by Aaron Karo
Everyone else is having a blast.
I, on the other hand, am having a panic attack.
I’m huddled inside my tent, jamming stuff from my backpack into my pockets in case I need to make a run for it and ditch the camping gear. I’m not thinking straight at all. There’s dirt buried deep under my fingernails and I can’t get it out. The inside of the tent is completely muddy now, so I have no safe haven. I don’t want to be here anymore.
I crawl out of my tent to see if I can squeeze any more sanitizer out of the bottle I discarded. And that’s when I see her in the dying light: Amy.
She’s standing with Stacey and Wendy. I’m nowhere near close enough to be able to hear what they’re saying, but I can see Amy is wearing flip-flops, shorts, and a tank top. It’s been a while since I got a chance to really look at her. I miss it.
I have no idea how long she’s been at the campsite or if she saw me take that punch, but I pray she did. I’m scratching my arms and legs nonstop. I feel contaminated. I realize that Amy is gonna see me in shambles—dirty and acting insane. That’s the exact opposite reason I came out here. She can’t see me like this. All weird. But it’s only a matter of time.
I scurry around to the back of the tarp, behind my tent, so that I’m hidden from view. I sit with my knees pulled up against my chest. I can’t leave and risk seeing Amy, but I can’t stay here. I rock back and forth like a crazy person. I think I hear people walking in my direction. It might be Amy, it might not be. There’s only one place to go.
I take off running into the woods. I run straight back from the campsite, though after about twenty feet I have no idea which direction is which. Branches and bushes are scraping me as I run by. I can hear my own breath. I trip on a log, roll on the ground, then get up and keep going. I run and run and run. Soon I can’t hear any sounds from the campsite or see any glimmer from the bonfire and I have no idea how to get back there.
I keep running, escaping from everything. I almost run headfirst into a tree, but I keep going. I run through a puddle and feel it splash up into my face. I keep going. I’m running from everything I can’t do—be normal, hang out, have fun. I’m running from everything I can’t be—a boyfriend, sane, a human being. I run and run and run.
I’m lost. I’m out of breath. It’s getting dark.
I lie down in the middle of the woods and have a breakdown. I roll around in the mud and the muck and the shit. I grab clumps of leaves and rub them into my hair. I wipe my face with the dirt from my hands. Everything I hate most in life is all over me. For a minute it feels weird—I think “cathartic” is the word. I’m released from my compulsions. My triggers overrun my body. There’s nothing I can do to reduce the anxiety so I just let it wash over me. I’m free.
And then I’m not. The gravity of the situation hits me like a thousand thunderclaps. I’ll never be clean again.
I can’t leave the woods. I can barely move. I get on my hands and knees. I start to cry. Thick, salty tears. Tears that merge with snot and roll down my dirty cheeks and mix with the mud. It’s too much. I can’t fix this.
I puke. It feels awful. It smells. It makes my eye hurt worse. It feels like it’s gonna burst out of its socket.
I puke again. This time not much comes out. It burns my throat. I can’t stop crying. I don’t want to be here anymore.
I reach into my pocket, hoping there’s a tissue, a napkin, a piece of paper, a To Do list, anything I can use to wipe my face. My fingers grasp a familiar plastic bottle.
I take it out of my pocket. It’s just barely light enough to read:
I’m still crying. I try to open the bottle. I can’t get it open. My hands are too wet and dirty. And it’s childproof. One final insult.
I finally get it open. I pour everything into my disgusting hand. There’s probably like twenty pills.
I wonder what would happen if I take them all. I wonder if I can take them all—I don’t even have any water.
I think about my school locker and my parents’ stove and the elevator button in Dr. S.’s office—stupid, inanimate objects that haunt my very existence.
I stare at the pills in my hand. It’s come to this.
My leg is wet. It’s the mud or the puke or something.
I stare at the pills.
Something wet is touching my leg.
I just stare.
Something is fucking licking my leg.
I look back. I do a double take.
I see the most amazing, astonishing, bewildering sight I’ve ever laid eyes on.
I can’t believe it.
It’s Buttercup.
I look at her and she looks at me. I think I might be hallucinating.
She barks.
I recognize that bark.
I think she recognizes me.
She leaps into my arms and starts licking my face. Some OCD trumps other OCD once again because her tongue actually feels good.
I check the tag on her collar. It’s scratched up and caked with dirt. I turn it over.
Amy’s phone number is on the back. It’s Buttercup all right. She looks skinny and grimy but otherwise okay. She doesn’t look hurt or anything. She must have been wandering around for weeks; we’re not that far from Amy’s house.
I’ve honestly never been more excited to see an animal in my entire life. I rub her neck and ears like I’ve seen Amy do.
I realize I’m still clutching all the pills tightly in one hand. I manage to dump them back into the bottle, dirt and all, and shove the bottle back into my pocket. As I do, I realize I’ve been carrying a flashlight the whole time.
Buttercup runs in a circle around me, alternating between barking, sniffing, and licking. I stand up and she starts jumping up and down, pawing at my waist. I pick her up. I’ve never voluntarily held a dog before.
It’s time for both of us to go home.
Even with the flashlight, it’s so dark that I start to worry I’ll never get out of the woods. But after several wrong turns, I finally hear the faint sounds of Senior Weekend in the distance. I’m able to follow the noise back to my original path from the campsite. I clutch Buttercup tightly, though I highly doubt she’s going anywhere.
When I emerge from the woods, I notice the bonfire is twice as big as when I left. The entire campsite is glowing. As soon as I get near enough to see anything, Steve spots me and points.
“There he is!” he yells.
Beth and Kanha look relieved. I’m just surprised anyone even noticed I was gone.
Then I hear what can only be described as a cry of joy. It’s Amy. She sees me and Buttercup and comes running toward us.
She reaches me just as I get to the outer ring of tents, Steve, Beth, and Kanha following closely behind.
“Buttercup!” she cries.
I hand Amy the dog and she clutches it close to her chest.
“How did you … where did you…” she sputters.
“She was just wandering around back there.”
After checking to make sure Buttercup is uninjured, Amy suddenly gives me a great big hug.
She smells so clean.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you, Chuck,” she says into my ear.
She takes a step back and looks me up and down. I must look like a train wreck. Amy is filthy just from hugging me.
“What happened to you? Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I just went for a walk and got a little lost.”
“We were worried about you,” Steve chimes in.
“I’m okay, I swear. Go have fun. Seriously, go. It’s cool.”
Satisfied that I’m in one piece and in good hands, Steve, Beth, and Kanha head back to the bonfire, leaving me and Amy alone.
Amy can’t stop stroking Buttercup and rubbing her nose against the dog’s.
“Thank you so much, Chuck.”
“I’m just glad she’s okay.”
Amy smiles and hugs me again with Buttercup still in her arms.
“Oh, Chuck. I can’t be
lieve you found her. I can’t believe … you came here.”
“I guess,” I stammer, suddenly at a loss for words, “I guess I came here for you. To show you I could do it.”
A single tear drops from Amy’s eye. I don’t know if this is a good thing or a bad thing.
“Amy, I just want to say I’m sorry again for—”
“No. Don’t.”
“No?”
“Chuck, I’m the one who owes you an apology.”
“You do?”
“I should have been more understanding about what you were—what you are going through.”
“It’s okay…”
“No, listen, Chuck. When you needed me most, I wasn’t there for you. I wasn’t a good friend, even though you’ve been nothing short of amazing. I promise I’ll make it up to you. I’m the one who’s sorry.”
There’s a lump in my throat.
“You’re all dirty” is all I can manage to say.
“And who’s fault is that?” she quips.
I shrug playfully.
“There’s one more thing,” she says. “I’m so, so, so sorry that I brought Buttercup into your room that day. I should have asked first. Otherwise none of this would have ever happened.”
“Well, he is a little messy,” I admit.
“She.”
Damn it. Still always screw that up.
“Right, she.”
“I’m so glad you found her. I’m so glad you’re here.”
“I did it for you, Amy.”
“No, Chuck. You did it for you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look at yourself,” Amy says. “You’re camping! You just held a dog. You’re … disgusting. But you’re doing it. Me, Steve, we’re all just along for the ride. This is the Chuck Taylor show. You’re the one who made it happen. Now you can do anything. I’m so proud of you.”
She hugs me again. It feels right.
“Chuck,” she says, her face nuzzled in my chest.
“Yeah?”
“You stink.”
I laugh. “I know.”
Buttercup barks with delight.
“So does she by the way.”
Amy gives Buttercup’s fur a sniff then holds her up to her face. “P. U.!”
Buttercup responds by licking her.
“Hey, Amy,” I say, “there’s something I need to tell you.”
“Anything.”
It’s time to come out with it already.
“I hate calculus.”
“What?”
“I hate math. Hate it. I’m good at it, but I hate it. I only told you I liked it ’cause, I don’t know, you’re so cool and I didn’t know what else to say when you asked me to tutor you.”
“Chuck, you don’t give yourself enough credit. You’re like the coolest guy I know.”
“Come on…”
“It’s true. You’re so funny, and so nice, and you’re such a great brother and a great friend.”
Every time Amy says something nice about me, I fall for her all over again.
“Wait,” I say, “why do you think I’m such a great brother and a great friend?”
“You stood up to the biggest bully in school.”
“You saw that?”
“Uh huh.”
“You saw me get punched in the face?”
“Yup,” Amy smirks.
I study her expression. She’s telling the truth.
“Pretty cool, huh?”
“Pretty cool,” Amy echoes. “By the time I finally got the nerve to come over and see how you were doing, you were gone.”
It’s probably better that way.
“How’s your eye?”
“It stings a little.”
She brushes some of the mud and dirt away from my face.
“Let’s get outta here, get you cleaned up, and find some ice.”
She smiles and I can’t help but smile back.
“Right on,” I say.
I stare in the bathroom mirror. This time, I’m not the least bit concerned about my cheekbones.
It’s taken a couple of weeks, but any remnants of my black eye are finally gone. The timing could not be better.
My dad’s hands reach around my neck, adjusting my bow tie.
“Looking sharp,” Dad says. “You clean up nice.”
I have to admit, I do look good in a tux.
“Dad,” I say, “I was thinking maybe this week, when a game is on, you can teach me a little about basketball. I want to start learning.”
“Chuck,” Dad says, grasping my shoulders, “the season ended yesterday.”
“Oh.”
“But how about next season, when you’re home from college, we go to a game?”
“That’d be great,” I say.
Dad smiles at me via the mirror.
When you’re home from college. It sounds so strange.
“Mom, it’s fine!” Beth shouts.
She’s standing next to me in our bathroom, in a dress, as Mom fixes her hair.
The prospect of Beth also going to prom doesn’t thrill me in the slightest but, quite frankly, nothing can bring me down tonight.
“Hey, Beth,” I say, “thanks for finally accepting my friend request. Took you long enough.”
I’m preparing for an onslaught of snarkiness, but before Beth can retort, the doorbell rings. Beth remains silent. It’s the nicest thing she’s ever said to me.
“Ray, can you get the door?” Mom says. “It’s probably for Beth.”
My dad goes downstairs.
“Both of you look so nice,” Mom gushes.
“Yeah, yeah,” Beth says, as she scurries out of the bathroom before Mom can make any more adjustments.
It’s just me and Mom now.
“Are you excited for tonight?” she asks.
“I’m really excited.”
Mom just looks at me proudly.
“That’s it? No more questions?” I ask.
“Nope,” she says, “no more questions.”
She kisses me on the forehead and leaves.
* * *
I come downstairs a few minutes later to find Beth and Steve taking pictures together. Beth dwarfs him in her high heels, but somehow they look okay together. Steve looks good in his tux, too. He seems physically unable to wipe the smile off his face.
“You look handsome,” Beth says to Steve. It’s the first time I’ve ever perceived her to be, well, acting awkwardly. I kept my distance when they started hanging out after Senior Weekend but, hell, she must actually like him.
“I need to get my purse,” Beth says. “I’ll be right back.” She scoots away.
“Let’s get a picture of the two dashing young men,” Mom says.
Me and Steve stand next to each other, attempting to hold a smile while Mom tries to figure out how to operate the camera on her phone. “Say cheese!”
She takes the picture.
That’s a keeper.
“I’m gonna see if Beth needs any help,” Mom says. She goes back upstairs too.
Dad approaches Steve.
“Home by midnight, understand?”
“Yes, Mr. Taylor.”
Dad pats Steve on the back, maybe a little too hard.
“I’ll be in the kitchen,” he says, and walks out of the room.
I turn to my best friend.
“You joined Mathletes, entered a competition, and won…”
“That’s right,” he says.
“And you still couldn’t meet any other girls to take to prom besides my sister?”
Steve shakes his head. “Let’s just say the female mathletes don’t quite have Beth’s … variables.”
“Steve, what did I say about talking about my sister? I will kill you.”
Steve laughs. “I’m just kidding! You know I’ll take good care of her.”
He’s right. If there’s anyone on the planet I trust, it’s good ol’ Steve.
“By the way,” he says, digging into his tux po
cket, “here.”
He hands me a five-dollar bill.
“What’s this?”
“I owe you five bucks, remember? From that time with Parker in the hallway?”
“Come on, Steve.”
“Nope, a debt’s a debt. Take it.”
“How about this?” I say, refusing payment. “Double or nothing Kanha throws up at prom.”
“Deal,” Steve says, smiling.
We shake on it.
After Steve and Beth leave, I retreat to my bedroom to fix my tux shoes, which are rubbing my feet like crazy.While there, I realize what time it is and take a bottle of Lexapro from my drawer. I swallow a pill with a swig of water, just like I do every day at this time. I put the Lexapros back in my drawer and the water bottle back down on my desk, right next to a To Do list with only one entry:
I sit down on my bed and am fiddling with my shoes again when I hear a knock. The door opens and in strolls Amy.
She looks gorgeous. I mean drop-dead, supermodel gorgeous. Her dress, her freckles, everything looks perfect. Plus, I’m shocked to notice that her hair is … well, up. Her bangs are out of her eyes for the very first time. Getting to see more of her face is almost too much for me to handle. I’m stunned. It occurs to me that the wish I made on my eyelash all those months ago came true: I’m going to the prom with Amy.
I notice that she’s carrying a box—a wrapped gift to be exact. For a moment, I have a flashback to the very first time Amy entered my room, carrying a box a bit squarer than this one. There were cupcakes inside. Thankfully, though, there’s no Buttercup in tow this time. I quickly quash the memory of that fateful day—without knocking on wood.
“Amy,” I say, “what are you doing here? I was just gonna get you as soon as I fix these stupid shoes.”
“I know,” she says, “but I wanted to surprise you.”
Classic Amy, operating by her own rules. It never gets old.
She walks in and sits down next to me on my bed, never acknowledging the box in her hands.
“You look beautiful,” I say, “and totally not corporate at all.”