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Guiltyish

I decided to tell Joy about Anthony’s car.
It’s been weighing on me the past few days for some reason. (I’ve never been good with guilt.) As usual, her eyes pierced through to my soul. (I think she’s part Vulcan maybe.)

She asked me simply, “Why?”

How is it that a one-word question can be so hard to answer?

“I don’t know.”

Joy’s a professional. She didn’t even bother to tell me how lame my response was but simply kept staring at me.

Oh, Joy. You’re good, you know that?
I was no longer in control; I spilled.

“Why did I? Maybe revenge? Maybe I wanted to get back at him for the way he treated me? Maybe I feel like he shouldn’t be able to get away with using people and throwing them away? Maybe I hate him? Maybe I hate myself for letting myself get so twisted up into knots over him? Maybe I wish my dad were here—”

That last one, I don’t know where it came from. It just slipped out.

Joy pounced.

“Stacy, you bring up an interesting point. Your dad. What do you think he would have to say about what you did? Do you think he’d be happy about it?”

Duh, Joy! I know you’re not that dumb. Way to make me feel like an idiot. Jeez!
(She has a way of doing that.)

I didn’t want to be rude, so I tried to give her a thoughtful answer. “Joy, my dad was a life coach. His whole mission in life was helping people achieve their goals, find their passion. So, no, I think he’d be disappointed that I made that particular choice.”

Joy peered at me with her eagle eyes and asked, “Do you think it was a mature thing for you to do?”

(I don’t think she thinks I’m a complete idiot, but at times like this, I wonder.)

“No, I don’t think it was a mature thing for me to do.”

And we talked about making better choices and how I needed to not be such a loser.

Food for thought, Joy!

Later I thought about my session and wondered if things
would
have been different if my dad were still around. And then I thought,
What a useless thing it is to think that way
. I mean, who knows? If my dad were still alive, maybe I never would have gone to stupid Chelsea’s stupid party and made out with snake-y Anthony. But then maybe I would have.

Sometimes people just do stupid things.

And they
were
just windshield wipers. And it was, like, over a week ago.

The Wrath of Summer

Summer had it out with me after school.
Apparently,
she’s
been mad at
me
for a change. (Which is, I have to say, kind of awesome.)

When Summer’s Marine Bradley reported for his boot camp after Christmas, leaving Summer brokenhearted and devastated, unsure how she was going to survive until she was reunited with him again, I let her down, ignoring her messages. When she saw me waiting for Roman in the parking lot after school, I felt her wrath. (And Summer’s never been one to suffer silently.)

“Stacy, what happened to you? You
really
hurt my feelings! How come you didn’t call me back? I called you
at least
twenty times.”

Well, maybe three times. Summer’s such a drama queen.

Ugh. “I’m so sorry, Summer.”

But I couldn’t get myself to call her back, I just couldn’t. I didn’t feel like socializing, and I didn’t really feel like going into what happened to Bobby. It was too heavy. I’d been seriously trying not to dwell on it or else I’d end up spiraling back into my depression, back into that dark black hole.

“Somebody close to me died, and I just couldn’t deal—with anything.”

“Oh, Stacy. I’m
so
sorry! Who? Who died?”

Typical Summer—she must know everything that happens at all times.

I waved my hand away in an attempt to change the subject. “Nobody you know.”

She looked disappointed. “I wish you would’ve called me, we could have been sad together, you know?”

“Yeah, but I couldn’t even manage to do that—call anybody.
Too
sad and depressed.”

And despite trying not to be sad and depressed, I felt myself starting to slip back into that familiar place.

Summer looked concerned, like she was actually thinking about someone besides herself for a change. She can be pretty okay sometimes, I guess. Maybe having to deal with heartbreak made her a little bit more sensitive to other people and their problems. Maybe.

“Stacy, come spend the night Saturday. We’ll give each other pedicures and catch up, watch a movie. Maybe drink a few wine coolers. You know, have fun.”

That did sound fun. Except for the wine coolers. Gross. Summer will probably drink one and a half, get all tipsy, then fall asleep.

“’Kay, Summer, let’s do it. For sure.”

Summer’s House

Mom dropped me off at Summer’s house just in time
for me to say hello to her mom, Evelyn, who was putting on earrings for her big date. She’s been married and divorced three times and is still looking for Mr. Right.

Evelyn’s kind of a trip. Ever since I’ve known Summer, she’s asked me about Mom and whether she was dating anybody yet, like she couldn’t imagine being without a man for more than five minutes.

“Oh, Stacy. How
are
you?” She gave me a little hug. “It’s so good to see you. How’s your mom? Is she seeing anyone yet?”

Some things never change.

She put her little jacket on, picked up her purse, gave Summer a kiss on the cheek, and said goodbye.

“I’ll see you girls later. Have fun tonight.”

And she was off like a shark cutting through the water in search of rich prey. Summer just shook her head.

“Mom’s got a new boyfriend. This one’s supposed to be
serious
.” She looked skeptical.

“Well, you never know, Summer. Maybe he’s ‘The One,’” I said, with little air quotes. Summer rolled her eyes.

It occurred to me right then that Summer and Evelyn are the same person.

Summer had the night planned. First we made nachos with tortilla chips, cheddar cheese, guacamole, and sour cream. She snuck some of Evelyn’s berry wine coolers for us to drink, which were
way
too sweet for me. (And gross.) It tasted like berry barf, so I switched to Dr Pepper.

After Summer finished her first one and was starting to get a little silly, she demanded that I put highlights in her hair, which I’ve never done. I was a little nervous about experimenting and turning her into a human troll doll. I pictured her walking around school with burnt orange hair. For some reason, I didn’t think she’d take it very well.

“It’s easy. I do it all the time.”

With the stereo blasting in the background, Summer sat on a stool in her kitchen, and I concentrated as I painted little sections of her hair with the smelly dye concoction, hoping I wouldn’t screw up and turn her hair orange, which, luckily, I didn’t. It turned out great.

“I
love
it. Okay, now your turn.”

“What?”

“I picked up a box for you too. You really could use some color, girlfriend.”

Yeah, I could use color. Lots of color. My life has been so drab and gray for too long.

“Okay, Summer. Make me beautiful. Or something.”

She was
almost
over her tipsiness. I sat on the stool as she painted the little sections of my hair, giggling, which kind of worried me. But when she was done, after I rinsed my head under the kitchen faucet, I looked in the mirror at my wet hair, and I saw the little streaks of light blonde, and I have to say, I was a little excited.

With our hair still wet, we soaked our feet and gave ourselves real pedicures, then I painted her fingernails (hot pink), and she painted mine (sparkly pomegranate). We were laughing, and it felt good, like old times. Just what I needed.

We sat letting our nails dry, and Summer told me about Bradley and how after boot camp, he was going to go into mechanic school, and it made me think of Bobby, and I got a little sad.

“I don’t know where he’ll be stationed, but hopefully Camp Pendleton. I just love it down there by the beach, San Diego. I’ll be moving down there after graduation—if he’s still there—and we’ll get a little place off base in Oceanside.”

She has it all planned out, their lives together. So like Summer. But I hope it works out for her. I really do. Then I told her about Bobby, about how sweet and gentle he was. About his tattoos and how he looked like the bass player for Green Day. About how he promised to come to see me when I graduated. About how he died.

“Oh my God, Stacy! I’m so sorry.”

She was already crying, probably from the wine cooler, but I wasn’t, because I don’t think I have any tears left in me, and I really couldn’t go back to that sad place.

Summer reached out and took my hand, careful not to mess our fingernail polish, and held it for a second.

“You know, he’s in Heaven, Stacy. I really believe that. He’s probably watching over you right now, like a guardian angel.”

Summer’s very religious. Even though she’s slept around a little bit and started going to parties when she was twelve, she goes to Mass every Sunday and has these deep beliefs in God and everything. But still, it’s a nice thought, Bobby in Heaven watching over me. Bobby and my dad playing pool together (with Jimi Hendrix on in the background).

We put on our second coat of fingernail polish and sat quiet for a while, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable quiet. There was just nothing more to say.

Mass Appeal

Summer was poking at me, trying to get me to wake up.

“Ugh. What time is it?” I was trying to focus, groggy.

“Almost nine. Mass is in an hour.”

Crap.

“Get up, Stacy. Mom bought donuts.”

“All right, all right.”

I staggered out of bed and focused my eyes on Summer who was dressed and looking all fresh and bouncy.

God, what is her
problem?

Just like old times, I was sitting in the pew next to Summer while she chattered at me.

I wonder if she’s ever heard a word the priest has said.

Evelyn looked over at us, shushing us when Summer wouldn’t keep her mouth shut. Usually I don’t care about church. Today, though, I tried to focus, tried to get something out of it. I hadn’t been inside a church since the last time I spent the night at Summer’s in the eighth grade.

When the priest had us bow our heads, I did something I hadn’t done for a while, I said a little prayer, but this time it wasn’t to heal Becca, it was for me. “God, please help me. Please help me.” That’s all I could say—and I said it over and over—but it was pretty all-encompassing; I think it covered my bases.

Summer made me go up to the altar rail with her and kneel on the little pads for Communion, even though I’m not Roman Catholic. I’m pretty sure God doesn’t care though; it’s not like he was up there checking our IDs. I put my hands out just like she did, and the priest gave me his blessing as he dropped the wafer into my hands, but this time I actually
felt
something. This feeling of peace came over me, just washing me. I don’t know why or how.

Maybe God felt like I’d been through enough. Maybe He just wanted me to know He’s got my back, that there’s more to life than wallowing in my own crapulence. I don’t know
what
it was, but it made me feel good, and the feeling of
good
stayed with me a while.