The Year of Living Awkwardly

by Emma Chastain

  Thursday, March 23

  Last year I loved going to rehearsal because it was an escape from my life. This year there’s no escape from anything.

  Friday, March 24

  Tris and I were halfway through All About Eve when he said, “This is so much better than going skating with Elliott.”

  I paused the movie, because it’s sacrilege to drown out Bette Davis.

  “Did he invite you skating?” I said.

  Tris nodded.

  “And you turned him down to sit on the couch with me and fight over who’s hogging the blanket?”

  “Yep.”

  I looked at him and then unpaused the movie.

  Tris paused it again. “Don’t you want to lecture me?”

  “No. It’s none of my business.”

  “Oh. OK.” He sounded disappointed.

  “If you don’t like him, you don’t like him.”

  “I don’t think I like him.”

  We looked at the TV, which was frozen on Marilyn Monroe sitting on a staircase, laughing, wearing a strapless dress.

  “He suggests grown-up things,” I said. “Real dates. He seems mature.”

  “Mature for his age.”

  “I’m happy you’re hanging out with me tonight, by the way,” I said. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

  “I know that,” he said.

  Saturday, March 25

  Noelle invited me and Thalia out for dinner tonight. I thought we’d go somewhere close by, but we went all the way to Harvard Square—and Noelle drove. Her mom sat in the front seat and screamed with laughter most of the way, like it was all a hilarious joke and none of us were in life-threatening danger. She cracked up when Noelle accelerated onto Route 2, when she passed a car on the left, and when she successfully got around the rotary.

  “Mom, stop!” Noelle said. “You’re distracting me.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mrs. Phelps said, still laughing. “I can’t get over you driving.”

  “Thanks a lot!”

  “No, you’re doing great. It’s blowing my mind, that’s all.”

  Noelle rolled her eyes. She doesn’t realize how lucky she is that her mom is nice, and encouraging, and doesn’t bite her head off about every little thing. And how lucky she is to be brave enough to drive on a highway, something I’m scared I’ll never be able to do.

  Sunday, March 26

  Dad finally gave me some divorce news tonight at dinner. First he asked a bunch of vague questions about how I’m doing, am I missing Mom, is there anything worrying me (I said fine, no, nothing much [except for everything, but I didn’t mention that]). Then he said the talks with the mediator aren’t going as smoothly as he’d hoped, and it looks like the divorce is going to take longer than planned. I asked him what he and Mom are fighting about, but he wouldn’t tell me, and I could tell from his tone of voice that pestering him wouldn’t get me anywhere. He asked me how I feel about the timeline changing, and I said I feel fine. But I don’t feel fine. I hate being in limbo. It’s not that I think they’ll get back together, or that I even want them to get back together, but until they get divorced, it feels like there’s a chance they’ll work it out. I don’t want to have any hope. I want my hope to die so I can move on.

  Monday, March 27

  I guess it’s also possible the divorce will make everything worse than before, and I’ll reread yesterday’s entry and feel nostalgic for the time I was so naive, I actually wanted my parents to split up.

  Tuesday, March 28

  It was beautiful today, warm and sunny, and we were all trapped in a windowless auditorium, and I didn’t mind at all. What’s wrong with me that I’d rather sit inside listening to Rob’s terrible French accent than be outside frolicking in the sun?

  Wednesday, March 29

  Every time I walk by the art studio, I hope to spot Grady in there. I don’t know why, but for some reason it’s comforting to see him working on a painting or hunching over a sketch pad. Usually the studio is empty, but today I passed by after school and there he was, with a pencil behind his ear and another one in his hand, looking at a toy train on the table in front of him and then back down at his paper. Mrs. Kingsley stopped behind him and said, “Such an improvement in your value range,” and he smiled like she’d told him he’d won the lottery. His hair wasn’t sticking up too much, so I could tell he was in a calm mood.

  Thursday, March 30

  I was sitting in my favorite spot in the auditorium—back of the house, stage left, next to the aisle—doing my history homework, when I looked up and saw Grady standing in front of me.

  “Hey,” he said. He whispered it, actually, because Izzy and Rob were mid-scene, and Miss Murphy gets irate if anyone distracts the actors.

  He sat next to me. “So, you know Elliott, right?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “And you know he and Tris have been hanging out?”

  “I heard something like that.”

  “I was wondering if Tris is into him.”

  “Did Elliott ask you to ask me?”

  “No,” Grady said, while nodding his head yes.

  “I honestly don’t know,” I said. “The thing is, Tris isn’t over his ex-boyfriend.”

  A little look passed over Grady’s face, and immediately I wanted to take back what I said, since it sounded like a reference to Mac. We both faced the stage, where Izzy was crying while telling Rob she couldn’t see him anymore.

  “I don’t think Elliott should give up,” I said. “There’s still hope.”

  “OK. Thanks.”

  Grady gave me a half wave and then left, probably to report back to Elliott.

  Friday, March 31

  It goes without saying that I told Tris every detail of my conversation with Grady.

  “What is this, fifth grade?” Tris said. “It’s like playing telephone.” But I could tell he was happy Elliott is so into him he’s getting Grady to talk to me. Plus, it’s fun to be the center of attention once in a while, with everyone whispering to each other and speculating about how you feel and what might happen. Not that I would know what that’s like.

  Saturday, April 1

  I ran out of toothpaste, and when I went into Dad’s bathroom to steal some of his, I noticed a small navy-and-white-striped bag sitting on the counter. I didn’t go through it, exactly, but it was unzipped, so I could see a container of dental floss, a bottle of concealer, a tub of lip balm, and a few other items that obviously belong to Miss Murphy.

  Dad was out at the package store. I went downstairs and found Miss Murphy mincing garlic and listening to NPR on her phone.

  “Is it ever annoying, having to sleep here?” I said.

  She paused her app. “Not at all. Why? Would you rather I don’t?”

  “No. I don’t care. I mean, it used to seem weird, but it doesn’t anymore.”

  “Thank God. I love my mother, but it’s good for us to have a break from each other occasionally. She likes her night nurse better than me, anyway.”

  “What’s it like, living with your mom?”

  “Oh, it’s terrible. She’s not terrible; she’s stubborn and difficult, but also brilliant and funny. But caring for someone with cancer is hard, obviously. And I don’t recommend moving back into your childhood bedroom if you can possibly avoid it.”

  “Does it still look like it did when you were in high school?”

  She laughed. “No. My mother turned it into a guest room as soon as I left.”

  “Does your father live there too?”

  She started mincing again. “My parents divorced when I was in high school. He moved out west and started a new family. I don’t see him much anymore.”

  “Oh,” I said. I could tell she was waiting for me to ask her more, and I wanted to, but then Dad walked in carrying a brown paper bag and a bouquet of daffodils. It was the first time in ages I can remember being disappointed when he interrupted me and Miss Murphy, instead of relieved.

  Sunday, April 2


  I slept in and then shuffled downstairs in my orange pants and hoodie, and ate Cinnamon Toast Crunch while looking at my phone and ignoring Dad and Miss Murphy, who were talking about the Red Sox. Dad went for a run while I took a shower, and then Miss Murphy and I did the crossword while Dad paid bills. We had leftovers for lunch. I worked on my homework while Miss Murphy graded papers and Dad cleaned up the kitchen. It was a completely normal day, and it was so relaxing, and the whole time . . . I can hardly write this, I feel so guilty. . . . The whole time, I was thinking how glad I was Mom wasn’t here. I do miss her, OK? I do. But she’s impossible to live with. She can’t stand to be contradicted, and she can’t stand to be criticized. This morning Dad asked Miss Murphy, “Want me to turn the heat down under those eggs? Looks like they’re cooking pretty fast,” and all Miss Murphy said was, “Yeah, sure. I don’t know what I’m doing with eggs.” Mom might have said something like that, or she might have thrown the eggs into the sink in a fury. That’s what’s so scary about her: she’s unpredictable. You never know what’s going to set her off. I’ve spent my whole life tiptoeing around, trying not to make her mad. But there’s nothing you can do or not do—she loses her temper for random reasons.

  In a horrible way, it’s exciting, living with someone like that. When she’s happy, you feel the normal pleasure of being with a happy person, plus this special, extra relief that you’re not currently being screamed at, plus a nervousness that the good times won’t last. When she’s mad, you’re scared and furious and pumping out adrenaline like crazy. Either way, it’s not boring.

  I wonder if Dad and Miss Murphy are in a honeymoon phase, or if they can keep this up. Do people live like this, laughing and being nice to each other and never hissing, “Don’t you dare disrespect me like that ever again”?

  Monday, April 3

  Elliott and Tris talked at rehearsal today! I was too far away to hear what they were saying, but they were both smiling. Is it pathetic how excited I am that someone likes Tris? I don’t want to be a romance vampire just because my own love life is a desolate wasteland.

  Tuesday, April 4

  Why do I do things I know will make me feel terrible, like read emails from my mother? Why don’t I send her to spam?

  Miss Murphy doesn’t want us to look at our phones anywhere in the auditorium, which is a rule I normally follow. But today I was sitting in my usual spot, out of view, and I was finished with my homework, so I snuck a look at my email. I knew it was a mistake as soon as I saw the name “Veronica Snow” in my inbox, but I couldn’t stop myself from reading more.

  Chloe,

  Another three months gone, and still no word from you. It breaks my heart to know you’ve turned away from me. You, the sweet baby I carried inside my very body for nine months. You, my co-conspirator, my confidante, my closest friend. Your father tells me you’re doing splendidly, and how glad I am of that. I would never wish for you to suffer in my absence. And yet it does strike me as unnatural that you’re capable of thriving away from the sunshine of a mother’s love. I fear for you, Chloe. I fear you’re becoming someone I won’t recognize, someone you yourself won’t recognize. Don’t let yourself grow cold, my sweet angel.

  “Can I talk to you for one sec?” It was Grady, who’d stopped in front of me and was whispering. “Elliott says Tris isn’t . . . What’s wrong?”

  I shook my head.

  He sat down next to me. “Are you OK?”

  He’s the last person I would have picked to confide in, but I wanted to talk about it, and he was there, and asking.

  I handed him my phone. “Read that.”

  He looked serious as he read. Suddenly I was dying to hear what he thought. Maybe he’d say, “This isn’t so bad,” and then I could stop being angry and sad. Maybe he’d say, “She’s nuts,” and then I could stop wondering who was crazy, Veronica or me. I cared about his opinion.

  When he was finished reading, he said, “She moved to Mexico, right?”

  “Yeah.” I’d told him the basics of the story at the pool.

  He handed the phone back to me. “She sounds like my dad.”

  “Really?”

  “He’s not mushy and fancy like that when he writes, but he does the same stuff to me. He’s always trying to make me feel guilty for not seeing him more, but he’s the one who moved to L.A.”

  “I hate the mush,” I said. “I hate hearing about her being pregnant with me.”

  He didn’t respond right away, and I wondered if he thought I was being mean. Then he said, “It’s weird how annoying that stuff is. I feel like my parents still basically see a baby when they look at me. My mom’s always like, ‘You used to say “kee-pee-pee” instead of “computer.” ’ I think she wishes I still said it like that.”

  “I know,” I said. “I never knew myself as a baby, so I don’t even know what my mom’s so nostalgic about. And it’s like she’s mad at me for taking away my baby self, even though the baby self is me! You know?”

  He nodded, and we both got quiet to listen to Miss Murphy telling Izzy her cartwheels looked messy. For the first time, I felt almost glad not to be the lead. It was nice to be whispering with Grady in a comfortable seat while someone else got criticized in front of everyone.

  “What does your dad do in L.A.?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Not much. He says he’s a photographer, but he never works. I think he mostly plays around on his phone and feels sorry for himself.”

  “My mom’s like that!” I said.

  Grady started to say, “One time my dad . . . ,” but then he broke off because Reese had come through the side doors. She smiled and waved, but I could tell she didn’t like it that we were talking. Grady stood up, but before he left, he said, “Don’t write back to her. Don’t let her get to you.” Then he went over to Reese, like a puppy obeying its master. Or, no, why am I being a jerk? Like a boyfriend walking over to see his girlfriend.

  Wednesday, April 5

  I should delete that email from Mom instead of reading and rereading it like I’ve been doing.

  The problem with parents is, even when you know intellectually that they’re wrong, you can’t make yourself believe that they’re wrong. They get in your head. I keep hearing the word “unnatural.” I’ll be taking a shower or waking up or eating a piece of toast, and my brain shouts Unnatural! at me. It makes me feel like Frankenstein’s monster. Like I’m a freak instead of a human girl. What if Mom’s right? Is it weird that I’m doing OK even though she’s not here? The only way I can get through the day is by shutting her out of my life and trying not to think about her. I want to turn myself into steel for this moment in time, and then go back to feeling everything in a few years. But maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m making myself permanently cold and cruel. Maybe I’ll never be able to undo it.

  Thursday, April 6

  No. No. No. No. I’m not cold and cruel! It might be a little heartless of me to give her the silent treatment, but it doesn’t make me a monster. I’m still me.

  Friday, April 7

  As I was waiting by the door to the lobby today, Grady passed by and said, “Hey, how’s it going?” but then Reese came running over and said, “Hi Chloe!” and then, to Grady, “Hi baby!” She was all over him the rest of the afternoon, rubbing his head, holding his hand, picking a piece of fluff off his shirt, jumping on his back so he had to give her a piggyback ride. At one point she was squealing and laughing and pretending to spur him with her heels, and Miss Murphy stopped rehearsal to bellow, “Hey, lovebirds, keep it down!” Reese pretended to be embarrassed, but you could tell she loved it.

  Saturday, April 8

  Tris is at the movies with Elliott. Miss Murphy and my dad went to dinner. Hannah’s probably out with Zach. Noelle’s over at Thalia’s. I’m sure Grady and Reese are being attractive together somewhere, and they’re probably not wearing pants. And here I sit, with only a flatulent Boston terrier for company, friendless and loveless, writing in my diary.

>   Sunday, April 9

  Tris came over after lunch, and as soon as he walked into the house and saw Miss Murphy, he froze.

  “Hey, Tris,” she said, and waved. She was sitting on the couch with her feet up, wearing her glasses and doing something on her laptop.

  As we walked upstairs, Tris whispered, “You didn’t tell me she’d be here.”

  “I forgot that it’s awkward,” I whispered back. “I’m so used to her now.”

  When I asked, he said he’d had fun with Elliott at the movies, and this time he almost sounded like he meant it. But we’d only been talking about it for 20 minutes when he suggested doing homework, so I’m not feeling that optimistic. We used to be able to spend 20 minutes analyzing a single one of Roy’s facial expressions.

  Monday, April 10

  A bunch of us were standing in the wings today, waiting to rehearse “Honey Bun.” We’d been there for half an hour already, because Miss Murphy was working with Izzy first, and she wasn’t happy with Izzy’s impersonation of a nurse impersonating a sailor. “Again!” she shouted. “And make it more overtly stagy!” (I have no idea what that means. I think Miss Murphy thinks we’re smarter than we are.)

  Grady came to stand beside me and whispered, “How’s it going?” I could barely hear him, and I knew why: Miss Murphy goes nuts if anyone talks in the wings. Already people were turning around to look at Grady with wide eyes, like Do you have a death wish?

  “Fine,” I whispered.

  “Did you . . . ?” He moved his thumbs like he was writing on a phone.

  I assumed he was asking me if I emailed my mom back, so I shook my head no.