When You Were Everything

by Ashley Woodfolk

I try to put all the questions I have out of my mind, at least for now. I decide to try, for once, to let my heart lead me.

  * * *

  —

  “You’re cool with studying at the big library, right?” I ask as we walk toward the exit. It’s what I call the Main Branch. It’s what Layla used to call it too.

  “Yeah, it’s fine,” Layla says. “And I mean, it’ll be g-g-g-good to see your dad. It’s b-been a while.”

  On the street, I don’t know if I should talk to her, and if I do, I don’t know what to say. In addition to the air being thick with awkwardness, the threat of rejection is there too. It lingers in the footnotes of our story in a way that makes me too afraid to add anything new to the way we are now at all.

  It feels a little better once we’re on a crowded train headed uptown. Here there’s so much other stuff to focus on besides the fact that Layla and I have nothing (or maybe too much) to say to each other: a baby crying, a teenager standing to let a pregnant woman sit down, a guy shouting that he’s sorry for disturbing our ride when he really isn’t. I can watch the people pushing their way onto or off our train car if I don’t want to read my book. And in the crush of bodies churning during rush hour, I don’t have to stand or sit with Layla, because I have to find my own pocket of space in this human game of Tetris; I have to go wherever I can make myself fit.

  The tension and the speechlessness don’t let up until we walk into one of the library’s small meeting rooms. We enter the tiny space and take seats on opposite sides of the table. I pull out my copy of Macbeth, and Layla does the same. Looks like she got that extension from Novak after all.

  “So. Was there anything about the play that stood out to you? Any conflicts or moments or things you thought were interesting or that you think someone else would have a different opinion about? We can piece together an argument from that.”

  She opens her book to a dog-eared page pretty near the beginning of the play. “Well, there was this one p-p-part. Where Lady Macbeth is, like, convincing Macbeth to murder D-Duncan even though they b-b-b-both know it’s wrong.” Layla tucks her pin-straight hair behind her ears and says, “I g-g-guess I didn’t get why he listened to her.”

  I flip to that page in my book too. “Well, she basically told him he wasn’t a man if he didn’t do it,” I say. I scan the passage and read the line once I find it. “When you durst do it, then you were a man; And to be more than what you were, you would be so much more the man.”

  I look up at Layla and she seems kind of confused. I put the book down and point to the cover like I’m pointing to Macbeth himself. “I think his ego was too big to take being challenged like that.”

  Layla nods and rereads the lines to herself. “But he obviously is a man,” Layla says. “He isn’t even a c-c-cowardly guy or a loser. I mean, he had j-just fought in this mmmmassive war and w-won.”

  “Yeah.” I shrug. “But imagine doing all that and it still not being good enough. And I mean, it hurts when the person you love most in the world says something shitty to you. It’s still hard to take…hard to not want to prove them wrong.”

  I realize how this sounds a second after I say it. I think Layla does too, because we used to be each other’s most-loved person. Her eyebrows rise a little and I swallow, hard.

  “I didn’t mean—” I start.

  “I know.” Layla looks up and away from me. We can’t escape our history. It touches every part of us. Luckily she doesn’t want to linger on this any more than I do. She picks up her book again.

  “There’s mmmore, though. Like this ‘unsex me’ line. It’s like, Lady Macb-b-beth’s definition of femininity and masculinity is so narrow. She needs to b-b-be ‘unsexed’ in order to convince her husband to murder the k-king, and then she b-b-b-basically calls him a p-p-pussy when he says he doesn’t want to. And then—” Layla flips a few pages. “Then Macbeth is all, um, ‘I hope you only ever have b-boy babies because you can’t give b-b-b-birth to anything ffffeminine with a mind like that.’ Pretty messed up, right?”

  I want to make a joke. I want to say, “Is that an exact translation?” because her reading is totally spot on. I grin and nod.

  “What?” she asks.

  “Nothing. I just love that point. Maybe your argument could be about that.”

  “Like, how traditional gender roles p-p-played a part in Macbeth’s downfall?” She looks up at me and I nod.

  “Yep. It’s kinda brilliant—turning a modern eye on how similarly people still think of men and women even now—what they can and can’t do; who they can and can’t be.”

  “Maybe I’ll bring Bangladeshi culture into it too,” Layla muses. “How d-d-d-different things are for men and women. The things my brother c-c-can get away with that I would never b-be able to, and how sssssometimes it all feels so arb-b-bitrary. Some people even think the inequalities are b-b-because of Islam, but Islam actually sssays the opposite—that men and women should b-be equal.”

  I nod more. “Yeah. I’m sure Ms. Novak would appreciate that personal touch. I doubt she’ll get a paper about Islam and Macbeth and sexism from anyone else.”

  I miss talking to Layla about books like this. I miss talking to her about everything.

  We jot down some notes that are the start of a rough outline for her argument. And it actually doesn’t feel terrible to be in a room with her for nearly an hour. There are a few moments when we fall into the easy way we used to talk to each other. A few times, we even laugh.

  “So why don’t you work on the paper tonight and tomorrow? And then I can give it a read and let you know if I think you need to tighten anything up before you turn it in. Novak gave you till Friday?”

  Layla nods. “That was sssso easy, with you like, validating what I was saying. And helping me ffffffocus my thoughts or wh-whatever.” She smiles.

  I feel a shift then, in the energy between us. The room is warm and quiet, and the moment feels electric. I think that this must be a sign—or at least an opportunity. I feel brave enough to be honest; strong enough to tell her something real.

  She’s still smiling at me, and she’s saying nice things, and we just had an exhilarating discussion about one of my favorite plays. I frown and look down at my hands where they rest on top of my book. I think of Gigi, of Mom, and then of a line from Hamlet about asking your heart what it knows and listening.

  “Layla,” I start to say, and my voice is already shaking. I look up at her and we both swallow hard. “I…miss you,” I say, because it’s the truest thing I know. “I regret…everything. And I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am one more time, about all that’s happened.”

  I don’t want to get into fate and signs and the universe with her, because Layla barely had patience for it when we were friends. So I just say, “Do you think it’s even remotely possible that we could be friends again?”

  Her nostrils flare, which is something that always happens when Layla is trying hard not to cry. I take a deep breath, my mother’s voice in my head: If you love someone it’s always worth it. You should fight like hell to hold on to them.

  “I know it won’t be exactly like it was before,” I continue, “when you were everything to me, and I was everything to you—but I was hoping we might be able to try.”

  Layla glances down at her book, then up to my eyes again. She shakes her head once, hard and fast, and she starts to look more mad than hurt.

  “I thought we weren’t g-g-g-going to do this anymore, C-Cleo.” Her voice is hushed and icy. “I thought we’d both d-d-decided that it—we—were done.”

  I had. We had. But I guess some small part of me still believed in the possibility of us. I try not to let the tightness in my chest overtake me. I try to hold it together as everything inside me goes hot with embarrassment; as every part of me aches with the agony of her rejection.

  Layla starts packing her
stuff, throwing her book and her notebook and her pens into her bag. Her straight hair is hanging over her face like a heavy curtain as she does it, and I wonder if she’ll ever rock her messy waves again. She’s not talking to me anymore, just mumbling under her breath like I’m not even here.

  “I knew this was a b-b-b-bad idea. I knew it.”

  I stand up. I don’t say anything else to her because I’ll rage-cry if I do. I just grab my things and head out of the room. I need to find my dad.

  I’m on the stairs when I shoot him a text. Map room, I send. I want to add an S.O.S. but I refrain so he won’t be too worried. I rush away from Layla, who is texting pretty passionately on her own phone just behind me, and I wonder if she’s telling Sloane about all I’ve said.

  When I get to the map room, I see someone else before my eyes find my dad. Sloane is standing against the back wall next to my father. She’s talking to him, and it’s so shocking seeing her out of context like this that for a second I can’t move. She’s leaning against one of the desks, instead of in the hallway at school or at a party surrounded by the Chorus Girls. I hear her say, “So why’d you leave Chisholm Charter? Everyone loved you there,” and I want to scream. The sound of her voice is a flint, and her speaking to someone else I love is the only spark it takes. I’m on fire.

  My dad grins. “That’s so sweet of you to say, Sloane, but it was just time for a change.” A shadow passes over his face that I’ve never seen there when I ask about him leaving. A sadness about it that I guess he doesn’t want to show me. But just as Sloane leans forward and asks him another question, Layla walks through the door to the map room too, and almost bumps into me because she’s still looking down at her phone. I whirl around to face her.

  “This library is huge,” I rasp more than whisper. “You could’ve met your friend anywhere. Why’d you tell her to meet you in here?”

  Layla looks as surprised to see me here as I was to see Sloane, but she knows this is my and Daddy’s spot. She has to know, because before everything changed, I told her.

  Even before she opens her mouth to say anything, I know she’ll answer like New Layla, the one who has no problem being cruel to me. Her nostrils flare again, and she says, “You think you own p-places, Cleo. Just like you think you own p-p-p-people. But guess what? It’s a free country. This might come as a surprise to you, but you don’t own me or this library, or any of the other p-p-places we used to hang out. I can g-go anywhere I want. And so c-c-c-can my friends.”

  I had planned to hang out here with my dad for a while, but after those words leave Layla’s mouth the room feels instantly tainted. I add the map room to my mental list of places to rid Layla of, and decide to double down on my New Memories Project because fuck her.

  I quickly tell my dad I’ll have to see him later. I pull out my phone and text Sydney.

  Can you meet me at Washington Square Park?

  LIPSTICK & MONOLOGUES

  It’s nearly dark by the time I get off the train at West 4th Street.

  When I texted Sydney, I was in a blind panic and I didn’t know who else to call or where else to go. But now, as I approach the park, I wonder if this was a mistake.

  So far, I’ve made new memories alone, with my dad, or completely by accident, like at Dolly’s with Dom. But the only thing I felt I could do as Layla and Sloane closed in on a space that was supposed to be mine and mine alone was to escape, and to race to a spot where I’d have more control over who was there, and over what was happening.

  It’s just starting to get dark, but the park is still filled with people standing under the arch and staring skyward, teens still in their school uniforms flirting, and tourists taking photos and sitting on the wide lip of the fountain. The park feels alive, its energy like an extra pulse under my skin. With the sorbet-colored sky set alight by the setting sun just ahead of me, I can almost forget the reason I’m here.

  When I find Sydney, she’s sitting by the fountain, sipping something warm. She pulls off the top to blow on her drink, and steam rises from the cup in white wisps.

  “So?” she says as soon as she sees me. “How’d things go with Layla?”

  I don’t mean for it to happen, but at the sight of her, I burst into tears.

  “Oh! Oh, honey!” Sydney jumps up, nearly spilling her drink, and wraps me in a hug. I stiffen for a second, unused to being touched, but then I relax and fall against her. I let the tears pour and Sydney doesn’t say anything. She just squeezes me even tighter.

  “It was awful,” I say, pulling off my tear-soaked glasses and rubbing my eyes.

  “Here, let’s sit,” Sydney says. She leads me by the elbow to the edge of the fountain.

  “Syd, it was so bad.”

  Sydney roots around in her purse and produces a small packet of tissues. She hands it to me, and I pull three from the plastic. “What happened?”

  “I’m so stupid,” I say. “Like, it wasn’t so bad, at first, and it even started to be fun, talking about the play with her. Then I started thinking that maybe it was a sign, you know, me being assigned to tutor her? I started thinking that maybe my mom was right, that if I was honest it would make things better. We were talking about her paper and everything was going so well that I got a little too brave, I guess.”

  “No such thing as too brave,” Sydney insists. “Only brave enough.”

  I tell her how I asked if there was any chance at all for us, and how Layla shut me down immediately. How a few minutes later she and Sloane were in the map room, which had always been this special place for me and my dad. I stand up and pace and tell her that this is what I was afraid of more than anything—that I’d show my cards and Layla would rip my heart to shreds again, and now it had come true.

  “I’m mad at Ms. Novak for pairing us up, mad at my mom for telling me to try, mad at myself for believing there was something bigger at work; for being so damn desperate. I’m pissed that I even entertained the idea of forgiveness for someone who had already given up on me, you know?”

  I don’t tell her about the things I did to Layla and Sloane—the reason we’re in this mess in the first place. But when I collapse back onto the fountain’s edge, out of breath and still a little weepy, Sydney pulls out a tube of lipstick.

  “So you were right, then,” she says. She takes the cap off the lipstick, and it’s eggplant purple.

  “Huh?”

  “You. Were. Right. Let’s erase her. Eradicate her from your life as much as humanly possible. Sounds like she’s over you,” Sydney says, and then winces a little. “Sorry if that was harsh. But now, since this is officially over forever, you have to get over her.”

  She brandishes the lipstick. “Pucker your lips,” she says.

  “I look weird in lipstick,” I say.

  She draws back, examines my face like she’s an art dealer and I’m an exceptionally valuable painting. “Whoever told you that was a damn liar,” she says after a minute. “And Coco Chanel says, if you’re sad, add more lipstick and attack. So that’s what we’re doing. Pucker.”

  I grin, drag my sleeve across my eyes one last time, slip my glasses back into place, and pucker up. I listen as Sydney explains the way I can find the perfect lip color for my skin tone, along with the best ways to wear it. When she’s done, she pulls out a compact and holds it up so I can see, and she’s right. Even in the dim light I can tell it doesn’t look weird at all.

  “Now for a new memory.” Sydney looks around, her hand on her chin. “Oh! Let’s go streaking!” She stands up and starts slipping out of her jacket.

  I stretch my eyes wide. “Sydney, no way. It’s freezing out here!”

  She shivers and pulls her coat back on, laughing. “Fine, fine. I was mostly joking. But you have to do something really memorable if you’re really going to rewrite history, Cleo.”

  She walks backward for a few steps, smirking at me,
then turns around and sprints to the closest park bench. She climbs up to stand on it and grins maniacally. She clears her throat.

  “Sydney,” I shout-whisper, walking quickly over to her. “What are you doing?”

  Couples holding hands and a few old people and kids walking past stare at her.

  “Memory-making,” she whispers back.

  “Then, I confess,” Sydney shouts. Her voice carries clear across the park. “Here on my knee, before high heaven and you / That before you, and next unto high heaven, / I love your son.”

  She’s reciting the monologue from All’s Well That Ends Well that I helped her memorize for English extra credit last semester. I recognize Helena’s words right away and start to laugh.

  She recites the entire two-minute monologue from her perch atop the bench, and when she’s done a few passing people even clap. She hops down from the bench and bows, smiling and saying, “Thank you, thank you. Oh, you’re so kind,” and I’m still laughing.

  When we head home a few minutes later, I bump Sydney’s shoulder as we walk side by side to the train station.

  “You’re kind of great,” I say softly, wondering how a former tutee has become an almost-real friend. She grins and shakes her curls out of her eyes.

  “And you’re fucking fantastic. Don’t let anyone, ever, tell you otherwise.”

  then: November

  LITTLE BETRAYALS

  It was slow, the way it all happened. So slow I didn’t notice I was alone until I almost always was.

  One day Layla told me she was going to hang out with the Chorus Girls after their rehearsals, and the next thing I knew, that was what she did every Tuesday and Thursday.

  She started randomly eating lunch with them, just like she had the day Sloane lost it on me in the hall, so I never knew if I’d be eating alone until I got to the cafeteria. More often than not, our table was empty when I arrived.

  Her stopping by my locker between classes became just as unpredictable: sometimes she did, and sometimes I didn’t see her all day. And if there was ever any question of who she’d spend time with, I was usually the one who surrendered. In the game of fight or flight, I soared away from my problems. And Sloane and the Chorus Girls were my biggest one.