by Jessie Hilb
I think he winces, but it’s hard to tell because Maggie is taking up so much space between us. I imagine her catching on fire but realize that’s mean, sadistic even. I don’t know who I am anymore. Someone who loves Tate. Someone consumed by Tate-love and the misery therein. This can’t be healthy.
I grab a million pounds of books (why isn’t anyone else carrying this much stuff?) and the mocha Tate bought me and get up from the table. I feel heavy and slow-motion as I push past Maggie and her friends and leave Tate there with them.
“See you in choir,” I say.
I think I hear Maggie mumble, “What was that about?” as I press through the doors.
Marissa
“So Jon and this sophomore girl are serious?”
“Yeah. Her name is Sabita.”
Marissa’s trying not to sound jealous, but she is. I don’t know how she missed the Sabita and Jon thing developing. It’s been almost two months. I guess Marissa has been hyper-focused on Danson; everything beyond him is foggy.
“A sophomore?”
This is an invitation to jump in with a nasty comment, but my loyalty to Jon holds steady.
“Yup.”
I surprise myself with the instinct to defend Sabita. She’s Jon’s choice. I hold back the urge to say anything else. I don’t want to say anything that might hurt Marissa either.
“She pretty?”
Pretty doesn’t begin to describe her, Marissa. She’s beautiful. And she has personality, spirit.
“Yeah. She’s pretty.” I show Marissa some mercy.
Jon
The whole house smells like weed again, and my dad is home this time. I wonder how he can stand knowing that Jon is upstairs with his girlfriend smoking pot and making out.
I hate that I have to pass Jon’s open door on the way to my room. He and Sabita are sprawled on his bed, intermittently breaking into laughter.
“Aden,” he says as I pass his door.
“Hey, Jonathan.”
I’m trying to make it to my room without having to interact. All I can think about is Tate and how awful I feel about Seth and everyone knowing thanks to social media, which mercifully, I’ve refused to check in the last forty-eight hours.
“What’s the word?”
“Just gonna do some homework. Which is what you should be doing.”
Please stop talking to me, I think. I just want to sulk in my room.
“Thanks, Mom.” He laughs, but it’s not funny. Her absence is its own presence.
Sabita sits up onto her elbows. She looks like a goddess. Cow cow cow. My stupid brain won’t stop taunting me. “Hey, Aden,” she says.
“Hey, Sabita.” And then I add, “Where’d you guys get the weed?”
“A girl I know,” Jon says. “Want a toke?”
I sigh. Yes. I do. I wonder if the weed would make me feel like less of a fool. Or cow, as the case is. If I got crazy-high right now, would it feel better to know that Tate knows? Would it make me stop obsessing over the possibility that he cares because he cares?
But I’m not ready to start smoking pot right now. The occasional cigarette and drunk-off-my-butt weekend night or two are about all I can stomach of substance use. Plus, I’m not a huge fan of Jon becoming a pothead. He now has a poster of John Lennon surrounded by a plume of smoke above his headboard. I swear that wasn’t there yesterday. Part of me wants to blame this on Sabita. After all, she’s so new. But in my gut, I know this is Jon’s choice.
After our mom died, Jon looked to me for everything—every morning before school, he’d say, What should I wear? I’d look out the window at the weather, and then describe the appropriate layering of apparel. He’d walk to his bedroom repeating the words, short sleeves, long sleeves, pants. And then he’d shout, Undies? Yes, I’d say. Always undies, Jon. And socks! For breakfast, I’d pour the milk for his cereal, or heat his instant oatmeal. I’m so used to him being a kid, my follower. But I guess everyone needs choices, even destructive ones. Jon can’t stay in his box forever, playing lacrosse, cradling the silence.
And if anything, Jon is taking Sabita down with him. I like Sabita. I wonder what her parents would think of her dating a slightly older boy who buys and smokes pot. Then again, his sister gets drunk and randomly hooks up with boys on the weekends. We are winning.
“No, thanks,” I say.
“Are you too good for our pot?” Jon says.
“Something like that.”
“You’re missing out.”
I’m sure I am.
Me/Jon
My brother is on a surfboard, but he’s gone too far out. I’m watching him from the beach, feeling edgy about him being out there without me. And then the waves start getting bigger. Monstrosities of waves pounding into the surfers, flooding the beach. Jon disappears into wave after wave. I run into the water, but I can’t get to him fast enough. Each wave is bigger than the one before it, and I’m being tossed around underwater, trying to find the surface so I can breathe, so I can get to Jon. But I’m alone. All I can see is sand and murky water, and bits of my hair tangling around my face. All I can think is, There’s no way Jon will survive this.
I wake up with the momentary feeling of falling before the relief of the bed under my body floods me.
I hate that dream. I have it every few months, and it’s terrifying. The worst part is knowing I’m supposed to be with Jon and having no way to get to him. I could save him if I could just get there faster. But the waves are merciless every time I have the nightmare.
I have a similar version of this dream, but it’s a tsunami. One big, earthshattering wave. I’m on the beach, and Jon is in the water with his board. When the water slams into my body, there’s a split second of knowing that I might survive and he won’t.
We’ve only been to the beach a few times. California. Jon took to surfing like he’d been doing it all his life. He’s like that with sports. We were twelve and thirteen. I stood on the beach the whole time watching Jon, knowing that if something happened to him out there, I’d be too late. Anyone would be too late to get to him. He was on his own.
I stare at the ceiling. It’s five a.m. Too early to get up and get ready for school. I finally fall asleep again right as my alarm goes off.
Marissa
“We came really close last night, me and Lance.”
For a second I feel like I’m swimming. Marissa is talking, but I have no idea what she’s saying because my head is underwater and I’m moving my arms and legs. She gets louder when I turn my head for air, but I want to go back under and turn her off. I thought I could do this, be there for her, but I’m not sure I can bear the weight of this with her. A make-out session that almost resulted in sex with Mr. Danson takes Marissa’s flirtation to another level. No, another dimension.
“Dude,” she says a second time.
“Dude,” I repeat back. “He’s married. He’s a dad.”
I say it because it’s all I can think about, and being a good friend doesn’t mean being all tra-la-la about how messed up this is.
“I know.”
“And?”
“And I don’t know. This is separate from that.”
This is separate from that. That’s how you can do this? By compartmentalizing? By thinking your actions aren’t going to affect his marriage? I don’t say it. My honesty has its limitations.
“It’s not like I forced him. I kissed him and he kissed me back and we just kept kissing. And kissing. Things got out of hand because that’s how uncontrollable it is. We got carried away. We are dynamite. Us together—together, it’s inevitable.”
I can see Mr. Danson and Marissa, their mouths and bodies desperate for each other.
I think my jaw is still on the floor, because she says, “He’s a grown man with choices. And I’m a woman with choices. This is totally consensual, and he’s gonna have to deal with his own life.”
If this ever made headlines, Marissa would be painted as one of two things: a seductive, underdressed harlo
t or a wronged, innocent victim. Neither seems totally accurate, and yet she’s both—part woman-seductress, part child-innocent. That word, consensual. It buzzes and hums in me until I can’t stand it anymore.
“This isn’t consensual, Marissa.”
“What do you mean?” She folds her arms.
“By law, you can’t consent to doing anything sexual with a teacher. He’s in a position of power.”
“Screw the law,” she says. “He respects me. And I’m making this choice, okay?”
I look at this beautiful person I love so much, and all I see is a broken girl.
“I can’t tell you it’s okay,” I say.
“Oh, and you pining over some guy with a girlfriend is okay?”
She’s right. I never think about Maggie as someone who might love Tate; to me, she’s just everything I’m not. I almost respond with I can’t help it, but I realize those are the words she just used to describe this thing with Danson.
“This is different.”
She folds her arms across her chest, eyes blazing into mine. “How? How is this different, Aden?”
“Tate and I are at least both teenagers. Mr. Danson is a full-grown adult.”
I can see her body deflate, just, with my words. “Whatever, Aden. The feelings are the same. It’s just reciprocated in my situation.”
“Ouch, Marissa.”
Marissa grabs her backpack off the floor, stuffs her books inside, and throws her hair into a messy bun. Then she looks at me with pity or apology before she quietly leaves my room.
Jon
Sabita is stretched out on the basement couch, her feet resting on Jon’s legs. Her hands are digging into a bowl of M&M’s. She’s methodically opening and closing her palm in the bowl, and the basement is eerily quiet except for the sound of Sabita’s hand sifting in the candy.
I look at Jon, and something isn’t quite right. “Jon?”
He raises his head slowly and smiles. Whoa, this smile is way too happy. This is not a marijuana high.
“Jon?” I say again, but I’m feeling a little panicked. “What did you take?”
He just laughs, but it’s not a drunk laugh. It’s a lucid-sounding laugh like I’ve said something clever and funny.
“You are a genius,” he says. He’s not really talking to me, though. We aren’t connecting. “How could you know that I took something? That it isn’t just pot?” He looks at Sabita. “How could she know that? Ade, have I ever told you how amazing you are?” He stands and puts both hands on my shoulders and looks into my eyes. I can’t decide if I’m making eye contact with the devil who stole my brother’s soul or if I’m just connecting with some other side of him. It must be both. “Music. We need music. What the hell were we thinking? We don’t have tunes!”
Sabita isn’t here. She’s in the bowl with those M&M’s.
“Wow,” she says. “I love M&M’s in a bowl together. It’s like touching heaven.”
These two are so high. I’ve been so steeped in books and singing and surviving high school without a mom that I’ve never seen anyone this high. It’s scary.
“Jon. What. Did. You. Take?”
He’s humming to himself, messing with Dad’s stereo from 1999. The music comes on loud, big band. Jon twirls around the room like a ballerina. I’ve entered an alternate universe.
“Ecstasy,” he says. “And I finally know why it’s called Ecstasy. But I can’t figure out the whole Molly thing. If this was named after a person, Molly must’ve been incredible. Magnificent. Stupendous.” He is totally ecstatic.
He grabs Sabita from the couch, and they start dancing together. Within seconds, they’re full-body making out, and I hope to God she’s on the pill or there’s a condom down here.
I wonder how long Ecstasy lasts because my dad will be home in a few hours. I hope they don’t have any more.
“Sabita, you should go home,” I say, tapping her on the shoulder.
She turns her head and smiles as though she’s just heard something pleasant.
“Jon. Sabita needs to go home.”
“I can’t send her home like this, Ade. Her parents would kill her.”
“You’re an idiot.”
Jon laughs. “Go away, Aden.”
“I don’t like leaving you alone this way.”
“I’m not alone.” He buries his face in Sabita’s hair. And for a split second, I think of Tate and wonder what it would feel like to be wanted enough by him that he would bury his nose in my hair, inhaling in ecstasy. High or not.
I shake the thought because it hurts and because I need to be present for Jon, and I head to the mini fridge we keep in the basement, grabbing two bottles of water, setting them on the table next to the M&M’s. Reluctantly, I leave the two of them alone in the basement, leaning into each other, half dancing, half swaying, as though they’re one thing.
When I check on them three hours later, Dad is home, grilling dinner, and Jon and Sabita are on the couch, half dressed, passed out.
“Come on, guys,” I say. “Party’s over. Sabita, get dressed. I think you should go home tonight.”
She looks so sad. “Yeah, my parents were expecting me an hour ago.”
I almost say, I hope you don’t get in trouble, but realize that’s ridiculous because she just did Ecstasy and God knows what with my brother.
I hand Sabita a water. She takes it as though it weighs a hundred pounds. I’ve never seen her so lackluster. Seeing her now, coming down from Ecstasy, makes me realize how full of life and joy she is normally.
“Get the hell out of here, Aden!” Jon yells at me. It’s unprovoked and like a shock of cold water in my face. I mentally regroup and realize this is the comedown. I know that the comedown can be harsh. Like being thrown into the depths of hell after a taste of heaven. At least that’s what I read after I saw these two high and then went upstairs and Googled everything I could about Ecstasy.
“Jon, you’re coming down from Ecstasy. This is what it feels like. You’re gonna need to pull yourself together. Dad’s home, and he wants to eat. Drink some water.” I set a water bottle on the table next to him. “And eat some of those M&M’s. Sugar and chocolate should do something for your endorphins.”
I watch as Sabita gathers her clothes off the couch and starts relayering. She looks worse than I’ve ever seen her. Eyes glassy and clumped mascara. I think she might be crying.
Now I know what kind of underwear Sabita wears. Lacy. Underwear meant to be seen.
I exhale with a groan because I feel bad for Sabita and because I’m annoyed by their mess. I blame Jon for this; this is his undoing. And Sabita just happens to be in the line of fire.
I look at Jon and say slowly, enunciating every syllable, “This is the last time I cover for you. Don’t do these kinds of drugs again.” I want my words to sting. I’ll say them again when he’s sober.
He gives me one head nod, and I hope he’s agreeing not to do it again, but I can’t be sure.
I try to pick up the slack with the dinner conversation, but my dad notices Jon’s foul mood.
“Everything okay?” Dad says.
“Hunky-dory.” Jon is acting like a jerk. It’s really out of character. I keep thinking about the wave dream.
“What’s going on, Jon?” Dad starts to get red in the face. Anger—his default emotion. He takes everything personally.
“Jon and Sabita had a big fight,” I say. I glare at Jon. His comedown is starting to make me mad, and if he lights Dad’s fuse, I swear I’m going to lose it on him. I’ve been covering for him all afternoon, and in no way do I approve of him experimenting with party drugs.
“Yeah,” Jon says. “Sorry. Is it okay if I take the rest of this up to my room?”
Dad heaves a long sigh. “Do what you will.”
“Should I be worried?” he says after Jon leaves.
“Maybe.”
Me
It’s the D-string. My mom’s guitar is in decent shape save the D-string, which is broken.
I play anyway. But every chord needs the D. My hands move from C to F and back again, pretending the D is intact.
I wonder if I’m invoking her spirit by playing her guitar after the many years it’s sat untouched.
I’m picturing my mother in an ambulance, oxygen mask over her mouth, this stupid guitar underneath the gurney.
I’m singing Joni Mitchell’s “Blue.” It’s about sinking or sailing away. It’s about empty spaces in our hearts and filling them with all the wrong things. My voice cracks over the words. I let go and sing. This letting go and my cracking voice fill the space between me and my mom.
I cry. I sing and I cry and I play the guitar. In my mind I see flashes of my mom, and all the moments she’s missed since she died. All the moments she should’ve seen, heard, and felt. All the times when she should’ve been my mom.
When I finish the last note, I look up from my guitar and there’s Dad standing in the doorway.
I can’t remember the last time he was in my room, but he crosses the threshold with ease, and before I know it, he’s sitting next to me, one arm wrapped around my shoulder, and I’m leaning into him, crying. He smells of sawdust and deodorant. It’s the smell of bike rides, bruised knees, and cuddles. I can’t remember the last time I let him hold me.
I think my dad is crying too. But I’m afraid to know even though I know. Because seeing him break might ruin the illusion that I’m safe. And for a split second, here in my dad’s arms, I have everything I need.
But this? This is so far from okay. And yet it is. I have to be okay without my mom because I am without her. It’s messed up, but I take solace in the fact that we’re without her together. Me, Dad, Jon. It’s never just us. It’s us minus one.
Marissa
“Aden. Hello? Earth to Aden . . .” It’s my English teacher. She’s asked me a question, and I’ll be darned if I know what we’re even talking about. I was thinking about Mr. Danson and Marissa. Lance Danson. Mister Danson.