When You Were Everything

by Ashley Woodfolk

  “I don’t mean it in an accusatory way. I mean, like…” I tapped the table as I tried to figure out the word I was looking for. “Objectively. Scientifically. I think we broke up because you were going to soccer camp, and I would have missed you too much to stay together, and because we just worked better as friends. But I’m wondering if you felt the same way.”

  His shoulders inched back down. “Oh. Well, I do think we’re better as friends, but it wasn’t just about soccer camp for me.”

  I kept watching him, taking in the line of kohl along his lower eyelids. He smiled a little, his dimples sinking in and staying put.

  “I guess it was like this: you’re this super-cute girl, right?”

  I shrugged and blushed a little. “I guess I am pretty cute,” I said, looking at how his big hands wrapped around the small coffee cup.

  He rolled his eyes. “Right. And so, before I knew you, I made up all these things about you. Like, I bet she likes comics, or I bet she watches reality shows, or I bet she loves animals.”

  “One out of three isn’t bad, considering you were just going by how I looked,” I said. “And actually—”

  “Jesus, Baker. Let me finish.”

  I laughed. “Sorry.”

  “So,” he said. He ran one of his hands through his thick black hair. “In my head you were a different version of yourself, right? Like…‘Brain-Cleo.’ ”

  I grinned and pressed my lips together. I thought about Gigi saying I was spinning stories whenever I made things up about people in my head.

  “But then I started talking to you, and Real-Cleo was super-cool in a bunch of different ways, but not the ways I had imagined.”

  “Okay,” I said, lifting my cup.

  “So at first I was like, ‘Real-Cleo is even better than Brain-Cleo,’ right? But here’s the weird part: There is a Brain-Jase too. In my brain, not just yours. So not only did I think, ‘This is how Cleo will be.’ I also thought, ‘This is how I will be with Cleo.’ But the problem was, the longer we dated, the less either of us lived up to those versions of ourselves.”

  I looked at my hands and bit my lip, but I understood what he meant. He wanted us to be these romanticized versions of ourselves and we just weren’t—we never could be.

  “Damn,” I said.

  “Maybe I got too caught up in the idea of us. I don’t know. You were unpredictable—I never knew what you might want, how you might be. I was too, I guess. I know what to expect from soccer—what everyone wants and how we’re all going to be. I know how to do the whole jock thing, but I didn’t really know how to be a good boyfriend. If that makes any sense.”

  “I get that,” I said, thinking about how my parents told me that feelings change. But maybe it’s expectations that change more than anything else.

  Jase sips his coffee and we’re both quiet for a beat before he says, “You know Dom asked me about you, right? Like, asked if I’d be cool with him getting to know you.”

  I looked up at him and Jase was smirking. “Really?” I asked.

  “Yup.”

  A too-long pause followed, and I punched his shoulder. “And? What did you tell him?!”

  “I said he better not be shitty to you or I’d kick his ass.”

  My jaw dropped. “Jase Lin!” I squealed, and he laughed. I covered my face because I could feel it heating up and I didn’t want Jase to see me blushing. He gently pulled my hands away.

  We talked for a while longer about everything. I told him about the Shakespeare program and showed him photos of the Globe Theatre. He told me about soccer, about his dad’s charity work, and how he might go to Cambodia with him this summer. We talked for so long that we were almost late to school.

  We pulled our jackets back over our shoulders and he laughed at me when I stood up too quickly and almost knocked over my chair after I realized what time it was. We pushed our way back outside and despite our rush, he stopped me on the corner.

  “Seriously, though. You sure we’re okay?” he asked again, and I allowed myself to miss his dark serious eyes looking at me like I was the only person on earth, but only for a second.

  Then I smiled.

  “I’m sure,” I said. “We’re good.”

  ANYWHERE BUT HERE

  I decided to go to school after all. And just as I thought she would, Layla ignored me. In homeroom, she didn’t even look in my direction. At lunch, she sat with the Chorus Girls. Jase found me sitting alone and asked what was wrong, but I couldn’t bring myself to be completely honest. I was dying to tell someone what was happening with my parents, but the only person I wanted to talk to was my best friend.

  Just after third period, I spotted Layla in the hall at her locker alone. She had her headphones in and was nodding along to whatever was playing. I knew I only had a few minutes before she’d be surrounded by Sloane, Sage, Melody, Cadence, and Valeria, and probably Mason too. But just before I walked up to her, it occurred to me that maybe Layla’s feelings about me were changing because I hadn’t lived up to her expectations, just like what had happened with Jase. She was certainly treating me in a way she never had before, and I needed to know if she was only mad for now or if the ground beneath us had shifted in a way that was unfixable.

  “Layla,” I said. And I was standing close enough that I knew she heard me, could feel me beside her, but she pretended she couldn’t. “Layla,” I said again, a little louder.

  She let out a heavy sigh and pulled out one of her earbuds. “What, Cleo? Don’t you know wh-wh-what space means?”

  Her hostility made everything I’d been holding in all day bubble to the surface. My throat went achy and tight.

  “Yeah, Layla. I know what space means,” I said. “But I thought we were best friends. I thought if I needed you, you’d always be someone I could count on.”

  She narrowed her dark eyes. “Oh. That’s funny. B-b-because I thought the same thing. I thought my so-called b-best friend would be ssssupportive when something I’ve wanted for forever happened t-to me. I thought my so-called b-b-best friend would b-b-b-be rooting for me more than anyone else.”

  Everything in me was so raw that each word felt like salt being rubbed into a wound. And of course that was when I saw Sloane and the other girls approaching. I’d barely recovered enough to try to respond. My window of opportunity was closing before I could think of what to say next. Because they were all on her side. To them, I was a pretentious jerk who didn’t know how to keep a secret or lock a door; a mean, thoughtless girl who told her friend she was “surprised” she’d gotten a lead role. They saw me as this version of myself that was warped and twisted and untrue. My conversation with Jase came back to me in a bright and sudden flash: their Brain-Cleo was the worst.

  “Layla,” I said. “You know me. You know how I really feel.”

  “Do I, though?” she asked. And then the other girls were there sneering at me, making me feel small, and an instant later, completely invisible.

  That time, though, I didn’t slink away. Maybe it was the fact that my family was falling apart and it felt like no one understood or cared. Maybe it was the way these girls always made me feel like I didn’t matter. Maybe it was the “so-called” that Layla put in front of the words “best friend.” But whatever it was, it made me angry enough to be brave.

  The Chorus Girls were all talking to each other with their pretty, girly voices. They were talking over and about me, like I wasn’t standing right there. I was Mean-Cleo, Harsh-Cleo, Dumbass-Bitch-Cleo. And they must have been right, because I felt like the funhouse version of myself—everything inside me unrecognizable and stretched a little too thin.

  Layla turned away from me to face them for roughly the millionth time, and something inside me snapped. A zing of electric rage shot straight through me, quick and deadly, and I was done letting her decide my fate.

  There
was also something else: a breaking of whatever had held me together for so long; a shattering of the last thing that had kept the pain inside me quiet. But on the outside I stayed calm. On the outside, I smiled sweetly. I understood Lady Macbeth in that moment as I never had before: I looked like the innocent flower, but I was a serpent under it.

  “You know what, L,” I said. The Chorus Girls all stopped their chattering. They turned to look at me like they were all one person, and some thorny part of me was happy that they’d all hear what I had to say.

  I couldn’t see Layla clearly because my eyes were full, and I was so angry that every part of my body was shaking. “Best of luck with the musical,” I said. And she looked pleased. Happy with herself or maybe even with her so-called best friend. But there was a crack in the hull of me, and I was sinking. She didn’t yet know, but I wasn’t going down alone.

  “I hope you sing your fucking heart out,” I spat, stepping closer to her. I took a deep breath and hissed through my teeth, “And I hope you stutter through every line.”

  I said it like it was a prayer or a promise. I said it like it was a wish. And I hated myself for saying it almost instantly.

  Right after last period, I ran down the hall and out into the cold, just wanting to be alone as quickly as possible. But instead of disappearing into the anonymity of the city the way I’d hoped, I almost ran right into Dominic Grey.

  “Whoa,” he said, stopping me with his hands on my shoulders so we didn’t completely collide. “Where you running off to?”

  “Anywhere but here,” I said, thinking of what Jase told me about him. Knowing that whatever had started at the Halloween party wouldn’t have a chance to go further anytime soon. I couldn’t imagine kissing anyone when so much of my life was exploding. I couldn’t think about trusting a new person when I couldn’t trust my parents or the girl who was supposed to be my best friend.

  “Are you—”

  “No, I’m not okay,” I said. “I have to go.”

  I jerked away from him, and if there hadn’t been a mile-long bridge crowded with tourists between my school and my apartment, I would have run all the way home.

  now

  A CHAPERONE

  Over the next few days, whenever Sydney texts me, I don’t text back. I avoid her at school as much as I can and even go as far as to turn and walk in the other direction if I see her coming down the hall.

  It’s not that I’m upset with her—not exactly. It’s that I don’t need her yet, and I don’t want to get to the point where I do. And since she has Willa now, it’s not like she needs me at all.

  To fill my time and distract myself from my new Sydneylessness, I overly commit to my new part-time job. I go to Dolly’s almost daily, and get to know Mr. Henry, aka Pop, and especially Miss Dolly really well. They ask about school and my family, what I like to do and read. I ask them about what it was like to leave everything behind and move here with just a dream in the sixties and seventies, and they tell me endless stories about a version of New York I’ll never know.

  I seat customers and take their orders; crack jokes with the regulars; swap secrets with Dom, leaning across the counter to whisper to him, whenever he and I go on break. And on the slowest nights, I watch Dom do magic tricks for little kids who are up way past their bedtimes, eating sundaes at the bar.

  I fall in love with the diner and all the people in it, and I understand why Dom wants to make sure this place survives.

  “I just feel like there has to be something more I can be doing,” I say to my dad. It’s the weekend, so I’m at his place and we’re spread out on the couch tossing popcorn into each other’s mouths. I toss a piece that lands on Daddy’s tongue and he says, “Nice,” before launching his own shot. It bounces off my front teeth.

  “Have you spoken to Dolly or Henry about this?”

  “No. I don’t want them to know that Dom told me the diner is in trouble. It might be something they don’t want a lot of people to know. But Dom said—”

  “I know, hon, but I wouldn’t jump to any conclusions based on what Dom said. He’s a kid, just like you.”

  “Seriously, Daddy? Ageism?”

  My dad sighs and launches another kernel in my direction. I dive for it, mouth open, and it lands in my mouth.

  “I mean, the neighborhood is definitely changing,” he says. “No one can deny that.”

  “Exactly. And I can’t sit around and do nothing. Maybe I could run a fundraiser for them? Do you think the regulars would pitch in?”

  He just makes his Librarian Face. “It may not be that simple. If they have a backlog of bills, an influx of cash might help. But if it’s just that fewer people are coming through the doors every day, I’m not sure a fundraiser will solve their problem long term. You can give a man a fish and all that, right?”

  I frown at him. Toss a piece of popcorn. I’m pretty sure that wasn’t Shakespeare. “Did you just quote the Bible?”

  Daddy looks slightly disappointed. He opens the eye he’d closed as he prepared to aim and shoot. “You know that’s not from the Bible. Look, Baby Girl, I just don’t want you to get too stressed about this. You have enough to worry about with keeping up with your homework and tutoring.”

  “Oh crap,” I say. I jump up and place the bowl of popcorn I’m holding on the coffee table. “I’m late.”

  * * *

  —

  Layla and I agreed that the only way we were going to get through this tutoring assignment was if we had a moderator—a neutral third party to basically chaperone what we hoped would be our last session for a while. We also agreed to meet at a completely innocuous location (this was my requirement), instead of Dolly’s even though it’s a Sunday.

  Layla is already seated at a small table at the back of the Starbucks when I arrive, and a second later, our chaperone walks in. Jase throws his arm around my shoulder while I’m still standing near the entrance glaring in Layla’s direction.

  “Cleo Imani Baker!” he whispers. “What are we doing?”

  “We’re glaring,” I whisper back. He’s quiet for a few seconds. When I look up, he’s squinting hard in Layla’s direction.

  “How long are we going to glare?” he whispers next. I sigh. “I guess we can be done,” I say.

  “Cool. Hey, Lay!” he shouts, and Layla looks up from her phone. She grins at him, but when she sees me, her smile disappears.

  I picked Starbucks because I’d otherwise never go to one. There are just way too many independently owned coffee shops in the city for me to spend my (parents’) money here. It makes me think of Dolly’s losing out to burger chains and trendy noodle bars. I don’t want to buy anything, but I don’t want to get kicked out for loitering, so I get a frappuccino (and, I’ll be honest, it’s delicious).

  “So,” Jase says, once we’re all seated. “The objective today is for you, Cleo, to read this paper and offer our friend”—I glare at him—“correction, my friend Layla, here, some constructive feedback. Because, Layla, you can’t afford to mess this paper up, and, Cleo, you’re a truant who needs to make up the credit you missed while being…truant-y.”

  I nod. Layla nods. Jase smiles. “Okay, then! Let’s begin.”

  Layla hands me her paper without looking at me at all. She says, more to Jase than me, “I think I hit all the p-points we discussed, b-b-but I’m stuck on the b-best way to p-pull off the Islam section without an outsider reading it in a stereotypical way. I w-w-w-want to make sure I’m saying there are b-beautiful elements of Islam, and that even sssso, there are imperfections. Like, the Qur’an says men and w-w-w-women are spiritual equals—it’s people that mmake up arbitrary rules about wh-what’s right for g-g-girls versus boys.”

  I nod and skim the first half of her paper. Jase plays a game on his phone. “This looks really good, Layla. Maybe just sprinkle the mentions of Islam versus culture throughout inste
ad of lumping it all together in one section as a separate argument. Like here, when you’re talking about Macbeth’s ideas of manhood, talk about how masculinity is interpreted differently by different people. Or here, when you touch on the fact that they have no children, and how Lady Macbeth kind of holds it against him, talk about the cultural expectations of women versus men when it comes to kids and raising families. Does that make sense? Weaving it throughout instead of separating it?”

  I look at her directly for the first time since we got here. Her hair is so straight, and she’s wearing dark eyeliner with dangly earrings, and she looks completely different from the girl I used to know. I suddenly realize—or maybe I just finally admit to myself—that this is who she is now.

  My best friend is gone, I think as Layla jots down notes based on what I’ve said. And the acceptance of something so simple, something that should have been obvious to me before now, makes me let go of whatever it was I was holding on to.

  “That’s all you needed, right?” I say, because I’m overcome with a desire to get away from her. I can feel my chest getting tight with the threat of tears, and my throat feels achy and thick. Layla flips through the remaining pages of the essay and asks me a few more questions that I answer quickly and succinctly. She pulls out her book and asks if I think the quotations she’s included to support her arguments are the best ones, and I double-check, feeling squirmy and more ready to leave than ever. Finally, Layla begins putting her things away and I follow suit. She looks up at Jase.

  “Thanks for p-p-playing middleman, J,” she says, and I want to puke because I know this is something she’s picked up from Sloane, who can’t be bothered to say people’s whole names. I think of them calling her L, and then of the one time I did, and I want to run and hide.

  But I run to Dolly’s instead.