Someone I Wanted to Be

by Aurelia Wills

  Evelyn put her hands between her knees and stared at me with her mouth open in what appeared to be disgust. There was nowhere to sit but at the desk or on the bed next to Evelyn. I felt like a giant in the tiny room. I sat on the postcard-carpeted floor. The tape was yellowing and crackly and had dust and little hairs caught on the sticky part.

  “Evelyn, where do you go to school?”

  She stared at me like I was a beast at the zoo and put her fingers in her mouth.

  “OK,” I said, “we’ll just wait for your sister.” I dropped my head between my knees and listened to Evelyn breathing through her stuffed-up nose.

  Anita pushed the door open with her hip. “I made some popcorn,” she said. “Sorry it took so long. I had to wash the bowl.” She set the bowl of popcorn on the floor and sat cross-legged across from me. Evelyn scooted off the bed and rooted through the popcorn with her spitty fingers.

  “Go ahead,” said Anita, holding out the bowl. She looked anxious, so I took some.

  Anita looked at her little sister and slowly brushed the hair off her forehead. “How was your day, Evie?”

  “Stupid.” Evelyn crouched like a monkey. She lifted out handfuls of popcorn, then dribbled them back into the bowl.

  We watched Evelyn play with the popcorn. Anita said, “Welcome to the family.”

  I ran my finger over the postcards underneath me: Buenos Días from Cancun, Aloha from Maui, palm trees, the Eiffel Tower, an obese cat, and mountains topped with white ice and snow. “Where’d you get the postcards?”

  “Evie and I hit a lot of garage sales. An old lady sold me a shoe box full of them for twenty-five cents. Then a tenant left a gigantic roll of packing tape when he moved out. I was up late one night, feeling kind of manic.” Anita combed Evelyn’s hair with her fingers. Evelyn got bored with the popcorn. She tipped over backward. She lay on her back and puffed out her stomach.

  “What’s up with your dad?” I ran my finger around and around the wheel of a bicycle on a postcard.

  “Clinically depressed and alcoholic,” Anita said in a blasé voice as if she were saying, My dad is the manager at RadioShack and plays golf. She looked down at Evelyn’s sweaty spaced-out little face. “He’s got bad liver problems. He’s a mechanic and used to run a garage, but he’s on disability now. He’s had a really rough time since my mom died.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Yeah, it sucks.” She shrugged and started braiding Evelyn’s hair. The room’s colors exploded around her.

  “I like your room,” I said. “It’s incredible.”

  Her face broke into a huge grin. “Really?” She looked down at Evelyn and tried to stop smiling, but she couldn’t. “I think of it as my first art installation.”

  I stood up to look at the picture over her bed. “This is your mom? She’s so pretty.”

  “Yep,” said Anita.

  Tacked next to the picture of Anita’s mom was a photo of a band playing in a garage. A girl with dark hair like Anita’s hunched behind the drum kit. “Is that you? You play drums?”

  “Just a little. Me and Evelyn stayed with my aunt for two weeks. My uncle has a set. So we were playing one Saturday morning.”

  In another picture, a skinny redheaded boy was bent over a microphone. “Is that Carl Lancaster? You play in a band with Carl Lancaster?” Carl Lancaster appeared to be gyrating his skinny body.

  “Nah, we just messed around a couple times. Have you ever heard him sing? My God. He’s fabulous. He’s moving to Austin as soon as he graduates.” She scooted back against the wall, crossed her legs, and twirled a piece of hair between her fingers. “You guys going out?”

  “What? No.” I sat back down and pressed my fingers against my temples. Evelyn lay across Anita’s legs and looked at me sideways. She drooled on Anita’s jeans.

  “I like Carl,” Evelyn said. She stuck her index finger into her nostril and dug.

  “OK, we are here for money.” Anita lifted Evelyn’s head off her knee. She stood up and stepped over me to get to the dresser. “Evelyn, close your eyes. Close your eyes. Now!” Evelyn scrunched her eyes shut, then covered her glasses with her sticky hands.

  Anita lifted up the dresser scarf and ran her hand underneath it. She moved her hand around and knocked over bottles of nail polish. She gathered the ends of the scarf and picked up all the jewelry and makeup in a clinking bundle and looked underneath. She set the bundle back down. She stood motionless with her back to us for a minute. Evelyn opened her eyes, and we stared at each other.

  Anita turned around. Her face was stiff. “Let’s go,” she said. “Let’s get the hell out of here. Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!”

  Evelyn rolled onto her back. “I don’t want to go.”

  Anita hauled her up by her arm. “Get your butt up. I’ve got to get out of here, or I am going to have a panic attack.” Anita threw her messenger bag over her shoulder, grabbed Evelyn’s hand, turned off the lights, and charged out of the room.

  “Shut my door,” she said over her shoulder. She ripped Evelyn’s jacket off the kitchen table as we walked through.

  Anita’s father had scooted to the edge of the couch and was yawning in the TV light. “Anita,” he said. “Anita . . .”

  “Bye, Dad. Be back soon,” she sang through the door as she locked it.

  She jogged down the hallway, dragging Evelyn behind her. “If I don’t get out of here, I’m going to explode.” She rode down the elevator with her eyes closed.

  Once we were out in the parking lot, she screamed, “Aaaaaaaaaack!” She covered Evelyn’s ears with her hands. “I love him but I hate him so much! He took my money! Thirty bucks. That’s two days in the Johnsons’ apartment at five in the morning, and it reeks like cat pee. I was saving up for another piercing. I already gave him twenty. He’ll say he had to get groceries. . . . I know he needs to buy stuff, but it’s not fair. God, it’s not fair! I hate my life! I got to run. . . .” She ran down the street, pulling Evelyn along.

  I jogged after them. I managed to run for two blocks, then had to stop and put my hands on my knees. Anita circled back and waited, shifting from foot to foot.

  “Where are we going?” I was wheezing and coughing up gunk that tasted like old cigarettes.

  “Carl’s. Carl is loaded.”

  “Carl’s her boyfriend,” said Evelyn. Her little baseball jacket was open over her chubby stomach. She was panting.

  “He’s not my boyfriend, Evelyn.”

  “We’re going to Carl’s?” The ground was littered with crushed cigarette butts. My nose was running and my head felt hollow, and it was all because I didn’t have a cigarette.

  “Carl plays at weddings and funerals a couple times a month. He’s rich. He’s saving up so he can move to Austin, but he’ll help us.” Anita turned, ready to take off again.

  I grabbed her arm. “Anita, stop. Why are we doing this? You hate Kristy.”

  Anita ran her fingers through her hair. She closed her eyes, took a breath, and opened them. “We have to save Yertle.”

  The expression on my face must have made her feel like she had to explain.

  “It’s excellent karma to help someone you hate. It’s a law of the universe.”

  Evelyn squinted up at Anita; her tiny nostrils were almost completely plugged with yellow crusts. Anita kissed Evelyn’s forehead. She pulled Evelyn against her stomach and cradled her until Evelyn wiggled away.

  “OK, I feel a little calmer. We can walk now,” said Anita. She straightened her messenger bag, snapped her jacket up, and took Evelyn’s hand. She took a few steps, stopped, reached back, and pulled me after her with her other hand. “Come on, come on, come on. . . .” The afternoon sun soaked the trees and rocky cliffs on the mountain in orange light.

  Carl Lancaster lived in Mountain View Estates in a two-story house with skylights. He lived only four blocks from Kristy and two houses down from Ray Ramirez. Anita marched straight up the walk. I said, “Are you sure Carl Lancaster lives here?”


  The house had a big green lawn, flower beds, and pots of pansies that had just been planted in black dirt. There was an old-fashioned lamppost in the yard. A flag decorated with a pink rabbit hung from a flagpole. A big straw mat painted with the word WELCOME in green ivy leaves lay in front of the door.

  Anita pushed the doorbell button, the door opened, and a lady smiled at us. She had Easter-egg-blue eyes and streaked hair that swung in a shiny curtain. She had large white teeth. She looked like a mom in an ad for dishwasher detergent.

  “Hello, Anita!” she said. “Carl will be so happy to see you. Good heavens, what have you done to your nose? And, my goodness, who is this? Is this the Evelyn I’ve heard so much about?”

  Anita pulled Evelyn around to face Carl’s mother. “Hello, Mrs. Lancaster. This is the famous Evelyn. And this is Leah, another friend of Carl’s.”

  “Hello, Leah!” She smiled joyfully, like I’d just presented her with a golden trophy. She crouched down and tilted her head. “Evelyn, would you like a cookie?” She took Evelyn’s hand. “Girls, would you mind taking off your shoes?”

  Evelyn kicked off her shoes and was led away.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Lancaster!” Anita and I left our shoes on a flowered mat and walked through the cleanest living room I had ever been in.

  Everything was beige or white. The carpet was thick and white. The couch had tight fat cushions and was piled with so many white pillows there was nowhere to sit. A big glass vase held two dried white flowers. A gold-framed painting of two swans floating in a bright-blue pond hung over the fireplace. There were coasters on the coffee table and a stack of large books with shiny covers — the book on top was Flowers of the World. A black piano with a raised lid stood in the corner.

  I had walked past this house hundreds of times, stared into its windows, heard the piano playing, and never once considered that Carl Lancaster might live here.

  “PTA mom. Carl’s an only child. She always wanted another. She’s lonely — Bob travels,” Anita said over her shoulder as we headed down a hallway. “I love Patty.”

  We passed a blue bathroom — there were folded towels and a shell-shaped blue soap in a little dish next to a blue sink. We went up some stairs. “I’ve been here a couple times before,” Anita said over her shoulder, and rapped on a door.

  “Come in.”

  Carl Lancaster sat at his computer. As we walked in, he rolled his chair around so that he faced us. “Good afternoon. Greetings and salutations,” he said in his deep voice. He played it cool. No surprise at all at finding Anita Sotelo and his lab partner in his bedroom.

  Anita sat on the end of his bed, crossed her legs, and said, “Shut the door.” I did and sat next to her.

  “Carl,” she said. “I’m not going to bother with small-talk shit. Leah has a problem she can’t tell us about, but she needs help to fix it.” She looked at me.

  “Yes. That’s the situation.”

  “Can I ask a question?” he said.

  “Sure.” said Anita, throwing out her hands.

  “Leah, what’s going on? Why do you treat me like that?”

  “Carl, we don’t have time to work out your relationship problems right now. . . .”

  “No, I need to know. Leah, you know what I’m talking about.”

  Anita covered her face with her hands. “OK! I’m going to the bathroom.” She scooted off the bed, banged out of the room, and left me alone with Carl Lancaster.

  I knew what he was talking about.

  I was sitting in Carl Lancaster’s bedroom. And Carl was sitting there with me, two feet away. There wasn’t even the possibility of invisibility. It was so weird to be in his bedroom. I felt scared and alive. I felt my aliveness in every cell.

  I lifted my face and looked at him. “I’m sorry.”

  He held my gaze. “Apology accepted.”

  “Thanks, Carl.” I let out a huge breath and my shoulders sank a little. My throat ached.

  “Now what?” he said.

  “Now what?”

  “Yeah, Leah. Now what?” He slowly swiveled in his chair and watched me. He was wearing a blue cotton shirt, open at the throat, the sleeves rolled halfway to his elbows. His eyes never left me.

  “What do you mean, Carl?” But I knew.

  “God, Leah!” He rolled around and stared at his screen saver and swallowed. He pushed himself back around to face me. He squinted and winced like it hurt to say it. “Do you like me? Or not? I would just like to clarify this. Because, Leah, I really, really . . .”

  “Yes, Carl,” I said. Anita rapped on the door and opened it.

  She sat back on the bed and bounced. Her eyes were bright. “Everything cool here? God, Carl, what a nice bathroom! I got the soap wet. It’s lavender scented. Smell.” She stuck her hand under my nose. “I used the lotion, too. And there’s super-soft toilet paper.”

  “Cool.” My face was hot. I could feel Carl watching me.

  Anita clapped. “OK, guys! Do you mind if we get back to the business at hand? I kind of love a crisis. Even though I don’t actually know what this crisis is . . . So, Carl, Leah has this problem. It involves Kristy Baker and potential harm that could come to her.” Anita raised her eyebrows and tilted her head.

  “Kristy Baker,” said Carl. “Kristy Baker?” The way he said her name suggested a long, ugly history.

  “Yes. Kristy Baker.” Anita pulled her hair over her shoulder and started braiding it.

  “And why does Kristy Baker,” he said, as if it tasted bad to say the sounds that made up the name Kristy Baker, “and her problem involve me or you or Leah?”

  “Well.” Anita crossed her legs. “Leah will explain, but she can’t really tell us much.”

  There was a rhythmic knock, the door swung open, and Carl’s mom poked her blond head in. “Sorry to interrupt, kids! Can I get you anything?” We all shook our heads. She gave Carl a strained smile and backed out, leaving the door open six inches.

  When we heard Mrs. Lancaster talking to Evelyn downstairs, Anita said, “Go ahead, Leah. Tell him. Explain a little.”

  Explain. Explain? How could I explain? I closed my eyes and caged my face in my fingers. “I quit smoking yesterday. I feel extremely sick.”

  “You quit yesterday? That’s terrific, Leah,” said Carl. “This is the worst part. You are at the most acute phase of withdrawal. In a few days, your body will have eliminated many of the toxins, and your cells will have become accustomed to the lack of nicotine. I did a science-fair project. . . .”

  “OK, Carl!” said Anita. The chair squeaked as Carl slowly swiveled back and forth. “Go ahead, Leah. Just give him a little clue about why you feel responsible.”

  Responsible. Responsible, responsible, responsible. I’d heard that word so many times in my life. If you say a word enough times, it loses its meaning, it just sounds like a strange noise. Was I responsible? How could I explain?

  Maybe I could explain that one night Kristy and Corinne and I were at 7-Eleven, but then I’d have to explain why I was there with them, and why I was friends with them, when Kristy and I actually sort of hated each other. That was too hard to explain. We were in the store and as we came out, there was a gorgeous guy standing there. He told Kristy that she was the sexiest woman he’d ever seen. How could I explain that? She’s tiny, she weighs ninety-three pounds, and she looks like she’s twelve. Kristy laughed and got in her car. I ran back to the store because we forgot to buy Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, and I’m always the one who goes back — that’s easily explained. As I went in the store, he touched my arm and gave me a matchbook. He said, “Give this to the blond girl. Tell her to call me.” But I didn’t give it to Kristy. I kept it. And I couldn’t explain why I did that. A week later, I called him. I couldn’t explain why I did that. Then he called and he started talking to a girl named Ashley. It was me. I was Ashley, but he saw Kristy in his head. Ashley was like a third girl who sort of existed and sort of didn’t. Ashley only existed when she talked to Mr. Corduroy. She was a gir
l with my feelings and thoughts, but she had a tiny skinny body and long blond hair, and a mother who was sick and a father, and they both loved her. She lived in a big house and had a room full of roses.

  I opened my eyes. I was in Carl Lancaster’s bedroom. Everything was boyish and classy. He had a big wooden desk with a stack of drawers on either side. I looked up at a poster of the galaxy, then down at the brown carpet.

  I began to feel numb. When things got really hard, I wanted to stop existing. “I need to talk to someone. . . . I need to use the same number as my old phone . . . so I can prevent something from happening. . . . Oh God, this is so humiliating.” I closed my eyes.

  “I’m conversant with the feeling,” said Carl. He drew his knees up and sat cross-legged in his desk chair. Anita rubbed my back for a few seconds, then put her hands between her knees and stared at the bedspread.

  “Who does this involve?” said Carl. He bit the end of a pen.

  “Kristy. This guy. Me.” And Ashley. But there was no Ashley. “There’s a misunderstanding. . . .”

  “OK, gotcha,” said Carl. He looked so serious and sad. “And when exactly did this incident take place?”

  Anita’s hands flew out. “Just let her talk!”

  “It’s not one incident. . . . It’s kind of been ongoing for a month or so. . . . OK, I’m done.”

  Carl rapped a pencil against his desk. I kept my eyes on the carpet. It had been just voices and dreams that ended when I snapped my phone shut. It hadn’t seemed real. I had pretended to be a girl who didn’t exist, who had never been born. And if Carl found out what I had done, he probably would not like me anymore. And that possibility, suddenly, almost killed me.

  Jeans stretched tight over a girl’s legs, one small hand held the other, a bent thumb, half-moon at the bottom of a pink nail, restlessly rubbed against the other thumb, and feet pressed together, obedient and ladylike, in navy-blue Vans. Was this me? Was I real? Was I sitting in Carl Lancaster’s bedroom? He squeaked back and forth, swiveling in his chair, and watched me with his steady eyes. Anita leaned her hard little head against mine.