“I’m sorry,” I say again. But this time it’s to Rebecca, for not listening to whatever it is she has to say.
—
You have to fix this.
That’s what I’m telling myself all through the rest of the day.
A is going to leave me. A will never be mine. A will never be able to be a normal part of my life.
Justin is here. Justin loves me. Justin is a part of me. I cannot ignore that.
He is angry, but he is angry because he’s confused, because I’m making him miserable. He knows something is off. He knows me well enough to know that.
He is not making things up. I am really doing this to him.
Which is why I have to stop.
Which is why I have to fix it.
—
He doesn’t seem surprised to find me at his locker at the end of the day.
“I know I’ve been out of it,” I say before he can dismiss me. “I know I haven’t been paying attention a hundred percent. That has nothing to do with you, I swear. And I’m grateful to you for calling me on it, because sometimes I’m so out of it I don’t even realize I’m out of it, you know? But I’m back. I’m here now. I want to know what’s going on with you. I want to be a part of it. I want us to take as much time as we need to get back on track.”
“It’s fine,” he says.
I watch as he puts his books in his locker. The back of his neck taunts me. His shoulders draw me in.
“Do you want to do something?” I ask.
He closes the locker. Turns back to me.
“Sure,” he says. And in his eyes, in his voice—I sense it.
Relief.
—
I ask him where he wants to go.
He says his house.
—
I know makeup sex is supposed to mean making it up to each other after having a fight. But right now I feel like it’s makeup sex because I’m making it all up. I have transformed myself into such a devoted, pretend girl that even I can believe the imitation is real. I know actions speak loudly to Justin, and he is speaking loudly back. I am grateful for the communication, for the way the intensity makes my body feel. But my mind is in another room.
In the heat of it, in the rush of it, he feels safe enough to say, “Don’t leave me.”
And I promise. I recognize how vulnerable he is, and I swear.
—
Afterward, I ask him about his shit day yesterday, and he barely remembers why it was so bad. Just the usual reasons, and the weight of them feeling so usual. He doesn’t mention me with another guy, and I don’t find it underneath his words, either. I think I’m in the clear.
He asks me to stay for dinner. I call my mother, who seems irritated but doesn’t say no. Justin’s mother also seems irritated when she comes home and Justin tells her I’m staying—but that irritation is directed at him, not me. I tell her I don’t have to stay, that I know it’s last-minute, but she says she’s happy to have me here, and that it’s been too long since she’s seen me. When Justin and I first started dating, she treated me like this stray he’d picked up. Now that we’ve been dating awhile, I’ve been upgraded to pet status—part of the family, but not really a member.
Justin’s father likes me more, or at least wants more for me to like him. He manages to come home exactly five minutes before dinner is ready, then acts like he’s at the head of the table even though the table is square. Justin and I are perpendicular, and we answer his father’s questions like it’s a joint interview. Our bland answers about school and homework go unchallenged by his bland responses. I risk asking about Justin’s grandmother, and am told she’s doing as well as can be expected. Everyone tenses up, so I change the subject and compliment the food. Justin’s mom tells me she’s sorry that there won’t be enough for seconds, since she wasn’t planning on cooking for four.
In the beginning, I’d wanted Justin’s house to become my second house, and Justin’s family to become my second family. But I only made it halfway. This makes sense, because Justin barely wants his family for himself. Part of me was disappointed that my second chance at a decent mom fell short. But mostly I decided to claim the absence in Justin’s life. I can remember thinking that if he didn’t feel like he had a family, I would be his family. If he didn’t feel like he had a home, I would make our space together a home. I believed love could do this. I believed this was what love was for.
Now I’m not sure what we have. What kind of family we are. I used to imagine us in the future—getting married, having kids—and then play it backward until it reached us now. But I haven’t done that in a while.
Justin is uncomfortable all through dinner. And I know I am the comfortable part—I know that I am the person at the table who brings him the most happiness, who he feels closest to. When dinner’s over and I’ve helped his mother do the dishes, I find him back in his room, playing a video game. He pauses it when I come in, then pats the space next to him, beckoning me over.
“Sorry to put you through all that,” he says, kissing me.
“Dinner was good,” I tell him, even though it wasn’t really.
I know we’re not going to go beyond kissing with his parents in the house. It’s like every move we make is amplified straight to their ears.
He passes me a controller and we play awhile. If we were different kids, we’d be doing our homework together. Instead, we avoid our homework together. I realize how irresponsible this is. I don’t think it occurs to Justin at all.
I’m glad we’re back to normal. I don’t know if I’ve missed this, but it feels right for right now. It’s like A has never existed. A is a story I told myself.
Justin is better at this game than I am, which is true of most of the games we play. I keep dying, and he keeps passing me new lives.
At nine, I finally beg off, tell him I have to get my bio work done so I don’t fail out. I’m bringing it up partly because it’s true and partly because I want him to remember to do his work, too. He’s much more at risk of failing out than I am.
“Okay—I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says. His eyes don’t leave the screen.
I make sure to say goodbye to his parents on my way out. His mom says again that it was good to see me. His father walks me to the door.
When I step outside, I don’t feel I’ve lost anything by leaving. Like when I leave my own house, there’s always a part of me that stays behind, waiting for me to get back. That’s what makes it my home—that feeling that a part of me is always waiting for me there.
As I walk to my car, I don’t turn back to see if Justin’s at the window, watching me go. I know he isn’t.
The part of him that waits for me isn’t that strong. Not when he knows he has me.
When I get back to my room, I’m not worried about our fight anymore. This morning seems like ancient history.
It’s A I’m worried about. It’s A who I think is waiting for me. I haven’t sent word all day, and it’s feeling, now that I acknowledge it, like an abandonment. Which is wrong—it’s A who abandons me in the jump from place to place, body to body.
But I know I’m guilty here, too.
I check my email and am almost relieved to find that there isn’t anything new. This excuses some of my silence, if A is being silent, too. Although if A is being silent, it may very well be because I told A to stop.
I get ready for bed, then sleep for eight hours. When I wake up, the first obligation I feel is to end the silence. So I write:
A,
I’m sorry I didn’t get to write to you yesterday. I meant to, but then all these other things happened (none of them important, just time-consuming). Even though it was hard to see you, it was good to see you. I mean it. But taking a break and thinking things out makes sense.
How was your day? What did you do?
R
I know this is in two different places at once—I meant to write to you, but let’s keep taking a break. But it’s an accurate reflection of where I
am. Or where I think I am.
Even though I know it’s impossible, and I know it won’t help, I still want to know where A is.
Does this mean I’m waiting for A?
I don’t know.
At the very least, I’m waiting to see what happens next.
Chapter Eighteen
I get a rushed email from A as I’m driving to school. I read it in my car, before I go inside. A tells me he (she?) spent yesterday in the body of an immigrant girl who had to clean toilets to make a living, and the day before A wasn’t feeling well, so he stayed home at this other girl’s house and watched TV. Today A’s another girl who has this big track meet, so she has to stay where she is. Even though I told him not to come here, I’m disappointed.
I want to contradict myself. I want to overrule my hesitations. I want A to be here.
But I can’t steal that girl from her track meet. And when I picture A as some runner girl, I slow myself down. What if she’s another Ashley? Or even just normal-looking. What would we do then?
I think about writing back to A, but if I’m not telling him (her?) to drop everything to see me, I don’t have much else to say. I am not going to tell A about Justin—not about the fight, not about the making up. And what else do I have in my life that’s worth talking about?
I turn off my phone and head into school.
•••
I go through the motions. I try not to talk in class, but talk when I have to. I say hello to friends, but not much more. I give Justin what he wants—enough distance to be himself, but enough closeness to know I haven’t gone far. I eat lunch without tasting it.
I find myself thinking of Kelsea, about her notebook containing all those ways to die. Not because I want to kill myself. I am nowhere near wanting to kill myself. But I can understand feeling so detached from your own life. To feel that your connection to everyone else is so thin that all it would take is one decisive snip to be separated completely. If I don’t cling, I drift. I feel that no one is holding me. In my life, I am the only one who holds.
Except for A. But A is not here.
Rebecca and Preston try to reach me. They see the thin thread and tie messages to it, sliding them my way. Preston invites me to another round of buyless shopping. Rebecca tries to bribe me into a coffee excursion after school. Both of them remind me that Daren Johnston is having a party tomorrow night. I’m sure I’ll end up going.
Plans. I realize I’m not making plans because I want to see where A is living tomorrow, if A will be free. It’s the weekend. I can drive far if I have to.
No. I see Justin and I think, Stop it. He asks me if I want to go to a movie. He even lets me choose.
Once upon a time, this would have made me happy.
—
I can’t be bothered to tell my mother I’m not coming home for dinner. This will make it two nights in a row, and she’s going to give me hell for it. So I figure I might as well do what I’m going to do and get the hell after, instead of getting the hell before and not being able to go.
We drive around for a while, then get some Taco Bell and head to an earlyish movie. As we’re waiting for the coming attractions, I find myself looking at all the other people in the theater. Most of them are my age, and I can’t help but wonder if one of them might be A. Her track meet would be over by now. Maybe she decided to go to a movie with friends afterward. It’s not impossible.
A few girls catch me watching. Most turn away. A couple confront me, staring back to make me feel uncomfortable.
Justin is fidgety, maybe sensing how my attention is wandering. I lean into him, hold his hand. He shifts the popcorn in his lap so this can happen. But when the previews start, he pulls away.
I don’t think the movie is what he expected it to be. The posters promised it was a horror movie set in space. But soon it’s clear that the most horrific thing the astronaut is fighting is the endlessness of his boredom and the pointlessness of his life. Justin’s eyelids start to flutter. I want to use his shoulder as a pillow, but he told me once that if I lean there for too long, it kills his circulation. So I go back to looking at the audience as much as I can, picking out which person I’d be most attracted to, if A were inside.
I know the answer should be all of them.
It is not all of them.
It’s not as simple as saying all the guys are yes and all the girls are no. It’s more complicated than that. Although mostly it’s the guys I consider.
The answer—the real A I want—is sitting right next to me.
—
When I get home, it’s my father who’s waiting in the kitchen, looking disappointed. He tells me Mom’s already gone to bed, and that it was inconsiderate of me to ditch dinner without a call. I lie and say I told Mom ages ago that this was going to be a date night with Justin. I call it a “date night” so my dad will imagine we went for ice cream sodas and gazed lovingly into each other’s eyes the whole time.
He falls for it completely.
—
I check for a new email from A, but don’t find anything. And I don’t write back, since I still don’t have anything interesting to say.
—
The next morning, my mother says she isn’t speaking to me. I know I’m supposed to feel bad, but mostly I’m happy not to deal with her.
I’m worried that they won’t let me go to the party tonight, so I make a big production of doing my homework and completing some random chores. It’s very easy to win my father over this way.
Before I leave the house, I consider emailing A and letting him (her?) know where I’m going to be. Then I remember what happened to that poor guy Nathan the last time this happened, and I decide to stay silent. Still, I wonder where he (she?) is. I also wonder why I haven’t heard anything.
I pick Justin up, because I know he’s planning on drinking. I ask him what he did all day and he barely remembers. I think maybe his life is as uneventful as mine, and that’s why we’re together. To be each other’s eventfulness.
Or maybe that’s why we go to parties, to find some eventfulness there. Or wastedness. Or both. Preston’s also driven, so he and I sip Diet Cokes as I tell him about the movie, which is more interesting to make fun of than it was to watch. While I’m talking, Preston keeps his eye on the door, waiting for his gaydar to go off. It stays silent for a while until this James Dean wannabe strides in. Preston comes to attention like a hunting dog that’s spotted the prettiest duck to ever fall from the sky.
“Really?” I say. “Him?”
Preston nods once. Twice.
“Do you want me to find out who he is?” I ask.
Preston shakes his head once. Twice.
A minute later, Dirk Nielson bounds in, car keys dangling in his hand. He looks around, spots James Dean, heads over, and kisses him hello.
“Shit,” Preston says.
“Sorry,” I tell him.
“Well, it was nice for the five seconds it lasted.”
James Dean looks over at us—looks over at me. For a brief second, I feel connection. But then I really look into his eyes and I know: It’s not A. It’s nothing.
I talk to Preston some more, then Rebecca and Ben come join us. I’m telling them about the movie when Stephanie comes tearing out of the kitchen, looking like she’s on fire. Steve follows her for a few feet before stopping and yelling “WHAT THE FUCK?” at least three times at her back.
“Who wants to take this one?” Rebecca asks. When no one else makes a move, she sighs and bolts after Stephanie. Ben and Preston head over to Steve.
I walk around them and find Justin doing shots with Kara Wallace and Lindsay Craig, the girl who was so certain I was up to no good with the guy I was taking around school.
I steel myself and walk over. “So what happened with Steve and Stephanie?” I ask.
I am clearly asking Justin, but Lindsay answers. “She saw him eating pepperoni and said it was really rude of him because she’s been vegetarian for, like, the past three minu
tes.”
Kara finds this funny. Justin just shrugs at me, like he stopped trying to figure Stephanie and Steve out years ago.
Lindsay’s staring at me in a way that makes me wonder whether I wore the wrong thing, said the wrong thing, or am just the wrong person. I decide not to ask.
Justin seems taken care of, so I head back out of the kitchen. Once again, I find myself wandering around all of the conversations, avoiding all of my friends. I am this body, I think. When my friends see this body, they assume they know a lot about the person inside of it. And when people I don’t know see it, they also make assumptions. No one ever really questions these assumptions. They are this layer of how we live our lives. And I’m no different from them. When I saw James Dean walk in, I felt I knew as much about him as I’m sure he felt he knew about me when he looked my way. It’s like an instant form of reading, the way we define each other.
The house isn’t that big. There’s no dance floor in the basement—I’m not even sure there is a basement. There’s a line for the bathroom off the living room, so I walk upstairs, hoping to find a bathroom there. And also because it’s quieter upstairs.
All of the doors on the hallway are closed. I open the first and see it’s a bedroom. I’m about to close it when a voice says, “Hello? Can I help you?”
I poke my head in and see Daren Johnston cross-legged on his bed, reading The Outsiders.
“Oh, hi, Rhiannon,” he says. “The bathroom’s the second door on the right. I left it open, but I guess someone closed it. I mean, there might be someone in there, so you should probably knock.”
“Thanks,” I say. But I don’t leave. “Why are you up here reading? I mean, it’s your party.”
Daren smiles slightly. “I guess I like thinking about throwing a party more than I actually like having people over. Lesson learned.”
“Why don’t you tell everyone to go home?”
“Because they’re enjoying themselves, I think. They shouldn’t have to suffer just because I’m feeling antisocial. I needed to leave, so I allowed myself to leave.”
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