I'm Not Missing

by Carrie Fountain

  “Hell no!” he whooped.

  That night, we went out to eat. We never went out to eat. “I’m so happy, I can’t even cook,” he said, driving us to Chope’s in La Mesa, down the old highway, through miles of pecan orchards, with the windows rolled down and Le Tigre’s “Deceptacon” on full blast and the trees on either side of us making a bright green canopy over the road.

  “I wish I could tell Syd!” I hollered over the music.

  “God, I wish I could tell your mom!” he hollered back.

  He never talked about my mom like that anymore, like a person who was alive, who could receive news or who’d care about it if she did. He’d slipped. That was how I knew he’d lost his mind with joy.

  A few days later I came home to find a letter in the mail. I’d won the journalism scholarship at UNM. It wasn’t a huge amount of money, but there was only one scholarship and I’d won it. They’d based their decision on an essay I’d written about growing up with a single, white dad; all the ways the world misinterpreted us; and what he taught me about who I was, and who I could be. My father was proud I’d won the scholarship, and he teared up when he read the essay, but there was no doubt he wanted me to choose Brown over UNM. Brown was where I’d have the great, mind-opening college experience he’d been wishing for me, the one he’d been saving for since I was a newborn. And I’d liked it too when I looked at the campus on the website, with its towering trees and grassy hills and carefully curated students sitting in a circle on a vast lawn, talking about big ideas. I liked the idea of going there more when it was a total impossibility. But to actually leave New Mexico and my dad and Nick and the bone-deep familiarity of Las Cruces, which, I’d never hated like Syd had? It sounded awful. After I got the email, I had to google to refresh my memory: I didn’t even know what city Brown was in. So yes, I liked the idea of going there. I just didn’t like the idea of actually having to go there.

  The day after I got my letter about the scholarship, Nick showed up after school clutching a letter from UNM. He’d been offered a four-year Presidential Scholarship, as well as a special math fellowship, and, through a partnership with the Scouts, a summer internship with the US Forest Service. If he accepted the internship, he’d leave in early July and spend a month on a trail-building project in a remote part of the Jemez Mountains.

  “What the hell?” I teased him. “All I got was a crappy scholarship. What, you also get, like, a personal assistant? Will the president of the university give you wake-up calls every morning?”

  The Eagle Scout was over the moon. But when I asked him if he’d told his parents, he screwed up his face. “Why do you ask me these things, woman?” He collapsed onto the couch and I plopped down beside him and swung my legs onto his lap. He ran his finger over the scar on my ankle from the night in the orchard, which now felt like it happened a million years ago.

  “So no?”

  “No,” he said, his chin up. He was giving me a look that told me there was more to the conundrum. “There’s something else.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “I got into Harvard.” I could hear in his voice that he didn’t quite believe it.

  “What?!” I jumped up. I threw my arms in the air. “Oh my god! Nick!”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Crazy, right? With a fellowship.”

  “That’s so awesome!”

  He nodded gravely.

  “Oh no, I know,” I said, sitting back down beside him on my knees and placing a hand on his shoulder. “It’s so sad. You got into Harvard. You poor, cisgender white male.”

  He knocked me with his shoulder. “It’s, just, you know.”

  “Complicated,” I said.

  He tried to smile. “Well, it is.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “I told them about Harvard. I didn’t tell them about UNM. Or the Jemez.”

  “Were they stoked? I bet they were so stoked.”

  “They’re not going to be stoked when I tell them I’m not going.”

  “What are you talking about? You’re not even going to consider Harvard? That’s ridiculous. I’m sorry, but that’s just stupid.”

  He looked hurt. “I made my decision a long time ago.”

  “Well, okay, that’s great. But—come on. You made that decision before you got into Harvard. I mean, I’m no expert, Nicholas, but I think you’ll probably still be eligible for a job in the Forest Service with a degree from Harvard.” I shoved him, trying to soften his somber mood, but it didn’t work.

  His eyes searched the floor. “You’re considering UNM over an Ivy League school,” he said.

  “Yes, I am. I’m considering it. I’m not just—you know—making my decision based on some weird fear of becoming my father.” It came out sounding much more pointed than I’d intended. Nick looked like I’d slapped him. “I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant.”

  “What did you mean?” His calmness was unnerving.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’m sorry for saying that. Really.” And it was true. I didn’t know what I meant. Wasn’t the two of us going to UNM together what I wanted? We’d just be together. Everything was working out to be as simple as I’d dreamed. Why was I arguing against it?

  He drew a long breath and stared at the floor. “I didn’t think I was going to get in, so I didn’t think I’d even have to deal with this.”

  Something about the way he said it, the tremor of fear—or defeat—in his voice, stoked my anger. “I don’t get you sometimes, Nick.” I tried to soften my voice. “You like math. You like to work hard. Your brain is—not a normal brain.”

  He looked up at me sullenly, then back at his feet.

  “Your dad didn’t invent math. He didn’t make Harvard.”

  He just sat there. “You don’t understand.”

  “Okay. Sure. Maybe I don’t. But I know you. And I know you’re not going to be a very good underachiever. So if you want to go to UNM because your whole being tells you it’s the right thing, then yes. Go there. Live your bliss. But if that’s the case, then why can’t you tell your parents?”

  He looked at me, wounded. “I don’t know,” he said.

  I put a hand on his knee. “You know it’s a big deal. Right? You worked really hard. And you do have a gift. Some would even say it’s a privilege.”

  “I get it. This is a white male privilege problem. I’ll own that. But it doesn’t make it any less difficult. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I said. “Yes. I totally get that.” I cuffed my palm around the warm back of his neck. Even though we’d been together almost four months, I still had moments like this, when I couldn’t believe I was touching the neck I used to stare at. Moments like this, it’d be so easy to say the words I’d wanted to say to him for weeks, maybe months: I love you. But as soon as it occurred to me, I’d chicken out. There was no going back after those words had been spoken. Even a rookie like me knew that.

  “You could always just lie to them about where you end up,” I said.

  Finally he smiled. “That’d be awesome.”

  “Dear Mom and Dad. I love college. Harvard is a good college. I’m definitely studying math at Harvard, for sure. It’s really great and I’m not in New Mexico.”

  He laughed reluctantly. He shook his head and shoved me so hard, I fell over onto the couch.

  “For what it’s worth, I’m totally impressed,” I said. “Really. This is a big freaking deal. We both got into freaking Ivy League schools. We need to celebrate.”

  “Oh really?” He gave me a sideways look and squinted. “I know of an upcoming celebration we could attend together.”

  I knew that look. “No,” I said.

  “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

  “No!” I scrambled to my feet, but he grabbed me around the waist and pulled me back down. I turned and grabbed his cheeks in my palms. “You don’t have to do this, Allison.”

  “I do, though.” I squirmed out of his grasp and took off running. He followe
d me into the kitchen and we squared off on either side of the island. His face got serious. He picked up the first thing in front of him, which happened to be my father’s overcomplicated salt grinder, and held it out to me in a vague formal gesture. “Miranda.” He lowered his chin. “Will you go to prom with me?”

  I snatched the grinder from him. “No.”

  His face fell. “Why not?”

  “Why do you keep asking? You suck.” I finally achieved some success at keeping a straight face. “Seriously,” I said.

  He looked at me, trying to gauge my level of seriousness. He must’ve figured it was high enough. He looked honestly disappointed. “Fine.”

  “I don’t understand why you want to go to prom so bad.”

  “Are you kidding? Look at us. I just gave you that—What is that? Salt? You’re my lady friend.”

  “Aw,” I said. “I’m your lady friend, huh?” Again, here was another chance. Hey, dude. I totally love you. Just casual. But no. No matter how I planned to say it, the words caught in my throat.

  “Yes.” He looked a little pained. “You are.” I wondered if he wanted to say it as much as I did. We were terrible at this. We were both rookies. “Going to prom would be like perfect revenge.”

  “Revenge against whom?” I asked. I was curious to see if he’d say Syd’s name. The last time I remembered hearing him say it was on our first date. Now it was like she didn’t exist. Like she’d never existed.

  “Against”—he searched for the words—“the haters,” he finally said, satisfied.

  “The haters,” I repeated. We both cracked up.

  “But seriously.” He held out his hand out to me. “I want another do-over.”

  I placed the grinder in his palm. “Oh my god, how many do-overs do we need?”

  Nick had asked me a dozen times to go to prom, but my feelings wouldn’t budge. Once, he asked if I still had my dress from last year. Wouldn’t it be cool to finally wear it? If my mind wasn’t made up before, this question sealed the deal. I couldn’t even imagine taking the dress out of the garment bag and putting it on. The idea made me actually queasy. The dress not only served as a reminder of the worst night of my life, but it’d also become the very symbol of Syd’s betrayal. Your boobies are defying gravity right now. I hated thinking of it. And I hated the dress. It was cursed. The only good thing about prom was that it was this Saturday. A few more days, and Nick would have to stop asking me.

  I heard the sound of my father’s tires on the gravel outside. “Hey, don’t tell your dad about Harvard, okay?” Nick looked sheepish.

  “What? Ugh. Whatever.” It bothered me that Nick saw my dad in any way like his, as someone who was there to approve or disapprove of his decisions.

  “Hello, teens!” my father hollered as he came in, dumping an armload of mail onto the table in the hall. He took off his NASA ID badge and tossed it into the bowl, along with his keys. “Miranda. Here.” He walked into the kitchen and handed me an envelope addressed to him from Allstate insurance.

  “What’s this?” I said.

  “What does it look like?” he asked.

  “You want me to pay my car insurance?”

  “Oh,” my dad said. “Yes, I’d actually love that, but seeing as you have no reliable source of income—it’s not a bill. It’s the card. For your glove box.”

  “Oh.” I tossed the envelope onto the table and plopped down in a kitchen chair.

  “Miranda,” my father said impatiently. “Do it now. Before you forget.”

  “Jeez.” I stood and snatched the envelope up again.

  “I should go home,” Nick said.

  “See?” I glared at my dad. “You made Nick want to leave our house and never return,” I said. “Autocrat.”

  “Hey, now,” my dad said, unbuttoning his shirtsleeves and rolling them up. “Don’t call me an autocorrect.”

  Nick laughed at my dad’s cornball joke. I glared at him, too. “Oh god, you two are hilarious,” I said.

  “Lemme get my stuff.” Nick jogged into the living room. I opened the envelope and pulled out two insurance cards. The fact that the new cards’ expiration dates extended past graduation, summer, and deep into what would be my first semester at college, wherever I ended up, gave me a pang of anxiety. “All right.” Nick came in with his backpack on and stood next to me at the counter. My father’s back to us, he picked up the salt grinder again and handed it to me. I rolled my eyes and put it down. Then, suddenly, while my dad was washing his hands, Nick placed a palm on my butt and squeezed. “Nice to see you, Mr. Black,” he said in his Eagle Scoutiest voice while looking at me steamily. I felt a jolt, like a crack of lightning up through my body from between my legs. It was so totally unlike him. Nick was always the one to back away when it felt like a make-out session could—or should—turn into sex. I widened my eyes and smiled and was immediately sad when he let go and his hand went back to his side.

  “Check you later.” My dad turned around. “Sure you don’t want to stay? I’m making chicken orzo soup.”

  “Oh, thanks,” Nick said. “I gotta get home.”

  “Want me to put yours in your car, Dad?” I asked, holding up the second insurance card. “You can command me to do so if it makes you feel more comfortable.”

  “Thank you, Miry,” he said. “Bye, Nick.”

  “Bye, Mr. Black,” Nick said.

  “Stop calling me Mr. Black, Nick. It’s so weird.”

  “Sorry,” Nick said. “Peter.” It sounded like a word in a foreign language. All three of us laughed.

  “So much better,” I said, grabbing my keys and my dad’s. Nick opened the front door, and the two of us stepped outside. It felt good to step into the golden light of a gorgeous spring afternoon. I felt light, hopeful even. It had been such a long time since I’d felt that way. Maybe it was the ultra-green leaves on the giant pecan tree in our yard or the bright purple fruit coming out on the cactuses. Maybe it was the memory of Nick’s hand on my butt. I had the urge to kiss him right then, and I pulled him to the other side of the patio, into the driveway, away from view of the kitchen window, and then I grabbed him by the back of the neck and pulled him down toward me. His lips were soft and warm. “Ummm,” he said from beneath the kiss.

  It was absolutely absurd we hadn’t had sex.

  “Hey,” I said. “My dad has his guy thing tonight. You should come over later.”

  “Okay.” He was dazed from the kiss.

  “You get me? Like, come back. When my dad is gone tonight.”

  I saw Nick come to understand what I was saying. He swallowed. “Really?”

  The Eagle Scout looked a little panicked.

  “Yes. Or I don’t know,” I said, feeling totally self-conscious. “No?”

  “Yes.” He nodded. “Yes.”

  “Okay.” I kissed him one more time, a long sweet one.

  “I’ll text you,” he said as he pulled away.

  “I’ll text you too,” I answered. We both blushed and laughed and then I watched him walk to his car, get in, back out of the driveway, and pull onto the road.

  I turned and opened the front door and went back inside.

  As soon as I walked in, though, I remembered I’d gone out there for a reason. “Oh crap,” I said to no one, holding up the insurance cards. “Duh.”

  “What?” my dad called from the kitchen.

  “Nothing,” I called back, opening the door again.

  I went to my dad’s truck first and riffled through his overstuffed glove box until I found his old insurance card along with two others from years past. I placed the new card on top of the mountain of crap. It took three whacks to get his glove box closed again.

  I walked to my car, opened the passenger-side door, and sat down. It was weird sitting in the passenger seat. Syd’s seat. It’d always be Syd’s seat. There was still an apricot stain on the upholstery where she’d dropped an open lipstick. I swung my legs in and pulled down the visor. I looked at myself in the mirror. I t
hought about what would happen later, when Nick came back. I thought of his hand on my butt and how he’d called me his lady friend. I’d come close to saying I love you earlier. Tonight I’d do it. No matter what. I wouldn’t chicken out. I could see it in my own eyes. I smiled and flipped up the visor and opened my glove box, but when I went to put the insurance card in there, I saw something I couldn’t quite place. Was it an object I’d seen in a dream once? Or a flat-out hallucination? It took my brain a while to catch up to my eyes. But when it did, there was no mistaking. Lying facedown in its hot-pink-and-gold leopard-print case was Syd’s phone.

  “What?” I heard myself ask the emptiness of the car. Immediately I felt a shock of pure joy seeing it there. I couldn’t help it. It was her phone! It was as close to being her as any object could be. But my joy was eclipsed very quickly by anger. All those desperate texts and voice mails I’d sent had been going to a phone three feet from where I was driving around, oblivious. Syd had gone off into the world with no way to communicate, no way to be reached. And she hadn’t known I’d been trying so hard to reach her. And she hadn’t known when I’d stopped trying.

  She was more gone then than I’d ever imagined she could be.

  I had to force my hand to reach out and pick the thing up. Part of me wanted to slam the glove box shut and walk away, to leave it blissfully undisturbed as it had been for all these months. But then, when I did pick it up, I couldn’t help bringing it to my nose and taking a whiff to see if it still smelled like Syd. It didn’t, of course. It didn’t smell like anything. But when I turned it over, I saw that stuck on its face were four hot dog–shaped sticky notes covered in her tiny, precise handwriting. I read them quickly, hoping beyond hope that they would tell me where she was and how to contact her.

  Mir, the first hot dog read:

  I hope you find this far in the future. If you have, I’m sure you know everything about prom. If not, ask Nick. If he hasn’t told you the truth yet, he’s a coward and he deserved everything I did to him. If he has, I hope you two are sucking face on the regular. I know you like him and he’ll always be your Medium Hottie. I could see tonight he has a boner for you too. So if you two aren’t in love now, I hate you both.