Love & Other Carnivorous Plants

by Florence Gonsalves

  “I’m afraid I’m going to forget her.” I focus on the gravel and how hard it looks compared to the bird’s feathers, which move softly every time a car whooshes past.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m afraid that my life is going to keep happening while hers doesn’t and that I’m going to forget,” I say, taking the stick in my hand and smelling its earthy smell.

  Bugg crouches down next to me and the damn bird seems to get more dead by the minute. “You won’t forget, Danny. Your life will fill up with new shit, but that’s a good thing. We all deserve brand-spanking-new shit.”

  “What if I can’t live without Sara?” A truck barrels past us and I suddenly feel too exposed. I turn my back to Bugg and lean on the guardrail for support.

  “You can. It’s probably gonna suck for a while, but you can do sucky things.”

  “I suck at doing sucky things. I don’t know if you’ve heard of this great rehabilitation center for fucked-up teens.”

  The sound of her laugh comforts me, and I turn around. “You’re doing the right thing by not going. You’re following your octopus hearts,” she says.

  “Gag me.” I take the stick and move the bird off the side of the road gingerly. As I do, I notice a flash of red on its wing. I stare at it for a minute, trying to remember where I’ve seen this type of bird before.

  “Come on, we gotta go,” Bugg calls, and I hear her car door open. I take one last look at the bird, still not able to place it, but when I get back in the car something is different. It’s not that I want to take the bird home and get it taxidermied, but there’s something back there that I need to take with me.

  “You okay, Danny?” We’re speeding now to get there in time.

  “I’m okay.” I look out the window and it dawns on me: It’s the same type of bird that was stuck in the garage, the one that kept banging her head against the glass, thinking it was freedom. I turn to Bugg. “What was it you were saying, right before the bird accidentally suicided itself on your windshield?”

  “I think I said something about our plan being a good one and that you should tell it to me again?”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I breathe, because then I remember what I said. But Bugg and I didn’t meet in kindergarten. Sara and I did.

  I try to get air into my lungs, but I can’t. The déjà vu is setting in hard. Didn’t I just learn my lesson about concrete plans built around lofty ideas? Haven’t I retained a single goddamn thing my entire life?

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” Bugg asks.

  I don’t want to say it, but I have to say it now because what if I’ve gotten so good at lying to other people that I don’t know when I’m lying to myself? Also, practically speaking, I have to say it now because coming up on our left is one of those connector roads where for a few seconds you’re not going anywhere, not toward or away from where you thought you were, but in a space somewhat perpendicular to the two.

  “Turn here,” I say quickly, and by instinct or miracle she slams on the brakes and turns the car hard to the left. I pummel without abandon toward no place in particular because for the first time in my life, nowhere is where I have to go. If I’m right, it’s the place where I’ll find everything.

  “Jeez, what did you forget?” she asks, straightening the car out and accelerating again. “We’re really going to miss our flight now.”

  “We can’t go eat, not-pray, and love,” I say quietly. “We can’t be Trappers together. I’m trying to run away in a plan again.”

  She turns her head to look at me, which gives me heart palpitations seeing as she’s operating a motor vehicle.

  “I don’t understand,” she says, and her face is a wilted flower.

  “This is the same exact thing I did with Sara but with you. The place I have to go isn’t mappable, like, there’s no longitude or latitude for it.” I close my eyes and lean my head against the seat. “The place I have to go is the Undiagnosable Place.”

  “The what?”

  “It’s the hot itchy feeling. The thing that makes me act crazy, basically the heart and soul of all my shit coping mechanisms.”

  “Oh, that place,” Bugg says, and I know she knows what I mean. “But what exactly are you going to do? Or go? Or whatever?”

  I look at the highway sprawling in front of us, indefinite and ugly with its metal guardrail and white dotted lines and potholes. It keeps going and going. Maybe there’s a spot where the road ends, but I don’t know where it is.

  “I have no idea,” I say. “I have no idea what the next move is or what I have to do or even how to get to the Undiagnosable Place. All I know is I can’t fix it by going back to St. John’s or reenrolling at Harvard or even succeeding at veganism and losing twenty-five pounds.”

  “But what about yoga? Yoga’s all about inner journey shit,” Bugg offers. “We can do it in France ’til we’re blue in the face if we have to.” She slows as we pass a cop, then looks anxiously in her rearview mirror to see if he follows us.

  “No. I’ve done yoga, and yoga doesn’t do it for me. Yoga makes me want to murder people, which is the exact opposite of what yoga should do.” Thinking about it makes my smock feel rather tight around my neck.

  “Maybe you haven’t given it enough of a chance.”

  “I’ve given it plenty of chances. I don’t know what it is, but whatever it is, I have to do it alone.” I look over at Bugg, who’s crying. “I wish it were different. I wish we were past all the shitty hard stuff we have to figure out on our own. But I can’t fix you and you can’t fix me.” I don’t even know if I can fix me.

  Bugg nods and I check that the cop isn’t following us. It appears that today we’ve been spared.

  Bugg takes out a cigarette and keeps her eyes looking straight ahead. “You’re right. I should’ve stuck with what I knew I had to do, which is go back to St. John’s, but sometimes I fly into you and that’s the end of me, you know?”

  I do know. It hurts to watch another brilliant plan hit something as cold and hard as reality.

  “How is it possible to be so infantile after twenty-one years on this godforsaken planet?” Bugg asks, pounding her fist into the steering wheel.

  “And what the hell are we supposed to do now?” I ask. “Go home?”

  “I guess so.”

  We’re quiet for the rest of the ride, each maybe stewing in our shit worlds. After she gets off the highway she idles in front of my house. “I don’t want to leave you yet,” I tell her, then she undoes her seat belt and kisses me. I don’t think she had time to brush her teeth this morning, but I even crave her bad breath. “Will you take me to the ocean, designated driver? The sun is about to come up, and I think we get one last hurrah.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  There are too many things to say. “I love you” would be a fine start, but since she probably already knows that, it’s superfluous to bring it up now. Besides, you should never say everything you want to. Then you’ll have nothing to talk about. A few feet from the shore Bugg starts to take her clothes off.

  “What are you doing? Don’t you realize that this is a public beach? Exposing yourself after eighteen isn’t a cute little crime.”

  “Oh, come on. It’ll be fun,” she says, pulling her T-shirt over her head and making me gulp. She takes my face in her hands and it seals us off from the world entirely. I like it better here inside our space, which is another universe altogether. “Dandelion,” she says, and I get goose bumps, but in a sad way.

  “Sara’s the only person who’s ever called me that,” I whisper. “I know it’s what my parents wanted for me and all, but I think I have to keep it that way.”

  “Okay, how about Dan, then?”

  I laugh and look into her eyes, trying not to blink. Even though I’m sad to leave it, it’s nice to know our world existed. Maybe someday if she’s there and I’m there, we’ll be able to get back to it.

  “Arms over your head, please, Dan,” she says.

 
“Oh my God, no. We are not calling me ‘Dan.’”

  “Fine, Danny, arms over your head!”

  I put them up and she takes my smock off, leaving me standing there, feeling petrified but calm about it. As we step into the water, the sun breaks over the horizon like an egg (I’m hungry) and we let the future stay suspended for a few minutes. I know it’s going to be hard. I know it’s going to be lonely, but I don’t think there’s any other way out. Truthfully, I don’t think there’s ever a way out, only a way through.

  “On the count of three run in with me,” Bugg says. She holds my hand and I hold it back. We walk in up to our ankles.

  “Why does it have to be so cold?” I ask. “My poor nipples could cut steak.”

  There’s a honking sound above us, and we look up as a pack of geese flap on through our moment.

  “I bet they don’t even know where they’re going,” Bugg says, squinting up at their haphazard formation.

  “They don’t have a clue,” I agree. She gets a running start then dives headfirst into the legal definition of an ice bath. Before I follow I add, to the ripples reverberating from her splash, “And they end up there anyway.”

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  dandelion theory

  1. stop feeding yourself ideas in mirrors

  2. don’t wait in ugly dresses for your confidence to grow

  3. if the fancy strikes you, this is your advance permission

  4. keep diary, named journal

  5. in praise of being last place: costume parade of the human race

  6. no time for grades, just exactly what is

  7. be hungry, then eat

  8. believe in the compass genius of your starry heart

  9. nothing that you know, but something that you trust

  10. without a label for this, whatever it is, of jars and happened things

  11. know how much time is left on the bombs you carry, the not-said, no-words bombs you carry

  12. throw away your dreams

  13. don’t believe everything you tell yourself

  14. feel your wild fingers breaking in

  15. how the prison bird flies from its room in your chest

  16. and sings

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  Dear Reader,

  I want to clarify something before you resume your life beyond this book. While I believe humor is great medicine, and I hope Danny’s story made you laugh and feel something true, I also want to make sure that finding the humor in such heavy-hitting topics as mental health, eating disorders, sexuality and sexual identity, grief, and substance abuse doesn’t obscure the gravity of the topics.

  Danny is one imaginary person dealing with many of the hard things that nonimaginary people deal with, and she doesn’t always deal with them well. She’d be the first to admit she’s not the poster child for anything. Her sometimes flippant attitudes about such topics as binge drinking, fat shaming, and drug dealing may be inconsistent or even misguided at times as she grapples with her own inner conflicts and personal experiences in the context of societal and cultural attitudes. When writing this book, I intended to create a character who feels real and relatable, but not necessarily exemplary. Just because she doesn’t believe in pharmaceutical treatments for her mental health issues doesn’t mean that’s not a viable path for many people. Just because she doesn’t want to label her sexuality doesn’t mean that others don’t benefit tremendously from the community that comes with a defined identity. Just because she finds a way to laugh at herself as a coping mechanism, the severity of her behavior shouldn’t be overlooked. If you or someone you know is struggling with any problems similar to Danny’s, on the next page is a list of resources for help. It’s not comprehensive, but it’s proof that there’s a lot of support available out there—and you’re not alone.

  Writing a story with so many sensitive issues created dialogues around topics that I wouldn’t have engaged with otherwise. I’m so grateful to have learned a lot in the process and I’m excited to continue to learn. I think fiction provides a unique opportunity for honesty and connection, one we can’t always muster in real life. And that’s my biggest hope for Love.

  Until next time,

  Florence

  RESOURCES

  Eating Disorders

  National Institute of Mental Health: http://www .nimh.nih.gov/health/topics/eating-disorders/index.shtml

  National Eating Disorders Association, “General Information”: http://www.nationaleatingdisorders .org/general-information

  Eating Disorder Hope: http://www.eatingdisorderhope .com/information/eating-disorder

  Body Image/Body Shaming/Body Love

  TED Talk, “Ending the Pursuit of Perfection”: https://youtu.be/GR_hq7OVzHU

  About-Face: https://www.about-face.org/

  The Body Positive: http://www.thebodypositive.org/

  Grief

  National Alliance for Grieving Children: https://childrengrieve.org/

  The Dougy Center: The National Center for Grieving Children and Families, “Help for Teens”: http://www.dougy.org/grief-resources/help-for-teens/

  What’s Your Grief: http://www.whatsyourgrief.com/

  Alcohol Abuse

  Screening for Mental Health, Drinking Screening: http://howdoyouscore.org/

  National Council on Alcoholism and Drug Dependence: https://www.ncadd.org/

  Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration: http://www.samhsa.gov/

  Mental Health

  National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-TALK or 1-800-273-8255 or http://www .suicidepreventionlifeline.org/

  National Alliance on Mental Illness: https://www .nami.org/

  American Psychiatric Association, “Warning Signs of Mental Illness”: https://www.psychiatry .org/patients-families/warning-signs-of-mental -illness

  LGBTQIA

  It Gets Better Project: http://www.itgetsbetter.org/

  The Trevor Project and Lifeline: 866-488-7386 or http://www.thetrevorproject.org/

  American Psychological Association, “Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender” and “Understanding Sexuality”: http://www.apa.org/topics/lgbt/ index.aspx

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Special thanks to:

  Mom and Dad for never suggesting I pursue a “stable” career (lol, what’s that?) and for your endless and unconditional love and support.

  Leigh Eisenman for being the first person to believe in Love, and for Dartmouth College for connecting us.

  Danielle Burby for your relentless work on every aspect of this book over the last two years. To say I’m lucky to have you as an agent is to greatly understate my gratitude for having you on my team.

  Andrea Spooner for being a force of nature with your editorial prowess and fourteen-page single-spaced revision letters. I am beyond fortunate to receive your guidance and could not dream up an editor I’d be more honored to work with.

  Hallie Tibbetts and the entire team at Little, Brown Books for Young Readers for the countless hours you spent editing, publicizing, copyediting, marketing, and turning Love into a real, honest-to-God book.

  Teresa Lotz for dedicating your free time to reading Love and providing such helpful feedback. I appreciate the time you took to offer your unique perspective.

  Kheryn Callender for your thorough read through of Love in its final stages. It was a big endeavor to include so many weighty issues in this book and you came at the manuscript from every angle without skipping over a sentence. I learned so much from your notes.

  Anne Lamott for introducing me to the idea that recovery is like
putting an octopus to bed.

  Friends—Erin, Laura, Dario, Alex, Lindsey, Carolyn, Nikki, Ellie, Becca, Mallory, and Alec—for all your help along the way, from sharing stories about growing up LGBTQIA to reading excerpts of Love to helping me think about what it means to write from a perspective that is different from my own—thank you.

  And finally: the TA who told me I should probably quit chemistry, Thora for giving me “Wild Geese” on my nineteenth birthday, Gretchen for getting me through a most turbulent adolescence, and most important, you, reader, for giving a shit.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Florence Gonsalves, a recent Dartmouth graduate who dropped pre-med to try her hand at poetry and fiction, lives in Plymouth, Massachusetts. This is her first novel.