37 Things I Love (In No Particular Order) (10 page)

“I’m kind of in the middle of something, Colin. Did you want anything in particular?”

Sirens echo from the TV in the next room. Colin turns toward the noise. He’ll put two and two together and know that I don’t want him here right now.

“
ER
?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool.”

The oven beeps, letting us know it has reached 350 degrees. Colin looks past my shoulder, to where the oven timer is ticking down.

“Pizza bagels and
ER
,” he says.

“Yeah.” I refuse to look at him, because he knows me. I don’t want him to see.

Silence.

Silence, tainted by the muffle of fake doctors faking urgency. Thirty ccs, stat.

There’s not a lot of awkwardness between Colin and me, generally. The newness of this feeling makes the first hint of uncomfortable swell to fill the whole room.

“I guess I’ll go then,” Colin says.

“Okay.”

“Well, if you want to talk—”

“I know.”

He starts as if to leave, but hesitates. He taps the doorjamb. “Can I say something you’re not going to like?”

“Who’s stopping you?”

“Just … don’t hate me for saying it.”

“What is it?” My stomach twinges, not from hunger.

Colin sighs. “Maybe you’re feeling like this because you know, deep down, that it’s time.”

He lingers, as if I’m going to dignify that with a response. Then he sighs again and lets himself out the front door.

20

Microwave Popcorn

The sound of it. The smell of it. The ease of it.

MY FOOD LOOKS
glorious on the tray: small bowl of soup, big bowl of popcorn, plate of pizza bagels and cinnamon toast, giant glass of cream soda. It balances nicely on the way back toward the living room.

In the doorway, I freeze. My cozy cocoon place is occupied.

Mom huddles among my carefully arranged blankets, watching George Clooney handsomely saving someone’s life. She turns when I emerge from the hall.

“Ellis.”

I know this tone of Mom’s voice, so I turn back toward my bedroom. Not fast enough.

“Ellis, sit with me, please.” She’s curled on the couch, a tiny perching bird.

“I have homework.”

“Ellis, love.”

I will not cry.

“You won’t do it,” I say. “You promised. Not until I say.”

“Ellis, come talk to me.”

“I went to see your shrink,” I snap. “Why won’t you leave me alone?”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Mom says.

“So don’t. It’s not that complicated.” The tears are clogging my voice, but I hold them back. I set the tray on the coffee table and stand with my knees up against it, arms crossed, glaring.

“Won’t you sit with me?” If she could just look less wounded and pathetic in this moment, it would be a lot easier on me.

“Leave me alone.”

“Would that I could,” she says. “But you’re stuck with me.”

“You’re ruining everything.”

She unfolds her legs, leans toward me. “Love, I wanted this to be
our
decision.”

“What decision?” My legs shake, rattling the balanced tray. The dishes clatter. I step back. “There hasn’t been any decision.”

Mom wipes a hand underneath one eye. “Ellis.”

I’m gone. Turning my back, heading for my room, running from the foregone conclusion. I’ll pretend she never said it. Pretend I never heard it.

“It’s my fault,” she says. It’s enough to make me not go.

I’m not turning around. I stare through the arched doorway at the dining-room wall, splattered though it is with framed photos of us. Baby me. Little me. Mom. Dad.

“I shouldn’t have tried to hang on as long as I did. I should have let him go, right after the accident. When they first said he probably wouldn’t wake up.”

I keep my back to her, listening. It’s not so easy to hear her say these things that we prefer to leave unsaid.

“I didn’t want to believe it,” she says. “I hung on to the little shred of a chance, because they said ‘probably.’”

I turn. “But you were right. There was a chance. There
is
a chance.”

“Sweetie.”

I hate the look of pity, the look that says
you don’t know what’s best,
the look that makes me five years old again. “There
is
. How can you not believe it, after all this time?”

“I’m so sorry.” Mom has tears now. In her eyes and on her cheeks. “I gave you this impossible hope and showed you how not to let it go.”

I don’t understand this. I don’t. “What, you think it would be better for me to learn to give up when things get rocky? I don’t think that’s right.”

Mom sighs, rubbing at her cheeks. “I should have been teaching you to tell yourself the truth, even when it’s the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do.”

21

Phone Calls

Sometimes they come at the exact right moment.

I GRAB MY SINGING
phone off the coffee table, to avoid looking at Mom a second longer.

It’s been a million years since yesterday. So long that I’m shocked to see her name blinking:
CARA
.

I flip the phone open, turning my back on Mom and stomping into the kitchen, leaving all, including my snackage, behind.

“Hi.”

“Hi. How are you?” she says.

Thoughts ajumble. Nothing comes to mind. “Next question.”

“Do you want to come over?”

“What?” I say, beyond stupid. “Why?”

“Um—” She pauses, and the whole moment turns reckless. “Never mind, I guess.”

“Sure.”

“Really? Cool.”

Mom walks in, a basket of laundry on her hip and a question in her eyes, still all red around the edges. Chasing me with clean clothes and possibly the intent to spy. It’s almost like two minutes ago never happened.

“Can I come now?” I say into the phone. Loudly.

“Bring a bathing suit if you want.”

We hang up.

“I’m going to Cara Horton’s. She invited me over.”

Mom’s brows go up. When was the last time I went to anyone’s house but Abby’s?

“After,” she says, plopping the basket on the table by my elbow. An air of April Fresh Downy wafts past me. I stick my face deep into the basket and breathe.

“Those are clean.”

I give her a look that says,
What, ’cause I always sniff the dirty clothes hamper?

“That’s disappointing.”

Mom rolls her eyes. “Fold,” she says.

*   *   *

I WAIT FOR
the other shoe to drop.

It doesn’t.

Mom putters around the kitchen while I fold the laundry. She makes coffee and washes the countertop. She brings back my tray. She lays out the popcorn and cinnamon toast, and every few minutes we stop to munch on them. We stand the triangles of toast on their points and pretend that they are dancing or boxing or thinking about kissing or trying to get by one another politely. We smile.

I fold extra slowly. Maybe she knows it. Maybe she doesn’t. She smells things in the fridge for freshness, voting a bunch of stuff off the island.

At one point she takes the sides of my head in her hands and leans her forehead against mine. Her eyes are closed, her breath is low. I wonder what it is that she can’t bring herself to say.

“I’m going to Cara’s,” I remind her, dropping the last of the paired socks in the basket.

“Take your clothes to your bedroom.”

I gather my stuff and go, wondering what the hell is happening in our house right now. First we talk, then we don’t, but for five fucking minutes there, I didn’t feel like the world was ending.

As I’m walking out the front door, Mom’s back in the living room, folding blankets and getting ready to bring the rest of my food back into the kitchen.

“Bye, Mom.”

She glances up.

“I ate two pizza bagels,” she says. “I don’t know what you see in those things.”

“It’s an acquired taste.”

She nods. “But why,” she muses, “would you want to acquire it?”

I shrug. “I dunno. Can I get back to you?”

She smiles in this very serious, very Mom way. “I wish you would.”

22

The Pool

Floating out on the water, it feels like nothing can touch you.

I FEEL OKAY
in my swimsuit. It’s what you might call a tankini, because it’s uncool to not wear a bikini, but I don’t like my stomach to stick out. The pattern of red, orange, and cream complements the tan of my skin tone, according to Mom, and vertical stripes are slimming, according to Abby.

I change in Cara’s bedroom. She’s already wearing her own suit, a sleek racing-style one piece. She looks sporty and comfortable, with nothing bulging out, and I wish I was brave enough to pick a suit that would make Abby roll her eyes when we go to lay out.

Cara flops on the bed and turns her back so I can get naked without an audience. I go fast.

“Okay. I’m ready.”

She turns around. I’ve wrapped a beach towel around my waist. I smooth it now, and smooth the suit over my tummy, and adjust the straps. I’m waiting for her approval, I guess.

Cara looks at my boobs poking over the skimpy bra cups and says, “Wow.” I’m not sure if she’s talking about my suit or my chest, but either way, I can take the compliment.

“Does it look okay?”

She nods. “Looks great. But it’s just us anyway.”

“Yeah.” I still want to look not fat and not stupid. I want us to be friends again. I’m a little shocked to realize how nervous I am to be here.

Cara rolls off the bed, landing with bare feet in the soft carpet. She releases a sudden swimsuit wedgie with an unapologetic snap, then scoops up a beach towel. She seems so … effortless. Like she doesn’t care how she looks or what I see. It’s her house, though, so I guess she’s supposed to be comfortable.

“Sunglasses on,” she says, donning hers. They cover her eyes, plus half her forehead and a decent chunk of cheeks.

“I didn’t bring any.”

“I have extra.” She reaches into a drawer and pulls out another giant pair. For me.

*   *   *

CARA’S BACKYARD POOL
is perfect turquoise blue. We hover above the water on rafts of neon green and purple, sipping root beer from long straws.

“Where have you been all my life?” I say dreamily. I’m floating on air and sunshine.

“I’ve been around,” she says, and there’s an edge to it.

Oops. Not great, not great. I stir the water with my hand, glancing at her beyond the corner of the borrowed shades.

We fall silent. The neighborhood hums around us. A lawnmower several yards down the street. The gurgle of water running into the pool drain. The skitter of squirrels in the trees.

“It sucks, how we drifted apart,” I say. “But I guess it happens.”

Cara turns her head away. Her raft floats toward the other side of the pool, and she doesn’t paddle to stop it. Here we go, drifting apart, again.

“What is it?” I ache anew as the distance swells between us. The friendly blue water suddenly turns too cool. Goose bumps rise on my skin.

I strain my mind, but the summer after eighth grade through the beginning of ninth is a slow-motion blur of still photos: waiting rooms, doctors, Mom crying, Mom crying, Mom crying, until one day she stopped. That was when it started.
Honey, it’s time to let go.
But she promised,
promised
it wouldn’t happen unless we were both ready. And a little while after that, she stopped saying “if” and started saying “when.”

“What?” I repeat. I’m starting to feel like what happened to our friendship might have been my fault. I was distracted, by Dad. By everything that was going on. I was trying so hard to keep him that I didn’t much care about keeping anyone else. After the past few days, though, it seems unthinkable that I came out of that summer still close with Abby but not Cara.

“I wanted to stay friends,” she whispers. I almost don’t hear, but the tiny waves catch her voice, carry it to me.

Oh.

“Did we ditch you?” I say, tackling the awkwardness head on. Screw it. I’m trying a new tack. It’s not like things have been going so great for me in the status quo.

Silence.

“Not really you,” Cara says. “Well—”

I’m embarrassed. I can’t remember what happened. Abby must’ve decided she was done with Cara and moved on. And I just let it happen. Maybe it’s that simple. And why shouldn’t it be? Abby calls the shots. That’s just how it is.

“Me by extension?” I say.

“Yeah.” She seems reluctant to say it.

“We can be honest, right?” Like it’s so easy.

“Yeah.” More enthusiasm that time.

“I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.”

She strokes the water until our rafts drift side by side, and we are head to toe. We look at each other from behind the bug-eyed shades and smile.

“I’m sorry,” I say again, but the words rise from a deeper level this time. How different might everything be if we had stayed friends? I get a shiver. We both would have slightly different memories, slightly different lives.

“Everything’s easy with you,” I say.

Cara smiles underneath her shades. “You too,” she says, reaching for my hand.

I remember things about our friendship. It was back when I was happy. Sleepovers. Trips to the park. Then I got older, things happened, less happy, and she faded.

Slightly different memories. Slightly different lives.
I feel a little jolt. What if the difference it made wasn’t slight? One thing changes, everything changes. Isn’t that how it goes? We all would have walked different roads. Been in different places at different times.

What if Dad had dropped me off to play at Cara’s instead of Abby’s on his way to work that day? He gets to work ten minutes later. He walks a different beam, one where the fall is only one story. He breaks his leg. Both legs. He breaks his neck, too, and is paralyzed for life, and we all think it’s the end of the world, but everything is relative.

I squeeze Cara’s hand tighter. I don’t think that. Not really. Maybe nothing so small could have saved Dad. Maybe it was only a matter of time before fate stole him from us, and—just to make matters worse—left us with the cruel task of accepting or rejecting the decree. Except there’s no hiding from fate. I know that.
I know that.
I squeeze tighter still.