I hiccup/cry/snort, which is an amazing throat-and-nostril feat.
“Oh, sweetie.” My mom sets the Pledge on the coffee table and hugs me. My heart rate aligns itself with the clock’s loud ticking on the wall behind us.
“It’s turning up all this old stuff,” I mumble. “Like being mad and having nowhere to hold it all. Next thing I knew I was throwing Tater Tots at him. I think it was mortifying, but I was too mad to care.”
My mom grimaces as she strokes my hair. “What else?”
“I said some stuff. I don’t know. It was ugly and the whole school saw and it was kind of the end of Cham’s dignity as we know it.”
My mom kisses my forehead. “Do you think you maybe need to go back to anger management?” she asks gently.
Those are the cursed words. Forget damn and hell. Anger. Management. Is. My. Condemnation.
“I do not—” I start loudly, then clear my throat and take a more pleasant tone, ’cause like case in point. “Need anger management,” I finish sweetly. “I just need the world to piss me off less.”
She stares off into the place where the ceiling meets the wall. “We need a solid plan to finish senior year on a strong note and get your college applications in. When I was talking to your English teacher, we agreed you should try tutoring for the essay. She’s going to give you more time, but only if you get help.”
I scowl and push the fluid around under my blister.
“Evelyn said this boy named Brendan and your friend Abigail are the only seniors still tutoring.” I put my head between my knees. Why, Universe, are you doing this to me? Between you, me, and my patellas, this is bullshit. “Do you want me to set something up for you?”
I glare at her. “You can’t be MIA from my life for the last year and then suddenly step in.”
“What the hell does that mean?” my mom asks sharply. I wince and her face softens. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. I’m just… go on.”
“Well, you’re so busy with Dad and everything, and I know you have to be, but—” Angry mom hasn’t been around for a while, not since my dad got sick and she became the self-help guru. Tidy your house! Tidy your emotions! Tidy your life! A part of me wants to keep it that way, but another part of me wants to say what I haven’t said, not even to myself. “I just don’t think it’s fair for you to get mad when I’m fending for myself here.”
My mom stands and takes a duster to the pictures lined up on the mantel. “I’m sorry, Cham,” she says, slowly moving down each frame. “I know it’s hard, but I can’t double-check every single thing you do, although I guess now I’m going to have to. Otherwise your college applications—”
“Mom,” I say quietly. “How am I supposed to leave?” She turns around with the duster suspended in the air. “Like how am I supposed to just go to college? I overheard the doctor telling you Dad has, what, a year, maybe two, of semi-decent brain functioning before it’s all taken from him—his movement, his speech, everything. I’m not gonna start a new chapter in a new place and be all rah-rah about my future when he’s dying here.”
As soon as the words float out of my mouth and into the living room, I realize how true they are.
“You can’t sabotage your whole future before it even has a chance to start,” my mom says, dusting a family picture so hard it goes flying to the ground. “Are you just gonna put your life on hold?”
“It already is on hold! Don’t you feel this weird limbo we’ve been bobbing along in for the last few years?”
“Well—”
“We never talk about it! Dad doesn’t even acknowledge that he’s sick when he’s in the hospital, and you just go around scrubbing things like if only we were a little more sanitary, everything would be okay.” I try to stand up, but the skin on my feet is too raw. “College is just this stupid thing people get fixated on because it makes them think they have some control over their future. It’s such a load of bullshit, and I’m so tired of mucking around in it. Nothing is okay. And it’s nothing college can fix.” I get up and the stinging in my feet gets more pronounced. “It’s like the human condition or something, to be fucking fucked.”
My mom puts the duster down. “What is it, Cham?” she asks, running over to me. “Is it starting to happen? Your face is getting really red. It’s happening, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s not,” I lie. “Nothing is happening.”
“Sit down,” my mom urges. “You need to stay calm.”
“I’m fine.”
“Head between your legs. Close your eyes.”
“I am not having an outburst!” I limp back and forth, tapping my fingers together, just hoping I don’t lose total control, burst into flame, and start a fire on the floor.
“Picture the waterfall,” my mom is saying.
“Mom, just stop.”
I clutch opposite wrists under my sweater and dig my fingernails into my skin until the red in my vision is replaced by the red of my blood rushing to the surface of my skin.
“Mom, I’m fine,” I say as she tries to put her hands on my neck. I run my fingers over the marks my nails made. “I just, I have to go, okay?”
“Where are you going?” she asks.
“To my room.”
“To do what?”
“Homework? Hide? I don’t know. I literally have no idea what to do right now.”
She grimaces. “Maybe we should meet with your guidance counselor or your old therapist.”
I shake my head. “I just need a little time alone, okay?”
She nods. “Everything’s gonna be okay, Cham. Take an hour or so to get yourself sorted out.” She pauses, and I can see her fighting with herself to say more. “I know you think I clean too much, but you’d really feel better with a tidier room. Do you want me to do some vacuuming?”
“Ugh, Mom,” I say as I go upstairs, fighting an eye roll. “Definitely don’t come up here with that thing.” I’m too afraid I’ll get sucked in.
Selfie from the safety of my bed: mascara running down my cheeks, zoom shot on a fat tear, ketchup stain on blouse. Meant to look emo-punk, actually looks clown-hired-to-murder.
Pictures to be deleted:
• Gene’s big toe next to my big toe, appendages in like/love
• Gene shirtless and his hair wet after a ten-mile run
• Selfie of Gene and me kissing (before I knew his mouth was full of lies)
Pictures to unlike:
• Helga
• Helga and her insufferable blond hair
• Helga kissing the American flag like the United States isn’t the bully of the goddamn world
• Helga and Danika trying on identical prom dresses
• Helga dancing at Senior Show with her leg up by her eyebrow like a monster without bones who’s still more lovable than me
Picture to send the universe: middle finger up, eyes looking directly into the camera, spinach between my teeth.
A Holy shit are you okay
A Where the hell did you go?
Not okay. C
But going to be okay. C
I think C
Idk. Wtf am I supposed to do C
A honestly I say screw him
A and don’t listen to everyone at school who now thinks you’re crazy
A It’s bullshit that girls aren’t allowed to get angry
A If Gene threw things at you they definitely wouldn’t call him crazy
A Anyway, like I say screw him
A It’ll be so much more fun not to be tied down. Prom, graduation, Nicaragua. Life is happening baby we gotta soak it up.
I throw my phone across my room. Suddenly none of those things seem appealing at all. I gotta go fix this. I gotta fix it ASAP.
Text exchange with Gene:
Can we talk? C
G Are you sure you want to “talk”?
G You threw your lunch at me.
I’m really sorry about that C
Can I come over? C
G No.
/> I already have my sneakers on C
G Cham don’t
Already left C
Gene is watching from his window when I get to his house, breathless from the several-mile run through the woods. My mom hates me running there at night because she thinks there’s something out there that can hurt me. She’s wrong. Most things that can hurt a person are inside them already.
Gene comes out looking very displeased as he walks across the lifeless brown lawn. Approaching him, I feel light-headed, agonized. I can hardly catch my breath, and it wasn’t that long a run.
“I’m so sorry about today,” I start.
“I’m sorry too,” he sighs. “About Helga and stuff. I know it’s a douche thing to do.”
I wave my hand dismissively. “Come on, run with me,” I say, touching his elbow gently. “It’ll be easier to talk about it if we’re running.”
He shakes his head, his shadow stretching up the dark lawn toward the house, where the lights are on but in none of the rooms I recognize.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you or let you in my house or anything,” I say. “I know it seems like a weird thing not to tell you about, but it’s so hard to explain feeling like I live in two worlds and I’m just kind of stuck in both of them because for some reason I just can’t—”
I look away as my tongue goes numb, then my lips, then my whole face. There’s nothing wrong with numb, though. Just ask the gods of Novocain.
“I’m sorry, Cham,” he says softly. “I had no idea. That’s literally the most you’ve told me about yourself since we started dating.” He looks down at his feet, and the silence is tense where I wish it were soft. He shifts awkwardly. “It’s just too late, you know?”
“Come on, Gene. We can move past it.”
“Cham.” He shakes his head slowly at me. “We’re graduating. It just doesn’t make sense—”
“Yes, it does. What about prom? And Nicaragua?” I imagine growing roots right here in his lawn. “You can’t just get feelings for someone else because I couldn’t come over and have sex with you.”
“It was not like that,” he says, sounding offended, even though I’m the one who should be offended.
“Okay, well, I’m here now, and what we had is still here. We’ll go to prom like we planned and—”
“I think we should just go with our friends as a group. One big good-bye to high school. It’ll be fun not being tied down to one person.”
“So now I tie you down?” The words jostle around my mouth, like cats trying to get out of a bag.
“I’m really sorry, Cham.”
“You can’t do this to me, not now.” An angry ball of energy is launched inside me. It’s a game of Ping-Pong and I don’t know how to play. “It hasn’t even been a day,” I say lamely, looking down at my shadow touching Gene’s shadow and thinking how sad it is that this is what touching each other has come down to.
“I know, but a lot changes in a day.”
I’m about to disagree, but then I have a vision of my dad in the hospital bed. It’s a quick vision, but it lasts long enough to chill me. A lot can change in a day.
“What can I do?” I ask, my lower lip starting to shake. I look up to keep the tears from responding to gravity, and a moth flies toward the streetlight.
“It’s not you, it’s—” Gene starts.
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, Helga, I get it.”
Just saying her name turns my spit to acid. My face flushes. I look up and see Helga in the window, peering out and quickly putting the curtain back as she sees me looking at her.
Fuck you, Helga. Fuck the fiery blister of your pie hole where you once made out with a hot dog roll.
“You’re such a dick,” I say to Gene, turning from him and his house toward the road and the dark woods. “I hope you have a really great ten minutes with Helga before she flies back to Germany.” As I cross the street, I leap over a fire hydrant on the other side and call over my shoulder, “I’d say go to hell, but I never want to see you again.”
Dear Gene,
I want to hurl my heart at you. I want to drown you in my blood. I want to run through your window and shatter in your eyes. My chest is nauseous. My heart is full of vomit. I hate you. I hate how you walk with her. I hate feeling you not wanting me. I hate the lack of explanation about the lack of me. There’s a scream in my throat about to get out. I’m screaming now. I can’t stop. Listen. This is the sound I make.
14
Days ’til prom: Seems irrelevant now
NOTICE FROM THE GUIDANCE DEPARTMENT RECEIVED WITH thirty-two days until graduation, because that’s what I should be keeping track of:
Dear Chamomile,
We hope this notice finds you well. Unfortunately, it has come to our attention that you are missing a significant assignment in English class, which is threatening your ability to pass the class, in addition to your eligibility to attend Senior Volunteer Trip. Failure to complete this overdue assignment in two weeks will put you on academic probation, which could result in making up the course over the summer. We have these measures in place to ensure academic excellence. We want you to succeed and are here to provide support so you may do so. Let us know if you have any questions.
Best,
Mr. Garcia
Dear Universe,
I’m sorry for interrupting you with my presence, but WTF? You absolutely bitch-slapped me these last couple of weeks, and my ears are ringing because of it. I should feel scared about maybe not being able to go to Nicaragua, right? I should get some essay tutoring, right? And if Brendan and Abigail are the only people tutoring, I should choose Abigail, right? The easy and obvious answers don’t feel easy or obvious. Honestly, they don’t really feel like answers. Could I please have a sign about what the hell to do next? And not like KICK ME, but a sign. Try not to be subtle about it. I lean toward oblivious even on good days.
“Oh god,” Abigail says, startling me with her minty breath in my face as she plops down next to me in English a couple weeks after Gene dropped my heart like a hot potato. “You look awful, Cham.”
I rest my head on my desk and talk into my arm. “I saw them at lunch today, and he was just hovering around her like a fruit fly on a banana, and not just any banana—a smart, highly cultured blond one.”
“What a dick,” Abigail says, unzipping her bag and taking out her class “necessities”: highlighter, notebook, Post-it Notes in two different colors. “You should’ve thrown the kickball at his balls in gym.”
“I’d rather not think about the things inside his pants. It’s too depressing.”
I squint at what Evelyn’s written on the board:
EXISTENCE AS IT IS, IS UNBEARABLE.
I MUST HAVE THE MOON OR HAPPINESS OR SOMETHING.
“Caligula said that. Or something like it,” Evelyn rambles. “Okay, get out last night’s homework, please.”
I point to Abigail’s book. “When’s that due, anyway?” I ask her.
“Uh, today.”
I rub my temples. If it were any hotter in this classroom, it could be the post-gym-class sauna. “Fuck.”
Abigail laughs. “How do you never know what the homework is? She says it like eight times in class, and we get e-mail reminders.”
I lower my voice to a whisper. “This is confidential, but I can’t remember things I don’t care about.”
Just then Doug walks in. He’s very deliberate about not looking at me, which just seems unfair. Shouldn’t I be the one ignoring him? It was his best friend who left me for someone who doesn’t even go here. Or did I lose the right to properly grieve this breakup when I launched potato morsels at Gene’s head?
“Here, I’m about to save your ass.” Abigail slides her copy of Caligula toward me and starts talking very quickly, breathing apparently optional. “So this emperor’s lover who is also his sister dies, and he realizes the world is a steaming pile of shitty nothingness.” She points to the chalkboard and the yellow crescent Evelyn is drawing. “S
o then he becomes freaking obsessed with the moon because he wants something out of this world, something that—”
“Why the moon?” I ask. “Seems kinda random.”
She shrugs. “Well, technically, the moon is outside this world, and let’s be honest, people throughout time have had a major boner for the moon.” She twists a piece of her hair, and I get a whiff of her flowery shampoo. “It’s kinda fascinating up there in the sky, just so big and sad and with us all the time like—”
“Maybe you should take the moon to prom instead of Hilary.”
“Anyway, so he’s all boohooing about the moon because even though he’s so powerful, he can’t have it. Then he kills everybody. Then they kill him. The end.”
I blink at Abigail. “No wonder you got accepted to State in December,” I tell her.
She manages a small curtsy by pulling her plaid skirt away from her chair and bowing her head. “Yeah, I’m an under-the-radar genius.”
“Okay,” Evelyn says loudly. “Everyone, get out of Caligula.” She glowers at the clock. “We have lots to do before the volunteer-trip assembly this afternoon.”
While everyone rustles through their bags for their books, I scan the pages of Abigail’s copy, paying special attention to the pages that have sticky notes on them. The door opens quickly, then slams shut, and Brendan comes in, humming loudly.
“Hey, Cham,” he says, and his purple tutu grazes my desk as he passes.
“Hey,” I squeak, not because I’m nervous, but just because I sometimes keep a mouse in my throat.
Abigail looks behind her as he passes. “That was random,” she says.
“Uh-huh.” My stomach is doing this weird thing. I’m probably just hungry.
Evelyn puts her piece of chalk down and turns to face us. “Okay, before we dive into Caligula, I want to discuss your final project,” she begins, twirling Caligula in her hand. “All I want is one speech to the class in which you formulate your beliefs into a coherent philosophy that answers this question.”
Dear Universe Page 13
