by Aimee Herman
“Really?”
“Yeah.” I took a deep breath and could feel my lungs expanding. “She’s really nice. And the group helps me to be around others who understand. It’s all just so hard.”
“Definitely.”
“Ugh, it’s bad enough being a teenager with a body that’s changing whether I want it to or not.”
“What don’t you want?” Aggie asked.
No one ever asked me this, James. After this horrible year of almost losing Shirley and Gret going to college and barely seeing Dad, no one has asked me what I want or what I don’t.
“I don’t want what I know I’m supposed to be getting.”
“What do you mean?” Aggie asked.
“Breasts. And . . . don’t make fun, but I haven’t gotten my period yet.”
“Oh! You’re lucky. I got mine in fifth grade, can you believe it? I feel like an old pro now. I actually really like tracking my cycle. My mom gave me a calendar when I first got it. I got in the habit of writing it down. It’s kind of beautiful to get to learn my body like that. She was all about how the moon follows us, changes its shape as we do. As women, you know?”
“I guess I don’t feel that way at all. I feel like I don’t know my body.”
“Well, you’ve got your whole life to learn it, right?”
Aggie grabbed my shoulders and shook me a little and then we collapsed. There was so much more I wanted to tell her, James. But I was scared she’d stop being my friend like Dara. We just became friends, some things I need to stuff further down until they get too big to fit into my pockets.
It is almost noon now and Aggie’s fork still rests against the plate she ate on. I’m not ready to wash it. Nothing is the same, yet I am. Or perhaps I am not. Perhaps I will never be the same and the same no longer exists.
Last night, Aggie said that we are onions. Always unpeeling, making people and ourselves cry as we unwrap. I have so many more layers, James. I feel like I’m just starting to unravel and see what has been hiding in me. What was hiding in you? Were there things you were afraid to unwrap?
Monday, November 1
Halloween used to be my favorite holiday and I didn’t even dress up. I guess eighth grade was my last costume celebration; I was a news reporter. Did you like Halloween, James? Aggie was going to stay over and help hand out candy, but then she remembered she had a math test today and had to study, so I wound up giving out candy with Shirley. I thought it was going to be lame, but actually it gave us a chance to talk between doorbell rings.
“Why’d you get such crappy candy this year?” I couldn’t help but ask.
“What do you mean? What’s wrong with Tootsie Roll Pops and Smarties?”
“Usually you get chocolate,” I said.
“Yeah, and then I wind up eating what’s left. Best to get rid of the temptation. But don’t worry,” she smiled. “Flor is coming over later and she’s giving out the good stuff. I’ll ask her to save you some.”
“Thanks.”
“How . . . how has school been since . . .”
“The grief counselors have gone, so I guess we’re supposed to be over it by now.”
“Well, it doesn’t exactly work that way, you know that. Did James have many friends? Have they thought about memorializing him in any way?”
“He was a bully, Shirley.”
“Eleanor, you know I hate—”
“Well, he was. And I’m sure he must have had some friends, but . . . I don’t know. The thing is, I’m still trying to figure out why it all upset me so much. It’s like I feel this need to understand why he would . . . why he needed to . . .”
Suddenly, Shirley was holding me, and something must have opened up inside me because I was weeping. Really, James, like chest heaving and snot everywhere.
“We may never know, sweetheart. And I wouldn’t dare tell you how to feel, but—”
“But?”
“But the reason was his. It doesn’t matter so much now. What matters is what remains.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Eleanor, when I was feeling depressed, if I had tried to tell you, if I had successfully articulated what was going through my mind, it wouldn’t have necessarily solved anything. In fact, it wouldn’t have made you feel better. It may not have even helped you to understand. Sometimes life and who and how we are just doesn’t make sense. It just is. We work with what we’ve got.”
“But he couldn’t. He couldn’t work with it.”
“No, but again, it’s about the remainder. Being as alive as you can possibly be. To understand who you are and . . . well, keep going, I guess.”
Shirley wiped my nose as though her fingers were a tissue. Gross, I know, but that’s what moms do, I guess, and all I could do was smile.
“I’m not ready to call you Mom,” I said, nervously.
She just stared at me and I worried she was going to break down. Then, she said in an almost-whisper, “I understand. You let me know when you are, okay?”
“Yeah, okay.”
Then, the doorbell rang, and we had a slew of ghosts and Power Rangers and some costumes we weren’t exactly sure of and the night rolled on.
Tuesday, November 2
Dear James,
Dara actually talked to me today. She dropped a note on my desk in math class.
Eleanor, can we talk? I feel like it’s been 4ever. Maybe we can sit together on the bus after school? Dara
Before I headed out the door after class, I turned to look at her and nodded. I may have smiled a little too. I guess I figured she hated me and had no interest in making up. It didn’t seem like she told my secret to anyone.
On the bus ride home, it felt so strange to be sitting next to her again even though it really hadn’t been that long. And yet, I felt like so much had changed. Although my hair was growing in, I really liked it short. I’ve begun to play around with it a little, using gel and mousse, some days slicking it back or letting it be like a wild thunderstorm jutting from my scalp. Shirley keeps asking if I’m going to let it grow out, but after cutting it, I can’t imagine it the way that it was. This is me now.
“Hey, I bought a bag of your favorite chips—barbecue. Want some?” Dara opened the bag and brought it closer to me.
“Sure.” I leaned in and dipped my hand into the bag.
“So, what’s up?” Dara crunched on a chip and half of it plunged into her lap. Barbeque powder rained like New Year’s Eve confetti on her thigh. She swatted it away, waiting for my response.
“I failed my Spanish test,” I blurted.
“Oh yeah? I’m doing pretty good in Spanish. I can help you with conjugation or whatever.”
“Yeah, maybe. What’s up with you?”
“My parents are probably getting a divorce.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Dara.”
“My dad was sleeping in the basement for weeks and I finally just asked him what was happening. They’re calling it a separation, but . . .”
“Well, maybe they’ll change their minds. You never know.” I said this, knowing they probably won’t.
“Maybe. Remember the beach this summer? Feels like so long ago. I had a feeling then. They were being so nice, and I don’t know, something felt off. Remember?” Dara’s voice drifted and I could tell she was quite sad about it.
“Yeah. Gosh, that really did feel like so long ago.”
I spent two weeks in July—before Gret went away—on Long Beach Island at Dara’s family’s beach house. We lived on hot dogs and fried everything and one night, we walked outside in our pajamas and howled at the moon (kind of) and fell asleep in the sand underneath more stars than we could ever count in our lifetime.
“I thought maybe you’d apologize first,” she said.
“I’m not sure what I’d be apologizing about. You’re the one—”
“You just ran out of my house that day! Didn’t call or anything. And then you came to school and all your hair was gone. I’m supposed to be your best fr
iend.”
“You are. You were.”
“And you’re . . . you know . . . and you didn’t even tell me that.”
“Gay? Did you happen to think that maybe I wasn’t ready to even say anything? I haven’t even told anyone yet. Have you?”
“No, Eleanor. I wouldn’t blab. It’s yours to tell, but. Are you really? I mean, how do you even know?”
“How do you know?”
“How do I know what?”
“How do you know you’re not gay?” I asked.
Dara just looked at me as though I had asked her the most ridiculous question.
“Eleanor, please,” was all she could say.
James, everything changes all the time and it’s so easy to forget or not pay attention to it. With my hair short, I can see the passing days as it slowly starts to even itself out. I feel like whatever has been growing inside me has gotten louder in these two weeks. And maybe some things are finally ready to come out.
Oh, and I guess Dara and I are still fighting. We spent the rest of the bus ride in silence.
Tuesday, November 2 (later)
Dear James,
I threw out that mix tape I was listening to the night you pushed me. Actually, I thought I had already. I didn’t want to be reminded of that night. But when I was looking for something under my bed, I found it. I pulled out the thread, watched it unravel and get immediately tangled. Then I threw the tape in the garbage can in my bedroom. I think it’s time for a new one. New music. Maybe I’ll make you one. One I would have given to you if we were friends.
Wednesday, November 3
Sometimes school feels like a rerun of a cancelled television show. We see the same people in the same mint green hallways wearing the same outfits having the same conversations. It’s not that nothing happens, it’s just that we so quickly forget what came before all this.
Thursday, November 4
Aggie asked if I wanted to come over to her house this weekend and I wanted to scream out YESYESYES, except I’m spending this weekend at Dad’s. He’s been out of town a lot lately and we haven’t spent a full weekend together in almost a month. Dad used to be my favorite parent and I guess he still is, but I don’t see him very often. I bet you liked your mom best. She seems really nice. Oh! Shirley and I are going over to your house for dinner on Friday night. Really weird. Can you even imagine if you were still . . . well, I guess if you were still alive I wouldn’t be going there. I never would have met your mom. And I certainly wouldn’t be writing you these letters.
I thought Shirley was doing better, but the other day she didn’t even get dressed and I’ve learned that’s a sign. Maybe she just felt like being lazy. I mean, if it were up to me, I’d stay in my pajamas all day. I’d even go to school in them, who cares?
Friday, November 5
Dear James,
Last night Flor and I went to group. On the way there, I asked her how her date from last week went. In the time I’ve known her, she’s never gone on a date before, or at least she never mentioned it.
“We went to an Italian restaurant near her house. They serve family style.”
“What’s her name? What’s she look like? Will there be a second date?”
“You’re rather interested, aren’t you?” she said, smiling. “Her name’s Theresa. I met her at the library and we just started chatting. She’s taller than me, more slender. Dark hair. Glasses.”
“You think you’ll see her again?”
“We saw each other a few days ago. We’ll see how it goes.” Flor smiled in a way I hadn’t seen before. She looked truly happy.
“I’m worried about Shirley,” I blurted.
“Eleanor, there’s no need. She’s—”
“She didn’t get dressed at all the other day. When I got home from school, she was watching her soap operas. She looked like she hadn’t moved from the couch all day. I don’t know. I feel like I need to pay extra attention to these things now.”
“I understand being worried but give her a chance to have bad days. She’s human.”
“I guess.” I wandered my eyes toward the moving landscape out the window. McDonald’s, bank, jewelry store, another McDonald’s, Wendy’s, strip mall, strip mall, strip mall, tree.
“So . . . anyone catching your eyes these days?” Flor never asked about my dating life, mainly because I’ve never been anywhere close to having one.
“Maybe a little, but—”
“Oh? What are they like?”
James, I wasn’t thinking this then, but I do think it’s interesting that Flor never used a he or she.
“I don’t know. I don’t really want to talk about it. Not yet, at least.”
You probably don’t care about this and would much prefer to hear about your mom. It seems she finds group to be really helpful. She even told the group that she started seeing a therapist, which I guess is a big deal because she said she’d never seen one before. She’s still hoping your dad will come join the group sometime, but so far, it’s just been her.
She asked if I like fried chicken. I bet your mom is a really good cook.
Saturday, November 6
Dear James,
Your house smells like cooked carrots and pine trees.
Shirley and I got there a little early. Your mom was still in the kitchen, frying chicken. I offered to help, and she let me whip the potatoes with the electric beater. She even gave me an apron to put on, which she said was yours. Her and Shirley talked a bit while I whipped, but of course I was listening the whole time.
“Burt is at church. He is meeting with a couple tonight who are getting married in a few weeks and they’ve been having counseling sessions. He sends his regrets.”
“How is he . . . coping?” Shirley asked.
“We’re both just without words. I haven’t even been able to go in James’s bedroom. I don’t want to open the door. I don’t want his smell to escape.” She blushed. “I went in right after and then . . . he’s just . . . he’s everywhere.”
James, there is so much I wanted to say. I wanted to tell her how I used to be afraid to go anywhere near Shirley’s bedroom while she was in the hospital—we found her in her bed. That every time I even looked in the doorway, it was like replaying that day all over again. But I didn’t. I just mixed the potatoes and let them talk.
“Helaine, if you ever want to talk, I am here. So is Eleanor, of course.” She looked at me and I tried to force a smile.
“Actually, I wanted to see if Eleanor might want some of James’s tapes. Eleanor, I remember during group that you mentioned you liked the Nirvana band. James was quite enamored, to put it mildly.”
“Oh, uh, yeah. Sure.”
“His bedroom is just up the stairs to the right.”
“I thought . . . I thought you didn’t want to open his door. I mean, it’s fine. I don’t need to—”
“Just close it when you’re in there and then when you leave. It’s okay, dear.”
James, I’m not sure what I was expecting when I went into your room. Obviously, bedrooms tell a lot about a person. I mean, if you were to go into my room, you’d learn that I love the color purple. Dad painted my walls when I was seven. Honestly, my love affair with purple kind of ended a few years ago and I much prefer blue and green, but I’ve been too lazy to even think of repainting or asking Shirley if I can. I have a poster of The Scream, you know that painting by Edward Edvard Munch? I’ve got a photo of whales because I used to want to be a marine biologist but changed my mind. Just haven’t taken the poster down. A poster from the movie Fried Green Tomatoes. I liked it, but between you and me, I have a huge crush on the blond actress in it. Anyway. You’d learn I like art and movies. I’ve got lots of books on the shelf above my desk and a cactus that Flor gave me last birthday that she said is basically impossible to kill. So far, she’s right.
Here is what I learned from your bedroom. Well, it definitely looks like a boy lived there. I mean, it’s very, very blue. Blue carpet, blue walls, b
lue bedspread and pillows, and even a blue chair by the window. Was that all your choice, James? Two posters of Kurt Cobain and one from Edward Scissorhands. I loved that movie. Your desk was basically empty. A radio. Alarm clock on the nightstand by your bed. A dresser. It kind of smelled like wet socks a little, no offense. There was a pile of tapes on the shelf above your desk, which I grabbed. Then, I noticed your notebook. One of those black-and-white compositions, and I swear I wasn’t even going to touch it. I wanted to be respectful and not move anything except the music your mom said I could have. But James, I couldn’t help myself. Something about it looked . . . anyway, I opened it. You would have too, right? It could have been for math or even your English notebook, but the front was blank and when I opened it, I knew immediately what it was.
James, your journal. And I feel like my mind is still shaking because when I leafed through it, I saw something I never would have expected.
MY NAME.
Misspelled, but definitely mine. Maybe a different Eleanor? Perhaps. But then I read a little. Enough to know. James, you were writing to me.
I quickly shut the book because I didn’t want to cause suspision suspicion and James, forgive me, but I hid your notebook beneath my shirt and when I got downstairs, I asked your mom for a bag for the music. Then, I quickly slid the notebook in the bag and threw it in the car. Dinner was completely uneventful in comparison.
What? Are you curious? Fine, I’ll give you a little about what happened.
Basically, Shirley and your mom talked the whole time. They seemed to get on really well. Then, Helaine asked me how I was doing in school.
“Pretty good, I guess. I’m not really understanding math so much. I mean, I can add and subtract and multiply and all that. I don’t really see why I need to understand the quadratic equation and other formulas. Have you ever needed that as an adult?”
Both Shirley and Helaine looked at each other and smiled. Shirley just shrugged, but Helaine said, “Well, Eleanor, not yet. But you just never know. And if I do, now I know I can go to you.”
