Recycler

by Lauren McLaughlin

  At first all this change is disorienting, but within hours it feels as if it’s always been this way. As if we’re all merely reverting back to the family life we should have been living all along.

  Thanksgiving dinner with Auntie Billie and Uncle Steve proceeds without a hitch, everyone agreeing that my new look is “très chic.” Auntie Billie, however, thinks I should “eat something once in a while” and wonders aloud if New York has run out of food. I find their attention soothing, their never-ending appraisal of how urban and cosmopolitan I look secretly thrilling. Mostly, I appreciate the predictability of it all. No matter what happens elsewhere in the world, Thanksgiving dinner will always be more or less like this.

  After dinner, Uncle Steve, as he always does, palms me a twenty as if it were contraband. While the four of them retire for Baileys Irish Cream in the living room, I go upstairs to have a nap. But I don’t sleep. I lie on my bed and listen to their spirited voices discussing nothing of any importance. Guiltily, I find myself wishing I never had to leave.

  Somehow the McTeague family home, formerly a frostily coexisting collection of freaks, has transformed into a comforting, dare I say it, normal household. Maybe all I had to do was leave.

  Over the next few days I avoid all of the impromptu gatherings of returning Winterhead High students, but I do touch base with Daria. She reports that the lead theory among my former classmates has changed from “Oh My God Jill McTeague Was a Transvestite All Along!” to “It Was a Prank, Authored by Ramie of Course.” Ramie’s absence from Winterhead over Thanksgiving break is attributed to her being in jail, pregnant, or in a psychiatric ward. I’m surprised by my own tepid reaction to this. But my former classmates, whose opinions mattered so much at one time, belong to my past.

  The hardest thing for me is being in Winterhead without Ramie and Tommy. It makes me feel farther away from them than I’ve ever been.

  Ramie’s absence is not, however, the result of her being crazy, pregnant, or in jail. She’s still in London, where’s she’s decided to stay for “a while.” When she calls me Sunday morning, I’m eager to hash things out with her on the subject of Jack. I need to know just how broken their relationship is—if it’s merely wounded or terminal. This is not just for Jack’s sake, but for my own too. I can’t bear the thought of them being apart.

  Unfortunately, Ramie says she can only speak for a sec because it’s a gazillion dollars a minute to call from there.

  “Do you hate me?” she asks. “Does he hate me?”

  “No and no,” I tell her.

  I insert a meaningful pause there, in the hope that she’ll expand on the subject, but she doesn’t. Instead, she sighs in relief, then tells me that London is “the dog’s bollocks,” which apparently is a good thing. Her parents are beside themselves with worry, of course. Like Jack, they don’t understand how “crucial” it is that she work with the right people. Honestly, neither do I. To me it seems reckless to jeopardize her grades by skipping so much school, not to mention the terrible strain she’s putting on her relationship with Jack.

  But here’s the difference: I have faith in Ramie. When she cares about something, she does all the research. She doesn’t go off half-cocked. If she’s willing to jeopardize so much to be in London, it’s because London is important to her.

  “I knew you’d get it,” she says. “I just wish …”

  Her voice trails off. I know she’s thinking about Jack, and believe me, I want to jump right in and demand to know what she plans to do about him. But I know if I push, she’ll only dig in her heels. That was Jack’s big mistake.

  “We can talk about him if you want,” I say. “I’m deeply okay with it.”

  “Thanks,” she says. “But …” Her voice trails off again.

  At first I’m surprised she doesn’t want to get into the nitty-gritty with me. What are BFFs for if not endlessly co-analyzing the messy problems of infuriating relationships? But sometimes you have to work things out on your own. I know. I’ve been there. Besides, I’m not sure I can be objective about their relationship. In my mind, they belong together, and all other issues are secondary.

  “It’s okay,” I tell her. “I’m here when you need me.”

  “Thanks,” she says. Then she changes the subject. “So you don’t think I’m nuts? You know, by staying in London?”

  “No more than usual.”

  She laughs. The truth is, I don’t actually “get” why she’s risking so much to be in London. But I don’t expect to understand everything Ramie does. If I did, she wouldn’t be Ramie.

  Forgetting that was Jack’s other big mistake.

  By the time I’m back on the train heading to New York, stuffed, rested, and twenty dollars richer, I feel as if my old life has slipped effortlessly away. This is precisely what I wanted, of course, but I can’t help feeling a little sad about it. It wasn’t all bad. There were some good times. There’ll be good times again too. Won’t there?

  Those first few days back in New York, I find myself in a bit of a funk. Ramie’s not around, and in her place is an e-mail alert from PayPal telling me she’s deposited her half of the December rent into my account. I’d gladly exchange the money for some face time. Natalie’s too busy with her magazine to spend any time with me, though she promises to buy me a margarita as soon as things calm down.

  There are eight million people in New York City, but mal, is it hard to make friends. I mean, sure, they’re pleasant enough on the surface. If you ask someone for directions, they’re quick to offer assistance. Other than the mean lady at the pizza place, most of the store clerks and waiters are cordial and sometimes downright friendly. Even the bankers, insurers, and lawyers who temporarily employ me are pretty nice. But for all that, the city is a lonely place. Its bustling masses only reinforce that point.

  The one person I can claim to know in any meaningful way in this city is Ian. But as you might recall, our last encounter did not exactly end on a high note, and I have no idea what to do about that.

  I have taken to heart my dad’s warning about how a series of small mistakes can add up to big disaster. I don’t want Ian to be one of those mistakes. Nor do I want to wind up on that precipice, staring into a future I don’t even want. I’d like to avoid the precipice altogether if possible.

  Since I find myself day after day in a business-type environment, one afternoon I decide to approach the problem of Ian the way business people approach everything: with bullet points.

  In business-speak, they call this “chunking.” Thus the large, miasmic problem of how to deal with Ian breaks down into the following more manageable chunks:

  Ian might suspect I am sometimes Jack.

  Ian might find above less than alluring.

  Virginity, now a terminal disease, is beginning to glow.

  Once I’ve centered this on the page and chosen the right font, I print it out and take it home with me. Every once in a while I unfold it to see if any solutions come to mind.

  Then one day I’m working at this law firm where—and I’m not exaggerating here—nothing happens all day long. I swear, the phone rings once. That’s it. This allows me to create the following PowerPoint presentation:

  Possible Solutions to the Three-Chunk Ian Problem: A Lesson in Precipice Avoidance

  SOLUTION #1: INVENT A NEW LIE, SUCH AS JACK IS A DANGEROUS PSYCHOPATH WHO STEALS MY COATS.

  Benefits

  • Preserves real secret

  • Makes me seem vaguely heroic Liabilities

  • Smears self with tarnish of familial psychopathy

  • Impugns Jack

  SOLUTION #2: DO NOTHING. WALK AWAY. WRITE IAN OFF.

  Benefits

  • No further action required

  • Slight chance of Garbo-like mystique Liabilities

  • Need to recruit new devirginator

  • Loneliness, oh the loneliness

  As you can see, despite the orderliness of the presentation, both solutions pretty much blow. I spen
d a long time adjusting the formatting and changing the fonts, but it’s no better in Helvetica. In Times New Roman it just looks pompous.

  While I stare at it in this punishingly quiet law office where nothing ever happens, I can’t help but notice the fact that Ian has made no attempt to contact me since that fateful night. I think—though one can never be sure—that if I were in Ian’s shoes, I would have made some effort to verify that the girl I almost devirginated made it home safely after fleeing my apartment practically naked. But then Ian is probably wondering—if he’s thinking of that night at all—how Jack wound up in my coat. Perhaps Ian thinks he was the victim of a mean-spirited prank. Perhaps he’s wondering why I haven’t called him. There could be whole chunks I haven’t considered.

  I reorganize all the data into a spreadsheet and print that out.

  Then one day I’m on my lunch break at this diner in mid-town, picking through soggy coleslaw with the spreadsheet at my side, when my cell phone rings. I realize it’s hardly rung at all for days. I dig it out, hoping it’s Ian, but it’s not.

  It’s Tommy.

  I stare at the letters TK, unable to move. To the annoyed stares and unsubtle harrumphs of other diners, I let it ring. The old man at the table next to me is so irritated he drops his spoon with a loud clang and glares at me.

  I feel bad, but what does he expect me to do? Answer the phone and start talking? To Tommy Knutson? I’m completely unprepared. Answering the phone right now would be reckless.

  I let the call go, then wait for the new voice mail icon to appear. While I’m waiting, the waitress comes by to ask if I’m finished, and I wave her off somewhat rudely. Agonizing seconds pass. The muddled hubbub of the diner seems to grow in volume as I stare at my cell phone, willing the new voice mail icon to appear. While I wait, my knee bounces manically under the table and I am unable to resist imagining possible left messages. Such as:

  “Hi, Jill. I’ve been thinking. Life on the road is great and all, but I can’t bear to live another day without you.”

  I hate myself for entertaining such childish thoughts. I was supposed to have put Tommy Knutson behind me. I cut the cord, remember? But while I wait for that icon to appear, I can’t help but slip right back into the old longing, the old desire.

  When the new voice mail icon appears, my heart beats so loudly I’m sure everyone in the diner can hear it. I take a deep breath, plunge into the wild and reckless hope that Tommy loves me after all, and retrieve his message.

  “Hey, Jack. I got your text. Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner. My cell phone kind of died. I just put my SIM into a new one. I hope everything’s okay. Call me and let me know, all right? I’m worried about you.”

  Click.

  “What?!” I say out loud and to no one.

  The old man at the next table, who really is too nosy for his own good, picks up his bowl of soup and moves to an other table.

  Hey, Jack? Tommy’s worried about Jack? Why isn’t he worried about me?

  I try to calm down with some cleansing breaths, but this only intensifies my confusion.

  Is Tommy’s message coded? He put his “SIM” into “a new one?” Am I supposed to read something sexual into that?

  I call the waitress over, get my check, and take the rest of my BLT to go.

  As I stalk the crowded rush hour sidewalks of midtown, Tommy’s message begins to enrage me. Then the fact that I’m so enraged by it enrages me further. When did the cord grow back? Will Tommy Knutson continue to break my heart for as long as I live? I don’t want a permanently broken heart. I want to be over him.

  I stop walking suddenly and look up at the bright blue sky.

  That’s when it comes to me in a brilliant flash of insight: the solution to all of my problems.

  I’ve been thinking too small. In my effort to avoid making small mistakes, I’ve restricted myself to small solutions. But there are no small solutions anymore. Sometimes you have to think big.

  I dig the cell phone out of my bag and type the following:

  Sorry about the other nite. Much 2 xplain. Dexter’s? Tonight at 7?

  I send it to Ian, and less than a minute later he texts back:

  Ok.

  •

  When I get home that night, I hash out the whole plan with the mannequin. I do the talking, but she smiles supportively. It’s a simple plan. There are no carefully rehearsed deceptions or clever manipulations. I have no exit strategy or abort protocol.

  What I do have is an outfit. My favorite black jeans, my red pouffy blouse, and Ramie’s thick red corset belt. I put it on as if it were armor, but I doubt it will protect me from what I’m about to do. When I look in Ramie’s full-length mirror, I can’t help seeing Jack there. I dig around in Ramie’s underwear drawer for her digital camera and pull up one of the less pornographic images of him. He does look just like me. I put on some dark eyeliner and pink blush, but I can still see him there beneath the surface. I guess it’s appropriate, given that what I am about to do could arguably be described as Reckless and Stupid.

  Before I leave the apartment, Mannequin assures me that everything will be okay. She has a good feeling about tonight. I’m owed a break, she says.

  I want to believe this. But in my soul I know there is a distinct possibility of heartbreak.

  There always is.

  On my way down the stairs I hear music coming from Natalie’s apartment. I stop outside her door for a second, then knock twice.

  She opens it right away.

  “Say something encouraging,” I tell her. “I’m about to do something reckless and stupid.”

  “Okay.” She pulls back and has a good look at me. “I like your belt?”

  I’ll take it. I nod and head down the stairs.

  “Whatever you’re doing,” she says, “don’t waste your one phone call on me. I have no money!”

  Dexter’s is crowded, and Ian sits at the bar, hunched over a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon. I walk right up to him and lean against the bar.

  “So you’re okay,” he says.

  I nod, then glance around in search of a free table. I point to one near a window in the corner next to a pile of coats. “You want to go over there?”

  He nods and grabs his beer. Behind him, Joel the bartender waves shyly. It’s pretty clear from Joel’s face that he disapproves of my continued association with Ian, but Joel doesn’t understand. Ian and I shared something that night. I’m not sure exactly what, but I’m not ready to walk away from him just yet, no matter how convenient it would be to do just that.

  Ian and I lean against the windowsill and stare at the crowd gaily discussing whatever it is you discuss when you’re not about to lay your whole soul bare.

  “Um,” he says. “I’m really sorry if I, like, did something that you didn’t want me to.”

  “Oh,” I say. “No. It’s nothing like that.”

  “‘Cause I thought I was being gentle and stuff. I didn’t think I was pushing you or anything.”

  “No, Ian, it wasn’t that.”

  “Really?”

  I nod. “Yeah. I liked what you were doing. I liked it a lot.”

  “You did?”

  “Defo,” I say. “Deeply. Yes.”

  “Oh.” He lets out a sigh of relief.

  So that’s why Ian hasn’t called. All this time he’s been thinking I ran away from him. And here I was entertaining the possibility that he was a cold and callous person. But he’s not. He’s tender and kind. I never knew this because, despite our physical intimacy, I never knew him.

  That’s what it’s like when you have a secret. You have to keep everyone at arm’s length. They can’t know you, so they can’t love you. And you can’t love them either. In some ways, they will always be strangers to you. And the people who do know your secret will always be precious.

  “Ian,” I say. “I need to tell you something really important.”

  “Okay,” he says.

  “I’m kind of a boy sometimes.” />
  “What?” His face is blank, as if he hasn’t heard me. “You’re kind of what?”

  Believe it or not, that was my plan. I told you it was simple.

  “Did you just say you’re a boy sometimes?”

  “Yes,” I say. “That’s exactly what I said.”

  Ian stares blankly.

  “Ian?” I say.

  He keeps staring. It’s like he’s blacked out.

  “Okay,” I say. “You know Jack, my quote unquote brother?”

  He nods very slightly.

  “He’s not really my brother.”

  Ian’s mouth opens, but he says nothing. Very subtly, he inches away from me.

  “We sort of share the same body,” I say.

  Ian’s eyes dart around my face. “Are you telling me you’re a transvestite?”

  “No.”

  He takes a swig of beer, then looks at me in pained noncomprehension.

  “How it works is … um …”

  Ian’s eyes drift down my body.

  “It’s all there,” I say.

  “What?”

  “My girl parts.”

  Ian takes another large swig of beer.

  “I’m a real girl,” I say. “Just not all the time.”

  Ian shakes his head, but I can see realization dawning. The puzzle pieces click together. It’s not a complete shock to him. He suspected the truth, but he must have dismissed it. Now that I’m confirming it for him, there’s no escape.

  This is the moment I was hoping for, the moment when Ian would become one of the precious few who know my secret.