Forever for a Year

by B. T. Gottfred

  Well, except Peggy. We sort of talked a little on Wednesday, but not about anything that made us hate each other. I didn’t even hate her anymore, I just didn’t love her. I mean, I did. I would forever. But I didn’t really know what to say to her. How could I tell her about Trevor if she was going to be a poophead about it? I never say “poophead.” Gosh. Something’s wrong with me. Anyway, Peggy and I were still best friends, but right then we weren’t really friends friends.

  On Thursday, I went to the bathroom during study hall because I didn’t want to look at Peggy any more than I had to. It’s always so bizarre going to the bathroom during class periods. I never usually do because I don’t want to miss anything, but I wouldn’t miss anything in study hall except Peggy’s stupid face. WHY WAS I BEING SO MEAN? Anyway, the school feels like a deserted planet and any sign of life is very exotic, so I didn’t see anyone walking to the bathroom but then when I got into the bathroom, there was Shannon Shunton. See, exotic. She was smoking. It was pot, I think, because of the smell, but it was the first time I had ever smelled it so I can’t be one hundred percent sure.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “You—?” Shannon offered her cigarette. Or joint. Gosh.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Crazy end to the party, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I heard you stuck around, faced down the cops like a superhero or something.”

  “Oh, not really. Peggy was sick.”

  “Still super cool of you. First time I drank, I got sick too. I had no idea what I was doing. I must have been nine. I was such a crazy kid,” she said, talking like being a kid was something that happened fifty years ago. I wanted to hug her. Or maybe leave, but instead I went into the stall.

  “Thanks for doing the shot for me,” I said after I flushed and started washing my hands.

  “No problem. I respect you doing whatever you got to do.” Shannon was the hardest person to figure out on the planet. Seriously. I’m not exaggerating! Was she a bitch? Was she cool? Was she totally messed up? Was she the wisest freshman in history? So, so, so complicated. If I were to write a novel, I’d write one about her. It would be so interesting to know what goes through her brain.

  “Maybe we should do homework together after school sometime.…” Why was I saying this? It felt like I was asking her out on a date. It’s just … maybe she wanted a friend, and she had helped me with the dress and the shot and maybe—

  “Aww, yeah, maybe, but I’m, like, an idiot. If I get a C, I throw myself a party. I bet if you got a C, you’d have a coronary.”

  “You’re not an idiot,” I said. “You’re really smart.”

  “That’s cool of you to say … but what are you doing Saturday night? Me and Wanda were gonna chill at her place.”

  “I have a date, but maybe—”

  “A date? Yeah? With who?”

  “Trevor Santos, he’s new—”

  “He’s in history with us?” Shannon said. I nodded. “He looks like a good dude. So many dudes suck, like, fucking suck, so that’s awesome. Happy for you.”

  “Maybe we could all go out sometime?” I didn’t even know what my mouth was saying.

  “Yeah,” she said, laughed, then coughed, then continued, “sure.”

  * * *

  On Friday, I finally texted Trevor that I wanted to come see his race. I really just wanted to see him. I don’t really understand cross-country. I mean, in soccer running is something we have to do as punishment. Why would you do it as the only thing? Anyway, I still wanted to see the race because I want him to know how much I love him without actually ever telling him I love him. Until after he tells me he loves me first. Then I’ll tell him right away and every day. That will be amazing.

  But Trevor texted back that cross-country races are boring and that he was not very good, which meant I couldn’t come. I don’t know how I felt about being a better athlete than my boyfriend (well, my future maybe boyfriend), but I guess there was always a good chance I would be a better athlete than any boy because I’m really, really good. I don’t mean to brag. It’s just that, you know, I worked really hard at it. Okay?

  The only good part about not going to his race was that I could prepare for our date that night. I’m sort of kidding. I mean, what could I do for twelve hours? I did all my homework and I talked to Kendra, who kept saying, “He’s going to kiss you, he’s going to kiss you,” but she said it in this super-cute way that made me really excited, and nervous, but excited that I was nervous. Kendra was not as boring on the phone anymore. Which was weird. I thought I knew everything about her.

  * * *

  My dad had slept over at our house every night this week. It was amazing. I don’t know what else to say. It’s like we were suddenly this perfect family. Even more perfect than before he hurt my mom. He drove Kendra, Peggy, and me to practice on Labor Day morning. He did the dishes when my mom cooked and picked up bagels when she worked in the morning. Gosh. He was the best husband ever. And he was my best friend again. (Well, besides Peggy and Kendra and, I don’t know, could Trevor be my best friend too?) My mom didn’t know how to talk to me about boys. She would tell me all the boring stuff, like how I should get to know him “very, very well” before I got serious (she meant sex, which I wasn’t having until college anyway), and that I shouldn’t be alone with him in his house if his parents weren’t home, and that I should never allow him to be mean to me. (I wanted to tell her that she let Dad be mean to her, but I wanted even more for her to forget that ever happened so we could be the perfect family forever.) My dad would ask me all the great questions, like what we talked about and what I liked about him, and if I was excited to have a first boyfriend. Gosh. I totally loved my dad again and I felt sooo lucky.

  * * *

  I texted Trevor when I knew his race would be over and asked him how it went, except he must have done poorly since he just responded, “Fine,” and then, “We can talk about it tonight.” It sounded so serious and sad, and I didn’t want to talk about it at all. Except I did, because I wanted to be the best girlfriend ever. Gosh, I know, maybe the best not-his-girlfriend-yet ever.

  So Trevor didn’t tell me what we were doing Saturday night and Kendra made me promise not to ask more than once, and I didn’t ask—well, only three times, but it wasn’t obnoxious, I don’t think. I JUST REALLY WANTED TO KNOW WHAT MY FIRST DATE WAS GOING TO BE. Kendra said that boys don’t plan things well, or at least her dad doesn’t, and neither does my dad, and so I’m like, I plan things very well, so maybe I should plan the date? But Kendra says I couldn’t do that until we were married. I laughed when she said that. But I listened. I didn’t try to tell Trevor anything. And then, in health class, the LAST class on Friday, Trevor said, “Let’s meet at Lou Malnati’s Pizzeria in town at seven p.m. and then, after we eat, we can walk back to my house. My dad agreed to drive you home at midnight, if you can stay out that late again.”

  I loved this plan, though I almost said we should have dinner at five because then I could see him sooner and wouldn’t have to wait so long, but I bit my tongue (not literally), and said, “I can’t wait.”

  Which was true. Because I really couldn’t wait. Except I did. And then it was six thirty and I was having my dad drive me to the restaurant even though it would only take two seconds to get there and I would have to wait even more.

  So I never talk about what I wear because my clothes are so boring, but ever since the party at Peggy’s where Shannon showed me I didn’t look that horrible in a tight dress, I thought about clothes a little bit more. So on Thursday night, I had my mom drive me to Marshalls to look at dresses. That’s where we buy most of our clothes, which is fine, but, you know, it would have been nice to go to Macy’s or someplace a little nicer for my first date. But I didn’t want to make my mom feel bad for being poor. We aren’t poor. We’re just not rich. Gosh, I hope Trevor’s not going to think I’m so boring for wearing clothes from Marshalls. But
I pretended he could never tell and I found this black dress that had some lace at the bottom, and straps that made my arms and shoulders look toned, not big. And I looked good, not quite as good as at the party, but maybe it was better this way since I’m really a classy girl.

  My mom said, “It looks…” And I could tell she bit her tongue, like, for real, and then she said, “You look grown-up. It looks very … adult. How fancy will this date be?”

  “I don’t know, he hasn’t told me.”

  “I’ll need to know where before you go.”

  “I know, Mom.” Gosh.

  “Okay, well, do you really need a new dress if you end up going for pizza?” she asked. (And knew!)

  “It’s my first date ever, Mom!” She saw my point and bought me the dress.

  Except now I was sitting on the green bench by the cash register and every other person in the pizzeria was in shorts and sneakers and I had this black dress that made even me look like I had boobs and my legs were crossed and I had fancy black shoes with small heels so we could walk to his place after and … my gosh, I’d made the worst decision ever. I almost thought about calling my dad to come back and pick me up so I could change, but then I thought I would be late, and if I was even one minute late, Trevor might think I wasn’t coming and then, I don’t know, I could text him, but still …

  Carolina, I said to myself, you look pretty. As pretty as you can look, at least. I’d even put on some eyeliner after my dad said I should. I’d said, “But Mom never wears makeup,” and he’d said, “Guys like girls who wear makeup. Not a lot. But some. It makes us think you want to look beautiful for us.” Did that mean Mom didn’t want to look beautiful for him? I stopped thinking about that before I could even tell myself to stop thinking about it.

  * * *

  So, anyway … maybe Trevor was going to see me looking so silly and turn around. But probably not. He’s really nice. But he’d still think I looked silly all dressed up for pizza and I’d be able to tell and I’d cry and I’d never want to go on another date again.

  But at six forty-six, which was super early, but not as early as me, Trevor walked in. And he was wearing jeans, but he also had nice black shoes on and a button-down shirt AND A SPORTS JACKET. Oh my gosh, he got dressed up too. I stood up and we hugged, and I felt like we were so grown-up. Except I’m sure grown-ups never feel grown-up, they just are. I don’t know. Doesn’t matter.

  We both wanted to look nice for our first date because we both wanted our first date to be amazing, and it was amazing that we both wanted it to be amazing.

  30

  Trevor doesn’t stick to the plan

  So even though Coach Pasquini told me how great I was running, he screwed me over for the race. I had been finishing every practice the past week right ahead of or right behind the sophomores Aaron and Tor. So I was one of the top-ten fastest on the team, and that included Conchita, who would, of course, run the girls’ race.

  Cross-country teams are made up of seven runners, and the top five placements count toward your team’s total. You want the lowest score because first place counts as only one point, second place two points, and so on. I thought there was a small chance I would run varsity even though that was the top seven runners. I thought maybe Pasquini would decide to make a big bold choice, like they do in sports movies, and then I would win or finish just behind All-State favorite Todd Kishkin, and a new star would be born.

  Even if that stupid fantasy didn’t happen, and Pasquini made the more obvious choices for varsity, I thought for sure he’d have me run with junior varsity. That only required me to be top fourteen, and I was one of the top nine boys!

  But nope. Nope. I was put with the freshmen. The freshmen. I couldn’t look Pasquini in the eye after he announced it on the bus to the meet Saturday morning. I said, in my head, “Screw this,” and I decided I was going to quit after the race. My coach hates me! How am I supposed to be a part of a team where the coach hates me?

  I’d win. I knew it. I was better, by far, than every other freshman at our school, so I knew I’d be better than all the freshmen at Barrington and Libertyville too. Pasquini kept trying to corner me before the race, but I avoided him. No reason to talk. I just needed to race. So after they fired the gun, I started out fast. I ignored Pasquini’s strategy to have me always fall behind the lead pack. No one kept pace with me. I’d show him. I’d have a faster time than anyone on junior varsity and all of varsity too, and then Pasquini would feel like such crap when I quit the team. I could have been his best runner ever, and he lost me because he betrayed me.

  Yeah.

  Except …

  I couldn’t keep up my pace. I hadn’t expected to run that fast the whole race, but I started slowing sooner than I’d thought I would. How fast had I been going? Maybe too fast. Maybe way too fast. A little freshman named Kareem, maybe five feet five and looking like he could be Lily’s age, ran past me not even one-third into the race. I tried to match his strides for a bit, but … no way. The kid was Olympic quality. I slowed. Let him go. Then the lead pack hunted me down and I tried to stay in front of them, then in the middle, then at the back. Nope. I wasn’t staying behind the lead pack today. Not after I blew my legs on that sprint at the start.

  So I finished the freshman race in eleventh place. I couldn’t walk afterward. My legs hated me too much. I had to sit on my butt in the middle of the grass and just let everyone else hover over me, hugging their parents or friends, celebrating what a great job they’d done. I’d told my parents this was just another practice and I had no friends. So no one hugged me. Or talked to me. Carolina had wanted to come. But I would have hated her if she’d seen me run like such a loser.

  Pasquini finally managed to talk to me. Couldn’t avoid him if I couldn’t get off my ass.

  He said, “That’s why I ran you with the freshmen.”

  “Because I suck?”

  “No, because you needed to learn that even if you’re the best runner in the race—and YOU WERE—if you don’t stick to the plan that made you good, you’re going to lose.”

  Whatever.

  But. Yeah. Okay. I won’t quit. Not yet.

  * * *

  When I got home, Carolina texted me, asking me about the race. She was really nice. I thought about calling her up and talking to her about how I messed up, what Coach had said. I might have suggested we meet earlier. Why spend the whole afternoon alone if I could be with her? Then I thought she would have other plans and would tell me no and I’d feel even worse. So I just texted her that we could talk later. It made me sound cooler, I think. Or at least less interested in her, which is cool? I don’t know. Whatever.

  I went into my room and decided to lie down. Maybe I needed …

  Yep. Napped. Great nap. Woke up, panicked that I had slept through my date, but I still had an hour. I got to see Carolina in less than an hour. Our first real date. My brain did not know how to handle how excited the rest of me was.

  * * *

  My dad drove me to Lou Malnati’s in downtown Riverbend, gave me five twenties even though the pizza and sodas and even a salad wouldn’t cost more than thirty. He’d never ask for change, which was good, because I was saving money in case I needed to start a new life. I might. If Carolina stopped liking me, and Lily stopped being the best (she wouldn’t, but let’s just say), then I really would run away. I’d be in control for the first time in my life.

  As I walked toward the entrance of the restaurant, I couldn’t believe I wore a sports jacket. So dumb. So pointless. So uncool. I would take it off once I got inside. But Carolina was already there. Sitting on the bench in the prettiest black dress I had ever seen. When she saw me, she leaped to her feet and hugged me. I liked her body being next to mine. It felt so comfortable. Even though it shouldn’t. It should feel strange to hug someone; it should feel awkward and claustrophobic. But not with Carolina. Our hug felt even more natural than standing by myself. That sounds stupid. But screw it. It was a fact.

 
; “You look really nice,” I said.

  “You do too,” Carolina said, and the way she said it with her eyes so big and alive made me feel like I could do anything as long as she liked me. Then I couldn’t think of what else to say, so I turned to the host and asked for a table. He led us to a back table by the window. All the other people at the restaurant were families and old people (like, in their twenties). Maybe I should have taken Carolina to a nicer place for our first date. But I didn’t want to seem like a snob. Most fancy food doesn’t taste nearly as good as it should. But pizza is always good. The best. Especially Lou Malnati’s. It’s deep-dish, which Chicago is famous for. The only good part about Chicago so far. Besides Carolina.

  After we sat down, we both looked at our menus. I would look at her over the top of mine and she would see me looking at her but instead of glancing back down she would laugh a little laugh. It made me laugh all three times it happened. I never laugh. I felt like an idiot but I liked it, and I didn’t know what that meant.

  We ordered a small salad to share, then a Coke, a Diet Coke, and a medium pepperoni and mushroom pizza. And then … we had to talk. Crap. What would we talk about? She was smiling, seeming so happy, but it wouldn’t last forever. If I didn’t find something interesting to talk about, she would stop smiling.

  “I, uh…” I began. Why did I open my mouth if I had nothing ready to say? But then Carolina saved me.

  She said, “This is really special.”

  “I could have taken us someplace nicer for our first date—”

  “This is perfect.”

  Goddamn, she was good at this. I didn’t know what the hell to say, and she was saying all the right things. Say something. Crap. Say something.

  But Carolina spoke first. “So how did your cross-country race go? We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

  “No. We can. I got eleventh.”

  “That’s great!” she said. She was so positive. Maybe too positive.

  “I should have done better. I screwed up and started too fast and then couldn’t keep up the pace.”