The Year of Living Awkwardly

by Emma Chastain

  Monday, December 26

  I just realized Mom didn’t email or call yesterday. God, I HATE her.

  Tuesday, December 27

  We’re not even halfway through it, and already I’m completely over winter break. There’s only so much coziness, chocolate, and caroling a person can take before she starts longing for broccoli and exercise.

  Wednesday, December 28

  I took Snickers for a run!!!! He stared up at me in amazement the entire time. I don’t think he realized I’m physically capable of moving my legs faster than strolling speed.

  Thursday, December 29

  Rode my bike over to Tristan’s, which was probably dangerous, since it was sleeting, but I had to get out of my house. Dad is still martyring around feeling pleased with himself for not seeing Miss Murphy, and I can’t take it. Tris was down in the dumps the whole time and finally admitted he was sure Roy was going to call him during the break. “But he hasn’t, and he probably won’t,” Tris said, and quickly looked at me to see if I’d say, “There’s still time—he might!” but I couldn’t bring myself to lie.

  Friday, December 30

  I can’t believe it, but Dad has agreed to let me sleep over at Tristan’s house on New Year’s Eve for the first time ever! It’s another Christmas miracle!

  Saturday, December 31

  Oh my God. Oh my freaking God. I caught Dad and Miss Murphy having a sleepover. Can’t write; Tris is downstairs waiting for me.

  Sunday, January 1

  What happened was, Tris and I were sitting on his couch eating cheese and drinking sparkling cider, gossiping about Hannah and Zach, who are now officially together, according to Zach’s Instagram, and I was feeling so happy and carefree, and then suddenly I jumped up and ran to the bathroom without saying a word to Tris, and sure enough, I’d gotten my period and ruined my favorite undies, the green plaid ones, and probably also my favorite jeans, although those jeans can take a licking. They are survivors.

  It turned out Mrs. Flynn had no tampons or pads or anything, which she seemed sad about, and which I guess means she already went through menopause?! So now I know something about her I should not know, thanks to my stupid period. She was so sympathetic and offered to drive me home to grab some stuff. Tris came to keep us company. I was terrified I was going to bleed through the giant wad of Kleenex I was using as a makeshift pad and wreck the Flynns’ Toyota Highlander seats, but instead I just wrecked the sweatpants I’d borrowed from Tris.

  I ran inside while Mrs. Flynn idled in the driveway, and there in the kitchen were Miss Murphy and Dad!!!!!!!! She was leaning over the island, resting her elbows on it, wearing comfy pants and one of Dad’s T-shirts. He was sitting across from her. They both had a glass of water in front of them, and their hair was messed up, and most of the kitchen lights were off, and in short, I’m completely positive they had JUST finished having sex.

  They looked up at me with round, frozen eyes, like they were lions hunched over a kill and I was an explorer who had burst out of the shrubs unexpectedly.

  “Uh, hi,” I said.

  “Hi,” they both said.

  “I came home,” I said stupidly, and then stood there staring at them.

  “Marian was—” Dad started, but Miss Murphy cut him off to say, “I was on my way out.”

  This was so obviously a lie, when her feet were bare and I could currently see her nipples through Dad’s shirt, that I didn’t dignify it with a response.

  I ran upstairs, took a five-second shower, threw my clothes in cold water to soak, got dressed, grabbed an entire box of super-plus tampons, wrote in my diary for two seconds because I had to get it down on paper to keep my head from exploding, and ran downstairs again. Dad was on his own in the kitchen.

  “Where’s Miss Murphy?” I asked.

  “She had to take off.”

  “Dad! Are you seriously . . .” I stopped. I couldn’t go on. I couldn’t make myself say, “Are you seriously pretending she was just stopping by, and that you weren’t using my sleepover as your big chance to have your own sleepover?”

  “I have to go,” I said. “Mrs. Flynn is waiting for me.”

  “Hang on,” Dad said, but I hurried toward the door, calling, “Happy New Year’s Eve, bye, sorry, bye!” and fled to the driveway.

  When we got back to his house, Tris and I talked so hard about what had happened that we missed midnight by more than an hour.

  Monday, January 2

  This morning was strange. To put it mildly.

  I came downstairs wearing Mom’s striped bathrobe, feeling like a full-body migraine. I hadn’t even had time to say hi to Dad when the doorbell rang. Dad and I looked at each other like, What the . . . ? and he got up to see who it was. And then, in the front hall, I heard Miss Murphy’s voice! Why is she haunting my life? I couldn’t hear the conversation, because she and Dad were whispering. Then I heard Dad going upstairs and Miss Murphy walking toward the kitchen.

  “Chloe, I’m sorry to burst in on you like this, but I wanted to catch you before school.”

  I’ve never wanted to escape to Narnia more desperately. My period was murdering me. It felt like a bowling ball made of fire was bearing down on my vagina. My face was unwashed and my teeth were unbrushed. In the kitchen was this woman who is trying so hard to be nice to me and whom I used to adore and now desperately want to at least like and feel normal around but who only makes me stiff with discomfort. I needed snow and a lamppost and a faun, and the closest thing I could think of was the freezer, so I went to it, opened it up, and stared at the old Creamsicles. Then I rested my forearm inside the freezer, rested my head on my forearm, and let the cold air wash over my head.

  “Chloe, are you crying?” Miss Murphy said.

  Help me, C. S. Lewis, I thought, and his name alone gave me strength.

  “No,” I said, pulling my head out of the freezer and shutting the door.

  “Well, good,” she said. “Listen, Chloe, I want to apologize for what happened on New Year’s Eve. That’s not the way I wanted to—”

  “It’s fine,” I said. “I don’t care if you sleep over. I mean, you and Dad are . . . whatever. And you’re adults. So obviously you’re going to—anyway, I’d rather you stay here, instead of at a . . . wherever else.”

  “OK.”

  “Because I don’t want to sleep here by myself.”

  It seemed like she might try to hug me, so I crossed my arms over my bathrobe to ward her off.

  “Can I ask you something?” I said. It’s not often you have honest conversations in this life, and I wanted to seize the moment.

  “Sure,” she said.

  “Doesn’t it gross you out that Dad is 15 years older than you?”

  She laughed. “14.”

  “What?”

  “My birthday is January first.”

  “Happy birthday! Wait, your birthday is New Year’s Day? That’s awful.”

  “How come?”

  “Have you ever even had a birthday party that wasn’t also a New Year’s Eve party?”

  “Sure, when I was a kid, before anyone started caring about New Year’s Eve. And childhood is the only time your birthday matters, anyway. If you still want a fuss when you’re in your thirties, there’s something wrong with you.”

  I was enjoying this conversation, which was the first normal one we’d had in a while, but not enough to forget that Miss Murphy had come over at 6:40 a.m. to apologize because I’d caught her and Dad five minutes after they finished having sex in my parents’ bed.

  It’s not even the sleepover that annoys me. It’s the sneaking around. And it’s the fact that Dad and Miss Murphy are forcing me to sound like someone’s mom. (“Kids, I’m disappointed you felt the need to lie to me.”) I don’t want to be the mom, irritated with two teenagers for being idiots. I want to be the idiot teenager.

  “To answer your question,” Miss Murphy said, “I actually like the age difference. He knows a lot of good bands I’ve never heard of.” />
  “Don’t play our version of Trivial Pursuit with him,” I said. “He’s like an encyclopedia of ’80s facts.”

  A silence fell. Snickers wandered into the kitchen and looked at Miss Murphy curiously.

  “This was anticlimactic,” Miss Murphy said. “I thought you might throw a cereal bowl at my head. I was even prepared to give you some inside info to compensate for messing up so royally on Saturday.”

  “Really?” I said.

  She lowered her voice. “You want to know what the musical’s going to be?”

  I widened my eyes. “Of course.”

  “South Pacific.”

  “Oh my God. Can I text Tris?”

  “No way. Don’t tell a soul until Friday.”

  She finally left. I was half an hour late to school because there’s no room in my getting-ready schedule for impromptu conversations with my married dad’s girlfriend.

  Tuesday, January 3

  I told Tris everything about Miss Murphy’s visit except for the South Pacific part. I don’t think I’ve ever kept a secret from him before, and it’s making me feel like a criminal.

  Wednesday, January 4

  I told Tris! I had to. He screamed a little and everyone in the hall around us turned to look. After school we spent the afternoon downloading and watching the movie, streaming the 2008 Broadway revival cast recording, Googling “south pacific audition scenes,” and trying to find the script online.

  Obviously Tris is going to be Lieutenant Cable and I’m going to be Nellie. This couldn’t be more perfect! Nellie is excitable. I’m excitable. Nellie is optimistic. So am I. Nellie is spunky. I’m pretty freaking spunky. There’s also an upsetting aspect of the character: Nellie is a racist. She repents at the end, but still, it’s shocking. The point of the musical is that Nellie’s racism is disgusting and that you can be a cute, fun girl everyone considers so nice and still have this snake coiled in your heart. And furthermore, the point is that racism isn’t something you’re born with. You learn it from your parents, and you have to recognize it in yourself and force yourself to change, and turn your back on your family if they have a problem with that. And if you don’t, your soul is going to die the way Lieutenant Cable literally dies in the show. It’s terrible that all of this is still so relevant today, 70 years after it was written, but it is.

  Thursday, January 5

  Practiced “Honey Bun” after school today until I lost my voice. This is going to be SO FUN. I wish I didn’t have to wait until the end of the month to audition.

  Friday, January 6

  All the theater geeks were freaking out today after they’d found out what the musical is, and I was dying to tell them I knew first, but I controlled myself. Tris and I did give each other a lot of meaningful looks, however.

  Saturday, January 7

  Text from Mac!

  Hey whats that word that

  means grumpy but with a cat

  A cat??

  Oh cantankerous

  Thanks kid. Need some vocab words for a paper. Wish you were here to write it for me lol

  I sent him a smiling cat in response, and he sent me a cat with heart eyes!!!!!!!!!

  Sunday, January 8

  I don’t think Juliet would have been so impressed if Romeo sent her a cat with heart eyes. Why are my standards this low? And why do I care what emoji Mac is sending me anyway??????

  Monday, January 9

  I went over to Noelle’s after school. Her mother’s traveling for work, and it felt strange to be in the house alone, knowing it would get dark and no one would come home. We’d been watching TV for a while when Noelle stood up, turned it off with the remote, and said, “This is boring. Want to go for a drive? Mom left the Volvo.”

  I stared at her. “We can’t. You have to be with an adult before you get your license.”

  “Oh my God.” She rolled her eyes. “Would you relax? We’re not going to drag race. I’m a good driver—I’ve already practiced a ton of times with my mom.”

  I was shocked that she would suggest taking the car out without a grown-up. Of course I didn’t say so, because I didn’t want to sound like a child. But I couldn’t stop myself from asking, “What if someone sees us? Like a cop?”

  “We’ll take turns being the adult. Here . . .” She pulled me into the kitchen, opened a drawer, and got out a pair of sunglasses and a baseball cap with MARTHA’S VINEYARD stitched on the front in white thread. “These are my mother’s. Put them on.”

  It’s hard to resist a direct order. Or it is for me, anyway. I put on the cap and glasses and followed Noelle outside.

  It started out fine. Noelle drove around the neighborhood for a while, slowly and carefully. She accelerated too fast a few times by accident, and once she slammed on the brakes, but overall, she’s a good driver. Eventually she pulled into a cul-de-sac, put the car in park, and said, “OK, your turn.” She hopped out and came around to the passenger side without waiting for me to respond. Opening my door, she reached in, took the cap and sunglasses off of me, and put them on herself. “Move it, toots,” she said. I thought about refusing, but I didn’t want to get into a big thing.

  By the time I was in the driver’s seat with my seat belt on and my hands on the wheel, my heart was racing, I was sweating all over, and there was something wrong with my vision. I could still see, but it was like someone had dropped gray gauze over my head. Everything looked darker.

  “Are you OK?” Noelle said. I’d never heard her sound so concerned, and it made me feel worse. I pictured putting the car in drive and then losing control and smashing into a tree. Or what if an evil urge overtook me and I swerved into oncoming traffic? What if I swerved into Dad’s car?

  “I can’t drive,” I managed to say.

  “Yeah, no kidding,” Noelle said. “You sound like you just ran a marathon. Should we go to the hospital?”

  I got out of the car and leaned against the roof, resting my head on my hands and closing my eyes. After a few minutes, I felt better. Noelle had gotten out and was standing next to the passenger seat, staring at me.

  “I’m fine,” I said.

  We didn’t say much on the ride home. Noelle almost took the side mirror off pulling into the garage, but other than that, nothing scary happened.

  “So, that was weird back there,” Noelle said while we were waiting for my dad to pick me up, and I said, “Yeah, it was,” but was it? Why is it weird to be scared of driving? You should be scared! You’re very, very likely to die while doing it! You wouldn’t mess around with a loaded gun, so why would you intentionally operate a car?

  Tuesday, January 10

  Mr. Tansel went over basic rules of the road today. He showed us a PowerPoint that included plenty of cheesy clip art, which I think he intended to be funny, though you can never tell with him.

  I don’t mind learning about four-way stops and the two-second rule. If we could sit in the classroom just talking about driving forever, I’d be fine.

  Wednesday, January 11

  I biked past the junior parking lot today. Literally half of the kids driving cars were also on their phones, including Zach, who was scrolling while waiting to turn left. And there was Hannah in the passenger seat, smiling like she wasn’t in danger. I tried to stop looking, because I was getting so upset, but I couldn’t.

  Thursday, January 12

  If I move to Manhattan, I won’t need a license! I’ll take the subway everywhere. It’s actually cooler not to drive these days.

  Friday, January 13

  I told Noelle I’m going to drop driver’s ed, and she said, “Are you serious? Why?”

  “I want to go to college in New York, so I won’t need to drive. And when I’m here, I’ll bike.”

  “Is this because you freaked out in the car the other day?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “You can’t ride your bike in the snow,” she said. “What’s going to happen when you’re 40 years old, bringing your kids home to visit your dad for
the holidays?”

  “He can pick us up at the train station,” I said. “Also, I’ll probably never have kids, because the way things are going, I’ll be a virgin forever.”

  We were walking through the front lobby, past the administrative office. I looked inside at the grown-ups sitting at their desks, staring at their computers. They’d all driven to school that day. They were lucky to be alive.

  “You know what, you’re right,” she said. “You could ride your bike for the rest of your life. You don’t need a license. But you should get one anyway.”

  I started to groan, but she cut me off. “It’s a rite of passage. It’ll make you feel more free. You’ll be able to rely on yourself to get places. And you can help other people! You’ll give me a ride home when I get drunk at a party. You can, like, give your dad a ride to the hospital if he has a heart attack.”

  “Noelle!”

  “I’m just saying. It’s safer to have one. It’s part of being an adult. Come on, you can’t drop the class. Don’t be a baby.”

  We were outside now, watching other kids climb onto bright-yellow buses. Tris would never tell me not to be a baby. Hannah wouldn’t either. Noelle’s mean to me sometimes. Or maybe it’s more fair to say she’s so straightforward, it hurts. But it feels good, too.

  I know she’s right. I do want to drive. I have to force myself to do it somehow. At least my birthday’s not until May. I have a few more months to get over this phobia.

  Saturday, January 14

  Email from Mom.

  Dear Chloe,

  I’m writing to apologize for failing to be in touch on Christmas. I admit I was angry and wanted to punish you with silence, the way you have punished me. It is difficult, writing into a void, and I am losing heart.