* * *
—
I spend the day in bed, wearing pajamas: an oversize shirt from the first bar mitzvah I ever went to and an old pair of boxers that I roll over twice so they stay on my hips. Brad sleeps most of the day but comes downstairs for some leftover shrimp late in the afternoon, wearing his L.L.Bean shirt with holes in it that he’s had forever. No one in the house speaks. Dad does work in his den, and Mom watches TV in the master bedroom. Around 4:00 p.m., I stand outside Brad’s room and wait for him to notice me.
“You can come in,” he says. “I’m not dead.”
“Okay,” I say. I walk in and sit on the floor next to his bed. His TV is on, but he’s not watching it. He’s painting a LEGO set with gold paint, and he’s got his desk light on, focused in on his subject. His forehead is sweating, and he stops and takes a sip of Pepsi out of a Styrofoam cup before continuing.
“I can’t believe we missed school,” I say, trying to break the tension.
“It’s really not a big deal,” he says.
“I know, but Mom never lets us, and it’ll probably, like, never happen again.”
“I meant what I did. Everyone at school does pills—all the kids in my grade, at least. I just overdid it.”
“Oh.”
“It’s not a big deal. I’m fine.”
“I was worried.”
“Don’t be. I’ve done worse.”
I stay in Brad’s room for an hour, just sitting and watching him paint with the precision of a surgeon. Even though he says he’s fine, I’m still worried. I want to do something for him, help him in some way, but I can’t think of anything. All I can do is sit on his blue carpet and try to hold the room together. I suck in my breath and count to ten and let it out slowly. Brad doesn’t say anything but keeps working on his LEGOs until I eventually walk back to my room and attempt to sleep. There are fifteen years between then and now. There have been spreads of time when we didn’t speak because he was using. There have been times when we talked every single day, like when I got my first teaching job and he stayed on the phone with me all night to calm me down because I was so nervous. Brad went to rehab, relapsed, moved in with a friend, moved home. Then it was another treatment center, another therapist, more help, always. He finally got clean a decade later, an accomplishment that’s greater than all the math-competition trophies and scholarship money put together.
On my wedding day, Brad flew to Los Angeles, rented a car, and drove out to the beach, where the ceremony was being held. He was wearing a white suit and looked as handsome as ever. After dinner, when friends and family gave speeches of congratulations, Brad stood up and moved toward the microphone. His speech was funny at first and had everyone laughing, but then he turned toward me and slowed down, started talking about our childhood together. He said it was his fault that we grew apart. He knew his mistakes caused me pain, but I never blamed him or made him feel bad about any of it. He thanked me for loving him through it all and for never judging him. I remember myself as a kid, sitting at the foot of his bed, watching him play all those video games, the way I always looked up to him and wanted to be as smart and cool as he was. I waited fifteen years to hear him say those things. I always felt like maybe I hadn’t done enough to help him, or maybe I shouldn’t have moved away from home and left, but the words he finally spoke to me made me realize that all I had to do was love him. He’s my brother, and loving him is enough.
No matter how dark things got for Brad, he always came through for me.
• TWENTY-ONE •
I can’t sleep, so I go online way later than I’m supposed to. I want to talk to someone. My parents have finally stopped arguing and fallen asleep, and my brother remains incommunicado in his room, so the house is quiet. There’s a hum in the neighborhood where I live that vibrates through all the houses, like when the air conditioning kicks on or off and you notice it when you didn’t before. All the houses are strung together on an invisible plane. All the Internets join up in a cloud above the houses. I picture these things I can’t see and it makes me more awake, more full of longing.
My computer chimes with an instant message. It’s Jensen. She asks if I’m awake, which I feel should be pretty obvious if I’m online, but sometimes people forget to put on their “away” status and aren’t really there. I remember what my mom said, about how Jensen might be mad at herself for not having the same feelings as me, as the other girls, as everyone else. My mom also once told me that sometimes you have friends for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. I’ve always felt that Jensen is and would be one of my lifetime friends, and if that’s the case, I should suck it up and talk to her. I can’t let this end us.
What’s up? I say.
You weren’t at school today, she responds, fast.
I know.
You haven’t missed a whole day of school…like…ever. I mean your mom lets you leave early to skip art or whatever but never a full day.
I guess she wants to know why. Maybe she missed me. Or maybe she’s just bored. I quickly imagine a scenario where she lost a dare and had to be the one to sign online and ask me, report back to the group, but then I realize she’s not really in the group right now. Maybe the whole group thing is over, done, and was just a phase. Some teenagers with nothing better to do, so we hung around one another until we outgrew the whole thing. Or maybe it’s still happening and we just haven’t figured out the logistics yet, the ways we stay inside of it when we’re mad at one another, upset for our own reasons, wanting out. But it’s impossible to escape, the pull of girlhood.
There’s a good reason. I try to stay mysterious.
You don’t have to tell me, she says.
I want to. It’s personal though.
Like…family stuff?
Yeah.
Do you want to talk on the phone?
K but can I call you? I don’t want my house phone to ring.
Okay. Call whenevs.
I sign off and sit at my desk. Do I even want to talk to her? Yes. Do I want to give in that easily? I don’t know. I don’t want to go crawling back to her, but she messaged me. She obviously cares, if she wants to know why I missed school. Should I tell her? Are there some things you just don’t tell the people outside of your family, even if they feel like family? My mom used to kiss Jensen on the head before we both went to sleep. Jensen had a crush on my brother until—well, I think she still might have a crush on him. She was there the first time a boy kissed me, she was there when I got my back handspring in gymnastics, she was there to defend me in fourth grade and ask me about where I was from and if I wanted to see her dogs after school. She took to me first, and no matter how weird I am sometimes, no matter how embarrassing it is that I get all As, no matter what color I want to dye my hair, she still wants to be my friend.
The phone rings once before Jensen answers. We’re both silent for a minute, but then she breaks the ice.
“So, like, what happened?” she asks.
“Family stuff, like you said. Did I miss anything at school?”
“I don’t have any classes with you anymore, remember?”
“Well, I meant, like, gossip or something.”
“A sixth grader threw up in the cafeteria, so everyone pretty much ate lunch outside. You would have hated it.”
“Oh yeah, that sounds terrible. Lunch outside sounds nice, though.”
“Yeah. I sat with everyone. We sat in the grass, actually.”
“You had a picnic?”
“Ha! Yeah, I guess.”
“That sounds fun.”
“Rosenberg was complaining about her grass allergy.”
“Oh my God. Was it weird?”
“What?”
“Sitting with everyone?”
“It just kind of happened. Everyone was asking me where you were, because you never miss school.”
“It sounds like you turned a corner or something.”
“I’m sorry about your family stuff. My family sucks, too. That’s why I’m always staying at your house.”
“But you guys have a boat.”
“Yeah, but if you put a bunch of shitty people on a boat, then it’s a shitty boat.”
“My brother took drugs at his own dinner party.”
“Jeez. My brother’s done all of that crap, though, as you know.”
“Yeah. I just don’t want him to die.”
“He’s not going to die. People do crazy stuff all the time, but your brother is so smart, and he knows what he’s doing.”
“He’s, like, too smart sometimes.”
“Definitely.”
“Why are you up so late?”
“I couldn’t sleep. I had coffee after school, and now I’m just…up.”
“You and your coffee.”
“What are you doing tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow? Oh, it’s Saturday. Holy crap.”
“Do you want to go to the mall?”
Jensen and I talk all night, until around 5:00 a.m. A while ago my dad told me our phone bill went from minutes to unlimited, so I don’t feel bad. We talk about everything and nothing. I try to explain the plot of The Outsiders to her, since she didn’t read it. She says all the guys sound like assholes, but I tell her they just wanted to protect one another, to do the right thing. She tells me about her soccer game and how two girls got in a fight that resulted in a bloody nose and calling the game. I tell her I can come watch her next game, but she laughs and says she would never make me sit through that. And my watching would make her nervous anyway. We mostly listen to each other breathing in between conversation and enjoy the feeling of coming back together, a remerging of friendship. When we finally hang up, I know I’ll see her in a few hours, and I’m glad.
* * *
—
I wake up at 11:00 a.m. and ask my mom if she’ll take me to the mall to meet Jensen. She smiles and says if I hurry we can be there by noon. I put on an outfit I haven’t worn in a while, a jean skirt from Abercrombie and a yellow ribbed tank top with lace on the chest. I wonder what Jensen will be wearing, if she’ll try to look as good as I’m trying.
My mom drops me off in front of the mall, and I don’t see Jensen yet. I wonder if maybe her mom wouldn’t let her come. Maybe she didn’t even ask. My mom says she’ll be back at four o’clock, which is more than enough time—too much time if I end up here by myself. She asks if I want her to wait until Jensen shows up, but I say no and sit on the bench until she drives away. I can’t move, because we’re supposed to meet here, but I don’t want to seem stupid sitting here, doing nothing. I worry that maybe Jensen is going to stand me up, that the remerging friendship was just a ruse.
Then I see Old Mercy pull up in front of the mall. I stand up and walk over to it just as Jensen is getting out.
“Do you need money for lunch?” Jensen’s mom asks her.
“No. Well. Maybe.”
“Here’s forty.”
Jensen nods and puts the money in a white Louis Vuitton with rainbow letters all over it, a bag I’ve never seen her wear before. I immediately feel dumb wearing my same Burberry bag. Jensen’s wearing acid-wash jeans and a white tank top, an outfit I’d normally have tried to talk her out of putting together, but now I don’t dare say a word.
“It’s so good to see you,” Jensen’s mom says to me.
“You too,” I say, waving, realizing I haven’t even said hi to Jensen yet. “Hi.”
“I need new concealer,” she says, grabbing my arm and escorting me into the mall. We hear her mom call “Bye!” from the car before we enter through the sliding glass doors.
We used to buy drugstore makeup, but now that we’re older, high school, it’s pretty necessary for us to shop at Sephora. As we walk into the store, I try to think of something I can pretend to need. She flits over to the Benefit counter, and I follow. Maybe if I let her lead she’ll feel like we’re having a good time. Even though I talked to her last night for hours and hours, I still feel like I need to prove myself for some reason, to solidify our friendship again.
Jensen tries a bunch of concealers on her hand, a series of stripes that range from white to tan. She has moderately fair skin, so I point to a shade closer to the whitish side of the spectrum, and she nods.
“Do you need anything?” she asks earnestly.
“I, uh, yeah. Lip gloss.”
“You should really get lipstick. Gloss is kind of childish.”
“I’m open to it.”
“It’s up to you. It’s your face.”
We walk over to Urban Decay and I peruse the lipsticks. They’re all either purple or dark red, and I was hoping for a pink or something neutral. I don’t need anything, but I have to buy something out of solidarity.
“Try this one,” Jensen says, handing me a beige color I didn’t see. I flip it over to see the name. It’s called Flaunt.
“Did you pick this because of the name?” I ask.
“No! I just know you like plain colors.”
“I actually really like this,” I say, swiping it on my wrist to test. It shines, with just a touch of nude coloring.
“It’s pretty and natural,” she says, and I’m hoping she means I’m pretty and natural, too, not the fake skank she thought me to be just a few days ago. We head to the register, and Jensen goes first. She takes out one of the twenty-dollar bills her mom gave her and pays for her makeup, getting some change in return. I pay with a twenty my mom gave me this morning, stuff the change in my purse, quick and unorganized, not wanting to fall a second behind Jensen.
We go to the food court. I wait for Jensen to drift toward a place. She grabs a sample of sesame chicken from Manchu Wok, then a single tortellini from Pummarola Pastificio, then a falafel ball from the new Israeli place. Then she returns to Manchu Wok, orders orange chicken and fried rice and a Diet Coke. I order a small white rice and a regular Coke. I know she’ll judge me for not eating a real meal, but I’m not hungry at all. I barely want the rice.
We sit in the middle of the food court, at a plush bench with a table attached. Jensen digs in, and I pick at my plain rice.
Jensen’s head pops up from her meal. “We forgot the cookies.”
“I’ll go grab them,” I say.
“Get me two,” she says, and continues to eat.
I get up from the table and head back to Manchu Wok, where I grab three cookies from the cookie bin. When I turn around, I see a cute guy sitting with a friend at a nearby table. He has dark brown hair and blue eyes and is wearing white Converse, which I think are really cool. I think about going up to him, but I don’t want to embarrass Jensen or mess up the way the day is going. He glances at me, and I smile but proceed to walk back to the table, where Jensen is waiting.
“Do you want to pick your two first or have me pick first?” I say as I throw the cookies down on the table.
“Those guys are looking at us,” Jensen says, wiping her mouth with a paper napkin and pushing aside her tray.
“Oh, I didn’t even notice,” I say.
“The blond is my type, definitely,” she says.
“You’re calling dibs?”
“I haven’t kissed a guy since, like, this weird kid at the Hillsboro Club kissed me a few weeks ago.”
“Who?”
“Well, it was actually Tanner Martin.”
“Your neighbor?”
“Yeah. He’s so gross. But he, like, cornered me in the hallway and kissed me and I just, like, went along with it.”
I think about telling Jensen about Jared, the awful grab-and-go in the hallway, but I want to keep things light, keep things about her.
“Was it good?”
“No. That’s why I really
need to kiss someone good.”
It seems like Jensen did some growing up while we were apart, and I wonder if it would have happened the same way if we had been talking then, if maybe our friendship could have gotten in the way of it. Now it seems like we can become an unbreakable force, two girls who want to kiss boys, calling dibs on the ones we want, making it happen all on our own.
“Let’s go say something,” Jensen suggests.
“No, let’s just look at them and wait for them to come over here. Guys should make the first move.”
“Okay. That sounds good. How should we look?”
“Look at them, then look away, then back, then away. And just keep talking to me.”
We glance over at their table a few times, until it’s obvious that they see us. The boys get up and walk toward us.
“Hey,” the blond says to both of us. “I’m Sebastian, and this is Ryan.”
“Hi,” Jensen and I say in unison.
“Sebastian, like the crab?” Jensen laughs.
“I’ve never heard that one before.” Sebastian laughs, too.
“What are you doing tonight?” Ryan asks, mainly looking at me.
“We’re busy,” I say, and take another sip of my Coke. Jensen follows suit and takes a sip of her Diet Coke.
“Oh, we see how it is,” Sebastian says.
“Well, maybe sometime soon we can all hang out?” Ryan asks, once again mostly to me.
“We’ll see,” I say. “Why don’t you get our numbers and call us.”
I pull out a pen from my purse and tear a paper napkin in half, giving one piece to Jensen so she can write her number while I write mine on the other half. Both boys take their respective pieces of napkin paper and put them in their pockets.
“What do you girls like to do?” Sebastian asks. I look at Jensen and let her answer.
“Like, movies, Boomers!—you know, stuff,” she says.
“Boomers! would be fun. We would beat you so bad on the go-karts,” Sebastian responds.
The Brittanys Page 20