by Val Emmich
“Plus, we have a lot to talk about,” Mac says.
“We do?”
“I want to hear more about the famous Charlie…”
“Most.”
“Right. And about that one time you went tubing.”
“Oh. Ha. Yeah, it’s not that interesting.”
“I’m sure you’ll make it sound good.”
Confidence beams from his eyes. Is it possible he hears me in a way I’ve never heard myself? It seems too far-fetched.
“Now,” Mac says, looking at the house, “can we please get out of here?”
The walk back is silent and determined, both of us too cold to mumble more than a few words, and Mac chewing on the beef jerky he couldn’t wait to bite into. My body moves with purpose while my mind splinters into fragments. I haven’t even started making sense of all the interrelated pieces.
After a long battle with the elements, we make it back to where we started. The museum filled up with heat while we were gone, but it’s not enough. I’ve never been this cold. Our brief indoor pit stops only made being outside more relentless. Now I’m wiggling to keep the blood from locking up inside of me.
“It’s warmer in the back,” I say.
I keep the lights off in the front room. Paranoia.
Before following, Mac removes his wool hat and stretches it over the head of the Edison bust. Those of us who work at the museum are used to politely scolding the thoughtless visitors who feel the need to touch things that are set behind protective rope and clearly marked DO NOT TOUCH. But I’m currently not working, and the absurdity of Thomas Edison wearing a beanie delights me. I may be delirious.
The back room is warmer, true, but barely. I notice Mac’s bandage swinging loosely, its stickiness spoiled by our outdoor trek. He tears it off and sticks it audaciously to the wall.
“Is there a hand dryer in the bathroom?” Mac says, palming through his hat hair. “We could use it to dry our clothes.”
“Fecal matter,” I say.
“Um, no thanks.”
“Those hand blowers are full of fecal matter.”
He laughs.
“I’m serious,” I say. “I heard it on NPR. All they do is blow feces around. You’re better off letting your hands drip-dry.”
“Wow. That is educational.” He works up another plan. “We could take off our clothes and let them air-dry.”
In the movies, a guy will say this type of thing to convince a girl to get naked. Is that what’s happening here? Mac seems to be suggesting something as trivial to him as removing his shoes. I do not share this sense of bodily ease. I currently lag behind my girlfriends in this area. Isla has been felt up and has done her own feeling, and Brooke’s already had sex (which is a secret I’m not supposed to share with Isla). Meanwhile, I still haven’t open-mouth kissed a boy, let alone stripped in front of one.
“What are your clothes made of—cotton?” Mac says.
“I don’t know.”
“They call cotton the death fabric. This survival guy I watch says if you ever fall into frozen water, you have to get all the cotton off your body right away.”
“I have no plans to fall into frozen water,” I say.
“Do you have a better idea?”
My leggings (part cotton) have a darkened soak line above my frostbitten ankles. My mismatched socks (100% cotton) feel damp inside my wet canvas sneakers. (Why didn’t I grab my UGGs?) Mac’s coat has done a fine job protecting my red sweatshirt (soft, soft cotton). No, I do not have a better idea. I guess I’ll just have to freeze to death.
We’re practically running in place to shake off the cold.
“Too bad this room isn’t big enough for suicides,” Mac says.
I give him a look.
“It’s what they make us do in soccer. You run to one line, run back, run to a farther line, run back. You keep going, farther and farther, always back to the start, basically until you’re ready to kill yourself.”
Those suicides. It’s a cruel bit of wordplay, given the events of the night, but Mac appears oblivious to any double meaning. While I’m over here, nerves frayed, reading into everything Mac says and wondering if and how any of it leads back to the mistakes I’ve made, Mac has miraculously regained his lightness. He became darker and more serious the closer we got to his house and goofier and more playful again as we retreated.
“I know,” Mac says, raising his fists in victory. “Push-ups.”
I can’t pinpoint why this unappealing suggestion comes off as endearing. Maybe it’s how genuinely excited he looks and how genuinely excited he expects me to be. I am not excited. But it’s the first idea he’s had that I can at least entertain.
Mac removes the coat he’s wearing. I take off only my hood and drop to my knees. I place my hands on the ground, assuming the position, and when I do, it hits me like a ton of snowy bricks: déjà vu.
It was this exact activity—push-ups—that started it all. The aftermath, specifically, is what inspired an Edison-like invention: my alter ego. What are the chances? I don’t do a single push-up my whole life, practically, and when I finally do, it sets off a serious chain reaction.
Mac misinterprets my hesitation. His eyes focus on my lack of symmetry. I assume he feels pity and is going to let me off the hook, but he does the opposite.
“Come on,” he says, like the team captain he probably is (or was). “Get after it.”
He has no clue what’s going on inside my head right now, but that’s not his fault. He’s treating me like an equal. It’s what I always say I want.
I can do a push-up, just not well. I attempt my first one. It’s not my limb difference impeding me; it’s the puffy coat. Oh well. I’d rather do clumsy push-ups than shed a vital layer.
Meanwhile, Mac is up and down, up and down, again and again.
“Show-off,” I say.
“I do this for a living.”
Pride, or the hope of maintaining what little I have, keeps me going. I complete ten sad push-ups and call it quits.
“Do you feel warmer?” Mac says.
“I feel nauseous.”
I sit up and wait for my breathing to return to normal.
My last set of push-ups was just a few months ago, but it feels like another lifetime. In a way, it was. Soon after I completed them, I was reborn as someone entirely new.
You’re at the coffee shop across from school where people hang in the afternoon. Normally, you’re not one of these people. But today your sluggish body craves a coffee and maybe a donut too.
Ahead of you in line are classmates Finley Wooten and Elena Gonzalez.
Ms. Millard is such a dick, Finley says. Making her do it in front of everyone.
I know, Elena says. Poor girl.
“Poor girl” is you. Earlier today in gym Ms. Millard selected you to demonstrate a proper push-up. (Naïvely, Ms. Millard was trying to empower you.) Finley and Elena were there to witness it. They don’t realize you’re standing behind them now.
I feel bad, Elena says.
Me too, Finley says. I feel like she’d be super cute if it weren’t for that.
That.
I mean, she’s still cute, Elena says.
Sure, but you know what I mean.
Yeah, no, I totally agree.
If ever there was a time to make yourself heard, it’s now. This is the moment you’ve been waiting for to not be quiet. You search for the wittiest, most who-do-you-think-you-are response. The kind that people hear and immediately stop what they’re doing and slow clap because you stood up for what counts, you delivered the kind of justice that everyone craves.
Your mind goes blank. Your lips are glued shut. Your ears doubt what they heard. You wimp out. You say nothing. Quietly, you leave.
But what they said—it never leaves you.
Days later, Finley Wooten, the girl who thinks you’d actually be pretty if you weren’t so ugly, posts a selfie. Ever since the coffee shop, you’ve been stalking Finley at school and online.
Stewing over what she said. Obsessing about what you should have said. (You’re less concerned with Elena. She’s just a follower.)
In her selfie Finley appears in semi-profile, hair in a bun, neck exposed. You notice something. Something you’ve noticed before.
Before your mind can resist, your mismatched thumbs act in solidarity to type a comment:
I love your technique, Fin. How you always keep the tag on new clothes so you can wear something only once and return it. Great way to give the impression of a never-repeating wardrobe. Perfect for anyone on a tight budget. Thanks for the tip!
The reaction is quick and intense. Emojis of shocked faces, laughing tears, hands over mouths. Responses to your response:
Ouch
OMG. Never noticed that.
Gotta hide the tag better girl!
Oh no. This means war.
Suddenly, We’re All Gonna Die, the account you’re using when you leave the comment, has thirty-eight new followers, more trickling in by the minute. What does it mean? It means they hear you. They support you. They agree with you. A follow is a way of saying all of this without having to say any of it. They don’t want Finley Wooten making problems for them. Neither do you, actually. You quickly close the WAGD account before anyone can identify the person behind the comment.
Finley takes down the photo. What a rush! Part panic, part exhilaration. Did that just happen? Your friends hypothesize about who was running the WAGD account. None of them suspect it’s you, even though you told them all about the incident with Finley at the coffee shop. You want to take credit for putting Finley in her place, but something keeps you quiet.
Maybe this is what you were born to do. Maybe this is your superpower. What does Neel always say? Eyes of god, he says. You’re like the eyes of god. The way you spot the details he misses. Mom calls you a hawk. You learned it from Dad.
When you were nine, you attended one of Dad’s classes. On Take Your Child to Work Day. A big lecture hall. It was boring, listening to him drone on about Shakespeare.
A few students were late to class. Dad glanced down at his thick silver watch and went back to teaching. Another student came in, and this time Dad said, Welcome, Mr. Ratner. You wondered whether the kid was important. Why else would Dad announce his arrival? Because moments later two more students arrived, and Dad just glanced at his watch and kept teaching.
After class, Dad took you to lunch at the student center. He ate a salad and you had egg rolls and fried rice. You asked him why he called out the one kid and nobody else.
Good ears, Dad said.
He explained that Andrew Ratner, a freshman, was a bright kid, a good kid, he just needed extra attention. At first, Dad ignored his tardiness. But Andrew found other ways to make his presence known: cracking his knuckles, talking to peers, falling asleep. Dad would sometimes even pass Andrew on his way into the building, and he began to wonder whether Andrew was purposely waiting until after Dad had begun teaching to come to class. The next time Andrew was late, Dad called him out. He didn’t like doing it. It was a distraction to the other students.
But, Dad said, in between bites of snappy lettuce, after I gave Andrew his own special introduction, I had zero problems. For a while, at least. Every few classes I have to remind him that I see him. We do this little dance, he and I. That’s okay. Every kid needs something different. Adults are the same way. There’s a way in to every person. You just have to discover what it is.
What’s the way in to Mom?
He smiles. That’s easy. Back rubs. Absolute best way to soften her up.
And what’s the way in to me?
You? You’re a “show me” kind of person. A natural doubter. You don’t believe it until you see it. I can tell you I love you a hundred times, and you’ll shrug me off, roll your eyes. But then I give you one long hug, just hold you there, and you’re putty in my hands. You just melt.
You’ve never thought about this before, but now that he’s saying it, you realize he’s right.
You tell him that you know his way in. It’s books. If you ask him for a toy or a tablet, he’ll always say no. But if you ask him for a book, the answer is always yes.
He stops chewing. Uh-oh, he says. I think I created a monster.
Dad,
I don’t know how you’re always so patient with everyone. I can’t stand how some people are. How they behave. I don’t know how to not let it bother me. Sometimes I feel like I’m going to explode.
Love,
Tegan
Tegan,
Don’t explode.
Love,
Dad
4:46 PM
When I got downstairs, Charlie had already left the house and the kitchen looked like a war zone. Cabinets were open. A jar lay sideways spilling a mystery spice on the counter. The faucet ran unattended while Mom dug through the fridge. Charlie makes it look easy when he cooks, which is basically every night. He’ll make Mom and me something to eat before taking off for his shift. When not performing at weddings, he works nights as a sanitation worker.
I shut off the faucet. Mom looked up. “Oh, hi,” she said, a little embarrassed. “It’s been so long since I’ve done this.”
It had been.
Over the sink was a hanging pothos. The soil felt dry. I filled the watering can and soaked the pothos and the other plants. Five in the kitchen alone.
I sat down at the table. Mom placed a cutting board full of carrots in front of me. “Can you chop these, please?”
Please, thank you, sorry—she’s like a midwesterner who’s only pretending to have been born and raised in New Jersey. She was practically predestined to be a preschool teacher.
I lifted the knife and got to work.
A moistness announced itself. I looked up and saw Mom struggling to disrobe a whole chicken from its plastic packaging, her bare hands squeezing the raw body, sending invisible droplets of salmonella god knows where.
“You know I don’t eat meat, right?” I said, because now seemed like the right time.
She whipped her head around. The naked chicken was suspended in the air with nowhere to go. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry. Of course I know that. I was just trying to make something you liked.”
She placed the chicken in a pot, washed her hands, and paused at the counter. Her can-do spirit was now can-not. Because of me.
The truth was that upstairs in my room, I had been thinking I kind of wanted the soup. It had been so long. I’d eat just the plain broth. I’m not the strictest vegetarian, anyway. But that was before I saw the poor naked bird being groped like that.
Mom wasn’t sure how to proceed.
“You can still make it,” I told her, taking hold of a fresh carrot, as if to emphasize for both of us the vegetable presence in the meal.
She filled the pot with water and put it on a burner before sitting next to me at the table. It felt a little too close.
“How are you?” she said.
I remembered a meeting with the school guidance counselor a few years ago that began the same way.
“Fine,” I said now, trying to make it sound like the obvious truth.
“Everything okay with you and Neel?”
I hadn’t told her anything about what had happened at the mall, but she’d gathered enough clues to form a realistic picture. My mood on the way home was far different from what it had been when we’d left the house hours prior.
“We’re good,” I said.
“What about Isla and Brooke? They haven’t been over in so long.”
Even worse than not having Charlie here to cook was not having him here to keep my mom from having the time and space to grill me.
“Isla’s been busy with theater. Brooke is Brooke. She comes and goes, depending on what guy she’s into at the moment. We eat lunch together most days. It’s not like I don’t see them.”
She nodded one too many times.
“What?” I said.
“I’m just asking. I don’t know. You seem…
”
The way she talks sometimes, tiptoeing as if I’m so breakable. Or it’s like fishing, casting a line in every direction until I finally bite. I wasn’t biting.
“You seem a little distant lately. I get the sense you’re feeling all these things, but you never say what they are.”
“You have no idea what I’m feeling.”
“That’s why I’m asking.”
“You’re assuming.”
Her hand fell to the table, reaching, but not fully. “If there’s something you’re holding in and you want to talk…”
I was holding everything in—every single thing.
“I’m not holding anything in,” I said.
“Tegan.”
I pushed back my chair. “What, Mom?”
She calibrated her voice, a real professional. “I know that’s not true.”
It made me laugh. “What do you know? What do you think you know?”
She breathed in, inhaling all the air available to her. “I can never say the right thing.”
“Just say what you want to say, Mom. Is that so hard? What now? I haven’t been late to homeroom once since the last time. I finished my essay for English like I said I would. I told you I’d start babysitting again if you really want me to. I don’t get it. What else do you want from me?”
“I know you email your father.”
It felt like I’d been dunked inside the burning pot of water.
“You went into my computer,” I said.
“No,” she insisted.
“If I wanted you to know, I would have told you. But I didn’t, did I?”
“It was an accident. I wasn’t trying to pry.”
I was up from my chair, boiling over. “You are such a bad liar.”
“Tegan, if I wanted to lie to you, I wouldn’t have brought it up. I would have just pretended I didn’t know.”
