Punk Like Me (30 page)

I glanced at Samantha across the hood of the car. She stared levelly back, then opened the door and got in. She reached over to unlock my door, then started the engine.

“No, I really have to go with Samantha,” I called in answer to Kerry. “I’ll see you guys back at the house.” I opened the door and tossed my bag in the back, sat down, and slammed the door closed to avoid further conversation across the parking lot.

Since Sister was watching in her car, Samantha didn’t tear out, but she did start moving as soon as my butt was in the seat. Through the window I could see Nicky pull out of the lot, and as we exited, I saw Sister’s car Þ nally leave as well.

I put on my seat belt and dug into my coat for my cigarettes. As far as I was concerned, I’d fuckin’ earned it after the day I’d had. I pulled one out, thought about it, then pulled out another and lit them both. I handed one to Samantha. Okay, she was mad, I was mad, but we were still friends for now.

“Thanks.” She took it with a small smile and dragged deeply.

“No problem,” I answered with a small smile of my own. Our eyes caught and held, then I broke the contact as I turned and took a long pull on my smoke, cracking the window a bit to let the air ß ow, and I watched the streets go by. We rode in relative silence until we got about halfway over the Verrazano Bridge.

“I’m sorry, Nina. I didn’t mean that the way it came out. I just—”

“It’s Þ ne, Sam,” I interrupted, still looking out the window, “don’t worry about it.”

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“Nina, I…” Samantha trailed off as we came to the toll plaza, and I released my seat belt and Þ shed inside my pocket for some cash.

“Here.” I leaned over her and handed it out the window. “I owe you at least for that,” I explained, when I sat back down.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Samantha said quietly as we pulled through the toll booth. “I’d have had to pay for it anyway, you know.”

“Yeah, well, you’re driving me home and all that. Save it for gas or something.” I stared out the window again.

The silence continued as we got closer and closer to my home. I felt like I was wrapped in a dark fog, and I knew I should feel different, if not better, than I did. The day before had been beautiful in ways I hadn’t imagined it could be; this day we’d won our qualifying meet of the season, against our toughest opponent, and I’d performed rather well, if I do say so myself. Sister had actually complimented me in front of me, to another person, and Nicky had his license. This was a good thing. These were all good things, really, so why was I so miserable?

Samantha reached a hand over and fumbled with the music console, ß ipping back and forth until she found what she wanted. I didn’t really pay too much attention; I just let the scenery keep passing. We would arrive at my house in another ten minutes or so. Samantha shut the music off again, and I tossed the dead cigarette out the window.

About three blocks from the house, Samantha pulled over and parked the car. She cut the motor and turned to face me. “Nina,” she said softly, “we have to talk.” Her voice was so low, so concerned, so Þ lled with unnamable feeling that my own emotions rose up, threatening to overß ow.

I faced her in turn, eyes full and tears held in check. “Samantha, I’m sorry,” I said. “I just, I wanted to…” In the faint light that shone in from the street, Samantha’s face was again pale and her eyes—I couldn’t tell what color they were, so full of unexpressed thought, of intensity as they were. I tried again. “Sam, I…” and I stopped again, unable to speak, and I could feel the tears start to ß ow down my face as I just looked at her, intense and wordless.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Samantha soothed, and came a bit closer. “Come here, it’s okay,” and she opened her arms in invitation. Without a moment’s doubt or hesitation, I buried my head on her shoulder, her arms closed around me, and everything I felt and wondered and feared just poured out in a ß ood of tears. All the while Samantha comforted

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me and whispered, “It’s okay, I’ve got you, you’re okay.” I cried because my father called Kerry a dyke, and because I knew deep down inside that Kerry didn’t really care about me, no matter how intense what we had shared had been.

I cried because Samantha had, when her father died and I had held her in just this way for days, during the wakes and the funeral—there had been nothing else I could do.

I cried because Nicky had lied to me, and my father thought I was a waste of living ß esh.

I cried because those guys that had chased me and Kerry scared me deeply and because Joey really cared about me and I would never care for him the way he wanted me to.

I cried because right then and there I felt safe and warm and loved in the circle of Samantha’s arms and words, and Samantha would leave when she graduated in June, and I wished I could go with her.

Eventually, I stopped crying, and as I quieted down, I listened to the sound of Samantha’s heart beating under my ear and felt her Þ ngers run soothingly through my hair as she rested her head on mine.

God, I always hated crying.

“Let’s have that talk now, okay?” Samantha murmured into my hair, and I straightened up a bit, digging into a pocket for a tissue so I could wipe my face.

“I’m sorry about that.” I pointed to Samantha’s damp shirt.

Samantha glanced down at the spot, then looked back at me. “Don’t be,” she insisted, and reached for my hand. “Don’t ever apologize for feeling or for sharing with me.” She squeezed my hand, and I returned the pressure.

She stared down at our hands while she let out a breath. “Okay,” she said slowly, “Þ rst things Þ rst,” and she looked up at me.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t like your girlfriend,” Samantha stated very clearly and steadily.

I started to respond, but she held up a hand to forestall me. “Now, that doesn’t mean that I don’t like the fact that you have one.” Her lips tightened, then she took a breath and let it out heavily before she continued, “Or that I don’t like you for that reason,” she said very seriously. “That would be a little hypocritical of me, anyway.” My eyebrows raised in the famous “huh?” expression. Excuse me—did she say what I thought she had? Yeah, yeah, I know, you were

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all waiting for that, right? Should have seen it coming and all. Sorry. I had no clue.

Samantha smiled ruefully down at the seat. “I’ve had one or two of my own. I don’t think you would’ve liked them much, either,” and her eyes met mine again in a smile.

My brain reeled. Wow. Samantha dated girls. Whoa there. How long had that been going on? Who had she dated? Someone in school or out of it? Was she dating someone now? Why hadn’t she told me before? And again, who was it? But suddenly, I knew.

“Fran,” I said aloud. It all made sense. There was always such weird tension between them, a semihostile barrier that made no sense.

They were schoolmates on the same team, co-captains; they were supposed to be friends.

“Kitt,” Samantha corrected softly. “She really is Kitt most of the time.” Samantha’s smile twisted on her face, and her eyes tightened with what could have only been anger or pain.

“You’re right,” I told her with a grin, trying to lighten the mood,

“she’s terrible for you.”

“Don’t I know it,” sighed Samantha, then smiled at me again, the tightness gone. “I really, really know it.”

“When?” I asked, and I took my hand back to gesture.

“Spring after you joined the swim team, actually.” Samantha grinned bashfully.

“That’s when it started?” I was really curious to know all about this previously unknown facet of my friend, schoolmate, and teammate.

“Nope. When it ended.” Samantha was very matter-of-fact. “You and I started hanging out, polishing trophies and banisters, doing the occasional math marathon,” she grinned at me, “and Kitt said I wasn’t focused enough on swimming, on my potential champion performance, and that I was spending way too much time on detention. So I told her not to worry so much about me, and that, as they say, was that.”

“Wow,” I breathed, and looked down at my hands. “I’m sorry.” I meant that sincerely—breaking up with someone, whether you want to or not, is never easy.

“It hurt surprisingly little, actually,” Samantha told me, smiling again, “because it wasn’t really healthy, and it wasn’t anything truly real. We have different views on what’s important. For Fran,” she paused to correct herself, “Kitt, it’s swimming. That’s everything to

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her, there’s no room for anything or anyone else, really. For me, it’s…” She trailed off, reß ecting, looking down at nothing.

I hunched down a bit and lightly reached to raise her face, so I could see her eyes again.

“What is it?” I asked her gently. “What’s everything for you?” I laid my hand on her shoulder. “You can tell me, I swear it’s okay.” Samantha’s hand came up to cover mine and her eyes searched my face, trying to read me, and that was Þ ne with me. I was wide-open, hiding nothing. Anything she had to say, I would hear, and gladly. I’d share it with her, help her achieve it if I could, just be there if I couldn’t.

I tried to say that with my eyes, hoped she could see that, could read that.

“You don’t know?” she asked, still searching. She took my hand in both of hers and dropped her gaze again, just watching my hand in hers. “Since my dad died,” she started in a low voice, “I…I’ve had to do a lot, make a lot of decisions, and I learned some really important things, and one is—you can never, ever, get yesterday back. My dad, he”—and her voice caught—“he loved me, and I loved him so much.

I still do…”

She stopped and I reached to brush the hair off her face, wanting to comfort her. I gently put it behind her ear, then laid my hand over both of ours on the seat.

“I learned,” Samantha continued, her voice now slightly hoarse from unshed tears, “that the most important thing, the most important thing in the world, Nina, is the people in our lives—our friends, our families—and to let them know how we feel, not just in words, but in deeds. ‘Actions speak louder than words,’ as they tell us all the time,” and Samantha looked up to give me a little grin.

“So this summer,” and this time as she spoke, Samantha looked at me directly, “I had to take some actions. I wasn’t sure how I felt about,” she hesitated, “things, and I had to take a break, get myself together, know if what I was feeling was real or just based on grief, not just a desperate reaching out, instead of a real, um, affection. Every time you called, I listened to your messages over and over.” I felt bad—maybe I should have just gone over and visited or something, ignored the instinct that told me she needed time to heal.

“Samantha, I’m so sorry that I didn’t—” but she hushed me with a quick shake of her head in the negative.

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Her hand strayed up over her chest to play with the miniature blade that was her namesake. “I’ve worn this every day since you gave it to me,” Samantha said gently, a soft smile on her lips, “and no…I couldn’t see you, especially after, um, after that party.” She held my hands between her own, holding them tightly. “God, Nina, everything about you is so fucking real. Everyone promising, swearing, ‘I’m here for you’ and all that, and you,” she shook her head in wonderment, “you don’t say those things, you just do them. You showed up at every wake, you held my hand at the funeral, let me cry if I needed, or just sat there silently, and…” and Samantha smiled at me again, “you even remembered my birthday.”

“It wasn’t too hard to do, Sammy.” I smiled back. I guess maybe I didn’t understand. Didn’t everyone do stuff like that for their friends?

It really wasn’t a big deal.

Her hands held mine tighter. “I just needed to be clear,” she looked down at our hands, “about what and why, that it wasn’t just grief mixed with friendship, that it would be welcome, or at least, okay, especially after…” she freed one of her hands to grasp the charm dangling from her neck, “after this, because it’s so very important, so damned special, just fucking—God!” she exclaimed softly, “everything to me. Do you understand?” She looked at me intently.

I gazed back into her eyes and an alarm bell softly pinged in my brain. Jesus Christ. My heart hammered, and I felt cold and hot at the same time. What I felt for Kerry I could deÞ ne now, a mix of affection and attraction, and I truly enjoyed her company, especially when we weren’t running for our lives or breaking laws. But what I felt for Samantha was entirely different, like knowing her somehow was the little piece that made me whole, but that little piece was larger than everything else, more important than the rest in its own way. Not knowing Samantha was unimaginable, the thought of her not being in my life, somehow or other, unbearable. I didn’t care who or what was everything to her, as long as we remained friends. “I’m not sure…I think I do.”

Samantha leaned in closer. “The most important thing to me,” she whispered, “everything to me,” and her face was so close to mine we breathed the same air, “is you, Nina.”

Her lips were so close to mine, and it was easy, so very easy to turn so slightly and touch them with my own. In the moment I had

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for rational thought before I was completely unaware, I felt like I remembered this, that we had done this thousands of times before, and it was never enough, and then, quite literally, the world, the car, everything, sound, sight, my mind, my body, disappeared, and I was ß oating like a warm and happy little bubble in a darkness that was for the Þ rst time in my life soothing and not frightening. In that darkness I gradually became aware of a sound, a low, rhythmic, and steady sound, and as my awareness gradually came back, I realized that I was listening to a heartbeat that seemed to come from around us.

I was home.

There was no need for rationalizations, logical explanations, or daring little experiments, no fear either, just the awareness that this was right, just so very right somehow, an afÞ rmation, a sealing of something deep and real and true, so deep that it’s a matter of the soul, leaving the body behind. We recognized, we remembered each other somehow, and it woke something within me that had been sleeping all this time. I knew because I felt, clearly, how truly, how deeply, Samantha felt.