Don't Ever Change (20 page)

“Wait, okay, leave it,” I say. “I want the toaster. I want it, okay?”

“I’ll give it to Courtney, it’s fine.”

“She won’t even be able to use it in Amsterdam,” I remind her. “She’ll need a European power adapter.”

Then my mother tugs harder, yanking the cord from my hands, and that’s when I realize maybe I misdiagnosed her: maybe she’s crazy. But it’s also early; I was woken too soon, so I’m grumpy and in no mood to comfort anyone. I don’t feel like telling my mother, who knows I love her,
that
I love her, or telling her that I’ll miss her when she obviously
knows
I’ll miss her.
Call me a Crab!
I don’t care.

“You’re crazy,” I say, and grab my notebook off the nightstand and start scribbling notes. “I’m going to turn this into a short story called ‘The Toaster.’ It’s about a mother’s inability to let go, which manifests itself through the symbol of this toaster, which is just a cold, crusty, busted thing that represents the way she doesn’t really know her daughter at all.”

“Don’t call me crazy, Eva.”

“You don’t even get that I don’t want a toaster. I like cereal, hello! I need bowls and spoons!”

“You’re grounded,” my mother says, and then leaves the room without the toaster.

“I like being grounded! I’m
well
grounded!” I yell after her, already sorry and realizing that I’m probably going to be late for camp this morning.

Courtney’s in her room meditating when I barge in to ask what she thinks about the toaster fight. I tell her everything, every word I can remember.

“‘The Toaster’?” Courtney asks, skeptical.

“At least it’s good material for a story,” I point out.

“Don’t put us in your stories, Eva.”

“It’s what I know,” I say. “It should be flattering!”

“You’re saying it’s an act of love to write about your family?”

“Basically.”

“Then,
boundaries
. You can’t just splay us out because you have”—my sister makes air quotes with her fingers—“a
gift
.”

“Oh, I have a gift,” I say. “It’s a toaster, for you.”

“I hate to say it, but you’re in worse denial about moving to Boston than Mom.”

“You don’t hate to say it.”

“I told you to have sympathy,” Courtney says. “Remember what I said about empty-nest syndrome?”

I nod.

“You’ll be living with Mom and Dad for, like, ten more minutes. So try to have a little patience, you know, some
understanding
.” Courtney uncrosses her legs and starts positioning herself, to my total disbelief, into a handstand. “You’ve always been impatient, Eva. Maybe it’s something from your childhood.”

“I might still be
in
my childhood,” I say.

“Tolerance,” Courtney says, like an upside-down Buddha.

“I’m like the
Museum
of Tolerance,” I tell her feet.

“I wouldn’t phrase it that way,” she says, and then kicks my chin a little, “counselor.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

FORGET MORNING CEREMONIES.
Forget free play. I miss them both.

In my absence the girls have been with Steven’s assistant all morning, but when I finally show up, they mob me like they thought they’d never see me again, like I was gone forever. They form a tight hugging ring with me in the middle, rotating, spilling sorrys, doing my best to reassure. “I’m not going anywhere,” I find myself promising, and then realize: this is what Courtney means when she says I’m in denial.

I resist the temptation to ask where Foster is. I notice the tetherball court is empty, and so I lead the girls there to journal and reconnect.

“Anyone want to read something they’ve written?” I ask hopefully.

Nobody says anything or moves except for Alexis, who covers her chubby face with her chubby little hands.

“You read,” Jenna says.

I flip through my journal, which is pathetically mostly blank except for some scribbles from trying to get my pen to start.

“No one
has
to read,” I say. “There’s no pressure.”

“I’d read my story about Mr. Baggy Jeans, but it’s not finished yet,” Lila says, and then Renee says, “It’s really good because it makes you feel sad.”

“Just read what you have,” Rebecca says. “Don’t be embarrassed.”

“She’s not,” Renee says, and then Lila says, “Yeah, I’m not.”

“Don’t be shy either,” Rebecca says. “Is anyone here shy?”

“Jessica and Alexis are shy,” Zoe says.

“That isn’t what they are,” Billie says. “They’re
introverted.
”

“They’re
mute
,” Jenna adds.

“Eva says there’s no pressure,” Maggie whispers. “Right, Eva?”

Then they all look at me.

“Be nice,” I say.

It’s the stupidest, most inane thing in the world to say, but so what. I
do
want them to be nice to each other, because I can only mentor them in so many ways; there’s only a limited amount of wisdom inside me, and most of it’s about writing, not
being
. I don’t know how a friend should be, so I’ll fail if I try to teach them how to treat one another, but I feel like I could succeed if we can just focus on the journals.

“We’re all friends,” I tell the girls.

There’s a single huff, a collective, jaded
yeah right.
Suddenly I feel so trapped in the role of the Adult, it’s not what I was meant to do. I don’t want to lead them. It’s never been my thing to take on some leadership position; I’ve never wanted to be captain of anything. I’m no Alyssa.

“Wait, where’s Alyssa?” I ask.

The girls shrug.

“We have to find her,” I say, and jump to my feet.

The girls rise slowly, awkwardly.

“Listen,” I say, “who saw Alyssa last?”

“She was at the pool,” Lila says, and then Renee finishes, “Swimming.”

“Anyone see her after swim?”

Everyone shakes their head, so we walk to the pool and Alyssa’s not there. But Foster’s there, sitting next to the lifeguard tower, watching over his boys. I don’t want to ask Foster if he’s seen Alyssa, because I refuse to admit losing a camper
inside
of camp. I look back at my girls—who are hypnotized by the idea that they might get to swim again, a second chance to splash around—and notice Billie mouthing numbers, counting heads in the pool.

“Billie, what’s up?”

“Eight boys,” she says.

“Trevor,” I start, but then lie, “is on vacation.”

“Yeah but still,” Billie says, “only eight. Corey’s gone too.”

“Everybody stay here,” I tell them. “Whirled peas!” They don’t hear me. Half of them are already taking off their shoes and socks, and the other half are huddled together, talking about which boy looks cutest with wet hair.

In the bathroom only one stall is occupied. I listen close and actually hear the sound of lips smacking. I have to remind myself
not
to think about hypocrisy, but it’s like trying not to think about elephants. Elephants! They’re everywhere.

“I’m not going to come in there,” I announce loudly, and the mouth sounds stop. “No one’s in trouble,” I say. “Hi, Corey.”

“Hey,” he says back.

I walk over to the door and lean in close, listening for zippers or the swoosh of shirts being hurriedly pulled on. It’s silent. “Don’t be weird,” I say.

“It’s
not
weird,” Alyssa says.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed.”

“We’re not.”

“Okay, well,
I’m
a little embarrassed,” I say.

“Everyone makes out,” Alyssa says.

“I know.”

“Camp is boring,” she says, like it’s a reasonable excuse.

“I know,” I say.

“Besides, all the CITs come here to do this.”

“They do?”

“
All
of them,” Corey says.

I lean my back against the stall and glance up at the ceiling, where someone’s written
SKUMMY SKIES
in a faded Sharpie scrawl. It looks twenty years old. Has everyone always been this cynical, this
disillusioned
with being young and sent off to summer camp to play stupid games in the stupid sun? The teenage exhaustion feels endless—not because it goes on and on forever but because it runs in a loop. Every kid starts where the last one left off.

“Fine,” I say, “but if all the CITs jumped off a bridge, would you do that too?”

“Seriously?” Alyssa asks. “Jumping off a bridge?”

“Alyssa, people use clichés because they’re universal. They make a point.”

“Hell yeah, I’d jump,” she says proudly. “I don’t want to be alone. That’s lame.”

“Also,” Corey says, “if everyone’s jumping, there’s probably a good reason. We’re not all just sheep. Maybe there’s something really cool down there and when you jump, you find it.”

I can’t argue with that.

“Take your time,” I say, and leave them alone so they can have some privacy.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

WHEN I WALK
into the house, the last person I want to see is my father, but he’s the first person I see because life is exactly like that.

“Evie,” he says, his big palms shaking my shoulders, “be nice to those who made you.”

“I’m nice,” I say.

“We just want to help.”

“Have you
seen
this toaster, Dad?”

“Honey, I haven’t seen the
kitchen
in twenty-two years. And yet I’m always fed.”

“I get it, I get it,” I say.

“You don’t have to apologize to your mom, but—”

“I
said
I was sorry,” I tell him. “One of the many things I said was ‘sorry.’”

“Well.” My father hangs his head. “Needles to say”—he pauses, gives my shoulders another squeeze—“your words sting.”

Needles to say, you’re a prick.
That’s how he usually phrases it when he’s talking to his racquetball buddies.

Then my phone beeps, and it’s a text from Lindsay: Got a gift card 2 Target 2day!!! Before I can text back, my phone beeps again: DORM STORM!!!!

Cool, I text.

Beep, beep.
So kewl.

I have a toaster, I text.

Beep, beep.
Toe stir!
Beep, beep.
Grrrled Cheez 4 Life!

And even though I don’t eat cheese, that still settles it: this’ll be our first shared appliance. It’s kind of exciting.

Later, my mother starts getting dinner together—grilled chicken breasts for everyone else and, like a saint,
St. Mom
, barbecue tofu just for me. The smell of soy and spices, wafting pleasantly up to the second floor, makes me feel hungry and sad. Penitence and piggishness swish around until my middle’s gurgling, so loud Courtney can hear it from the hall. She peeks her head into my room.

“There’s that fault line rupturing.”

“Why’s everyone so clever in this family?” I ask. “Say something that isn’t cute, say something heavy. Like,
weighty
.”

“Forgive Mom her toaster-passes,” Courtney says in a deep voice.

“I’m not
trying
to fight with her.”

My sister stares at me, waits for me to read her mind.

“I should be trying
not
to fight with her, I get it. But you fight with Dad and I fight with Mom. We can’t get it out of our systems because it
is
our system, it’s how we work.”

Courtney frowns. She’s sad to hear this, which is a real sign I’m right. “It’s not just that they won’t be there anymore to enjoy, Eva. It’s also that they won’t be there to unload on.”

“Fine with me.”

“We’re probably never going to live here again.”

“I know that,” I say, but knowing it doesn’t mean I’ve thought about it. I look around my room. There’s the desk I don’t really sit at because I like to feel the heat from the laptop warming my thighs, and also because it’s called a “laptop” and there’s something to appreciate about the literalness of the name. It doesn’t feel normal to miss a desk, since I’ll have one at Emerson. Being a writer, I’ll have one forever, I guess.