“I’m gonna get some air, be right back,” I say to no one in particular. It takes all my focus to keep my balance as I go up the stairs, but it’s a relief when I get outside—no muggy beer, no sweaty beer breath, no Helga needing all kinds of attention.
“Taking a breather?” someone behind me asks. I hear footsteps on the walkway, and I recognize the voice. Turning around while groaning internally, I say, “Oh, hey, Brendan.”
“Are you okay?” he asks, opening the fence and letting himself into the yard. Tonight his tutu is yellow. “You’re crying.”
“I’m not crying, my eyes just water in the cold.” I wipe my face and turn toward the house, which is framed by two symmetrical trees, because some people’s lives are just tidy like that. Please let this be a quick and painless exit.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he calls, walking after me. I do not turn around.
“I’m sure. Just some family stuff, but all good.” I lean down to, what, befriend the gnome in Gene’s garden? This is not the escape I had in mind.
Brendan shuffles over to me, his sneakers crunching in the cold grass. “You’re totally crying,” he says, and I eye the shed a few hundred feet away. I’ll hide out in there if I have to. “Listen, Cham, I know we don’t really know each other, but if you ever want to talk about something—”
He drifts off and I let a few tears fall, but just a few. He pats me on the back awkwardly, like three staccato pats that make me really regret coming outside.
“Well, thanks,” I say, “but I gotta get back to the party. Wouldn’t want these garden gnomes to hear about my boring family life.”
He clears his throat and starts singing. “I only mentioned it becaaaaaauseeee…” He hits a note that reaches the moon.
“Can you please just talk in a normal voice,” I say, slurring a little. “If life were a musical, I would have killed myself by now.”
“Sometimes I don’t have words.” He shrugs. “Just songs.”
I kick at the grass with my combat boots, feeling like quite the asshole. He hardly seems fazed. “Well, if you change your mind, or if all of this starts to feel empty…” He trails off, looking sideways into the window, where Doug is streaking the basement. Way too many things are bouncing around.
“There are too many people down there to feel empty,” I joke as I head for the house.
“Loneliness isn’t about numbers, it’s about worlds,” he calls. “And how many people are in yours.” I stop and think about turning around, but suddenly it feels more claustrophobic outside than it did in the basement. “Well, have a good night, Cham,” he says.
“I am,” I say quickly. “I mean, you too.”
As I hurry back toward the house, the music gets louder. All I want to do is find Gene and disappear with him. As soon as I get inside, it smells like beer and I begin to feel nauseous. Luckily, I’m a pro at overriding feelings.
Gene is in the corner of his basement, playing beer pong. “Hey, come here,” I whisper in his ear as he prepares to throw the ball. “Let’s go upstairs.”
“Right now?” he asks, surprised, with his arm perched for the throw.
“Get it, you guys,” Doug says, stepping toward us and grabbing the ball out of Gene’s hand. “Do like bunnies do. I’ll take over for you.”
“Okay, this just got mortifying,” I say, burying my face in Gene’s chest. I help myself to his beer, which strongly reminds me of pee. Gene kisses my forehead.
“Thanks for being such a team player, Doug,” he says, slipping his fingers through my belt loops as he pulls me toward the stairs. “You’re a real pal.”
Doug laughs and throws the ball at the pyramid of cups, where it sinks under a layer of foam. “See you kids soon,” Doug calls. Suddenly it feels like the whole basement is looking at us.
“Yeah, girl,” Abigail calls as she dances with the empty bottle of Fireball.
“Quick, go go go,” I laugh, pushing Gene up the stairs. I’m breathless and thrilled.
“I want you,” he whispers as he pulls me through the kitchen, toward his bedroom. My head is spinning and time is speeding up.
“I want you too.”
When we close ourselves in his room, he takes his shirt off with one tug over his head. I take a breath and touch the golden cross that hangs on a chain and falls in the center of his chest. I want him. More than the other times. I want to explore that wanting without having to keep stopping. Too far. Not now. I want no boundaries. The muscles in his stomach fluctuate as he breathes, and I trace the dark hair that trails down his belly button and disappears beneath the band of his boxers. He tilts my chin up to kiss me. I want to know what it’ll feel like. I want to know if we’ll say anything while it’s happening. I want to know if I’ll be different after. I push him toward the bed, and he plays with the strap of my underwear. I lie on top of him, and his hand explores the cheek no one’s explored. His hand slips down the front of my underwear and I let him this time. This time is the time. I want to close every space between us until it’s nothing but youmeyoume.
“Gene,” his mom calls, knocking on the door. I jump off him, and the bed creaks almost as loud as my heart is beating.
“Yeah,” he says, rushed, fixing his belt and grabbing his shirt off the floor.
“What are you doing up here? It’s so late.” She yawns. “Tell everyone it’s time to wind down. And keep this door open. No closed-door sleepovers.”
“Sorry, coming.” He throws me my shirt.
My stomach somersaults. “I don’t feel good,” I say, burping a little. When I look down, there’s a 76 percent chance I’m vomiting into a shoe. “This isn’t exactly how I pictured the night going,” I say, and wipe my mouth.
“That’s okay,” he says, handing me his trash can. “Next time.” He pats my back as I produce more orange vomit, and the red condom wilts in my pocket.
“Definitely next time,” I add, then retch again so he knows I mean business.
5
Days ’til prom: 89
FACT: EVERY TEACHER AT THE GILL SCHOOL WHO ISN’T EVELYN understands this one very important thing about the second half of senior year: It is a wad of watermelon gum that we are chewing to blow into a glorious pink bubble that will pop on our faces and christen us on the day we graduate. Among other delicious freedoms, we will finally be free to chew gum anywhere we please. Until then, school is a freaking breeze. In science we make ice cream and try to call it chemistry. In Spanish we start a soap opera with English subtitles, with enough seasons to last us well into our twenties. In math we play a computer game we literally played in middle school that involves tiny blue creatures called Zoombinis. When we do get an assignment, it’s pretty much an I-based answer you can’t get wrong.
Then there are the assemblies where they pause normal classes and pile the senior class into the auditorium with its layers of dust and torn maroon seats that expose bits of cushion. Abigail, Hilary, and I scrunch down in our seats and look at possible prom hairstyles while the guidance counselors tell us that the Gill School has a “special schedule for seniors” so that its graduates will do “special things in the world.” The point of all the PowerPoints and guest speakers from previous years who’ve already done special things in the world is to remind us that we’re let out of school almost two months before the other schools because we have service work to do. Instead of a weeklong spring break, we get a kind of monthlong “spring break” after graduation that goes from early May to mid-June. Though it’s not mandatory, it’s kind of a well-known fact that every senior has to pack a suitcase full of ugly hiking socks and partake in Gill’s six-week volunteer project abroad. This year we’re going to Nicaragua, which I hear has waterfalls. Forty-two days without parents or cell phones or electricity, all while having a “truly formative experience” with my best friends and boyfriend? Yes, please.
“I don’t even really get what we’re going to be doing,” Hilary says to Abigail during lunch on one of those January days
that threaten to sacrifice your soul to winter. It’s Taco Tuesday, where we’re all united after lunch by the orange halo on our mouths.
“Doing some work at the landfill so the kids can go to school? And volunteering in the classrooms, I think,” Hilary says.
I sip my lemonade. “Probably just pretending to help out in the classrooms while actually volunteering to take our bikinied asses to the beach.”
“Cham!” Hilary says. “It’s a serious issue! Because kids have to work at the landfill to support their family, they can’t go to school and—”
“I know, I know. I’m just kidding.” My eyes drift over to Gene, who sits a few tables away from us with Doug and some other guys on the track team. “Whenever we’re in the cafeteria, I half expect a flash mob to appear and sing about how Gene wants to take me to prom. Not that I’m obsessed,” I add, poking the stringy green-tinted lettuce that’s fallen out of my tortilla shell. (Even tacos have a hard time keeping it together.) “Just healthily fixated.”
Hilary laugh-chokes as Abigail dons a frown worthy of a large, depressed fish. “Poor Cham,” she says, rubbing her tearless eyes theatrically. When she takes a bite of her taco, a glob of ketchup falls to its death on the floor.
“Nice,” Hilary says, laughing.
“Karma’s a bitch,” I say, then look up at Gene just as he happens to be looking up at me. We share a smile no one else can see in a world no one else is part of.
“Heeeeeeeey,” someone behind us says, pushing empty chairs into tables to get to our corner. “Gooood afternoon, ladiesss!” The tables closest to us have turned around, and a few people are rolling their eyes. “Sorry to interrupt,” Brendan sings, hitting the back of someone’s head with his bright red tutu. “Jeez,” the girl says, glaring at him like he did it on purpose. “I know it’s Taco Tuesday and you’re very busy, but Student Council is finalizing plans for Senior Volunteer Day.”
Hilary and Abigail look at each other, so I have no choice but to look at Brendan. I don’t know how he doesn’t mind people staring at him like he’s an annoyance from another planet. I guess humans are adaptable creatures. We can get used to almost anything.
“What are they finalizing?” I ask. His face is two inches from the Student Council iPad, and there’s a 100 percent chance his fingers are smudging taco prints all over it.
“Well,” he says, leaning over us and ignoring our lack of interest, either for the love of Student Council or because of basic male obliviousness. His hair brushes my face. It’s a soft perfect curl that’s fallen from his bun and smells like peppermint. “We’re deciding between the Breast Cancer Polar Plunge and the Brain Degeneration Walk.” My eyes widen, and a pogo stick of doom has a field day in my stomach. “Do you guys have a preference?”
“Not the brain thing!” I say quickly, then open my bag of tortilla chips to drown out the sounds of my anxious thinking. His eyebrows shoot up to the lights on the ceiling that somehow get sprayed with condiments sometimes.
“Uh, okay.” He sets the iPad down on the table and turns it to me to cast my vote.
“I just feel really strongly about… boobs,” I explain through a mouthful of chips.
Abigail throws an anemic tomato at me. “You’re being so weird.”
I eat another three chips. Maybe if my breath smells enough like corn and taco onion, no one will get close enough to talk to me. Ever. “Am I being weird?” I ask innocently. “I mean, I’m always weird, so it’d kind of be weird if I wasn’t being weird, right? Right?”
“Okay, now will you two fill out the survey?” Brendan asks Hilary and Abigail. He points to the remaining tables: two by the snack bar, one by the three bins for trash, recycling, and compost. “I still have a lot of people to ask.”
“Sure,” Abigail says, leaning over the iPad. “But can’t we vote for both? It’s not like there’s a limit on how much the senior class can volunteer.”
“They’re on the same day,” he says, and I commandeer the iPad.
“God hates suck-ups, Abigail,” I say, filling out the survey with a few finger taps. “We’re all set, Brendan. Breast Cancer Polar Plunge it is.”
He lingers over us and our trays and our pile of napkins. “Uh, okay, well, thanks for supporting Student Council.”
“And boobs,” I say. “I love me a good pair of boobs!”
Abigail laughs and shakes her head. “Good for you for embracing your boobs, Cham. Gene can’t be the only one giving them some love.”
“That’s my cue to leave,” Brendan says.
Once he’s out of earshot, Abigail whispers, “Did you notice Brendan got cute this year? I mean, besides being annoying AF.”
Hilary nods. “Puberty did a good job with him.”
I look down at my chest. “Now if only puberty would come back for me.”
{FEBRUARY}
Days ’til prom: 83
For the last couple of weekends, Gene has had a lot of away track meets, which has reduced our hookups to ten minutes of making out after lunch, with or without leftover food particles in our mouths. Also, because he’s been away so much, he hasn’t had time to ask me to prom. Not that I need him to ask me to prom to know that we’re going to prom together. It’s just that the way you get asked to prom says a lot about how much the other person likes you. Does he like me a random-text-with-no-emojis amount or a seven-hundred-balloons-in-the-sky amount?
Dear Universe,
What if my insides have kidnapped a feminist and they’re holding her hostage? Not to be paranoid, but sometimes I hear this voice of unknown origin and it’s hollering, Ask Gene to prom yourself, you freaking 1950s idiot!
Text exchange between me, Hilary, and Abigail when another weekend comes and goes and I still have not been asked:
A I think you should just ask him.
H Seriously, what year is it that you’re waiting for a guy to ask you?
I JUST WANT HIM TO ASK ME C
A Where has he been anyway?
H Ya. Haven’t seen him at school at all
Away track meets then visiting college. So lame. C
A How dare he have a future
My boobs are too small for dresses. What if I wear cling wrap to prom? C
A No.
A Speaking of futures how’s the college essay Cham?
Oops. C
A CHAM!
time is infinite C
H You have to take this stuff seriously!
You guys have essay brains. I have gaze-at-stars brain C
A *a gaze-at-stars brain
See? C
A So you haven’t applied to college yet?
Define apply C
H It’s okay, we’ll sneak you in the trunk of my car
Well you don’t know if you got into State right Hil? C
A She’s gonna get in
yeah but Abigail you’re waiting to hear from other places too right? C
A Ya but probs won’t get any money. State’s where it’s at.
H don’t worry you can go to community college for a year and transfer
A Ya. Get your grades up
K mom C
A Well someone has to take care of your shit
No I meant to send that to my mom. She texted me that dinner’s ready. C
I roll off the couch with a heavy sigh. Why does everyone have such a large scrunchie lodged up their butt? This is the time of our lives! We are graduating from high school, it is finally happening to us, and it is a big freaking deal!
“Answer the question, Cham,” my mom says when I join her and my dad at the table. “Have you gotten your applications in?” She’s attacking an unidentifiable morsel by the candle with a paper towel, and every so often it squeaks for its life.
“Well,” I say, resting my head on the table, “I’m definitely moving in that direction.”
“You really should get those in,” my dad scolds, arranging and rearranging his silverware. “Your mom and I worked hard so you could go to the Gill School after
public school didn’t work out.” That’s one way to look at it. “You have to take it seriously,” he says. “I would’ve loved to have had the opportunity. Not everyone gets to go to college.”
“I know, Dad,” I mumble. “And I’m really grateful, I promise, but I have so much time. Rolling admission is a real-life example of infinity. It just keeps going and going.”
He’s looking at me with clear eyes, but his face has the stony quality to it. I really hope it’s not one of the lucid, angry days where the cheerful denial and confusion lift and the elephant in the room catches up with him. Selfishly I just want to bring the maple syrup to the table, which I always did when he made pancakes for dinner. I want him and Mom to talk about work and where to plant the tomatoes this year. What I really want is for everything to be boring again.
“Cham, don’t joke about this,” my mom starts.
“I don’t want to think about it yet, okay?” I fold my napkin into a deranged bird that has to sit on my lap because it can’t fly away. “There are so many other things to think about, like prom and Senior Volunteer Trip and—”
“Speaking of Senior Volunteer Trip, don’t you have papers for us to sign?” my mom asks. “And have you been paying attention during the assemblies? I know you’re excited to be in another country with your friends, but there’s a lot of preparation involved. You need to contact your host family and—”
“I still think it’s too dangerous,” my dad says, and I realize I should abort this mission. I pick up my spoon and ignore the chin zit reflected in its imperfect mirror.
“That smells delicious, Mom,” I say loudly as she comes over with the pot.
“What is it?” my dad asks, looking down into his bowl as she fills it. His voice has that edge to it, and I know my mom senses it.
Dear Universe Page 5
