Over You

by Amy Reed

  “How am I being mean to you?” My voice is shaking, and my hands are fists. “I’ve been working my ass off to make up for you.”

  Her face is twisted into a caricature of someone being hurt. “You’re mad at me for being sick,” she whimpers dramatically.

  “No, I’m not,” I say, but my voice is full of anger.

  “Yes, you are.”

  “I don’t want to fight with you.” But I do. I do want to fight. All I want to do right now is fight with Sadie. But instead I say, “I have to go.” It’s a lie. I have nowhere to go. “I have to get to work.”

  “Whatever.” Sadie crosses her arms like a stubborn child, and I think hanging out with Skyler has caused her to lose a few years in maturity.

  “Bye, Sadie,” I say, walking out the door. “I’ll come see you soon.” I don’t wait to hear her response. What is wrong with me?

  I don’t know what to do. I finished all my jobs two days ago and no one’s given me a new one. Everything that needed to be harvested is harvested and everything that needed to be planted has been planted, and I’m stuck here with nothing. Yesterday, I at least got to tag along with Maria on day-care duty while people finished the last of the farm duties before break. It was nice hanging out with the kids, drawing pictures, playing hide-and-seek and looking for bugs all day. I don’t have any little brothers or sisters, but I know Sadie’s half brother well enough, and I’ve done my fair share of babysitting, and I have to say that, by comparison, these kids are awesome. For one, they don’t have a nervous breakdown every time they’re asked to share. They’re confident and funny and creative, and don’t seem plagued by the ADD all the city kids I know seem to have. Maybe I’m biased, but I have a feeling these kids are a lot less likely to grow up to be high-strung assholes than their urban counterparts. And they probably won’t need as much therapy.

  But everyone is off today, and all the kids are gone. Everyone is with their families, taking a few days’ vacation before the next round of work starts. I should be hanging out with Sadie, I should be with my best friend, but all I want to do is be as far away from her as possible. I don’t know where it’s coming from, but I have this feeling all of a sudden like she’s poison, like being near her sucks something out of me, like she sucks something out of me, and I only now realized it’s something I want to keep. And I’m alone with all these feelings swirling around with nowhere to go, and I need someone or something to distract me, but there’s nothing. Even the breeze has died, and the birds are holding their breath, testing me with their silence.

  I stomp up to the main house because I don’t know what else to do. I wish the dogs were at least here to talk to, but they always follow Doff wherever he goes. Only Sadie has ever loved me that much, but it was me who did the following, me chasing her around with my stupid wagging tail. But now what? I’m stuck, alone, in this deserted place. I am walking toward an empty building. Maybe I’ll read a twenty-year-old National Geographic. Maybe I’ll play a board game with a ghost. Maybe I’ll sit perfectly still and let the spiders wrap me up and push me into the corner with the rest of their cobwebs.

  When I get there, the place is empty. A couple of lazy flies circle the living room. Around and around and around, looking for something that isn’t there. I hear the mumble of two low voices from up the stairs, where the offices are located, and my breath catches in my throat when I realize how grateful I am to be so close to other humans. Footsteps bring them closer, but I still can’t make out what they’re saying. The stairs creak as they descend, and the voices stop suddenly as two figures come into view. There are Dylan and Old Glen, looking at me like I’ve interrupted something important. They are not happy to see me, but I want nothing more than to hug them. I just want someone, anyone, to touch me and remind me I exist.

  “Hi,” I say, trying not to sound as pathetic as I feel.

  Dylan nods the way cool guys do, like he doesn’t want to waste energy on recognizing my existence. Old Glen breaks into a big smile, as if that was his mood all along. “Hi there, Max!” he says, a little too enthusiastically. He looks like a farmer Santa Claus with his gray beard, his big belly protruding from his stained overalls.

  “Hi,” I say again.

  “Uh oh,” Glen says. “You look bored.”

  “Maybe.”

  “It must be rough to have your friend out of commission.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ve heard good things about your work.”

  “Oh.” All I can manage are one-word answers. Anything else and I think I’d start crying.

  “I hear you’re a really hard worker,” he says. “You have a natural knack for farming.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Thanks?” I’ve never been good at talking to adults. Or kids. Or really anyone besides Sadie.

  “Why don’t you go run errands in town with Dylan today?” Glen says. “Get out a little.”

  “What?” Dylan snaps. “No.”

  An axe makes a clean chop through my chest.

  “Come on, Dylan,” Glen says. “There’s plenty of room in the truck for Max.”

  “Glen,” Dylan says, looking at him too seriously. “I really don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Don’t worry,” Glen says, walking over and patting me on the shoulder. “I’m sure Max here will be fine company.”

  Dylan looks at me like I’ve already done something to piss him off. I am doing everything I can to keep from bursting into tears.

  Glen whispers something to Dylan that I can’t hear, then leaves. “Meet me at the green truck in five minutes,” Dylan tells me flatly.

  “Okay,” I manage to say.

  I walk out to the truck. I close my eyes and take deep breaths. Two thin wet streaks sneak out of the sides of my eyes. When they reach my chin, I wipe them off with the back of my hand. My face is dry. I take a deep breath. I tell myself there will be no more tears today.

  Dylan drives, and I stay silent. But after fifteen minutes of no talking and no radio, I can’t take it anymore. I need to talk. I need to do something to keep me from thinking. “Where are we going?” I say to the silence.

  “Columbus,” he mumbles.

  “That’s far, isn’t it?”

  “Pretty far.”

  “Is it a big town?”

  “Big enough for fast food.”

  No one says anything for a minute.

  “What does that mean?” I say.

  “What does what mean?”

  “What you just said. ‘Big enough for fast food.’ Is that, like, a saying?”

  “Not that I know of.” I can’t tell for sure, but I think he might be hiding a smile. The edges of his mouth are definitely higher than usual. Being on the road, away from the farm, seems to have relaxed him. Something inside me lets go.

  “Then why did you say it?” I say.

  “Because there are fast-food restaurants there.”

  “Why does that matter?”

  “Because that’s why we’re going there.”

  “We’re going to fast-food restaurants?”

  “Yes.” He’s definitely smiling. He’s enjoying my confusion.

  “Why the hell are we going to fast-food restaurants?” I nearly shout with frustration, but I feel giddy at the same time, like there’s this sweet, tight electricity in my chest, in my stomach, lower. We’re having an actual conversation.

  He smiles so big he shows actual teeth. This is the most animated I’ve ever seen his face. I don’t know what happened, but he’s like a completely different person all of a sudden. “Because we’re collecting their used deep-fryer oil,” he says. “It’s what we use to make our biodiesel. It’s what our trucks and generators run on.”

  “Why didn’t you just say that the first time?”

  Am I flirting?

  “It wouldn’t have been nearly as much fun.”

  He said fun. He called this fun. He thinks I am fun.

  “Jesus,” I sigh.

  “Jesus has nothing to do
with this.”

  I smile. Dylan is smiling too. I have felt too many things in the last thirty minutes, and I want this one to stay. Please, let this feeling last. Let Dylan not be the asshole I thought he was. Let him be just one of those people with the kind of super-dry sense of humor where you can’t tell when they’re joking. Let me be the one who knows him well enough to know when that is. And, please, let him like me.

  “So that’s what you do?” I say, trying to sound normal. “That’s your job at the farm? Making biodiesel?”

  “That’s one of my jobs.”

  “What are some other ones?”

  “Whatever comes up.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like driving bored girls around, apparently.”

  “I’m moral support,” I say.

  “Sure.”

  “You need it,” I say. “People get cranky when they’re alone too much.”

  “Are you cranky?”

  “A little. Are you?”

  “Probably.”

  We drive mostly in silence the rest of the way there, but it’s the most exquisite silence I have ever felt. A few times, I even catch myself smiling in the side mirror. The sun warms my face but the breeze through the open window keeps it cool. I close my eyes and feel it brush against my skin. When I open my eyes, I catch Dylan looking at me. He looks away quickly, but I can still feel the burn of his gaze, printed onto my skin, making me beautiful.

  I barely even think about Sadie.

  The town isn’t anything special, but it’s definitely bigger than Hazeldon. I’m surprised to find myself annoyed by the streetlights. The sidewalks and neon signs seem offensive. A car honks and shatters the pleasant buzz of the drive. Dylan is all business as we stop at each restaurant to pick up the used oil. His smile is gone as he tells me to stay in the truck. Everything smells like old French fries. Just like that, things change again and I can do nothing about it.

  “This is the last one,” Dylan says as we pull into a chain burger place. He looks at me as he turns off the truck. “Thanks for your patience.” A tiny hope blinks again inside me. “Are you hungry?” he says. I nod. “Want a burger?” I nod bigger. “Come on,” he says, and I jump out of the truck and follow him in.

  He exchanges handshakes with a middle-aged man with shifty eyes and a badge that says MANAGER. I sit in a booth by the window. Dylan places our order with a pimply cashier while the manager stares at me with a lecherous sneer. I look down at the table, try to push him away with my mind. Dylan and the man talk a bit more, and I can tell they’re speaking in low voices, leaning into each other so no one will hear. Why would they need to be this secretive about used French-fry oil?

  “What kind of pop do you want?” Dylan yells across the restaurant.

  “Surprise me,” I say. The manager has returned to his lair in the back and I feel better. Dylan brings our food over on a plastic tray, and the smell of trans fats and preservatives makes my mouth water.

  “Pop?” I say, grinning. I snatch my food off the tray.

  “That’s what they call it here.”

  “It sounds like something a cartoon would say.” I rip my burger open and take a huge bite. I’ve been eating organic vegetables and whole grains for way too long. “Oh my God, this is amazing.” I chew with my eyes closed.

  When I open my eyes, Dylan is staring at me.

  “What?” I say.

  “You’re something,” he says, then finally takes a bite of his burger.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing,” he mumbles with his mouth full.

  Once again, my feelings have turned full circle in just a few minutes, and I am floating. I stuff my face with fries, and I’m pretty sure this is one of the best meals of my life. We don’t talk while we’re eating, but it feels somehow intimate, like we’re getting to know each other by seeing how the other person consumes food. I watch his Adam’s apple drop when he swallows, watch his jaw flex sharp and strong as he chews, and I never knew eating could be so sexy.

  When we’re done, I hop into the truck, but Dylan stays back. “One second,” he says.

  “Okay.” I put my feet up on the dashboard, pleasantly full and a little sleepy.

  He walks up to a back door next to the Dumpster and knocks. The creepy manager pokes his head out and holds the door open with his shoulder. He pulls a wad of bills out of his back pocket and hands it to Dylan. They shake hands and the manager gives me one last leering look before he shuts the door behind him.

  “What was that?” I say when Dylan gets in the truck.

  “What was what?” he says.

  “What were you guys doing?”

  “Nothing. Just saying goodbye.”

  “But he gave you money.”

  “Yeah. For the oil.”

  “Shouldn’t you be paying him for the oil?”

  “He’s paying me to get rid of it.”

  I look at him hard for signs of a lie, but I don’t know him well enough to read his face. I’m used to Sadie, who can’t hide anything, but Dylan is impossible to read. I think I could study him for years and still not know what he’s thinking. I decide to leave it. I don’t want to risk my feelings changing again.

  We drive and drive. There is something comforting about Dylan’s silence now. It’s not awkward like so many other silences.

  “So, how’d you become best friends with the classics department at Oxford?” he says out of nowhere. At first, I have no idea what he’s talking about. But then I remember Sadie’s bragging, her special way of saying everything in half lies.

  “Oh, that. It’s not really as exciting as Sadie made it sound. My mom got her PhD in history there and stayed close with one of her professors. He ended up becoming head of the classics department, so I guess that means I have a pretty good in.”

  Dylan’s quiet for a while, then says, “Seriously, why classics? Of all the things in the world to study. Why something so dead?”

  “It’s not dead,” I say. “It’s the foundation of Western civilization.”

  He smiles but says nothing. For some reason, I want to tell him things. “I grew up listening to my mom tell me the old stories and myths,” I say. “They’re a part of me.”

  “People grow up listening to all kinds of stories, but that doesn’t mean they all want to spend their whole lives studying them,” he says, but there’s no cruelty in his voice. “Why do those stories mean so much to you?”

  “I don’t know.” I realize I’m telling the truth; I’ve never asked myself why they mean so much to me. “Like some people are fascinated by the human mind,” I begin, not knowing where I’m heading. “So they become therapists to understand what makes people work. I guess it’s kind of like that, but instead of psychology or science, some cultures used all these myths and symbols and poetry to explain the human condition. And instead of a medical diagnosis for one of our bizarre behaviors, they have a crazy god or a goddess or monster to make sense of it. And they told these stories for thousands of years, and the stories changed as the culture changed. They were these living, breathing things—their stories, their explanations. To study a culture that understands itself through imperfect gods—it’s fascinating. I mean, what would we be like if we thought our gods were even more dysfunctional than we are?”

  Dylan has that subtle grin on his face. It is so slight, most people might not notice. It is so rare, so special, I feel proud when I earn it.

  We sit in silence for a while, the imperfect gods passing between us.

  “So, what does your mom do with a PhD from Oxford?” he finally says. The gods tense; they turn sinister. Then just like that, they are gone.

  “She used to be a professor,” I say. “At the University of Washington.” How can a conversation turn so quickly?

  “Used to be?”

  I say nothing. This is where the conversation ends.

  “Did she . . . die?”

  I shake my head.

  “Sorry,” he says. �
�I didn’t mean to—”

  “It’s okay.” My mind is blank. All feeling moves downward. The French fries and fast-food meat have finally found my stomach. I feel sick.

  “What does your dad do?” I can tell Dylan’s trying to sound cheerful as he changes the subject, and part of me softens.

  “He’s a lawyer.”

  “What kind?”

  “Family law.”

  Dylan opens his mouth, then closes it. After a pause, he opens it again. “I used to want to be a lawyer.”

  And just like that, the air shifts again. It buzzes between us, full of promise.

  “What happened?” I say carefully, not wanting to break the spell.

  “I realized college wasn’t for me.”

  “Why not?”

  “Full of too many college students,” he says with his grin.

  “That’s not a real answer.”

  His raises his eyebrows at me like he’s surprised I caught him.

  “You’re tough,” he says.

  “So, what was wrong with college?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I’m not the kind of person who does well with structure.”

  “Or maybe you found out you weren’t as smart as you thought you were.”

  He snaps back as if stung. I went too far. His lips tighten into a straight line. Two conversations ended within a minute. All the unsaid things fly out the window.

  “You’re different,” he says, staring ahead. The deep green of the farm comes into view.

  “How?”

  The Oasis sign welcomes us home. I feel a sudden panic, like my time is running out. Dylan doesn’t say anything, just leaves my question hanging lonely in the air. We drive all the way up the driveway before he answers.

  “You’re not full of shit,” he says.

  “Um, thanks?”

  “It is a compliment.”

  “Okay.”

  He parks the truck and turns it off. We sit in silence. I feel like I’m supposed to say something, but I have no idea what.

  “We’re here,” he says. Neither of us moves.