Tell Me Three Things (21 page)

“Dad, you kind of orphaned me. Like I lost both of you guys, and Scar too. You left me to figure it all out on my own.”

I did figure it out.

Most of it, at least. Maybe Scar is right: I am more kick-ass than I give myself credit for.

“Can you imagine how lonely it’s been for me? Not now. I mean, now I’m okay. But not so long ago, I felt like I didn’t have anyone in the world. And you were out every night with Rachel or holed up with your laptop. It’s not like I hate her or anything. I mean, I don’t know her, actually. I guess…thank her for my ticket, please.” I pause, take a breath. Of course I should do that myself, and I will.

“It’s just, I moved into this house, and have like, this weird room with these big paintings on the wall, like a third grader did them. What’s up with that? Anyhow, it’s not the art or even the soap with those strange letters, which make my hands smell nice, really, unfamiliar but nice, but it’s just not mine, you know? And I just…It sucked, Dad. I mean, it really sucked,” I say. Nope, the tears have not retreated; they’re back, spilling down my cheeks, and I’m at work, and I just hope the bell doesn’t ring anytime soon. I think I have said more to my dad in the last thirty seconds than I have in the last three months. Sometimes when I start, when the words finally find themselves, I can’t hold back the momentum.

“Oh, sweetheart.” My dad stands up, and I think he’s coming to give me a hug, so I wave him off. I don’t want to cry on his shoulder. Not right now. I’m not ready yet. “I’m so sorry,” he says.

“I don’t want an apology. I don’t want anything. I’m mad at you, and I have a right to be mad at you. And I’ll stop soon. You’re my dad, and of course I’ll stop. I get it. Our world exploded. And you just didn’t have enough left over. I kind of did the same thing to Scar. And I wish I were stronger or better or something and I didn’t need anything from you. But I’m not. And I do. It would have been nice if we could have done this together. But we didn’t. And it’s done. We’re here now, and we’re making it work. But it’s really sucked.”

“I think ‘really sucked’ is too much of an understatement. It’s ‘fucking sucked,’ ” my dad says, and he half smiles, and I can’t help it, I smile back. He hates foul language; if this had been two years ago, there’s no way he would have used the F-word. “Okay, you can still be mad at me. Fair enough. But you can’t stop talking to me again. I can’t take that. I miss telling you something that happened each day. I’ve been writing things down so I could tell you when you started talking to me again. And we need to start spending time together.”

“Eww, no. I’m sixteen. I can’t hang out with my father.” I smile as I say it. I miss my dad, probably even more than he misses me. “That’s, like, so uncool.”

“Let me give you one bit of parental advice, if I may. Cool is way overrated.”

“Says the guy wearing the plastic name tag.”

“Touché.”

“You love her, don’t you?” I ask, apropos of nothing, but it’s not, not really.

“Rachel? Yeah, I do. I mean, I leapt in a little fast, and we’re figuring out the kinks, but yeah, I love her. But that doesn’t mean—” I smile at him, bat away his words. He doesn’t need to finish his sentence. I’m not a child anymore. I know that how he feels about her has nothing to do with me. Or my mom, for that matter.

I know that love is not finite.

And also this: I’ll be leaving for college in less than two years. A part of me will be relieved to know he’s not alone.

“I get it.”

My dad looks around again, breathes in the paper smell.

“Mom would have loved this place. Even its silly name. Though probably not the exclamation point.”

“I know.”

“I love you, sweet potato.”

“I know.”

My phone bleeps. Text from Scarlett.

“What are you smiling at?” my dad asks, since I am, apparently, grinning goofily at my phone.
Scar lost her V-card!
I want to say it out loud because it’s so exciting and I’m so happy for her, but no, no I won’t.

“Nothing. Just something funny from Scar.”

“Her mom says she has a boyfriend,” my dad says, and I laugh, picturing Mrs. Schwartz and my dad gossiping about Scar and Adam.

“Yeah.”

“She’s really dating Adam Kravitz? He was always a little shrimpy.”

“He’s been working out.”

“Good for them.”

“They’re happy.”

“Any guys in your life?”

“Dad,” I say, and blush. Realize that even if I wanted to tell my dad about Ethan, about SN, about all of it, it would be too confusing and complicated.

“Right,” he says. “Remember when you were little we used to ask you how you got so big so fast, and you used to say ‘I growed!’?”

My dad looks at his hands, which are not holding a phone like mine are, and have nothing to work out the nervous energy. My parents used to talk about my childhood all the time—start stories with “Remember?” and then tell me about something I used to do, and then they would smile at each other, like it had nothing to do with me, as if to say
Look what we pulled off.

I shake my head. I don’t remember.

“Well, sweetheart. You’ve really growed. I’m sorry I haven’t been here. But I’m so proud of you. And your mom would be too. You know that, right?”

Do I know that? I know she wouldn’t be not proud, which is not the same thing as proud. I’m not sure I’m ready to think about her that way yet, to wrap my head around the “would be” part.

“Yeah,” I say, mostly because of his empty hands and his name tag and the look on his face. It could be that this adjustment has actually been harder for him than for me. “Of course I know that.”

Rachel is waiting in my room when I get upstairs, sitting on my desk chair, again staring at the picture of my mom.

“She was so beautiful,” Rachel says, by way of hello. She looks sad tonight, subdued, and is nursing a big glass of red wine. Again, her volume has been turned down.

“Yeah,” I say, but I am not ready to talk about my mom with Rachel. Not sure that is something I’ll ever be strong enough to do. “Hey, you took the pictures off the walls.”

I look around. The elementary school paintings—which I realize now are probably the work of some famous artist I should know about—are stacked in the corner, and it’s just white in here, with a few nails left like punctuation marks.

“I’m sorry. I hadn’t even noticed them. My husband—um, Theo’s dad—was in charge of decorating the house, and he picked them out. They’re probably not the best choice for a teenage bedroom.” Rachel sips from her glass, rubs her arms, which are covered in a delicious cashmere. “You should put your own stuff up on the walls. Posters or whatever. Make it yours.”

“Thanks for my ticket home. To Chicago, I mean,” I say. “That was really nice of you.”

Rachel waves her hands, like it’s no big deal. And maybe it’s not to her, but it is to me.

“And we’ll get you a new bed. A queen, maybe? I didn’t realize until tonight how ridiculous this one is. Oh and I’ve told both of Theo’s SAT tutors that you’ll be joining in. Don’t know how I didn’t think of it earlier. Sorry about that.” Her face falls, and I see she is near tears herself. What happened? I’m not sure I am equipped to deal with this.

“Thanks. The bed’s actually more comfortable than it looks. I mean, are you okay?” I can’t just let her cry and not ask. That would be wrong.

“Bad days. Good days. You know how it is. Just because I’ve found your father, who is wonderful—I mean, really, the best—doesn’t mean this isn’t all hard or complicated or that I don’t miss—” She takes a deep breath, the kind that starts down in the belly, the kind you would only learn in a yoga class in California. “And I know Theo misses him, and I’m not enough. I’m just not. So it’s hard sometimes. Sorry again for all the balls I’ve dropped. I shouldn’t be in here.”

“It’s okay,” I say, though I’m completely at a loss. This is a house full of pain, of bad juju, as Theo said, but it’s also a house of starting over. Maybe we need to light a few candles. Better yet, start putting things on all of the white walls. “You know, I mean, this place is beautiful, but maybe you should put out some pictures too. Of your husband—I mean your, uh, other husband, Theo’s dad, and of Theo as a kid. So he can remember.”

Rachel looks at me, wipes her tears with her sleeve, and I try not to wince, because she’s wearing mascara and her sweater must be dry-clean only.

“That’s a great idea,” she says, and looks straight at me. Almost smiles. “This is tricky, isn’t it? You and I.”

“I guess.”

“I’ve been trying hard not to try too hard with you, and then I worry I’m not trying hard enough, you know?” She stands up, walks toward the door. Turns around to face me once more.

“Yeah,” she says. “We’ll get there.”

I
’m early, so I sit in the first booth, a cowardly move that ensures I will see SN before he sees me. My back is to the rest of IHOP and their mountains of pancakes, and I watch the parking lot through the glass double doors. In just fifteen minutes, I will meet SN. He will sit down across from me and introduce himself, and our entire virtual relationship will become something real. Will be brought into the light and into the here and now. Based on something both more and less tangible: spoken words.

Of course, this could be a disaster. Maybe we’ll have nothing to say to each other in person. He’s probably not Ethan. I realize that now as I sit here with sweaty palms and wet armpits. Some things are too much to ask for.

My hair was down and now it’s up, and I think I should put it down again. I spent much of the night debating what to wear.

Dri said:
Be casual.

Agnes said:
Be fabulous.

I decided in the early hours of the morning that it would be weird to wear anything but my normal clothes, that I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard.

Scar said:
Be yourself.

But now my stupid jeans and T-shirt feel too normal. I should have put on more makeup, done something—anything—to make me feel prettier. What if SN has only seen me from afar and is disappointed when he’s sitting across from me? Am I one of those girls who misleads at a distance?

I sit here, cataloging my flaws, hurting my own feelings. My chin is broken out. My nose is dotted with blackheads. My thighs expand on this plastic seat. No, this is not helping my nerves.

The waitress brings me a cup of coffee and I rip the lids off all the creamers in the bowl, make a pile of wrappers that I knock over and restack. I consider getting up and walking out. I don’t need to meet SN. Let us continue as we are. Keep him as my phantom best friend, albeit one I like to flirt with.

I’m about to type back
No
again—I like this game, it’s distracting and kind of funny—but then he is here and my stomach is in my feet. I feel my throat get tight, and tears wet my eyes, and I feel bad that I feel this way. I don’t want to feel this way, but I do. How could I have been so wrong?

It’s Liam.

Okay.

SN is Liam.

I try to recover, make sense of this. At least he’s not Mr. Shackleman or Ken Abernathy. Liam is a good guy, coveted by the most beautiful girl in school. Surely this is a good thing.

He doesn’t see me yet. He’s at the cash register, grabbing one of those free loose mints, the ones that supposedly have high concentrations of fecal matter on them, but I recognize him from behind. Liam.

Liam is Liam is Liam.

He turns around, and his face transforms when he sees me. He smiles, so bright that I wonder what I’ve done to earn his good cheer.

All this time: Liam.

“Fancy seeing you here, stranger,” he says. “Mind if I sit down?”

I am mute. I want to take out my phone and type to SN:
Sure. Go ahead.
And this:
I don’t understand.
I resort to a nod. At least I know Dri won’t be mad at me. At least there’s that.

I want to type
You are not Ethan. I wanted you to be Ethan.

But I know that’s cruel. Like if he said to me
I wanted you to be prettier.

“It’s nice to see you,” Liam says, and folds himself into the booth across from me. He’s graceful today, the way he is onstage: confident and fluid. Human origami.

“Yeah. You too,” I say, and try to smile back. It doesn’t quite reach my eyes.

“This is totally awkward and maybe not the right time for this, but I’ve been meaning to ask if you want to, you know, have dinner with me sometime?” And there it is: Liam is asking me out. For real. In real life. Not SN on the page, but SN in the flesh.

But all I can hear is Ethan’s voice,
his
words, which were also spoken out loud:
I think you should say no.

Still, that was before SN was Liam and Liam was SN. That was before the last ten seconds, when everything changed. And what if this is what’s real—me and Liam, not me and Ethan? Maybe, again, I’ve had it all wrong. So what that it’s sometimes awkward at the store, that I don’t feel like Liam and I have much to say to each other? So what that he dated someone like Gem? People make bad decisions all the time.

“I—” I take a sip of my coffee, look deep into the cup, push down the terror that is rising inside me, the desire to flee this booth. I need the extra time that my phone affords me. Even just a few seconds to organize my thoughts. I try to picture what I would type right now. Typing would make this easier. Using thumbs instead of my mouth.
Yes,
I’d write. Or maybe
Sure.
Or
Cool.
Or…

But before I can figure out what to say, I feel a shadow fall over our table. My first instinct is that Gem is here and she’s going to punch me, and that’s how all this will end. Me knocked out on the floor. Which is ridiculous, because it’s not Gem. And punching is not her style. She’s subtler than that.

It’s Ethan.

Ethan is Ethan is Ethan.

Ethan’s here too, and now I’m confused and I don’t know what to do. He sees Liam sitting across from me, and his face darkens and then goes blank. I want to see his smile, hear him say those six words one more time:
I think you should say no.

Surely that will help me make sense of all of this. That will give me a good reason to walk away from SN, walk away from “three things” and delicious midnight conversations and everything that has kept me going for the last few months.

SN is Liam. Liam is SN. A simple equation. Remedial math. Time to accept it.

“Hey,” Ethan says, and there is pleading in his eyes. He’s saying those six words without saying those six words. And so I don’t answer Liam—not yet, anyway—and I turn to Ethan. Buy time another way.

“Hey,” I say. Then I’m sure I have this all wrong, that I’m actually dreaming, because all of a sudden Caleb is here too, right behind Ethan, and of course all three of them would be here for the great SN unveiling. This is a dream. It has to be, because the three of them can’t be SN, and I’ve had dreams like this before, when they’re all there—Liam, Ethan, Caleb—morphing into each other, swapping shirts.

But no, Caleb is in gray. Ethan is the Batman. And Liam is wearing a button-down, because unlike his friends, he rotates his wardrobe. One point for Liam there.

If this is a dream, next they will break out into song. Serenade me with “The Girl No One Knows.”

No one is singing.

This is not a dream.

I dig my fingernails into my palms, just to be sure. It hurts.

“Howdy,” Caleb says, and looks from Liam to me and back to Liam and smiles, as if to say
Go for it, dude.
Do he and Ethan both know that SN is Liam, and they’re here to see what happens? Or maybe they’re all in on it, have shared the SN password and taken turns writing to me. Has this whole thing been one big joke? Is that the lie? There are three of them?

I flash back to my dad’s offer to take us home to Chicago, wonder if that’s where this is all headed. Me, on a plane, humiliated and heartbroken.

“Wait,” Ethan says, and takes a step forward and then one backward. It’s an awkward dance, and his face reddens. “You’re early.”

“Dude, we’re in the middle of something here,” Liam says, and looks at me again, as if to re-ask his question.
Right. Dinner.
If I weren’t so disappointed, it would be cute, SN starting our first conversation by asking me out on a proper date.

“Liam,” Ethan says, and puts his hand on Liam’s shoulder. Liam shakes it off angrily. I am so stupid. It’s obvious these two have a problem with each other.
There was drama there for a while,
Dri said once. Liam replaced Ethan’s brother in the band.

I think you should say no.

I’ve taken it all the wrong way: those six words had nothing to do with Ethan wanting me. He just hates Liam. The realization is crushing.

“Why are you always throwing shade?” Liam stands up to face Ethan. Months, perhaps years, of pent-up aggression are spewing forth, and I’m unfortunate enough to get caught in the middle.

Liam’s hands are curled into fists, as if he is ready to throw punches right in the middle of IHOP, which is of course a dumb place to fight. There are children here, and polyester booths and smiley-face pancakes. Multiple kinds of syrup. Some of the drinks even come with maraschino cherries.

Caleb steps between Liam and Ethan, and Ethan puts his hands in the air. He has no interest in swinging or being swung at. Maybe he has no interest in me.

“You’ve got it all wrong, man. It’s not like that,” Ethan says, puts his hands down and into his pocket. He pulls out his phone. “Just give me one second.”

Ethan’s eyes are on me, not on Liam, and he’s talking to me without talking to me. I don’t know what he’s saying. I just know I want to keep staring at him. Again, everything is too fast for me to understand, and also too slow, because I can hear the thump of my heart and the blood rushing in my ears, can feel the warmth of the coffee cup in my trembling hands.

My phone beeps. I have a message. I look down. I pick it up.

I look up again. Ethan is smiling nervously at me. He’s typing without looking.

“You?” I ask, out loud, without hands, the words right where I need them. Finally, finally, realization dawning. My eyes are locked with Ethan’s. I can’t help it; I’m grinning. “For real. It’s you?”

“Me,” Ethan says, and holds up his phone. “You were early. We had an Oville meeting in the back that ran too long, and then he got to you first.”

I look at Liam, who is rocking on his heels, confused and still angry. Watching our conversation but not getting it at all. How could he? I barely understand.

Ethan is Ethan is Ethan.

Ethan
is SN.

“Liam, I’m sorry. I can’t. I mean, it’s Ethan. It’s him,” I say, which makes no sense at all, but it doesn’t seem to matter, because now Ethan is sitting down across from me in the booth. And we are smiling at each other, goofy and giddy, and it’s easy, so much easier than it should be.

Liam looks more confused than upset. Caleb shrugs and then rolls his eyes toward the door, as if to say
Give it up, man. She’s not worth it.

“Whatever,” Liam says, taking Caleb’s cue, the words casually thrown over his shoulder as he walks out the door. Caleb shakes his phone at me and Ethan, apparently his generic goodbye, as he runs to catch up with Liam.

“You?” I ask Ethan again, because I need it to be said one last time. To be sure that I’m not just jumping to conclusions and that I’m not dreaming.

“It’s nice to meet you again, Jessie, Jessie Holmes. I’m the weirdo who has been messaging you.” Ethan looks nervous, a question in his eyes. “Today so didn’t go the way I meant it to.”

I laugh, because what I’m feeling is something so much bigger than relief.

“What? You didn’t expect to almost get into a fistfight?”

“No, no, I did not.”

“I can’t believe it’s you,” I say, letting out the breath I didn’t even realize I was holding. My phone beeps.

Ethan switches sides of the booth, and now his thigh is up against mine. I can smell his Ethan smell. I bet he tastes like coffee.

“Hello,” he says, and reaches up and tucks my hair behind my ears.

“Hello,” I say.

After we’ve talked for a while, it’s like all those other times I’ve hung out with Ethan but also totally different, because we’re not working on a project, we’re just together because we want to be, and I now know him, like really know him, because we’ve spent the last two months talking with our fingertips.

“Why?” I ask. He closes the gap, puts his hand in mine. We are holding hands. Ethan and I are holding hands. I am not sure I ever want to give his back.

“Why what?”

“Why did you email me that first day?”

“Since my brother…I feel like I’ve forgotten how to, like, how to talk to people. My dad made me go to this therapist, and she said that it might help to start writing instead. And when I saw you on the first day of school, there was just something about you that made me really want to meet you. You seemed lost in a way that I totally get. I decided to email. It felt safer to be undercover.” He shakes his head, as if to say
Yes, I’m strange.

“Have you written to anyone else?” I ask.

“I mean, a few times here and there. I like to watch people. I’ve told some kids stuff in the nicest way possible. I told Ken Abernathy that Gem was cheating off him in calculus. With you, it was different. Ours was a two-month-long conversation.”

“So what you’re saying is you’re kind of like Wood Valley’s Batman.”

He grins. Looks down.

“Not really. This is my brother’s shirt. It’s silly, but whatever.”

“I like being able to ask you questions and you answering them.”

“I like you asking me questions.”