The Way I Used to Be (13 page)

“That's not what I'm saying, okay. I just—I mean—you act like—”

“I have somewhere to be,” I lie, interrupting him. I stand up and pull the sheet around me, getting dressed as fast as I can. “I'm not going to sit around for this!”

I pull my shirt on over my head as I step into my shoes. I look down at him, sitting so still and quiet, just watching me. Then he says, not yelling, but almost whispering, “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Nothing's wrong with me!” I hear the volume of my voice mounting; I feel all my muscles going tense and heavy. “I just don't like wondering what you're really thinking, what you really want from me!”

“How the f—” he starts, but then stops. “How do you think I feel?”

“Forget it!” I try to stay calm even though I'm so furious I'm shaking. I head for the door, but turn around to look at him, feeling some kind of pressure building up in my throat—pulsing words wanting to be screamed: “Just fucking forget it!”

This is this first time I've ever said the f-word at another person, out loud like this. As I look down at him, staring up at me like I'm insane, I feel my eyeballs boiling in their sockets. And then his image before me begins to blur and wrinkle like a mirage—I have to leave because the tears, I know, are on their way. And I don't cry in front of boys. Not anymore. Starting now.

I storm out of his room. He calls my name once, halfheartedly, like out of obligation, not because he actually wants me to come back. I slam the door behind me as hard as I can. I wipe at my eyes. I walk home.

The next day at school I see him walking down the hall in the midst of his herd. So, of course, I pretend to be absorbed in finding something in the very depths of my locker, pretend not to even notice. They're the kind of people who always have to be drawing attention to themselves—talking just a little too loudly, taking up just that extra bit of space, laughing like goddamn hyenas in that way that always makes me wonder if they're really laughing at me. I hate those kinds of people and yet I can't quite force myself not to look as they pass.

There's no chance of salvaging the wreckage of last night. I watch him say something to this Jock Guy he walks next to, and then Jock Guy looks at me. Looks at me as if he's calculating some unknown criteria in his mind. I let my eyes meet Josh's for just a fraction of a second. But I feel like I might die or throw up, so I promptly return to examining the contents of my locker, trying to remember how to breathe.

“Hey,” he says, suddenly leaning against the locker next to mine, incredibly close. People were certainly staring now.

“Hi,” I reply, but I feel so stupid, stupid, stupid—the way I screamed at him, the way I left. The way he sat on his bed looking at me.

We just stand in front of each other with nothing to say, both of us trying to pretend we don't notice the eyes of every passerby on us. I shut my locker, forgetting the one thing I actually needed for my next class. I fidget with the dial of my combination, spinning it around and around, unable to stop.

“So . . . ,” he finally begins, but doesn't follow up with anything.

And more silence.

“Oh, just kiss and make up already!” Jock Guy shouts from across the hall. Josh waves his arm at him, in a get-the-hell-out-of-here kind of way.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “Look, I know you're still mad, but—”

“What did you say to him?” I interrupt.

“What?” He turns around to look at his friend walking away. “Nothing.”

“Well, not nothing; obviously you told him something. I saw the way he looked at me just now.”

“Eden, I didn't say anything. Look, I'm just trying to apologize here.”

“Don't. Don't apologize, it's fine, it's just—it's whatever.” The truth is that I don't want to have to apologize.

“Well, I am sorry.” He pauses, waiting for me to tell him it's okay, waiting for me to apologize right back. After it becomes clear I'm not going to, he adds, “I'm not sure what for, but anyway . . . here.” He holds out a folded-up piece of paper for me to take.

“What is it?” I ask.

He rolls his eyes; he's getting really good at that. “It's not anthrax. Jesus, Eden. Just take it.”

I take it.

He walks away without another word, without so much as a glance back at me.

Eden,

I feel bad about last night. I still don't really know what happened, but I'm sorry. My parents are still out of town, so if you want to come over later, you can. I want you to, but I'll understand if you don't. You could even stay over. We wouldn't have to do anything, I promise. We could just hang. It doesn't matter to me. . . . I just want to see you. We have a game tonight, but I'll be home by eight. I hope I'll see you later.

J

AT HOME THAT NIGHT
I hold the piece of paper carefully between my fingers. I'd read the note enough times to recite it. Still, I unfold it one more time:
I hope I'll see you later I hope I'll see you later I hope I'll see you later.

But I had decided. No. This thing with him could not go any further. It was supposed to be simple, it was supposed to be easy and uncomplicated, but in one night it's suddenly become a dense, unnavigable labyrinth. And I'm lost in it. I just need out. By any means. I was a fool to think I was ready for this.

As I fold the note back up into its neat square, Mom yells my name from the living room as if it were a matter of life and death, as if it were her last word. I race to unlock my door, letting the note fall from my hands. As I swing open the door I almost run right into her, standing in front of me with her arms crossed tight, hands clenched, and knuckles taut.

“What's wrong?” I ask, my brain processing her rigid stance, the hardness in her face.

“Can you not feel that wind, Eden?” she asks between clenched teeth. But before I can respond or even try to understand what she's even talking about, she keeps going. “I've been begging you for weeks—weeks—to put in the storm windows. Is that so much to ask? Is it? Is that too much for you to handle?” The volume of her voice rises steadily with each word.

“Oh my God, who cares?” I sigh.

Her eyes widen as we stand face-to-face. She looks behind her at Dad sitting on the couch in the living room, as if trying to rally some support. But he just points the remote at the TV and the volume bars dance across the bottom of the screen, 36-37-38-39, louder, louder, louder. Rolling her eyes at him, she returns her gaze to me. She inhales through her nose and exhales sharply. “Excuse me?” she finally manages, the words tight and hard. “I
care.
Your father cares. We're supposed to be a family—that means pitching in! Do you understand?”

“And the windows are somehow an emergency all of a sudden?” I snap back at her.

“I don't know who you think you're talking to, Eden. And I don't know what has gotten into you lately, but it stops right now!” She takes a step closer, her body blocking my exit.

We stare each other down, volleying this invisible ball of fiery emotion back and forth between us. But there are no words to explain to her what's gotten into me. I don't even know what it is. There's nothing that I can say or do that will be right, anyway. I spin around to face my room. For just a moment I consider whether or not I can make a break for my bedroom window—that's how bad I want to get away. But she grabs on to my arm before I can decide.

“Don't turn your back on me when I'm talking to you,” she growls, pulling me back into the ring. “Did it ever occur to you that I might need a little help around here once in a while?”

“Look, I'll put the damn windows in—I just haven't gotten to it yet!” I wrestle out of her grasp easily and take a step backward. “I've been busy, okay?”

“And tell me, why exactly have you been so busy lately, Eden? Where is it you've been spending all your time? Not here, that's for sure.”

She stands there waiting for an answer.

I roll my eyes, look away. I feel my mouth smiling, somehow, in spite of the tears menacing just under the surface. I shake my head.

She steps inside my room now, fully in my space. “You listen to me. I've had it, Eden—your father, too,” she says in that clipped tone of hers that she always uses on Dad to make sure it's clear she thinks he's totally useless.

“What's the big fucking deal here?” I dare her, taking a step forward. And before I can even understand what's happening, there's a loud, hollow crack that echoes inside my head. And the side of my face is on fire.

She says something, but her voice is dulled by the ringing in my ears.

And because I feel like I could hit her back, I turn away. I grab anything I can and stuff it into my backpack. I pick the note up off my bedroom floor and shove it in my pocket. “Out of my way,” I mutter, shoving past her.

“Edy?” she whimpers, her voice straining as if she has no air left in her body whatsoever. “Don't go. Please.”

“I'm sleeping at Mara's,” I announce with my hand on the front door. I turn around, watch her stand there in my bedroom doorway falling to pieces, watch Dad pretend nothing's happening, and I say, “I hate this place, I really hate this place!” Then I slam the door as hard as I can. My hot tears steam up my glasses as I walk.

I almost wuss out by the time I get to his street. The only light issuing from the entire house is the dim glow of the TV in the living room, flashing through the curtains. I walk up the front steps and slide my glasses into my coat pocket. My phone says 11:22. I stand there listening for any sign of movement from inside. I try to think of what I could say, about earlier, about last night. I feel dizzy, suddenly, as everything inside of me seems to rush to the surface of my skin all at once. I sit down on his front steps—I just need to collect my thoughts for a minute, that's all.

At 11:46 his cat prances up the walkway. She runs up to me as if she'd been waiting for my arrival. She presses herself against me, weaving her agile body between my legs, nudging her head into the palm of my hand. She jumps in my lap and just lies there, letting me pet her. Even if I am just a stupid mouse, she keeps me company. Her purring sends calming vibrations through my body, warming my hands up against the bone-chilling night. I look at my phone again: 12:26. He wrote
I hope I'll see you later
. I know that's what it said. I shift my position to try to get the note out of my pocket and the cat looks at me accusingly.

The door screeches open. I turn around.

She leaps out of my lap and is inside the house in one swift movement. I take a breath to prepare an explanation, but the door's already creaking shut—he doesn't even see me. He was only letting the cat in. I have to say something. Now.

“Josh, wait!” My voice sounds so small against the vast, empty night.

“Shit!” He jumps back, eyes wide. “Shit,” he says again with an uncertain laugh. “You scared me.”

“Sorry. I was just—hi.”

“Uh, hi. . . . It's freezing. How long have you been out here?” He steps out into the cold, letting the screen door slam behind him. He's wearing sweatpants and a dingy-looking T-shirt, his feet bare. He rubs at his eyes like he had been sleeping. He crosses his arms as the wind picks up a small cyclone of leaves and drops them at my feet.

“Not long,” I lie between my chattering teeth. What's long, anyway? An hour and four minutes is actually a short amount of time, relatively speaking.

He looks around at the stillness of his darkened street, at the nothing that is going on. He holds out his hand. I take it. His skin feels like fire, but I guess that's only because I'm so cold.

“Why didn't you come in or ring the bell or something?” he asks once we're inside.

I shrug.

“Well, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I'm fine.” But it comes out too fast, too sharp—too obviously a lie.