“Hey … so I know I was fucking horrible on Saturday night. Like unforgivably horrible. I wish I could say I was so drunk that I couldn’t remember what I did but I remember, even if I was so fucking drunk I should probably be dead. I’m going to have to see a counselor in Ohio and go to AA meetings and all this shit that I deserve but, I don’t know, I still hate myself, and I know you don’t have to forgive me.…”
“I forgive you,” I say without hesitation.
“Me too,” Zee adds.
She hugs Zee, then me, and—because the world is spinning in the opposite direction today—Abigail says, “I love you, Art.”
* * *
My sister Abigail, the bitchiest bitch in all of Riverbend, just told me she loves me. So I say it back.
ZEE
Cam then stands up and engulfs me in his arms in a way he never has before. Not when we were friends, not when we were the weirdest of weird couples this past week.
“Zee…”
“Yeah?” I’m nervous. No idea why.
“The pitching staff is terrible.”
And that’s when I know, for the first time since we were eleven, that Cam has always loved me. It’s just that neither of us ever understood it wasn’t a boy-girl kind of love. It was a Chicago Cubs kind of love. And nobody can understand that except Chicago Cubs kind of people.
art
After we say our good-byes, and are in my room alone, I ask Zee, “Is it hard to see Cam and Abigail back together?”
“Yeah, no,” she says. “I mean … I always thought Abigail was terrible for Cam, but now I think she’s perfect for him.”
“A perfect match on the Zert Scale,” I say, because I’m brilliant.
Then Zee says, “How can I help you pack?”
Oh. I guess that has to happen now. I look around my room, at Alex’s stuff, at mine, at my clothes, at magazine covers, at my poster of my white kitten in his pink tie. “Will you take this to remember me by?” I say as I take the poster out of the broken frame.
“I’d remember you even if I was lobotomized,” she says, “but I’ll take your kitten poster anyway.”
“Thank you.” And then I look at all my stuff again and I say, “Okay, let’s go.”
“Art, you need to pack. Your dad will flip.”
“Maybe I’ll pack tonight when you’re sleeping, maybe I’ll travel back in time and pack last Friday when we were sort of fighting. But I’m not packing today, on my last day with you.”
She nods because she knows I’m right, and then we leave.
* * *
Outside, my dad is pulling into the driveway, bags of Taco Bell piled in the passenger’s seat. He rolls down the window. “Where have you been?”
“I was in the hospital. Thanks for coming by.”
“Your sister got arrested, and I had to deal with her. I knew your friend here would take care of you.”
“Her name’s Zee.”
He ignores me, says, “Art, you need to get back inside and help pack the house.”
“Dad, I took care of you all summer.… Today I need to take care of me,” I say as I grab Zee’s hand and move fast toward her truck, hoping to outrun his inevitable yell.
* * *
But that yell never comes.
Once at the truck, I turn back and find my father staring at me. Our months together, without Mom, replay in my head. It’s possible they do in his as well. In silence, he raises his hand. Because I love dramatic interpretations, I decide my dad is not saying good-bye but rather hello. As if he sees me—the real me—perhaps for the first time.
I wave back and then, as Zee might say, we are gone.
ZEE
Sometime not long after driving away from Art’s dad, a plan starts forming in my head. I don’t share it with Art right away because I don’t know if my plan is possible and I don’t want Art making me believe in another thing that is impossible today.
* * *
I text Arshad, tell him I want to talk. Tell him we could come to The Forest Café.
* * *
When we get there, my dad is waiting for us in one of the booths in the center of the café. Art gives him a hug. I don’t. We sit on one side; he sits on the other. Art and I hold hands under the table.
“Okay…” I say.
“She’s very serious suddenly,” Art says.
“Here’s my proposal. I’ll live with you—”
Art shouts, “I love this proposal!”
I ignore him, continue: “—if Art can live with you too.”
“Zee,” Arshad starts. “Art has his own family.”
I raise our clasped hands from under the table and lay them on top. “Art’s family is gone, just like mine. I’m Art’s family. And he’s mine. And he loves you, he loves Stephanie, and the only way you and I have a chance is if he’s there. So use your money, hire lawyers, get him emancipated like me. But we come together or I don’t come at all.”
Arshad closes his eyes. Does his mini-meditation thing. When he opens them, he says, “Okay. If Art wants this…”
I look to Art, whose eyes are filled with tears, whose chin is quivering, and I say, “He wants it so much he’s been rendered speechless for the first time maybe ever.” He does manage a furious and enthusiastic nod.
“Okay, then I will make it so,” Arshad says, and smiles this beautiful smile and I see myself in him, or maybe even the self I wanted to be when I was my best, kindest self. But then his smile dies, and he says, serious and sharp, “Stay here.”
Since I don’t take orders well, I’m up from the booth and next to Arshad a second later.
It’s Michael. Standing across from us in a wrinkled suit, unshaven, shaking, sweaty, hollow. Looks like he escaped his own funeral casket.
“Rebecca…” he says when he sees me. He tries to approach, but Arshad is blocking his path toward me.
Arshad says, “Michael, this is not a good time—”
Michael spits out, “You won, Arshad, okay? You won … just let me give Rebecca something…”
I try to move around my dad, who’s sweating almost as much as Michael. Both of them twice as terrified as me. I say, “Arshad, it’s okay.”
“No…” Arshad and Art, who’s behind me, say at the same time.
But I give them both that look that says I’m in charge, not them. I step past my dad and face Michael straight on.
“The money your mom left … it’s gone … I’m sorry … but I have this…” he says, then he reaches inside his suit jacket.
It’s the letter.
My mom’s letter.
Michael holds it out. He can’t look at me. Like he’s the kid and I’m the disappointed parent. “I loved your mom so much for so long and I really just wanted to be the man that took care of you and her and I can’t do that now.” His broad face and broad shoulders are just melting toward the floor, his whole big manly-man life turning into a puddle at his feet.
“It’s…” I had all this venom for this guy five seconds ago, but now I got nothing. So I just say, “… all good. We’re all good.”
“You forgive me?”
Sure. “Yeah,” I say, but that’s all he gets from me, so I add, “Good luck.” And he knows I mean good-bye. So he nods, still never looking at me, and walks away.
art
After Michael leaves the café, Stephanie races over to Arshad, Zee, and me.
She says, “So, all four of us?”
And Arshad says, “Yes.”
Then Stephanie starts tearing up, which makes me start crying, so we hug, and Zee looks at us like we’re nuts until I drag her into our embrace and then I can tell Arshad feels left out, so I shuffle us over to him and we all pull as tight as we can.
ZEE
Art and I move into Stephanie and Arshad’s house, which is a couple blocks from the café on the edge of Laedi College campus. It’s a hundred-year-old house, once owned by the founder of Triple S Motors. It’s huge with hallways that go nowhere and rooms
that don’t make sense. Art insists it is a “work of art” and Stephanie makes it feel comfortable and warm, despite the size. She does insist on playing this classical music by some long-dead composer named Dvořák through the entire house’s speaker system. She says it’s the music my dad and her fell in love to. I tell her it makes this old house feel haunted. To which she says, with an Art-like wink, “But only by ghosts with exquisite taste in music and people.”
Art’s father doesn’t fight the emancipation or Art staying with us. Art likes to joke that he and his dad have never been closer now that they’re a thousand miles apart.
We technically live in Gladys Park now, but my dad worked it out with the school districts so we can both finish high school at Riverbend. Which is cool, because Pen and Iris are the best girlfriends I’ve ever had—they are the only girlfriends I’ve ever had—and senior year means a lot more being able to share it with them. God, I sound lame. Whatever.
My dad and I get along. We do. But it’s a lot different living with someone every day from just having coffee with them for an hour. He’s still super nice and interesting, even wise, but he’s also super moody. (And despite what Art says, he’s even moodier than me.) But when he gets in a funk, Stephanie tells him to go have a time-out in their room, and when he comes out, sometimes not until the next day, he apologizes for indulging in his “existential despair.” Art and Stephanie make fun of him, we all laugh, but yeah, I get it. I get “existential despair.” So I get him. And, yeah, I guess I love him too.
* * *
I can’t bring myself to read my mom’s letter until Art holds my hand and reads it out loud while I try to contain my sobbing. This is how the letter ends:
All right. Okay. I guess I have to tell you about your dad … Wow, your dad … SO! I’ve been talking with him. For years actually. This makes me feel like such a terrible person saying this now! I loved him deeply, but he said and did some horrible things after I got pregnant with you. And for almost ten years, I did a pretty good job of forgetting he existed. But then he wrote me and apologized in this very profound way and I didn’t tell him to go away. He wanted to meet you. But I had just gotten sick again and I didn’t want him to get you when I was losing you. That probably doesn’t make sense. But it’s why I never could talk to you about him. I knew he would have you, if you wanted him, for the rest of your life. I wanted you for myself the rest of my life.…
You have me for the rest of my life too.
When you feel you might be ready, I’ve included his number at the end of the letter. Just remember that no matter what you think of him, I’m glad I met him because he gave me YOU.
And he gave me you.
Last thing? Once more! I LOVE YOU, ZEE! I’m crying when I’m writing this because you make life so meaningful and gorgeous for me and I’d die from this fucking disease infinity times as long as it meant I got to share this world with you again and again. Hugs and kisses and hugs and kisses forever and ever and ever, Mom
This exhale pours from me a moment after Art finishes reading the letter. My body calms. My eyes clear, not totally, but enough that I can open them again. The room returns to the present reality, and I turn to see Art, who has cried as much as me. Maybe more.
“I love your mom so much,” he says.
Without hesitation, I say, “I love you.”
* * *
Art and I get our own rooms at my dad’s house (we could have gotten two each), but we spend every night those first couple months together. Sometimes his bed, sometimes mine.
We kiss. Great kisses. They really are. But we never do more than that. He never asks to do more, and I never really want to. He gets excited once in a while, but not that often, and I never hunger for more. So we kiss and cuddle. Stephanie asks me once about it, and she says, “You two sound like ninety percent of married couples.” She thinks she’s (almost) as funny as Art.
art
On November 1 (of course I remember the day), Zee falls asleep in her bed while I’m still doing my homework. And then, I don’t know, I just don’t feel like waking her up or maybe I don’t want to cross the cold hallway floors, so I sleep alone in my room.
And this happens more often, sometimes her, sometimes me. Then, over Christmas break, Jayden asks if he can give me a Christmas present and I know what he means. I don’t go see him, but I decide if Zee and I are going to be honest, we have to stay honest, so I ask, “Are we still a couple?”
“I don’t know,” she says.
And I say, because I’m brilliant, “Couples can break up. Since we will never break up, maybe we were never a couple.”
“Okay…” She doesn’t know where I’m going.
“So, maybe we’re more than a couple.”
“We’re family,” she says.
“Yes, but families can break up too. The Adams clan is example A. So…” I get down on my knees. “I didn’t buy a ring.…”
She laughs.
“Zee…”
“If you’re asking what I think you’re asking, call me Zhila.”
“Zhila … will you, from now, until the end of time, be my platonic-but-not-neccesarily-always-platonic wife?”
“Yes, I will … but only if you stand up.” So I stand up. Then she gets down on her knee, holds my hand, and asks, “Art … will you, from now until the end of time, be my platonic-but-not-necessarily-always-platonic husband?”
“A thousand yeses,” I say.
“A thousand yeses?”
“Would you prefer just one yes?”
“No, in fact, for you and me, I don’t think a thousand is nearly enough.”
THE END
author’s note
(This was originally supposed to be at the beginning of the book, but then Art made it beautifully his own and it made more sense to put it here.)
With a novel entitled The Handsome Girl and Her Beautiful Boy, it might be obvious that the book will be exploring issues of gender and sexuality but I—
“No,” Art said, midthought.
“Art, you and Zee are really just here to help out with the dedication and the acknowledgments.”
“b.t., please, you’ve been silently begging for my help ever since you sat down to write this.”
“But don’t you think something called the ‘Author’s Note’ should actually be written by the author?”
“So you should be beholden to labels in a book trying to deconstruct them?”
I, um, had no retort to that. So I shut up and listened as Art said:
“Dear people about to read this book: Zee and I are not archetypes. We don’t speak for all teenagers. Nor do we speak for all people who share any of our unique traits. We’re one-of-a-kinds just like you. So let my journey be mine, Zee’s be hers, and yours be yours. Because that’s where we want this whole amazing evolution revolution to go, right? To get to the point where everyone knows they get to be whoever they want to be and get there however they want to get there and everyone else loves us not in spite of those things but because of them.”
He said a lot. I tried to replay it in my head. I had to do it fast because I also knew Art was about to say:
“Tell me you love what I said or I’ll die.”
I love it.
acknowledgments
When I write the acknowledgments, I invite my narrators to join me because they prove even more in tune than I am to who was important in writing this book and why. With Forever for a Year, I arranged a meeting between Trevor and Carolina, painfully awkward at first because they had broken up but in the end cathartic for us all. With The Nerdy and the Dirty, Benedict and Penelope insisted I meet them for pizza in Riverbend, which began a new understanding of who I am to my characters and who they are to me.
Art and Zee?
They showed up at my door, months before I planned to write this.
* * *
“Surprise! We’re early!” Art said as I opened the door, leaping to hug me.
“Or not surpri
sing at all,” Zee said, offering me only a handshake. “He insisted if we waited until you invited us that it would be boring.”
“My exact words were ‘The most boring thing in the history of the universe.’”
“Well,” I finally spoke, “I usually wait to write the acknowledgments when I have a theme I can weave through the thank-yous—and I don’t have a theme yet.”
“Perfect,” Art said, “because we do.”
“You do?”
Zee said, “I told him you’d figure it out after we thanked the first few people.”
Since my two small sons had left my brain zombie mush, the idea of Zee and Art doing some of the heavy lifting was very appealing. So I took a small leap of faith and let them do their thing.
* * *
“First,” Art said, “Kate Farrell, your editor. Kate, when you read this, just know I love you too, you beautiful soul you.”
“Art,” Zee said, “we should also thank her for cutting out all the lame stuff Brad thought our story needed.”
“Zee, we decided we’re calling him b.t. because we are honoring that identity. And it makes us special compared to Carolina and all them. And we don’t want to call that lame stuff lame, you know what I mean, it’s just that was stuff b.t. had to experience in order to write the story that was meant to be.”
“What Art said, sure,” she said. “I’ll just add: Kate, you rock for knowing our story didn’t need any fancy bells and whistles to be special.”
“God, I love her,” Art said.
“Me too,” I said, and then Art hugged me for no reason except he’s Art.
“While we’re hugging,” he said, “you should thank everyone else at Holt/Macmillan who helped make me a literary star. Ha.”
Art means, of course, all-star assistant editor Rachel Murray, Starr Baer in production, Kelsey Marrujo in publicity, Kathryn Little in marketing, and Rich Deas and Carol Ly in design.
The Handsome Girl & Her Beautiful Boy Page 26