It wasn’t until I took those pictures down from my locker that I finally acknowledged and accepted it was over. Despite what people tell you, closure doesn’t feel good.
I’m not sure what I’m projecting to the outside world, but after Nicky and Yia Yia had their intervention weeks ago to get me not to contact Ellie, they’ve been watching me closely, likely waiting for me to explode, or fall over, or melt in a puddle of something they can’t repair. I love them, but I’m finding it hard to take, like the signal-to-noise ratio in my life is a lot more noise these days.
The second bell is about to ring, and I need to get to my science class. I take one more look at my naked locker interior, heave an involuntary sigh, close the door, and turn to go.
And I walk right into Eliana.
Eliana
Dmitri looks … okay. I remember his hair being messy, but more of a deliberate messy than its current state. He hasn’t shaved in at least two days, which in Dmitri terms means almost a beard. He wears his favorite t-shirt, a Titus Andronicus concert shirt from two years ago, but it looks like he’s been wearing it for four days straight.
My heart feels concern for him, as a friend who cares, but no more. I don’t want to hug him or kiss him or jump into his arms. Which I guess is the normal reaction to seeing a person in the hallway. Should I feel more for him?
Let’s start with something easier. “Hi,” I say. I smile, a non-toothy-but-with-eye-crinkles smile. A smile that says, “It’s nice to see you.” Sheila Grossman said it was important for me not to lead him on if I am certain I don’t want us to be together. And I am certain. Not because of anything Dmitri did but because I’m not in a place to be in a relationship with anyone other than myself.
That sounds so cheesy.
But if I want to keep moving up and out of my dark days, I need to do it without any baggage weighing me down.
Which makes Dmitri sound like baggage.
Thank god he can’t hear the conversation going on in my head. I wish he would say something.
“It’s nice to see you,” I say. Shit. Is that leading him on? Or was that too generic? I wish I had practiced this with Sheila Grossman.
One of the things Sheila Grossman and I did that I found really helpful was to have complete conversations with each other as though I were talking to other people. For example, I felt really stressed about the fact I had to break up not only with Dmitri but with his entire family. I wasn’t only disappointing him, but like seventy more people. I wasn’t as concerned with his sixth cousins or whoever, but Nicky and his Yia Yia were pretty great. Sheila Grossman and I had several conversations as though I were talking to Nicky and Yia Yia, and they were very accepting of my decision to end our relationship.
Although, now that I think about it, that’s really stupid. Because how does Sheila Grossman know what Yia Yia is thinking? Maybe Yia Yia set up some sort of Greek voodoo doll of me and intends to use it on what would be Dmitri’s and my first anniversary. Maybe Nicky was the one who sent that pizza, but instead of a loving gesture it was actually poisoned and I’m supposed to be dead right now.
Or maybe I’m overthinking things.
Say something, Dmitri.
“Are you going to say anything?” I ask, smile fading, eyes growing colder.
Sheila Grossman believes I am too quick to judge and may put people off with my facial expressions. I attempt to relax my face into neutral territory. I don’t know if it works. Should I stop referencing Sheila Grossman?
“Sorry,” Dmitri says, and looks down, scuffing his tennis shoes against the linoleum.
He doesn’t say anything else. Is this a “sorry for not talking”? A generalized “sorry for how things ended up”? A sorry because he hates me and feels bad about it? I wish I could read his eyes, but I can’t see them under his mop of dangling bangs.
Am I supposed to say “sorry” in return? I’ve never really done this—a breakup or the aftermath. It was a lot easier to be broken up with a person when I was completely removed from the world in which we were together. Now I have no idea what to do. He’s still not talking.
“How’s Yia Yia?” I ask. I figure that’s a kind question, one that doesn’t have anything to do with his band or other girls or our relationship. Plus, I want to know.
It hits some sort of speaking button because Dmitri looks up at me. Those big, dark eyes. So much sadness.
“She’s dealing with some health issues,” he says.
“What kind of health issues? Is she okay?” I ask with genuine concern.
He flips his hand side-to-side to indicate “so-so.”
I want to hear more, to talk about Yia Yia and ask what I can do to help. To see how Nicky is doing and where Dmitri is with his band.
But the bell rings.
“I want to talk more. Really, I do. But it’s my first day back, and I have to get to class for a ‘healthy start.’” I air quote, using Sheila Grossman’s term. I cringe that I both used therapy lingo out loud and air quoted. But I don’t have to time to explain. “Catch you later?” I ask with hope.
He nods nearly imperceptibly.
I run off to my first class and pretend I am a normal sophomore. At first, I’m overwhelmed by the quick and vague run-in with Dmitri. I try not to dwell on the bigness of it: He was my first boyfriend. We broke up. I haven’t seen or talked to him in months.
He’s just a friend you haven’t seen in a while. Everything is okay. You are okay, Eliana. I breathe in slowly for six seconds, pause at the bottom of the circle, then breathe out through my nose for the second half of the circle. After three repetitions, I am ready to be present.
I am a student at Walter Mondale Preparatory High School.
I am in class.
I am listening.
I am not a crazy person who can’t handle this.
Dmitri
Eliana looks good.
Really good.
Her skin seems less pale; her teeth are whiter—or maybe I only notice because she’s actually smiling; and her hair is clean and bouncy, like a commercial for Pantene or something.
And it isn’t just how she looks. It’s how she is. Ellie isn’t awkward or closed or any of the things I remember. Did I imagine them?
No. Something has changed.
My brain does all sorts of mental gymnastics to avoid the truth: Maybe, it thinks, she’s on better meds. Or maybe she’s seeing a new shrink. Or I’ll bet she found a hobby. That has to be it. A hobby.
But I know better. The thing that’s changed is us … me. I’m gone, and she’s a new person. It was me causing her to be depressed and anxious and everything else. I’m a disease, a cancer. I am blight.
Feelings of guilt over having caused her so much pain and distress flutter around my consciousness, but they don’t take root. They’re overwhelmed by something else:
It’s.
Not.
Fair.
She shouldn’t get to feel so good while I feel so bad!
Yeah, I’m not proud of it, but that’s exactly what I think.
I don’t hear or recall a single thing Eliana says before the bell rings and she practically skips off to her next class. Just like her younger sister skipped the day I was in her bedroom. Maybe the whole Hoffman family is high on skipping. I try to replay the scene of running into Ellie in my mind later, but find only a vague, amorphous image of a glowing, radiant girl swishing her hair in slow motion to the sound of “Moving in Stereo” by the Cars.
Maybe I watch too many movies.
I don’t have time to process any of this, because when Ellie moves out of my field of vision, Reggie is standing there, as if having appeared by magic. She looks me up and down—her mouth scrunched up, her eyes narrowed to slits—like she’s trying to see inside my head.
“You’re coming to my house after school,” she says, leaning forward and poking me in the chest.
“What?”
“My house. After school. You. Me.”
�
�Look, Reg, I—”
“‘Look, Reg’ nothing. You’ve been avoiding me and everyone else like the plague. Time’s up, Digrindakis. You’re reentering the world. Today. After school. At my house.”
Reggie, I notice, is wearing her Titus Andronicus shirt, too. We went to that concert together, before I’d ever heard of Eliana Hoffman. Is that a coincidence? I shake my head. Of course it’s a coincidence. How could Reggie know which dirty shirt I was going to scoop off my bedroom floor this morning?
She reaches forward and takes my hands in hers. “Just say yes, Dmitri.”
Her palms and fingers are rough and calloused from gymnastics, but her grip is gentle and warm. Her gaze locks with mine and before I know what I’m doing, I lean in to kiss her.
“What the hell?” Reggie pulls back, her face a mask of shock or amusement or anger. I don’t know.
“What? I thought…”
“I’m gay, you dumbass!”
Again, the only thing I can manage to say is “What?”
“Just come to my house after school, okay? But maybe leave your libido in your locker, you perv.” She rolls her eyes and bumps my shoulder as she walks past me to her next class.
* * *
I almost don’t go.
I made such an ass of myself in the hall, trying to kiss Reggie, I don’t know how I’m ever going to look her in the eyes again. But fear of having to face Reggie is outweighed by fear of pissing Reggie off.
It starts to drizzle by the time I reach her front stoop. It’s a cold drizzle that I just know will turn to flurries. The weather, as it so often does in Minnesota, matches my mood. I’m still trying to process the rare Eliana-sighting, my mind tumbling through what feels like an infinite array of scenarios on what it all means, that I don’t even notice Reggie opening the front door.
“Snap out of it, Digrindakis,” she says to get my attention. She leaves the door open and retreats inside; I follow.
I’ve been to Reggie’s house a million times. We would play here when we were little kids, making up all sorts of adventures: Star Wars, army, Avengers. Her imagination was so vivid, always adding little details to our scene—describing the bad guys’ clothes, talking about the frozen landscape, imagining pretend weather anomalies that would jeopardize our pretend mission. I just wanted to get to the part where we saved the universe, but always went along with Reggie’s detours, because really, they were what made the game fun.
All that ended around the third grade, when it stopped being okay for boys to hang out with girls. The world is so stupid. Right now I just want to tear apart her couch—the same off-white couch with the same plastic covers—and make a pillow fort. (Her mother always yelled at us when we did that.)
Reggie walks past the living room and turns down the stairs to the basement.
“Where are we going?”
“I have to show you something.” She emphasizes the word “something,” and I pause.
“I thought you said you were gay?”
I worry for a second Reggie won’t hear this as a joke—and it is a joke, a nervous and stupid joke—but she does.
“Ha, ha, Digrindakis. Ha. Ha.”
We get to the bottom of the stairs and the basement looks like it always did, just without the mess of toys. When we were little, the floor was covered with so many action figures, Matchbox cars, and little green army men (I guess you could say Reg was a tomboy), it was hard to walk. Today it’s just the taupe-colored carpet. Though there is one noticeable new addition to the room: There, in the corner, is a maroon Gibson SG guitar on a stand, plugged into a Peavey amp.
What the…?
I look at Reggie.
“I’ve been taking lessons.”
“Really?” I can’t help but smile. I think it’s the first genuine smile to cross my face since looking at those ice sculptures in January.
“Yep.”
“Are you any good?”
Reggie picks up the guitar, straps it on her small frame, and flicks the power on the amp. There’s a staticky click and hum; god, I love that sound.
Reg takes a deep breath and starts to play.
Right away I recognize the song as “Pulling Teeth” by Green Day. I’m even more surprised when Reggie starts to sing.
“I’m all busted up…”
Before I know it, I’m singing with her. The two of us bop and croon off-key until she strums the last chord, letting it ring.
“Holy crap! That’s awesome, Reg!” And it is. She’s good. She’s really good!
“Yeah?”
“Yeah!” I tell her. “You should totally get in a band.”
Her eyes bore a hole through my face when I say this. For a split second I’m confused, and then I get it.
“Wait. Really?”
“Yeah, dumbass. Me and you. We’re starting a band.” It’s not a question; it’s a statement of fact. That is so Reggie.
And I am so in.
Eliana
I have been back at school now for over two weeks. And I’m still going. One day at a time. One foot in front of the other. All we are is dust in the wind, dude.
Today is Saturday, and I can’t wait to head out for a run. I used to have a love/hate relationship with the weekends. I guess I also had a love/hate relationship with school. For a time, weekends meant going out to see Dmitri’s band and trying not to have a panic attack at how much I did not fit in. Then weekends became the relief days of the week, where I didn’t have to pretend I could handle going to school. School once was a place where I was in my element: sitting quietly, answering questions correctly, reading books and trying not to get caught. Then the whole experience became so fraught with stress. Would I be able to sit through my classes without getting a stomachache? Would I have to give Dmitri a public display of affection when I wasn’t in the mood? Would I run into one of my old “friends” who made me feel like more of an outcast than ever?
But now … I don’t care. Maybe it’s the drugs. Maybe it’s the endorphins from running. Maybe it’s the lighter class schedule and the lack of boyfriend to answer to.
Does it matter?
I tie on my running shoes and adjust my extra-supportive sports bra. It doesn’t even faze me that it looks like I have one wide boob. I step out of my room-hole, and there is my sister Samara tying her running shoes and putting on her sports bra. My sister has actually started running with me. Sometimes when we run, we talk. Shocker.
“You ready?” I ask Sam. She nods, and we scuttle our way down the stairs and out the front door. It’s nice out for April: sunny and low sixties. Sam’s in shorts, but I prefer a solid pair of full-length leggings so I don’t have to start shaving again until really necessary. Actually, I’m considering not shaving at all this year. Because is it ever really necessary? What benefit does it have, except for the razor and shaving-cream industry? Not like anyone will be looking at my legs anyway.
Samara and I jog lightly for five minutes until we reach Janina’s house. Janina agreed to run with me, but reluctantly, because as she says, “It’s not a sport if you can’t win.” I told her that it is a sport because we need special shoes and there is sweat involved, but she is ultracompetitive. I let her race me to the stoop at the end of our runs. Maybe in the fall I’ll convince her to join cross-country with me. If I actually decide to join.
Janina, Samara, and I run for the next forty-five minutes. Samara taps out to leave for a protest sign–painting party at her best friend Keely’s house. I wasn’t aware of a protest, but according to Keely’s mom, “There is always something somewhere to protest.”
Janina and I continue on until we hit a 7-Eleven. “Want a Slurpee?” she asks.
“They always give me stomachaches,” I answer.
“Me too,” she concurs. “Want one?”
“Sure.” I shrug.
We decide to buy small Slurpees because maybe that will prevent the weird stomach/gas situation that inevitably flares up after the frozen, frothy drink. I attempt a side
-by-side concoction of half cherry cola and half piña colada, both beverages I do not ever consume in their traditional format but enjoy immensely when spewed forth from a nozzle at 7-Eleven. Janina goes straight-up wild blueberry, which sounds both boring and repulsive to me, but when she pulls a five-dollar bill out of her bra and declares, “I’m paying,” I decide to keep my mouth shut about her flavor choice.
We pop a squat on the curb outside, making sure to steer clear of any parking spaces. I have read far too many stories of people failing to brake for one reason or another (Texting! Senile! Forgetting which pedal was the brake!) to trust the small, concrete lump between us and several tons of steel.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you, and I didn’t know when it would finally be copacetic to bring it up,” Janina says.
“Wait!” I interrupt. “Head banger!”
“You mean brain freeze?”
“You call it what you want, I’ll call it what I want. Is it really necessary to correct me while I’m dying here?”
“I’m sorry you are dying. Along those lines—have you talked with Dmitri yet?”
“How is ‘I’m sorry you are dying’ along the same lines as talking to Dmitri?” I cough out the cold in my chest.
“I just meant that the relationship is kind of dead. Right? I was looking for a hook. It’s been so long since I was even allowed to utter his name, but it’s not like we don’t share a massive cinder-blocked building with him every weekday.”
“It’s weird,” I say, sipping slowly so as not to reignite the pain in my head. “I sometimes see him in the hallway, and I’ll throw him a smile. The look on his face is a cross between joy at the sight of me and disgust. Inevitably he turns and darts in the other direction.”
Girl on the Ferris Wheel Page 22