by Cameron Lund
“I don’t . . . I can’t . . .” I sputter, not able to find the right words. Because she’s right. I’m so terrified of Jordan, so scared to talk to him, that there’s no way we’ll ever get together unless I can get over it. But I can’t imagine opening myself up to anybody like that. If you show someone interest, you’re only giving them an opportunity to reject you.
It feels so much safer living in the daydreams inside my head.
“You gotta go for it,” Romina says. She motions vaguely in the direction of Jordan and Kai. “One of those boys is gonna get you in trouble this year. Good trouble. I can feel it.”
NOW
I CALL SEBASTIAN AND WAIT on the side of the road for him to come pick me up. It’s embarrassing having to ask a favor from my little brother, but I don’t have much of a choice. Our town is spread out, houses buried between the trees, neighbors only a relative term. It’s hard to walk anywhere unless you have a gallon of water and a tent.
Seb pulls up twenty minutes later, and I take a few deep breaths, wiping at my face before pulling open the door of our mom’s Toyota. He just got his permit, which means technically he’s only supposed to drive if there’s an adult with him in the car, but I’m so glad he’s here.
“You look like shit,” Seb says, and then when my face crumples, he changes tactics. “Whoa, please don’t cry.”
“I’m fine.” I take another deep breath. It feels a bit like I’m choking every time I inhale.
“Um, where are your shoes?” He pulls the car out onto the road, hands gripping the wheel so hard they’re turning white.
“Do you want me to drive?” I ask instead of giving an answer.
“I got it,” he says, and it’s probably for the best. There’s a chance I might still be drunk. “Do you . . . want to talk about it?” I love him for trying so hard, but I don’t want to dump all my emotional baggage on my brother.
“Everything’s fine,” I tell him. “Can you just take me home?” All I want is to sleep for a million years in a real bed.
“I think Mom’s actually home for once,” he says. “We’ll have to sneak you past her. No way she can see you looking like this.”
“Seb, do you ever drink?”
He turns to me briefly before fixing his gaze firmly on the road. “This . . . feels like a trap.”
“You shouldn’t,” I tell him, running a finger over the bruise on my knee. “People do stupid things when they’re drunk.”
It’s crazy how one terrible, drunken decision can unravel relationships that took forever to build—thirty seconds canceling out five whole years.
Memories of Olivia flash in my head before I can scrub them away, sickening reminders of everything I’ve lost. Giving each other silly makeovers in eighth grade, wearing giant sunglasses and feather boas and dancing around her room to old Miley Cyrus songs. The trip we took with her parents to LA, sitting front row at our first big musical, how we promised each other we’d both end up there together when we grew up—her as a famous fashion photographer and me as her assistant. I need you there with me, Olivia told me once, the two of us lying out on sandy towels at the lake. You’re my muse.
And Jordan—thinking about him feels even worse. When I think of Jordan I think of his hands—how we always laughed because his fingers were so much longer than mine when we pressed our palms together. Lying for hours on the floor of his tree house, talking about nothing and everything at the same time. How excited we were to spend senior year together, the days spread out endlessly before us.
I had so many plans.
I watch the trees pass by on either side of the car, bright green in the sun. It’s officially the first day of summer, a day that was supposed to feel magical. I’m mad at that other girl, the one I barely even remember being. I’m not the one who did this horrible thing. It was her. If I can hate her, maybe I won’t hate myself.
* * *
• • • • • •
When we get home, Seb gets out of the car first and looks around before coming back and opening my door. “Okay, so the good news is that Mom is upstairs,” he says. “But the bad news is she’s not alone.”
That’s when I notice the other car in our driveway. My mom probably had a date last night, and I do not want to see the grisly aftermath. I learned years ago it’s better to slip by unnoticed than to have to deal with these awkward, one-sided conversations. And today, when I’m looking and feeling like this? Definitely not gonna happen.
“Let’s hope they’re preoccupied,” I say, and Seb sticks his tongue out.
“Gross.”
We creep quietly up the path to the front door, and I can hear a low rumbling of voices coming from an open bedroom window, my mom’s high, clear laughter and something lower and distinctly male.
“That’s not even her real laugh,” I say.
“There’s no way this guy is actually funny.” Seb opens the front door so quietly it makes me wonder if this isn’t the first time he’s snuck in or out. To me, Seb will always be spilled Cheerios, lost front teeth, smelly gym shorts, and fuzzy pajamas, not the almost-grown-up he is now. I hope this story about me doesn’t get around to him, but I know it will. I just don’t want him to think I’m a horrible person like everyone else.
We both tiptoe into the hallway, and Seb takes off his shoes. I don’t have any shoes to take off, so I slip by him in my bare feet. The house is bright and sunny and smells like coffee. It’s so normal, the sight and smell of any other summer morning, and it makes my chest ache. I want so badly for last night not to have happened, to have woken up in my bed and come down to this same house as the girl I was yesterday.
“You run upstairs,” Seb whispers. “I’ll get us some coffee.”
“You’re a baby,” I whisper back. “Babies don’t drink coffee.” But then, “Thanks.” He’s being sweet, helping me sneak in like this. I step quietly down the hallway, turning the corner to the stairs, and then stop short because my mom is right there. She’s hand in hand with her date, both of them frozen in place. The irony is not lost on me—my mom trying to sneak someone out of the house while I’m trying to sneak back in.
She straightens, clears her throat. “Penelope, hi. You’re home!” She seems to remember the man behind her then. “This is Frank. He was just leaving.”
“Hey, sport,” the man says, like I’m five years old. I watch my mom’s eyes roam over me, finally noting all the parts that aren’t quite right. I still haven’t seen myself in a mirror, but I know I must look terrible.
“What happened?” she asks.
“Nothing happened, Mom. I just didn’t get any sleep.”
Seb rounds the corner then, two mugs of coffee in his hands, and my mom turns to him. “Wait, Sebastian—were you driving? You know you’re not supposed to drive. You’re too young.”
“Seb just picked me up from Olivia’s,” I say. My mom doesn’t know that Jordan’s parents were out of town last night at a work conference. Actually, my mom doesn’t know that Jordan exists. I mean, she knows who he is—our class is tiny, and we’ve all been together since kindergarten. But my mom doesn’t know about Jordan and me, that we’re a we—or, I guess, that we used to be. We don’t really talk about that stuff. I usually just tell her I’m staying over at Olivia’s, no matter where I go, and she never questions it.
Things used to be different once. Before she went back to school and got her nursing degree—back when she still had time for us—we were always together. When I was little, I’d follow her around the house, chattering about some drama or other from my elementary school classes, who had been mean to me that week, who had pushed who on the playground. But somewhere along the way, we grew apart. Somewhere along the way, I stopped being a priority.
Now she lingers in the doorway for a moment. “We’ll talk about this later, okay, baby? I’m really late for work. But I want to hear about your
night.” Then she grabs her keys from where Seb has left them on the hook, ushering Frank past her and out the door. “We’ll talk when I get home, I promise.”
I’m used to these kinds of promises, and I know she means them when she makes them, but we both know the truth is she’ll come home after I’m already asleep and she’ll be too exhausted from work to chat even if I weren’t. But maybe it’s for the best this time. I don’t know how I could explain to her that I kissed Olivia’s boyfriend when I don’t even know how it happened myself.
“Go to work,” I say, because I know she needs to believe I’m okay before she leaves. “Everything is fine.”
“Okay, baby girl. I left some money on the counter for you guys. Make sure you buy some veggies or something healthy this time. What kind of medical professional would I be if I let you both live off pizza?”
And then she’s gone.
I head upstairs and into the bathroom, turning on the shower as hot as I can get it. I want to burn last night off my skin, peel back the layers until I’m someone else. I wait for the water to heat, and that’s when I finally look in the mirror.
My immediate thought is: Jordan saw me like this.
I look like I’m melting, mascara running down my face in tracks. I pull my hair out of its braids, my hand catching on a tangle the size of a dead rat. Usually, I’m pretty. I know I am—it’s the only way I could have possibly overcome who I was in elementary school, probably one of the reasons Olivia first started being my friend, although there’s more to it than that now. I have big lips, eyes that are usually bright blue when they’re not red-rimmed from crying. I’ve always thought it was strange to like my face and know that half of it came from my dad, a guy who I can only remember from pictures. At least he gave me one good thing.
I’m not as pretty as Olivia, but that’s not surprising. She’s half Swedish and half Italian, a combination that makes her naturally blonde and tan and curvy. I’m a little too tall, a bit too skinny, weirdly pale and flat and gangly in all the ways Olivia is not.
I get into the shower, letting the hot water roll down my back. I examine myself, looking for more clues about last night. Besides the bruises on my knees, I don’t look bad, and once I wash my hair, I barely seem any different at all. Outside, everything looks fine. It’s inside that feels like a mess.
It’s hard to believe anything happened with Kai. I have this theory that a kiss lingers on you, that you can feel it on your skin the next day, proof of what you’ve done.
Right now, I just feel nothing.
* * *
• • • • • •
I pull on my softest pair of sweatpants and climb into bed, curling up under the covers. The sun is beaming through the window, so bright it hurts my eyes, so I pull the shutters closed. I could stay here under this blanket for two whole months, I realize, only crawling back out when it’s time for school. Maybe by then, everyone will have forgotten.
I could pretend I’m traveling, that my mom took Seb and me on some amazing trip—South America, or Iceland, or Greece. People fake Instagram posts all the time.
But that would never work.
I click on my phone and stare at the picture on my lock screen. It’s of Jordan and me from Christmas this past year. He got me a blue Gonzaga baseball cap to match his own, and I’m wearing it proudly, beaming at him. I swipe and delete the picture, feeling the loss of it like a stomach punch.
Then I finally do what I’ve been dreading: look for any posts about what happened last night. Evidence I’m officially over. Romina has posted the video, my mascara-streaked face for the world to see, Olivia chasing me down the stairs and screaming, “Get out!” It has thirty-two likes. There are dozens of comments underneath, and against my better judgment, I scroll through them. It’s so enthralling, watching my own destruction, and I can’t stop looking, like I’m passing a wreck on the freeway. Wow, did you hear what Penny did? That makeup is so tragic. Are Kai and Pukey Penelope actually a thing?
My stomach clenches at the last one. I thought I had made everyone forget that nickname, thought I had become untouchable. I should have realized how precarious it all was.
I keep scrolling, hoping I might find something that will spark a few more memories and dreading it at the same time. Myriah posted a story, and I tap through it. There we all are in Jordan’s kitchen, wasted and laughing in our matching junior-class shirts. There’s Olivia and me dancing on the countertop. I don’t remember how we got up there. There’s Romina kissing Danny’s cheek, Katie with a milk carton on her head. It’s all vaguely familiar, like it happened in a dream or a past life. Then there’s one of Jordan and Olivia. He’s got an arm around her waist and her shirt is bunched up so you can see the flat, tan skin of her stomach. Looking at them together makes my chest feel like it’s splitting open.
I click on the next picture and grow cold. Kai and I are beside each other on the couch, faces close together. It’s clear he’s saying something to me, probably only leaning in close so I can hear him over the noise of the party, but in this picture, it looks like we’re about to kiss. There’s a funny feeling in my stomach as I stare at it. I know how this will look to everyone else.
I have to text him. I have to find out what’s going through his head—if he’s as confused and regretful as I am.
I find his number and type. Can we talk?
He answers right away. Do you want to come over?
I’ve hung out in Kai’s barn before—watching movies on the crooked old TV, playing games of flip cup and beer pong on his picnic table, spin the bottle back when we were in eighth grade. But I always tried my best to avoid him. I’ve never been inside his house. I’ve never been alone with him.
But I want answers.
I’ll be there in twenty.
NOW
I PARK THE CAR IN KAI’S DRIVEWAY and step out into the hot afternoon sun. It’s even warmer now than it was this morning, the kind of summer day meant for picnics, hikes, and swims in the lake. The weather doesn’t know it should be dark and miserable like my mood.
Kai’s mom answers the door. She’s a tiny Japanese woman with a round, friendly face, black hair thrown up on top of her head with a banana clip. I met her once before at a terrible birthday party Kai had at the lake in middle school—I was only invited back then because she’d wanted him to include the whole class. This was back before I had any friends, and when I’d arrived, setting down the copy of Lord of the Flies I’d brought as a present, Olivia had placed a hand on top of her soda. Careful, she’d warned everyone, or she might puke in your drink. I’d run to the parking lot to cry, and Kai’s mom had been there to comfort me with pizza and a hug. I wonder now if she remembers me.
“Penelope!” she says with a smile, and I’m relieved she does. “What a nice surprise. It’s so great to see you again.”
“Actually, it’s Penny now.” I’ve tried to distance myself from the name Penelope ever since Kai’s nickname. I don’t like reminding people of that dark time in my life.
“Of course.” She opens the door wider, ushering me inside. “You look just the same. Always such a beautiful girl.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Tanaka.” Her words feel like a hug right now, one I desperately need. I glance down at my bruised knees, hoping she doesn’t notice them. I’ve put on a bit of makeup, trying to cover up the tired effects of last night. I want to look like the girl Kai’s mom still thinks I am. It’s crazy how parents can be so oblivious to everything. Kai’s mom has no idea what happened between her son and me last night. She doesn’t know he has a habit of consistently ruining my life.
“Oh, please,” she says. “Call me Mari. If you wouldn’t mind taking your shoes off—we’re a no-shoes house.”
“Sure,” I say, reaching down to untie my sneakers.
It’s quiet inside, the humming of the refrigerator the only sound. I like the way the house
is decorated—huge patterned rugs, bright paintings on the walls. And there are more plants than I’ve ever seen inside a house before, tall, leafy trees and succulents in colorful pots by the windows. It looks like his family brought a bit of Hawaii here with them, a little piece of home. I hate that I like it. I don’t want to like anything about Kai, even his stupid tropical house.
“Kai is in his room,” Mari says. “I can call him for you.”
And then he’s bounding down the stairs, taking them two at a time, and when he’s right in front of me he stops short, almost tripping in his attempt to slow momentum. He’s disheveled, brown pants cuffed at the ankles, a black soccer team T-shirt so old it’s worn a few holes.
There’s that flash of memory again—bringing him toward me, crushing my stupid traitorous lips against his, and him pulling away. The shame of it all makes me want to fold in on myself. The embarrassment is twofold—it’s the fact that I kissed him and the even worse fact that I’m pretty sure he told me to stop.
He stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Hey.”
“Um, hi.” I feel a bit like I might puke again, which absolutely cannot happen. I take a deep breath to calm myself.
“Do you want to go up to my room?” He pulls his hands out of his pockets and cracks his knuckles. “Or, like . . . maybe not. Would that be weird?”
I don’t know if I want to be in his room, a place with a bed and a closed door. But I also don’t want his mom to hear us talk. “It’s fine,” I say. “Wherever.”
“Okay, cool.” He turns around and walks back up the stairs. I guess I’m supposed to follow. His mom is still watching us with a sweet mom-look on her face, like she wants to get us drinks or make us a snack or something, but that is so not what this is.
“Thanks, Mari,” I say, following Kai. “It was nice seeing you again.”
“You’re welcome anytime, Penny.”
