by Ben Karwan
After twenty minutes of showering, washing my hair and brushing my teeth, I venture downstairs, trying to rid my face of any signs of seediness.
‘Did you have a good night?’ asks my mother the exact second I set foot into the kitchen. She’s sitting at the dining table drinking a cup of tea.
‘Yeah, it wasn’t too bad. Did you?’
‘Oh yes, it was good to catch up with Dana, Marg and the girls.’ She and Dad went to a party hosted by some of her friends. I knew Dad was really looking forward to it. Not. ‘I trust you didn’t drink too much?’ She stares at me, searching for signs of deceit.
‘I only had two or three.’ And then another two or three. And maybe a couple more after that.
‘Lots of water, too, I hope. Because you know –’
‘Yes, Mum, I know it’s killing my brain cells and ruining my intelligence and I’ll end up killing myself if I have more than half a standard drink.’
She still stares, unimpressed with my retort. My head pounds and my stomach muscles feel like they’re practising jujitsu.
‘Dad and Aaron aren’t here,’ she says after what feels like a minute of staring, though I don’t remember asking the question. ‘Aaron’s meeting some friends and they’re shopping for the day. Dad’s dropping him off and then calling in to see his parents on the way home.’
‘Cool,’ I say. ‘I’m going to Elliot’s for a bit.’
Mum lowers her mug and gives me a serious look. And it has to be a damn serious look to be distinguishable from her regular looks. ‘Jennifer,’ she begins. If I wasn’t so hung-over, I’m sure I’d be laughing. ‘You need to be careful in your relationship with Elliot.’
I sigh, knowing exactly where she’s going with this. ‘Mum, there’s –’
‘Just remember that you’re friends. It’s a little bit concerning how … close … you two are. You have a boyfriend and I’m not sure Dylan would approve of how much time you spend with Elliot.’
‘Well, it’s a good thing I don’t do anything for Dylan’s approval, isn’t it?’ I snap, a little more harshly than I intend to. ‘I don’t need his permission to do things. If he isn’t okay with me having other friends, then I’m not okay with dating him.’
‘It’s not about you having friends, Jennifer, it’s about him becoming jealous. He’s a good kid with strong Christian values and I’d be disappointed if you let your friendship with another boy ruin such a strong relationship.’
There are enough factual errors in that sentence to make it funny, even in my head-spinning, hung-over state.
‘You know, just because Elliot has a penis doesn’t mean he’s going to stick it in me.’
‘Watch your mouth, young lady. And just because you don’t think anything will happen doesn’t mean it won’t. Young boys are very hormonal, you know.’
‘Are you concerned with Dylan having female friends? Or the fact that Elliot is dating Nessie?’
She doesn’t answer me.
‘Well?’
‘No, because –’
‘Because they’re male and get to do whatever they please and I’m just a lowly woman and all I’m good for is being Dylan’s property and bringing him sandwiches and doing his washing? That’s not how it works, Mum.’
‘Because Dylan’s friends and Elliot’s girlfriend aren’t my daughters,’ she snaps. ‘And I don’t appreciate you putting words into my mouth. All I’m saying is that you have to consider the feelings of other people.’
‘Maybe other people should consider the feelings of me. I don’t belong to anybody. I’m a person. Now, if you’ve finished, I’m going to go and hang out with my friend.’
I leave the house before she has the chance to answer. So now I’m apparently not allowed to have friends at all. Does Dylan also think I should stop seeing Elliot? Dylan’s the only boyfriend I’ve ever had and we don’t talk about our feelings all that often, so I don’t really know how a girlfriend is ‘supposed’ to act. Do boys expect girls to stop talking to everyone else when we date them, as if we’re exclusively theirs? If I’m forced to choose between having a boyfriend and having friends, I guess I’ll be single for the rest of my life.
I knock on Elliot’s door and the smiling face of Elliot’s mum answers a mere four seconds later. ‘Good morning, Jennifer.’ She looks far too cheery for when I’m so seedy. I might need to vomit.
‘Happy New Year, Mrs Carter,’ I say, and we do one of those social kisses where two people bump their cheeks together. This weird ritual always makes me worry that me and the person I’m cheek-bumping are both going to go the same way and end up with lip-to-lip contact. It’s also hard to figure out how much cheek contact is acceptable before pulling away. At least if something goes wrong with a friend you can laugh it off. It’d be a bit more awkward kissing Mrs Carter on the lips.
‘Please, dear, call me Jo. And Happy New Year to you, too.’
This is our usual exchange: I call her Mrs Carter, she tells me to call her Jo, but I continue calling her Mrs Carter. It just feels respectful, and Joanne Carter deserves a great deal of respect.
‘Is Elliot up?’ It’s nearly midday but I haven’t been up for long myself and Elliot is a heavy sleeper.
Mrs Carter chuckles. ‘Come and see for yourself.’
I follow her to the bathroom, where Elliot lies facedown on the tiles.
‘Oh Elliot!’ she calls in a high-pitched singsong voice clearly designed to irritate anybody with a hangover. Her call thumps around my head. ‘You have a visitor.’
‘Hey Jen,’ Elliot mumbles as his mum leaves. ‘How’re you?’
‘I think I might be dying; my head’s pounding and I might vomit at any moment.’
‘I was dying before,’ he says matter-of-factly. He shifts so he’s sitting up against the bathtub. ‘Then I died. Now I’m dead.’ His face is paler than mine, which is saying something.
I sit down, leaning against the shower. ‘How much did you drink?’
‘Judging by this hangover – the worst one I’ve ever had, I should add – I would say I drank approximately … everything. I had about ten shots and – oop, hang on.’ He crawls across the tiled floor and through the adjoining sliding door into the toilet and emits some repugnant noises as his stomach contents splatter against the ceramic bowl.
Mrs Carter laughs from down the hall.
‘You okay, bud?’ I say.
The toilet flushes. ‘How much do you want to go and get me some water?’
In the time it takes me to go and get a glass, fill it with water, listen to Mrs Carter say how amusing she finds it all, and return to the bathroom, Elliot has vomited again. He’s just returning to his spot against the bath when I re-enter.
‘Thank you,’ he murmurs, and he sips the water.
‘Aside from the obvious, are you feeling better?’
‘Do I look better?’ he asks.
‘No, no, I mean about Nessie – you were a bit cut-up about not being with her last night,’ I remind him.
‘Oh right. Yeah, I called her this morning. I was being stupid last night; she’s not gone forever.’
‘Don’t say that,’ I say. ‘I mean, the being stupid part. It’s natural.’ I think. ‘But you’re right. She’ll be back before you know it. Besides, at least you get to talk to her. Imagine if this was the fourteenth century and there were no telephones or internet and everyone travelled everywhere by horse and was ruled by kings and either had their heads chopped off or died of the plague.’
‘You really didn’t pay attention in history class, did you?’
‘And you really didn’t pay attention in health class when they taught us about hangovers,’ I counter, and score a smile, albeit a small one.
We sit in silence for maybe five minutes, until Elliot speaks. ‘I think I’m good to move, now. Gimme a hand?’
I scramble to my feet and grab his outstretched hand. I pull him up and he walks down the hall to his bedroom, using the wall and me to steady himself.
‘I’m so dizzy
,’ he groans. ‘Alcohol is bad. Why did you let me drink it all?’
Just after Elliot gets settled and the urge to vomit again passes, the doorbell rings. A few moments later Theodore C. Block enters the bedroom.
‘Hey losers,’ he says. ‘Jesus Christ, El, you look like death.’
‘He died from alcohol poisoning earlier this morning,’ I explain, while Elliot throws a pillow at him.
Though nobody asks, Teddy goes on a simply riveting (and somewhat sexist) rant about Christina, consisting of how a) they exchanged saliva until about three in the morning, b) he copped a feel (above the waist, through clothing) and c) he almost got her to go down on him (his phrase, not mine).
‘Absolutely fascinating, Theodore,’ I say. ‘How much for the movie rights?’
He flips me off and keeps talking until my phone rings. Dylan’s name flashes across the screen. I answer it, very aware that Teddy and Elliot are listening in.
‘Hey babe. Happy New Year.’
‘You too,’ I say.
‘You have a good night?’
‘It was okay.’
‘Mine was good. Me and the boys went to Chris’s place and had a few beers.’
‘Cool.’
‘You should’ve come. There were plenty of chicks you could’ve hung with.’
Maybe he could’ve invited me, instead of acting like I’m not important and just assuming that I’ll be there waiting for him with open arms when he decides he want to talk to me. ‘Yeah.’
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Well, I’ll see you later, I guess.’
‘Yeah. Bye.’
I hang up the phone.
‘Trouble in paradise?’ asks Teddy. ‘You guys should try to be more like me and Christina.’
‘You’ve known her for a whole five minutes,’ I snap. ‘And what’s it to you, anyway?’
‘I don’t know. You just seem down about him.’
‘He makes a fair point,’ says Elliot, sitting up. ‘You are kind of –’
‘Kind of what?’
‘Distant?’ Teddy offers.
Elliot agrees. ‘You just don’t really seem like you’re happy. Is everything okay?’
I half-shrug my shoulders. ‘It’s okay.’
‘Why don’t you just ditch him?’ asks Teddy.
‘It’s not that bad,’ I insist. The conversation topic is starting to annoy me. I’m already confused enough about the whole thing and their bringing it up and making me question what I’m doing makes it even more confusing.
‘Does he make you happy?’ says Elliot.
I think for a moment. ‘He doesn’t make me unhappy.’
‘That wasn’t the question,’ says Teddy.
I ignore him.
‘Would you say it’s easier for you to stay with him because your mum approves?’ asks Elliot.
‘Yeah, I guess.’
‘You know that’s really selfish, right?’
As with most criticism, it stings a little. But that’s one of my favourite things about Elliot: he never lies to make me feel better. Or to make me feel worse, for that matter. He says things as they are.
‘Whether he’s a good guy or not, he deserves the truth. You’ve been together for, what, four months?’ he continues.
‘Something like that.’
‘And how long have you been “not unhappy” for?’ says Teddy.
‘Maybe two months.’
‘Where does it stop?’ says Elliot. ‘Are you going to just keep dragging it out and leading him on and then cut it off abruptly? Or wait for him to end it? Or will you end up married with kids, growing old together because you want to keep your mum happy?’
‘I’m not leading him on.’
‘You don’t want to be with him, do you?’
‘I don’t know …’
‘Then you’re leading him on. You’re making him think he’s got a future with you.’
I sigh. That’s one of the things I hate about Elliot: he’s always right, even when he’s super hung-over.
‘Maybe there is a future, though,’ I say. ‘I mean, if I work at it …’
‘Then that’s your call,’ says Elliot, ‘but I don’t think it’s fair of you if your heart isn’t fully in it.’
Teddy chews on his fingernails, nodding.
I flinch a little. I’ve been so busy trying to make sure Mum and Dylan are happy and not thinking about how me misleading Dylan will probably hurt him even more. Even if I do keep trying, I can’t imagine spending my whole life with him. It might keep him happier right this second, but keeping this up will just make it more painful in the end and I don’t want to do that to him. It’d be better if I end things now. Mum won’t like it but I can’t keep both of them happy.
‘How do you do it, though?’ I ask.
‘Do what?’ asks Teddy. He rips the top bit of his thumbnail off with his teeth and drops it into Elliot’s bin.
‘Break up with someone,’ I say.
‘Be honest,’ says Elliot. ‘You owe him that.’
‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘ “Hey Dylan. Soz, but we should stop dating because I don’t actually like you anymore and it was just easier to pretend than having my mum disappointed in me for being a loser who can’t even hold down a relationship.” I’m sure that’d go down swimmingly.’
‘You can be honest without being tactless,’ says Teddy. ‘Just tell him you’re not happy in the relationship and that you want some time to be single.’
Receiving actual dating advice from Theodore C. Block is a little like getting a lecture in astrophysics from a five-year-old, though it’s possible he stole that line from Elliot’s never-ending supply of wisdom.
Teddy and I both leave Elliot’s five minutes later, after Elliot falls asleep. When I turn into my driveway, Teddy says, ‘Talk soon, Jen. Sort out that stuff with Dylan, yeah?’
I mumble my agreement and give a half-hearted wave goodbye.
Chapter Seven
After saying goodbye to Teddy I head straight up to my room.
I sit at my desk and lay my phone flat on it. I really wish my leg would stop bouncing around. It’s not exactly comforting when I don’t really want to make this phone call in the first place.
I need to sit still.
A fresh wave of nausea floods my body. I have no idea if it’s because of my hangover or the lingering loss of my Dumper Virginity. (That’s not as dirty as it sounds.)
I pace around my room for nearly an hour trying to work up the nerve to call Dylan. But the longer you put these things off, the heavier they become, until they eventually crush your cognitive capabilities and you can think of nothing else.
I’m being stupid. This is the right thing to do. It’s not fair on Dylan to keep this up. I just have to do it. Get it over and done with.
But instead, I ring Elliot. It’s funny how easily I can dial his number.
‘Have you called him yet?’
‘No.’
‘How come?’
‘I don’t know … It’s scary. And you’re not supposed to break up over the phone, right?’ I’m no expert but doing it over the phone seems cowardly and unfair. And the whole point of doing this is to be fair. But doing it in person is really daunting. I want it done, I just don’t want to actually do it.
‘Why don’t you ring him now and ask to meet him in person?’ Elliot says. ‘Or text him and ask to meet, if you want. You can do it! I believe in you!’
My lips stretch into a small smile. ‘You’re an idiot.’
‘I know. But seriously, you’ll be fine. I promise.’
As soon as I hang up the phone I call Dylan, before I lose my nerve. My heartbeat is probably audible from Aaron’s room. Maybe even Elliot’s.
Air seeps through my lips as I hold the phone to my ear. Maybe he won’t answer … but I guess that in the end that’s not an ideal solution.
‘Hey babe.’
Oh no. ‘Hi. Listen, can we talk?’ I don’t know how my voice manages to escape my throat; rubbing
two planks of wood together would be smoother than my throat right now.
‘Sure, what’s up?’
‘No, I mean in person. Can we meet somewhere?’
‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Uh … I have work all afternoon. Does tomorrow work? How about Andrea’s at ten?’
‘Yeah, see you then.’
‘Is everything okay?’ His voice has a little edge in it, something I’ve never heard before. Maybe this is a bad idea.
‘I’ll talk to you tomorrow, yeah?’
‘Okay …’
‘Bye.’ I hang up the phone.
I take a few minutes to breathe. I’m not going to think about it for the rest of the night. If I do, I’ll just end up planning out an entire script and running through the scenario in my head. And then I’ll just get really stressed if it doesn’t go the way I imagine.
I open my laptop and watch some YouTube videos for a while, until there’s a knock at my door.
‘Jen?’
It’s Aaron.
‘Yeah?’ I say, opening the door. He shifts uncomfortably, with a battered copy of Romeo and Juliet in his hands.
‘Um, do you think, maybe, I mean –’
‘Come on, boy, spit it out,’ I tease.
‘Would you help me with my holiday homework? I have to do act summaries for English and I don’t really get it.’ He speaks quickly, as though he needs the words out of his system.
‘Of course.’ I smile at him.
Aaron has fallen victim to my mother’s idea that help is for the weak. I don’t think it’s healthy to teach kids that they shouldn’t ask for help, because asking is how you learn. But my mother believes that if it’s easy for her then it should be easy for everyone else. Hence Aaron’s reluctance to ask her for help with his schoolwork: he’s afraid his questions would be ‘too easy’. It’s sad.
I grab the chair from my desk and follow Aaron down the upstairs hallway and into his bedroom, where his desk is cluttered with English notes, maths equations, highlighters and workbooks. It gives off the impression of an exceptionally organised clutter that nobody else could make sense of.
‘I just don’t understand it,’ he says, sitting in his chair. ‘Studying Shakespeare is stupid – nobody talks like that anymore.’