If He Had Been with Me (11 page)

“I haven’t been up to much,” I say.

“You won that poetry contest,” he says. I shrug.

“That wasn’t much,” I say.

“Of course it is,” Mrs. Morgansen says. “Though I’m not that surprised.”

“It was just within the school,” I say. “They picked one from each grade and printed them in the yearbook. That’s all.”

“But she won the overall prize too,” Finny says. “She beat seniors.”

“It’s not a big deal,” I say, because it isn’t. The other winners’ submissions ranged from trite to cliché; it wasn’t a hard crowd to beat.

Mrs. Morgansen laughs.

“Well, you two haven’t changed a bit,” she says. I frown without giving my face permission to do so. She doesn’t notice. “Your mother told me that you started track this spring,” she says to him. Finny tells her about the team taking bronze at regionals. He does not mention that it was something they never could’ve dreamed of before Finny joined them. I wasn’t being humble, but he is. As I listen, I let my gaze wander around. I know it’s impossible that every day I spent in here was happy, but that is how I remember it.

Finny’s punch to Donnie Banks’s gut effectively ended any teasing from the boys’ side. Eleven was the age when all the girls decided to have crushes on Finny, and they knew being snotty to me wouldn’t get them far. Not that it helped them either. Finny was never interested in girls. The only girl I have ever heard of him having feelings for is Sylvie Whitehouse. I frown again, trying to see for the millionth time how Finny, who is devoted to his mother, never has a bad word for anyone, and who every winter shovels the driveway of the old lady across the street and refuses to take a dollar for it, can be in love with a girl known for her drunken antics and dirty mind.

“It’s so nice seeing both of you,” Mrs. Morgansen says, and my mind moves back to the moment. “And it’s nice to know you’re still such good friends.”

Finny and I both glance over at each other and look away again quickly. His cheeks are already turning a deep pink. It’s not as if we can correct her.

“Or,” she asks, “are you more than just friends by now?” and I realize she has misinterpreted his blush. Finny turns red.

“No,” I say. I look back at her and shake my head, “No, no, no.” By her startled expression, it occurs to me that I’ve denied it perhaps a bit too vehemently to be polite. “I just mean I’ve been with my boyfriend for almost two years now, well, by the end of the summer it will be. So, no.”

“Oh, I see,” she says. “And what’s he like?”

“He’s fifth in our class,” I say. Finny is third. “And he’s really good to me.”

“Well, I knew that,” she says. “Otherwise Finny wouldn’t let him near you.” She smiles and I fake a laugh. Finny doesn’t say anything. “Actually, Phineas,” she continues, “I think your mother did say something about you and a girlfriend last time I asked.”

“Oh yeah,” Finny says. He stands up. “Speaking of Mom, we should probably go. We’re supposed to help load the car.”

We are hugged again. We promise to come back again sometime. Mrs. Morgansen tells me to send her some poems and, embarrassed, I try to laugh it off. Finny closes the door behind us and we head toward the staircase again. I think about Mrs. Morgansen’s memories of us. Of course she would have no reason to think we’d be anything less than the closest of friends. When I let myself remember how we used to be, it is hard to believe things could change so quickly.

I think about Mrs. Morgansen saying we
hadn’t
changed, and I think of the girl I used to be here, in this school. I want it to be true. I don’t want to be so different from her.

“I’m going to do it,” I say to Finny when we reach the stairs. We both stop.

“Do what?”

“I’m going to slide down the banister,” I say. I grab the railing with both hands and throw my leg over.

“Hold on,” Finny says. “Let me get to the bottom so I can catch you if you fall.” I roll my eyes as he rushes down the stairs.

“You’re ridiculous,” I shout down to him. My voice bounces through the corridor.

“You’re wearing a tiara and straddling a banister,” he calls back up to me. I let him win and wait until he is poised ready at the bottom.

They must have just polished the wood; I fly down and have to catch myself at the bottom so that I don’t fall to the floor. Finny grabs my elbow but I right myself quickly and his hand drops.

“That actually looked like fun,” he says.

“It was,” I say. Aunt Angelina stumbles into the hallway carrying a potted tree that is clearly too heavy for her. Finny rushes to take it from her and the three of us load up the car quickly.

“Can you come to lunch with us or are you going back to Sylvie’s?” Aunt Angelina says when we are done, standing by her car. Finny’s face returns to the blank look from this morning.

“I need to go back,” he says evenly.

“All right,” she says. She reaches up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “Thank you for coming to help.”

“Of course,” he says. “Bye.” He glances at me and walks to his red car across the street.

At the diner nearby, Aunt Angelina chats with me about my plans for the summer and our visit with Mrs. Morgansen. I tell her about sliding down the banister and Finny standing at the bottom. She laughs.

“Sometimes you two are just so predictable,” she says, making me think of Mrs. Morgansen’s comment again. We talk of other things for the rest of lunch, and it isn’t until we are walking to the car that she brings him up again.

“I don’t suppose he told you what’s going on with Sylvie?” Aunt Angelina says. I shake my head. “I suppose I didn’t really think so,” she says. She changes the subject again.

We are lying out on the grass looking up at the stars like characters in a children’s book. It came about naturally though, without any intentions of being cute, so I do not mind.

It’s Brooke’s backyard, and the ground is level and soft with the expensive grass her father slaves over. With the hand that isn’t holding Jamie’s, I stroke the cool, lush tendrils with my fingers. The others are scattered around close by. We had been laughing at something the boys had said, but a silence has fallen over the last few minutes, the kind of silence that makes you feel closer to the people you are with. I can hear everyone’s breathing, though I can’t pick out any individual rhythms besides Jamie’s. Someone—Brooke?—sighs happily.

“So what’s the meaning of life?” Angie says.

“To be happy,” Jamie says immediately.

“Really?” Noah says. “I was thinking it was to do good or something.”

“And I was thinking it was to have orgasms,” Alex says. There is a sound that I assume is Sasha hitting him.

“Isn’t that the same as being happy?” Brooke says.

“Well, that’s just one kind of happiness,” Jamie says. “I’m talking about having lots of
different
kinds of happiness.”

“But you don’t think we’re supposed to make the world better?” Noah says.

“Of course we are,” Jamie says. “That’s another kind of happiness.”

“Huh,” Angie says.

“I can see that,” Sasha says.

“I think it’s just to truly love somebody before we die,” Brooke says.

I add up everything I deeply want out of life: writing as much as I can, reading everything, the vague impressions of motherhood I cradle in me, seeing the northern lights and the Southern Cross. And other desires that I don’t let myself think on too long because I’ve already settled that part of my life.

I try to find the sum of these things.

“I think,” I say, “I think we’re supposed to experience as much beauty as we can.”

“Isn’t that the same as happiness too?” Jaime says. I shake my head. The grass pulls at my hair.

“No, because sometimes sad things are beautiful,” I say. “Like when someone dies.”

“That isn’t beautiful. That just sucks,” Jamie says.

“You don’t understand what I mean,” I say.

“Orgasms can be beautiful,” Alex says.

“Yeah, they can be,” I say. Even though I’ve never had an orgasm that can be described as beautiful, I agree with the idea. “And making the world better would be beautiful too.”

“But we aren’t here to suffer,” Jamie says.

“I don’t think that,” I say.

“But you think we’re here for beautiful things and you think sadness is beautiful?”

“It can be,” I say.

“I didn’t think this discussion would be so serious,” Angie says. “I thought everybody would make jokes.”

“I tried,” Alex says.

***

“Do you really not think sad things can be beautiful?” I say as Jamie drives me home. He isn’t shallow; surely he has felt what I’m talking about. His favorite song was on the radio when we got in and I wasn’t allowed to speak until now. I’ve been thinking of examples to make him understand. Jamie doesn’t take his eyes off the road, doesn’t look at me.

“Nope,” he says. “You’re just weird.”

“Why does that make me weird?” I say. I momentarily forget my arguments and examples. “Just because I think something different from you doesn’t make me weird.”

“I bet if we took a survey, everybody would agree with me.”

“That doesn’t make you right,” I say. “And you’re supposed to be against being just like everybody else.”

“It’s not about being
like
everybody else. When someone dies, it’s bad,” Jamie says. “That’s just something everybody
knows
.”

“You don’t understand,” I say.

“I do understand,” he says. He pulls the car into my driveway. “You just see things differently and that’s okay, because I like you weird. You’re my weird, morbid pretty girl.” I let him kiss me good night. I sigh.

“Hey,” he says. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I say.

“What?” he asks.

“What about
Romeo
and
Juliet
?” I say. “That’s beautiful and sad.”

“But that’s not real life.”

“So?”

“There’s real life and then there are books, Autumn,” Jamie says. “In real life, it would just be sad and stupid.”

“How could two people dying for love be stupid?” I say. We are sitting in the dark facing each other in the seats, our seatbelts off.

“It’s stupid to kill yourself,” Jamie says. “That’s what cowards do.”

“I think it’s brave,” I say. “And I think it’s beautiful that they loved each other so much that they couldn’t live without the other one.”

“Would you kill yourself if I died?” Jamie asks. I look at his face in the darkness. He stares back calmly. I think about him running down the steps with the other boys. I think about the sly grin on his face before he says something to tease me. I think about him being gone and under the ground, never to be seen again.

“No, I guess not,” I say.

“See?” he says. He leans forward and kisses me again. “I wouldn’t want you to either,” he says. “I’d want you to be happy.”

“I would be very sad though,” I say. “For a long time. And I would never forget you.”

“I know. Me too.”

“But you wouldn’t kill yourself,” I say.

“No,” he says.

I add up again all of the things that I want from life. There is real life and then there are books. I try to puzzle out what is real and what isn’t, what I can have and what I never will.

“But you do love me,” I say.

“Yes,” Jamie says, “the way people love each other in real life.”

I lean forward and lay my head on his shoulder.

“I guess I love you in the way people love in real life too.”

He smiles and I feel his lips in my hair. I close my eyes and bury my face in him.

I’m sitting on the back porch reading after a trip to the library this afternoon. The book is old and has that dusty, musty smell I love. The author is Irish, probably dead, and someone I’ve never heard of before today. The book is surely out of print by now and I feel as if I am holding a lost treasure in my hands. I stop suddenly and close my eyes. This book
is
a treasure; I did not suspect it would be so good when I picked it up, but now I can feel the printed words seeping through my skin and into my veins, rushing to my heart and marking it forever. I want to savor this wonder, this happening of loving a book and reading it for the first time, because the first time is always the best, and I will never read this book for the first time ever again.

I sigh and look out across the backyard. Today is the longest day of the year, and the sun is only just reaching the horizon behind the trees. The air feels good in my lungs and my muscles are relaxed and warm in the slowly fading sunshine. I will sit here for a moment longer and be happy. Though I am dying to look down again and read more, I’ll sit here and love this book and know that I still have so much more left to read because that won’t be true for very long.

Next door, the back door slams and two voices are talking quietly on the porch. I glance up startled.

“So that’s it then,” Aunt Angelina says. Her voice is calm and even, like the voice on the phone that tells you the time and temperature.

“Yes, it is,” the other says. “I’ll be in touch later, but for now this is it.”

“Fine then. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, Angelina.”

Kevin the Football Man walks off the porch and into his car without looking back. Aunt Angelina stands on the porch and watches him as he maneuvers out of the narrow, long driveway and disappears.

After he is gone, she continues to look out over the gravel driveway into the yard and setting sun and I look at her.

“Autumn,” she says. I start in my seat and stop breathing. She still stares straight ahead. “Try to marry your first love. For the rest of your life, no one will ever treat you as well.”

She turns to leave then and closes the door behind her.

Suddenly it is very quiet outside, and the glitter is gone from the grass and leaves, and even though the sun is only beginning to set, I think soon it will be too dark to read. I close my book and stand up.

I’ll go inside and make something for dinner and read more later. I will have to wait for the magic to come back before opening it again. I’ll wait until I remember that Aunt Angelina is happy with her life and that I
will
marry my first love. It will only be the first time once.