by Sarah Dessen
And so it was that, after hitting the Washroom, and Park Mart for a few incidentals, we pulled into a neighborhood just past the pier, driving slowly with a stack of papers between us, and a list of subscriber addresses in his hand. It was just after two A.M.
‘Eleven hundred,’ Eli said, nodding at a split-level off to the right. ‘That’s all you.’
I picked up a paper, getting a good grip, then tossed it toward the driveway. It hit the curb, then bounced into a pile of lawn clippings, disappearing entirely. ‘Whoops,’ I said. He pulled to a stop and I jumped out, retrieving it and throwing it again, this time doing a bit better, hitting the far right of the driveway. ‘It’s harder than it looks,’ I told him when I finally got back in the car.
‘Most things are,’ Eli said. Then, of course, he grabbed a paper, launching it at a house across the street in a perfect arc. It landed right on the front stoop, the delivery version of a perfect ten. When I just looked at him, speechless, he shrugged. ‘Colby Coupon Clipper, I told you. Two years.’
‘Still,’ I said. My next shot was a bit better, but too wide. It hit the lawn, and again I had to get out to move it to a safer, less wet spot. ‘God, I suck at this.’
‘It’s your second one,’ he said before launching another perfect shot at a bungalow with a plastic flamingo in the front yard.
‘Still,’ I said again.
I could feel him watching me as I threw another one, concentrating hard. It hit the steps (good) but then banked into the nearby bushes (not so good). When I came back from retrieving it, some brambles in my hair, my frustration must have been obvious.
‘You know,’ Eli said, tossing another paper and hitting another front stoop – thwack! – ‘it’s okay not to be good at everything.’
‘This is delivering papers.’
‘So?’
‘So,’ I said as he did another perfect throw, Jesus, ‘I’m all right if I suck at, say, quantum physics. Or Mandarin Chinese. Because those things are hard, and take work.’
He watched, silent, as I missed yet another driveway. By about a mile. When I returned he said, ‘And clearly, this doesn’t.’
‘It’s different,’ I told him. ‘Look, achievement is my thing, okay? It’s what I do. It’s all I’ve ever been good at.’
‘You’re good at doing well,’ he said, clarifying.
‘I’m good,’ I said, throwing another paper and doing marginally better, ‘at learning. Because I never had to involve anyone else in that. It was just me, and the subject matter.’
‘Indoors, working away,’ he added.
I shot him a look, but, as usual, he did not seem deterred. Or bothered in the least. He just handed me another paper, which I launched at the next house. It hit the driveway, a bit too much to the left, but he drove on anyway.
‘Life is full of screwups,’ he said, chucking another paper at a split-level before taking the corner. ‘You’re supposed to fail sometimes. It’s a required part of the human existence.’
‘I’ve failed,’ I told him.
‘Yeah? At what?’
I blanked for a moment, not exactly good for my argument. ‘I told you,’ I said, ‘I was a social failure.’
He took another turn, tossing a couple more papers as we cruised down a dark street. ‘You didn’t try to be homecoming queen and lose, though.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I never wanted to be homecoming queen. Or any of that stuff.’
‘Then you didn’t fail. You just opted out. There’s a difference.’
I considered this as we cruised down another street. He wasn’t even handing me papers anymore, just throwing them all himself. ‘What about you, then?’ I asked. ‘What did you fail at?’
‘The better question,’ he said, slowing for a stop sign, ‘is what didn’t I fail at.’
‘Really.’
He nodded, then held up a hand and began to count off, finger by finger. ‘Algebra. Football. Lacey McIntyre. Skate-boarding on a half-pipe…’
‘Lacey McIntyre?’
‘Eighth grade. Spent months working up to asking her to a dance, and she shot me down cold. In full view of the entire lunchroom.’
‘Ouch.’
‘Tell me about it.’ He turned again, going down a narrow street with only a few houses on it. Thwack. Thwack. ‘Winning over Belissa’s dad, who still hates me. Convincing my little brother not to be such a chump. Learning to fix my own car.’
‘Wow. This is a long list.’
‘I told you. I’m very good at being bad at things.’
I glanced over at him again as we came to another stop sign. ‘So you never get discouraged.’
‘Of course I do,’ he said. ‘Failing sucks. But it’s better than the alternative.’
‘Which is?’
‘Not even trying.’ Now he did look at me, straight on. ‘Life’s short, you know?’
I’d never met Abe. Or even heard much about him, aside from the few things Maggie and Leah had said. But suddenly, in that moment, it was like I could feel him. Sitting in the very seat where I was, riding along with us. Maybe he’d been there the whole time.
Eli took another turn, and I realized we were in my dad’s neighborhood, the surroundings suddenly familiar. His house was quickly approaching, and on my side to boot. It had to be a sign. I reached over, picking up a paper from the stack between us. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘This one’s mine.’
I drew back my hand, trying to use my elbow for leverage the way I’d seen him do, and this time aimed not for the driveway but the porch. It came closer, closer, and at the exact right minute, I let it fly, watching as it arced high over the lawn… before landing with a slap on the windshield of Heidi’s Prius.
Eli slowed to a stop. ‘I know it’s family,’ he said, ‘but that demands a do-over.’
I slid out of the car – again – and walked over to grab the paper, tucking it under my arm. Then I crept up as slowly as possible to the porch, trying to be quiet as I bent to slide it onto the perfect center of the mat. Just as I did, though, I heard my dad’s voice.
‘… just my point! I wanted you to have what you wanted. But what about what I want?’
I shrank from the door, backing down one step as I glanced at my watch. It was almost three A.M. Entirely too late for most people to be up, unless something bad was happening.
‘Are you saying you don’t want the baby?’ Heidi said. Her voice was higher, shaky. ‘Because if that’s true…’
‘This isn’t about the baby.’
‘Then what is it about?’
‘Our lives,’ he replied, sounding tired. ‘And how they’ve changed.’
‘You’ve done this before, Robert. Twice. You knew what it was like to have an infant in the house.’
‘I was a child myself then!
I’m older now. It’s different. It’s…’
Silence. All I could hear was Eli’s car, the engine murmuring behind me.
‘… not what I expected,’ my dad finished. ‘You want the truth, there it is. I wasn’t ready for all this.’
All this. Such a round, all-encompassing term, as wide as the ocean, which I could also hear, distantly – the real waves this time. But even with all that vastness, it was impossible to tell what, or who, it really included. It seemed safest to just assume everything.
‘This,’ Heidi said, ‘is your family. Ready or not, Robert.’
I had a flash of all those cul-de-sac games I never really played, but knew the rules to nonetheless. You hide: whoever is It counts down, and then – ready or not! – they came looking for you. If they got close, you had no choice but to stay put, hoping not to be found. But if you were, there was no wiggle room. Game over.
I could hear my father starting to say something, but I wasn’t a child this time, and didn’t have to stay and listen. I could leave, disappear into the night, which was vast, too, wide and all-encompassing, with so many places to hide. So I did.
‘Forgive the mess,’ Eli said, reaching in
side the dark room for a light switch. ‘Housework is another one of my failings.’
In truth, his apartment was simply plain. One large room, with a bed on one side, a single wooden chair and TV on the other. The kitchen was tiny, the counters bare except for a coffeemaker, a box of filters beside it. Still, I appreciated his efforts to pretend otherwise, if only because it meant we weren’t talking about the fact that I’d pretty much lost it only moments earlier.
I thought I’d been fine as I backed away from my dad’s house, walking across the already dew-damp grass to the truck. Fine as I slid in, picking up another paper to throw. But then, Eli had said, ‘Hey. You okay?’ and the next thing I knew, I wasn’t.
It’s always embarrassing to cry in front of anyone. But bursting into tears in front of Eli was downright humiliating. Maybe it was the way he just sat there, not saying anything, the only sound my hiccuping sobs and loud sniffles. Or how, after a moment, he just drove on, throwing papers at houses while I looked out the window and tried to stop. By the time he’d pulled into the dark driveway of a green split-level house a block from the boardwalk, I’d gotten calmed down enough to be racking my brain for some way to play the whole thing off. I was thinking I’d blame sudden-onset PMS, or maybe my devastation at sucking so entirely at paper delivering. Before I could say anything, though, he cut the engine, pushing his door open.
‘Come on,’ he said. As he got out, I sat there for a moment, watching as he began to climb a narrow flight of stairs beside the garage. He never looked back to see if I was following him. Which was probably why I did.
Now, he shut the door behind me, then walked over to the kitchen, dropping his keys on the counter en route to turning on the coffeemaker. Only when it began to brew, the smell wafting toward me, did I go to join him.
‘Have a seat,’ he said, his back to me as he bent into the fridge, rummaging around for something. ‘There’s a chair.’
‘And only a chair,’ I said. ‘What do you do when you have company?’
‘I don’t.’ He stood up, shutting the fridge. He had a stick of butter in one hand. ‘I mean, usually.’
I didn’t say anything, instead just watching as he pulled a saucepan out of a cabinet, sticking the butter in it before placing it on the stove. ‘Look,’ I said as he turned on the burner, ‘what happened back there –’
‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘We don’t have to talk about it.’
I was quiet for a minute, watching as he melted the butter in the pan, tipping it from side to side. It was just another courtesy that he’d given me this easy out, the chance to move on, and I thought it was a gift I’d take, and gratefully. Until I heard myself say, ‘Remember how you were asking me what I’d failed at, earlier?’
He nodded, jiggling the pan over the stove. ‘Yeah. The social thing, right?’
‘That,’ I said, ‘and keeping my parents together.’
It wasn’t until I said this that I realized it was true. That I hadn’t blanked out at this question earlier so much as thought of an answer I couldn’t say aloud. At least until I’d overheard my dad and Heidi fighting, and it all came rushing back to me: those awkward dinners, with the picky little arguments, the unsettled feel of the house as the hours went on and on, closer to my bedtime. The way I learned to stretch the night all around me, staying awake and alert to keep all the things that scared me most at bay. But it hadn’t worked. Not then. And not now either.
I blinked, feeling a tear roll down my cheek. Three years of total stoicism, blown in one night. Talk about humiliating.
‘Hey. Auden.’
I looked up to see Eli watching me. He’d taken out a box of Rice Krispies at some point, and instead of looking back at him I focused on the faces of Snap, Crackle, and Pop, all gathered happily around a big cereal bowl. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, because for some reason, even with these cartoon distractions I still seemed to be crying. ‘I just… I don’t even think about this anymore, but then when I went to throw that paper, they were fighting, and it was so…’
He put the box down, then came over to the opposite side of the island. He didn’t try to reach out for me, or touch me. He just stood there, near, as he said, ‘Who was fighting?’
I swallowed. ‘My dad and Heidi. Things have been pretty bumpy since Isby came, and tonight I guess things just blew up, or something.’
God, I was still blubbering. My voice was all choked, coming in little gaspy sobs. Eli said, ‘Just because people fight doesn’t mean they’re splitting up.’
‘I know that.’
‘I mean, my parents used to go at it sometimes. It just kind of cleared the air, you know? It was always better afterward.’
‘I know my dad, though,’ I said. ‘I’ve seen him do this before.’
‘People change.’
‘Or they don’t,’ I replied. Finally I made myself look at him. Those green eyes, long lashes. His haunted face, not as haunted anymore. ‘Sometimes, they don’t.’
He just stood there, looking at me, and I had this flash of us, here in this little garage apartment, in the middle of the night. From up above, in a plane passing over, you’d just see one little light in all this dark, with no idea of the lives that were being lived within it, and in the house beside, and beside that one. So much happening in the world, night and day, hour by hour. It was no wonder we were meant to sleep, if only to check out of it for a little while.
There was a sudden crackling pop from the stove, and Eli looked over his shoulder. ‘Whoops,’ he said, turning back to the saucepan and pulling it off the heat. ‘One sec, let me just finish these.’
I wiped my hand beneath my eyes, trying to collect myself. ‘What are you doing over there, anyway?’
‘Making Rice Krispie treats.’
This seemed so odd, and incongruous, it almost made sense. Along with everything else that night. Still, I felt compelled to ask ‘Why?’
‘Because it’s what my mom always did when my sisters were crying.’ He glanced back at me. ‘I don’t know. I told you, I never have company. You were upset, and it just seemed…’
He trailed off, and I looked around the room, taking in the plain bed, the one chair. The single light outside the door, glowing yellow and bright, all night long.
‘… perfect,’ I finished for him. ‘It’s perfect.’
Of course, nothing is really perfect. But Eli’s Rice Krispie treats were pretty close. We ate half a pan while we split the pot of coffee, using the one chair as a table, each of us sitting on the floor on either side of it.
‘So let me guess,’ I said, putting my mug on the floor by my feet. ‘You’re a minimalist.’
He glanced around the room, then back at me. ‘You think?’
‘Eli,’ I said. ‘You have one chair.’
‘Yeah. But just because all the furniture at my old place was Abe’s.’
Hearing this, it was all I could do not to start, or jump, so jarring was it to hear him say his name, after all this time. Instead, I took another sip of my coffee. ‘Really.’
‘Yeah.’ He sat back, picking a bit of sticky crumb off the side of the Rice Krispie pan. ‘The minute he made some prize money riding, he was all about decorating our place. And he bought the stupidest stuff. Huge TV, singing fish…’
‘A singing fish?’
‘You know, those plastic ones that you hang on the wall, and when you walk by they start singing, like, some Motown song?’ I just looked at him. ‘Okay, so you don’t know. Consider yourself lucky. Ours was, like, the center of our apartment. He put it right by the door, so it went off constantly, and everyone had to listen to it.’
I smiled. ‘Sounds interesting.’
‘That’s not the word I’d choose.’ He shook his head. ‘Plus he insisted on buying these big papasan chairs, you know the ones that are circular, filled with squishy cushions? I wanted a plain, normal couch. But no. We had to have these stupid things that everyone was always getting sucked down into. No one could ever get up and ou
t of them on their own. We were always having to pull people out, like a freaking rescue mission.’
‘Come on.’
‘I’m totally serious. It was ridiculous.’ He sighed. ‘And then there was the whole water bed thing. He said he’d always wanted one. Even when it leaked, and gave him a crazy backache, he would not admit it was a mistake. “I must have spilled something,” he’d say, or “I really pulled a muscle on that last ride.” He was hobbling around like an old man, complaining constantly. All night long, all I could hear was him thrashing around, trying to get comfortable. It was, like, an endless squishing.’
I laughed, picking up my mug again. ‘So what happened? Did he finally give it up?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘He died.’
I knew this, of course. But even so, hearing it this way was like a shock to the system, all over again. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I –’
‘See, but that’s the thing, though.’ He sat back, shaking his head. ‘Everyone always wants to tell these stories, all the stories. It’s all anyone wanted to do at the funeral, and after. Oh, remember this thing, and this, and what about this? But the ending to every story is the same. He dies. That’s never going to change. So why even bother?’
We were both quiet for a moment. ‘I guess,’ I said finally, ‘that for some people, it’s how they remember. You know, by telling the stories. It keeps the person close.’
‘But I don’t have that problem,’ he said quietly. ‘Not remembering.’
‘I know.’
‘You want to talk about failure?’ He looked up at me, meeting my eyes. ‘Try being the one who was driving. Who got to live.’
‘Eli,’ I said. I tried to keep my voice low, even, the way his had been when he’d been reassuring me. ‘It wasn’t your fault. It was an accident.’
He shook his head. ‘Maybe. But the bottom line is, I’m here and he’s not. And everyone who sees me – his parents, his girlfriend, his friends – they know that. In all the uncertainty, it’s the one thing they know for sure. And it sucks.’
‘I’m sure they don’t hold it against you,’ I said.
‘They don’t have to.’ He looked down at his mug, then up at me. ‘The whole do-over thing, that’s all I think about since it happened. What if we’d left that party earlier, or later. If I’d seen the car coming at us and not stopping, a moment sooner. If he’d been driving instead of me. There are a million variables, and if even one was different… maybe everything would be.’