I'm Not Missing

by Carrie Fountain

  It’s tomorrow.

  That was all he’d written.

  I felt floaty.

  What is it? Is it Syd?” My father appeared in my doorway, panic on his face, a T-shirt slung over his arm.

  “Oh.” I looked up. “No.”

  “What is it? And please don’t cuss in the house.”

  “I have to tell you something crazy, Dad.”

  “What?”

  “I talked to Nick last night, the boy from prom.”

  “That Boy? What did he have to say for himself?” He crossed his arms.

  “He didn’t stand me up. Syd told him not to come.”

  My dad thought for two seconds. He shook his head. “No. He’s lying. Miranda. Come on. Syd’s gone. He’s lying to you. He’s a psychopath.”

  “Okay, that’s a smidge dramatic.” My dad shrugged in honest disagreement. “He’s not lying. Syd left him a note. It said to tell Miranda the truth. That was the truth.”

  “And why didn’t this boy tell you about it until now?”

  “Syd did stuff. She made everyone at school think he did it. But it was her. I have no idea why. But I know. For sure.”

  My dad slung the T-shirt over his shoulder. He was stumped. His eyes searched the floor. “Goddamn it,” he said.

  “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Well.” He exhaled sharply. He was trying to keep his cool. “Me neither. I’m angry. I’m very disappointed, and I’m angry.” It was hard for him to proceed. “But, Mir, we’re all Syd has. You know? She has you, Miranda. You’re her people. Her mom’s a drunk, and her dad—I mean, that guy’s a piece of shit. Pardon my French. But we can’t shut her out. Even if we want to.”

  “Well, she’s gone, so—”

  “Even if she’s gone.”

  “Well, that’s very Jesus-y of you.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I think I hate her.”

  “That’s fine. But I think that has to be beside the point right now.”

  “Why?” It felt like he was taking Syd’s side over mine.

  “Because that’s not how we treat people, Mir.”

  “I know,” I said. I was suddenly on the verge of tears and I didn’t want to be. I wanted to hate Syd. But I couldn’t. I was a failure. My dad put out an arm and I walked zombie-like into a hug. “He’s coming here tonight,” I said into my father’s armpit.

  “Who?” My father stood back. “That Boy? Why’s he coming here?”

  “We’re going out,” I said to the floor. When I looked up, my father was staring at me. “What?” I said finally. “Come on. Stop.”

  He blinked hard a few times. Then the dumb smile appeared.

  “Nuh-uh,” I said. “Don’t.”

  “That was him?” He nodded at my phone.

  “Oh my god, I hate you so much.” I pushed past him and stomped to the kitchen and picked up my coffee. He followed close behind. I opened the fridge and stared into it.

  “You’re going on a date. You’ve never gone on a date.”

  “You don’t know what I’ve done.”

  “You’ve gone on a date?”

  “No. But still, you don’t know.” I slammed the fridge shut.

  “I know Imma meet ya boy tonight.” He did a stupid dance move.

  “He’s not ma boy.”

  “Well, hell.” He snapped at me with the T-shirt. “Pos, mi’jita going on a date.”

  “That’s offensive to me.” I tried to keep my scowl on. “As a Latina.”

  “And you’re sure he’s not a scuz bucket?”

  “No. He is not. He’s a good guy.” I smiled against my will. “Please, seriously, just be cool.”

  “Mos def, mos def.”

  “Oh my god, please never speak to me again.” I looked down at my phone and tried to stop smiling.

  “Text your boy. Tell him to be here at seven. Sharp! Breathalyzers will be administered.” He turned back to his laundry, twirling the T-shirt in apparent celebration.

  I stared at my phone. “I think eight.” When my father said nothing, I said, “Eight’s better, right?”

  “Oh, now you want my help.”

  “No.” I thought about it for one more second. “I’m saying eight.”

  “Whatever,” he said. “Let go and let God.”

  * * *

  As the long hours of the day passed, what Syd had done began to really sink in. The tightness returned to my chest. Last night I was ready to never see her again as long as I lived. The injury was clean, painful but straightforward, like the cut on my leg. But now everything was muddled again. There had to be some reason she’d done it.

  Was she was secretly in love with Nick? She’d discouraged my crush from the very start. When I started talking about asking Nick to the prom last year, she’d set me up with Quinn within a week. I knew she hated Nick, but I always thought it was because he was her greatest academic competition. The few semesters Syd hadn’t ranked first in our class, it was Nick. When he became captain of the Academic Decathlon team last year, she dropped out. It was the only time she’d ever dropped out of anything. Granted, her liking him didn’t make sense. Nick was the polar opposite of the boys she usually liked. He was timid, which she took as a weakness. In fact, she’d cataloged in great detail his many unattractive qualities: ponytails were lame; he wore dorky hiking shoes to school; he had no style, which was worse than having bad style; and, as far as she could tell, he also had no personality. Overall, her assessment of Nick was that he was the worst thing you could be in Syd’s eyes: boring. It seemed unlikely she was in love with him. But everything seemed unlikely right now. And it made perfect sense to me. I honestly didn’t know why everyone wasn’t in love with Nick. I’d begun to think Will and I had cracked the code. We were geniuses. And somehow I got to be the person Nick would be picking up in a few hours for a date. I couldn’t wait.

  But then, fifteen million years later, when it was eight, I found I could’ve easily waited. The rest of my life, even. I didn’t want to come out of my room. Without Syd to tell me how to do it, I found I couldn’t dress myself. I’d tried on every article of clothing I owned, but the more I tried on, the less I knew what I should wear, how I should act, if I should continue breathing or just stop while I was ahead and perish quietly on my bedroom floor among the soft rolling hills of a million discarded outfits. The only thing I looked good in was a black sweater Letty had given me for Christmas the year before, but it was too dressy, and besides, when I tried it on, I remembered why I’d never worn it before. It itched like crazy. I settled on jeans, a plain black T-shirt, and a gray hoodie. It was a non-outfit, really. It drew no attention. It had no opinions. It was the best I could do.

  My clock flashed 8:00. It was pencils down. I sat down on my bed, totally cashed.

  Then it was 8:05. Nick was late.

  Then it was 8:06, and I knew he was standing me up again. I was sure. The whole thing had been a lie. Nick had been planning revenge for the maxi-pads for eight months. My bloody leg. The handkerchief. The several minutes of applied pressure. Lies, lies, lies, lies, lies.

  Then I heard his tires on the gravel. And I wished I had another fifteen million years before I had to walk out of my room and answer the door. My father beat me to the door, which was fine. I was so nervous that even a few extra seconds were precious. I looked at myself one last time in the mirror. My dark hair sat behind my shoulders and my cheekbones glowed.

  I stepped out of my room just as my dad turned the doorknob. He winked at me. “That’s not helping,” I whispered. He swung the door open and there was Nick, dressed in dark jeans and a button-down shirt.

  He was wearing a tie. Why was he wearing a tie? And it took me a nanosecond to process that something else was different. His ponytail was gone. His ponytail was gone. His hair was short, the way I’d loved it before, the little puff of obedient curls returned to the top of his head. “You cut your hair,” I announced way too loudly, the way a five-year-old might.

 
; “Oh. Yeah.” Two seconds in and he wanted to die.

  “When?”

  “Today.” He touched the top of his head self-consciously, as if to make sure it was still there.

  “Oh.” I wanted to tell him I liked it—because I did; I loved it—but I couldn’t even figure out how make my voice a normal volume. There was an agonizing silence made more agonizing by the fact that my father was standing between the two of us.

  “Hello,” Nick finally said to my dad. I could see the dread on his face as he addressed my father. He’d texted earlier to ask if my father was going to shoot him. I said no. Then he asked a pertinent follow-up: When I’d said my dad was looking for life on other planets, were we talking NASA or a crackpot?

  “Oh shit, sorry.”

  “Miranda!” My dad turned and looked at me as if I were insane.

  “Sorry.” I took a step toward Nick, giving my dad the evil eye and edging him out of the way. Then, to justify having done this, I gave Nick a weird side-hug. “Dad, this is Nick.” I looked down at my outfit as if it was covered in vomit. “We’re going to two different places.”

  “Oh, no. You look great.” Nick glanced nervously at my dad. “You look fine.” The three of us were standing so outrageously close to each other. How did we get here? I wanted to start over, from the beginning. Like, at birth.

  I watched Nick’s eyes go from my face to my dad’s and back. I couldn’t tell if he was nervous or if he was simply plotting my father and me on the skin-tone spectrum and trying to make it work. My dad reached for Nick’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Mir’s dad, Peter. Call me Peter if you want. And yes, Nick: I am the whitest man on Earth. And yes, Miranda is my daughter. She takes after her mother.” I could feel my entire body blush, even my toenails. I braced for a joke about prom, but miracle of miracles, it didn’t come. My dad turned to me. “Home by midnight?”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll text if I’m going to be later.”

  “Okay. But not much later.” My father cuffed Nick’s shoulder. I felt like we were in a movie. Again my toenails blushed. “Have a good time.” Then he did the coolest thing he’s ever done. He grabbed his beer from the hall table where he’d put it down to open the door—he must have rushed to get there, not even taking time to set down his Tecate on the coffee table—and walked back down the hall to the living room and disappeared, swallowed up again by a basketball game.

  As soon as he was gone, the doorway—or was it the whole universe?—filled with silence.

  “Your dad’s cool.” Nick somehow seemed even more nervous than me.

  “Oh, he’s not. Believe me.” I gestured again to my T-shirt. “I’m changing.”

  “You don’t need to change.” Nick tucked invisible hair behind his ear.

  “I’m just going to throw on another shirt.” I walked to my room as I said it so he couldn’t stop me.

  Every single shirt I owned was laid out on my bed and floor. I’d tried them all. I grabbed the first thing I saw that wasn’t a T-shirt. It was blue and red stripes, silk. It was Syd’s shirt, one of her greatest thrift store finds. I couldn’t wear it. I had to keep tonight as free of Syd as possible. I tossed it back and hastily grabbed the black sweater Letty had given me. I threw it on in a panic.

  Why was I panicking? Hadn’t Nick and I had the best, most soul-baring conversation last night? Hadn’t he said he wanted to kiss me and hadn’t I told him I wanted to be a nun?

  I found Nick standing exactly where I’d left him, with the front door still halfway open and cold air pouring into the house. I grabbed my coat and Nick stood watching as I put it on. It seemed to take an hour. “Okay,” I said.

  “Okay.” Nick seemed only then to realize he’d been standing in front of an open door. He stepped aside and let me pass before he closed the door behind us.

  He’d washed his car. Even that made me nervous somehow. On the way to the restaurant (La Hacienda, fine Mexican cuisine—thank god I’d changed), we chatted about what we’d done that day (oh, nothing much, except that he’d totally altered his appearance). He asked if I’d heard anything from Syd and I said no and he offered no follow-up question or comment. I couldn’t think of a single thing to talk about. I not only felt like Nick was a stranger, but like I was a stranger, paralyzed by my own self-consciousness. The decision to wear the beautiful black sweater was beginning to reveal itself as terrible one. The itchiness was already pure torture. “So,” he said after we’d driven at least a mile in silence. “I realized I didn’t ask you. Where are you applying?”

  “What?” I had no idea what he was talking about or if he was speaking English.

  “To college. I didn’t ask you. Last night.”

  College was the last thing I wanted to talk about. “I don’t know,” I said. “I’m applying to four.” I pulled the number directly out of thin air. “But I’ll probably go to UNM.”

  “Really?” he said. He sounded surprised.

  “Yeah.” I scratched at my neck and vowed to put the sweater in the Goodwill bag the second I got home. “Why?”

  “Just seems like you could go anywhere. You’re such a good writer.”

  “How do you know that?” I sounded like I was accusing him of having read my diary. I wished I could change the way the words were coming out of my mouth. I wished I could change everything about the evening so far, including the fact that Nick had cut his hair and washed his car and worn a tie. Why had he cut his hair? It felt meaningful and weird, like he’d done it for me, like he’d known I’d only reluctantly accepted the ponytail into my heart. Did I want him to cut his hair for me?

  “I always read your stuff in the paper. I really liked the ones about that pig. That series. I really cared about that pig! I think it was the way you wrote about him.” I couldn’t believe Nick had read my articles about Gracie the pig. I didn’t think anyone but my dad and the ag kids had read them.

  “It was a her,” I shot back.

  “Oh.” I noticed a nick on his neck where he’d cut himself shaving. “Sorry. Girl pig. Right.”

  “And she got slaughtered after the fair.” Oh god, please make it stop.

  “Oh,” he said.

  “Her name was Gracie.”

  “Dang.”

  “Yeah.” What was wrong with me? “Those essays were real gripping investigative journalism.” I’d begun to sweat under my coat, and the sweat made the itchiness exponentially worse. There was no way I’d make it through the night. Nick laughed nervously without taking his eyes off the road. He looked as miserable as I felt.

  Aside from the crushing anxiety, I was beginning to feel like I’d made a terrible mistake. I was ruining the perfect version of Nick I’d created in my mind. I was living in real life now, after living so long in my imagination, where my interactions with Nick consisted almost wholly of slaps on the cheek and passionate kisses and didn’t involve him driving like a ninety-year-old and me scolding him for getting a pig’s gender wrong.

  “I thought they were great.” His voice got a tiny bit higher every time he spoke. He shot me a quick, nervous glance. Was he beginning to sweat?

  “My dad’s basically forcing me to apply to Brown. And Vassar.”

  “Awesome.”

  “Not really,” I said.

  “I bet you get in.”

  “Why?” I said harshly.

  “I don’t know. Because you’re smart. I don’t know.” The thought of sitting through a dinner at La Hacienda with Nick and this sweater started to make me feel ill.

  But it was too late. He pulled into the parking lot and eased into a spot. When he turned the car off, the engine made a few polite clicking noises that made the vast, terrible silence surrounding us even worse. I couldn’t believe this was the way things were working out. I looked over at Nick. He looked despondent.

  But then: “I have an idea,” he said. I was sure his idea was going to be total surrender, calling it off and taking me home so we could both begin forgetting as soon as possible
that this ever happened. And honestly, I’d be thankful. It even occurred to me I could get out of the car right now and call my dad and have him pick me up. It could be over even sooner that way.

  “What is it?” I said to his tie.

  “Can we do a do-over? Right now?” he asked. “Like a do-over for the do-over? This is going—kinda poorly, I think.”

  I forced myself to look into his eyes. He smiled and his smile ripped me out of my own mind and into the present moment. He was sitting right there. His hair looked so cute, really, it did.

  The relief was instantaneous, like the lights coming on in a dark room.

  “Oh my god, yes,” I said.

  He squinted, thinking. “What’s the burrito place inside the Pic Quik?”

  “Santa Fe Grill. Yes. Please. Let’s do it. Seriously, I’ve never wanted to spill a burrito all over myself in front of another person as much as I do right now. Vámanos.” We laughed. “I don’t know what just happened.”

  “Whatever,” he said, turning the car back on. “It’s okay if we suck at this.” He loosened his tie, then pulled it off over his head and tossed it in the back and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. I could see he was wearing a light gray T-shirt beneath his button-down. Bingo.

  “Can I ask you the weirdest favor?”

  “Please. And I’ll be the judge of this weirdness.”

  “This sweater is trying to murder me. I’m allergic or something.” I pointed to the little triangle of gray cotton peeking out from under his shirt. “Can I wear your T-shirt?”

  He smiled. “That’s not weird.” Then, with no warning, he pulled his shirt out of his jeans, unbuttoned it, and tugged the sleeves off. Then he reached behind his back and peeled the T-shirt off in one motion, revealing his surprisingly muscular chest and arms. He turned the T-shirt right side in and handed it to me. “Here.”

  Just then an elderly couple strolled past the car. When the woman glanced down and saw Nick shirtless, she grabbed her husband’s arm and looked away. We laughed. “You didn’t need to do that. Like, right here.”