Don't Ever Change

by M. Beth Bloom

  “Thanks,” Michelle says, seeming appeased, while Steph finishes, “For being the bigger person.”

  “Are you guys calling me fat?” I say, trying to lighten things.

  “Your eyes seem better,” Steph says, ignoring the joke. “No more twitching.”

  “Still not wearing your glasses?” Michelle asks. “You’re, like, blind.”

  “Undiagnosed,” I say, but no one laughs at that either. “Hey, laugh,” I tell them, which only makes it weirder.

  I want to explain to them that having stayed friends through four full years of high school is an epic accomplishment, it’s monumental, and so staying friends just four more weeks should be a breeze. I want to convince them that it’s not childish or regressive to try and hold on to our high school best friends, even as we inevitably separate and go away to college, but how can I, honestly? All I know is that I’m working on becoming a Better Eva, a Bigger Eva, so I want my favorite people to recognize my struggle for, like, inner enrichment and be proud, or uplifted, and like me even more. But clearly that’s not happening.

  “This is silly!” I say. “I love you guys, you’re my best friends, we can tell each other anything—a million different things. Should I start? I can start!”

  Michelle smiles, but it’s not that big and not that bright.

  “Okay, do you want to start?” I ask.

  “I’ve never been fired before,” she says. “She found out I was lying about being able to commit to the position for a full year.”

  “Your six weeks is better than any dumb girl’s year,” I say. “That jewelry lady is the stupidest woman alive.”

  “She totally is,” Steph says, and then we’re all nodding, Sooo stupid.

  “What am I going to do now?” Michelle asks.

  “Ah!” I shout. “I’ve got it!”

  Michelle and Steph wait.

  “The Gap!” I scream, punching a pillow we tie-dyed two summers ago.

  Steph shakes her head, twists her hair. “I’m seasonal,” she says.

  “So?”

  “So they can’t take on another seasonal employee now that the season’s started.”

  “Steph already asked,” Michelle tells me. “They’re not hiring.”

  “Maybe Shelby knows a salon that needs a receptionist,” I offer.

  “Shelby?” Michelle says, with a very superior huff.

  “What about Sunny Skies?” Steph asks me.

  “You think summer camp isn’t seasonal?”

  “Can you at least ask?” Michelle says, and then Steph says, “I at least asked.”

  “I can’t,” I say.

  “You won’t,” Michelle says, annoyed.

  “It’s just that I’m in trouble. I Frenched Foster.”

  “Is he your boyfriend now?” Steph asks, not in a nice way.

  This is one of those impossible friendship crossroads, where every direction is wrong. But I’m also beginning to sense something deeper behind why they’re upset with me, and it’s not just because I dug out everything we’ve ever done and created together, everything we poured our love into, and piled it on the carpet to be exposed for what it is: outdated and juvenile. It’s because instead of writing about my experiences with Michelle and Steph—all the funny, true, goofy, epic, monumental things we went through together—I chose to invent a bunch of sad stories about imaginary strangers. At the time I didn’t want to draw from my own life because it felt so un-unique and forgettable, and I think gradually my best friends picked up on that—even though I didn’t. So now when they look at me, they don’t see an old friend who’s trying hard to improve and grow; they see someone who started to leave them years ago, has pretty much already left, and maybe didn’t fully care about being there in the first place.

  “You put the art in martyr,” Courtney once told me, “like it’s your job.”

  32.

  RINGTONES

  MY CELL PHONE rings at four a.m., and it’s the last of the several people I expect it to be: Elliot. I have a chest-tightening Oh yeah, Elliot! moment that’s more shock than surprise, which I can’t disguise in my voice as sleepiness. But Elliot didn’t call to pay attention to me, so I just listen to him ramble about hating his band, hating music, and hating his stupid tour, and hope he doesn’t say anything about love.

  But why would he? This is what I always do: put too much pressure on everything. If Elliot was here I’d probably kiss him, and if he’d stayed all summer I probably would have dated him, but since he’s not and he didn’t, the reality is much milder. Elliot only calls me because he thinks I’m funny or smart or both. He calls me because we’re friends; it’s not about love.

  I ask Elliot about groupies, like if he has any. He laughs, like that’s a joke. I ask him about gigs, and he giggles. I even ask him if he’s drunk, because I don’t remember the last time someone had this much fun talking to me. But he’s not drunk and he’s not smoking and he’s not taking any pictures, he says, because there haven’t been any “Kodak-ota” moments—because they haven’t made it to North or South Dakota yet. Ha!

  “What was tonight’s show all about?” I ask.

  “It was in this long, hallway-type room with a small stage at one end and a DJ-slash–sound booth at the other. There was so much slapback I had to stop playing five or six times, and once I even had to unplug. But the rest of the band just kept going, like I didn’t matter, even though I’m the singer and the lead guitarist.”

  “I get that,” I say, in a way I hope comes across as soulful.

  “The crowd had their arms folded most of the show and were way too dressed up and mainly awful.”

  The thing about Elliot I’d sort of forgotten is that he’s cool and easy to be friends with. He doesn’t really expect anything from me except that I’ll answer my phone at four in the morning on a work night, and since that’s something I have no problem doing, our friendship isn’t a burden at all. Also, Elliot’s older, so I assume he sees something innocent and puppyish in me, like how excited I was to get to know him when we met and how excited I was to kiss and pre-miss him. That must’ve seemed naive and sort of sweet, and isn’t it okay to want to be seen that way in someone’s eyes?

  Another surprise: Elliot asks about my writing. I tell him something I’ve never told anyone, which is that I don’t really like to write. What I mean by that is the act of writing, which makes me feel stupid and slow. Like when my mother opens the fridge and just stands there, with no idea what she wants.

  “Writing’s like that a lot of the time,” I say, “except when everyone loves your writing, I assume.”

  Elliot, probably thinking about his own music, agrees.

  Then he gets kind of serious, apologizing for not communicating more.

  “The road sucks, but at least we’re at the farthest point east, which means we’ll be looping back west now. Back to Hell-A,” he says, “to see you before you go.”

  First I liked Elliot and felt sad when he was gone. Now I like Elliot gone; I might even like him more because he’s gone, which feels wrong.

  But I’m tired of being wrong.

  I’m tired anyway, so we say good night.

  33.

  “THE TOASTER” BY EVA KRAMER

  MY MOTHER WAKES me seven minutes before my alarm, which is a complete injustice. I have no problem telling her so.

  “Mom, this is one of the worst things you’ve ever done.”

  “Then I’m doing pretty good,” she says. “I should run for office.”

  My mother’s holding an old toaster. It looks pretty banged up.

  “Have we stopped making toast in the kitchen?” I ask.

  “I found it in the garage,” she says, extending her arms so the toaster’s right in my face. “For your dorm!” my mother exclaims, and then shakes the toaster like I’m supposed to leap out of bed and immediately bubble-wrap it for Boston.

  “I don’t want that,” I tell her. “It’s crusty and gross.”

  “You’ll
need a toaster.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll have to eat.”

  I sit up so I can really look at her, to see which way she’s acting: lonely or crazy. Courtney says since both of us are leaving, we have to get used to Mom ping-ponging between the two.

  “What’s happening?” I ask, because sometimes if I’m very direct with my mother, she’ll stop being weird and just say what’s bothering her.

  “I’m just giving you this toaster for your dorm room,” she says innocently.

  “But what’s really happening?”

  “I don’t understand what you mean, Eva.”

  I gently pull my mom onto the bed, so she’s sitting beside me, the toaster between us. I glance around my room, which already feels like it has less of a sense of me about it. Soon it’ll be my mother’s other room, where she can go to watch TV shows no one else will watch with her, or read the long articles in her Vanity Fair she normally only has time to skim. “Call me a cab,” my mother used to say whenever my sister and I would make simultaneous sleepover plans. I thought it was so sweet how Mom hated to be home without us, that when we left she wanted to leave too. But then Courtney explained that she didn’t mean “call me a taxi,” she meant “call me a Cab,” like a Cabernet, her favorite type of wine.

  “You’re going to love it when we’re gone,” I tell her. “You and Dad are going to party all the time.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  Her voice sounds hollow, like she’s in her own world, which confirms the diagnosis: she’s lonely. I open my arms to her, but she doesn’t realize it’s for a hug—she thinks I’m reaching for the toaster.

  “Mom,” I say, “I don’t want this old-ass toaster.”

  “Why not?” she asks, her voice choked up and sad sounding.

  “I’m not leaving yet. I’m not thinking about, like, appliances yet.”

  “So you’re going to make me ship this to you when you change your mind?”

  “Mom, don’t give me that Mom Guilt, come on.”

  Then my mother tries to take back the toaster, but I grip the cord and won’t let go.

  “Wait, okay, leave it,” I say. “I want the toaster. I want it, okay?”

  “I’ll give it to Courtney, it’s fine.”

  “She won’t even be able to use it in Amsterdam,” I remind her. “The plugs are different there.”

  Then my mother tugs harder, yanking the cord from my hands, and that’s when I realize maybe I misdiagnosed her: maybe she’s crazy. But it’s also early; I was woken too soon, so I’m grumpy and in no mood to comfort anyone. I don’t feel like telling my mother, who knows I love her, that I love her, or telling her that I’ll miss her when she obviously knows I’ll miss her. Call me a crab! I don’t care.

  “You’re crazy,” I say, and grab my notebook off the nightstand and start scribbling notes. “I’m going to turn this into a short story called ‘The Toaster.’ It’s about a mother’s inability to let go, which manifests itself through the symbol of this toaster, which is just a cold, crusty, busted thing that represents the way she doesn’t really know her daughter at all.”

  “Don’t call me crazy, Eva.”

  “You don’t even get that I don’t want a toaster. I like cereal, hello! I need bowls and spoons!”

  “You’re grounded,” my mother says, and then leaves the room without the toaster.

  “I like being grounded! I’m well grounded!” I yell after her, already sorry and realizing I’m probably going to be late for camp this morning.

  Courtney’s in her room meditating when I barge in to ask what she thinks about the toaster fight. I tell her everything, every word I can remember.

  “‘The Toaster’?” Courtney asks, skeptical.

  “At least it’s good material for a story,” I point out.

  “Don’t put us in your stories, Eva.”

  “It’s what I know,” I say. “It should be flattering!”

  “You’re saying it’s an act of love to write about your family?”

  “Basically.”

  “Then, boundaries. You can’t just splay us out because you have”—my sister makes air quotes with her fingers—“a gift.”

  “Oh, I have a gift,” I say. “It’s a toaster, for you.”

  “I hate to say it, but you’re in worse denial about moving to Boston than Mom.”

  “You don’t hate to say it.”

  “I told you to have sympathy,” Courtney says. “Remember what I said about empty-nest syndrome?”

  I nod.

  “You’ll be living with Mom and Dad for, like, ten more minutes. So try to have a little patience, you know, some understanding.” Courtney uncrosses her legs and starts positioning herself, to my total disbelief, into a handstand. “You’ve always been impatient, Eva. Maybe it’s something from your childhood.”

  “I might still be in my childhood,” I say.

  “Tolerance,” Courtney says, like an upside-down Buddha.

  “I’m like the Museum of Tolerance,” I tell her feet.

  “I wouldn’t phrase it that way,” she says, and then kicks my chin a little, “counselor.”

  34.

  ELEPHANTS

  FORGET MORNING CEREMONIES. Forget free play. I miss them both.

  In my absence the girls have been with Steven’s assistant all morning, but when I finally show up, they mob me like they thought they’d never see me again, like I’d left forever. They hug me from all sides while I rotate, gushing sorrys, doing my best to reassure. “I’m not going anywhere,” I find myself promising, and then realize: this is what Courtney means when she says I’m in denial.

  I resist the temptation to ask where Foster is. I notice the tetherball court is empty, and so I lead the girls there to journal and reconnect.

  “Anyone want to read something they’ve written?” I ask hopefully.

  Nobody says anything or moves except Alexis, who covers her chubby face with her chubby little hands.

  “You read,” Jenna says.

  I flip through my journal, which is pathetically mostly blank except for some scribbles from trying to get my pen to start.

  “No one has to read,” I say. “There’s no pressure.”

  “I’d read my story about Mr. Baggy Jeans, but it’s not finished yet,” Lila says, and then Renee says, “It’s really good because it makes you feel sad.”

  “Just read what you have,” Rebecca says. “Don’t be embarrassed.”

  “She’s not,” Renee says, and then Lila says, “Yeah, I’m not.”

  “Don’t be shy either,” Rebecca says. “Is anyone here shy?”

  “Jessica and Alexis are shy,” Zoe says.

  “That isn’t what they are,” Billie says. “They’re introverted.”

  “They’re mute,” Jenna adds.

  “Eva says there’s no pressure,” Maggie whispers. “Right, Eva?”

  Then they all look at me.

  “Be nice,” I say.

  It’s the stupidest, most inane thing in the world to say, but so what. I do want them to be nice to each other, because I can only mentor them in so many ways; there’s a limited amount of wisdom inside me, and most of it’s about writing, not being. I don’t know how a friend should be, so I’ll probably fail if I try to teach them how to treat one another, but I feel like I could succeed if we can just focus on the journals.

  “We’re all friends,” I tell the girls.

  There’s a single huff, a collective, jaded yeah right. Suddenly I feel so trapped in the role of the Adult, it’s not what I was meant to do. I wasn’t meant to lead them. It’s never been my thing to take on leadership positions; I’ve never wanted to be captain of anything. I’m no Alyssa.

  “Wait, where’s Alyssa?” I ask.

  The girls shrug.

  “We have to find her,” I say, and jump to my feet.

  The girls rise slowly, awkwardly.

  “Listen,” I say, “who saw Alyssa last?”

 
“She was at the pool,” Lila says, and then Renee finishes, “Swimming.”

  “Anyone see her after swim?”

  Everyone shakes their head, so we walk to the pool. Alyssa’s not there but Foster is, sitting next to the lifeguard tower, watching over his boys. I don’t want to ask Foster if he’s seen Alyssa, because I refuse to admit losing a camper inside of camp. I look back at my girls—who are rapt at the possibility they might get to swim again, a second chance to splash around—and notice Billie mouthing numbers, counting heads in the pool.

  “Billie, what’s up?”

  “Eight boys,” she says.

  “Trevor,” I start, but then lie, “is on vacation.”

  “Yeah but still,” Billie says, “only eight. Corey’s gone too.”

  “Everybody stay here,” I tell them. “Whirled peas!” They don’t hear me. Half of them are already taking off their shoes and socks, and the other half are huddled together, talking about which boy looks cutest with wet hair.

  In the bathroom only one stall is occupied. I listen and hear the sound of lips smacking. I have to remind myself not to think about hypocrisy, but it’s like trying not to think about elephants. Elephants! They’re everywhere.

  “I’m not going to come in there,” I announce loudly, and the mouth sounds stop. “No one’s in trouble,” I say. “Hi, Corey.”

  “Hey,” he says back.

  I walk over to the door and lean in close, listening for zippers or the swoosh of shirts being hurriedly pulled on. It’s silent. “Don’t be weird,” I say.

  “It’s not weird,” Alyssa says.

  “You don’t have to be embarrassed.”

  “We’re not.”

  “Okay, well, I’m a little embarrassed,” I say.

  “Everyone makes out,” Alyssa says.

  “I know.”

  “Camp is boring,” she says, like it’s a reasonable excuse.

  “I know,” I say.

  “Besides, all the CITs come here to do this.”