Twelve Months of Awkward Moments

by Lisa Acerbo

  Jeremy smiles. “Kyle was really nice, giving me the class notes for Organic Chemistry again,” he says with a smile. “I missed class this week.” His brown hair, mostly hidden under a ripped knit cap, frames his angular face that’s painted white and streaked with blood and gore. His eyes are as brown as the IPA beer he drinks.

  I like his eyes and remember why I agreed to this. “How’s the class for you? I hear Dr. Vaughn is tough. I had Alverez. She was a good lecturer.”

  “We have a huge exam on Friday and hundreds of pages to read before that. The professor has got to be kidding me, right? I put in my hours, but this requires some serious overtime. Kyle said you already took the class. Do you want to get together on Thursday? You could help me study. He said you were the best at it.”

  I hesitate, but what else can I say? “Sure. We can meet on campus. I liked the class enough.”

  “I’m sure you’re really good at it, too.” Jeremy flashes another smile. It’s friendly, easing some of my worries. “I’d appreciate the help. I just don’t understand any of it.” He hands me his phone. “Type in your digits in case there’s a change of plans.”

  I enter my phone number into his contacts. “No problem.” Things are improving, at least I hope they are. I hand his phone back.

  “This week was really dragging, but at least this party is on a Wednesday. We get a chance to relax, and tomorrow is thirsty Thursday.” He touches my knee with a zombie hand made to appear as if a chunk has been bitten away. “Why does the week go so slow, but the weekend feels like it’s over too fast?” He shakes his head, a big sigh escaping his bloody lips.

  “My week’s going okay,” I say, not that he has shown any interest. “In my animal science class, we plan to dissect a cat. Seriously, where else do you get a chance to do cool stuff like that?” I wonder if that’s the wrong way to create romance.

  Jeremy’s eyes registers shock, but any follow-up retort is cut off by the buzz of his phone. “I’m getting a call. Hold on.” He puts a hand up toward my face, clearly dismissing me. I stare at his phone, hoping the next text coming could miraculously develop a rapport between us.

  But the opposite happens.

  Jeremy rises from the couch, phone in hand. “Sorry, this is important.” He scoots far enough away in the loud room that I can’t see what he’s doing. Hint?

  “I’m sure that call is super important,” I mumble, beginning to believe this might not be a wonderful night at all.

  Maybe he just wants a tutor. Would it be rude to excuse myself to the bathroom and never return? I hear a loud guffaw and notice Jeremy chuckling at something. I watch for a few seconds as my ‘zombie’ date has way more fun on the phone than he had sitting next to me.

  My hand clenches, knuckles fading to white. Luckily, my phone beeps with a text just in time to save me from running to the bathroom to hide in shame for a few minutes. Jeremy happily engages with his phone as I skulk away. I check my screen and read the text from my mom asking me to call her. Even talking to my mom is better than being ignored for what I assume is another woman. I peek behind me, but Jeremy hasn’t noticed my absence.

  “It’s hard to hear you.” I listen intently, but her voice sounds slurred.

  “This is important,” my mom repeats.

  I step away from the party. In the cool night, I hear her crying in my ear. I distance myself from the music. Outside the apartment complex, it’s unnaturally silent.

  I catch a glimpse of a person smoking a cigarette and hope he isn’t a rapist. He has a good costume and appears almost translucent. I’m distracted by it and only half listening to the conversation.

  “What? Who’s dead?” My attention is yanked back to Mom as I hear along story involving a bicycle and a bag of oranges.

  “The oranges got caught under the wheels,” her anxious voice declares, “flipped the bike, and a truck did the rest.” Her words falter. I hear her draw a ragged breath. “Uncle Ed is dead.”

  “Hey, Mom, that rhymes.” I’m one of those inappropriate people who laughs hysterically or says something stupid in times of stress. Score.

  My mom sobs into the phone. “How can you say that at a time like this?” Then all I hear is crying.

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to be disrespectful. I’m on a date. I have to get back. I’ll come home tomorrow.”

  I’m not good with grief, and I require time to process. Campus is only about an hour and a half away from home. If I need to do laundry or make it back for a funeral, I can. My first reaction is always denial, a strange numbness inside. By tomorrow, I’ll have worked out the right words to say to my mom and be composed enough to do so.

  When I plant myself on the couch again, I decide this party is done. Even though I was never close to Uncle Ed and mostly found his mental illness embarrassing, his death makes me realize I don’t want to waste more time on zombie boy.

  “He’s dead.” I wait for a response from Jeremy, who is now on his phone, studying fantasy football. I’m hoping the shock value of my statement will be enough to earn me an early night watching Netflix.

  “Who’s dead?” Confusion makes a home in Jeremy’s eyes.

  “My uncle. My mom just called.”

  “Really? I’m sorry to hear that.” Sympathetic, he pats my hand.

  I respond with a polite nod, but I’m focused on the make-up that has turned his hand into a chewed mess. I wonder how he did it. I wonder if Uncle Ed’s body is the same way after the accident. My morbid reflections scare me.

  “When? How?” His tone is curious.

  “Today. I don’t understand the entire story, but Mom said he was coming home from the store with some oranges in a basket on the front of his bike. He hit a pothole, the oranges went flying, and one tangled in a wheel, somehow. He wrecked and ended up under a truck. End of story.”

  “That’s awful.” He pats my hand again. It’s a friendly gesture.

  And I suddenly develop verbal diarrhea. “He was kind of an eccentric guy. He had a black and white television and listened to vinyl.” My fake smile fades as the reality of Ed’s death continues to sink in.

  “He sounds really interesting. I can bring ghosts into this dimension. If he is around, I’ll let you know. Describe him for me.”

  I stare. “Excuse me?”

  “Tell me about your Uncle’s life, so if his ghost shows up, I’ll recognize him by his aura.”

  “Seriously?” I shake my head.

  “Go ahead.” He prods me with a hand to my thigh.

  He seems genuinely interested for the first time all night. Encouraged by the sudden attention, I plow into Ed’s past.

  “I didn’t know him when he was young and normal. The man I grew up with wasn’t well. For the most part, he was harmless, but he often got himself evicted from his apartments. He tried to take his last landlord to court for a million dollars when the hot water didn’t work properly.”

  “Keep telling me the stories.”

  I gulp my drink, stalling. While self-doubt says Jeremy can’t possibly want to hear more, his face is enthralled. I continue. “Once he had a good-paying job, a nice house and wife, but he lost it all. He had a lot of illnesses that complicated his life. Type One Diabetes and bipolar depression to start. All the treatments kind of fucked with his head. He kept all his meds in a stupid tool box alongside his screwdrivers and a hammer. And his fridge was full of insulin instead of food. If my mom didn’t stock it, he’d have starved. Last time I was over at his apartment, I opened the box, and a damn cockroach crawled out.” I shiver. “Sorry, I’m rambling.”

  “Keep going. This is helpful if his spirit wants to get in contact with you.”

  “Really?” I make a face, but don’t stop talking. My brain is under the influence of alcohol, and my mouth continues spewing memories. “I remember one family visit. We moved Uncle Ed into a new apartment. He packed everything up in ripped garbage bags after they condemned the place where he lived. Even though they had just fumigated the whole apa
rtment, bugs crawled around everywhere.”

  He grins. “Sounds like a great Halloween story. I need a refill and a snack. Do you want something?” Jeremy’s enthusiasm for the macabre is now obvious.

  “No, thanks.”

  He isn’t interested in me, only Ed’s crazy life and his equally crazy death. Tonight feels more depressing by the minute.

  “Another cider?”

  “No, but thanks.”

  “You’re not hungry or thirsty?” Awkward laugh and long pause. He waits.

  I wonder if I should change my mind, and I do. “Okay. Get me another hard cider, please.”

  I watch him head off to get new bottles of what we’re drinking. Red paint drips, pretending to be blood, seep through the gaps of his ripped jeans.

  Thinking back to Ed, I remember how much I hated moving him, but now I’m glad I did it. I helped him. I won’t forget that.

  Jeremy interrupts my contemplation with fresh bottles and chips and salsa on a paper plate. He takes off his ripped knit cap and runs a hand through his dark brown hair, smearing his white make-up and mixing it with fake blood. A few dank strands flop over his eye. He tugs them away.

  “I couldn’t help but wonder what they’ll do with the body.”

  “What?” My ponytail bobs as I tilt my head to stare. He doesn’t notice how the question concerns me.

  “It makes for an interesting thought on a night like tonight. Is your family burying him or cremating him?”

  I’m creeped out. “Don’t know.” The words sound as strangled as my insides. I take a convulsive gulp of my drink, hearing the liquid slide noisily down my throat.

  My date glances wildly around the room, and then puts his hand on top of mine. “He’s here with us. Do you feel cold?” The word erupts in a dramatic stage whisper.

  I shiver, thinking I might feel something. And that something is desperation to leave this party, but I have nothing better to do than play along. “Feels like they opened a window.”

  “Tell me more about him. It’ll make his spirit more present.”

  “Seriously?” But my mind completely blanks. The only thing I can think of are the stories my parents discussed with each other as I sat at the kitchen table, doing homework and eavesdropping years ago when they were still together.

  I hate telling stories and having someone focused on me. I always mess the ending up or the beginning or the middle and stress over it for days, wondering how stupid I sounded. I take another huge gulp of my cider.

  “Get me a shot of Fireball, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  More animated than before I learned of my uncle’s passing, Jeremy jumps up and walk-runs to the bar, grabbing a shot glass of Fireball and another beer. He places it before me.

  What the hell? I tell the story. “Uncle Ed worked for the Center for Disease Control for a while as a lab technician but couldn’t deal with the pressure. He decided to invest in a series of apartments and did well for a while. I’m not sure why he believed dealing with renters would be less pressure, but he lost the buildings in foreclosure. The loss bothered him for years and years. He thought someone in the mafia wanted it to run drug operations out of the buildings.”

  “Did they?”

  I shrug away the question. “He was eccentric, but who can tell if there was any truth in his story?” My mind flashes back to Uncle Ed in Walmart, and I need to concentrate to force the image away.

  “Go on.” Jeremey prods me with his finger.

  “After he lost the rentals in the foreclosure, he tried to sue someone to get them back. Obviously, he never won the court case or got the rentals or his own house back. The whole thing was thrown out of court. No proof exists that I have any mafia ties.” I laugh uneasily, but the warm buzz of the alcohol settles deep inside.

  “Chug.” Jeremey waves a near empty beer bottle in front of my face. He takes a long, last sip. “Can I get you anything else? I’m going in for another.”

  My bottle of cider is half full, and while I really don’t want another, I can’t think of anything else that might alleviate how bizarre this night has become. A set-up date with a wanna-be zombie, Uncle Ed dead by oranges, and my date convinced my uncle’s ghost is slithering down the halls.

  “Why not?” I cut him a break. I realize it’s tough to be on a possible date with the ghost whisperer, especially when it’s a blind date set up by my best friend.

  With Jeremy gone, a nagging voice inside starts to question if it’s all a practical joke. Ghost talk makes it hard to focus on the any real conversation, which is bad. The fact that my eccentric uncle died should make tonight worse, not give us a common bond.

  Jeremy reappears with two beverages and a bowl of pretzels. He sets them down on the table. His expression remains serious, brown eyes darkening to black and drawing together, giving him a unibrow.

  “Maybe you could bury Uncle Ed at one of his old rentals since he loved it so much. I’m sure his spirit wants to be united with the land while staying close to his family.”

  “Uhm, sure.” Thank God the alcohol makes this conversation normal. “Wouldn’t it worry the new owners?”

  Jeremy nods, totally into his unwanted quest to help poor Uncle Ed’s troubled soul find peace in the hereafter. “They might notice the coffin arriving. How about if you cremated him? Then he’d be easy to sneak back onto the property and bury him. You could do it in the middle of the night. I’d even help if you needed it. I bet it would make a great story for my creative writing class.”

  He’s either serious or the best performance actor ever. I play along, planning my escape route in my head.

  “I can picture it now. There used to be an old apple tree in one of the complexes where he buried his dog when it died. He’d fit right in.”

  “If you decide on a burial, we’d sneak the coffin in at night, all dressed in black and camouflage, and bury the coffin so the owners and renters will never find it. He’d feel right at home, and you’d have this great secret. I bet it would be exactly what he’d want. I’m onboard whenever you do this.” He sounds excited.

  I’m a little depressed and not just about Uncle Ed. I start my new cider. My head is fuzzy, but words slip off my tongue easily. “Knowing my luck, a light would turn on, a little dog would start barking, and the police would arrive to arrest us. I should ask my mom what she wants to do. It’s her brother.”

  “Right.” Jeremy pouts. “I guess burying someone under a tree would be hard to explain, but is it technically illegal?”

  “Not sure. Never attempted it before.”

  Conversation dies for a few minutes after that. My uncle’s spirit fails to materialize to an extent that Jeremy can see or feel it, but we both agree that cold invaded the room. I down my fourth or fifth cider in a few quick gulps, and I’m ready to make my excuses.

  “I didn’t expect you to be so interesting,” Jeremy says. “Can you give me a ride home?”

  “I shouldn’t drive. I’ll crash here.” My plan is to commandeer Kyle’s bed.

  “You’re fine. I’m close, too.”

  “How close?” I ask. My words slur.

  “Just across campus.”

  “I guess.” I wave to Kyle as we leave the party. The fresh air revives me, but part of me recognizes this is a bad idea. I put one foot in front of the other, get into my car, start it up, and ask him where to go.

  We end up at the apartment complex next to the one I live in.

  “You want to come in and get a tour?”

  I shrug. “Okey dokey.” I giggle as I wobble getting out of the car.

  We enter the messy apartment, walls plastered with posters: a half-naked woman snaking over a car, and The Walking Dead. The rest blurs into boobs, butts, and zombies as I speed through the room.

  “My roommate is here, but he’s passed out on the couch. He won’t bother us. We can really get in sync with each other now.” We climb the steps and enter his bedroom.

  “Okay.” I stand in the middle of his r
oom, not sure what to do next. But then I think about Uncle Ed and the fact that he’s gone, unable to enjoy anything that life has to offer. His sickness limited his life. Maybe, for one night, I won’t let my anxiety limit mine.

  Jeremy closes in, and a hand begins to slowly slide up my thigh. “You have such soft skin.”

  I thrust his hand away and inch back from him. “What are we planning on doing in here?” I search around the room for a place to relax. Not many options.

  “This. Lie down on the bed with me.”

  “Why?” I wonder if that’s a dumb question to ask. I decide it is, but I can’t take it back, so I wait for an answer.

  “Why do you think? We can talk and cuddle. Get comfortable with each other.” He sits on the bed and then slides down on his back.

  I stare at him, debating if I want to jump into this or not. I’m buzzed, but not that buzzed. “Can’t we sit and talk?” The words sound slightly slurred, my tongue thick and dry.

  He sits up again. “Do you want something to drink? We could do some vodka shots.”

  “No, thank you.” I don’t want to be rude, but I want to leave. This isn’t going the way I planned. There is a window I could climb out if needed.

  I sit stiffly on his bed. He rubs my shoulders gently. He’s patient, taking his time. It feels good, and I begin to relax.

  “Lie down with me,” he says again after a few minutes. He reclines on the bed.

  I hesitate, but eventually do the same. It’s anything but comfortable. “What year are you again?”

  “I’ll be a junior. You?”

  “Senior. What’s your major?” I ask as his hand snakes over my stomach.

  “Pharmacy.” He says it in what I assume is supposed to be a seductive whisper.

  “Ah.” It takes me a minute to ask another question, and my discomfort rises.

  This isn’t the positive dating experience the doctor assigned.

  “Do you like it? As a major?” I ask.