Surface Tension

by Brent Runyon

  I hope nobody comes around the corner and sees me standing in the middle of the living room. That would be kind of difficult to explain. Finally, I get to the receiver and pick it up. I follow the cord over to the phone on the kitchen wall and hang it up.

  Should I just call from here? I don't want to talk on the phone while my parents are listening. I'll just call from here and get it over with.

  I pull the number out of my pocket and dial. It's ringing. Holy shit. I shouldn't be in here. I'm just about ready to pass out. It's like ten o'clock. I hope she's there. Jesus, I hope she's back from wherever they went.

  “Hello.” Someone answers the phone, but it's not her.

  “Oh, hi, is, um, Jennifer there?”

  “Jennifer?”

  “Yeah, Jennifer O'Neil.”

  “Does she have brown hair?”

  “Well, kind of, uh, I guess it's maybe dirty blond.”

  “Oh, okay. I think she's kind of busy.”

  Busy, really? What could she be doing? “Well, can you tell her that her boyfriend is on the phone?”

  “Hold on.” She puts down the phone and starts talking to someone else, but I can still hear her. “It's some guy who says he's that Jennifer girl's boyfriend.”

  The person she's talking to says something back, but I can't really hear it. I think she said “awkward.” Why would she say that?

  The girl, whoever she is, doesn't pick the phone up again. I can't hear what's going on except some faint voices in the background and some music playing. I don't recognize the music.

  That whole world, that whole theater world, is just so bizarre to me. I don't get it.

  Someone picks up the phone. “Hello?” It's Jennifer.

  “Jenn, oh my God, I'm so happy to hear your voice. You're not going to believe what happened tonight.” I start laughing because I'm just so happy to have finally gotten her on the phone.

  “Luke? Is that you?”

  “Yeah. It's me. I'm so sorry. I tried to call. You won't believe how hard it was to try and call you. I couldn't get the party line to work because of this asshole who lives here. And then I tried to get cell reception and then I got chased by a fucking dog. And then I actually broke into someone's house. Okay, can you believe that? I actually like practically committed a felony to try and talk to you.”

  “Luke?”

  “Yeah, Jennifer. It's me.”

  “I can barely hear you.”

  “You can't? Oh shit. This isn't a cell phone. You should be able to hear me.”

  “Luke, can you hear me? I can't really hear you. Listen, if you can hear me, a bunch of us are sitting around in my room watching Casablanca. Okay? So I'm really sad I didn't get to talk to you tonight, but I miss you, okay?”

  “What, you're hanging up?”

  “Yeah, I gotta go.”

  “So we're not going to even talk?”

  “No, I can't hear you. I'm sorry. Okay, bye.”

  She hung up the phone. She hung up the fucking phone. I can't fucking believe that. What is that about? I mean, with what I went through tonight. I've been trying all night just to talk to her, but I don't even get to say anything to her?

  What is that? It's not fair. That's not fair. Come on, this can't be happening to me.

  Wait, what just happened? If she couldn't hear me, then why could the other girl? And plus, she seemed like she could hear me at the end there. That seemed fine.

  At the end I was like, “You can't hear me?” And she was like, “No, I've got to go.” That was fucking bullshit. She was lying to me.

  I can't believe she was lying to me.

  Oh God, fucking A. This is total bullshit. Fuck it. I'm just going to—I don't know.

  I can't even think. Fuck me, this can't really be happening.

  The breeze picks up outside and a wind chime sounds.

  This is stupid. I hang up the phone. Fuck, I just realized where I'm standing. What if the minister comes home and sees me in his house? I've got to get out of here. I go out the same way I came, but a lot faster. I close the sliding glass door behind me and I try to remember if anything else was different from when I came in. It's dark and their wind chimes are making a lot of noise. I wonder where the minister is.

  I run off his property to our property. I stop next to the dying crab apple tree. I can see right into our windows because Mom and Dad never close the drapes. They're in there talking.

  I'm standing here, looking in the windows of my own house, and I don't want to go back in there. I could very easily just walk in and go into my room, but I know they'd try and talk to me and ask me where I've been, and I don't want to talk about it.

  I just realized I'm standing right in the sweet spot of the neighborhood. I'm about twenty-five feet from my cottage, and the same distance from all the other cottages. No-man's-land.

  The crickets are chirping in the darkness, looking for a date, I guess. And the bullfrogs are doing the same. I used to like how quiet the cottage was in the summer. No other people, no cars, no horns. No nothing. But now, as I look at it, it just feels empty.

  I turn around and look at the minister's cottage behind me, and then the Richardsons' and their stone wall, then ours, then the Vizquels'. I keep turning so that I feel a little dizzy. I like this feeling. I used to love to spin around in circles when I was a little kid. I spin faster, so the lights from the cottages look like they're all connected. This is like a carnival ride. This is fun, except I'm completely miserable. I've got nowhere to go. I've got nowhere to be. I let myself fall on the grass and lie on my back looking up at the trees. I'll just lie here until everyone else goes to bed. I can't face talking to anyone else tonight.

  I'm going to go inside and go to bed. Mom and Dad are in bed finally. It took them forever. I hold the screen door so it doesn't slam and then tiptoe down the hall past Mom and Dad's room.

  “Good night, honey,” says Mom from her bed. I go into my room and get in bed. I don't even brush my teeth. I just get in bed.

  All those nights we spent together. For what?

  Maybe I'll write a poem about this. Or a song.

  There's nothing left for me to do.

  Nothing left, 'cause, baby,

  I love you.

  Something inside of me is gone.

  I cannot make it all alone.

  I tried so hard to make it right.

  You're probably doing it with Mike.

  I wanted you so very much.

  You wanted to play double Dutch.

  Well, that was pretty good, right up until the line about double Dutch. Whatever, it doesn't matter. I wasn't really going to write anything about this anyway.

  I'm still awake. Something feels wrong. The whole world feels dirtier and grimier than it did before. Why am I still sleeping in a bed with Star Wars sheets? Why do I have an E.T. poster on my wall?

  The lake is about the only thing that will make me feel better. My bathing suit is hanging on the line out back of the cottage. I grab it and change right in the middle of the living room. Nobody is up anyway. It doesn't matter.

  The grass is wet and spongy, and my feet feel like they're sinking as I walk across our yard.

  I look at the minister's cottage as I pass by. His van still isn't there. I hope that little girl isn't in there all alone. That would be really creepy. Maybe I should tell Mom about it and she could call social services.

  Damn it, I hate it here. The only things I can think about are the Richardsons and the minister and the fucking property lines. The wall. Jennifer. How much I miss her. I remember when I could go weeks without worrying about anything; now I've got so much trouble on my mind. It sucks.

  The night is cool, and I feel like it's early September even though it's still July. I walk down to the water, over the same old stones I've walked on millions of times, and take off my shirt. I step into the lake and walk in up to my knees. The water actually feels warm for once, probably because it's so cool tonight. I take a deep breath and go in up to my w
aist. That's always the hardest part.

  I keep going up to my chest and then slip underwater, so slowly that the surface tension makes the water feel like mercury. My whole head goes under and I swim underwater in the night through the green light. There's nothing to see, but I keep my eyes wide open. I swim all the way down to the bottom of the lake and run my hands over the stones and sand and mud.

  I twist around and kick my feet and swim so hard and so fast that I feel like a dolphin. A freshwater dolphin.

  I'm running out of breath, so I bring myself back up to the surface and come up so that only my eyes come out of the water at first, then my nose so I can get a breath of air again.

  At least this is peaceful. At least all my troubles don't follow me out here into the middle of the lake. I tilt my head back and look up at the stars. There are a billion of them. If there are billions of stars, then maybe the other stuff that happens in life doesn't really matter too much.

  I remember when I was little and I used to think everything was so boring. Or I'd worry and worry and worry about stupid stuff and get all caught up in it. When I was little, I used to wish I were older, just so I could grow up, but now I don't wish anything. Actually, I'm going to try something different.

  I'm just going to wish that I'm here and I'm living right now. Maybe that sounds obvious, but I'm going to try that. I'm going to try and live life like it's happening to me right now, right at the moment. I'm going to let everything come to me. Whatever happens, that's going to be it. I'm just going to try and appreciate life.

  I close my eyes and tip my head back so my ears go underwater. Silence. That's the key. Silence is the key to life.

  I bring my head back up. Wait, that's stupid. Silence isn't the key to life. I hate silence. The whole point of life is that it's not silent. I don't want to be some Buddhist monk living alone on a fucking mountaintop.

  Damn it, this isn't working. I swim back toward shore, back to where my life and all my problems are.

  Roger, Kay, and Claire showed up after breakfast. We're all going to a baseball game later, and they're spending the day here. This is the last thing I need. I just want it to be like I Am Legend and have it just be me and Jennifer. Us, the only people on earth. We could repopulate the planet. That would be fun.

  I don't think that Claire has ever had a boyfriend. I guess I'll force myself to go and make fun of her about that. At least that'll help pass the time until I get to talk to Jennifer and straighten things out.

  Claire is sitting at the kitchen table playing solitaire. Perfect, I don't know why she even comes out here if she hates being outside so much.

  I sit down across from her and look at the cards. I'm not really in the mood to do this, but I will anyway. I say, “Hi, Claire.”

  “Hello, Luke.” She says that like she's not that happy to see me. I don't know why she wouldn't be.

  “How's it going?”

  “Great.” She sounds so sarcastic it's ridiculous.

  “You're not having fun?”

  “No, I'm having a great time.”

  “Sure. Sure. Of course you are.” I pause. How am I going to get into making fun of her? Got it. “So, I just talked to my girlfriend.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Yes, it was good for me. It was very good. Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “I have lots of friends.”

  “Any of them boys?”

  “Some of them are boys.” Defensive, I like it.

  “Are any of them boyfriends?”

  “Yes, I have boy friends.”

  “But do you have a boyfriend?” She doesn't say anything. I've got her. I keep going. “You know, a boyfriend, like a serious boyfriend who you do stuff with and fool around with and stuff. A boyfriend.”

  “I don't have time for that.”

  I got her to admit that she doesn't have a boyfriend. “Don't have time for that? Don't have time for that? No time for romance? For sweet stolen kisses and chocolates and long strolls on the beach?”

  “No.” I can tell she's getting angry.

  “Well, do you have a girlfriend?”

  “No.” Angrier.

  “Any friends who are girls who you sometimes have sleepovers with? Have little experimental make-out sessions with? Practicing?”

  “No.” She is white-hot, but she's not boiling over. What can I do to make her boil over? Hmm. “Have you ever been kissed? You know, a little spin the bottle. Downstairs in the basement. Parents upstairs. Boy with his tongue down your throat and his hand up your shirt.”

  No response. This is very good. One more little thing and I'll get her to blow. What should it be? Sex? She's obviously never had sex. That's too easy.

  I make my voice nice and quiet, like I'm her friend or her mother. “You know, Claire, some people just take a little longer to develop personal relationships. That doesn't mean that you're never going to have a boyfriend. And it doesn't mean that you're never going to get married or have kids. Claire, just remember—”

  “Shut up! Shut the fuck up! Okay, I've never had a boyfriend. Okay, are you happy? I've never made out with a scummy creep in the basement, okay? I don't want to do that. Especially if the boy is going to act anything at all like you.”

  She stands up and blows past me out the door. I watch her go all the way down to the water. Oh great, she's going to go and tell our parents that I made fun of her, just like always, and then they're going to come and yell at me.

  But she doesn't even talk to them. She just lies down on a beach towel and puts another one over her face.

  Now I feel like an asshole. What a pain in my balls. I'm going back to bed.

  Mom comes into my room. I wish she would learn how to knock. She's holding a postcard. Oh wow, it must be from Jennifer. I need to call her.

  It's a postcard of the movie poster for Casablanca. That's right, didn't she watch that movie the other night with a bunch of people? I think she did.

  I take the postcard from Mom and turn it over. It's one of Jennifer's haiku. I read it and read it again. Wait, I don't get it. Is this a joke? Is there another postcard that came along with this one?

  I look up at Mom and I'm about to ask her, but she mouths the word “sorry.”

  I read it again just to make sure that it says what I think it says.

  Casablanca is

  the world's most romantic film.

  I slept with someone.

  Hold on, this can't be right. This is all wrong. Where's the phone? I've got to call her. I go out to the living room and grab the phone. I dial the number from the other night.

  “Hello?” some girl says.

  “Jennifer?” I know it's not her.

  “No. Who's calling?”

  “Uh, it doesn't matter. Is she there?”

  “Hold on.” She puts down the phone and screams, “Jennifer!” She pauses and then says, “She's not here.”

  “Well, do you have any idea where she is?”

  “No.”

  “Does anyone?”

  “I don't know.”

  “Well, can you ask?”

  She puts her hand over the phone and calls out to whoever is there, “Does anyone know where Jennifer is?”

  I can't hear if anyone is responding. I just want to hear it. I just want to hear someone say something. I look out the window. Claire is standing in the yard talking to the minister's little girl. Why is she doing that?

  The girl gets back on the phone. “Someone says she might be at the costume shop.”

  “Really? What's that? Do you have that number?”

  “Hold on.” She yells again, “Do they have a phone there?”

  There's a pause. I feel like I'm in space without a helmet. She comes back on. “Here it is. You ready?”

  “Yeah.” I write down the number and call it as soon as the girl gets off the phone. It rings for a thousand years.

  “Costume shop.”

  “Hi, is someone named Jennifer there?”

  “
This is Jennifer.” Oh my God, I didn't recognize her voice.

  “Jenn. It's me.”

  “Oh, hi.” She's whispering. She doesn't want anyone to know she's on the phone.

  “I got your postcard. Is that a joke what you wrote?”

  “Which one? The cow one?”

  “No. The Casablanca one.”

  “Oh, that one. You got that already? I just sent it like yesterday. That's amazing. Can you believe they'll carry a postcard all the way to New York for twenty-six cents? I wouldn't take a postcard to the next room for twenty-six cents.”

  I don't even know if she's talking to me. I say, “Are you talking to me?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “It just sounds like you're talking to someone else.”

  “Who?”

  “I don't know. Someone you don't know.”

  “I know you.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you?”

  “What?” Am I going crazy?

  “Do you know that I know you?”

  “I guess.”

  “Then you know me too, right? You know me too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know me too.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” I am going crazy.

  “So you know that I wrote that, and you know what it means.”

  “Um, wait. What are we talking about? What are you saying?”

  “I'm just saying that you know me. So you know how hard it was for me to write that. You know how hard it is for me to open up.”

  “No. Wait. I'm lost.”

  “I wrote that because it's true. I just wanted to be honest with you.”

  “You wanted to be honest.”

  “Yeah, so that's why I wrote that. I'm trying to be honest with you.”

  “Hold on. So you wrote that poem, that fucking haiku, to be honest with me? To be honest?”

  “Don't swear at me.”

  “I'm not. I'm just swearing at the situation. You slept with someone. You're saying you fucking slept with someone?”

  “Yes, I was just being honest.”

  “And this is how I find out? You tell me?” That's a line from a Steve Martin movie. I don't know why I said that. I guess I wanted her to laugh or something, because she loves that movie. She doesn't laugh, though.