The Year of Living Awkwardly

by Emma Chastain

  “Hey. How’s everything?”

  “Pretty good.”

  “How’s Bear?”

  “Fine. Really into Winnie-the-Pooh these days.”

  “That makes sense.” Blank look from Grady. “Because of his name. Bear . . . Winnie-the-Pooh is a bear . . . you know?” KILL ME.

  “Oh, yeah, right,” he said finally.

  “I guess I’m hanging out with your girlfriend tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, she mentioned that.”

  “OK, well . . .”

  “Yeah. See ya.”

  “See ya.”

  Neither of us smiled once during the entire conversation. If “conversation” is even the right word.

  Friday, December 16

  How can Hannah stand her? How? How? How???

  Mrs. Egan and Hannah picked me up at quarter of seven and we drove to the Bowline, one of the few nice restaurants in our town, if by “nice” you mean “painted beige and full of dark-brown wood like something out of a 1990s home makeover show.”

  I can’t wait to get my license. I wouldn’t mind walking for hours at a time if I lived in New York, but here there are no sidewalks, plus older high school kids beep at you as they drive by to rub in the fact that you’re walking. Sure, you can ride your bike around, if you don’t mind carrying your helmet into restaurants and almost getting hit by cars when it’s dark and you’re on some ancient narrow New England road that used to be a cow path. So you’re basically stuck in your house unless you can force an adult to give you a ride somewhere, and then you have to deal with them sighing like they’re doing you this huge favor. And there’s nothing more humiliating than being dropped off by someone’s mom, who yells “Put on your hats, girls; it’s freezing!” as you walk away as fast as you can in a failed attempt to pretend you didn’t just get dropped off by someone’s mom.

  I was wearing a striped sweater I thought looked pretty cute, but as soon as I saw Reese, I realized I looked like someone’s dorky nephew. She had on gray leather pants with ankle zippers and a sheer white shirt over a black bra with crisscrossing straps. All the pervy dads in the place stared at her when she ran over to us, squealing, to say hi.

  Reese and Hannah sat on one side of the booth, and I sat on the other, which I told myself was a coincidence and not a symbol. I ordered nachos. Hannah ordered a salad with grilled chicken. Reese ordered a burger with onion rings and had two bites. She and Hannah talked about field hockey for a long time, which made me feel stupid and left out, because I didn’t understand anything they were saying (what is “tipping an aerial”?!) and obviously had nothing to add. Finally Reese was like, “Ugh, Hannah, do you even realize how boring we’re being? Chloe has no idea what we’re talking about. Anyway, there are way more important things to discuss. Now, listen, Chloe, we have to set Hannah up with someone. She’s a total catch—it’s insane that she doesn’t have a boyfriend.”

  “She had a boyfriend last year,” I said. “Maybe she hasn’t mentioned him.”

  “You mean Josh?” she said, killing my attempt to prove that I know Hannah better than she does. “She can do so much better than that kid.”

  “I agree,” I said.

  She leaned over the table and lowered her voice. “You know who I was thinking? Zach Chen.”

  Hannah and I looked at each other.

  “What?” said Reese. “Tell me!”

  “No, it’s nothing,” Hannah said. “I used to have a crush on him, that’s all.”

  Reese smacked the table. “I’m, like, a mind reader! I swear we’re psychically connected. What color am I thinking of?” She stared at Hannah, and Hannah stared back intently.

  “Purple?” Hannah said.

  “YES!” shrieked Reese, and they grabbed each other’s hands and gasped.

  “That was amazing!” Hannah said. Was she serious? Nothing could be less amazing than guessing Reese’s favorite color. Didn’t she remember the time in sixth grade when Reese’s mom took her to Prime Cuts to get purple highlights and we all died of jealousy?

  “Zach loves me,” Reese said. “I’ll hook it up.”

  “Oh, don’t say anything to him!” Hannah was writhing with discomfort. “The thing is, I think something almost happened with us a few months ago, but then he found out . . . he found out about me and Josh—you know—and he wasn’t interested anymore.”

  “Oh, your V-card?” Reese said. So Hannah had told her. I shouldn’t have felt betrayed—Hannah’s allowed to tell anyone anything she wants—but I did, a little.

  Reese waved her hand in the air to swat away Hannah’s worry. “I’ll tell him you made that up to try to impress him.”

  “But—” I started. They both looked at me like they were wondering why I was talking. “But Hannah shouldn’t have to lie. Who cares about her—her V-card?”

  “Zach does, obviously,” Reese said. She turned back to Hannah. “You’ll see. We’ll be double-dating in a month.” Then she looked at me again and put her hand over her mouth. “Sorry,” she said, laughing. “I forgot.” What did she forget? That her boyfriend is my ex-friend? That I’m a spinster who will never get to go on a double date? That Hannah was my friend first, and that if anyone should be stage-managing her love life, it’s me?

  We spent the rest of the night talking about Zach: how dreamy he is, what an amazing musician he is, how sexy his man bun is, etc. Eventually Reese got out her phone, and she and Hannah sat with their heads almost touching, looking at pictures of him together. I got out my phone too and jumped around from place to place, texting with Noelle, distracting myself. Thank God I have a phone and didn’t have to sit there trying not to look unhappy while they didn’t talk to me.

  Saturday, December 17

  Woke up to a text from Hannah.

  Last night was fun!

  Yeah

  Didn’t you think?

  Yep good times

  I can tell you don’t mean it.

  It was fine Han

  I’d rather you be honest with me.

  What do you want me to say?

  That you guys ignored me for most of the night?

  That she obviously doesn’t like me?

  Oh, Chloe, I’m so sorry you feel that way.

  I don’t FEEL any way. I’m just stating facts

  I definitely did not think I was ignoring you.

  Well you were

  This was humiliating! I felt like a pouting toddler.

  And I know Reese likes you a lot

  She texted me how adorable and sweet you are

  Hannah do you hear how condescending she is? “Adorable and sweet”

  I’m not a shih tzu

  She didn’t mean it that way

  Is this about Grady?

  Is WHAT about Grady

  This attitude toward Reese?

  !!! I’m not the one with the attitude!

  Whatever it doesn’t matter

  It does matter to me.

  Then neither of us typed. I could feel her looking at her phone, and I was looking at mine, but eventually I put it down and went to get breakfast. I hope she was still staring into her screen, waiting to see if I was mad, while I ate my cereal.

  Sunday, December 18

  Dad and I decorated the house for Christmas today. I’ve never felt less festive in my entire life. All I can think about is my fight with Hannah.

  After the tree was up, I took Snickers for a long walk. It was cold and damp, and I could see my breath in the air, and Snickers’s. Most people in our neighborhood wrap their railings in lights, or put a candle in each window, or hang a wreath on the door. I’m not sure why it makes me feel so lonely, walking along in the late-afternoon darkness, seeing these nice houses lit up and people moving around inside. It makes me think about how everyone has their own little lives and their own worries and fears and problems, and how brave and sad it is that people bother to put up lights and try to be cheerful.

  Monday, December 19

  Noelle turned 16 today. Thal
ia Rosen and I were taping streamers to her locker first thing in the morning, before homeroom, when Reese and Grady and Hannah came by, giggling and whispering with each other. Hannah said hi to me. Reese and Grady didn’t. I could feel Reese eyeing us, though. Good! She tried to cast Noelle into outer darkness, and she failed. At least two people still like her enough to try to make her birthday happy. Three people, actually. I was forgetting her mom, who took her to the DMV to get her permit right after school.

  Tuesday, December 20

  I’m shaken up. We had our first driver’s ed class today. The teacher is Mr. Tansel, who intimidates me because he rarely smiles. He wears horn-rimmed glasses, he’s short and compact, he has rumpled white hair, and in general he looks like a staring owl. Most teachers yell at everyone to be quiet, but he waited at the front of the classroom, observing us impassively until we all shut up of our own accord. Then he said, “Is anyone here afraid of flying?”

  Maybe 30% of the kids raised their hands.

  He crossed his arms. “Who here can tell me the likelihood of dying in a plane crash?”

  “One in a million?” Noelle said.

  “One in 11 million,” Mr. Tansel said. “And the likelihood of dying in a car crash?”

  “High,” someone said.

  “Very high. One in 5,000. Think about that for a moment. If you’re looking at lifelong risk, one in 120 Americans dies while driving.”

  He was talking in a calm, chatty voice, which made what he was saying scarier.

  Putting his hands in his pockets, he said, “Now, it’s very unlikely that you’ll die as a teenager. Less than 1% of all Americans who die in a year are 19 or under. But if you do die young, it’ll probably be in a car. Accidental injury accounts for almost half of all teen deaths, and of those, almost three quarters are caused by motor vehicle accidents. Now, what’s your guess—would you say car fatalities are increasing or decreasing?”

  “Increasing,” said Griffin Gonzalez, who was sitting in the front row.

  “Correct,” said Mr. Tansel. “In fact, we haven’t seen an annual percentage increase like this in more than 50 years. What could account for this spike?” He picked up an imaginary phone and mimed texting. Then he dropped his hands and looked at us. “It’s possible that the robotics PhDs will perfect automated cars in your lifetimes. Until then, I’d urge you to take this class seriously.”

  All those images I see of someone running down Dad—it’s not my diseased brain torturing me. It’s a rational fear. Someone could kill him. I could kill him. Or I could kill Bear, or someone like Bear.

  Wednesday, December 21

  Dad went out with Miss Murphy tonight, which I know because he told me where he was going before he left. I asked if he wanted to have her over to our house again, and he said maybe at some point.

  “Did I embarrass you last time?” I asked.

  “Not at all. Did I embarrass you?”

  “Nope,” I said.

  He was at the hall closet, looking through the basket of gloves and scarves. “I thought the atmosphere was a little strained.”

  “Maybe a little,” I said.

  He found the scarf he wanted and put it around his neck. “I know this is difficult, Chloe. I appreciate the effort you’re making.”

  After he left, I did all the empty-house stuff I normally do: ate some brown sugar with a spoon, danced to hip-hop in my undies while checking out my moves in the mirror, etc. It was fun for an hour, and then it got lonely.

  Dad never stays out all night. Where do he and Miss Murphy have sex? Do they go to hotels for a few hours? Do they do it in the car? Or, like, on a park bench somewhere??

  I don’t want to think about these things, but I can’t help it.

  Thursday, December 22

  Half day at school. Tris and Hannah and I went to the mall, which we’d been planning to do today since before Thanksgiving, so it seemed too awkward to cancel it, even though I wanted to. For once I was relieved to see Mrs. Egan, who never stops talking and is oblivious to bad vibes. She dropped us right in front of an entrance and said “You guys go on in. I’m sure I’ll find a parking spot eventually” in such a genuinely sunny voice, even though the mall was a total horror show and she definitely wasn’t going to find a spot without driving around for at least half an hour, that for a second I realized it really is generous of grown-ups to chauffeur kids around constantly when of course they’d rather be clicking on their phones like everyone else. And then Mrs. Egan said “Are you picking up something for your mom, Chloe?” in a syrupy voice, and I snapped out of it. “Thanks for the ride!” I called, ignoring her question and slamming the door shut.

  I thought Hannah and I were making a big effort and being normal and happy with each other, so I was surprised when she went to the bathroom and Tris said, “What is wrong with you guys?”

  “Are we being weird?”

  “I feel like I’m in a movie about two robots programmed to act like perfect teenagers. Are you in a fight?”

  “I’m still mad about the Bowline,” I said. I’d already spent about four hours telling him every detail of what happened, so he didn’t need the backstory. “It’s one thing to ignore me, but she can’t even admit she did it. I don’t think she even knows she did it.”

  “No, thanks,” Tris said loudly. “I’m not in the mood for Auntie Anne’s.” I briefly wondered if he was having a stroke, and then I turned around and saw Hannah right behind me. She smiled, but maybe the smile looked a tiny bit forced? Oh, please, please, please let her not have overheard me.

  Friday, December 23

  Dad dragged me to the grocery store, which I was actually happy about, because I love seeing everyone bustling around, getting ready for the holiday. After we’d picked up the food, Dad suggested stopping at Starbucks, which was a Christmas miracle, because whenever I ask to go there, he’s like, “We can make perfectly good coffee at home,” which is missing the entire point.

  We’d ordered our drinks when I heard someone squealing, “Chloe Snow!” and turned to see Reese heading toward us, pulling Hannah along with her. Hannah, who normally looks like she just stepped off a Swiss alp—no makeup, pink cheeks, long braid—was almost unrecognizable. She must have cut 10 inches off her hair, which was now in a razor-sharp lob, and she was wearing dark eye shadow and liquid liner so perfectly applied, she looked like the end result of a YouTube tutorial.

  “Is this your dad?” Reese asked. “Hi. I’m Reese!” She shook his hand with enthusiasm.

  “Nice to meet you, Reese,” he said.

  “Chloe, how amazing does Hannah look?” Reese said. Then she held her hand to her mouth, like she was telling me a secret, and said, in a stage whisper, “She’s all ready for her big date tonight.”

  “You have a date?” I asked Hannah. Even though things were awkward with us, it was embarrassing that she hadn’t told me.

  “I’m going to the movies with Zach. Reese set it up.” She cupped her fingers around the back of her head and said, “Do you like my haircut?”

  “You look great,” I said, because she did. She looked beautiful, and sexy, and grown-up. And her whole face was sparkling, which was the worst part of all. Reese clearly makes her so much happier than I do.

  “Reese seems sweet,” Dad said when we got back in the car.

  I snorted and said, “Yeah, sweet like a snake!” which doesn’t make sense but also makes perfect sense.

  Saturday, December 24

  As usual, Dad and I watched Meet Me in St. Louis, but this year, in a fun new twist, I started ugly-crying two seconds into “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” I wonder if the holidays will ever make me happy again, or if they’ll always remind me of the old days that are lost forever, when I still believed in Santa and my parents were together.

  Sunday, December 25

  Hannah called in the afternoon to wish me a merry Christmas, and of course I asked her how her date was.

  “It was amazing,” she said. “He put h
is arm around me when the movie started, and then he kissed me, and we basically didn’t stop making out until the credits.”

  “Wow!” I said, and I put all my acting ability into sounding delighted. And why do I have to act? I should be genuinely happy for her.

  “I know you’re not crazy about her, but Reese was so nice to set me up with him.”

  “You set yourself up with him,” I said. “Remember the day he came over and chopped vegetables? He’s always liked you.”

  “Yes, but I messed it up.”

  “You didn’t,” I said.

  “I did, but at least Reese fixed it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She did what she said she would. She told him I really am a virgin, I just fibbed and said I wasn’t, to try to impress him.”

  “ ‘FIBBED’?”

  “Like you said, my past is none of his business,” she said. I didn’t have a comeback, but it still seems wrong to me. Why should she be ashamed of herself, or have to lie? She shouldn’t!

  I went downstairs in a horrendous mood and found Dad sitting on the couch, still in his pajamas, resting his feet on Snickers and reading the newspaper on his iPad.

  “Don’t you want to see Miss Murphy today?” I said. My tone was fine, but it was hiding the fury in my heart.

  He looked up at me. “Christmas is for family,” he said, and there was a tiny dash of nobility in his voice that made me so furious I turned and stormed back up to my room without saying another word. I considered refusing to come downstairs for dinner, but I didn’t want to miss the steaks, so in the end I settled for sulking and speaking only in monosyllables while eating as fast as I could, which of course I feel guilty about now, because (1) I ruined Christmas and (2) if I keep acting like this, Dad definitely won’t want to hang out with me instead of Miss Murphy.