How to Say I Love You Out Loud (13 page)

She’s been pretty icy toward me since our exchange on Monday night, and I know she’s well within her right to be acting like this. I was mean and hurtful. Since then, I’ve
thought about apologizing a bunch of times, but I just haven’t. Our fight feels too recent and raw, and I can’t force the words out of my mouth.

We are both pretending nothing happened, while avoiding each other at the same time. My father is oblivious. I can tell she hasn’t told him about the incident or my behavior, which somehow
makes me feel
worse.

I wring my hands, thinking I’m really tired of the tension between us.

“I’m really sorry for what I said,” I blurt out.

She waits a minute before turning toward me and lifting her eyes to mine. Her expression is flat. “Are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you really sorry? For what? For saying what you said out loud?” She shakes her head and returns her gaze to the floor. “It’s not like it’s something you
don’t believe or didn’t mean,” she murmurs.

Her blunt honesty catches me off guard. It’s not something I’m used to from her. I stand in the doorway, more tongue-tied than ever. The truth is, she’s right, and I
can’t deny the thoughts and feelings I’d thrown in her face. But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel bad.

“I’m sorry for how I said it. I’m sorry for hurting your feelings and ruining your day.”

It’s the best I can offer.

She studies me for a while, assessing my intent. I guess I pass her test, because her face clears and she reaches up from the floor to squeeze my hand. “Thanks for that,” she says
simply. “You’re forgiven.”

A great sense of relief overtakes me, and my shoulders relax. It has felt like a very long week, with the way we’ve been tiptoeing around each other.

Eager to move past the ugliness between us, I look down at her project, wanting to change the subject. She’s sitting on the carpet with a gigantic pink box in front of her. It’s the
size and length of the kind of box you’d use to store a wedding dress or something, wrapped in pretty paper that has started to yellow.

I step into the room and examine the box’s contents, immediately recognizing mementos from my many childhood successes: blue and red ribbons from summertime swim meets, art projects that
won awards in the annual school show, goldenrod report cards with lines of straight As and glowing teacher comments, small trophies from gymnastics and ballet—both of which I’d given up
on years ago—random certificates of achievement, and newspaper clippings from the “Kids’ Corner” where my fourth-grade poetry attempts were published. The box is
meticulously organized, with smaller boxes and labeled file folders inside, cataloging my accomplishments in a year-by-year system.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

She holds up a newspaper clipping. “I’m adding the newspaper article about this year’s team,” she answers, referring to the write-up on the varsity field hockey squad
that Leighton had probably commissioned. “There are a few other things I haven’t filed yet, like your report card from the end of last year.”

“You save
everything
?” I pick up a misshapen clay pot and roll my eyes. “I mean, is this really worthy of saving for posterity?”

“I’m your mother.” She smiles wanly. “I think everything you do is beautiful, and special, and wonderful. It’s hard to think about throwing anything away, like
it’s not important. Everything you do is important to me.”

Truly, my little clay pot does not deserve this kind of admiration. Parents are funny creatures.

My mom takes a deep breath and hesitates, like she’s scared of what she has to say next.

“I don’t want to start another fight with you,” she begins slowly, “but I want to show you something.”

She gets up, rummages around in the closet, and pulls out a box that’s identical to my pink one, but wrapped in yellowing blue paper. Structurally, it is more sound—it does not sag
in the middle and its corners are intact. My mom carries it easily, like it’s feather light. “This is Phillip’s box. Nanny gave me yours, and she gave me one for him, too, when he
was born. They were meant to be keepsake boxes.”

My mom sets it on the floor beside mine and opens it. Its contents are stark in comparison, and no yearly file folders are required to keep them organized. There are a few school pictures from
years he managed to smile, a kind note from a teacher Phillip developed a really great relationship with, his score printout from the math PSATs. My box is full and overflowing—beside it, his
box looks like a joke.

From beneath my sophomore year report card and the recent field hockey newspaper article, my mom pulls a printout of the e-mail from Terry about the Happiness Circuit nomination and the
invitation to the Sparkle Ball.

“What I just said to you, Jordyn? How as your mom, I see everything you do as beautiful, and special, and wonderful?” She runs the palm of her hand over one of Phillip’s
pictures. “I feel the same exact way about your brother, alright? Accomplishments are measured on a much smaller scale, and I have to find different things beautiful—the way he examines
a fallen leaf during autumn, those brief moments when he checks into this planet to ask me a question about how something works, his silly laughter, his smiles . . . but I feel the exact same
way.”

She shakes her head, and her voice tightens. “It’s easy for me. But the rest of the world doesn’t recognize Phillip the way the rest of the world recognizes you.” She
points toward my box. “Look at all these things, how many times I’ve gotten to sit in an audience and have other people acknowledge just how awesome my kid is.” My mom stares into
my eyes, and I wish I could ignore the glassy cast to hers. “You think it’s selfish, but it’s not. It’s this feeling like the love and joy you find in your child can’t
possibly be contained in your heart alone, this feeling like the world should celebrate your child, too. Every child should be celebrated that way, at least once.” Her throat convulses and
her voice drops to a whisper. “It comes with being a parent, and I don’t think I was being selfish for wanting that, just once, for Phillip.”

“Mom—”

She waves her hand in protest and wipes at her eyes. Eventually, she forces a laugh. “I know it’s a pipe dream, all of it—the idea that I’d be able to coax him into a
tux, the idea that he’d
actually
walk down that red carpet, the idea that he’d realize what the night is for and enjoy any part of it. But I want that for him,
anyway.”

She stops trying to laugh the pain away and she looks sadder than I’ve seen her look in a long while. “I’m never going to get what I want, but still . . . I can’t seem to
stop wanting people to fill his box the way people have filled yours.”

I hover above her, silent. I guess in my mother’s eyes, Phillip and I are more alike than different.

I stare down at his image, smiling in the school picture. Phillip reduces everything, everyone, to objects and it’s easy to do the same to him. To view him as a highly irritable robot,
whose programming is rife with bugs and flaws, creating disconnects every time he tries to interact with humans. Looking at this picture, you’d never know. He’s just as human as I am,
and it’s
not
right that his box is empty, I decide.

But we can’t change the world, and we sure as hell can’t change Phillip’s world, so what she wants, yeah, it seems like a pipe dream. And I hate the idea of her having to face
reality and the idea of other people, Phillip included, letting her down. That’s really what I’d been trying to say to her the other night, but my own feelings got in the way.

“I just don’t want you to be disappointed if the night doesn’t turn out the way you want it to.”

My mom turns toward me a final time and squares her shoulders. “If I worried about disappointment when it comes to Phillip, he’d never be where he is today, Jordyn. I can hardly let
the fear of my expectations falling short, the idea of people letting me down, dictate how we live around here.”

Something catches within me.

Her words poke at a truth buried within me, reminding me of ways in which I am weak.

I hurriedly push my sleeve up and glance at my watch. “Well. I’m going to be really late soon. I should get going.”

“Thanks for stopping to chat.” She offers a small smile in parting.

I nod once and scurry toward the front door, away from the discomfort our conversation has provoked.

After getting caught up talking to my mom, I’m running late to meet the work crew at the playground. But I need a few minutes to clear my head, so I stop and pick up a
bagel and coffee at the Einstein Bros I pass on my way. As an afterthought, I add a cinnamon raisin bagel, Alex’s favorite, to my order. Knowing him, he’s probably been at the
playground site since the crack of dawn.

When I pull up to the park, the dirt lot is full of cars, and in the distance, I see groups of people already hard at work. I’m not surprised that Alex has gotten a good turnout of friends
from school and members of the community. As I approach the crowd and find Leighton manning the snack table for volunteers, I’m glad I can blend in as one friend of many.

Even so, I stash the Einstein Bros bag in my purse as I near the group. She’s beat me to the punch, anyway. The table is covered with artfully arranged trays of fruit and dip, bagels and
gourmet cream cheese, and danishes and doughnut holes. There are plastic carafes of fruit juice and thermoses of coffee.

I guess manning the snack table is Leighton’s only task, because she doesn’t seem very motivated to move beyond it. She’s relaxing in a folding chair with her feet up, sipping
from a cup of coffee and talking to Dana and Jamie like today is a social gathering more than anything else. It doesn’t escape my attention that she’s taped a flyer advertising the
hockey team’s upcoming spaghetti dinner fund-raiser for new equipment to the front of the table. There is a cash box and a pile of tickets in front of her.

Even though I’d love to avoid them entirely, I force myself to say hi.

“Jordyn’s here. Shocking,” Dana quips.

Leighton is all business as she points toward the box. “We’re multitasking today. Did you buy tickets for your family yet? The team should really have one hundred percent
attendance.”

I’m aware of her 100 percent goal, but, no, I have most certainly
not
bought tickets for my family yet.

I open my purse and pull out some money, thinking maybe my mom won’t mind going by herself, since I’ll be working the event.

I hand Leighton a twenty-dollar bill. “My dad’s tied up that night, but I think my mom can come. Just one ticket’s fine.” Tickets are only ten dollars, but I wave the
change aside. “Keep the change, as a donation. I’m sure my parents won’t mind.”

Hopefully, this will appease her.

She nods her approval, and as she hands me one ticket, I notice Alex approaching. His face is serious and focused, but he looks as appealing as ever in cargo pants, a gray hoodie, and a navy
knit hat that makes his beautiful brown eyes stand out even more than normal. His cheeks are flushed from exertion and the cold.

“Hi, Jordyn. Thanks again for making it out today. Was keeping an eye out for you.”

It’s an innocent enough comment, but internally I cringe, thinking how the words will sound to Leighton and crew.

“Sorry I’m running so late,” I spit out in a rush, taking a step away from him. “I got caught up talking to my mom, and—”

Leighton interrupts me. “We’re right on top of things at our post, Alex,” she informs him cheerily. She tightens her scarf around her neck. “Making sure workers stay fed
and warm and happy. Everyone’ll be more productive that way.”

Alex’s expression becomes colored with some low-burning frustration, and he just smiles tightly at her in response.

Leighton doesn’t seem to notice though, and continues on. “And like I just told your buddy Jordyn, I’m multitasking. Like a boss. I already sold more than twenty tickets to the
spaghetti dinner, and it’s only ten thirty.”

I think his annoyance is obvious now, in the set of his jaw and darkness of his eyes, but she still doesn’t seem to get it.

“I’m gonna get Jordyn started,” he says tersely, grabbing my elbow and steering me away from the table. I try to picture what Leighton’s face must look like, but I sure
as hell don’t want to turn around to see. He is
not
helping me out here.

I don’t relax until we round the corner of the bathrooms and three pairs of eyes are no longer on my back.

Alex’s mood seems to lift as well and his smile turns genuine. “So . . . all set for latrine duty?”

“Yeah. I just wish you’d stop calling it that.”

“Again, if you’d rather, I can get you a hammer.” He points toward a group of guys from school who are squinting at a diagram as they attempt to put together a
complicated-looking seesaw apparatus.

“I’ll stick with latrines. As long as I just have to paint.”

Alex nods toward the entrance. “Come on, then, I’ll show you. Get ready to Seussify the place.”

I giggle and smile as I follow his lead.