Where I Live

by Brenda Rufener

Now it’s my turn to bump him with my knee. “You’re cute.”

  “Shut up,” he says, playfully.

  “Make me,” I say. Make me?

  Seung opens his mouth as if to offer the world’s greatest comeback, then says, “You make me.”

  But I don’t. I freeze. Because it’s the world’s greatest come-on.

  Seung eyes me. My knees lock. The corner of his mouth hikes up. I can’t stop looking at his mouth until I realize I can’t stop looking at his mouth. We stare at each other for eight seconds. How do I know? Because the room is so quiet I hear the wall clock tick eight times.

  Seung moves first. And by move, I mean combs his hair with his hand. The sudden movement makes me whip around and head toward my bag. Why I insist on pilgrimaging to my bag at a moment I could be kissing Seung is beyond me. I hear Seung exhale halfway across the room, and the sound makes my eyes blink long, squeeze hard.

  “Mr. George. Hey,” Seung says, and I whip around.

  Mr. George throws his keys at his desk. “Sit down. We need to talk.”

  I’m sure he means me, but Seung drops into a chair and says, “We need to talk to you, too.”

  A shine of sweat beads on Mr. George’s brow. He dabs it with a yellow handkerchief. “Who wrote that story, Linden? The one unapproved to publish. Was it you? Is it true?”

  Mr. George points at me and I struggle with my answers. I mean, no, the story isn’t mine because I didn’t write it, but yes, the subtext is fact. My name is nowhere on the piece, only in the comments.

  I need to say something. But what? Well, Mr. George, the story is true, but I didn’t write it? I’m not Anonymous? Seems simple, plausible, but for some reason I can’t form the right words. Those explaining the facts. Instead, a familiar jab pokes my gut. The sting of sympathy. This isn’t my story to tell. If Bea didn’t want her name known, I sure as hell won’t reveal it.

  I shove my chair back and it squeaks across the floor. My bag is out of reach, so I extend my leg and loop the strap over my foot. Mr. George is still waiting for an answer I won’t give. He’s tapping his pen on paper, and his patience is at a low level.

  I lift my bag with my foot and swing it toward me. Breaking rule #2 from beginning to end.

  My backpack tips, falls, spills.

  “Whoops,” I say, stepping on my deodorant and stumbling to one knee.

  “Linden,” Mr. George says. “Are you listening?”

  I yank at my bag’s strap to settle my belongings to the bottom. Then, because I’m distracted, unfocused, too busy thinking about Seung’s mouth and how it would feel against mine, I swing my bag over my shoulder, upside down.

  Hey, Linden, there’s your other bra.

  Beans.

  Balls of brown paper towels.

  Your toothbrush.

  Plastic bags packed with bacon.

  And biscuits from breakfast.

  Dumped on the floor in front of me. The rest behind, and off to the side.

  I’m on all fours, scooping everything I own into my backpack. Everything I wish I didn’t see. Everything that screams Linden Rose = Homeless.

  Seung squats to help, and I snap, “No!”

  He jumps up, twirling my underwear around his index finger.

  Here’s me, trying to keep my shit together after I failed to keep my shit together.

  I reach for my underwear and Seung jerks his hand back. I watch for a smile, wink, or wisecrack. Silence. Until the cogwheels whirl in his head.

  “Linden?” Mr. George says. “For God’s sake. Time to spill it.”

  I already did.

  I yank my underwear from Seung’s fist and stuff it into my bag. This time I remember to zip.

  “Can we talk later?” I ask, refusing eye contact with Seung, who is refusing to look anywhere but dead into my eyes.

  Chapter Nineteen

  SEUNG TAGS ME IN THE hall. I pick up speed and lose him at the turn.

  I’m already dodging Mr. George, or at least prolonging our meeting. Mr. George said we needed to talk about why my name came up in response to that article, but I told him I needed to speak with someone else first. I patted Mr. George’s hand and told him not to worry. This isn’t my story to share, and it’s unfair to Bea for me to share anything. And now Seung demands answers, too, but for more personal reasons.

  I go left. Seung darts right. “Linden!” he shouts.

  “Seung!” a voice calls from down the hall.

  It echoes again. “Seung. Seung.”

  I turn and see Bea, waving her arm. Seung stops, pivots, and plunges into a chemistry classroom. He has trig. Bea turns around, her nose pointing at her ballet flats. When the crowd clears, I charge after her.

  “Bea!” I shout.

  She looks over. Her eyes are wet. She starts to shuffle away.

  “Bea?”

  “Not now,” she snaps.

  “Please. Now,” I beg.

  I watch as Seung bounces out of the wrong classroom and scoots along the wall toward trigonometry. He glances over his shoulder, sees Bea, and picks up speed. Basically, Seung’s walking faster than he drives. Bea watches me lose interest in her and whips back around. As soon as she sees Seung, she sprints after him, shouting his name.

  “Need to talk!” I yell after her. “Mr. George has questions.”

  She turns the corner and I pound the locker with my heel. My foot slips on paper, and when I look at the ground, there’s another ten-dollar bill stuck to my shoe. I check to see if anyone is watching, then stuff the money into my pocket and race to class.

  The beginning of first period is full of whispers.

  I notice right away that Reed is absent. I also see that Bea didn’t make it to class. I wonder if she found Seung. I wonder if he’s hiding in the restroom, knees tucked to his chest on a toilet seat, while Bea calls his name.

  Kristen races into the classroom and jabs my shoulder with her pencil. “Ohmygod, Linden,” she says while whisking by me. “Whatthehellishappening? Whatthehelliswrong?”

  I hold up my hands. “It’s not what you think,” I whisper. “Just stay away from the comments.”

  Shoulder jabs continue. First from Jarrell. Then from Toby.

  Only Jarrell is gentle when he taps my back with his finger. He says, “Do you want me to walk you to your next class?” He motions to the students with cupped hands, whispering my name. They wonder how and why I’m singlehandedly taking down their hometown hero. I shake my head, and Jarrell shrugs his shoulders and smiles. He says, “Can you tell me how Ham’s doing? He hasn’t returned my calls.”

  Toby taps my shoulder hard, then pounds his fist on my desk. “Is this a sick joke, Linden? You’re fucking with Bea on purpose?”

  I exhale and turn toward T.P. I jump when I’m met with a giant ball of fire. “Holy shit! What, uh, what the hell happened to you?” In the light of day, his face is striped like candy corn. White forehead, bright orange face, yellowish chin.

  Toby glares, but his beady eyes don’t strike the fear they once did. How could they? They’re missing outlines, punctuation, or as most people call them, eyebrows. His hair, or at least what’s left on his head, is neon, and even his neck looks sun kissed.

  “You know what happened,” Toby says with a grunt. And I do, somewhat, but Ham’s going to need to fill in a few details. Like how he was able to shave the initials T.P. above Toby’s browline.

  Mr. Dique taps the board with his pointer as a cue to sit down, shut up. I decide to do the opposite. I stand and say, “Mr. D., I have to go. Mr. George needs me.” I don’t wait for his answer. I’m too busy racing for the door.

  I slip into the vacant newsroom, ready to process my thoughts, alone. I don’t know what to do, or if I should do anything at all. So what if people think I’m the girl Reed hurt? The truth causes me no pain. The lies hurt her more.

  Seung barges through the door, shouting, “Bea won’t leave me alone. I can’t take it anymore, Linden! I’m a hot-girl magnet and I can only handle one h
ot girl at a time.”

  Seung swings his backpack into a chair, on the other side of the room, and continues his rant. “I can’t handle this, Linden. Bea’s everywhere I look. And it tears me in half because I know she needs a friend. I’m just not the right guy for the job.” Seung holds his hand to his chest. “Besides, I have you to worry about. I don’t have time to care for Bea. She has a boyfriend. A rather big, Cyclops-ish boyfriend who’s been dipped in orange dye thanks to Ham and his revenge plot. And don’t even get me started on that psychotic, poetry-puking ex-boyfriend—”

  I interrupt Seung. “What about ‘time to stand up and fight’? Isn’t that what you proclaimed after T.P. tried to run you over? Destroy your enemy and make them your friend? What about Seung Freaking 2.0?”

  Seung rolls his eyes, his head. He mumbles, “What about Seung?” He spins around on his heel, saying, “Linden? I said I have you to worry about. I’ve always had you to worry about.”

  I swallow, knowing what’s coming next.

  Seung frowns. “Why do you carry so much shit in your backpack?”

  Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes, head, everything.

  I clench my teeth and the word “preparedness” pushes its way out. I clamp my mouth shut before another lie slips and slithers. Lying to Seung makes me weak. And while there’s an assumption that homelessness falls upon the weak, it is not for the weak, or the unprepared.

  “What are you preparing for, Linden? End of days?” Seung’s eyes smile but there’s something in them, a flicker, a flash, a snapshot of this moment that prevents me from smiling back.

  I turn around in my chair and stare into the blank computer screen. Seung exhales and I shut my eyes. I refuse to say anything for fear it will come out as a lie. I’m sick of lying, hiding, withholding the truth.

  Seung deserves better. He deserves the truth.

  The truth that will set me free, piss him off, or maybe both.

  I want to share my past with Seung. Tell him about my mother. That a monster killed her, because he wanted to and could. My head tells me my past is irrelevant to my future, that it merely paved the way. But I feel it gripping my ankles and dragging me behind with every step I take. I shouldn’t be afraid. My past made me who I am today. But the fear of losing my future to my past terrifies me.

  “No comment?” Seung pushes.

  No words escape. They’re huddled in the corner, shivering, shaking, afraid to crawl out.

  Seung sighs. “Being truthful won’t get you a lot of friends, Linden, but it will always get you those who matter most.”

  I wait for my tears to draw lines on my face. When I turn around, he’s gone.

  The one who matters most.

  Chapter Twenty

  “WHAT IF I TOLD YOU my parents think I’m gay?” Ham’s announcement in the food line at Cheese Country is anything but subtle. In fact, when I look around the restaurant, all eyes stick to Ham. He’s alive and loud and oozing everything I love about him. My big, juicy Ham. “Are you listening to me, Linden? Gay.”

  “I’d say you have perceptive parents?” Ham notices my uptalk, and his eyes widen.

  I step to the counter. “I’m buying. What do you want?” I wave two ten-dollar bills, found outside Mr. Dique’s door.

  Ham waves. “I have a fifty burning a hole in my pocket. Besides, I need change for the soda machine.” He shoves in front of me and orders two chili dogs, two baskets of cheesy fries, and two sides of ranch dressing. “What do you want, Linden?”

  “No thanks. I’ll get my own.” I’ll also figure out another way to pay back the debt I owe. What price do you pay for leaving your best friend naked, alone, and presumably dead?

  When we find a table that isn’t covered in crumbs, Ham revs up again.

  “Want to know what I told my parents?”

  I do, but I can’t stop thinking about the secret I’m keeping from Ham, from Seung, from those who matter most.

  “They think Seung and I, you know, we’re together.” Ham chomps a fry with force.

  I smile. “But Seung’s not your type.”

  Ham slaps the table. “Exactly!” He launches a fry at my chest and grins, all teeth, until I pick the fry from my sweatshirt, dip it into the communal ranch, and shove it into my mouth.

  “They’re clueless, though. I mean, they think they have me all figured out. But I’m multifaceted, Linden. I’ve many secrets they’d love to know.”

  “So I’ve heard.” I smile and my eyes start to sting. “God, Ham. I thought I lost you homecoming night.”

  Ham groans and holds a palm to my face. “Not again, Linden. Go back to smiling. Your tears are beginning to make me self-conscious.”

  I chuckle. Ham, self-conscious?

  He smiles, reading my mind. “I know. Foreign concept. But stop. Now.”

  I dunk another fry in dressing. “So I finally saw Toby, in the light of day, looking like an oversized Cheeto. Tell me, how did you tape Toby to the toilet?”

  “Scotch,” Ham says. “And a lot of it.”

  “And the plan backfired when he sobered up?”

  Ham shakes his head. “It was a backfiring that almost killed Ham.” He pops another fry into his mouth. “Actually, it was when I returned to the scene of the crime, after I saw you. Remorse overtook me. I should have known not to go back, Linden. Those movies we watch misled Ham.”

  I roll my eyes but could not care less if Ham refers to himself in first, second, or third person. I’m in love with every layer.

  “I thought duct tape held the universe together,” he says. “It’s used in practically all Mafia movies. But it couldn’t hold a drunk Toby Patters to a toilet, now, could it? He nearly made me a pancake when he escaped and tried to pin me to the building with his truck. Thankfully I’m quick. I was able to dart, fast. He only clipped my side, but the impact slammed me into the wall, knocked me out. Can you imagine if he’d actually hit me head-on, Linden? The irony. Ham, a pancake.”

  I smile. “I’m just glad you’re alive.”

  “Had Toby not risen from his drunken slumber, he’d be bald instead of blotchy.”

  “He sure is orange,” I say.

  “Hair dye works wonders. So does bronzer.”

  I smile and repeat, “So happy you’re alive.”

  Ham nods. “Lived to tell the tale. Didn’t even need to execute the entire plan, thanks to my near death.”

  “Don’t tell me there was more.”

  “Photos taken but not needed. Going to keep them safe, though, just in case. But the accident seems to have made Toby remorseful. I don’t think he’ll be bothering any of us anymore.”

  The bells on the door jingle.

  “Buddy!” Ham yells. “We were just talking about you. How you’re so not my type.”

  Seung glances in our direction, but he’s staring at Ham, avoiding me. Bea and Beth file behind him. Jarrell follows, but he’s not with Bea. I wonder if Seung is.

  “Scoot over. Make room,” Ham says.

  “You scoot over.” My words hiss.

  Ham stuffs a scoop of chili minus the dog into his mouth and frowns.

  Seung slides into the booth next to me and bumps my leg with his. I plaster myself against the wall. Seung hasn’t said more than three words to me since he declared he was the one who mattered most . . . or that I was the one who mattered most. All I know now is that he matters more than I’m willing to accept, and I’m not sure how to handle my next move.

  Jarrell walks by and knocks on our table. Ham jumps up and follows Jarrell to a booth in the back of the restaurant, leaving me alone with Seung and piles of food.

  Bea and Beth walk over.

  Bea smiles at Seung, waiting for him to look up and invite her to sit down, but he’s busy swirling ketchup and mayo, watching the drips and drops hit his plate. Seung’s channeling Jackson Pollock, refusing to look up.

  Bea taps her foot, clears her throat, and smiles larger than should be physically possible. Seung stares at his plate, mix
ing media, perfecting his condiment masterpiece.

  “Hi, Bea,” I say to snuff the awkwardness out of the atmosphere. “Had a chance to talk to Mr. George yet?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Talk to him about what?” Beth asks.

  “I’ll take care of the misunderstanding,” Bea says.

  “What misunderstanding?” Beth asks.

  I nod, wanting to believe Bea. I mean, I know what it’s like to wear a mask, hide in plain sight, but who am I to ask her to clean up a mess she never made in the first place? People assume I’m the girl, Anonymous, because of a single comment. Is it Bea’s job to come clean, for me?

  “You know,” I say, “forget about it.”

  “Forget about what?” Beth asks.

  Bea’s eyes lock on Seung, and pity punches my gut. Bea’s never made things easy for me. A part of me hated her for treating me the way she did, but then that other part—the part that found her in the bathroom dabbing at broken skin, the part that found her in the bedroom huddled against the wall—experiences the same pains and hurts she does. I was there, huddled against the wall, while my mother died. My pain may not be external, but it’s real.

  Bea ogles Seung, willing him to rescue her. I drop my head, sad that Bea doesn’t know she already initiated the rescue mission herself when she published that anonymous article. She doesn’t need someone else to do the job.

  Seung stares at his plate, stiff armed and not at all ready for his knight-in-shining-armor role.

  The scene is agonizing to watch. Bea staring at Seung. Seung staring at his plate. Bea sighing. Seung tightening. Finally I toss a half-eaten fry onto the table and say, “For shit’s sake, sit. Seung, scoot your ass.”

  I yank Seung’s pants, pulling his leg toward mine. He plants his feet and grips the table, unwilling to budge. Beth drops onto the edge of the booth opposite us, while Bea stands by Seung, waiting for him to move. I admire her persistence but wish her affection were directed at someone else, someone other than Seung.

  “Seung,” I whisper and tug at his pants. “Scoot over.” As much as I’d prefer Bea buzzing at a different table, the disappointment in her eyes makes me pull harder on Seung’s pants. “Move. Seung. Now.”