by Deb Caletti
Are we even capable of that kind of loyalty? Dogs don’t have their line in the sand, where they say, “That’s it.” Enough. I’m out of here. When my mother got back from Great-Grandma Georgette’s funeral in California, when she flew home and my father went to pick her up at the airport and she told him right there it was over—it had to happen. Sure, he brought flowers to welcome her home, but there were all those other times. We saw him raise his hand to her. We heard her scream. If loyalty was a pure, finite thing between people, she’d still be there. Does an abused dog ever run away? God, I hope so.
Still, Janssen, doesn’t it seem a shame? That words like “love” and “loyalty” and “forever”—beautiful, perfect words—can’t just stand apart, always beautiful and perfect, untouched? Isn’t it a heartbreak that the most beautiful words are the most complicated? I wish and wish and wish that they could just be. We mess them up so bad.
It seems wrong that goodness can’t be permanent. That love can’t just be love and loyalty can’t be loyalty and forever can’t be forever, without it all getting so wrecked.
Humans. We love our messes, don’t we? Gotta make a big old mess in order to learn how not to make a big old mess.
But dogs. This is the very heart of why we love them, isn’t it? Their goodness is goodness, and their love is love, and their loyalty is loyalty, and nothing you do seems to change that.
So. Our story.
We fell in love.
God, did we. We would meet up at lunchtime at school, remember? We’d ditch the cafeteria and those tables in prison rows and those prison mashed potatoes in ice-cream scoop lumps with that brown, criminal gravy. We’d stick our backpacks into our lockers so we would be free of their weight. You would lift me up onto your back, or we’d clasp hands and run, escaping to your dad’s car, your car now, since he gave up and bought a new one. We’d run outside into fall and orange leaves and drippy trees and the fast thwick, thwick, thwick of your wipers, or into winter, stepping carefully in the icy parking lot, or into spring, when the air smelled so good you wanted to roll in it, same as Jupiter with just mown grass.
I was glad to get out of there. So glad. Every time we pushed open those doors, I relaxed. You used to tell me that. Maybe school was just not my natural environment, like it seems to be for some people. You got your Emma Brightleys and your Ashley Hills, Brianna Campbells—they live in it, they flow. Friends drip off their arms, and their laughter is the right balance of cutting and self-assured. They’d come back to school after a weekend, talking about some party at Ethan Rivera’s house, and I’d never even know how this worked. How did you get invited to Ethan Rivera’s house? What would a party at Ethan Rivera’s house even look like? My big moments were the slumber parties at Kate Ship’s, back in the sixth and seventh grade, but she stopped inviting me and I never even knew why.
I did go to parties with Meghan and the orchestra kids. I think Ethan Rivera would have laughed at those. You would have laughed at those. Mr. Popularity, everyone loved you. The way it’s supposed to work is that the popular boyfriend suddenly makes the girl popular too, right? Isn’t that how it goes in the movies? But that never really happened. I was friends with your friends, but reflected glory, forget it.
Anyway, I would go to Mr. Clymer’s American History class, or worse, Mrs. Bryan’s Algebra II, and I would watch that thin black second hand ticking away the time until lunch. (Ben actually liked Algebra II, which shows for the millionth time what a loser he is.) I would hold my breath in Biology, with all those guys from the track team, reeking of BO from their early-morning run. I waited, is my point. To get out of there. You were like a vacation spot I was about to go to after too many hours in a job I hated.
But finally I was let out, and there you’d be. Your hand would go into mine, and we were there in the real world, even if that was only the McDonald’s drive-through. Even if it meant just watching you eat fish filet sandwiches and talking with your mouth stuffed about the way Jackson’s girlfriend was always such a drama queen, crying over some fight she had with her friend or having “talks” all the time with him about how he was looking at other girls. Or we’d sit out on the grass on the back lawn of the school, way out on that hill where no one went. We’d take our shoes off, and you’d tell me my toes looked like a row of old men standing together. Old men, waiting at a bus stop.
And after school we’d go to your room and study. Study, right? We didn’t get much studying done. I’d have to wait until I got home, away from you, to do anything but pretend to look at words until we both tossed our books onto the floor and rolled into each other.
It got really hot between us for a while. Remember kissing until our lips were numb? Shoving, pressing, rubbing. God. That time we went to Marcy Lake and we were on the grass …
Supposedly it goes this way, right? The girl says “Wait, wait,” and the boy either pressures her or is “understanding,” a good guy, someone who tells her he’ll hang around until she’s “ready,” as if sex was something she reluctantly hands over, a prize he’s earned for his good behavior and patience. Not that you didn’t have good behavior and patience. HOW long did we know each other? But it’s like … A certain number of gold stars on the sticker calendar and he gets to go to the prize box, just like in Mrs. Mosher’s kindergarten class. Was it just me? Am I the one girl who felt like I did? Because I wanted you. We would kiss, and kiss, and then I wanted you so bad. Not just my hands under your shirt or unzipping your jeans, but all of you.
When you’re a girl, desire means you’re a slut, but when you’re a guy, it means you’re normal. What’s up with that? Don’t say a word, I’m warning you. Still, you have to admit, it’s a societal contraceptive device if there ever was one, and an effective one too, given that girls and guilt go together like boys and freedom, but, whatever.
We tried to be a responsible couple, didn’t we? We were a responsible couple. We “talked” about it. Maybe you talked about it. Remember? We were in your car, driving to school. Ben was one of the sweaty guys running track early in the morning, and he wasn’t with us.
“Cricket, lately,” you said. I knew it was serious, because you always cleared your throat a certain way before you were going to say something important.
We were driving down Cummings Road, heading from home into town. We’d already passed the Country Store, and Johnson’s Nursery, and the secret shortcut where Bob, Betty, and Louise walked. It was a dangerous road, fast, curvy, so you kept your eyes forward. As you drove, I was busy admiring your cheekbones and your caramel brown hair and your collarbone. That dip, the small crater at your throat. “You are gorgeous,” I said.
You grinned. “Okay.” You snuck a glance at me. “Terrific. But I need to talk to you, okay? Stop looking at me like that. Lately we’re getting so close, you know. Physically.”
“I’ve noticed,” I said. The thought of it made me want you to pull over right then, drive that car off to some forested roadside like we’d done before. That damn parking brake.
“Do you think maybe we should turn it down a little? Wait, or something?”
“No,” I said. “I don’t want to wait.”
You nodded. “Okay …”
“I want you to make love to me,” I said. The words sounded silly. Stupid. Something a person would say in a pink-covered romance novel, or in a movie where a glamorous, heavy-breathing couple is standing dramatically on some terrace with city lights all around.
But you didn’t seem to mind. You reached over the seat and took my hand and tangled our fingers together and squeezed hard.
“Us,” I said. “Each other.”
You brought our hands to your mouth and kissed. “Oh, Cricket,” you said.
Remember that pharmacy we went to? We even went together. Who does that, J.? We might as well have worn T-shirts printed with “VIRGINS” and a big slash through the word. Of course we did that old trick of buying other stuff too, to cover up the obvious. I guess everyone does that. We waited
for the guy clerk to be available, because somehow we were sure the forty-five-year-old woman would judge us. Like she never did it herself. But the guy would understand.
It was just after Thanksgiving, and there were Christmas decorations up and those men ringing the bells outside the stores that always made me feel guilty when I walked past (see Girls and Guilt, above). You bought a box of candy canes because they were cheap, and a pair of those stretchy mittens that look like they’d gotten shrunk in the wash, which is pretty much how everything ended up looking if you let my mother do the laundry. What else? Those gingersnap cookies you like. You and the spice stuff. You’re the only one I know who wants spice cake for his birthday. Anyway, Christmas music was playing. I was so excited and mortified. It was this huge step we were taking together. Crossing over to everything adult, which sounds corny. Teen big moment drama. But I really felt that way.
We got back into the car, and you gave me those mittens, which I still have. I pulled them on, streeeetched them on, and shook the bag around and wiggled my eyebrows, but you were serious. You made your face so still, and your eyes grave.
You said, “Cricket, this is a really big day.” You held my hands. You looked into my eyes solemnly. “It’s our first time buying candy canes together.”
Ha. Oh, I do love you. Even if the terrible thing I did messed this up, that very fact stays true.
I know the guy in Rite Aid probably thought we got into the car and did it right then, but we didn’t, did we? That’s when we waited. We both had some idea of “the right time,” even though we didn’t talk about what “right” would look like. “Special,” that’s the other word. Maybe it’s like any other big decision. Right is something you feel, not something you necessarily have words for.
It was a snow day. Like the first day we met you, all those years ago, that day you rode by on your mother’s horse. So many years, you. But this day we were messing around outside, you, me, and Ben. Jupiter ran outside, and the snow was up to her knees, and then Mom brought her back in. You and Ben shoved snow down each other’s backs and pushed each other to the ground, in that foreign language of guy affection. Your cheeks always get so red in the cold. Mine must have too, because you put your gloved hands to either side of my face, and that’s when Ben said, “Hey, guys, I’m out of here.” He loved us both, but Ben was never really into public displays of affection.
He went in. I ran in too, and changed out of my wet clothes. I yelled to Mom that we were taking a drive into town. We both knew that “right” had come, didn’t we? The sky was that blue-blue that comes after it snows, and everything was sparkly, like God had taken huge handfuls of the tiniest daylight stars and threw them into the air. The roads had already gotten a little slushy. You ran up the gravel drive to your house and got the car, and when you drove back, I saw the blankets in the back, something big rolled up.
I knew where we were going too.
We found it accidentally one day, after we’d parked out there, just off Cummings Road where the trees closed off into a patch of forest. It was fall then, and we’d sat out there and kissed, and just as you started the car to head back, I noticed it. Far off, hidden by evergreens and blackberries and ferns—a tiny shingled house. Not a house, a shed. No, bigger than a shed, but not much.
“Look,” I said.
“Let’s go see,” you said. That’s how you are. You always want to get in there and investigate. If there’s someplace you’re not supposed to look in but can look in, you’ll do it. Funny, because I always think of you as being so responsible, but you’ve got this other side too that will commit a minor crime in the name of curiosity.
Which you did then. We hiked over to the shack, blackberry stickers clinging to my pant legs, and we looked into the two small, dirty windows and found this wonderful, empty hiding place. There was a bench built into one wall but other than that the place was bare. It wasn’t obvious who it belonged to, or even why it existed at all—maybe a storage room for one of the houses up the road. Who knew? It looked like something you’d see high up in the mountains, where hikers could rest to get away from the cold, or where a forest ranger could stop to take notes on whatever forest rangers take notes on.
“Cool,” you said, and then you messed with the latch and shoved at the door.
“Janssen,” I said. I looked around. Frogs were bllleeep, bllleeeping, but that was about it. Maybe a few crows were watching.
“Oh no! I hear a police car!” You grabbed my arms in fake panic. “They’re coming for you, Crick. See that tree? It’s got a spy cam, like in the stores.”
“You’re hilarious,” I said.
We went inside. It smelled like cedar planks. I love that smell. We sat on the bench, our arms touching. There was that great feeling, the feeling I love, that you’re hidden and safe, but that no one knows where you are.
“Listen,” you said.
I listened. It was hard to believe.
“A rooster?” I said. “Am I hearing a rooster?”
Yeah, there it was. A curdling cry. There were all kinds of things out where we lived. Head over the hill to Dad’s house, and you had suburban neighborhoods with those neighborhood parties where the kids run around the yard and the adults barbecue things and get drunk and hit on each other’s wives. But there, out past Cummings road where we both lived, well, you know it. There were more crazy animals than people. Bears, mountain lions, those goats. Our own yard had a variety of creatures we named: John Deer and Gauca-mole, and Dan and Marilyn Quail, and the salmon in the creek. There was that llama farm just before town, the one we passed every day heading in to school. They stood around blinking their long eyelashes as we drove by. There was a roving band of chickens, which we would see on various stretches of the road on various days.
“Aren’t they supposed to do that in the morning?” I said.
“So, he’s a fucked-up rooster,” you said.
Anyway, that snowy day, that’s where we were going. It was white winter and glittery, and the tree branches were drooping and heavy, and I knew we were driving toward that cedar shack.
We didn’t even speak. You held my mitten-hand with your glove-hand. It took a while before the car got warm. We hated the way your heater smelled when it got going. Like someone cooking corn dogs. I didn’t care right then. Your car was shit in the bad weather, and I could see us getting stuck somewhere and having to call for help before or after this big moment. But the car did fine, and you pulled off the road and drove up the trail and parked. Snow would slip off evergreen branches in big slushy clumps, and the branches would snap back up to their regular selves again.
“Kiss me,” you said. I leaned over and did, and then you hopped out of the car and got all the stuff out. It was so quiet out there. Snow-quiet. We hauled all of that warmness and softness you brought up the hill. You planned that ahead, didn’t you? But I was glad because, God, it was cold in there, when you shimmied open the door. I could see my breath, and you got to work with all that camping gear you have. You laid out a thick foam pad, sleeping bags, blankets. You even brought juice boxes, those little square ones we had in elementary school with the plastic straws attached. Your mom probably bought those for your lunch ten years before and still had them in her cupboard.
“Oh, my God, it’s freezing,” I said.
“Get in,” you said.
I took off my shoes, and got under all those layers of slippery nylon sleeping bags, and so did you, and when we finally got warm and when I remembered that it was just you, familiar you, I relaxed and we got undressed, and you were there naked next to me, and on me, and in me, and then you held me in your arms in that cedar shack and that stupid rooster crowed again, and I leaned in close to your ear and whispered. “That’s one fucked-up rooster,” I said, and you kissed my cheek with your cold, cold lips and told me you loved me, and there we were, on the other side.