Socially Awkward (23 page)

“I’d buy that card,” I tease. “I can see it now: ‘Smile! It could be worse!’ Seriously, where do you get your advice?”

“Confucius, mostly.” Lyla shrugs then takes a sip of her coffee. “Honestly, Jen, friend to friend… I don’t think Noah defines you as the ‘hearing loss’ girl. That kind of fascination has an expiration date, you know? And his… well, he sounds like he’s in it for the long haul.”

Lyla’s words stick with me into the night, interrupting my sleep, and well into the next morning. I understand what she means, but I just don’t know how to process it all. And who was I kidding, thinking I could belong with Noah anyway?
I'd be the mousy, overweight girlfriend who was always suspicious when he was out late, jealous of every girl he worked with and every client he took on. I couldn't live my life like that, not when I knew damn well how little self-esteem I already possessed.

What a mess I'd made.

****

When the day of the move finally arrives, I find myself experiencing some regrets… but all for a different reason. 
In retrospect, keeping that small army of tall, strapping men around long enough to help me move out of my parents’ in-law apartment might have been a smart move on my part.  But, as
things stand
, not a single one of them
i
s intere
sted in seeing me at all, so I’m
on my own.  Lyla came to help with her friend Ruby, but considering I c
an
probably bench
-
press either one of them, my hopes
a
ren’t high for their ability to move a couch.

Why the hell didn’t I just hire movers?

Fortunately, my dad is a superhero and ha
s
the afternoon free.  As he spots
Lyla and I struggling to move my dresser across the front lawn and into the moving van, he pop
s
his head out the front door and ask
s
if I want help.  I stop, nearly dropping the furniture
right onto the grass, and yell
back a
“Pleeeeease” to him.  Lyla means
well, but it just
i
sn’t happening for her.

Once we ha
ve
the dresser in the truck, Dad
commits himself
to seeing my moving efforts through to the end.  He t
a
k
es apart my bed and moves
the pieces on his own, haul
s
all the dresser drawers out one by one, and even carrie
s
the flat screen TV out for me.  I
occupy the two
useless girls with a series of small items, like clothes on hangers, bags full of sheets and towels, or small boxes of DVDs and paperbacks.  I carr
y
the moderately heavy stuff out on my own, practically running circles around the skinny chicks.

It fe
e
l
s
pretty good to be the
fittes
t girl in
my
immediate vicinity for a change.

“Thanks, Dad,” I sa
y
, dusting my hands off. He sw
i
ng
s
the door to the van shut and g
i
ve
s
me a hug.

“Is there anything else I can do?”

“Lend me your drill?” I sa
y
, grinning. “So I can reassemble my bed?”

“You’re sure you don’t want me to come along?”

I sh
a
k
e
my head.  “I got it, Dad. You’ve already done more than enough.”

I hug
him ag
ain, and a wave of sorrow washes over me.  I’ve
left home before—to go to college out of town and into my own place while I was working. But this time, which I knew would be the last time,
it’
s almost bittersweet. Having parents around all the time
ha
s
been
inconvenient most days, but when they
ar
en’t going to be
just on the other side of the door, that ma
k
e
s
me nervous.

Maybe my mom was right after all.

“Thanks again, Dad,” I sa
y
, forcing a smile. “I’ll be home for dinner on Sunday.”

Because it’s all about baby steps.

Dad watche
s
us pull out of the driveway, caref
ul not to critique the way I drive the van, and I wave to him as we dri
ve off.
One town over
i
sn’t too far away, after all. I
’m
going to be okay.

****

In my new apartment, with everything final
ly unpacked and settled in, I ta
k
e
some small comfort in having a roommate for the first time in several years. Although Lyla
i
s a couple of years younger than me, we get along really well
as co-habitants
. She ha
s
similar neat-freak tendencies to mine, so there
a
re never dishes piled up in the sink or rings around the inside of the toilet. Chores
a
re
mindless occupations we engage
in simultaneo
usly as a de-
stress
ing
technique. As weird as that sounds, it’s the truth. Vacuuming, folding laundry, unloading the dishwasher… these
a
re the perfect times of day to get some thinking done.

And during those times, and the quiet time we ha
ve
every night while
we each work
on our research projects, I put the finishing touches on that paper.  When Lyla finishe
s
hers—a sociological study on the effects of modern med
ia on the human psyche—we trade
and read them through. I ha
ve
n’t spared a single thought, idea, or bit of personal information.  My paper detail
s
the painful process of separating myself from the i
nternet identity, what I figure
to be an exaggerated example of how we all have to be two different people in today’s world.

When Lyla finish
es
reading it, she d
oes
n’t have much to say about it.

“Hol
y shit,” she eloquently comments
. “I had no idea all this was going on.
Some of it, sure… but wow!
”

“Well, now you know why I was so desperate to get out on my own,” I shrug.
 

“Yeah,” she says
, flipping through the pages again. “Holy shit indeed.”

I mak
e a few edits here and there, cat
ch
a couple of typogr
aphical errors, and then when I’m ready, I march
it straight into Dr. Chase’s office.

She smiles when she sees
me. “I’ve missed having you in class this semester,” she laugh
s
. “Not as many scathing comments from these students.”

“Yeah, that’s my fault,” I laugh back.

“How’s this semester been for you?”

“It’s done now,” I say
, handing her the portfolio containing my paper. “But let’s say it’s been a little more dramatic than I wanted it to be.”

She flip
s
through the pages, skimming a few lines as she
goes along
. Her eyes widen somewhere near the middle and she look
s
up at me.

“Thought you might like to read the unabridged version,” I sa
y
. “But there’s a formal one in there too. The version I’m officially submitting and would consider sending away for publication. I hope you don’t mind. I only expect the grade for the formal version.”

Or, the less boring version, as Lyla had put it. 

“I’ll read them both and
just grade the formal one. But you never know, Jen,” she close
s
the folder around my two papers. “Sometimes the scientific magazines like the juicy stuff.”

****

To celebrate my completion of the program, finally, I
go
for a run. A legitimate, all-out, special
-
running
-
clothes run a
cross Boston Common. And as I ru
n, I suck in my stomach and ke
e
p my back straight to work my oblique muscles, just like Noah taught me. I focus on keeping my breath even
,
k
e
ep
ing
the volume on my iPod low so I c
an
hear passing bikers and other pedestrians.  Yes, iPod headphones do work if you have hearing loss, you just have to crank it up a little.

And to be honest, as I’m
running, I hope
Noah will pop out from behind a
bush some
where and coach me along.  I try
to picture him running up ahead of me, taunting me to keep up with him and his perfectly fit physique. But as soon as I start to lose myself in the run, I los
e
the mental ima
ge as well.  Eventually, I stop
trying all together and just push myself forward.

Faster and faster and faster. I spe
e
d across the Common, lost in the rush of adrenaline and endorphins, without realizing how far I c
an
push myself without a trainer at all.  When I ma
k
e it to the other end, I
stop
, bewildered and amazed at how quickly the time and distance ha
s
passed beneath the soles of my shoes.

All by myself, I ha
ve
done this. Jennifer Smith
is a runner
and no one ha
s
to scream at her
to make her do it
.  I let myself wind down, walking a quick loop around one of the many sitting areas on the Common, and then push myself forward again. I even t
a
k
e
a
longer
detour through the Public Garden before I
head for
home.

Look at me go
.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE

That night, I can feel myself getting irritable with boredom. With all my ties with friends and loved ones cut or fraying, and no sociology project to drown myself in (or Hostess cupcakes for that matter), I need to do something or I’ll go insane.

In a bold move
, I get up off the couch and
walk straight into Lyla’s room to see what she’s up to for the night
. It’s risky, since Lyla is a more social and outgoing person than I am, but I need to do something that’s not related to any men, sisters, or fake personas just for one night. After all,
she keeps saying
we should hang out sometime. Couldn’t hurt to ask, could it?

“Yeah, let’s do something,” she says, as cheery as I’ve always known her to be. “A couple of us we’re heading out for drinks downtown. Want to come along?”

It’s enough of an incentive for me to put on something sexy from the back of my closet, spend ten minutes detailing the perfect smoky-eyed makeup look—complete with mascara—and even blow out my hair. I don’t
exactly
look like a hooker when I’m done, but I look like I want to feel. Sexy and daring, flirty and vivacious. This is the way I’ve always felt inside, but I’d been hiding it with extra weight and baggy sweaters.

Not anymore. Jennifer Smith will be turning heads tonight, folks.

****

And I do, which is just so totally shocking to me, I can’t figure out how to handle it.  Lyla and her friends, a couple of girls from other BU graduate programs, are dressed similarly to myself, which does much to help me feel like I fit in. They’re all single, all ready to dance, and all have an equally low tolerance for hard liquor. I keep my distance from the bar counter, mostly because it’s crawling with sleazy men, and sip my one gin and tonic just for something to do.

When you’re in a club, I quickly learn, it doesn’t really matter where you’re standing, the creeps will find you. Even minding my own business at a table toward the back of the room, they keep
tracking
me
down
. As Lyla and the other girls go off looking for guys—on purpose—I’m left to watch the purses and assorted feather boas, but only too happy to oblige.

In the ten to fifteen minutes I’m left alone, no less than six different guys come a-courting, so to speak. I’m pretty sure that there aren’t any signs posted nearby me advertising free single women looking for a good time. Still, just to be sure, I turn around and check. Nope. They’re just wandering over here on their own, armed with their best pick-up lines, and trying their hardest.  Mostly, I just can’t believe that any of these lines
ever
work on any woman.

That is, until I see Lyla’s friend Ruby wander off with one of my rejects into a darkened corner of the club. Will wonders never cease?

It doesn’t take long for me to tire of the electric, hormone-charged, alcohol-fueled atmosphere of the club scene.
I know I don’t belong
here
, but it has been nice to pretend for a change. Yes, I still feel like a sexy, outgoing Jennifer, but hanging out here is totally an Olivia thing to do. It’s not my scene and
these aren’t really my friends. It’s all an act. It’s not any closer to
being true to
myself than playing Olivia online was.

What the heck am I doing
here
?

Even though my mother taught me never to go anywhere by myself, I ditch the club and everyone in it.  I shoot Lyla a
n apologetic
text message
about not feeling well
and just start walking down the street. I don’t exactly have a destination in mind, I just know that I don’t want to be in there anymore.  It’s not me, not Jennifer. And it’s not the kind of person I want to be either.

That club was too much Olivia for me to handle.

Halfway between my new apartment and Tom’s Workout World, I stop. I’m not really sure if I realized
where I was heading
and then stopped, or stopped first and realized it later.  Should I just go home and call it a night?
I could just l
eave it up to tomorrow to
be a better day, pulling
me from my poor
excuse for a pity party.  Or i
s it better to take a risk on Team Jennifer for a change?

I kn
o
w what Olivia and Claire would do. I kn
o
w what Sean would want me to do. I even k
no
w what my mother would advise.  The one person I c
an’t predict is the one person I want
to find.  I kn
o
w what I ha
ve
to do and in order to do it
, these stupid giant heels need
to go.
Totally impractical for a late-night stroll.

So
I t
a
k
e
them off and toss them into my gigantic bag. I
’m
lucky big bags were in fashion th
is
season, or I would’ve been stuck carrying them. Or worse, donating them to the nearest homeless person. I consider myself a charitable person, but not with
a pair
Manolo Blahniks
inherited from my estranged sister
.
There
’s
sentimental value there.
Besides, what’s a homeless person going to do with these strappy nightmares?

I’m not stingy, okay?

Any
way, shoes in my purse, I start
walking. And walking and walking, and eventually, I stop
walking and start
jogging. Despite the fi
ve pounds and the back-slide I’ve
started to my previous, less fit self, I c
an
keep up
a strong
pace with little issue. So I ke
ep
going, careful to dodge br
oken glass and big rocks in my bare feet and trying
not to think about how much gravel hurt
s
to run on
. Damn the pe
dicurist and her expert callous-
filing techniques. If only
I had
a little bit of
roughness on my soles, I might
be okay. 

Jogging along, it doesn
’t take long at all for me to find myself in the parking lot of Tom’s Workout World. 
Noah’
s car i
s there, as I kn
ew
it would be, facing the front doors of the gym. Heaving for air,
I lean back
on
to
his
hood to give myself a moment.
I rub
my sore f
eet until the throbbing subsides
and then
slip on
my gorgeous shoes
once again
.

I wince
for the first few steps, remind
myself
that beauty is pain, and march
forward with determination in my gaze.  I d
on
’t need to waste any more time goofing around. I kn
ow who Jennifer Smith i
s now and I kn
o
w what she want
s
. 

And if he doesn’t want me back, well… I’ll
deal with it in due time.

Instead of dwelling on the “what ifs” as I m
ight have done before, I decide
not to think about it, concentrating my energy on making only one possibility a reality. 
Still, facing him is harder than I expect.
When I push throu
gh the front door and fi
nd him packing up for the night,
I almost los
e all my resolve and ru
n away.

“Jen,” he sa
ys
, startled. “What are you…”

“Hi,” I interrupt
him, my nerves jolting me forward through the door. I tr
y
not to fidget with my skirt too much or
trip on my own feet as I cross
the gym floor. Dre
ssed like this, I’m sure I look
pretty ridiculous in a gym after hours.

“You look great.” He state
s it simply, so it’
s hard to read anything more or less than a comment on the truth. ‘You’ve been keeping up with your workouts?”

I nod
, embarrassed to admit
to finding
success on my own. I don’t know wh
y
that embarrasse
s
me. Maybe
I just f
e
el guilty for taking our
special connection and destroying it with my own self-reliance.
Which
i
s completely ridiculous.

“That’s great,” he
sa
ys
, his mouth forming the
slightest smile. “I’m really proud of you. I always said you didn’t need me.”

I wince, stung by his comment.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” he sa
ys
immediately, wincing himself. 
“I just meant that you always had it in you and you didn’t need
me playing
the motivator, barking orders at you all the time.

“I know,” I mutter, careful to look away inste
ad of betraying my relief. He can
read me like a book no matter what I d
o
, but I ha
ve
to try at the very least.
“But I did like having you around.  It was nice to have a run buddy, you know?”

“Well, I’m just closing u
p
,” sa
ys
Noah, master of the obvious. He adjust
s
the strap of the
bag higher up onto his shoulder,
hitting the switch on his way by
.  A single row of recessed lights
illuminates
the front of the gym now, sending a cascade of glittering light ou
t from my sequined top. Like I’m
a giant disco ball or something.
He walk
s
toward me, making his pathetic small talk all the way but
I’m
interested.
“So, I guess, I’ll see you later? Are you going to start coming back to the gym now or
have
you
been going
somewhere else?”

I d
o
n’t want to let th
is charade go on anymore. There’s too much here that needs to be said, and I’m
going to start saying it.

“Can we talk?” I say
boldly, stepping in front of him.

His mouth forms a tight line as he considers
me.

“Please, Noah. I have… Some things I’d like to say.”

Wordlessly, h
e s
i
t
s
down on the nearest bench
and waits
for me to speak.
After the horrible things I’
ve
said to him,
I
kno
w
I’m
lucky
just to get his attention. And then, once I realize the
magnitude of
power
ful
stare
on
me, I
can’t remember
what I
meant
to say anyhow.
He look
s
at his watch, just obviously enough to make me nervous
, s
o I stutter right into my opening line.

“Everything that’s been going on in my life, these past months… This whole semester, really. I mean, Sean and Olivia, Claire, the project, the fighting… Everything,” I pause
, and his eyes lift
to meet mine. “It was all fake. All a game. I let it take over me and
it did things to who I was. I—”