Someone Who Will Love You in All Your Damaged Glory

by Raphael Bob-Waksberg

  It was unclear whether he was answering your question or trying to change the subject, but either way you felt like you should say something, so you said, “I won’t outgrow you.”

  And he said, “Yeah, you will, because if you don’t, that just means you’re as fucked-up in the brain as I am.” And he chuckled softly to himself and he looked over at you and gave you a crooked smile, the kind of crooked smile you’d previously seen only on your father and yourself, and in that moment your heart just about melted and FACT: You had never in your life wanted anything as much as you now wanted to be, immediately and forever, as fucked-up in the brain as your brother was.

  “Why don’t you take your shirt off at the beach?” you asked.

  West shook his head. “I burn real easy. I get super-pink.”

  “Did you know flamingos get pink because of the food they eat? They eat a lot of shrimp, which makes their feathers grow in like that.”

  “Huh?” West spun his head to look at you, violently confused. “Oh, shit. Is this because I said you were smart last night, and now you have to like be the smart one all the time? You know, that’s the problem with teenagers—you decide what you are, and then like you can’t be anything else.”

  “No, that’s not—”

  “That exact mentality fucked me up when I was a kid, because I convinced myself I was an alcoholic—so for like five years, I never drank, or if I did drink I drank a lot, you know, because if I was already drinking, I might as well be ‘that guy’ that everyone already thought I was, but then one day, I was just like, ‘What the fuck am I doing?’ And now I just drink and it’s not a big deal, you know?”

  And you said, “I’m sorry. I just really like facts.”

  “Oh yeah?” West squinted at you over his sunglasses and you found new corners of yourself to sink into. He took a final drag off his cigarette and threw the butt in the sand. “I’ve got a fact for you. You know elephants?”

  And you said, “Yeah,” as if he were actually asking whether you knew what elephants were.

  “Well, elephants have really sensitive feet, did you know that?”

  You shook your head.

  “They can feel things coming from miles away. They can feel a stampede or whatever from the vibrations in the ground, and they actually communicate with each other that way, from like way the hell off, through vibrations in the ground. I like to think about that whenever I’m far away from people. You know, it’s like whenever you get lost, just remember to keep your feet on the ground.”

  “That’s really nice,” you said, “but I don’t believe you.”

  And he laughed and said, “Why not?”

  You took a sip from your virgin daiquiri and said, “I think you’re a liar.”

  “Let’s ask her,” West said, nodding at a skinny but wide-hipped girl in a red-and-white-striped two-piece, walking along the beach.

  You’d noticed the skinny but wide-hipped girl at the resort before. The previous night at the bar, she sat by herself at a nearby table while West gave you a lecture on early-nineties grunge music. You could feel her looking at you—you could feel her trying not to look at you—and you felt like how Erin Tyler must have felt at that sleepover party when she told the story about visiting her cousin in San Francisco during Fleet Week and letting the sailor touch her breasts in the parking lot of the Whole Foods. The event itself was not all that exciting or romantic, but you’d never know it from the giggling envy it brought out in the other girls. You’d wished those other girls could see you with West, wished they could trade places with the skinny but wide-hipped girl and see you holding court with this man eight years your senior, this overflowing mess of an adult.

  And now the skinny but wide-hipped girl was walking past you and very obviously (to you, at least) trying not to betray how desperately she wanted to be invited into your private club. West got up and jogged toward her, forgetting apparently how much his foot was supposed to hurt, and you shouted, laughing, “Don’t talk to him; he’s a liar!”

  West said to the girl, “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  “I heard you’re a liar,” she said.

  And he shrugged and said, “That’s a risk you’ll have to take. Hey, how old are you anyway?”

  “How old am I?”

  “Yeah, I mean, don’t you know?”

  And she sized him up and said, “I’m eighteen.”

  And West said, “Great. That’s perfect.”

  Her name was Jordan. She was visiting from Denver with her grandparents and her twin younger brothers she affectionately(?) referred to as the “Booger Patrol.” She had a boyfriend back home, Clark, and she had never heard the thing about the elephants’ feet.

  “I swear to God I thought there was no one at the resort my age,” she said to West, even though you were the one there who was her age. “I’ve been going up and down the beach; everyone here is either a little kid or an old man.”

  You tried to place Jordan, using the girls from your high school as references. She was a little bit Katie Connor, with Stephanie Pierson’s nervous laugh and Sara Stone’s seeming inability to shut up about starting at Northwestern in the fall.

  “Northwestern’s perfect for me because it’s like in the city, but it’s not in the city in the city, so you kind of get the best of both worlds.”

  West rolled his eyes and took a drag from his cigarette. “Cool. Have a great time in college.”

  “What’s wrong with college?” Jordan asked.

  He shook his head. “Nothing. A lot of really rich and outwardly successful people went to college.”

  You found that stupidly hilarious and you let out a surprised chortle. You weren’t sure if you were laughing at him or laughing at her, but you knew they didn’t know either, and you found that fact even more weirdly hilarious.

  And when West left to take a leak in the ocean (because “those kids are just asking to get peed on”), Jordan said, “What’s the story with your stepbrother?”

  And you said, “What’s his story?”

  And she said, “Yeah, I mean, is he always like that?”

  And you said, “Actually, West is my half brother.”

  And she said, “Oh. Sorry.”

  * * *

  —

  Monday you spent on the beach.

  Jordan found you after breakfast. “The Booger Patrol was being a real pain in the ass this morning,” she said, opening a Corona.

  “Yeah,” West said. “Little siblings are the worst,” and he winked at you.

  Jordan squinted at the horizon. “Do you want to go in the water?”

  “Yeah,” you said.

  “You two go,” said West. “I’ll watch.”

  Jordan ran ahead and dove into a wave; you waded in after her. “Don’t splash me,” you said, and then immediately felt stupid. “I mean, don’t splash me on purpose.”

  Jordan dunked her head and popped back up. “Did you see those college guys that are staying here? What’s their story?”

  You shrugged. “I think they’re in a frat or something.”

  She nodded thoughtfully, taking in the information and mulling it over like the key to some puzzle. “Some of them are pretty cute. We should set you up with one.”

  “I don’t know. They seem kind of dumb.”

  Jordan cackled. “Yeah, but it’s not like you’re going to marry them. If they’re dumb, that’s actually even better, because you’ll spend less time talking and more time hooking up.”

  You looked back at the shore. West, true to his word, was watching you.

  “Besides,” she said, “I already have a boyfriend, so I have to live vicariously through you.”

  * * *

  —

  On Tuesday, the family went zip-lining. West declined, because his foot was still sore, but
even if it wasn’t, he wouldn’t have gone, because a) fuck that noise, and b) are you fucking kidding me? The excursion was fun but cheesy. This was the jungle where they filmed Predator, a plaque explained, so all the zip lines were named after Arnold Schwarzenegger movies.

  As for West, he mostly just fucked around on the beach, not that it’s any of your business. Did Jordan come by? Yeah, she might’ve, a lot of people came by, who gives a shit?

  He met up with you and your parents for dinner, at a place in town your mother had heard was “very authentic.” The food was good, but you just about died from embarrassment when your mother kept trying to order in Spanish.

  After the waiter left, you leaned in and whispered, “Mom. That guy probably speaks better English than you do.”

  “Well, I’m here in Mexico; I want to practice my Spanish.”

  “You can’t just talk to Mexicans in Spanish; it’s racist.”

  Your father rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on, how is it racist?”

  “It just feels kind of racist,” you said.

  “She’s right, June,” said West, mouth full of beans. “It’s super-racist.”

  And your mother said, “If we were in Paris, I would be speaking to the waiters in French.”

  “Yeah, but that’s different.”

  “How is that different?” said your father.

  You weren’t sure. “It just—it feels like you’re being con-descending.”

  And your father said, “I think you’re bringing some assumptions to the table that are unfair.”

  West turned toward you. “He’s got a good point. Maybe you’re the one being racist,” he said, mouth full of beans.

  Your waiter returned to the table, and your mother said, “Sergio? Did it make you uncomfortable, when I spoke to you in Spanish earlier?”

  Sergio’s face got very serious. “Uncomfortable? No.”

  “Would you rather customers speak to you in English?”

  “English, Spanish, it’s all okay. No problem either way.”

  After the meal, your mom wanted to see the History Show, this circusy spectacular in a nearby village.

  West leaned back. “Yeah, I’m kinda not really into all that touristy bullshit.”

  And your dad said, “Oh, because sitting on the beach and drinking cocktails isn’t touristy?”

  And West let out a single cackle—“Ha!”—and then said, “No, but seriously, I don’t want to go to any dumbass History Show.”

  “I’m kind of exhausted after the zip-lining,” you said. “Maybe I’ll stick around the resort with West.”

  Your mother shot your dad a glance, but he didn’t even notice. “Are you sure, honey?” she said. “The show actually doesn’t seem that touristy, the way the brochure describes it. I think it could actually be a really genuine cultural experience.”

  West said, “No means no, June. Give it a rest.”

  And you said, “Actually, you know what, maybe I will go.”

  It was a big arena show with a cast of hundreds in an old wooden stadium. The whole thing was in Spanish, but it was pretty easy to make out what was going on—a breathless rundown of everything that had ever happened, from the Mayans and other early settlers all the way up to the present. It wasn’t bad. You were glad you went. Your mom seemed happy you were there, so even just for that.

  On the cab ride back to the Crown Imperial, you thought about what it would be like to grow up in Puerto Vallarta. You imagined yourself going to the History Show as a Mexican child—it was something every kid did, like how kids in the U.S. go to Six Flags or the Holocaust museum. You’d go all the time; you’d practically have the whole thing memorized. You imagined going back, one last time, before you left for college.

  “Come on, Elena,” you’d say to your beautiful and glamorous Mexican best friend. “It’ll be fun.”

  And she’d say, “The History Show? Are you kidding me?”

  The two of you would sit in the back and make jokes the whole time. “Oh, so now the Aztecs and the Spaniards are friends? Yeah, that’s exactly how it happened.” At the end of the night, though, when the lights lit up the stage like the Mexican flag and the entire audience was singing, you’d shut up.

  After the show, your mother would ask you where you’d been. “Elena and I went to the History Show.”

  She wouldn’t get that you did it kind of as a joke and kind of for real, the way eighteen-year-olds do everything, and she would hold you close and whisper in your ear, “Oh, Heather”—or whatever the Spanish equivalent of Heather is—“promise me you’ll never forget who you are.”

  As you were falling asleep that night, you thought about your imaginary best friend Elena and your imaginary Mexican mother and how neither could quite understand what was so poignant to you about the Mexican History Show. And you thought about how even though this scenario was made up, there was something so truthful about it because FACT: The things that are the most important aren’t shared; they are important only to us.

  The way your mother rolls her eyes at you, your sudden decision to stop eating red meat, the immediate unexplainable sadness you felt when you saw your father’s shirt draped over the back of a chair. You can write it all down, you can put it in your book of facts, but the truth is no one can ever really understand the tangle of experiences and passions that makes you who you are. It’s a secret collection, a private language, a pebble in your pocket that you play with when you’re anxious, hard as geometry, smooth as soap.

  Even a kiss between two people, stolen backstage on the opening night of your middle school’s production of The Music Man. Peeking through the curtains, Harold Hill whispered to you, the Mayor’s Wife, “I’m so nervous.” And then he said, “We’re going to remember this moment forever, aren’t we?” And before you could answer, he kissed you quickly and softly on the mouth—he kissed you so gently, as if you were a paper crane, as if you were a creature made of tissue that would fall apart in the wind. And afterward he looked at you, and then he whispered, “Oh.”

  Even that shared experience—its true significance anyway, what it really means—that belongs to you alone.

  “Shh, you’re going to wake up Heather.” It was Jordan who said this, in your hotel room, waking you briefly in the middle of the night, but when she did, you couldn’t understand how that was possible. You were positive you must have dreamed it.

  * * *

  —

  You woke up on Wednesday and the shower was running. West was in his bed, and you were in your bed, and the shower was running. There was a bra on the floor, and it wasn’t your bra, and some clothes, and a clutch, and West was asleep in a long-sleeved T-shirt and the shower was running, and you got up and walked over to the bathroom, and the shower stopped, and Jordan walked out in a towel and smiled at you and whispered, “Hey.”

  “Why are you here?” you said, and she offered you a cartoon grimace and said, “Sorry, awkward.”

  And you said, “No. Why are you here, Jordan?”

  “I don’t know, we were having fun last night, and West asked if I wanted to come back up to the room and I said yes. Where were you last night?”

  “What about Clark?” you said, and she said, “I know, I feel kind of bad about that, but we’re probably going to break up when I get to Northwestern anyway. And besides, it’s not like I cheated on him. West and I didn’t do anything. We just cuddled, and kissed a little bit.”

  When she said this, you must have made some face, because then she said, “I don’t know why you’re giving me a hard time about this. West and I have a real connection. I’m sorry if that makes you jealous or whatever because you have some weird crush on him.”

  And you said, “Ew, he’s my brother,” and she said, “Yeah, exactly, ew.”

  And you said, “I can’t—I’m not—”

  And West
grunted and rolled over and looked up at the two of you in the doorway and kind of smiled and winced at the same time and said, “Well, if it isn’t my two favorite ladies.”

  At this point you knew that if you didn’t leave the room immediately you might accidentally/on purpose claw someone’s eyes out, so you grabbed your key card and went down to the dining room. You met your mother down there, who frowned when she saw you and said, “You really should change out of your pajamas before coming down to breakfast.”

  That morning, you went snorkeling with your father (West had already politely declined the invitation), and in the afternoon you and your parents took a two-hour bus ride to look at some ruins.

  How were the ruins? They were adequately ruined. Everything was ruined. “You’re on your own for dinner,” your mother said, and you had a burrito at the poolside café.

  That night, West didn’t come back to the room. You read your dumb book about high school girls in New York. It was stupid and dumb, but you wanted to know what happened.

  * * *

  —

  On Thursday you had a plan.

  Jordan would be gone on an all-day boat excursion with her grandparents and the Booger Patrol, so you’d have West all to yourself. You’d sit with West on the beach just like everything was normal, only everything wasn’t normal, and he would know it.

  West would try to cut the tension by saying something dumb, and then you would say something smart and West would try to deflect this by saying something like, “Tch…” or “Psh…” And you wouldn’t let it rest, you would say, “Oh yeah? Psh?” And West would groan and say, “It’s too early. I’m not drunk enough to be charming.” And you would say, “You’re not charming enough to be a drunk.” And West would frown and say something ridiculous like, “You shouldn’t be so clever, it’s bad for your skin.” And you would just take a sip from your daiquiri and say, “Okay,” in a tone all at once off-the-cuff and demolishing. And that would really make him feel stupid. That would just about destroy him.