The Last Time We Were Us

by Leah Konen

  In the front, the windows cast an early morning glow, bright and ethereal, the house like a shadow box. I climb up the stairs, remembering so many days playing hide-and-seek. How Mr. Sullivan always yelled at us to get our toys off the stairs. The time that Jason stuck his head through the banisters and Mr. Sullivan had to use a full can of Crisco to get it out.

  The fifth step of the staircase creaks, as it always has, and I tread carefully up the rest. I head straight to Jason’s room. It’s small and sparse. Little-boy blue walls and beige carpet that has slight indents from where bunk beds stood for years. I spent countless nights here, talking with Jason about dinosaurs and astronauts as we looked up at a ceiling of stick-on stars until gravity pulled our eyelids down.

  The gurgle of an engine jolts me out of memory lane. It’s loud and hardworking, like a whole load of machinery is under the hood. It putters and stops, and then there’s a pause followed by the slam of a door.

  I creep to the window and look out. There’s a truck there, sure enough. One I don’t recognize. A pickup, white and tinged with dirt.

  And then I see him walking, his gait quick and deliberate.

  The nostalgia disappears as quickly as it came. We aren’t friends anymore, haven’t been for years, since around the time he ditched the bunk beds, tacked up movie posters, blasted hip-hop music, and slowly invited me over less and less, hoping I’d get the hint . . .

  I take the stairs two at a time, but in moments he’s inside, staring up at me with a look of curiosity and surprise.

  “What are you doing here?” Jason asks. I can’t tell if he’s mad or just confused. He smells like cigarettes.

  “I shouldn’t be here. I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t care if you’re here,” he says with a strain. “I just didn’t expect you.” He looks down. I decided to come over so quick, I didn’t even bother to throw on flip-flops. “Without shoes, no less.”

  “I just kind of ran over. I didn’t think you’d be here.”

  “But it’s my house.”

  “Your dad never comes.”

  He stares at me a minute, then takes a labored breath. “My dad washed his hands of the place,” he says, rolling his eyes. “And I get that he doesn’t want to deal with it, but it’s not going to sell itself with all the damage and crap outside. And the real estate lady has pretty much given up on it. I’m kind of the last hope.” He shuts the front door behind him. “Really, though. What are you doing here?”

  I lean against the banister. “I come here sometimes.”

  “Why today?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

  “Because I pissed you off?”

  I shrug. “I thought I was the one who pissed you off.”

  “You did.” He walks to the kitchen, sets his toolbox down on the counter. I follow behind.

  He leans down, opens the cabinet doors beneath the sink, starts fishing around in there with his back to me.

  “I wasn’t trying to piss you off,” I say. “I just thought maybe you would defend yourself if I brought up Skip, maybe you could give me a reason or something.”

  He stops moving, and I think maybe he’s about to tell me what I want to hear. He closes the door and turns to me, the corners of his lips turned down. He opens his mouth to speak but then shuts it again.

  “What is it?”

  He sighs, shakes his head. “I forgot the caulking gun. I came all the way over here without it. I somehow manage to screw up everything.”

  He stands back up and shifts his weight back and forth. His eyes avoid mine. Maybe there is no explanation to give for what happened that night. Maybe he just snapped—screwed things up, if you will—maybe there’s no more to it than that.

  “I gotta go,” I say.

  “Stay,” he says, taking a step forward and meeting my eyes again. “You don’t have to go.”

  “Yes, I do.” I reach for the door, but in seconds, he’s right behind me, his hand on my shoulder. His touch feels dangerous, like an electric shock.

  “I’m sorry I got so angry the other day,” he says. “You should come over sometime. Say hi to my dad.”

  I turn to him just long enough to speak the words. “I can’t.”

  And then I’m across the yard and in my house and lying in bed and thinking about Lyla and my mother and MacKenzie and Innis—and what all of them would think if they knew.

  For so long I wished that Jason had never ditched me.

  But now I just wish that he’d stayed away.

  Chapter 6

  “THE TRUCK’S STILL AT THAT HOUSE,” MRS. ELLISON says shortly after I arrive later that morning. Her eyes are locked on the window and she’s holding Sadie almost protectively. “He was your year, right? The boy who did that horrible thing to Skip Taylor? Jack or Jasper or something.”

  “Jason,” I say. “Yeah. We were in the same grade.”

  “And neighbors, too. Lord help me when these girls become teenagers.”

  I force a laugh. “You sound like my mom.”

  She passes Sadie over to me, while Mary Ryan colors at the kiddie table, oblivious to her mom’s worries. “Just be careful. And if you guys decide to go out, head towards the pond.”

  I want to tell her that, dear Lord, Jason would never hurt a kid, but it seems like the wrong thing to say. “No problem. Don’t worry at all.”

  His truck is there all morning, big and intrusive, while the girls and I cycle through arts and crafts, the allotted thirty minutes of screen time, and pretend play in the backyard.

  It’s still there when I leave, but I ignore it, heading straight to MacKenzie’s.

  She gives me a knowing smile as soon as I’m in her room, her dog, Rocky, following behind. She shuts the door. “I know you’ve got boy news.” She runs a hand underneath her golden-brown curls, cultivated after an hour of work. Blow-dry, straighten, curl. It’s a bit much, but I’ve got to hand it to her, she looks great.

  “I’m just here to see you.”

  “Aww, how sweet.” She smiles at me, and I reach up and gently fleck a piece of mascara from her bottom eyelid. “Thanks,” she says. “But seriously. What’s the deal with you and Innis?”

  I lean back on the bed and give her a look. “You first. Why are you getting all fixed up?”

  She beams. “Payton asked me to come hang out at his pool.”

  I feel a jealous ache, deep in my stomach. Things are moving fast with Payton, and I should be happy for her, but it only makes me more aware that things are regressing between me and Innis.

  MacKenzie narrows her eyes, puts her hair tools down. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

  I sit up straighter. “I’m sorry I’m not more excited. I just think things with Innis are going to fizzle out.”

  “What are you talking about?” She sits down next to me. “Payton told me you guys hung out just yesterday.”

  “Did he say it like it meant something, or did he say it in his monotone Payton way?”

  “Hey,” MacKenzie says.

  “I’m just saying. He was probably just stating a fact, like he does.”

  Kenzie rolls her eyes. “So what happened then?”

  I take a deep breath, my face getting hot, and I feel downright ridiculous at how upset I am. “I ran into him at lunch. He was all nice to my mom and sister. He asked me to meet up after. We did, and he kissed me, right outside of Walmart, in front of everyone.”

  MacKenzie’s jaw drops. “Okay, the romantic qualities of Wally World aside, he kissed you in the daytime? That’s so boyfriend-y.”

  “I know.” My body responds to the feel of the kiss with nervous butterfly flutters, as if it hasn’t remembered the rest of the story yet. “And so it’s all good, and I follow them around the store, and I watch them look at hunting stuff, and he even tells me his embarrassing middle name, and then we run into Alexis in the parking lot. And he basically absolves himself of any connection to me.”

  “Wait, what’s his middle name?”

&nbs
p; “Erskine.”

  “Oh my God, that’s hilarious.”

  “Can you focus?” I ask.

  “Okay, okay. So what did he say?”

  I do a mock–boy voice. “‘Oh, we weren’t planning on hanging out. I just ran into her in the parking lot.’”

  MacKenzie presses her lips together: puzzled—or even disappointed? Then she forces a smile. “He probably got freaked out by his ex is all.”

  “But it’s been years,” I say.

  “Yeah, but maybe he really likes you, and being seen with a potential girlfriend in front of an ex sent him into some kind of douchey Innis tizzy.”

  “Or maybe he just wanted us around because we had fakes and now he’s over it . . .”

  MacKenzie shakes her head vigorously. “Look, Liz. You’ve got substance. A lot more than me, probably. And you’re pretty and, with my help, rather popular. Basically, why wouldn’t you be the girl to make Innis finally realize that hooking up with randos at parties doesn’t even compare to being with someone you’re into?”

  “You actually think all those things?” I ask. “You’re not just saying that because you know he’s done a one-eighty and you feel bad for me and it’s the kind of thing friends are supposed to say?”

  MacKenzie laughs. Then she pats me on the shoulder like she’s a cheerleading coach and I only need to practice a few more lifts before I’m beaming from the top of the pyramid. “I’m telling you, don’t worry. He likes you.”

  “Maybe he was disappointed the other night.”

  “Why?” she asks, genuine concern in her voice for the first time. “You told me it was good.”

  I take a deep breath. “But I think he wanted to . . . you know.”

  She raises her eyebrows. “Bake you a cake?”

  “Kenzie!”

  She folds her hands in her lap, steels herself, and looks up at me with her therapist eyes. “How much have you guys done exactly? Apart from the other night?”

  I hesitate, but her eyes say it’s okay.

  “Just made out.”

  Her laugh sounds like Styrofoam peanuts rubbing together. “That’s it?” I cringe, embarrassed and, for some reason, ashamed. “Really?”

  “Geez, Kenzie. Yes, really. Was I supposed to have slept with him on the basement couch by now? He’s not even my boyfriend. And I’m supposed to . . .” My voice breaks off, and my eyes fill with tears. MacKenzie’s supposed to be the one who understands, even if she is much more chill about sex than I am. She’s supposed to be on my side.

  “Whoa,” she says. “I didn’t mean you had to sleep with him. There are other things.”

  I taste salt on my lips. “Well, thanks,” I say. “I didn’t realize.”

  She puts her hand on my shoulder. “I’m not trying to make you upset. I’m just saying that it’s okay for things to progress. You might even like it.”

  “What if I don’t want things to progress?” I ask.

  She sighs. “Have you been talking to Veronica? Is that where all this prudey guilt is coming from?”

  “No,” I snap. “I haven’t. And could you do me a favor and not bring Veronica into all of this?”

  MacKenzie thinks Veronica is all uptight about sex because in a moment of extreme un-Veronica-ness, she essentially called MacKenzie a slut in the middle of the cafeteria. I’d skipped our standing Friday movie date for a party with MacKenzie, and Veronica was fuming at lunch on Monday. “So you’re going to start sleeping your way to the top of the East Bonneville food chain, too? You never gave a shit about any of this stuff until the fabulous MacKenzie came along.”

  It was a seriously crappy thing to say to MacKenzie. But it was also crappy of us to exclude her. I should have followed her out of the cafeteria, told her I was sorry. Instead, I sat stock-still as Veronica grabbed her lunch and stomped away, not looking back once. After that, she went back to the edge of the cafeteria, sat with a bunch of girls from one of our AP classes who she didn’t even like that much. And I just let it happen.

  MacKenzie scoots closer to me on the bed, and Rocky hops up to join us. She can see she’s hurt me, and she softens her voice. “Listen, if you don’t want things to progress, they don’t have to. I’m just saying, if you wanted to, it’s really not that big of a deal.”

  “He said he would wait for me.” I wipe tears from my eyes and take short, quick breaths.

  “And he will,” MacKenzie says, an upbeat note in her voice. “I’m only saying that there’s nothing to be afraid of. You guys should be enjoying each other. You’re young . . . and beautiful . . . and soon to be boyfriend-girlfriend!”

  I scratch behind Rocky’s ears. “You absolutely do not know that.”

  MacKenzie ignores my negativity, gives me a hug. “It’ll be fine. I promise.”

  But as I reach for a box of tissues, I’m not quite sure I believe her.

  JASON DISAPPEARS SOMEWHERE between four o’clock and dinner, when I’m up in my room, taking a crack at my summer reading, and pretending his truck’s not even there. Heart of Darkness is confusing enough when your brain isn’t constantly flitting to the whereabouts of your old best friend/sister’s mortal enemy/etc. . . .

  I can tell something’s up with Mom not two minutes into dinner. She cuts her steak with sharp quick movements, hacking at it like it’s her nemesis. She’s got something on her mind, and she’s begging for one of us to ask.

  “Easy there, the cow’s already dead, Genevieve,” Dad says with a signature dad chuckle.

  She ignores him.

  I butter a roll and decide to put her out of her misery. “Something wrong, Mom?”

  She sips her water, I sip mine, and I count to five. Wait for it. Wait for it . . .

  Right on cue, she drops her fork on the plate, sits up straight, and leans forward in her chair. “There was a truck at the Sullivans’ today.”

  I freeze, because she’s a mom, and moms don’t miss a thing. I wait for her to tell me that she was awake for all of it, that she saw me go over there, that she knows.

  “Did you see it?” she asks me with genuine, suspicion-free curiosity.

  I shake my head just a bit too fast. Bad move. It gives her pause.

  “It was probably the realtor,” Dad says, shoving more steak in his mouth.

  “It was not the realtor,” she says. “Realtors do not drive trucks.”

  “Maybe someone’s doing work on the house. It needs it.”

  She ignores him. “Don’t you remember Danny was talking about getting a truck right before he moved, to cart furniture around to clients?”

  He stares at her. “Yeah. So what?”

  “I think it’s his.”

  I eat another bite slowly, watching the volley, thanking my lucky stars that neither of them is hitting the ball over to me.

  “It’s his house,” Dad says. “Doesn’t he have a right to be over there?”

  “And what if it’s his son? Creeping around, fresh out of prison, near our daughter?”

  She looks straight at me, and I wonder if she’s playing a game, seeing if I’ll crack. She used to do it when she knew Lyla was lying to her. When she was out late with Skip or had the slightest tinge of alcohol on her breath, enough for a mom to notice. “He hasn’t tried to contact you, has he, Elizabeth?”

  I blink once, twice, three times. “No,” I say, slow and steady as I can muster.

  “I don’t even understand how he got out,” she says. “Parole.” She rolls her eyes like “parole” is meaningless, a trophy they give out on Field Day in elementary school. “And if he did anything; if he tried to contact you at all, you can tell me.”

  If she knew I’d gone over there, knew I’d seen him this morning, she’d freak.

  “If I see him over here, I’m calling the police.”

  “For what?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. Loitering.”

  “At his own house?”

  She drops her knife this time. “Are you defending him?”

  “Genev
ieve,” Dad says. “You can’t very well prevent the boy from visiting his own house.”

  “You, too?” She shoots death eyes at Dad. “After what he did to Lyla?”

  He breathes deep, and I can tell he just wants to eat his steak in peace. “Lyla has Benny now. Things happen for a reason.”

  If that’s not the most effed-up logic I’ve ever heard, I don’t know what is.

  “So?” Mom snaps. “Skip was her first love. She could have had . . .” She stops herself, and I wonder if she’s thinking Lyla could have had Skip, or that she could have had Crawford Hall. I wonder if that’s what she’s planning for me now.

  “She still could if she wanted him so bad.”

  Mom gasps, as if the idea of marrying someone maimed is unthinkable.

  “Plus,” I say. “She’s not the one with the burned face.”

  “Elizabeth!”

  The phone rings. We don’t usually answer during dinner, but Dad leaps for it.

  “Lizzie.” He smiles. “It’s for you.”

  Dad knows not to call me Lizzie anymore; he wouldn’t have said it unless prompted. Mom looks my way, and I curse her for being so perceptive.

  I walk slowly towards the phone and carefully take the receiver.

  “Hello.”

  “It’s Jason.” His voice is heavy, like muddy red clay, the kind that sticks on your shoes for days.

  I want to say “I know,” but I stop myself.

  He clears his throat. “How are you?”

  “Okay.”

  There’s a silence as I wait for him to say something else. Meanwhile, Mom’s gone back to pushing food around her plate, ears pricked.

  “I know you couldn’t stay this morning,” he says. “But I was serious. You should come over. My dad would love to see you. He asked me to ask you.”

  “I’m busy.”

  “I didn’t even say when.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I can’t.”

  “Listen, I know that it’s weird, but Lizzie—”

  “It’s Liz.” I flip around to see if my mother noticed, but her eyes are still on her plate.

  “Okay, Liz.”

  “I can’t talk right now. I’m eating dinner.”