The Last Time We Were Us

by Leah Konen

  Mom patters down, a smile on her sleepy face. “I wasn’t sure if you were going to make it.”

  “With minutes to spare,” I say.

  She gives me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Good night, dear.”

  “Good night.”

  But when I’m in bed and the house is silent, when the sounds of my mother doing her cold cream and serums in the bathroom die off, when the cicadas themselves decide it’s time to turn in, when I’ve slogged through two whole chapters of Heart of Darkness, my AP English summer reading, I still can’t sleep.

  I want to think about Innis, to indulge in his sweet words, but when I close my eyes, all I see is Jason, Jason and his whole family, knock-knock-knocking, just like they used to do when they lived next door.

  I flip back the sheets, climb out of bed, and kneel down at the foot of it. I push aside the clothes that didn’t make it to the hamper, and navigate the stacks of old art projects and overdue library books and an unused yoga mat until my fingers hit the smooth edge of a shoebox. I pull it out with two hands.

  It’s my very own Pandora’s box. Mom doesn’t know about it, just like she doesn’t know that I used to go over to Jason’s empty house sometimes, something I’ve promised myself I won’t do anymore. If she did, she’d probably burn the contents and seriously reconsider her stance against therapy.

  The photos are on the top, which is good because I don’t think I can stand to see the news clippings right now. I flip through five or so before I find the one I was thinking of. It’s me and Jason and his parents, his gorgeous mom and his always-pulled-together dad on either side of us. It was Jason’s eighth birthday, and the two of us have chocolate cake on our faces. Our arms are wrapped around each other’s shoulders, and it’s so dang cute it makes me angry. My hair is white blond, his long and shaggy, and the birthday hats sit crookedly on our heads.

  I stare at the photo, wondering what his condo looks like, how much his dad has aged; if he wishes his mom were closer, more of a mom. She left only a couple weeks after that birthday, went back to Connecticut without warning. Jason used to visit her twice a year. I wonder if she visited him at all when he was in juvie.

  I return the photo, shut the box, and push it all under the bed. No matter what Jason went through, no matter how much her leaving messed him up, it doesn’t excuse what happened.

  Nothing does.

  I DON’T KNOW when I finally managed to fall asleep, but I wake up feeling groggy. I smell coffee brewing, so I stumble downstairs and into the kitchen, where Mom is stirring a pot of grits, her Sunday morning ritual. She looks up and smiles. “Hey there, sleepyhead.”

  I rub at my eyes. “I couldn’t sleep. What time is it?”

  “Almost eleven.” She wipes her hands on an old dishtowel. “Sit. I’ll pour you a cup of coffee.”

  I follow her orders and try to get my bearings, as she delivers first a piping hot cup and then a plate of grits and eggs. Then she sits down next to me, opening a magazine.

  I can’t remember what I dreamed about, but flashes of Jason and Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan are there, hanging around in the back of my mind as if I invited them over for breakfast. I finish my plate and take it up to the sink, but I can’t shake it, this burning desire to see him, one more time. I hesitate, Innis filling my mind, the way he wavered from typical boy to sweet boy(friend?)—how mad he would be if he knew I was even thinking of going back there. MacKenzie, too.

  But it’s not about Innis or Kenzie or Mom or even Lyla.

  Jason was my friend once. Beyond everything else, he was my friend.

  So many years of history, and we can’t come down to a fake ID and a case of Natty Light. Dad asks where I’m headed as I pass him on the porch. He’s wearing an embarrassing fishing hat and a T-shirt that’s hung around from his college days, despite my mother’s steady threatening to take it to Goodwill. He’s tinkering with the newel post, which seems to wobble no matter what he does. During the week, Dad is as clean and trim as a marketing manager should be, but on the weekends, he lets stubble show, avoids combing his salt-and-pepper hair, and works on the house. Greg Grant, modern-day Jekyll and Hyde.

  “I’m going shopping with MacKenzie,” I say, instantly feeling bad. Lying about who I’m seeing feels worse than just lying about buying beer. Maybe I’ll swing by Kenzie’s house, zip up the stairs and tell her I hate everything in my closet and we need to go to the mall, stat. She’d do it, I know she would.

  “Have fun,” he says. “You need any money?”

  “No,” I say, his generosity only making me feel worse. “Mrs. Ellison just paid me on Thursday.”

  “I hope you’re saving some of it.”

  “I am.” Dad’s been lecturing me on the importance of saving money since I kept quarters in a piggy bank. It’s one way, at least, I can outdo Lyla, who’s terrible with money—not that it matters, now that she’s got Benny.

  I head to the car. Inside, a hula girl smiles at me, dancing among a shore of receipts and wrappers. I back out and cruise down the street under the oaks and elms dutifully standing guard like tired giants.

  I wave to the neighbors and stroller moms, and I slow as I approach MacKenzie’s house, pale blue with black shutters. Her car’s out front, so I know she’s home. I could still spend the day with her at the mall, analyzing what happened between her and Payton, what kind of-maybe-almost happened between me and Innis, and then there wouldn’t be a lie, not to Dad, not to my friends, not to anyone.

  But I don’t. I press the gas and keep my eyes from the rearview until I’m on the highway, headed where I know I shouldn’t go.

  THERE’S TRAFFIC, THE rush of the postchurch crowd, families packed into big gas chuggers and shiny German cars, sitting stiffly in their Sunday best, and it takes me a full fifteen minutes to get out of my end of town.

  As I approach West Bonneville, the road widens, new lanes popping up on each side. The buildings are fairly new, and there is, indeed, a Target, but still something’s off. The trees that do exist are young, thin, and wiry, like awkward preteens. There are condos everywhere, but many of the windows peek into empty spaces, homes unsold and waiting, a little desperately, to be adopted by a family of their own.

  Balloon-speckled car dealerships guide the way, until I see the familiar sign of the Gas Xpress. I take the last spot in the front row, close enough to see through the store’s glass but far enough, hopefully, not to be obvious.

  I squint to see a man with dark hair at the counter, and I wonder if it’s Jason, but then a bigger lady walks through the front door, and my line of vision is blocked. I hear a knock knock knock on the passenger window, and I jump, snap my head around. Jason Sullivan stares at me.

  He points down several times, a gesture that’s impossible to mistake. The full weight of what I’m doing settles in, and my body tenses like a boxer on the big night. In spite of the AC I begin to sweat, and I think about all that fight-or-flight stuff from psychology. Flight sounds pretty good right about now.

  But it’s too late. My jittery finger finds the button, and I roll down the window.

  “You scared me,” I say.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to.” His voice is familiar and confident, like the two of us chatting in a gas station parking lot is the most natural thing in the world, like the gangly girl he knew is still around, living, breathing, playing with his remote-control helicopter. When he smiles, I notice that a tooth on the right side of his mouth is just the slightest bit chipped. It wasn’t like that when we were kids. He leans down. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was just driving around I guess.” It’s so unconvincing, it doesn’t even count as a lie.

  “You came to see me?” The window frames his lopsided grin. He steps back, takes a last drag of his cigarette, flicks the ash off with his middle finger, pinches it between his thumb and forefinger, and tosses it in the trash. He’s still skinny like he was before, but his shoulders are wider, arms more muscly. He wears a dingy white polo that s
ays “Gas Xpress, How can I help you?” and he looks strangely good in it.

  He grabs the door handle. “Can I come in?”

  “What?”

  “I still have ten minutes left on my break. I’d love to sit.”

  “Okay.”

  And like that, he’s in the seat next to me, two old Frappuccino cups the only things between us.

  “When did you start smoking?” It comes out like an accusation.

  “Take a wild guess.”

  I try to imagine his life in there, but it’s impossible. I can’t see Jason on a stiff cot surrounded by people who do really bad things. I never thought he was that kind of a person, even after he ditched me.

  “It’s bad for you.”

  He gasps in mock surprise. “Really? You know, I didn’t know that. That changes everything.”

  “I was just saying.”

  “Hold your judgment, please.” He shoves his hand in his pocket and fingers the pack like it’s his security blanket. “I didn’t exactly have a lot of luxuries.”

  I shrug. “Your funeral.”

  He whips his head around. “Did you come here just to criticize me?”

  This is the part where I could say no, tell him I’m sorry, explain that I just wanted to see him again.

  “I’m not criticizing. I’m just stating a fact.”

  He pushes his hands against his knees, and he looks truly pissed. I remind myself that he was locked up for being violent. That he’s sitting in my car. A surge of anger rushes through me, and it’s out before I can stop it. “I saw him last night, you know.”

  “Who?” he asks, though we both know who I mean.

  “His face will never be the same.”

  Jason’s laugh is mirthless. “Yeah, I think I know that.”

  “So . . .”

  “So what?” he snaps. “You came to rub it in? To get some juicy details to take back to Innis?” He says his name like it’s cough syrup, like the taste of it makes him gag.

  “How do you even—?”

  “I saw him waiting in the car yesterday,” he says. “I’m not stupid.”

  I shake my head. “Can we please leave Innis out of this?”

  “It’s a little hard to leave Innis out, when it comes to this.” He spits out the words. “And he’s not good enough for you.”

  My face is on fire, and I have to stop myself from reaching my hand across the space between us and slapping him.

  “You don’t know him.”

  “I’m the one who was friends with him, remember?”

  “I remember you’re the one who ruined his brother’s life.” It comes out a yell, and Jason’s hand reaches for the door. His mouth opens and hangs there, and then he shuts it tight.

  He is not the boy I once knew. He never will be again.

  “Then please,” he says, “don’t let me ruin yours.”

  And without another word, he’s out of my car and out of my life.

  Chapter 4

  IT’S AFTER EIGHT THIRTY BY THE TIME I DRAG MYSELF out of bed the next morning. Downstairs, Dad’s breakfast dishes are in the sink, and Mom is furiously wiping down all of the cabinets.

  “When do you get done today?” she asks. I babysit for the Ellisons Monday through Thursday, while Mrs. Ellison either plans charity events, goes to breakfast with other moms, or attends Pilates.

  “One,” I say. “I’ll come straight there.” I have an emergency wedding planning lunch with Mom and Lyla. Apparently the band Lyla had chosen had fallen through, and at this stage in the game, that’s a really big deal. I’m a required attendee.

  “Good,” Mom says, moving on to the next cabinet.

  “Isn’t it a little early for Pledge?” I ask.

  She doesn’t answer, and at first I think it’s because of the band fiasco, but then I see the Bonneville Post-Gazette, opened to page four.

  Local Teen Assault Convict Released Early

  He’s been out for at least a few days, but I suppose the Post-Gazette isn’t exactly the Associated Press. Even though it’s not news to me, the words feel final, authoritative. Below them sits a photo of Jason, lips shut tight and angry, against a chart that marks his height: seventy-two inches.

  Mom’s hand stops wiping and follows my gaze. I turn my head guiltily, but she already knows that I know.

  “He’s not my friend anymore.”

  “I know.”

  “So don’t worry.”

  “I’m a mom,” she says. “It’s my job to worry.”

  And she goes back to cleaning, her dustrag moving just the tiniest bit faster.

  MRS. ELLISON IS flustered when I get to the house, Sadie on her hip and Mary Ryan tugging at her cardigan. She steals a glance in the hall mirror, primping her elegantly cut hair with her free hand. I wonder if she read about Jason, too.

  What would she do if she knew the just-released convict was her go-to babysitter’s former best friend? Or that the dangerous boy was sitting in said babysitter’s car not even twenty-four hours ago?

  “There’s a pizza in the freezer and apples in the crisper.” She transfers Sadie from her arms to mine. “Give them lunch at eleven thirty or so. I should be home by one.”

  “Going somewhere special?” I ask, trying to act normal. “You look lovely.”

  She shakes her head, a you-shouldn’t-have smile plastered so wide I know she’s not aware of my past associations. “Breakfast with a friend, and then running some errands, but you are just too sweet, Liz.” Then she plants a pale pink kiss on both Sadie and Mary Ryan. “Be good for Miss Liz.”

  The girls and I run through the usual morning activities—story time, dress-up, arts and crafts. I’m fooling with a tiara and adjusting Mary Ryan’s favorite princess dress when she turns to me, looks up from beneath her chestnut bangs.

  “Miss Liz, do you have a boyfriend?”

  My smile falls flat before I can stop it, but I quickly pull it together for her.

  “No,” I say, voice light and jovial as the tulle on her skirt. She has no clue how much I wish the answer was “yes,” how much easier things would be if Innis worked like that.

  Only a month or so ago, I thought he did. Innis and I had been flirting in chem for a few weeks at least, and we ran into each other at a graduation party. We were dancing, kissing, right in the room full of everyone. I hadn’t even had anything to drink, though I could taste that he had, and I naively assumed that this all meant something—that the next day I’d get a text from him, asking me out properly. Instead, I didn’t see him for two weeks. Would he have even invited us over if not for the foolproof fakes?

  I know now there’s a lot more than a stone’s throw between Innis Taylor’s girl du jour and Innis Taylor’s girlfriend.

  Mary Ryan just stares at me, puzzled.

  I pinch her nose. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “Gross.” She scrunches up her face. “No way.”

  “Well, there you go,” I say. “No boyfriends here. Unless Sadie has one hidden away.”

  Sadie giggles right on cue, almost as if she knows I’m trying to be funny.

  Mary Ryan sighs, looking at me with her big brown eyes. “You’re pretty.”

  Sadie tries to push a square block through a round hole. Finally, she gives up, sticks the block in her mouth, drool running down her chin.

  I pull her onto my lap, confiscate the block, and wipe her mouth with the rag I always keep handy. She pops her thumb in her mouth as soon as the block’s gone. Mrs. Ellison has told me not to let her do that, along with a whole list of “goals” I’m supposed to focus on during my time with the girls, but I’m a babysitter, not some kind of child behavior specialist.

  “Thanks,” I say. “You’re very pretty, too.”

  “I thought you’d have a boyfriend. That’s how you know if someone’s pretty, right, if they have a boyfriend? My dad says pretty girls like my mom always have boyfriends.”

  My first thought is how much I want to smack Mr. Ellison. And my seco
nd? What if he’s right, at least a little bit? Lyla had a total of five boyfriends in the year between breaking up with Skip and meeting Benny. That’s a boy band. And not one of them was a boyfriend prospect, a casual hangout, or a hookup. They were boyfriends through and through, from the way she introduced them to friends and family to her not-so-subtle updates via social media.

  But not me. I’d die of embarrassment if Innis knew I hadn’t kissed anyone before him. I didn’t even tell MacKenzie.

  I run my hands through Sadie’s hair. I know that by the standards of the world—or of North Carolina high school, at least—I am pretty. Very. The most popular guy in school does not routinely make out with girls who aren’t.

  But if I were a little more something, would I already be touring the inside of Crawford Hall?

  “Your mom is beautiful,” I say finally. “But having a boyfriend doesn’t make you pretty or special or anything like that.”

  Mary Ryan nods as she messes with her puffy princess sleeves. Then she looks up again. “Do you think I’m pretty enough to have a boyfriend?”

  My heart aches then, because she is so young, and already she’s worried about landing a guy. Sometimes it feels like the only requirement of being a girl is to prove to the world that somebody out there is willing to claim you as theirs.

  “Miss Liz?” she asks.

  I want to teach her that the whole boyfriend thing isn’t important, that you can be your fabulous self and that’s all you need.

  But I worry that if I don’t tell her what she wants to hear, I’ll hurt her.

  I pull Mary Ryan onto my other knee as Sadie leans in closer. “You, my dear, are so beautiful, you’ll have so many boyfriends you won’t know what to do with them. And when you’re old enough, you’ll find someone who loves you just as much as your daddy loves your mommy. Okay?”

  She nods. “Okay.”

  But as I squeeze her tight, I wonder who’ll be the first person to break her heart.

  IT’S ONE FIFTEEN by the time I get to lunch. Mom and Lyla are sitting outside, eating hummus and sipping sweet tea. Mom must have dusted away all of her frustrations from this morning, because she looks happy as a clam.