The Space Between Us

by Jessica Martinez

  Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.

  I released the breath I was holding, and let my head fall back into the cushion. This looked bad. Worse than it was.

  “Coming,” Ezra called, already halfway to the door, running a hand through his hair.

  My heartbeat was scaring me. What was I doing? I barely knew Ezra. I’d known Will for ten years before we’d kissed. Not that ten years was normal, but Ezra hadn’t even taken me out on a date.

  Ezra gave me a sheepish grin over his shoulder and pulled the door not quite closed behind him. I felt weak. The shock and shame of nearly getting busted were nothing compared to what I wanted. Him. Back on the couch with me.

  A female voice on the other side of the door pierced my thoughts. “Nice lipstick.”

  I tensed. It was shrill. Almost familiar.

  His response was too low and muffled to hear.

  I shuddered, pressing my palms to my cheeks. They felt hot. I felt nauseous.

  “Who’s back there, anyway?”

  Again, I couldn’t hear Ezra’s reply.

  “Not my business? Seriously?” The voice was getting louder. She’d either started shouting, or she was—

  The doorknob clicked and twisted, and I realized too late that I did not want to be lying on the couch when the door opened. I scrambled to my feet, vaguely aware that my sweater was twisted, my hair was a mess, and I had gloss smeared around my lips.

  Taylor. It took a moment to recognize her without the braids and snow pants. Her hair was loose and curled, and she wore a low-cut sweater and belt over leggings. Our differences glared at me through that outfit—she had more curves and style and raw feminine power than I would ever have. And she was pissed off.

  “Give me a break!” she moaned, then turned her back to me. “This is moving on?”

  “Leave her alone,” Ezra said, and tried to close the door, but Taylor stood in the way, her arms folded over her chest.

  “No, you leave her alone,” she shot back. “What is she, fifteen? Last time I checked that was illegal.”

  “She’s in grade twelve, and again, not your business,” he said.

  Her lips twisted with disgust. “So all that I’ve changed crap, that was actually code for I want to screw little girls?”

  Little girls. I could feel myself shrinking. I couldn’t move, not even to blink or breathe. Soon I’d be nothing at all.

  “Calm down, Taylor.” Ezra tried to close the door again, but this time she grabbed it and shoved it back open.

  “You know you could do better than little Miss Trailer Trash of America here, right? What is it, the Southern drawl? It is! It turns you on, doesn’t it!”

  My tongue felt dry and thick. Another word and I might actually be sick.

  “But seriously, look at her,” Taylor said, pointing at me like I was a mannequin in a window. “She’s got the body of a twelve-year-old. Don’t tell me you’d rather be with—”

  “Stop!” he muttered through clenched teeth.

  I had to get out, but I couldn’t make myself walk. My legs were frozen. Plus, Taylor was still blocking the exit, and she looked capable of throwing punches.

  “You need to go,” Ezra said.

  I looked up, terrified he was talking to me. But he wasn’t. He put his hand on Taylor’s shoulder and tried to turn her away from me, but she shrugged it off.

  “Don’t touch me!” she spat, and shot him a wounded glare. “You don’t get to ever touch me again!”

  I looked away. That well of pain in her eyes—that wasn’t for me to see. This wasn’t my fight.

  Ezra’s hand dropped awkwardly to his side, and the three of us stood motionless. Like statues. Blood pounded from my fingertips to my temples. He hadn’t even stuck up for me.

  Taylor sniffed, and I felt an unexpected surge of pity for her. But then she turned to me again, a snarl on her lips. “Oh, and just so you know, you aren’t the first girl to feel the earth move on that couch.” The snarl became a grin, showing a row of perfectly white teeth like squared pearls. “And not just me. No way, not our Ezra. This boy’s had more girls back here than you American girls can even count. It’s the hair, I think.” She reached out and ran her fingers through Ezra’s long bangs.

  I wanted him to grab her wrist but he didn’t. He just stared at the floor, jaw set, the veins in his neck bulging.

  Taylor continued, one hand on her hip. “Feels good, though, doesn’t it? Especially the way he puts his hands—”

  “Enough!” Ezra shouted.

  Taylor smiled. Satisfied.

  I had no choice—it was either sit back down or have my knees buckle and crumple to the floor. I sank into the couch.

  She whirled around, her beautiful red hair like a blur of fire behind her. Ezra and I stayed perfectly still, our bodies lifeless. The door clanged shut behind her and we still couldn’t move. Or speak.

  Finally, Ezra found words. “I’m sorry.” His voice was barely above a whisper.

  He was sorry. What was I supposed to say? Or do? Or feel? The range of emotions I’d felt in the last five minutes was too large. I’d been spun too hard, was too dizzy to walk in a straight line or even see what’d just happened.

  Was I supposed to say it was okay? Nothing about that was okay.

  I absentmindedly ran my hand along the well-worn upholstery beside me. Well-worn. Was I just somebody to make out with? Had I forgot everything Grandma had drilled into my head about guys? I wasn’t sexy like Taylor, or pretty like Charly, or even cute like Bree. I was the girl next door. I was a warm body.

  “We broke up a few weeks ago, but we were together a long time, like three years.” He was leaning against the doorway and staring at the carpet, like he was scared to come closer. “She’s not . . . you know . . . taking it well.”

  I laughed, and the sound echoed oddly around me. It wasn’t funny. But I couldn’t think of any other response. Then I put my hands over my face and started to cry.

  “Don’t,” Ezra pleaded, coming toward me.

  He’d said all the right things today. He’d been exactly who I needed him to be, dug through all the layers to get to me. Why couldn’t he really be that guy?

  It didn’t matter. If he was just looking for action, Taylor was right. He could do better.

  He sat down beside me and tried to pull my body toward him, but I pulled away. He let go of me.

  How far would I have gone if Taylor hadn’t barged in? What was the matter with me?

  I stood up. “I made a mistake.”

  “Don’t leave angry.” He went to take my hand, but then stopped himself. “Nothing she said was even close to true.”

  “It’s not about what she said,” I lied. She’d made me feel like I was just some worthless skank. “This just isn’t me. I need to go.”

  He didn’t try to stop me. I took my jacket from the hook by the door and escaped into the afternoon twilight.

  Chapter 16

  I knew what pregnant women looked like. Obviously. And I knew what Charly looked like, so I had no right to be surprised when it started happening.

  But in my mind I’d superimposed her face on a raindrop-shaped body. I didn’t think about the transformation. If I had, I’d have realized she was going to swell like the slowest filling balloon in the world, and it would start with just a tiny bulge.

  “What are you looking at?” she asked.

  I shrugged. We hadn’t said more than pass the milk, and get your stinking clothes off my side of the bed in weeks. I hadn’t even told her about what happened with Ezra. I hadn’t told anybody about Ezra, and now there wasn’t anything to tell. It had been three weeks and I hadn’t heard a word from him.

  “Seriously, stop staring at me!” she snapped. She was turned sideways, her hands in her hair, smoothing it into a ponytail. But her body in profile was just too much—I couldn’t look away from the curve of her belly.

  She grumbled something under her breath and left the bathroom, leaving me to fi
nish slathering on lotion alone.

  According to Bree, Charly could’ve been showing much sooner but wasn’t because she was young and this was her first pregnancy. The wardrobe helped too. She’d been wearing big sweatshirts and walking around with the top button of her low-rise jeans unbuttoned, to avoid dipping into the clothes Bree had bought her.

  “Why don’t you just wear the maternity clothes?” I yelled after her.

  “Because I don’t need them yet! Why don’t you stop bossing me around?”

  I took a deep breath. I didn’t boss her around. Or not anymore, at least.

  “She’s nervous,” Bree whispered to me as I laced up my boots. “She’s got an ultrasound today.”

  I pressed my lips together so something honest wouldn’t come flying out. As far as Bree was concerned, I was already the worst sister in the world. No need to add fuel to that fire.

  Bree dropped us off at school and I pushed through my day without thinking about Charly. Almost. I had to take a brief hiatus over lunch to silently call her every swear word I knew. She’d earned it. I’d seen her through the window into the cafeteria, eating with three normalish-looking girls while I was on my way up to my stinky little corner of the library to chew on my contraband bagel and listen to people suck face. She’d definitely earned it.

  After I was finished with the silent cursing, I wasn’t hungry. I rolled my pen down my notebook, then pushed it up again, then did it again. And again. I’d planned on using the lunch hour to email Savannah back, but it felt like too much work. That needy panic I’d felt between her emails during the first few weeks in Canada was gone. It wasn’t like she was sitting around waiting for my reply, anyway.

  Last night’s missive had contained a full report of everything I could’ve wanted to hear and more: Everybody’s least favorite cheerleader, Libby Portier, got a brutal nose job; the varsity girls’ soccer team destroyed Baldwin 6–1; Sebastian got promoted from bagger to cashier; and best of all, Luciana accidentally dropped a Tampax super plus out of her purse in front of half the football team. It didn’t get any better.

  So why didn’t I still hurt? Those first few emails from home had made me ache all over. The homesickness had tasted sweet and metallic, like I’d sliced my tongue on a candy, but with this one I’d felt nothing. I should’ve at least been happy for the team and for Sebastian, but that just seemed like too much effort.

  Tremonton was fading, and there didn’t seem to be any point in holding on. Email reports and memories weren’t enough, and I wasn’t ever going back, or at least not to PHS. How long would I even be back in Tremonton before I went on to whichever second-rate college I decided on? A month. Maybe two.

  That was if I managed to actually apply. Last week I’d made it through exactly half of UCF’s application before Bree’s computer crashed. I took it as a sign. Not that it mattered yet—their rolling admissions policy meant I had months to get it together. If I wanted to get it together.

  I glanced around the library, ignoring the giggling from two carrels down, and tried to picture Ezra here. He didn’t fit. He was so much deeper than this blandness, he must have stuck out as odd. Or maybe he and Taylor had subsisted in their own little universe.

  I’d been trying so hard not to think about him. Remembering the humiliation hurt too much, but I couldn’t keep it shelved. He kept reappearing in my thought patterns like he belonged. And remembering the way he tasted, the warmth of his hands, it just made me mad. I couldn’t retrieve those memories without pulling with them the things Taylor had said and feeling like some cheap skank.

  How “over” were they, anyway? I tried to replay the conversation between Bree and Taylor at the Lake Louise lost and found, but it was over a month ago now. I thought Taylor had said they’d broken up and then later Bree had suggested they’d been off and on for years. But what if it was the opposite? What if they really were still sort of a couple and Ezra was just a . . . I stopped that thought. I didn’t want him to be a cheater. A disgusting, typical, filthy, common cheater.

  It hadn’t felt like that. Or at least not for me.

  I stood up, brushed the sandwich crumbs off my lap, and wandered over to the yearbooks. Last year’s was black with a snarling, gold-embossed buffalo on the front. I flipped through the pages, scanning for Ezra. His head shot was a good one, and my stomach lurched just a little, remembering the way he’d looked at me right before he kissed me.

  I blinked and flipped the page.

  Aside from his head shot, he was in three other pictures. In the first two he had his arm around Taylor. In the third he was giving her a piggyback, her legs and arms clamped around him, her chin digging into his shoulder, her red hair masking half his face. He was smiling. In all three pictures, he was smiling.

  I snapped the yearbook shut, put it back, and returned to my tuna-scented refuge.

  Now I could forget about him.

  • • •

  “Amelia, wait.”

  Crap. I’d only made it to the third step in the spiral. When I’d walked in and seen Bree curled up on the couch with an open anatomy textbook on her face, I’d hoped for the best. Apparently my stealth was no match for her killer surveillance skills.

  She twisted around, her hair all spiky from sleep. “I need to talk to you.”

  I didn’t move. Maybe it’d be quick. “What.”

  She rubbed her eyes and squinted at the microwave clock. “Where have you been? It’s almost eight.”

  “I ran laps around the gym at school for an hour. Then I went shopping.”

  She looked at me.

  What, was I supposed to produce sweaty running shorts? Bags? Receipts? If I’d have known she’d be here for an interrogation I’d have actually bought something, rather than just sitting and reading in the shopping plaza food court.

  “I thought you were working tonight,” I said.

  “I have a big test tomorrow, so I asked for the night off to study.”

  I raised my eyebrows. Bree’s studying looked intense. “I’ll let you get back to it, then.”

  “Wait.” Then in a whisper, “Your sister had an ultrasound today.”

  I looked up to the loft. The light was off, but that didn’t mean she was asleep.

  Ultrasound. So what? And if Charly no longer wanted to feed me every grotesque detail of her visits to the obstetrician, I sure didn’t want to hear them from Bree. I came back down and stood beside the couch, arms folded.

  “I don’t know if she’ll want to talk about it,” Bree continued, “but she was kind of upset. She cried afterward.”

  “Why?” A chill ran through me, flushing the annoyance away. “Is there something wrong with the baby?”

  “No. It’s a girl.”

  A girl.

  “It was kind of amazing, actually. They had one of those 3-D ultrasound machines and you could see her little knees and elbows and fingernails.”

  A girl.

  I could feel Bree staring at me, trying to coax a reaction out of me, so I gave her nothing. I blinked a couple of times. “Okay. Good night.”

  She didn’t answer.

  I turned to leave and this time she didn’t stop me.

  • • •

  Sleep. Ha.

  First I listened to Charly breathing. Then I listened to Bree dawdle through the mindlessness that was her evening: sweep the kitchen floor, hum show tunes, talk on the phone with Richard, make herbal tea, brush and floss with the bathroom door open.

  When it was finally quiet, I wished it wasn’t.

  A girl. She was here in this bed with us. Did she look like Charly? Like Mom? Or maybe she’d inherited Charly’s latent Mercer genes. Maybe she looked like me.

  It didn’t matter though, because I would never know her. She wasn’t ours. She couldn’t be a Mercer, never had been, not from the insignificant moment she was conceived to the moment she would force her way out of my little sister. So why did I feel this aching hollowness like somebody was ripping something out of me? I
t wasn’t even my body she was sharing.

  Charly rolled into the center of the bed and started snoring. Defeated, I took my pillow and the extra blanket Charly had already kicked to the floor and went downstairs to the couch.

  I couldn’t force my mind from her. Not Charly. Her—the real, live, human girl with a beating heart and fingernails and earlobes and cheeks and eyelashes and everything, all inside of Charly.

  What else was there to think about?

  Ezra. I’d forced him out of my thoughts completely, but just for tonight, I needed him. I could let myself imagine that things had happened differently. I deserved the distraction, even if it was a lie. His voice, his eyes, his warm hands on my back—I closed my eyes and pretended that all that was actually mine to dream about.

  For a while.

  But I’ve always sucked at pretending. Reality can’t just be turned down like volume. When we were little it was Charly who created the make-believe worlds and forced me to play along. I did, but halfheartedly.

  With Ezra the facts were screaming-loud and my volume knob was busted. Pretending meant forgetting the fact that Ezra hadn’t called or stopped by or anything since that night. It all just confirmed what Taylor said: He was a player, and I was a warm body. A warm, lonely, needy body. And what she hadn’t said, but implied—that I was a slut—made my whole body burn with shame and anger. I couldn’t even defend myself.

  The couch wasn’t big enough to really roll over, so I flopped onto my other side like a fish on a dock, praying for mercy, that someone would pity me and kick me back into the water. Or maybe just put me out of my misery.

  • • •

  When I finally did drift off, a nightmare seeped its way in.

  I dreamt it was me who was pregnant, not with a girl, but with some grotesque monster. A doctor pulled it out of me, greenish-black and writhing snakelike. I tried to scream but I couldn’t push the air out. Then I saw it wasn’t a doctor but Charly, and she was holding the thing, rocking it like it was her baby. She wouldn’t even look at me. I was trying to tell her it was a monster, but she turned away like she couldn’t hear me. Like I didn’t exist.