Socially Awkward

by Stephanie Haddad

  “I’d like you to leave now, Noah,” I say quietly. I know I won’t have to push on the door anymore, so I drop my hands down to my sides. “I don’t want to be with someone who only sees me like that.”

  He scoffs at first, but when I raise my eyes to him and he sees the quiet anger and pain behind them, he stops trying.

  “Fine,” he says, throwing up his hands. “If that’s the way you want this to end.”

  I swallow hard. “I’m not my hearing aids, Noah. I’m not some pet project you can rehabilitate and turn into whatever you want her to be. I have to be myself.”

  “That’s all I ever wanted you to be. Don’t you get it?”

  I can’t look at him, so I push the door closed, ending our conversation with the firm click of the lock. And then I stand there, letting the door support my back while I weep quiet tears. I don’t know how long Noah stands outside, or if he can even hear me crying, but I can’t really move from the door mat anyway. So I cry it out, until I sink down onto the floor in a heaping mess of running makeup, stringy hair, and damp clothing.

  Look at that… it’s raining after all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Without the regular trips back and forth to Tom's Workout World, I’m a teeny bit afraid to even make eye contact with a scale. Which I know was ridiculous. Scales don't have eyes, Jen. But you know what I mean. A few packages of Oreos and a couple of weeks of missed gym trips is not exactly the right formula for substantial weight loss.

  In fact, as I learn this morning, it had quite the opposite effect.

  "Five frickin' pounds," I tell Lyla over coffee later that day. "I am a total disaster right now. What the hell am I supposed to do?"

  "Buy a treadmill?" She suggests, playing with the plastic tab on her Dunkin Donuts lid.

  "Will we have room for that in the apartment?" I think for a moment. "Maybe if we don't have a couch. That way, we have to work out when we watch TV."

  "You know damn well that we'll just sit on the treadmill while we watch TV and eat a pint of ice cream, Jen."

  The girl has a point. And she knows me better than I thought she did.

  "All right, so now what?"

  "Back to the gym?"

  "I don't know if that's such a good idea. I can’t face Noah… not yet. Maybe not ever." I shake my head, then pulled my hair back into a pony tail against the brisk wind of the spring day. I was tired of pulling pieces of it out of my mouth, after all. This is why Boston girls always have a hair elastic around their wrist when they spend any time outdoors.

  "Have you talked to him at all? Was there any follow up whatsoever?"

  I shook my head again, as I considered the dregs of my cold coffee. "It's going to be really awkward. I have enough of that in my life. I mean, we both said some unpleasant things."

  “Are you actually listening to yourself talk right now? You're ridiculous."

  “Why?”

  “Because you had a fight. You’re not the first couple in the universe to have a screaming match, then kiss and make up.”

  “I don’t know if I want that,” I say, twisting my hair around my finger. “I don’t want to be with someone because of my hearing loss… I can’t let that define me.”

  “Jen, I’m going to let you in on a little secret,” Lyla leans in, covering her mouth with one hand. I expect her to whisper, but instead she speaks at full volume, sending me reeling backwards. “Everyone has something that defines them!”

  Blinking, I stare at her for a moment. I have to adjust both of my hearing aids to stop the buzzing feedback before she can continue talking though.

  “Look at that guy over there,” she says, pointing to an overweight man sitting alone at a table. “He’s letting his weight define him. Her, the blonde one there, gabbing away on her cell phone at full volume? She’s letting that blonde hair define her as a bimbo stereotype. Just listen to what she’s saying, for crying out loud. And me…”

  “Cold-hearted psychoanalyst?” I take a guess.

  “Close, but no,” she says, grinning. “I let my sarcasm define me, my friend. But underneath that sarcasm, who am I?”

  I sigh deeply, dropping my head into my hands.

  “I’m a lot more than that, aren’t I?” she continues. “Just like he’s more than his weight, and she’s more than a blonde. Well, maybe. But my point remains… you are more than your hearing aids, but that might be what defines you for some people. Deal with it, Jen. It could be a lot worse.”

  “I’d buy that card,” I tease. “I can see it now: ‘Smile! It could be worse!’ Seriously, where do you get your advice?”

  “Confucius, mostly.” Lyla shrugs then takes a sip of her coffee. “Honestly, Jen, friend to friend… I don’t think Noah defines you as the ‘hearing loss’ girl. That kind of fascination has an expiration date, you know? And his… well, he sounds like he’s in it for the long haul.”

  Lyla’s words stick with me into the night, interrupting my sleep, and well into the next morning. I understand what she means, but I just don’t know how to process it all. And who was I kidding, thinking I could belong with Noah anyway? I'd be the mousy, overweight girlfriend who was always suspicious when he was out late, jealous of every girl he worked with and every client he took on. I couldn't live my life like that, not when I knew damn well how little self-esteem I already possessed.

  What a mess I'd made.

  ****

  When the day of the move finally arrives, I find myself experiencing some regrets… but all for a different reason. In retrospect, keeping that small army of tall, strapping men around long enough to help me move out of my parents’ in-law apartment might have been a smart move on my part. But, as things stand, not a single one of them is interested in seeing me at all, so I’m on my own. Lyla came to help with her friend Ruby, but considering I can probably bench-press either one of them, my hopes aren’t high for their ability to move a couch.

  Why the hell didn’t I just hire movers?

  Fortunately, my dad is a superhero and has the afternoon free. As he spots Lyla and I struggling to move my dresser across the front lawn and into the moving van, he pops his head out the front door and asks if I want help. I stop, nearly dropping the furniture right onto the grass, and yell back a “Pleeeeease” to him. Lyla means well, but it just isn’t happening for her.

  Once we have the dresser in the truck, Dad commits himself to seeing my moving efforts through to the end. He takes apart my bed and moves the pieces on his own, hauls all the dresser drawers out one by one, and even carries the flat screen TV out for me. I occupy the two useless girls with a series of small items, like clothes on hangers, bags full of sheets and towels, or small boxes of DVDs and paperbacks. I carry the moderately heavy stuff out on my own, practically running circles around the skinny chicks.

  It feels pretty good to be the fittest girl in my immediate vicinity for a change.

  “Thanks, Dad,” I say, dusting my hands off. He swings the door to the van shut and gives me a hug.

  “Is there anything else I can do?”

  “Lend me your drill?” I say, grinning. “So I can reassemble my bed?”

  “You’re sure you don’t want me to come along?”

  I shake my head. “I got it, Dad. You’ve already done more than enough.”

  I hug him again, and a wave of sorrow washes over me. I’ve left home before—to go to college out of town and into my own place while I was working. But this time, which I knew would be the last time, it’s almost bittersweet. Having parents around all the time has been inconvenient most days, but when they aren’t going to be just on the other side of the door, that makes me nervous.

  Maybe my mom was right after all.

  “Thanks again, Dad,” I say, forcing a smile. “I’ll be home for dinner on Sunday.”

  Because it’s all about baby steps.

  Dad watches us pull out of the driveway, careful not to critique the way I drive the van, and I wave to him as we drive off. One town
over isn’t too far away, after all. I’m going to be okay.

  ****

  In my new apartment, with everything finally unpacked and settled in, I take some small comfort in having a roommate for the first time in several years. Although Lyla is a couple of years younger than me, we get along really well as co-habitants. She has similar neat-freak tendencies to mine, so there are never dishes piled up in the sink or rings around the inside of the toilet. Chores are mindless occupations we engage in simultaneously as a de-stressing technique. As weird as that sounds, it’s the truth. Vacuuming, folding laundry, unloading the dishwasher… these are the perfect times of day to get some thinking done.

  And during those times, and the quiet time we have every night while we each work on our research projects, I put the finishing touches on that paper. When Lyla finishes hers—a sociological study on the effects of modern media on the human psyche—we trade and read them through. I haven’t spared a single thought, idea, or bit of personal information. My paper details the painful process of separating myself from the internet identity, what I figure to be an exaggerated example of how we all have to be two different people in today’s world.

  When Lyla finishes reading it, she doesn’t have much to say about it.

  “Holy shit,” she eloquently comments. “I had no idea all this was going on. Some of it, sure… but wow!”

  “Well, now you know why I was so desperate to get out on my own,” I shrug.

  “Yeah,” she says, flipping through the pages again. “Holy shit indeed.”

  I make a few edits here and there, catch a couple of typographical errors, and then when I’m ready, I march it straight into Dr. Chase’s office.

  She smiles when she sees me. “I’ve missed having you in class this semester,” she laughs. “Not as many scathing comments from these students.”

  “Yeah, that’s my fault,” I laugh back.

  “How’s this semester been for you?”

  “It’s done now,” I say, handing her the portfolio containing my paper. “But let’s say it’s been a little more dramatic than I wanted it to be.”

  She flips through the pages, skimming a few lines as she goes along. Her eyes widen somewhere near the middle and she looks up at me.

  “Thought you might like to read the unabridged version,” I say. “But there’s a formal one in there too. The version I’m officially submitting and would consider sending away for publication. I hope you don’t mind. I only expect the grade for the formal version.”

  Or, the less boring version, as Lyla had put it.

  “I’ll read them both and just grade the formal one. But you never know, Jen,” she closes the folder around my two papers. “Sometimes the scientific magazines like the juicy stuff.”

  ****

  To celebrate my completion of the program, finally, I go for a run. A legitimate, all-out, special-running-clothes run across Boston Common. And as I run, I suck in my stomach and keep my back straight to work my oblique muscles, just like Noah taught me. I focus on keeping my breath even, keeping the volume on my iPod low so I can hear passing bikers and other pedestrians. Yes, iPod headphones do work if you have hearing loss, you just have to crank it up a little.

  And to be honest, as I’m running, I hope Noah will pop out from behind a bush somewhere and coach me along. I try to picture him running up ahead of me, taunting me to keep up with him and his perfectly fit physique. But as soon as I start to lose myself in the run, I lose the mental image as well. Eventually, I stop trying all together and just push myself forward.

  Faster and faster and faster. I speed across the Common, lost in the rush of adrenaline and endorphins, without realizing how far I can push myself without a trainer at all. When I make it to the other end, I stop, bewildered and amazed at how quickly the time and distance has passed beneath the soles of my shoes.

  All by myself, I have done this. Jennifer Smith is a runner and no one has to scream at her to make her do it. I let myself wind down, walking a quick loop around one of the many sitting areas on the Common, and then push myself forward again. I even take a longer detour through the Public Garden before I head for home.

  Look at me go.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  That night, I can feel myself getting irritable with boredom. With all my ties with friends and loved ones cut or fraying, and no sociology project to drown myself in (or Hostess cupcakes for that matter), I need to do something or I’ll go insane.

  In a bold move, I get up off the couch and walk straight into Lyla’s room to see what she’s up to for the night. It’s risky, since Lyla is a more social and outgoing person than I am, but I need to do something that’s not related to any men, sisters, or fake personas just for one night. After all, she keeps saying we should hang out sometime. Couldn’t hurt to ask, could it?

  “Yeah, let’s do something,” she says, as cheery as I’ve always known her to be. “A couple of us we’re heading out for drinks downtown. Want to come along?”

  It’s enough of an incentive for me to put on something sexy from the back of my closet, spend ten minutes detailing the perfect smoky-eyed makeup look—complete with mascara—and even blow out my hair. I don’t exactly look like a hooker when I’m done, but I look like I want to feel. Sexy and daring, flirty and vivacious. This is the way I’ve always felt inside, but I’d been hiding it with extra weight and baggy sweaters.

  Not anymore. Jennifer Smith will be turning heads tonight, folks.

  ****

  And I do, which is just so totally shocking to me, I can’t figure out how to handle it. Lyla and her friends, a couple of girls from other BU graduate programs, are dressed similarly to myself, which does much to help me feel like I fit in. They’re all single, all ready to dance, and all have an equally low tolerance for hard liquor. I keep my distance from the bar counter, mostly because it’s crawling with sleazy men, and sip my one gin and tonic just for something to do.

  When you’re in a club, I quickly learn, it doesn’t really matter where you’re standing, the creeps will find you. Even minding my own business at a table toward the back of the room, they keep tracking me down. As Lyla and the other girls go off looking for guys—on purpose—I’m left to watch the purses and assorted feather boas, but only too happy to oblige.

  In the ten to fifteen minutes I’m left alone, no less than six different guys come a-courting, so to speak. I’m pretty sure that there aren’t any signs posted nearby me advertising free single women looking for a good time. Still, just to be sure, I turn around and check. Nope. They’re just wandering over here on their own, armed with their best pick-up lines, and trying their hardest. Mostly, I just can’t believe that any of these lines ever work on any woman.

  That is, until I see Lyla’s friend Ruby wander off with one of my rejects into a darkened corner of the club. Will wonders never cease?

  It doesn’t take long for me to tire of the electric, hormone-charged, alcohol-fueled atmosphere of the club scene. I know I don’t belong here, but it has been nice to pretend for a change. Yes, I still feel like a sexy, outgoing Jennifer, but hanging out here is totally an Olivia thing to do. It’s not my scene and these aren’t really my friends. It’s all an act. It’s not any closer to being true to myself than playing Olivia online was.

  What the heck am I doing here?

  Even though my mother taught me never to go anywhere by myself, I ditch the club and everyone in it. I shoot Lyla an apologetic text message about not feeling well and just start walking down the street. I don’t exactly have a destination in mind, I just know that I don’t want to be in there anymore. It’s not me, not Jennifer. And it’s not the kind of person I want to be either.

  That club was too much Olivia for me to handle.

  Halfway between my new apartment and Tom’s Workout World, I stop. I’m not really sure if I realized where I was heading and then stopped, or stopped first and realized it later. Should I just go home and call it a night? I could just leave it up to
tomorrow to be a better day, pulling me from my poor excuse for a pity party. Or is it better to take a risk on Team Jennifer for a change?

  I know what Olivia and Claire would do. I know what Sean would want me to do. I even know what my mother would advise. The one person I can’t predict is the one person I want to find. I know what I have to do and in order to do it, these stupid giant heels need to go. Totally impractical for a late-night stroll.

  So I take them off and toss them into my gigantic bag. I’m lucky big bags were in fashion this season, or I would’ve been stuck carrying them. Or worse, donating them to the nearest homeless person. I consider myself a charitable person, but not with a pair Manolo Blahniks inherited from my estranged sister. There’s sentimental value there. Besides, what’s a homeless person going to do with these strappy nightmares?