The Insomniacs

by Marit Weisenberg

  “Why are you all dressed up, by the way?” Izzie asked as she zipped her small silver mesh makeup bag.

  “I’m not! I’m just not wearing a hoodie for once.” I wore a short-sleeve button-down and my best pair of jeans. I’d carefully put my hair in a bun in an attempt to cover up the staples.

  “You should dress like this every day. You look beautiful.”

  “Stop.”

  “Why can’t you take a compliment?”

  “You sound exactly like your mom right now.”

  Izzie glanced up at the new arrivals. “He just walked in,” she said, her voice breathy.

  It was crazy but I already knew. I always knew the exact moment Van walked into English class. How the hell could I be so attuned to someone that I could feel them? I didn’t look up. Instead I focused on the array of backpacks being thrown on the ground in dirty puddles left by wet shoes.

  “Are you going to say anything to him?” Izzie asked. I watched her eyes and knew they were following Van. I’d told Iz about the previous night’s events. But only that. She had no idea how I felt about Van.

  “I don’t know. Don’t worry about it.”

  “But you think he saw the light, too, right?”

  “Honestly, I could be making the whole thing up.”

  “Or there’s a meth lab right next door to you and neither of you bothered to call the police.”

  “What if it had been nothing? I’m recovering from a concussion. I was freaking myself out. If I’d called the police, the whole street would know, and there’s a good chance I would have been the girl who cried wolf.”

  “So? It would have been an honest mistake. No one would ever think you called the police lightly. And who cares what people think?”

  Well, apparently, I would rather be murdered than look foolish in front of Van. I was sure he already thought I was crazy after I’d barged into his bedroom last night. Only to later be caught staring into his bedroom window.

  After we’d locked eyes, I’d spun around, snapped off my light, and sat on the edge of my bed until dawn, wondering if I should do something, if Van was going to do something. I didn’t have his cell phone number, so I couldn’t contact him except through his social media. I’d grabbed my laptop but then bleary-eyed, I’d quickly lost any sense of urgency as I went down a rabbit hole looking at photos of Van, his band, so many long-legged girls, so many friends. He’d been careful to avoid posts of him and his friends partying. In addition to the rumors, it was easy to tell from the company he, Max, and Wilson kept that they had been partying hard this year.

  When I’d looked up from the computer, the sun had risen.

  “Just ask him.” Izzie made it sound easy.

  “Maybe after class.”

  Izzie was looking at Van and I was still looking at Izzie. “God, he just kind of sums up the word ‘hot.’”

  “I know.”

  Izzie turned all her attention on me, suddenly interested. “You think he’s cute?” Great.

  “Of course he is. Just look at him,” I said, and nonchalantly turned my head to see for myself.

  Today Van sat in his usual spot—all the way across the room next to the wall of rectangular windowpanes. His legs stretched out in front of him, he was wearing a long-sleeve T-shirt that made his shoulders look broad, jeans with a hole at one knee, and Converse. I watched him aggressively scrub the top of his head with both hands as if he wasn’t used to the fact that his hair had recently been cut short.

  He was tall with black hair and deep brown eyes that lit up like no one else’s when he was happy. They could also go stone-cold when he was mad. Until he smiled, Van always looked tough and serious. Oh, and then there were his beautiful, pouty lips.

  Lisa used to complain to my mom that Van was so laid-back, too laid-back, late for everything, a slow eater, and that still seemed to apply. He had a relaxed quality, like nothing was important enough to get worked up about. Maybe when you lose a parent at age five, you learn that lesson early.

  “And now he’s with Caroline Kelly. Wow,” Izzie was saying. “He’s so hot, a senior is dating him.”

  I almost wanted to take credit for setting them up.

  “I’ve seen him looking at you,” Izzie suddenly said.

  Don’t feed into it, Izzie. I need him to go away. “He’s probably looking at you,” I said.

  “No, he’s looking at you, the Ice Princess.” It was a joke between us after we’d learned that some boys from the chess club had nicknames for everyone in our friend group. Mine had turned out to be Ice Princess. Nice. Izzie’s was the Baker’s Wife, her role in the high school production of Into the Woods.

  “Well,” Izzie continued, “no matter what, he’s out of our league with his dating-the-hottest-senior-in-school-as-a-junior thing. As if he needed to do more after being in the most popular clique and fronting the best band in school.”

  For some reason, that felt like a pinprick when she said it. But it was true. Compared to Caroline, I was invisible.

  “Oh my god! I didn’t tell you!”

  “What?” I asked. Izzie seemed like she was about to fly through the roof.

  “John Michael asked Anna if you had a date to the prom!”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head emphatically. He was my lab partner in AP Chemistry, and he was nice, but no.

  “He’s going to ask you,” Izzie whispered in a teasing tone as our teacher, Mr. Brandt, closed the classroom door in anticipation of the bell.

  I kept telling our friends over and over again that I had a diving meet out of town that conflicted with prom. But it was like they knew I was lying. I wasn’t lying, but I wasn’t being totally honest. It was just a practice and I could make it in time to prom if I wanted to.

  And honestly, I didn’t know what was wrong with me. John Michael would probably be our valedictorian, he played soccer with Van, and he looked a little bit like Clark Kent—super handsome, but sort of stiff and vanilla. When the topic of John Michael and prom had come up before the accident, one of our friends had sounded slightly snide when she asked if I was holding out for a better offer. Absolutely no. Of course not.

  “Come on! Or ask him! Then you can go with us. Leave your meet early.”

  From our animated conversation, a few people had glanced over. Including Van. Right then, the bell rang and class began, drawing everyone’s attention to Mr. Brandt at the front of the room.

  As usual, I sat through class looking-but-not-looking at Van Tagawa. Somehow, in three years at our massive high school, we hadn’t had a class together until this year. I’d had the thought that once I saw more of him, my crush would finally go away. Nope. It only deepened.

  Of course I’d seen him in the halls but years had gone by since our last meaningful interaction, and we’d ignored each other since. Actually, I doubted Van was actively ignoring me. It was more that I didn’t cross his mind at this point. Beginning freshman year, there were so many new faces in his life. Van, Max, and Wilson stuck together at our new school, but the rest of the old middle-school friends were supplanted with new ones.

  Over the past few years, I’d replayed our falling-out over and over again in my head. In eighth grade, Van and I had been randomly assigned to be partners for a history project. Since my dad had left, I didn’t interact much with the boys, and the project with Van was our first contact in so long. Despite my shyness, we’d ended up laughing as we built our version of a Texas mission. I remembered feeling light and happy, completely in a partner bubble with him. He teased me that I wouldn’t stop adjusting the roof when what we’d done was perfect in his opinion. I folded my hands in my lap to show him I was done. But then, I took a closer look at our work and I couldn’t help myself. When I went to fine-tune a detail one last time, Van anticipated it.

  Without even looking at me, he snatched my hand before it rose above the table. I remembered staring straight ahead and grinning as I lowered my hand to my lap. But Van didn’t let go. In one quick movement, he
flipped our hands over and interlaced his fingers with mine.

  We both stilled. It could have been one minute or twenty. I’m not sure how long it lasted but we held hands for the rest of class, underneath the table, our hands resting against my denim-clad leg.

  I remembered that all-consuming, intense awareness of Van. I couldn’t breathe. It was addictive. My fourteen-year-old self knew it didn’t get any better.

  Then, to my total horror, Max leaned his chair back on two legs and exclaimed incredulously, “Are you holding hands?”

  We’d dropped them like we were on fire.

  I never told anyone. Maybe because I didn’t want Van to do it first, I’d pretended it had never happened and that he didn’t exist. Maybe because I’d thought it would make Max and Wilson’s incessant teasing end sooner. Maybe because what I’d felt for Van was too much, an avalanche of big emotions. Of course, now I completely regretted how I’d acted.

  The next morning after the “incident,” Van smiled at me when I walked into the classroom. I ignored him. He’d ignored me back ever since. Until last night.

  Now, three years later, I watched the face of the wall clock in my high school classroom and debated whether to try to talk to him. The second hand made one full sweep. Ten minutes left of class. I concentrated on our teacher who paced at the front.

  I needed everything in my life to stabilize as soon as possible. It was in my best interest to go back to our default mode of non-communication. But, at the same time, I wanted to compare notes on last night. It would be so easy to catch him at the end of this class. I could also let it go.

  There were seven minutes left of class, then two.

  When the bell sounded, I had to keep myself from covering my ears. The ringing was definitely louder than usual. But no one around me seemed to notice.

  Izzie chatted nonstop while I was underwater, moving in slow motion. I rubbed my cheek on my shoulder and surreptitiously raised my eyes to see if Van had already walked out. Across the room, he was shoving everything into his black backpack. Once he was packed up, he began to yank hard at the zipper.

  Exhaling, I bent to tie the lace of my white tennis shoe, buying myself time. In hyper-focus, I noticed a smudge of gray dirt on the toe. Come on. Just leave it. Let it go.

  “Hey, I gotta go,” Izzie said impatiently as she waited for me. Izzie’s next class was across campus.

  “I’ll call you later,” I said.

  Izzie raised her eyebrows as understanding dawned on her that maybe I was going to approach Van.

  “Call me. Immediately.” When she passed, she brushed my shoulder purposely.

  The classroom kept emptying. There were only five people left, including Van. My last period of the day was free so I could linger. Even Mr. Brandt walked out, cell phone pinned to his ear.

  Then, unbelievably, it was just the two of us left. Van headed toward the exit, his eyes on the ground. My heartbeat went into overdrive.

  I started down my aisle toward him and, right when Van raised his head and looked over at me, a voice called out from the doorway.

  “Good, you’re still here!”

  John Michael stood at the door. He grasped the doorjamb on either side, his body bowing into the classroom, effectively blocking the exit.

  “Hey,” I said, distracted. John Michael released his hold and stepped into the room. He was clad in a polo shirt, his broad chest narrowing down to a slim waist.

  “Excuse me,” Van said as he tried to squeeze past John Michael, who still blocked the path to the door.

  “Hey, Van,” John Michael said, moving aside.

  “Johnny Mikes.” Van nodded at him in passing. I almost smiled when I took note of the WARNING: HEAVY tag Van had obviously taken off a suitcase and strung onto his backpack.

  “Did you take my folder by any chance?” John Michael asked me.

  “What? Oh, let me check,” I responded, opening my backpack. My mind followed Van through the door. I had the sudden urge to punch John Michael. But sure enough, I’d absentmindedly taken the folder from chemistry.

  As I handed it back, I heard Van call out, “Max!”

  Over John Michael’s shoulder, I saw Max and Wilson stop walking. The small group gathered just feet away from us.

  “Where were you guys last night?” Van asked.

  I tried to keep listening as John Michael continued to talk to me as he replaced the folder in his backpack.

  “Home,” Max said.

  “Home,” Wilson echoed.

  “Nice tattoos,” Van said, gesturing to Wilson’s upper arm. I saw a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes.

  Wilson’s hand flew to it, like he wanted to cover it from Van’s sight. I saw that Max had the exact same tattoo—something they had clearly done without Van. Both boys stood there, neither of them knowing what to say to their friend.

  Seba, the boys’ overnight new best friend, materialized. “What up, assholes?”

  Wilson ignored Seba. He remained intent on Van, as if he knew he was about to lose Van’s attention and wanted him to stay. “You coming over later?” The last carried the hint of a challenge, like he was just waiting for his friend to say no.

  After a pause, Van said, “I’m meeting up with Caroline. Then band stuff.” Van reluctantly turned his back on them, leaving his best friends behind.

  “Tell your girlfriend hi from me,” Seba called after him.

  Van held up a middle finger, then disappeared into the sea of students.

  Wilson muttered a curse word under his breath as he watched Van go, like the interaction hadn’t gone the way he’d wanted. Max stared at the ground. Why wouldn’t he look at Van? Wilson noticed me standing there and for a millisecond, his eyes swept over me.

  “Ingrid!”

  “What?” I focused on John Michael. He was looking at me strangely. I lifted a hand and touched the back of my head, as if to make sure I wasn’t coming apart.

  “You coming?”

  “Oh, yeah. Yes.” I adjusted my backpack but it slipped, flipped upside down, and spilled out about a million pens, loose change, and of course a tampon right at Max and Wilson’s feet. Instantly, they both bent low and helped me gather up the mess. I had to hand it to Max that he picked up the tampon, along with a handful of pens, and put it back in the zippered pocket without a word.

  I stooped next to Wilson to help and I was surprised when he caught my hand, placed a collection of coins in my palm, and then curled his hand over mine to close it. He continued to hold my hand for a beat.

  John Michael suddenly butted in and picked up my backpack in a way that felt proprietary and annoying.

  “I got it!” Wilson snapped. He rose and snatched the backpack from John Michael. Wilson gently handed it over to me.

  “How are you?” he asked. His doe eyes were intent on mine.

  “I’m good.” What in the world was going on? Why was he suddenly talking to me and being so weirdly chivalrous? Then I remembered the accident. He was just being nice.

  “Thanks,” I said to Wilson and gave Max a quick smile as I followed John Michael’s lead into the crowded hallway.

  “Of course,” I heard one of them say behind me.

  I made my way through the swarms of students, replaying the scene I had just witnessed. I couldn’t imagine a world in which those boys weren’t friends.

  CHAPTER SIX

  MONDAY, APRIL 4

  Coach Mike had made me laugh earlier when he’d texted: You coming tonight? This place is not the same without you. It finally happened! One of the pip-squeaks pooped in the pool. And there went practice.

  Now I hovered in the doorway of the garage. It was time to leave for the awards dinner but I paused. Why was my mind suddenly screaming, Don’t go? I knew I was being selfish. This was an occasion honoring the person who had been there for me more than anyone beside my own mother. I teetered out to the car in heels higher than anything I was used to wearing.

  I had on a little black dress I’d onc
e bought when I briefly and foolishly thought I was going to LA for a weekend to visit my dad. I was a little appalled at how short the dress was now that I’d grown a few inches and the wrap-style showed a lot of cleavage. But I owned nothing appropriate for Coach Mike’s awards dinner and I couldn’t show up in my uniform of jeans and a hoodie.

  The cul-de-sac was quiet for 5 P.M. Mr. Kitchen, a cranky retiree, tore down the street on his bike in full, tight racing regalia but all the usual little kids were nowhere to be seen. It was verging on uncomfortably bright and hot at ninety degrees.

  As I drove by Mr. Kitchen in my old white Mazda, I thought I saw his face contort and then he shouted at the car. When I looked in the mirror, his back was to me and he was biking in the opposite direction. Had he been yelling at me? Maybe he thought I was driving too fast.

  I turned the corner, accelerating, just as a deer came bounding from the thick brush. It darted for the other side of the street, just feet from my car. I slammed the brakes, preparing for impact, and watched it miraculously soar over my hood as my body was whipped back and forth.

  For a moment, I sat in the idling car, the smell of burnt rubber coming through the vents, panting from both the scare and the shooting pain in my head. Another car approached from behind and honked. I blinked hard and then continued to drive. I was completely losing it—one actual accident and one near-disastrous accident in just a matter of days.

  When I arrived at the hotel hosting the awards dinner, my nerves were already shot. Before I got out of the car, I reminded myself to act like I was fine. I needed the team to treat me the same way they always had.

  I slowly walked to the designated hotel ballroom, steeling myself, building my wall. I owed this to Mike. He’d once shown up for me by coming to a dreaded Father’s Day breakfast in fifth grade. I’d been sweating it and complaining to him lightly that my teacher wanted my father’s number so she could get him on the phone for me during the breakfast. Mike had fixed the problem by being my guest. I’d felt like a traitor, but when all the kids were drawn to Mike, I remembered wishing he was my real family.