by Jessie Hilb
I think I’m talking too loudly into the phone.
“Breathe, Ade,” he says. “Are you at Ryan’s party?”
“Yes. I mean, no. I was. I’m outside.” I feel so incoherent. I’m not sure I’m making any sense.
“Okay. Sit down. Right where you are. Can you do that?”
“Yes.” I sit.
“In the grass. Not the street. Just sit down and stay put. Got it?” Tate is talking to me as though I’m a five-year-old. But it’s exactly what I need right now.
“Ade? Are you still with me?”
“I’m here.”
“Stay on the phone.”
“Okay.” I lie down and look up at the night’s fuzzy sky. The whole sky, stars and all, spins around me. I close my eyes.
“Ade. Ade. Wake up.”
Tate is leaning over me. His hand on my shoulder. I think he’s brushing the hair from my face.
“Can you walk?”
He’s pulling me up from the . . . grass? All I want to do is close my eyes and go to sleep.
“Aden.” Tate’s voice is like silk wrapping itself around me. It’s warm. I want to sleep in the warmth of Tate’s voice.
Tate pulls me into his arms. He has to crouch to support my weight.
“Aden. Come on.”
“You know I love you, right?”
“I know, Ade.”
“I want to be with you.” I’m burying my face into his chest. He smells like pine and sleep. It’s so warm here.
“You are with me. I’m here.”
“No. I’m in love with you. I want to be with you.”
“We can’t talk about this right now. You’re drunk.”
“When, Tate? When can we talk about it?”
I can feel the hysteria of loving him, wanting him, the frustration of every feeling I have for him spilling out of me.
Tate eases me into the passenger seat of a car. His mom’s? He doesn’t answer, but lets out a long breath as he reaches around my torso and buckles my seat belt. I reach for his face with my uncooperative, drunk hand, and run my fingers along his cheekbone, my hands grazing the stubble along his jawline. He puts his hand over mine and gently moves it to his chest, squeezing, looking into my eyes.
We are both sober, seeing each other’s souls.
***
When I wake, I’m in my bra and skirt, a foreign, unfamiliar-smelling coat draped over me. I’m on the couch in my own house. When last night’s events come flooding back, I pull the coat over my face and groan.
Seth.
Tate. The part about Tate. And loving him. And was I confessing my love in only my bra? The memory of his smell and touching his face, and his hand around mine—our hands together on his chest—it all makes my stomach rise to my throat, and I run to the bathroom and vomit—more than once.
It’s dawn, and no one in my house is awake. I crawl up the stairs, discard the coat and my skirt on the floor, and go to sleep in my own bed.
Me
Noon. I want to close my eyes and wake up as someone else. I wish I wish I wish last night never happened. Tate’s song, “No Regrets,” rings in my head. Yeah, well, he’s never acted like a slut and been finger raped all in one night. Regret. There is no word strong enough for the filth I feel everywhere.
I pull myself up to lean against my headboard. Waking up is the worst part. Shower. Get dressed. Coffee. I can do these things. I grab my robe and head for the bathroom. This shower is a thousand times worse than the shower I took at Alex’s. The shame won’t drain. I use all the imagination I can muster, but this shame is sticky like honey. Polluted honey. The water just rushes over and around it. I wonder why I keep making the same stupid mistakes.
I tie my hair back without brushing it and put on the baggiest sweats I can find. Nothing is right. I burn the toast. The coffee isn’t hot enough.
There’s one unread message on my phone. I’m lucky the phone is still in my possession after last night. I’ll probably never see my suede jacket again.
Morning-after pill. Come get me?
I grab the keys, my phone, my wallet, my coffee, and my awful tasting toast and head for the door.
10 min.
There’s a free walk-in clinic, but it’s downtown. It’ll take us half an hour to get there.
Marissa opens the door to my car and gets in. No eye contact. No greeting. She folds her hands over the top of her giant purse. I reach over and squeeze a hand, and before she can reject my affection, I put the car in reverse and we’re on our way.
She nudges her head in the direction of a drive-thru Starbucks off the highway. I get a giant mocha with whip, and she her black coffee.
“So, Josh?” Please don’t be Danson. Please don’t be Danson.
“Yeah.” I wonder if she’s lying.
“I thought you weren’t into him like that.”
“Well, apparently I changed my mind last night.”
“You’re entitled. What about . . .” I pause. I want to say Mr. Danson, but he doesn’t deserve that kind of respect. “Lance?”
“It’s over.”
“It is?”
“Yeah. Happy?”
“God, yes.”
Her eyes well with tears.
“You really cared about him,” I say, trying to soften the blow of my relief.
“So much, Aden.”
“How did it end?”
“We met up twice last week and, you know, had sex. We used condoms. Maybe I texted him too many times or something. But he sent me a text that said he loves his wife and we have to stop.”
I can’t tell if she feels shame or regret. She’s so much more . . . muted than usual. Crushed. And then it dawns on me. It’s not shame or regret. What she feels is unloved. Or unlovable. I know those feelings.
I reach for her hand, and limply, she reaches for mine. I squeeze tightly before I have to reach for the stick shift again.
I think of poor, foolish Josh and how much he cares for Marissa, despite how she uses him. She could do worse than Josh. Like Mr. Danson worse than Josh. But I don’t say it. I think some part of her knows.
Josh’s thing for Marissa started when she moved here in second grade. I think it’s sweet. I don’t know what Marissa thinks. She keeps him around. My guess is she doesn’t know she deserves a guy like Josh. She doesn’t know she doesn’t know. It’s messed up. The two of us are some pair.
“I thought I heard something about you and Seth again last night?”
She’s changing the subject. We’re not talking about going to a clinic to get the morning-after pill because she had sex and having sex can make you pregnant. We’ll pretend like it’s no big deal, but we both know it is.
“Yeah. Something.” I say.
“And? This doesn’t sound like a good something.”
Despite my resolve, my eyes well with tears, and I tell her everything as I alternate wiping my tears and keeping my hands on the steering wheel and stick shift. The driving helps me, because I’m in control when I’d otherwise be spinning out completely. I tell her about how drunk and fuzzy I was. About how he kept pressing his hips into me and breathing all over my neck and how I thought him wanting me was supposed to be cool.
“Oh, Aden,” she says. She tucks some loose hair behind my ear in the most compassionate gesture. I cry again, wiping my tears quickly because the light we’d stopped at changes from red to green.
“It’s going to be okay,” she says. “Now you know he’s the guy you thought he was, right?”
I laugh through my tears.
“He’s so much worse, Marissa.”
She sighs. “People have such a way of letting us down, don’t they?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Not that my expectations for Seth Bernum were all that high. But my expectations for my first make-out session were through the roof. So there’s that letdown.”
“This one doesn’t count. You’ll get your first good one. I promise. It can be better.”
I don’t know why, but
I can’t bring myself to tell Marissa about the Tate part of my night. That he came and got me. That I buried my face in his chest and told him that I’m in love with him.
The pill costs Marissa thirty dollars. She doesn’t have enough cash, so I throw in ten bucks of babysitting money. She swallows the pill with her cold coffee. Her face is sad and worried. I wonder if this is what shame feels like for her.
“This better work,” she says.
“We need comfort food.” I say. “Greasy diner or donuts?”
“Greasy diner,” she says.
“Good choice.” And I squeeze her hand again. She squeezes back.
Jon
“I’m off the team.”
He’s lying on his bed, an arm over his face.
“What?”
“I’m off the team, Aden. No mercy. No bench. Just done. I knew this could happen. That it would probably happen, but it feels so final. I feel like an outcast. The guys won’t even talk to me.”
My brother isn’t brainless. He knew what he was risking.
“In a way, though, isn’t this what you wanted? A break?”
“I didn’t know it would be like this.”
I think he’s crying, but he won’t let me see his face.
“Maybe they just need time, Jon. They’re probably feeling a little let down, right?”
“Yeah. I guess.”
I sit down on the edge of his bed. He’s still not looking at me.
“What about next year?”
“What about it?”
“Maybe there’s a chance you can play next year?”
He looks up, finally taking the arm off his red, wet face. “I don’t know, Ade. I’m not sure I want back on the team. But Dad has a scout lined up for every game.”
Our eyes meet, his so swollen and so full of uncertainty.
“I’m sorry about the scholarship. I know you were counting on it, too,” he says.
I put my hand on his arm. “But I shouldn’t have been. I’m sorry for adding to all the pressure. It’s been way too much. I’ll figure it out.” I silently promise myself that if I get in, I’ll find a way to go to Brandeis. I’ll do what it takes.
“Dad.” The arm goes back over his face because he’s crying again. We’re talking about Dad. “He only speaks to me in one-word sentences. It’s like he can’t even stand to be around me. He’s ashamed of me, Aden.”
“He’ll get over it. I promise. Dads don’t stay ashamed of their sons. That’s just not how it works.”
“Is that what you think, Jon?” Dad is standing in the doorway. “That I’m ashamed of you?” His voice is soft.
Jon nods.
Dad comes in and sits next to Jon on the bed. He starts to say something, and we’re both waiting for whatever comes out of his mouth to take the weight off of us, if even for a moment. “I just . . .” But he pauses without continuing, and the silence that follows is thick, a barrier between us and him.
“I’m sorry I’m off the team, Dad.”
“I’m sorry you are, too, son. It’s not shame.” He searches for the words. “It’s . . .”
We wait.
Finally he says, “Sadness,” with such finality it feels as if he’s sapped the air out of the room.
Then, he pats Jon on the shoulder, lingering in the doorway before he leaves the room.
My brother’s tears can’t be controlled. I can’t save him from this heartbreak.
Sabita
She’s sitting on the step of our front porch when I pull into the driveway. It’s no wonder she’s a sculptor. She is art. It’s not just in her beauty, though there is that. I think it’s in her soul. Expressed in her body. If I weren’t so jealous of her, I might have my own crush. That would be weird.
Her face is sad. I have no idea what’s going on between her and my brother. I make my way toward the front door. Toward Sabita. She stands and brushes flaked leaves off her white sweater.
“Jon’s watching practice today,” I say. “Hoping to get a word in with his coach and some of the guys afterward.”
“Oh,” she says.
This is awkward.
And after a beat, she adds, “That’s good.”
It strikes me that she might not know what’s good for my brother. What does she know of him? I think about the intimacy I’ve caught between them. The knowing glances, accidentally walking in on them, bodies intertwined. And then I have to admit that in some ways she knows more of him than I do.
“Yeah. I’m not sure it’ll do any good, but I don’t suppose he can make things much worse for himself.”
Sabita is blocking my path to the door, and I’m not sure if she wants to stay an hour and wait for him or go home.
“I didn’t know he was going to do it.”
“What?”
“Buy pot. At school. I didn’t know. I didn’t even know where he was getting the weed. It was his third time buying. I pitched in a few bucks. I guess I didn’t want to know where or how he was getting it.”
“Yeah,” I say, feeling a little angry at her for being Jon’s accomplice in all this. “Well, now you know.”
She sighs. “Yeah. Now I know.”
Her eyes are so sad. And huge—framed by dark, long lashes. And even though I’m trying to believe she’s simply young and pretty, uninspiring, every time I look at her, I see so much. I sigh.
“Want to come in? I’m starving.”
“Yeah, if it’s okay.”
“Yes, it’s okay. I’m sure Jon will want someone to talk to after his meeting.”
Letting go. I’m letting go of the fact that Jon will want to talk to Sabita and not me.
“Do you think it’ll be okay with your dad? I mean, do you think he’s mad at me?”
“Honestly, I don’t know what’s okay with my dad these days.”
Maggie
Maggie. It’s not that I think she’s better than me. If anything, maybe it’s the opposite. It would be easy to characterize her as the shallow cheerleader type who gets the guy and me as the girl next door who pines after the guy. Eventually the guy will realize what he’s had all along, and he’ll pick me. But that’s not life. Life is that she’s here and I’m here, and I’m in love with her boyfriend. And we’re both people.
She’s waiting for me outside the door of our choir room. Her gun is loaded, I can tell. Finger on the trigger. I’m totally unarmed. I think I must always be unarmed.
She strides in next to me, steps perfectly in sync with mine. The click-click of her heels is the only sound before she says, “I know everything. I just thought you should know.” Click-click, click-click, click-click, as she walks away.
I think about Tate talking to Maggie about me, and it dawns on me that she probably knows exactly how Tate feels about me. Or, if not exactly, she certainly has a better idea than I do.
Bang.
Tate
In math, Tate walks down the aisle to the pencil sharpener. On the way to his desk he brushes his hand across my back. I can smell his morning shower and something sweet. Do they make body spray for men?
He knows I love him.
After class we both put our coats and backpacks on, and without talking, we walk to Ike’s for free period. He buys our coffees again and two donuts, and carries them to our spot. We have a spot.
He’s trying to make this less awkward, but I don’t think I can pretend like nothing’s happened. I can’t pretend that I haven’t told him I love him. And that now he holds the truth, and he’s acting like everything should be the same between us. As though I’ll just be me and he’ll just be him and we’ll go on and on with me loving him and him knowing. He knows my soul. I don’t know his. Does he think he can keep having me just as I am? And Maggie just as she is? Reality will stay just like this and I’ll keep loving him and giving my light to him and he’ll glow even brighter because of it. It’s a cold truth that maybe he’ll never return that light.
“I’m sorry I was such a drama queen the other day.” It’
s not what I want to say, but I can’t find the words because, in truth, I’m so afraid I’ll change everything with one sentence said soberly, in the light of day. And if everything changes, then Tate can’t have me like this and maybe I can’t have what little he gives me of him either. When he’s all I want. And sometimes I convince myself that if we can’t be together like that, then I’ll take what I can get despite the pain.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
What if I just let it lie? Maybe I should just turn myself off and go back to numbers. I’m good at numbers.
“You know what I’m talking about.”
The problem is, math is really lonely.
He sighs. He knows I’m taking us there whether he likes it or not.
“It’s done. Don’t worry about it,” he says. He looks down at his calculus textbook. He’s on page fifty-three. Our homework is on page fifty-six. I watch him stare at the page with creased eyebrows until I finally reach over and flip the pages for him. He looks at me.
“So, you think I’m a slut?” I mean to say I love you again, so that he’ll know it was me talking that night and not the alcohol. I should’ve said it, but fear is choking me, holding the words hostage.
“You know what I think of you.” He puts his head in his hands. “You can do so much better than him, Ade.”
I don’t know what he thinks of me. There it is. This assumption that I should somehow know exactly where I stand with Tate. His words ignite something in me. There’s no going back.
“Really? Because he’s, like, the most popular guy in school.” My tone is a dart. I pause. “And for the record, I have no idea what you think of me.” I spit the words.
I wish he would just say it. That he doesn’t or couldn’t ever love me like that.
I’m on the brink of begging him to say it.
“So whatever. He’s the most popular guy in school. He can go fuck himself. Popularity’s not everything. I can’t believe we’re even talking about this. The guy’s also the biggest jerk I know. You should . . .” He trails off. He sounds really invested. He sounds angry. And I wonder where he gets off acting like a jealous boyfriend when he’s not that.