Life Before (4 page)

“This is supposed to be poetic.” She holds a young tree’s trunk and spins around it a few times. “Okay. Okay.”

This is completely unlike my articulate friend Gretchen.

“Have you been drinking?”

“No. No, Xander, I have not been drinking. I have not been doing anything.” She shouts skyward: “Anything! For almost three months!”

Her wildness makes my arm hair stand on end in the most electric way.

“Okay,” she says. “Okay. Do you remember that day in February when we were discussing
In the Lake of the Woods
? I hated it. Half the class was trying to defend it, some people were defending me. And you said, ‘Gretchen, it’s not the answers authors give, but the questions they raise that make them interesting.’ And then you rattled off a bunch of other books that leave readers with more questions than answers. Remember?”

Not really. But I recognize it as a thought in my head, so it’s plausible. Also, I want this craziness to continue, so I nod.

“It struck me that I’ve been with Jameson for years, and he’s sweet, don’t get me wrong, but you look at the world differently. You counter my ideas and make me think. You challenge me and you get my bad math jokes, and—I don’t know. We fit. I’m trying to say we fit.”

I can’t say anything to that.

“Xander, we have been friends for years. I think you’re the peanut butter to my jelly. The Pierre to my Marie Curie? I don’t know, maybe we’re twin primes? Point is, I know you want to date me.”

Cringe.

“No, it’s mutual. I’m telling you I’m interested. Really interested. I broke up with Jameson in March, and the rule is you have a mourning period of 10 percent of the length of your relationship—or two weeks, whichever is longer—so I’m done mourning now. I know your taxi light is on. I know you think I’m your anglerfish life partner.”

I have no idea what half of that shit means, but I know this is my moment. I step forward and kiss her square on the mouth.

Our lips are pressed together and I’m not sure what to do next. I pull back to find her wide-eyed and grinning, so I lean in for more, this time with my arms around her back. Gosh, she is warm. And electric. Touching her is magical. I want our heat to melt us together so we are one hot mass of flesh and pleasure.

I want to slip my hand up her shirt, to feel the heat of her back with my palm. And then maybe slip it up the front of her shirt.

I’m going to screw this up. I have dreamed about making out with Gretchen for years. And in my copious hours of television watching, I’ve seen ample kissing and on-screen sex. But I have never done any actual kissing.

When Gretchen opens her mouth, I close mine and wait my turn. She closes her mouth and I open for my turn, and she opens hers again so I clam up.

Gretchen pulls back, panicked. “Are you not into this?”

Wracking my brain for the right thing to say, I come up empty. Some guys get excited about virgins, but I have never—not once—heard a girl say she wanted to make out with an inexperienced guy. It’s something I should have learned before graduation. Hell, I should have learned it before high school!

I blurt it out. “I sort of need a little tutoring in the lip department.”

“Are you being cute?” Gretchen squints in the most adorable way.

I wish I were being cute. “Gretchen, I want more than anything in the world to be kissing you instead of having this discussion. But, here’s the truth: I have spent most of my life mastering the English language, so I am a prolific raconteur, but I have spent almost no time practicing the whole kissing thing.”

Those squinty eyes again. The moonlight isn’t illuminating her freckles properly, but I know they’re folding in on one another as she studies me.

I feel naked, and not in a sexy way.

Gretchen wraps her arms around my neck in a very sexy way and pulls my face close to hers. Her whisper is somewhat patronizing. “Okay. Lesson one: keep your eyes closed.”

Eyes closed.

“Lesson two: don’t think, just feel. Okay?” Gretchen pulls me closer and her lips warm mine.

Are my lips warm, too? And soft like hers? My blood rushes southward as I try desperately to focus, then to un-focus and feel instead of thinking.

I’m doing it wrong again.

Gretchen parts her lips slightly, and I follow suit, tipping my head toward the left.

We are kissing.

I stop thinking and feel. Everything.

Delirious happiness.

A few minutes later, I cup her head in my hands and slowly draw my fingers through that long hair, which is no longer taboo.

“That feels really nice,” Gretchen says.

“I love it,” I say before our mouths are busy again.

_______

Hours later, we stumble from the mini-forest into the yard, which looks like a narcoleptic convention. People are passed out in open tents, upright in chairs, and smack in the middle of the lawn. Alone, Tucker clutches his phone, fast asleep by the snuffed-out campfire.

The sun threatens to pierce the horizon, but I am nowhere near tired.

Gretchen fishes around in her pocket and offers me her Chapstick. “Need lip balm? It’s Labello, not a girly flavor.”

“I’ve never heard of Labello.”

I lick my lips before accepting her Labello, which is clear and flavorless and utterly smooth. If our health teacher is right, and kissing someone means kissing every other person she’s ever kissed, using this lip balm must be like kissing Gretchen again. “It’s German,” Gretchen says. “You can keep it if you want. My mom buys it by the carton when she’s abroad.” She takes my hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Gosh, I’m not even tired.”

The royal blue plastic cylinder fits in that tiny extra jeans pocket where nothing else ever fits. “I’m hungry, actually. Do you think Mrs. Tucker made breakfast?”

“Let’s hope.”

It’s remarkably quiet as we head toward the house. I drag my feet a little, because everything will change when we reenter civilization.

“So, Sunday, then?” I just want to hear her say it again.

“Sunday. Noon.” Gretchen scopes out the landscape before one last kiss. It’s a bit chaste for my taste, but we’ll have more on Sunday. Actually, there may be more than kissing on Sunday. After years of pining, I have a date with Gretchen Taylor. And it was her idea!

A swift breeze brings the scent of stale vomit (and not-so-stale vomit) and the stench revives my nausea in full force. With Gary back on my mind, happy thoughts about our mini-forest start to dissipate. Quickly.

Sunday can’t come fast enough.

Who the hell am I kidding? I’ll probably sleep all day before tonight’s dinner with mom. Graduation takes up all of tomorrow: rehearsal in the morning, ceremony at night. I’ll wake up on Sunday for Gretchen Day. It’s practically here, really. I just have to get through the next forty-eight hours, and life will finally begin.

F
IVE

Two hours later, I leave a note for Mom on the kitchen table:
Gary’s coming to graduation. Maybe find your Order of Protection? See you for dinner. X, X.

In the shower, I can’t stop thinking about Gretchen.

Despite all my dreams of peppermint or strawberries or sweet cherries, Gretchen didn’t taste like anything. Or maybe we both just tasted like pizza. Pizza Works may forever remind me of Gretchen in those trees in that time and space.

Hot water runs over my navel. Just three hours ago, I was pressed up against Gretchen, our shirts brushed aside, so the warm flesh of our bellies touched. It was weird to be in a cooling forest hanging onto the only other ninety-eight-degree thing. She’s so warm. How warm are those other parts of her? Those few parts I am not yet but soon will be acquainted with? I can only imagine.

Her legs are so smooth. Those tiny dimples at the small of her back … I could have run my hands over them for hours.

I guess I did. And oh, the kissing.

The kissing is amazing. We know each other’s best stories and have lived each other’s worst days (mostly), so the kissing is like playing catch-up, physically. Before tonight, I didn’t know about the weight of her hair—so heavy!—or the heat of her lips or the muscles in her back.

Catching up is awesome.

I don’t know what we were before today, but kissing Gretchen and running my hands through her hair—and, let’s be honest, over her hips and around her back—for seven straight hours means we are now something very significant.

After a quick towel-off, I pass out in my bed.

_______

Mom brushes my hair from my forehead. “Xander. It’s five o’clock. We should go soon.”

Mom is a thousand times gentler than Jill.
This
is how wake ups are meant to be.

“Thanks.”

When she’s gone, I find exactly one appropriate outfit. Chinos and a button-down shirt are okay for a celebratory pre-graduation dinner, right? They’re from my Tulane interview. Mom couldn’t swing a campus tour, so Tulane hooked me up with a recent graduate who lives in Pittsburgh. He told me everything I needed to know about my home for the next four years.

That interview was important, so these chinos are from the mall, not Goodwill. They’re already a little short, but it’s only dinner with Mom.

I find her swishing around the kitchen in her green dress.

“You’re swishing.”

“I’m sashaying, Xander,” she says. “It’s the dress.”

It’s always the dress. “Right.”

“You’re lucky I’m not singing ‘I Feel Pretty’ while I sashay.”

I’ve heard plenty of that, too. “I’m ready to go.”

Unflappable, she picks up her purse and sashays downstairs to the garage.

Minutes later, when she’s focused on the road, I tread lightly. “Hey, uh, think I could use the car Sunday afternoon?”

“Absolutely … not.” She thinks she’s funny.

“It’s kind of important. No, strike that, it’s the most important thing I have ever done. And I promise I will remember to pick you up from work this time.”

Mom puts on her serious face. “Xander, are you going to pay me for gas this time? And where are you going to go that doesn’t involve money? Last I checked, you weren’t working.”

“That’s your fault, not mine.” I would work year-round for cash and freedom, but Mom only lets me work in summer.

“You know, as a freshman, you were happy to help around the house for a little bit of cash.”

It was a very little bit of cash, when she was working two jobs. These days, her new warehouse salary is supposed to be all we need.

“But we have more money now, you said.”

“We do, but you’re not earning it anymore. I am constantly cleaning up your dishes. Your room is a sty, and until that changes, no allowance.”

“Fine.” I tune to the one radio station new enough that I’m interested, but not so new that Mom hates it. Window down, I’m mouthing lyrics when we pull into the police station.

Mom cuts the engine. “I couldn’t find my protection order, so one of Dale’s guys is making me a copy. Back in a jif.”

Dale Bernard is Jill’s dad, and it still feels weird that our lives are so intertwined with the chief of police.

Whatever. In just over twenty-four hours, Laurel Woods High School will be a part of my past and Infinite Summer will take hold of us—a vast wonderland waiting to be discovered. Camping last night wasn’t too bad. I can endure a couple nights of camping if it means more time in the dark with Gretchen. Sunday may be the first of many, many dates. Mom works so much that Gretchen and I can spend many, many hours alone in my house.

All of life awaits me on the other side of tomorrow. And no one has to know about life before this moment.

Mom tosses an enormous file folder in my lap. “The new guy, Nolton, copied my whole file, from the beginning. Everything they had.”

I shouldn’t look.

The very first thing is a color copy of my mother’s eleven jawline stitches. Behind that photo are more—dozens more—of Mom’s injuries after what the police call domestic disputes. Interview notes, official complaints, police reports. In my hands is the history of my parents’ sordid and storied relationship. It turns my stomach, but I can’t stop reading.

“You should have told them no thanks.”

“The poor guy is like an overeager puppy. I couldn’t refuse,” Mom says. “It probably can’t hurt to keep it on file.”

I don’t need a file. My very first memory is of Gary throwing a knife across the kitchen at my mother. I lived through their marriage, and I remember their fights in vivid detail. So really, what I need is less information.

Morbid curiosity compels me to thumb through it anyway.

_______

At Olive Garden, once we’ve covered the usual topics, I try again. “So, about the car …”

“I said no.” Mom tears off an inch of her breadstick and pops it into her mouth. She enjoys dinner out like normal kids enjoy Christmas morning. Mom is like a whole new person: sitting up straight, smiling, wearing normal summer clothes. She once confessed that she stayed with Gary because she thought we couldn’t make it without him. We were broke for years after the divorce, but look at us now: we are actually eating out at a family restaurant like normal people. We’re almost normal.

Halfway through my lasagna, Mom’s curiosity gets the better of her. “What did you want the car for?”

“Nothing. Maybe I’ll borrow Jill’s.”

Mom laughs. “She’ll never let you.”

“She would for this. I have a date.”

“On a Sunday?”

“It’s summer! Every day is Saturday until Tulane. We could go out every night. Well, not tonight because I’m here with you. And tomorrow is graduation. So, Sunday.”

Mom shakes her head.

“What if I clean up my room?”

“No.”

“And the kitchen?”

“No.”

“And mow the yard?”

“Jesus. Who is this date with? An honest-to-god celebrity?”

I separate my lasagna layers with a fork. “Gretchen.”

Her eyes are so wide that I can see white all the way around her irises. “Gretchen Taylor?”

Mom missed a lot of stuff when she was working two or three jobs, but the name Gretchen Taylor means something to her. “You never cease to amaze me, Xander. How did you manage that?”