“You mean my friends could’ve come?”
The girls laugh again, probably assuming I don’t have any friends.
I retreat to a bathroom off the kitchen and call Steph to see what she’s doing.
“Before you say anything,” I stop her, “I’m not going to just apologize and apologize. Instead I’m extending what the ancient Greeks called an olive branch.”
After a little lull of silence, Steph says, “I’ll be taking that.”
“Oh, thank gods,” I say, so relieved I sink down to the tile floor.
When I tell her I’m at a camp party, she seems happy for me. Although when I say seems I mean exactly that, because something distinctly unhappy was stirred up by our fight earlier. Even with this surface okay-ness, an acidic feeling still bubbles around the edges of our chitchat. This is the problem with getting everything out in the open, especially for girls, who never forget. My mom always says, “Put your issues in these tissues.” But they’re just tissues—soggy-ass tissues!—they can’t hold the heavy stuff. So I’ll just have to take the tissues, because I don’t want snot on my face.
Steph says Michelle’s on a date and that she’s babysitting her little brother; they’re making microwave brownies and homemade frosting. At first I don’t believe her—about Michelle’s date or the brownies and frosting—and then I can’t believe myself: Doubting Eva, so distrustful. Then someone turns up the music in the living room so loud even Steph can hear it. “God, that’s loud,” she says. I tell her everything’s about to get “camplified,” which she appreciates, but not enough to ditch her brother and come save me.
Shelby doesn’t pick up when I call her next, but Zack does. He says my name without even saying hello: “Eva.” He almost sings it.
“Never mind,” I say.
“Are we still on for tomorrow night?”
“Yeah,” I say, not thinking, and hang up.
When I leave the bathroom, everyone’s outside on the patio drinking. The warm breeze makes my eyes water, so I go back inside to find my tote and reluctantly dig out my glasses, stashed beneath Baggies and books. Once I have them on, it’s heaven, I can see everything—even the words on the spines of my books.
“This is who I am,” I say aloud, to no one. “The girl who brings books to a party.”
“I’ll show you where to put that,” Melly says, suddenly behind me. She’s either on autopilot and doesn’t remember talking to me earlier, or she just doesn’t recognize me with my glasses on. That or she’s just losing her mind from lack of food.
“It’s okay,” I tell her, clutching my bag, “I’ll hold it.”
She leads me down the hall anyway, into a bedroom with the lights out. At first it looks like there’s a mound of coats on the bed, but then the mound moans, moves. It’s two people, murmuring into each other’s faces, one body underneath another body.
“I’m just dropping off my bag,” I say, reaching for the edge of the bed but touching a foot instead. “Sorry, sorry.”
“’S cool,” a male voice says. Instantly I can tell it’s Corey.
“Corey,” I say into the dark. “It’s Eva.”
“Oh, hey, Eva,” Corey says pleasantly, like we’re at the supermarket and he’s happened down my aisle.
“I see we’re doing this again.”
“What d’you mean?” he asks.
“Be careful,” I say, for no reason, then leave.
Out in the hallway Booth’s standing by himself, staring at a framed picture of Nick as a child playing in the sand.
“Don’t go in there,” I tell him.
“Wasn’t going to,” he says.
I try to slip past him, but his body’s blocking my way to the patio. “Booth, move.”
“Nice, nerd,” Booth says in a dumb voice, finally noticing my glasses. “Foster’s outside.”
“I told you I’m not looking for Foster.”
“Yeah, you are,” Booth says, a sleazy smile spreading across his face. “You put your glasses on, so you’re looking for someone.”
“I have a boyfriend,” I say. “Foster and I . . . we’re not like that. He doesn’t want to date someone, since he’s leaving for college soon, and I’m already in a relationship with someone. He’s in a band.”
Booth looks like he doesn’t believe me, so I start rambling details.
“His name’s Elliot, but I call him ‘Elli’ or ‘Smelly’ or ‘Smelliot.’ He’s only into music, he can’t even watch a commercial without commenting on the music, and every time he reads a book, he has to make an iPod playlist to listen to while he reads, like a film score,” I say, catching my breath. “And even though I’m leaving for Boston in August, and he’s staying here, we’re making it work.”
Booth nods emphatically. He grabs my arm, wants to talk about love.
“I love Melly. I’ve never told her, though.”
I accidentally laugh, then stop myself. “Melly?” I pat Booth’s shoulder, slowly slip past him. “Well, there’re other fsh in the sea, you know.”
“He’s with Amanda,” Booth says, gesturing to Foster. “And the other girls.”
He is. I see him. Right in the center of a circle of giddy, attentive girls. I join the conversation mid-giggle and catch Foster’s eyes.
“Hey,” he says, nodding at me instead of reaching out for a hug. “I remember those glasses.”
I shrug and take them off, shove them in a pocket.
“What’s up?” he asks stiffly, out of what feels like total obligation. He waits for an answer, and the girls, watching him wait, all wait too.
“Nada mucho.”
“Foster says you’re a writer,” Amanda says.
“Yep.”
“What’s something you’re writing now?” Melly asks.
“Oh, it’s just child’s play.”
“Don’t be modest,” Amanda says.
“I’m not. It’s a play for children. For a children’s theater.”
“See?” Foster says, smiling reluctantly, sadly even. “Told you she was smart.”
The girls look at me, waiting for more smartness.
“I think I’m gonna go soon,” I say.
“Okay, bye,” Jules says, turning back around, closing me out of the circle.
“Foster,” I say, over her shoulder, “want to go outside and talk for a second?”
“Why would he go with you?” Melly asks, and they all turn their stares from me to Foster, who looks uncomfortable.
“I’m staying, and you can stay another minute too,” he says to me.
“I’ve heard it’s cooler to leave a party before it starts to suck,” I say.
“Maybe you suck,” Jules mutters. The other girls pretend not to hear and avoid eye contact.
I’ve never cared about being universally liked—like, across-the-board liked—because I’ve always felt there was something unnatural about people like that. If literally everyone likes you, it’s probably because you’re generic and bland, which is the opposite of what I want to be. I know that having a way-too-specific personality inevitably bothers some people, and bothers them a ton, and that’s fine with me. But I don’t want to be disliked unless I’m known, I’m understood. I never had a chance with these girls, and to be real, they never had much of a chance with me. Still, even though I didn’t really want to have to like them, I definitely wanted them to have to like me—to not be able to help but like me, to like me in spite of me. Of course, that’s fantasy shit. They don’t.
Then Foster shoots me a look—a conflicted, disappointed, unsympathetic look that says: You should stay and try and have a decent time and connect with other people, if not for yourself then for me, a little favor for me, Eva, who’s sticking up for you and wants to respect you even though you’re not helping, not at all.
“Yeah, I have to go,” I say, giving Foster my own look: Forgive me.
Follow me.
I head back inside the house, down to the bedroom, where the door’s still closed, and I
swing it open and flip on the lights. Corey’s on the bed, and this time I can see the legs kicking beneath him—they’re wearing Alyssa’s shoes.
“Alyssa!” I shout.
“Oh, hey, Eva,” Corey says again, just as casually as before.
“Alyssa, let’s go. I’m taking you home.”
“What?!” she yells, pulling off the covers and sitting up, furious. “You said I could come. You promised!”
“Yeah, but it wasn’t a real promise—it was a camp promise. I can’t keep all those.”
“Well, we’re not at camp. You can’t tell me what to do.”
I go sit on the edge of the bed and lean in closer. “No one’s that into us,” I say. “No one really wants us here.”
“That’s not true.”
I stand, put my hands on my hips, try to project the authority I’ve been seeking all summer. “You’re my CIT. I’m leaving and so should you.”
“I’m staying!”
“We’re a team,” I say, more forcefully. “Alyssa, c’mon.”
I try and slide her off the bed, but she’s stronger than she looks.
“You’re just jealous!”
“You’re not supposed to be here,” I whisper. “I’m trying to look out for you. I have to redeem myself.”
I grab her arm, pull her out the front door, and less than a minute later we’re in my car. She sulks silently. I put the keys in the ignition so the radio plays. Corey waits on the curb across the street under a dim streetlamp, basically in the dark.
“Drive,” Alyssa says impatiently.
“Please don’t be so mad.”
“Why are we still here?!” she screams, fuming, her black eyeliner smearing into streaks above her cheekbones. “What are you waiting for?!” A few tears hug the contours of her heart-shaped face.
“Foster,” I say, not wanting to lie.
“You’re fucking joking,” she seethes.
I only wait another few minutes, but by then both of us are crying. He still hasn’t come outside when I finally shift into drive and drive away.
43.
VANCOUVER
AT THREE A.M. my phone rings. I don’t want to talk to anyone about anything; I just want to forget about the party, forget about the night, and forget about Foster and how he never came out to meet me. Because if he really liked me, he would have.
“We don’t pine for boys,” my mother always tells me. “We’re not trees.”
I answer it anyway.
It’s Elliot. Tonight he’s in Vancouver, tomorrow Seattle, the next night Portland, then Oakland, and then finally LA. Things have mellowed between his bandmates, but the vibe’s not necessarily better. The bassist wants another singer—not in addition to Elliot, but instead of him—and he’s hurt by it.
“Screw this band,” he says at least four times, and the way he says screw makes me a little itchy.
Then Elliot asks what I’m wearing. What I’m really wearing is my underwear, but I tell him I’m wearing a party dress with tights and high heels. He wants to know if that’s all I’m wearing and I laugh, tell him a top hat too. We talk for a while about his bandmates, 7-Eleven snacks, his big old cat back home. Then he tells me he misses me, and it’s nice to hear someone say it, since it’s not going to be Foster. Elliot’s voice gets a little softer, kind of breathy. I don’t hear a zipper unzipping, it’s not that straightforward, but I can still tell what’s happening.
I wonder if phone sex with Elliot is like what I assume real sex with Elliot would be like, where I don’t make a sound because he’s making enough for both of us. But unlike how a boy usually expects the girl to be loving it, never knowing if she’s secretly just faking, it’s the opposite with Elliot. He probably assumes I’m faking, that I’d pretend anything because I’m so into him.
But tonight I’m not pretending anything. I’m really doing it.
I assume it’s going to be one of the strangest and most graceless things I’ve ever attempted, but impressively, Elliot doesn’t let it be. Apparently he’s a phone sex pro. Maybe the fact that he’s so full of himself—which is a totally pointless expression, because what else would a person be full of?—helps somehow. Still, whatever he’s projecting, I’m absorbing; he doesn’t leave a single open moment to doubt myself or feel weird. I guess sometimes you do something you’ve never ever done, yet it’s really not so pivotal. Sure, it’s notable, so you take note—there it is, noted—and then the universe nudges you to just move it along.
When it’s over, he puts down the phone to go get a tissue, clean up. I lie with the phone away from my ear, resting on my shoulder. When he returns, it’s back to the high Canadian gas prices, a boring after-party with some local bands, a quick trip to a Vancouver art museum, money with the Queen of England on it.
Before we hang up, he asks about the earthquake that hit a week or so ago, wanting to know if I felt it. He says he felt it.
There’s no point denying anything—we’re all full of something—so I say I felt it too.
44.
IT’S ZACK
IT’S FOUR IN the afternoon on Saturday, and I’ve been reading the same ten sentences over and over—the final ten sentences of my best short story, the one Mr. Roush didn’t like because it’s fake. It’s actually not that great, now that I’m really looking at it again. What it is, more specifically, is that it’s not that likeable. I need to work on coming up with stories with more likeable characters; I should focus on that for my college writing classes. I wonder if maybe I should even try to be more likeable, but that’ll be harder to figure out—in college or ever.
Then I get a text from Foster: Party got better. U shdve stayed. U mightve had fun.
I text back, 2 much competition 2 be yr date.
Oh.
Want to go on a real date.
When camps dun?
I’ll be in boston!
And ill be tuff.
I stare at Foster’s text—And ill be tuff—trying to decode what he meant to type, what was autocorrected. And I’ll be tough. And it’ll be tough. And I don’t feel like texting anymore. And I don’t feel like thinking about Foster for a while.
At eight, Zack picks me up in a Toyota Camry, saying the motorcycle’s in the shop. It’s fine, I don’t want to ride it anyway, because those things are dangerous. He also tells me we’re ditching the movie idea and instead going over to hang with some of his friends at somebody’s house. “It’ll be intimate,” he says, in a smooth, buttery way, and for a moment I feel like how Shelby must’ve felt—like you’re being taken care of. Zack also looks really good: his jeans are tight, his gray V-neck showing just the softest tuft of blond chest hair. When I look at him, I think, There’s a straightforwardly good-looking guy, which makes me feel older, like I’m twenty, or twenty-three.
It’s nice because I don’t feel shy around him—he’s Zack, Shelby’s Zack, I’ve known him since forever—and I’m not shy around his friends either. I recognize a few of them from Shelby’s birthday senior year: Leyna and Scott and Bobby, and over in the corner by the iPod player, Marta, the camp lifeguard. She waves at me and smiles. Zack’s impressed.
“You know Marta?”
“I do, actually.”
Zack’s outside smoking most of the night, but it’s okay, it feels good to not need him there by my side. Since I can tell this will be my last party of the summer—my last party before college—I decide I’ll do this one differently. Not do it like Courtney (“liking people is easy”) so much as do it like a Courtney/Eva hybrid, the best of both.
I make a point to say hello to everyone, that’s the first thing: I’m Eva, hello, I’m Eva, hello. I cross the room to where someone’s laid out carrot sticks and hummus and almonds and eat some of each, sampling anything that appears gluten-, dairy-, egg-, and meat-free. I let my T-shirt casually slouch off one shoulder like I’m also free, and loose, and down for anything—which, tonight, I kind of am.
A little later, when Zack comes inside to check on me,
he seems pleased by how outgoing I am, how animated, engaged in Bobby’s story about this video on YouTube that for once I don’t have to lie about seeing because I actually have seen it, and have things to say about it too. I’ve even positioned myself toward the center of the circle, and I’m laughing the hardest, touching Bobby’s arm like he’s really done it, really cracked me up. And, just like last night, I’m not faking any of it.
Suddenly it’s late, and Zack starts saying his good-byes. Even though I don’t need help—I’m sober, haven’t had anything to drink but iced tea and lemonade all night—he helps me to the car. I assume he’s driving me home, but he takes a route I don’t recognize, eventually pulling into a driveway I’ve never seen.
“This is my parents’ house,” he says.
This is where he lives now, though he doesn’t explain why. The place is nicer than the apartment he used to have in Thousand Oaks, but it also seems sadder. But maybe I’m just projecting that, I don’t know for sure, I wasn’t there for the end of him and Shelby.
Zack idles the car in the driveway and gently places his hand on mine, but I barely notice because I’m distracted.
Something’s missing.
There’s a lack of something, a vacancy, but just like with all my absences—with Foster, with Michelle and Steph, with Boston, with camp—I try to clear it out of my mind, like one of Courtney’s meditations. Even as we tiptoe up the walkway, through the foyer, across the tile, down the length of the hall to the last bedroom, where I go into his parents’ guest bathroom and stare into the mirror, I keep telling myself the same thing: Don’t think about it, don’t think about it.
There’s nothing in the bedroom but a big-screen TV and a king-size bed. It’s like a hotel room. Zack sits on the edge of the bed and starts whispering the sweetest things to me, which only makes everything somehow sadder:
“I thought we were going to get married.”
“Shelby said she loved me, that she wanted to live together.”
“You know how she is, Eva, how she can pull away sometimes and not mean it, how she really just wants you to pull her back and remind her you’re not going anywhere.”
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