Tonight We Rule the World

by Zack Smedley

  I yank the silver from around my neck and throw it back in the drawer.

  TEN

  March 19th—Senior Year

  Journal:

  During a night of insomnia, an impromptu zoning session led to me researching hookup apps.

  It started with me reading over online discussions about erectile dysfunction in teenagers. That turned into ten more web pages about how sex affects your brain in general. A lot of it was useful insight, but none of it felt like actual answers.

  One of the pages mentioned hookup apps, though. Next thing I knew, I had twentysomething tabs open about everything related to those—what to expect from them, how they worked, example screenshots of conversations there.

  It stayed stuck in my brain for all of the next day at school.

  I wasn’t actually looking to sleep with a stranger, of course—that was way too big a leap for me, and it wouldn’t solve anything. (To say nothing of the fact that I’d be cheating on Lily.) But what were these apps like? Would people on them talk to me?

  Don’t get me wrong, I couldn’t imagine leaving Lily for someone else. But things with her felt so permanently shot, and we were just walking around school with our bullshit smiles stuck to our faces. She still gave me gifts at lunch—homemade cookies or a card—and re-posted bullshit quotes on her blog. Things like, “At the end of the day, you can focus on what’s tearing you apart or what’s holding you together” and “I’m not perfect, but you’ll never find a person who cares or loves you more than me.”

  What if I could test that? To see if things feel less fucked up with a new guy or girl I met on an app … someone with all the wonderful qualities Lily showed early on, but none of the bullshit?

  I downloaded my first hookup app last night.

  It was easy, but I had to bullshit that I was eighteen. Four months is close enough anyway.

  March 22nd—Senior Year

  Journal:

  I’ve met someone new.

  We connected on the app. I was smart about interacting on there, at first. I ignored all messages asking to meet up, and I set the max preferred age to nineteen. Only that didn’t show many profiles, so two days later, I bumped it up to twenty-one … that got a lot more. Soon I had to silence the notifications because my phone was buzzing with so many messages of “hey” or more explicit stuff that I ignored.

  I reminded myself of my mission: to collect data. “Are there people out there nicer than Lily?”

  For a while, I felt sure the answer was no. Every time I got one of those superficial messages, all I thought about was that day she sat next to me on my stoop. Look at us.

  But yesterday, I found a guy around my age—nineteen—who’s named Xavier. He didn’t have a face picture, but when I sent him a message of:

  Hi there, how’s your day been?

  He almost instantly replied:

  Hiya, thanks for asking! It hasn’t been too bad … getting nervous for my show next week. How about you? :)

  Okay, whoa … now we were talking.

  I paced around the Studio, sweating and trying to think of the right way to steer the conversation. Then I typed:

  I’m great! And what is this show you speak of? I’m intrigued.

  I grinned and clutched my phone to my chest until I got a new message a few minutes later.

  Great to hear! :) And it’s this one-act play I need to do as part of my degree. I’m a total theater dork. Yes, I fit the gay stereotype :P

  For the next hour, Xavier and I talked about what it was like to be a freshman in college, and how he was home for the weekend visiting his parents, and how we could maybe meet up sometime, but no pressure if I was uncomfortable with it. And while I didn’t say yes, the truth is that I felt more excited than uncomfortable. And beyond that, I was more at peace than I had been since the Lanham Trip.

  There were other people out there! Nice people … hell, maybe even nicer than Lily! There were people like Xavier, even though I barely knew anything about him. I would’ve told him how much our small conversation meant to me, but I didn’t want to weird him out. That would not be a good thing to do. Now that I’d found someone who was actually a decent person, I needed to focus all my energy on that.

  Eventually he stopped replying, but the next evening—as I sat fidgeting and wondering if I should follow up—he sent a new message:

  Super sorry for not replying! Fell asleep last night and practice ran late. How was your day?

  Xavier and I messaged the whole rest of the evening. Eventually I ran out of conversation topics, so I just said:

  I love your name, by the way … is that your real name? I know we all have an air of mystery on this app, haha :)

  Then I added:

  I apologize if that’s invasive! I don’t mean it to be.

  I fell asleep waiting for his response. For once, no nightmares.

  March 23rd—Senior Year

  Journal:

  When I woke up for school this morning, I checked Xavier’s profile to see if he replied yet. He’s blocked me.

  ELEVEN

  AUSTIN’S GRANDPARENTS ARE THE NICEST PEOPLE ON Earth—their house in Virginia Beach is a palace. At least it feels like one. Five bedrooms, basement theater, in-ground pool, balcony overlooking the beach. Plus they’re not even here, so we have the place to ourselves.

  Despite all the bullshit going on back home, I spend the week walking on air. By day, I lie on the beach in sunglasses while the others swim. (I hate the feeling of natural bodies of water. Too dirty.) By night, we help Beth make nice dinners and have evening water gun fights in the pool. The others even humor me and let me host my annual Batman Night—a tradition where I watch the entire Dark Knight trilogy in one sitting.

  The only time I feel uneasy is when I try to go to sleep in the unfamiliar bed. I brought the weighted blanket I use at home, but the pillows are still wrong. I end up spending most of the evenings lying out on the balcony in my pajamas, listening to ambiance and absorbing the night air.

  The last evening there, Beth and I make veggie burgers on the grill near the pool while the others swim around. Everyone gets a bit liquored up from the wine Austin smuggled, and two hours later, we’re crashing inside while Beth takes a dessert out of the oven.

  “Who all wants caramel pavlova?” she calls into the living room.

  “What word are you saying?” asks Austin, sprawled out on one of the leather couches in his pajamas. “I’ve never heard of it,” I say.

  “It’s a meringue desert,” says Vic from the other side of the room. She pauses their video game to take a sip of wine. “Uncultured animals.”

  “Can you ask Lily if she wants any?” Beth asks me. “She’s on the balcony watching the sunset.”

  “Sure. Will I like pavlova?”

  “Hmm—I think so?” She bobs her head back and forth. “It’s served with fruit. How do you feel about oranges?”

  “I think the person who named them wasn’t a hard worker.” She pinches me with her tongs.

  I find Lily on one of the beach chairs on the deck, scrawling in her notebook. There’s barely enough light for her to see—the sun has completely disappeared at this point. She’s still in her bathing suit from earlier today, sunglasses nested in her hair.

  “Am I interrupting?” I ask.

  “Hey!” she beams. “Not at all. I just finished.”

  “Beth said to ask if you want pavlova. Meringue dessert.”

  “I’m good for now.” She scoots over in the chair to make room for me. I squeeze into it next to her, tangling my feet with hers.

  “You look cute in your swimsuit,” she says, leaning her head on my shoulder.

  “You too.”

  “Aw.” She squeezes my arm, then her fingers trail south. She lets them rest on my thigh, tucked just under the inseam of my swimsuit leg.

  I squirm a little, poking her arm. “Can you not?”

  “I’m behaving!” She leans up to peck me on the cheek. “I’m just rest
ing my hand—no, see, what’s wrong with resting it?”

  “Can you—dude, stop—”

  “Relax.”

  “—Okay. Stop!” When she doesn’t, I jump up from the chair, tipping us over. Lily shouts as she hits the deck wood with a thud.

  “Ow! God damn it, that was my elbow!” She rubs it as she climbs to her feet, scowling. “What the hell, O? That really hurt.”

  I blink at her.

  “You’re still doing it,” I say. I’m too dumbfounded to have a tone—my voice is flat and empty.

  “Doing what?”

  “You know.” I put my fist against my mouth. “You can’t not know by now.”

  “Well. I … don’t.” She makes a fish face at me, like, haha, I screwed up. When I don’t smile back, she drops it and takes a step toward me. “Look, can you chill? I didn’t know the whole ‘stop’ thing included me literally resting my fingers on you. That’s not something most people are thinking about.”

  “You can’t not know by now.” I shake my head, not looking at her. My adrenaline is pumping and words are ballooning in me; there are a million things I need to say, but I’m trying to pick my phrases carefully because after all this, even now, I want to make room for the possibility that I’m the one who’s out of line.

  “I can’t not know what?” Lily asks.

  “That I’m not kidding when I say ‘stop.’”

  “So, what … because of two or three incidents, you think it’s this huge deal?”

  “How many more times will I have to clarify before it stops happening? What’s the number?” “This is stupid.” “I agree. What’s the number?”

  I feel pain written all over my face. How can she not see this? How can she not hear this? How is this rational person—one of the most rational people I know—standing here claiming she doesn’t have a clue what she did? What she keeps doing?

  I let the silence build. Don’t let her dodge this time.

  “I’m missing something here.” Lily leans against the deck rail, so she’s facing me. “Why is this so important to you?”

  “Because you keep doing things after I ask you to stop doing them.”

  “Which is something I’m working on.”

  “Wh—it’s not a fucking art project! There’s no work; just stop!” This feels so shitty—having to beg her to keep her word on something. Pleading with her to dispense an ounce of remorse.

  I try again. “Okay. What goes through your head when I ask you to stop doing something?”

  “I think … ‘Hey, is he serious or not?’ Then I remember how important this is to you, which makes me nervous, and by the time I think, ‘Wait, I’m screwing this up,’ you’re slamming my elbow into the deck.”

  I lean against the opposite rail to look her up and down. Her face is blank, her eyebrows perched … like she’s still waiting for me to say something important.

  Then I ask, “What about that night?”

  No answer.

  “You didn’t seem nervous then,” I press her. “So what went through your head? Did you hear me say ‘stop’?” No answer.

  “Did you hear me that night?”

  “Okay.” Lily claps her hands together and holds them there, her eyes flaring. “Let’s get something clear. It really bothers me that you feel the need to keep re-living the past.”

  “I guarantee you that feeling bothers me even more.”

  “I already admitted I screwed up that night.”

  “I want to unpack that a little more.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. Then I say, in a more strained voice, “Are you even upset about it?”

  Lily flinches, then scowls.

  “I’m every bit as upset as you are,” she snaps.

  “Really. So you’re—come on. You’re not grossed out when you look at the mirror. You aren’t having … flashbacks.”

  “You don’t know! How do you know I’m not?”

  “I honestly don’t think you get how insultingly insincere you sound right now.”

  “Answer my question—how do you know I’m not? You’re just assuming because I’m not showing that many signs of being upset …”

  “Let’s just be clear; you’re not showing any signs of being upset.” “Still!”

  I karate chop my own hand. “You are asking me to assume… . Do you get how it’s hard for me to take your word for this? Does that make sense?”

  “That sounds like a problem on your end, not mine.”

  I squeak under my breath, folding my arms against my chest.

  “Why are you being like this?” I ask.

  “Like WHAT? You’re the one coming at me with this shit, accusing me of not caring about it … thanks for that, dick. What, you think just because I’m not curled up in a ball somewhere, that means I’m not upset?” Steam practically leaks from her ears. “What happened makes me sick, but acting upset over it won’t do any good. What am I going to—to do … dissolve into tears every time I see you? Stay stuck in bed forever? None of it, none of it, will change what happened—nothing can. It’s DONE!”

  “Did you hear me that night?”

  “O, we’ve been over this—”

  “Lily—”

  “—and over this, and over this, and over this!” She takes a step toward me, her jaw clenched. “What do you WANT from me?”

  “For starters, you never did apologize—”

  “Okay, watch: I’m sorry. There, did that fix it? Didn’t think so. So I’ll say again: What do you want me to do? Tell me! Go ahead. Give me some, some action item, and I’ll do it. You want me to give you all my stuff? You want me to blow you every day? You want my car? I’m not kidding right now. Anything you need, tell me.”

  “Right now, I’d like to leave one conversation with more information than I came in with.”

  “GOD!” She smacks the table, yells, “OW!” then does it two more times.

  I come off the railing, taking a step toward her. I feel a rush from getting her to react, but it’s all wrong. What I want is for her to look ashamed, upset—anything to show she gives a genuine shit. I want her to show how torn up she was, and is, instead of feeding me bullshit about invisible woes. But all I see in her eyes is confusion, irritation … maybe the tiniest bit of concern. My brain, as always, latches onto that: Maybe she’s just so ashamed she can’t show it. Maybe this is all just a defense mechanism for her. Maybe I’m spouting all this with absolute certainty and I, like so many other times in the past, am wrong.

  But no. I’m not wrong, and she’s not going to lead me down that road tonight.

  “I asked you to stop,” I say, “and you didn’t.”

  “Oh, that simple?”

  “It is that simple. I asked you to stop, and you didn’t.” I take calming breaths, then restart in a more level voice. “Do you get what you did? I mean specifically.”

  “I know I upset you, if that’s what you mean,” she says. “But let me ask you this: What about it was so upsetting? Which part?”

  “Wh—the whole thing!”

  “But what about it was upsetting?”

  “We’re not doing this.”

  “Why not?” she asks.

  “Because I’m sick of having to defend why and how I feel the things I feel.”

  “I’m not asking you to defend yourself; I’m asking clarifying questions because I don’t understand.”

  “I honestly don’t mean to be rude, but if you can’t understand why getting assaulted falls into the category of ‘upsetting,’ maybe I’m not the go-to guy to help you out.”

  She stares at me while I snap at my bracelet.

  “Did you hear me that night?” The question burns more each time it passes through me. I feel my eyes prickle, and I swallow a lump of self-pity that works its way up my throat.

  “Ah …” I think she starts to say “I,” but all that comes out is a toneless croak. She closes her mouth, pursing her lips at me.

  Don’t let up. I change angles, then go in again. “Did you hear
me say anything?”

  “It doesn’t matter now.”

  “Humor me and pretend that it does for a second.”

  “There’s no point in harping on—”

  “Can you please, please just answer.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So do it.”

  “I just did; that’s my answer: yeah. I heard you say … what you said.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut.

  “Okay.” I swallow. “You told me in the Studio that you didn’t hear me.”

  “I …” She fumbles again. “What I meant was, I didn’t hear it how you intended it. What difference does any of this make?”

  I bite back the answer that flashes through my brain in a million forms at once:

  Because you still aren’t stopping.

  Because you don’t stop doing something if you don’t think it’s wrong.

  Because I think you’d do the same thing to me again.

  I’d tell her all that, but I don’t think it’s enough to convince her of the thing she’s apparently not already convinced of, which is that this behavior falls under the definition of the word deliberate—which in no way excludes people who have shut themselves off from their own shit, and then gleefully kept doing it.

  This fight isn’t worth it.

  I unclench my fists, open my eyes, and deflate. “Fine. Forget it,” I say.

  I’m starting to turn away when she says, “Are you going to be pissy about this later?”

  “I don’t know; I don’t control that.”

  “I just don’t want you to be angry on the last night of senior week.”

  “That’s not a scenario I’m thrilled about either.” “And I don’t want to deal with pissy-Owen. Am I going to get pissy-Owen?”

  I swivel back around to face her—she’s got her hands on her hips. God, she knows how to make people feel small. It’s never enough for her to win the argument—you have to lose on her terms too. Once she gets what she wants, it’s another half-hour of her explaining why this was obviously the fair outcome, and how she helped you by shining a light on how wrong you were.