Someday You'll Laugh (7 page)

“Well, we could leave mystery notes on his dorm door. He’d become intrigued and then find out it was you.”

Colleen stared at me as if I’d become a bug in her soup. “That is the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard.”

Melinda’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know. It could work.”

“They’d need to be super clever notes. We could write short rhymes.”

“Okay now it’s the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard,” Colleen said.

Melinda huffed. “I’m not hearing any brainstorms from you.” She looked at me.
“Let’s do it.”

I admit it was pretty lame, but since it put Melinda in a better mood, it was worth it. All evening she sat on the floor of our room, her shoulder-length brown hair falling over her face as she wrote and cut and pasted. By nine o’clock that night — without a whole lot of help from me — she had a stack of ten rhyming notes. She’d cut them in geometric shapes and had glued magazine pictures as decoration around the edges.

“You ought to be a kindergarten teacher,” I observed.

“No way. The little rascals would drive me off a cliff.”

I watched her gather up her love notes and leave the room. Her efforts were sweet and romantic in a pathetic and lonely sort of way. Sadness crept into my heart.

I missed Paul. I missed his blue eyes and bone-melting smile.

A shiver wiggled up my spine. Suddenly cold, I shook my head and shuddered.

Colleen had come back from taking a shower in the communal bathroom three doors down. She rubbed at her wet hair with a ratty-looking gray towel. “What’s wrong, Brenda? You look sick. You okay?”

I stood and opened my closet to grab my PJs. “I’m fine. I think I’ll turn in, though.”

I didn’t feel fine. I needed to go home.

I dressed for bed and climbed under the blankets. I turned out my bed light and ran my hand over my notecard quilt before turning on my side and trying to sleep.

Tomorrow I was going to find a ride home. No matter what.

****

I did it. Some guy from one of the dorms across campus lived ten miles from Longview, and he was going home that weekend. He agreed to take me if I helped with gas money. I said yes before he’d even finished talking. Friday after lunch, he picked me up.

There was one major glitch. Since I didn’t know I was going home until Thursday, there was no time to write Paul and tell him I’d be there. I did have a phone in my dorm room, and I even had a few dollars of credit on it. Problem was Paul lived in a tiny trailer on campus with no phone.

All I could do was pray he’d be there. If worse came to worst, I’d see if his folks could contact him and get him home on Saturday. That way, we’d still have almost two days of seeing each other.

The guy driving me was tall and skinny and had a painfully large nose. He hardly said one word during the four hours home. I kept my mouth shut, too. The sadness from the previous evening had now morphed into full-blown dread.

I had to get home fast. I didn’t ask the guy for a bathroom break even though I could’ve used one. Each tree we whooshed past seemed to whisper,
Hurry, hurry, hurry
.

I chewed my fingernails until they hurt, but I couldn’t stop.
Hurry. Hurry.

I agreed to pay extra gas money so Scott — that was his name — would take me all the way to Longview. I directed him to my house and nearly flew from the seat when he pulled into the driveway. I opened the back door and grabbed my bag.

“I’ll pick you up on Sunday at three,” he said.

“Fine,” I answered. I dug in my pocket. “Here’s my share of gas money for both ways.”

In my haste, I nearly threw the money at him. He gave me a nod and pulled away. I took the steps two at a time to the front door only to find it locked. I fished my keys out from the front pocket of my bag, opened the door, and ran through.

“Mom! Dad! I’m home!”

Total silence. Weird. A house full of five people is never silent. I ran through the living-room and kitchen then checked Mom and Dad’s bedroom. No one. I hollered up the stairs. Nothing.

I dashed to the backyard to see if our dog Topper was there. Her wobbly plywood doghouse had nothing in it but a half-chewed strip of rawhide.

I sank onto the cement steps. Everyone must be at the beach house. Weekends were often spent there, but I hadn’t even considered that possibility when I’d rushed home. I propped my head in my hands.

There was no running water at the beach house, let alone a phone. My first weekend home, and there I was sitting all by myself.

I went back inside the house and slammed the door. The metal stool in the utility room squeaked in protest as I slumped down on it and grabbed the phone perched atop the old, square water heater.

I needed to call Rainier to see if Paul was home. The call was long distance, but since Rainier was so close to Longview, the charge would only be a few extra cents a minute. My hand shook as I dialed.

Please be there. Please be there. Please be there
.

His mother answered. “Hello.”

“Hello, this is Brenda.”

“Why, hello.” Her bright greeting resounded through the line. “Are you calling from college?”

“No, I’m home this weekend.” My voice trembled. I worked to swallow over a fist-sized lump in my throat. “Is Paul home by chance?”

She chuckled. “He sure is. You want to talk to him?”

My hands turned clammy and the constriction in my throat grew. “Can I?”

She clapped her hand over the mouthpiece to muffle her shout. “Paul, phone. It’s Brenda.”

A clatter echoed loud, then silence. She must have dropped the phone to go find Paul. I gripped the receiver so hard I was surprised it didn’t snap in two.

Another scuffle then the voice I longed to hear. “Brenda? You’re home?”

My breath gushed out in relief. He was there. I was talking to him. Everything would be okay.

“Can you come over?” Maybe I shouldn’t have sounded so eager, but I couldn’t help it.

There was a strange pause.

The ground beneath me began to roll. “Paul?” I put my free hand on the water heater to steady myself. “Are you there?”

“I’m here. Um, yeah, I guess I could come.”

Another silence yawned open and my knees went liquid.

“I can be there in about thirty minutes. Okay?” His voice sounded odd. Something was wrong.

“Okay,” I said. “See you.” I dropped the receiver into its cradle and stared at my empty hand.

Something was very, very wrong.

Chapter Six

Half an hour can be a millennium. For a long minute, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror and stared. I was ready to cry and the watery-eyed look was not attractive. I rubbed at the black smudges of mascara under my eyes and re-applied some rouge. My hair was flat from leaning on the headrest in Scott’s car. I ran wet fingers through it, trying to poof it up. It remained flat, almost plastered to my head.

I didn’t look good enough to see Paul. It’d been weeks. I should be cute and perky and irresistible.

I ran upstairs to my room and dug through the clothes I’d left behind. How stupid would it look to have a dress on when he came over? I yanked out my favorite black dress and changed. This was the dress I’d snagged him with before.
Do your magic, dress.
My black flats were at college, but I’d left my low pumps at home. I slipped them on just as the doorbell rang.

I straightened my shoulders, raised my chin, and went downstairs. Inhaling deeply, I opened the door.

“Paul.” His name fell from my lips in a happy sigh as I looked into his familiar blue eyes. “Paul.” I took a step toward him for a hug, but he hadn’t moved except for a quick tightening of the muscles around his eyes.

“Hello.” He smiled, but it dropped flat. “I wasn’t expecting you to be home this weekend.”

I stepped back, awkward and unsure. “Do you want to come in?”

He gave me a quick hug, like one you’d give an ailing grandma, and walked past me into the living room.

“Where is everyone?”

“At the beach, I think.”

“So we’re alone?”

“Yes.”

He sat on the couch and rubbed his hands up and down his thighs. “How’ve you been?” There was an edge to his tone. Each word landed like a pierced balloon at my feet.

I stared at him. Who was he? Where was the excitement at seeing each other? Where had my Paul of a month ago gone?

I lowered myself down on the far end of the sofa. Why was he acting like we hardly knew each other? Confusion and irritation gathered in my stomach and I knew its presence showed on my face.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Are
you
?” My voice turned icy.

He winced. “I’m fine. How is it going?”

“You should know. I write you a couple times a week.
Long
letters.”

What was I doing? Insulting him for writing such short notes to me? I
loved
those notes.

“Yeah, well.” He shifted on the couch and reached for my hand. His touch was cold, his grip loose.

“What’s wrong? Are you mad at me?” I asked.

“Sounds like you’re the one who’s mad,” he said.

The knot inside me grew.

“You’re acting weird. What happened? Are you breaking up with me?”

He studied our hands and rubbed his thumb over mine. I used to love that gesture. Now it reminded me of scraping the finish off of old furniture.

“Do you want me to break up with you?”

I jumped off the couch. “Why would I want you to? What’s going on? What’s wrong? You
promised
this wouldn’t be like Greg and me.”

He flinched and I saw the pain in his expression. “Okay. I’m not breaking up with you,” he said. “But when I got your last letter …well, I just thought we should slow down. Think about things.”

My mind whirled trying to remember everything I’d written in my last letter. School stuff. Melinda’s and my “Craig Project.” The sick casseroles the cafeteria served. Colleen’s popcorn fetish. And…

Oh no.
No. No.

Future Plans.

I’d gone on and on about me being a teacher and him being a teacher and wouldn’t it be cool if we got married and were teachers together and we’d have the same days off and the same vacations and it’d be so much fun and weren’t we made for each other.

I sank to the couch. “The stuff about us being married. I was just kidding around. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

But I had meant something. I knew it, and he knew it.

What had I been thinking?

I grabbed his arm. “Please pretend you never got that letter. It was stupid. It meant nothing. I wasn’t trying to rush you into anything. Really I wasn’t.”

The pleading in my voice turned my stomach. Pathetic. I had to stop. I clamped my lips together and looked at him.

“I’m not ready for marriage. I’m not ready for any of that. When I read your plans I realized you were way ahead of me. It wouldn’t be right for me to string you along.”

My lips unclamped. “String me along? Is that what this has been?”

“No, no, it came out wrong. I care about you. A lot. But I’m not ready for permanent plans. I’m not even ready to joke about them. And you were serious, Brenda. I know you.”

“But what are you saying? What do you mean by slow down?” A trembling had taken over my stomach. Nausea climbed my throat. This couldn’t be happening.

“I want to back up a little. Take things slower.” His voice shook.

“You can’t go backwards in a relationship. How would it work? You want me to pretend these last years never happened? That I don’t know you better than I know myself?” I was back on my feet, and the words spilled out in a jumbled mess.

A new realization dawned. “When were you planning to tell me? What if I hadn’t come home this weekend? What were you going to do?” I tried to suck in air, to steady myself, to slow my heart down.

Paul rubbed his hand over his forehead and stood. He stepped close and his warm breath brushed my face. His blue eyes were so full of sadness I couldn’t move. If he’d yelled or stomped, I still could’ve hoped. But the anguish in his gaze tightened around my chest like a steel belt.

“Brenda, I’m so sorry.” His words escaped in a pained whisper. “So sorry.” He touched his lips to mine and walked out the door.

I stared at the empty space where he’d stood, and my stomach spiraled to the floor.

How long I remained there in the gaping silence I don’t know. Long enough to discern the buzz of the refrigerator and the crackle of the baseboard heaters. I was tired, so very tired. I wanted to drop.

Instead, I climbed the stairs to my bedroom like I was scaling some impossible mountain. In my room, I yanked my black dress over my head and threw it to the floor. What kind of insane person hoped a dress could make everything all right? I kicked it to the back of my closet, dragged my wrinkled high school track shirt off the top shelf, and pulled it on.

I crawled beneath my covers in a cocoon of misery.

I wanted my mother.

****

The rest of the weekend passed in a haze. If I’d had my own car, I would have driven straight back to college on Saturday morning. Stupidly, I hadn’t even gotten Scott’s number so I couldn’t call and beg him to go back early. When he finally pulled into the driveway on Sunday afternoon, I literally raced to his car. I gave one backward glance at the house as we drove off. My parents would arrive later and never know the misery of the last forty-eight hours.

Neither Scott nor I said much on the way back. I kept my face plastered to the window. No reason to let him see the tears I couldn’t stop from falling. When we arrived at my dorm, I sniffed loudly and mumbled my thanks, grabbed my bag and went inside.

I opened the door to my room, and all I could see was the display of notecards on my wall. I walked straight over and like a robot began tearing them off. Colleen came in behind me.

“Brenda, you’re home. When did…” Her voice froze.

I continued to pry off the cards.

She put her hand on my shoulder. “What are you doing?”

“Paul wants a break.”

“He dumped you?”

I turned to her. “Basically.”