Jack Kerouac is Dead to Me

by Gae Polisner

  Slumber-study party tonight at my house. You’re still invited.

  Girlpower = brainpower! Please come!

  I twist the ring on my finger and breathe for a minute, nausea mixing with exhaustion.

  I don’t think I can manage more exams alone.

  What time? I type. I’ll be there.

  In my gut, I know it’s a bad idea, but it may be my only chance at passing.

  LATE JUNE

  TENTH GRADE

  I stand at the base of Aubrey’s driveway, deciding.

  Her words fade on my screen, and I have to press the home key to make them come back again. I’m rereading for some proof to trust her, or otherwise some warning not to go in.

  Girlpower = brainpower! Please come!

  And the note that came after I said okay:

  Awesome! See you at 7. Bring pj’s!

  Her words seem sincere, like she means them.

  Yet something feels off. Wrong. Or maybe it’s that I left Mom such a mess. Or that Max seemed needy and annoyed with me.

  “It’s Friday night, Jailbait, and I’m a free man. What am I going to do all alone?”

  I should go home.

  Tend to Max.

  Tend to Mom.

  Instead, I walk up her driveway.

  My hand shakes as I reach out.

  I close my eyes, and ring the bell.

  FOUR HOURS EARLIER

  “Come here, Jailbait!”

  Max yells from where he stands in the parking lot, waiting, next to his dirt bike, helmet in hand. I pull the ring from my pocket and slip it back on my finger. I almost forgot it was in there.

  “I’m going to Aubrey’s,” I say, when I reach him. “Overnight. To study. I have to study, Max, and fast. Otherwise, I’m going to fail.”

  He pulls me to him, enthusiastically. “Fuck the final, gorgeous. Blue Morpho is fixed. Mint condition. Amazing. Wait’ll you feel her. She practically hums, thanks to you. Whenever you’re ready, we hit the road.”

  “Max—”

  “What?” He holds me back and studies my face. “But, it’s Friday night, Jailbait, and I’m a free man. What am I going to do?”

  “You have to graduate first,” I say, exasperated. “And I have to at least pass this class.”

  “Okay, fine,” he says, pouting. “Do what you have to. But let me at least give you a ride home.”

  LATE JUNE

  TENTH GRADE

  “Markham, you’re here?” Ethan stands at the door, smiling. The sentence is a question, the emphasis clearly on the “you’re.”

  “Yeah, hey,” I say, shouldering my backpack, and shoving my cell phone into my pocket. “It’s me. Surprise!” I make goofy jazz hands, and offer a weak smile back. Inside, my stomach roils. I’m still a mess. I haven’t eaten enough and have had too many cups of coffee.

  “Well, come on in. I told you those bozos would come around.” He winks, and nods to the stairs that lead up to Aubrey’s room.

  I freeze. The faint giddy sound of girls laughing drifts down to me.

  “Actually,” I say, “maybe this was a bad idea. I left my mother and … I’m not sure now. I think she needs me at home.”

  THREE HOURS EARLIER

  After Max drops me off, I find Mom upset, pacing, in a bright tangerine kimono. My brain rapid fires scenarios:

  She talked to Dad.

  He’s not coming.

  She’s not okay.

  She’ll never be okay.

  She needs help.

  Fuck it. I can’t deal with this. I need to wash puke out of a chiffon dress, and pack up my stuff for Aubrey’s.

  I need a quick nap.

  I need to shower and get out of here.

  I said I’d come.

  I can’t study for this final alone.

  I walk past Mom, to my room, where my breath catches as soon as I open the door.

  It shouldn’t matter.

  I shouldn’t care.

  I shouldn’t be devastated, but I am.

  The last of the butterflies are dead.

  LATE JUNE

  TENTH GRADE

  “Stay, JL. You should stay. Relax,” Ethan says. “Trust me, all of this is going to seem like nothing soon.”

  Ethan, who has kissed my lips, who wanted me so badly. Ethan, who left without another word.

  He stands watching me—eyes, what? Pleading? Sorry? Caring?—a limp slice of pizza in one hand.

  “Here, give me this. You take that. Let me help.” He pulls my backpack from my shoulder, leaving me with my duffel bag, and motions me inside.

  ONE HOUR EARLIER

  “Jean Louise? Jean Louise!”

  I open my eyes. Wipe my mouth. My mother is standing at my bedroom door.

  Shit! What time is it?

  From this angle, I only see part of her, her perfect, orange- silk-clad torso at my door.

  I let my gaze drift up.

  Her expression is strange. Her face, tear-stained. “Your father called,” she says. “Everything is wrong. Everything is dead. Everything is screwed up and sad.”

  I try to focus, sit up to argue, but she’s right. It doesn’t matter what he said. Everything is screwed up. Even when I’m happy, I feel bad.

  Nothing is simple.

  Nothing feels okay.

  And I can’t remember a time when it did.

  Mom walks over and strokes my hair, but I push her away.

  “I’m going to Aubrey’s,” I say, getting up. “Me and some other girls, we’re going to study. I have a chem final. I won’t be back until tomorrow.”

  She reaches out again, to touch my hair, but I brush past her, start shoving clothes into my duffel bag.

  “You’re a good girl, Jean Louise,” she says, as I locate my textbook and laptop, and zip those into my backpack. “I’m not right, but you are. I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

  LATE JUNE

  TENTH GRADE

  I walk like a robot to the stairs. Ethan returns my backpack and I slowly start up them.

  “Hey, JL?” he calls after me.

  “Yeah?”

  “Holler if you need me. I’m here.”

  FIFTEEN MINUTES EARLIER

  Halfway between Aubrey’s house and home, I sit on a curb, and pull out my cell phone. My bags are heavy, and I’m sweating.

  “Siri, call Dad,” I say, and before I can change my mind, it’s ringing, and I’m racing through details I’ve practiced a hundred times.

  It rings and rings, until: “You have reached Tom Markham of VigorVit California. Please leave a message and I’ll get right back to you.”

  “Hi, Dad. It’s me. I need to tell you some stuff.”

  I get up again and start walking, hoping the motion will mask the reason for my shaking voice, squinting against the waning sunlight that streaks down through the sugar maples, blinding my eyes. When I was little, they’d drop their propeller-shaped keys in droves on the cusp of summer and we would have contests to see who could catch the most mid-spiral before they touched down.

  “So, here’s the thing. I’m not sure when you’re coming home … but Mom … Mom isn’t okay, and, like, well, you should have known that, right? I mean, you do know that, don’t you? And you shouldn’t have…” My voice chokes up, and I fight tears. I’m filled with rage, suddenly, at him, at Nana, at everyone. “Anyway, she says you’re coming home soon, but who knows? I’ve heard that line before. So, I’m telling you now, Dad, something isn’t right. I can’t stay here alone with her. Not anymore.

  “So, I’m coming there, okay? You told me I could before … So maybe it’s my fault I haven’t listened. Anyway, I’m flying in and I’m gonna stay with you, until you come home. I have one more test, and then Max graduates, and I’m done for the year.”

  I swallow hard at my mention of Max, but I need to do that. Dad knows a little about him, but not much. I have to at least plant some seeds. I’ll deal with the fallout later.

  I make the left onto Aubrey’s s
treet, and glance at my watch. Twenty after seven.

  “So, that’s it, Dad. I’m sleeping out tonight, at Aubrey’s, but please call me tomorrow. And don’t discuss this with Mom. Not yet. Please understand, you haven’t seen her lately. She’s not good. I’ll look up flights, and give you times. I’ll make all the plans. And get Nana to watch her while I’m gone. Okay, thanks. I love you.”

  I hang up, and shove my phone away.

  That’s it. I did it.

  One step closer to done.

  LATE JUNE

  TENTH GRADE

  At the top of the stairs, my heart starts beating too fast again. How did it come to be that I’m scared walking into my best friend’s room?

  Aubrey’s house feels both strange and familiar. I know every room by heart. Every closet. Every nook and corner.

  To my right, closest to the steps, is Mr. and Mrs. Andersson’s room with the cherrywood sleigh bed, hardwood floors, and the blue-and-white toile wallpaper. “French countryside,” Mrs. Andersson once told me, a pattern of trees and hills, old-fashioned families picnicking, and boys in hats walking sheep.

  Their door is open, the hall quiet. Ethan’s door, across from it, closed.

  He always did like his privacy, even when he didn’t give Aubrey the same consideration.

  “Lock the door, JL,” she says, pulling Mary Lennox to her bed. “We can’t put it past Ethan to come barging in.”

  I have an overwhelming desire to peek in, smell his fresh ocean scent mixed with cocoa butter sunscreen, on the blankets, on the pillows, on his rug. Embedded in the air that belongs to him.

  “Can I, JL?”

  I nod, and whisper, “Anything, Ethan,” and he opens my towel, and it falls to the ground.

  I draw a ragged breath and let my mind shift to Max’s room instead, dark and woody like he is, to his rock posters, his guitar. To the plaid bedspread, and curtains he made himself. And I’m slammed with guilt. Guilt for brushing him off. For feeling embarrassed about him around Ethan.

  Guilt for longing for Ethan the way I still do.

  Enough about Ethan.

  I’m here to study. And I’m lucky to have Max. He’s the only one who ever stuck by me.

  Max loves me.

  At least, I think he does.

  And in a few short days, I’m leaving with him.

  I up my pace, move toward Aubrey’s room, my stomach clenched, my heart beating overtime.

  Right outside Aubrey’s door, I stop. The three of them are in there, chattering happily. Giggling. Settled. It’s not even 7:30. How long ago did they get here?

  Nobody is missing me. Nobody cares if I’m here. After years of being best friends, I’m only someone to feel sorry for. Out of place and unwanted.

  But Aubrey’s trying. She came to me. She texted. I told her I’d do this, so there’s no way I’m leaving now. Maybe I’ll tell her about prom, about Max and the ring, about my plans to go to California. And we’ll be Aubs and JL, like always.

  I look in and freeze again. All three of them sit on Aubrey’s moss-green carpet. They’re dressed in pajama pants and camis, heads bowed down, oblivious. Meghan and Aubrey have their backs to me, Niccole is painting Meghan’s toenails, leaving Aubrey to paint her own.

  “Hey,” I say, softly, and a second time louder, so they can hear me over the music.

  Niccole’s eyes dart up, and Aubrey twists around.

  “JL!” Aubrey puts the brush top back in the bottle, and holds her leg up. “I’d get up and hug you, but…” She waves her foot at me, a tissue weaved between her toes to separate them. “I’m so glad you made it. Did you get pizza before you came up?”

  I shake my head, and move into the room, trying to ignore my pounding heart. Trying to ignore the look I see pass between Meghan and Niccole.

  “Not hungry, thanks. But yeah, I’m here. You told me to come, so I did.” I drop my duffel bag down near the bed, and my backpack on it, and walk to her desk where the polishes are. “Are there any good colors left for me?”

  * * *

  Aubrey’s whole room used to be purple. Purple curtains, lavender rug, purple canopied bed.

  At the end of middle school, she told her parents that no respectable high schooler could have a purple room, and now, except for the rows of dolls standing stock-still on their white-painted shelves, the room looks like it’s off the glossy pages of a Pottery Barn summer catalogue. Palest blue walls, whitewashed desk, dresser, and daybed, with scalloped shells etched into the wood. I helped her design it right down to the rug.

  I grab a bottle of bright blue polish with green sparkles called Mermaid’s Tail and sit down next to the girls.

  “So…” Aubrey says, when I am barely through my first toe. “Dish. We’re all jealous. You know we want to hear about prom.”

  “Need to hear,” Niccole says.

  “We hear it was totally wild,” Meghan adds.

  I flush hot red. “It was good,” I say, trying not to sound defensive. Maybe they’re genuinely interested. Or maybe they’re baiting me. “I’m still a little tired. I may have gotten a little too drunk by mistake.” I need to head off whatever they might know.

  “By mistake,” Meghan repeats, and Aubrey’s eyes shift to her sharply.

  “No, I get it. I’ve had that happen,” Niccole adds quickly.

  I concentrate on my toenails, but can feel them watching me. Finally, I say, “Anyway, it was good. Fun. I crashed when I got home today, which is why I was late.”

  “Ah,” Meghan says, and Aubrey glares at her again.

  I wave my feet around to dry the polish, then get up and walk over to the three-tiered shelves that hold Aubrey’s doll collection, each one staring out, dusty and dated, frozen in time.

  There must be thirty of them lined up in their costumes from around the world. Mexico. Panama. Cuba. Finland. Zimbabwe. Whenever Aubrey’s parents or a relative or family friend traveled out of the country, they always brought one back for her.

  I had memorized some of their names and traditional costume pieces. Lana, the Tahitian doll with her wild hair, coconut bra, and headdress and skirt made of fake grass and shells and flower petals. The African doll, Eshe, with her bright-colored beaded wrap, her headdress and idzilla necklaces, holding a mbira in her hand. Magdalena from Madrid, her ruffled flamenco dress, large red flower in her hair, and tiny castanets that really worked if you clicked them together with your fingers.

  Magdalena was Aubrey’s favorite, even though she had three large cracks down her pretty porcelain face from when Ethan threw a Super Ball at Aubrey during some dumb fight they were having. Luckily, the ball missed Aubrey’s head, hitting Magdalena instead, sending her toppling to the floor, her face shattering into several horrifying pieces. Ethan got punished, and Mr. Andersson spent a whole afternoon supergluing her back together as best he could. You could still see the thin black lines running through her.

  “Come on back, J.L. You need a second coat.” Aubrey waves the bottle of Mermaid’s Tail in my direction. “Then we’ll get studying. Promise.” She crosses her heart, but she’s concerned. Or maybe annoyed. I’m not sure.

  Maybe it’s the dolls. Maybe they remind her of Mary Lennox, of our stupid, childish escapades. The last time I saw Mary Lennox was at the end of middle school, when I opened Aubrey’s closet to borrow a dress and saw her shoved in the back like some doll out of a horror movie.

  “She’s creepy in there,” I had told Aubrey, “like that Chucky doll or something. You should just give her away.”

  Aubrey had shrugged, making me wonder if she still used her the way we used to, but was afraid to admit it. But that was back then when we could still pretend that well.

  I walk back over and sit down, present my toes to her for a second coat. “Here, you do it for me,” I say.

  “What color is that?” Meghan asks.

  “Mermaid’s Tail.”

  “Nice,” she says. She holds her fingers out toward Aubrey and me, her short nails polished a
dark burgundy, the color of dried blood. “Mine is Black Cherry. Do you like it?”

  “It’s okay,” Aubrey says.

  “What about you, JL? Maybe Aubs is right. A little too slutty or goth? I should add some of Niccole’s sparkle pink on top. Toss it, Nic.”

  I try to ignore the panic starting to build back up in my chest. Niccole tosses the bottle of pink sparkle coat to Meghan, who says, “Maybe JL needs the cherry more, right?”

  Aubrey gives her a look.

  “What?” she says. “I’m strictly talking polish here. Get your mind out of the gutter.”

  “Sorry, she’s just teasing,” Niccole says, and Aubrey reaches out and squeezes my fingers, but my stomach twists with the overwhelming desire to go home.

  “Come on. Let’s study,” Aubrey says.

  We quickly come up with a system, deciding to go chapter by chapter, each taking fifteen minutes to read before discussing, then doing the sample questions at the end of the unit together. We manage this for about an hour before it becomes clear that, despite Max and prom and all the distractions with my mother, I actually know this stuff better than I thought, and way better than the other girls.

  Which is when it occurs to me:

  This is the reason they invited me.

  Not because they like me. Not because they want me. Not because Aubrey misses me. But because I can explain covalent bonds.

  Aubrey looks up and asks, “Hey, JL, how are the butterflies?”

  “That’s right,” Niccole adds. “Aubrey says you raise butterflies. That’s cool. I went to one of those exhibits once, at the Museum of Natural History.”

  “The Conservancy,” I say.

  “Yes, that. They had a special exhibit. And, oh my god, there were these freakishly giant, lime-green butterfly things, with these long…” She motions with her hands like she’s making a tail, and shudders.

  “Not butterflies. Luna moths,” I say.

  “Yes, those. Wow, you’re good. You know your stuff, don’t you? But if one of those landed on me at night…” She shudders again.