Let Me List the Ways

by Sarah White

  “It’s complicated,” he answered after a pause. I waited for him to elaborate but he didn’t.

  “I thought parents were supposed to keep the rules the same for all of their kids. Why would you be treated different?”

  “That’s what society tells you. Parents should parent all children the same way, but not all kids are the same. My parents make things fair, and making things fair doesn’t necessarily mean treating us the same.”

  I leaned up onto my side, turning to him and propping my head on my hand. “What do you mean?”

  He turned to me, rolling onto his side too so that we were facing each other. “I don’t have trouble with school, right?” I nodded, agreeing with him. “Seth does. He doesn’t study well and can’t pay attention. If things were the same, Seth and I would have the same rules about our grades. If that were true, it wouldn’t be fair. Like if my parents didn’t make him work with a tutor, he’d probably fail English. What’s fair is that we both have the same opportunities, not the same expectations and goals.”

  “I don’t understand how that would relate to you dating someone. I’ve never heard them give you rules about who you’re allowed to date and who you aren’t.” I tucked my hair behind my ear when the wind sent it flying into my face.

  “I have rules.” He smiled and I felt a little left out. How come he had never told me about them?

  “What rules do they have for you?”

  “What rules do your parents have for you?” he countered. Fine, I’d bite.

  “I guess that depends on if we’re talking about written or unwritten rules.” I thought he would ask me to clarify, but he only smiled. “The written rules would be my curfew, where he’s taking me, and of course how old he would be.”

  “And the unwritten rules?”

  “No criminals. No sex. No eloping. Let me think.” I looked up to the sky, trying to gather my thoughts. “No one who wouldn’t respect me or them.” I looked back to him. “Now your turn. Written first.”

  “Curfew, distance, budget, and sex.”

  “Sex is something you guys talk about? You haven’t mentioned discussing sex with your parents since your dad gave you that awkward talk in fifth grade.” I laughed softly.

  “That was really terrible, wasn’t it?” He had told me about it the night it had happened. He said his dad had explained everything to him in a rush of words and quick hand gestures. He’d been totally embarrassed and swore it was all going to traumatize him forever. “Yes, in my house we talk about sex. I am not to be having any of it.” He laughed.

  “Okay, the unwritten ones.” His face fell for a minute. There was a seriousness that seemed odd in this conversation. I almost took it back, but he tapped my nose and answered.

  “Respect boundaries. Be a good example for your brothers. And don’t ruin what years have built.”

  “What years have built? You mean reputations?”

  “Something like that,” he said with a noncommittal shrug of one shoulder. “Are you ready to get this campout started?”

  My lips curled with a smile and I sat up, unsure what I would need to do to make that happen. “What’s up first?” I asked as Nolan reached into his bag.

  “Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark!” He pulled out a tattered old book that instantly transported me back to our childhood. We must have read that thing a million times since he had gotten it one year for his birthday. We brought it to every campout and every family vacation. It had been a long time since I’d seen it and it made me wonder how we ever got out of the habit of having it around.

  “I’ve missed that book.”

  “Well, apparently we scared the crap out of my brother with it because I had to search the whole house for it and only found it when he admitted he’d put it under his bed after the trip to San Diego. Remember when we had him convinced a corpse was coming after him because he thought Seth had something of his?”

  “I do remember that!” I laughed. “We got in so much trouble for that. My mom told me I was going to be grounded until he wasn’t afraid to sleep in his own room anymore.”

  “Two weeks,” Nolan says. “It took him two weeks to forget about it.” He set the book between us and then reached into his bag for a flashlight. We probably could have seen the words with just the candlelight, but it was always more scary to tell a story with a bright light shining up eerily from your chin.

  We took turns reading the old stories, mostly laughing instead of being scared. It’s weird what a few years had done to change the emotions each story provoked. I wasn’t terrified out of my mind. It was more like I was wrapped up warm in the comfort of nostalgia. Telling those stories with Nolan would always be some of my favorite memories.

  When we’d gotten through the best stories, I asked, “How about I check myself so we can have some snacks?” I pulled my bag closer and retrieved my kit. He kept the light on me so I could read my number. He used to do that for me when we were kids too.

  When I had my kit tucked back away, he pulled out graham crackers, marshmallows, a Hershey bar, and two long wooden sticks. “S’mores?” I asked as he set a small kerosene burner between us.

  “Of course. I don’t think we’ve ever camped without them.” He lit the burner and stabbed a marshmallow with the wooden stick. He handed it over to me across the flame and then prepared one for himself. We held them over the small flame until they bubbled and the edges were barely brown. Then he helped me squish the pieces together, and I wasn’t sure I’d ever eaten a s’more more delicious than that one.

  “What’s your best guess?” I asked when I finished the treat. I reached for my pump and pulled up the menu.

  “Twenty-three.” He answered too quickly for it to have been a guess.

  “You looked that up, didn’t you?” I typed in the carbs and administered the insulin.

  “Maybe,” he answered, stuffing the last bite into his mouth.

  “Aren’t you looking forward to when we go to college and you can have friendships that won’t involve math?” I licked a little chocolate off my finger.

  “I guess I never really thought about it.” He looked at me a minute. “It’s not like it makes being friends with you difficult. You don’t ask me to count your carbs or help in any way.”

  “I know, but you always do.” I folded my hands together and set them in my lap, unsure what I should be doing with them while we talked.

  “Are you looking forward to making new friends who won’t know as much as I do about it so they won’t worry?”

  It was the first time he’d ever really admitted to worrying about me. I knew that already, of course, but I guess hearing him say it out loud stung a little. I hated the idea that I was someone anyone had to worry about, let alone Nolan.

  “Do you ever wish it was different between us? How tangled up in each other’s lives we are, I mean.”

  “No,” he answered right away. “I like it the way it is. You shouldn’t try to fix what isn’t broken. I worry about you because I care about you. I like that I know about diabetes so that I can help you. I think it would be far scarier if I didn’t understand it. After all, could I ever really understand you if I knew nothing about what you were living with?”

  “But what if we had just met later in life?” I untangled my hands and then tangled them back up again. “Maybe we would have just bumped into each other at school or while we were out with other friends. Could you imagine how different everything would be if you hadn’t saved my life that day—if it had been someone else?” It was something I had been tossing around in my head for years. I needed to know if he’d ever done that too. If we had not been friends first, would he have wanted to get to know me in another way?

  “What if we were just acquaintances or kids who sat next to each other in class? Maybe we would never figure out how good we are as friends. Then I wouldn’t know that you get forgetful when you’re low, or that your middle finger hurts less to prick than the others. I wouldn’t know that you get a
little sweaty and your thoughts tend to race when your blood sugar is high. I wouldn’t know that you hate when you have to change your pump site or that you get super excited but really stressed when it’s time to pick a new pump. If we had met some other time, maybe I wouldn’t know anything about that part of you. I think I would have wanted to have found all of that out. I think we were destined to be friends.”

  I released my hands, feeling the weight of a very heavy sadness rest on my chest. I wanted him to know about me and I wanted to know everything about him too. Even if we had met much later than we did, I also believed the result would be the same. It wasn’t really about when or how we met; it was about who he was as a person and the Nolan I knew loved and cared about me. All roads would always lead to us becoming friends.

  Twenty-Two

  SUNDAY WAS ROUGH since we had stayed up most of the night talking and laughing like we always did. We waited until the last possible moment to blow out the candles and then Nolan made sure I was zipped up and tucked in as tight as possible in my sleeping bag so the bugs couldn’t get to me. It was peaceful as we listened to the hum of cars passing in the distance and gazed at the stars above us. Sometimes when the world feels like it’s spinning too fast and the years are slipping by too quickly, it just takes a night in the dark beneath the stars to feel it all slow down again.

  What I didn’t expect was to be woken up by his automatic sprinklers at six in the morning. I had been dreaming about shopping for shoes when I became aware of a tsk, tsk, tsk in the background. Then the sound had grown more insistent and the shoes I’d been trying on felt wet. Really wet. Finally my name being called in a panic caused me to wake up and realize we were right in the center of the yard, which was currently being soaked by his sprinklers.

  Nolan was trying hard to call to me as he climbed out of his soggy sleeping bag. He started tucking anything he could into it before dragging it off the grass and onto the deck. I jumped from my bag and followed, squealing as one particularly vindictive sprinkler followed me, spraying harshly as I tried to escape its wrath.

  After the sprinklers finally shut off and I was safe to make my way across the yard to my house, I gave Nolan a hug and told him we’d catch up later after a long nap. I made the trek home and left my wet clothes in the bathroom when I snuggled into a fresh pair of pajamas and headed to my warm, bug-free bed.

  When I woke up a few hours later, I pulled our napkin out of my kit and reread each item again. Last night had been perfect and I was already looking forward to checking the next thing off the list.

  On Monday, Nolan had an MRI. It took a few days for his doctor to get the results, but by the time we were sitting in his follow-up appointment on Friday, he was able to learn he had not torn his shoulder, but there was a lot of inflammation around his old injury. It didn’t require more surgery, but it did require him to take it easy until it could heal. He was already feeling much better, but the doctor gave him a shot of steroids right into his shoulder and then urged him to keep it iced and not pitch for at least one more week. I knew out of all the information he was given, not being able to pitch would be the hardest to receive.

  Henry was one of the team’s other pitchers. He and Nolan often battled for the position, which led to a lot of rivalry and ugly words tossed between them. When Nolan told the coach on Friday what his doctor had told him that morning, Henry had gloated about his increased time on the pitching mound due to Nolan’s absence. He might have played nice when we were all at the beach, but now the gloves were off. He thought he was God’s gift to everyone and that we should all be so honored he was playing baseball at our school. His parents jumped right in and were of course the president and vice president of his hypothetical fan club. You know the type; the ones who insisted their child be played above others and talked about his future in the major leagues.

  Nolan’s parents had tried to make friends with them at the beginning of their freshman year, but couldn’t stand listening to them talk about their kid nonstop, all while putting Nolan’s playing down. The friendship had ended before the season had, and there was a clear line drawn in the bleachers that both families knew not to cross. It was just best if the two didn’t mix together.

  In a matter of a few hours, social media was blowing up with the news of Nolan’s injury. Henry was telling everyone about it, and to make things worse, he was exaggerating the extent of it and causing a bit of hysteria among Nolan’s friends and fans of the school’s baseball team. Stories about multiple surgeries, career-ending injuries, and metal pins were circulating quicker than Nolan could refute them. His parents made the decision to call USC and keep them in the loop so that they would not become aware of his injury over the social media sites.

  I was watching my friend’s frustration build and build without any outlet or release because of the large spotlight on him and the consequences he’d suffer if he acted out in any way. Henry knew Nolan couldn’t retaliate without risking his scholarship or facing other consequences with the team.

  I was sitting on my kitchen counter again late Friday night, sipping on a juice before heading to bed. Nolan was pacing, irritated that he had to give the starting pitcher position up to Henry for a game he’d really been looking forward to pitching in. I knew better than to say anything and just let him vent. He stopped midsentence when he discovered the foil-covered pan of brownies my mom had made earlier. “Brownies?” he asked, his voice sounding hopeful for the first time all day.

  “Yup. They’re even iced.” I jumped down off the counter and pulled back the corner of the foil.

  He held his hand over his heart. “I love your mom.”

  I grabbed us two paper plates from the cupboard and two forks and a knife from the drawer beneath the pan. I cut us each a piece of brownie and then leaned back and rested against the counter as I ate the gooey deliciousness.

  “Do you think he’ll go to bed early tonight?” I asked, my words muffled a little due to the thick chocolate. I looked down at my pump, remembering I’d need to cover myself, but my hands were full. Nolan reached for my pump with one hand while balancing his brownie plate with the other. He typed in something and turned it toward me so I could check the amount of carbs he had guessed for the brownie I was eating. When I nodded, he administered the insulin and tucked my pump back into my pouch.

  “Who?”

  “Henry. Do you think he’ll go to bed early tonight so that he’ll be rested for the game?” I cut another bite and slid it between my teeth.

  “Probably.” Nolan cut a much bigger piece of his brownie and scooped it into his mouth.

  “Then let’s cross another thing off our list while you get your vengeance. It kind of kills two birds with one stone.” I finished off my brownie and rinsed my fork in the sink.

  “That’s brilliant.” He moved in behind me and rinsed his fork too. We put both of them into the dishwasher and tossed our paper plates in the trash.

  I looked over Nolan’s light gray shorts and bright white shirt. What he was wearing would give us away for sure. “Let’s change and meet up in front in fifteen minutes. We have to go get the toilet paper and then pretend to be going to sleep.”

  “I like your thinking,” he said, tapping my head lightly with his finger. “I’ll see you outside.”

  It was just after midnight when I managed to quietly escape my house. I was dressed completely in black except for my shoes. I had my hood up over my hair and was standing by his truck when I heard him step up behind me. He was dressed in dark jeans, a dark hoodie, and a pair of dark skate shoes.

  He put his finger over his lips to signal for me to be quiet and I nodded. He grabbed my hand and tugged me around to the driver’s side. As quietly as possible, he opened the door and whispered for me to get inside.

  “Put it in neutral and keep your foot on the brake until I start pushing. I’m going to push it down the driveway and I need you to steer it out and onto the road.” He put the keys in my lap and then closed the door the
best he could without letting it shut completely and make a sound. I put my foot on the brake and turned the key to on. Next, I shifted the truck into neutral and lifted my foot from the brake. I began to roll down the driveway and worked hard to steer the truck straight onto the road. When I was fully out and facing the right way, Nolan moved to the back of the truck and pushed us the length of four houses with his good shoulder pressed against the tailgate.

  “Okay, scoot over,” he instructed as he opened my door. I climbed across the center and into my seat, laughing a little at how much toilet paper was in the back of his truck.

  When we pulled onto Henry’s street, Nolan cut the lights and parked a few houses away. We waited and watched for a minute, but there was no activity happening inside. The lights were all off and there hadn’t been a car driving down the small street since we’d been there. “Let’s start with the tree,” Nolan whispered across the cab. We slipped out of the truck, letting the doors slowly close without latching. Nolan grabbed one of our large cases of toilet paper and we left the other two in the bed of his truck. There had to be over one hundred rolls.

  In Henry’s yard, Nolan got his roll out before I could and took a few steps back from where we had set the case at the trunk of the tall tree in front of the house. He let a long strand of paper unravel before throwing the roll up into the tree and watching the white paper stream down toward the ground.

  I got my roll out and joined him, tossing it over the branch and then chasing it when it bounced into the street. Within twenty minutes, long white strands hung everywhere there used to be open space. I couldn’t even see Nolan anymore; he was lost somewhere on the other side of the toilet paper jungle. After another fifteen minutes, it passed up beautiful and headed straight for amazing. Roll after roll of toilet paper was flung into the tree, and the result was nothing less than spectacular.

  Once we were finished with the tree, we wrapped the bushes like we were sending them somewhere far away. Not one leaf stuck out from beneath our strands. We still had some rolls left, so we sat down in the center of his lawn and began ripping the paper directly from the roll, creating short strands of paper and then tossing them over our heads onto the lawn. It didn’t take long for the entire front landscaping to be covered in a layer of toilet paper snow. Various lengths and thicknesses added to the natural look of the paper as it dipped with the terrain beneath it and rose with the rocks and small hedges.