“Do you know there are people who don’t eat meat?” she says incredulously, as if these are the same types of weirdos who kidnap children or skin kittens. “It’s not natural. You’re not one of those vegetable-eaters, are you?”
“No, Gram.”
Sometime after bashing vegetarians and recalling her glory years as an editor at a local newspaper, Gram falls asleep. This is usually my cue to leave. But today a soft voice on the other side of the curtain distracts me as I gather my things. It’s the first time a visitor has come while I was here. She sounds young—her voice is peppier than the nurses’, not as tired and formal—and the way she speaks is so intimate that it feels wrong to barge through. So I sit back down. I can wait a few minutes to leave; I have nowhere to be and no one to answer to—another perk of living in Riverton, I think bitterly.
“Sorry I’m late, Nonni.” Her voice is barely a whisper, and the sliding of the metal chair overpowers it as it grates across the floor. “I lost track of time after work, I’m sorry I woke you.”
“Oh, honey, come here.” I hear the wet snap of kisses. “You look so skinny. Are you eating?”
“Oh, please.” She lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Of course I’m eating. Would you look at these legs, Nonni, they’re like oak trees!” She laughs and it’s a loud, musical sound that bounces around the room and makes me smile. “Are they still treating you okay in here?” Her voice is light and jovial. “They haven’t tried to put you to work yet, have they? I hope they don’t have a quilting sweatshop set up somewhere.” Her voice is deadpan now. “You better pull your weight, or they might make you sleep out on the lawn.”
When I hear Evelyn gasp, I have to bite my lip hard to keep from laughing.
“You think they have a sweatshop?” she asks.
The girl’s bouncing laugh makes its trip around the room again.
“No, no, I’m just being silly. There’s no sweatshop.”
“You know, I stayed in a sweat lodge in the desert for two days when I was your age, Ginny.” Evelyn states this like it’s a fact you can find in a history book.
“You were in school when you were my age, Nonni. Or married, probably. And a sweat lodge isn’t the same as a sweatshop.”
“Well, close to your age then.”
I’m hunched forward in my chair, elbows on my knees, as I listen like one of those cross-legged kids in front of an old-timey radio in a black-and-white movie. Or like a stalker. It’s a matter of perspective, I guess. I should have left earlier, because I can’t do it now without looking like I’m hiding. I don’t want to leave, though; this conversation—that I’m not even a part of—is the first thing that’s interested me in months.
“That’s what you should be doing, Ginny,” Evelyn says.
“I should be hanging out in a sweat lodge?”
“It’s not warm enough for that here, dear.”
That laugh again. Something about it makes me want to join in. It’s compelling.
“You should be young and wild, out having fun. Meeting boys. Not hanging out with old ladies.”
“Well, you’re not just any old lady, are you? I love our Monday nights together. And I was at the beach earlier. With boys.”
Have I seen her before?
“Plus, I have band practice after this. So that’s wild. And crazy.” Her voice is sarcastic, almost theatrical. “Bands are very wild and crazy, Nonni, you have no idea. If you did, you probably wouldn’t even approve! Tomorrow I’ll bring my guitar, and we can be wild and crazy together, okay?”
I think of my own guitar, neglected since moving here, and wonder what kind of band she’s in. There’s a picture of her being pieced together in my mind.
Noticeably thin.
Tree trunk legs.
I’ve been in bands before, but never with girls. I don’t even know any girls in bands, but I picture neon tights, short shorts, and a ripped T-shirt that hangs off of her shoulder. Something with a skull on it, maybe. She’s confident, sarcastic—she seems like the kind of girl who could pull that sort of thing off. The kind of girl who comes to school in leather pants with purple hair, and then three days later it’s green.
Ginny stays for another hour, telling Evelyn all about her week. Her band, The Melon Ballers, got a gig at a local bar in two weeks. She’s excited about it, but they still need to find a new guitarist to take the place of someone who moved over the summer.
Playing at a bar. She’s obviously older.
She’s excited for school to start tomorrow.
Maybe not.
A lot of the conversation is about music. One of her favorite bands, The Icarus Account, is playing a concert a few hours away, but she can’t afford tickets. I’ve never even heard of them. How expensive could tickets possibly be? It’s quiet for a minute, and then I hear acoustic guitars. The music is faint at first—probably playing on her phone. The four of us sit in silence as the singer joins in, describing a girl who “always wears yellow on days when she feels like herself.” It’s one of those songs that sounds happy and sad all at once, and when it’s done I find myself hoping she’ll play another. She doesn’t.
“I’ll see you Friday for the big First Week of School Recap. Same place, same time, Nonni.” The door squeaks open, and the hallway sounds infiltrate our quiet room. “But I’ll be on time. Promise!”
I’ll see you then, I silently reply.
With a final click of the door, I know she’s gone. It feels like that moment when the end credits run at a movie, and you wish there were just a few more minutes left before you have to dump your popcorn in the trash. A few more moments before you return to your real life, leaving the imaginary world and characters of the movie behind, trading them in for your own reality.
VIRGINIA
Mom pushes a sticky yellow puddle of eggs around the pan, eyeing me hopefully as I sit across from her on the kitchen island with my glass of orange juice. “You want some?”
I shake my granola bar in front of me. “I’m good.”
“I’ll just pretend like I didn’t see your car missing this morning.” She’s looking at me the way most moms probably would, if they were about to launch into a full-fledged Gitmo-style interrogation of their seventeen-year-old daughter. Except my mom isn’t most mothers, so she just cracks a smile and keeps stirring.
My mom only wishes there was a story of wild adolescent rebellion attached to the disappearance of my green Ford Focus. While she doesn’t outright say it, deep down I think my mom, like my Nonni, wishes I had followed in her free-spirited, “try anything once,” leather-bound sandal footsteps. Instead of my father’s more practical loafers. It’s hard to complain. I have a ridiculous amount of freedom. I rarely use it, but it’s there. And she isn’t one of those weird, incompetent moms who think they’re an overgrown teenager, either. She’s just got a lot of things to worry about, so I try to make sure I’m not one of them.
“I really don’t ask for much, Virginia, just—”
That you come home drunk once.
Get your heart broken.
That you be more like me when I was your age.
“Full disclosure.” I say it with a cheesy grin, in my most mocking voice.
“Yes.” She’s pointing the spatula at me like it’s a weapon, but she’s smiling. “And I don’t think that’s so much to ask.” She still has her light blue scrubs on, and there are tiny flecks of color on them. I wonder if it’s the result of a meal tray malfunction, or some sort of bodily fluid.
Gross.
“Nothing to tell. Steve got wasted at band practice. Again.” I sigh. “I left my car at Logan’s so I could drive him home. So I’m stuck with his car. Case closed, Detective Miller.” I think I can actually hear my mother’s hopes fall with each boring word out of my mouth.
“So Logan’s picking you up for school?”
“Like usual.” My best friend Logan has picked me up for school every day since before he could actually drive. All through middle school Logan’
s older brother Drew forced us to sit in the backseat and drove us chauffeur-style. Logan should actually be here by now.
“I haven’t seen him around much lately. Everything okay?”
I nod. “Must be running late.” Because of Labor Day, school starts on a Tuesday, and Logan and I have a two-year-long Tuesday ritual. Donut Day. He shows up at my house way too early in the morning and we drive to Bunn’s—Riverton’s only bakery. We fill a box with donuts of the jelly-filled, twisted, glazed, and sprinkle-dunked varieties. We’re basically the donut-saviors of our first-period class. But today—the first day of the third year of our donut-buying ritual—there is no red Honda honking in my driveway five minutes too early. No answer to my seven phone calls and fifteen texts.
It’s official. I’m nervous.
“Do you need a ride?” My mom works third shift at Lake Terrace Assisted Living, where my Nonni lives, and she gets home every morning just in time to make me breakfast. I know she’d rather listen to her residents sing show-tune karaoke than stay up longer than she has to, but she still insists on breakfast with me. Even though I only eat a few bites of whatever she makes. It’s one of the few times we actually cross paths during the week.
“I’m set, Mom, you don’t have to worry about it. I can drive Steve’s car if I need to.” Please, please, please don’t let me need to. “When will Dad be home?”
Her eyes are trained on the gooey yellow mess in the pan. “Sunday morning. He’s staying for a meeting on Saturday.” She’s trying not to sound irritated, but I can see it all over her face. Mom has these tiny little wrinkles around her eyes that pinch together when she’s frustrated.
Monday through Friday my dad works in Chicago. He lives in a tiny condo outside the city and commutes to his law firm every day. Two years ago—when my parents’ arguing escalated to new heights—they sold our house by the beach. The house I grew up in. Mom started working again, and Dad took a job at a big firm in the city. He traded time with his family for a bigger paycheck. And we don’t actually talk about it, because any mention of Dad’s strange living situation means Mom’s eyes start to burrow into their wrinkly sockets. Without my dad here the arguing has stopped, but so has any semblance of what our family used to be.
* * *
I finally drive myself to school. Logan must be dead in a ditch. Or dying of some sort of brain-eating disease that you get from sharing a shower with too many dirty guys after gym class. No one misses the first day of school. That’s insanity. And more to the point, Logan doesn’t miss out on a chance to eat donuts. Boys are lucky like that, with their eat-whatever-they-want metabolisms and baggy clothes.
I’m sitting in the third row of Mr. Flanagan’s first-period Calc class, eyeing the clock as I drum my fingers across the shiny black desk.
Situations like this—sitting in class and wondering if Logan has decided to hate me after all—is why we never should have tried the whole friends-with-benefits thing. Because even though it only lasted for two months over the summer, and started and ended mutually (mostly), I still find myself wondering if things have changed. If Logan’s sarcastically biting comments are actually sarcastic, or if he means it now when he says, “You’re a cold bitch sometimes, Vee.” Because he’s said that to me jokingly a hundred times before, but suddenly it feels personal. I feel weird mentioning other guys. Is it cruel? Does he even care? He never seemed to before, but now I don’t know. Being paranoid sucks. Two months of make-out sessions were totally not worth the stress and second-guessing that have followed.
When I called things off, I told him I didn’t want a relationship. Which is sort of true. My parents were high school sweethearts. Mom followed Dad to college, and they couldn’t afford law school and nursing school, so Mom worked while Dad finished. She supported him. When he was done it was supposed to be her turn, but by then I’d come around. Now Dad’s a big-shot lawyer in the city and Mom’s working a job with shitty hours. She finished nursing school last year after Dad moved. On her own. Mom’s told me their epic love story over the years, but I’ve read between the lines, and had front-row seats to the live production version. You put your dreams on hold for him and look what it got you. But when I told Logan I didn’t want a relationship, mostly I just panicked. I didn’t want a relationship with him and didn’t know how to say it.
It’s three minutes until the bell signals the start of my senior year, and I’m still donut-less and down a friend. For the record, I would never voluntarily show up last minute on the first day of school. I love camping out in the hallway, catching up on summer gossip, checking out the carefully chosen outfits. The hallways squeak with new shoes and the classrooms smell like fresh denim. If it were up to Logan, we’d always slide in just as the bell rang. He and I are opposites in almost every way. And it’s not that he’s this super-popular jock-musician and I’m some kind of social zero. He is—but I’m not. I’m not a cheerleader or a star athlete, but I’m nice to everybody.
When I was a kid, I had all my birthday parties on our private beach—back when we had a private beach—and I invited everyone in my class. Not because my parents made me—I just wanted them to like me. I’m easy to get along with and I think—even though I don’t have a beach house anymore—most people still like me. I don’t trash-talk and I’m not about drama. You’d be surprised how far that gets you in a small town. It helps that most of my friends are guys.
So Logan and I are on pretty even footing socially. We’re just different in every other imaginable way. With his sarcastic comments and sometimes painful brand of honesty, Logan’s one of those “love him or hate him” kind of people.
The thing about Logan is that when he does let you in—when he chooses you—it feels amazing. Like one of those bumping electronic songs that makes your chest feel like it might explode, as the pitch goes higher and higher, threatening to shatter your car windows. We were sharing a bus seat in third grade when Logan chose me. And I’m sitting in first-period Calc, at 7:54 on the first day of my senior year, when he walks in. Finally, my nerves begin to settle—until I notice the giant box of donuts he’s holding in one hand.
On a scale of one to ten, I’d rate my anger a very respectable seven. The usual first day of school chatter is white noise around me. All I can focus on is the burning heat behind my eyes as I stare imaginary laser beams through the back of Logan’s head. I’d like to mentally decapitate him, because Donut Day is supposed to be our thing, and he promised me nothing would change.
With only seventy students in the entire senior class, the upper-level classes are always tiny, and Mr. Flanagan doesn’t even bother with a roll call. There are twelve of us, and after checking down the list of names and visually surveying each of us, he says just one name.
“Cameron Fuller?” He’s looking toward the back of the room, locating the one face that doesn’t belong, and we all do the same.
It might be Cameron Fuller’s first day at Riverton High School, but it isn’t the first time I’ve seen him. I worked at the beach over the summer and saw this guy every single day for the last few weeks. Always carrying his surfboard, always by himself. Most of the day he would float on his board, never even trying to stand; just floating, drifting. He never even approached any of the girls constantly surrounding his towel who—let’s be honest—pretty much had signs positioned over their blankets that said “willing and available.”
Clearly he was a terrorist.
Terrorist is our pet name for the thousands of tourists who flood into Riverton each summer, overrunning the restaurants, filling the beach, and terrorizing the locals with their NASCAR-like driving. Anyone local knows the surf shop downtown is a total terrorist trap. Waves only get big enough to actually surf during storms, and who wants to be out on the water in the middle of that? Death by lightning while half naked? No, thank you.
But here he is, in my first hour, clearly not a terrorist.
Every head turns to look at him in the back of the room. My eyes are on him too,
and he looks sad, even though he’s now smiling, one hand raised in an awkward half wave. His dark, sun-kissed skin has gone almost as pale as his blond hair. He seems like the kind of guy who should be confident. He’s fun to look at, like the guys on all of my college brochures: with their broad shoulders, well-fit clothes and wind-blown hair, walking from the library to the cafeteria.
“Here.” His hands are crossed on the desk, and the smile fades quickly when everyone turns away. Everyone except me. I’m still staring at him, but I whip around quickly when his dazzling green eyes meet mine. He has the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen.
Mr. Flanagan waves his hands in front of him like a conductor. “Everyone?”
“Hi, Cameron,” the whole class chants in a lifeless monotone.
New students come to RHS so infrequently, they’re basically treated like visiting celebrities. By lunch Cameron will be claimed by one of our class’s most eligible bachelorettes and, by the looks of him, will probably be welcomed onto one of Riverton’s illustrious sports teams. He’s muscular but not bulky, and he doesn’t seem like he’s suffering from multiple head injuries, so my guess would be basketball or soccer. Teachers all but roll out the red carpet, and I have to say “Hi, Cameron” in three more classes. Each time he looks like he might puke as all eyes turn on him, and then there’s this look of immense relief as the stares of classmates drift away.
* * *
I may be slightly fascinated by Riverton High’s newest student. Cameron Fuller, it turns out, is a real-life high school anomaly: a new student who makes absolutely no attempt to fit in. He doesn’t talk to anyone, or make an effort to claim his spot in an established social group. In every class he sits in the back, sometimes several seats from the nearest person, always silent but also seeming to be engrossed in everything around him. He’s quiet, but he’s watching. I can tell by the way his eyes dart from person to person as they speak. He’s listening, observing, soaking it all in. Maybe he’s just sizing things up; weighing his options. That’s what I’d do.
Love Songs & Other Lies Page 2