branches.
I lie in the grass until the high from my run has left me. My pulse no longer races. My muscles have cooled. There’s only so long I can stare at the sky, so I go to my room and shower and change.
I choose tan pants, rather than jeans, for my date with Kylie. I dig through my drawer for a collared shirt like the one I was wearing when I opened The-crash-never-happened. I have to wear sneakers because I don’t own anything nicer that still fit. I choose darker-colored socks to make up for the casual shoes.
A few minutes in the bathroom, and my teeth are brushed and my hair is combed. The mirror says a scar still scraggles down my face, but the line is paler. Thinner. The face in the mirror is mine, but I give myself a little credit for being okay to look at.
It’s only five thirty, so I have a few minutes to kill. I decide to snack on an orange or something and go through the college and summer school applications on the kitchen counter. I skip down the stairs and enter the kitchen . . . and immediately sense something is wrong.
Although sunlight shines through the back windows, the kitchen has fallen dark. The same icky feeling Tess sometimes gives falls over me. I look around to find the source of my discomfort, but everything is in its place, perfectly clean and ordered, as Uncle Joey likes it.
Except for my college papers. They are not stacked to the side. They sit in a pile in the center of the counter. I approach them and notice that the paper on top does not come from any college or summer school. The header is Healey House, a Division of North Shore Long-Term Health Care.
It’s a form. It has filled-in spaces at the top. Next to “Patient” someone has typed in “JONATHAN M. AUBREY.” Next to “Parent” the line is blank. Next to “Legal Health Care Proxy” is my Uncle Joey’s name.
The form’s title: Authorization for Termination of Life Support.
Two pages of legalese. I flip to the end and see that the papers haven’t been signed. They are not dated. They are asking permission to terminate Jonathan M. Aubrey’s life. My life.
Under the termination papers, on top of the rest of the pile, is a sticky note. I don’t recognize her handwriting because I’ve never actually seen it before this moment:
Here’s my gift of honesty to you, Big Brother. Something from the actual real world. I like to call the little place in the universe you think is real “Jonathan-is-alive.”
CHAPTER 24
I CANNOT POSSIBLY DESCRIBE IN superlative-enough terms how the earth has been ripped from beneath me.
Or list the memories of my life that flood through me infused with new meaning.
Or even assign meaning to anything, because I cannot sort out the questions raging in my mind.
This makes no sense! I am alive! I am real! The whole last few days have been about making everything real!
“TESS!” The kitchen echoes my desperation back at me. “TESS, YOU COME HERE RIGHT THIS INSTANT! YOU HEAR ME? GET. DOWN. HERE. RIGHT. NOW!”
I’m pacing. Absently I kick the kitchen island. It hurts. “TESS!”
The cabinets whirl as I spin on a heel to pace the other way, shouting at the ceiling, not sure why I expect Tess to descend from the ceiling. “GET DOWN HERE!”