by Karen Rivers
“Fuck off,” I tell him. Not that nicely. I have a sudden urge to punch him, like my fantasy about beating Joe. He’s so Joe-like, somehow, so into himself he barely seems to register that I’m not just an extension of him. He doesn’t really get that I’m not his possession somehow. Like I was Joe’s brother first, and myself second. Now I’m Israel’s best friend and nothing more than that. Nothing separate, not to him.
But I am. I mean, come on. I can choose not to be his best friend. Doesn’t he get that? I’m not just someone he can push around and make choices for. I’m so angry about this all of a sudden, I feel like I can’t contain it. It doesn’t make sense, but there it is. I can picture his eye swelling up, his nose bursting into bloom with blood. I can feel my fist making contact in a way that is so visceral that I back up, just in case. I couldn’t do that. I mean, on some level, I owe him. He picked up the pieces after Joe. Well, after that whole thing.
His face is too close to mine and somehow, suddenly, he’s the one who looks menacing. He’s the one who looks like he has a punch to throw. I haven’t got the faintest fucking idea what’s with him. I thought it was me that was mad, but apparently not.
I bounce the ball a few times. I feel strange, uneasy. Maybe it’s the pot, but not after one puff. Probably not.
He holds his smoke in and shoots it out at me in a straight line. Right at my mouth, like some kind of evil kiss. I wave my hand to clear the air. Is usually respects me.
“It’s not such a big deal,” he says. “Don’t be such a freakin’ whiny baby. This is my dad’s. You know, he hides it in the toilet tank, like he’s going to be busted by the cops at any moment? What a tool.”
He laughs. Hard.
I shrug. “So? Thought we were going to do some one-on-one.”
I spin the ball on my fingertip. Dribble. The bounce of the ball on the concrete is reassuring. Familiar. The skin of the ball easier to me than my own flesh. The taste of the joint cluttering up my mouth like day-old puke. Awful. I try to spit again but my mouth is like the Sahara.
“Don’t feel like it,” he says. “Too much sports today. I had hockey this morning. Worked out at lunch. Feeling worn out, you know?”
He stretches like a wild cat. King of the jungle.
“So?” I say. “I worked out, too. And I rowed. Fell in, too.”
It’s true. I flash back to the morning. Predawn. Still dark on the water, the surface rippled with sticks and trash. The air so cold it makes it all feel so real, so serious.
Now it’s warm. I roll up my sleeve and show Is the bruise on my forearm that I got from clumsily climbing back into the boat. It’s hard to get back into those tiny sculls. They’re as likely as not to flip again when you hoist yourself up if your balance is off even just slightly. And these days, my balance always is. It’s like I’m dizzy inside in a way that I can’t pinpoint.
Vertigo.
The water was so cold. Dark green. It absorbed me at first. I felt like I had vanished altogether. It was thick like soup. Quicksand. I was disoriented. For a second, my head was under and I opened my eyes and it was so opaque, I thought I was stuck. I thought it was over. The water seemed alive, like it was holding me down. It scared me and I’m not scared of water. Please. I learned to swim when I was two. I’ve been rowing forever.
Yet, for a second, I almost prayed. Even though I stopped believing in shit like God a long time ago.
I shudder. Throw the ball to no one and run after it, playing catch up with it when it rolls. I dribble back. Shoot at the hoop in the distance.
Israel sits down. Gets up again. Sits down. He’s restless. Dangerous.
He looks at me. Hard. “Can’t believe you fell in,” he said. “I thought only beginners did that. Not you. Thought you were some kind of rowing star.”
I shrug in response. Bounce the ball off my knee. Wait for him to get going.
He lays all the way back on the ground, his bare arms crossed over his chest. A pile of broken glass glints near his bare legs, but I don’t say anything. It’s warm yet it’s suddenly too cold to be outside unless you’re working out, especially in a sleeveless shirt and shorts. He must be cold, not moving. Eyes closed. I feel like saying, “Get a coat on!” but that would make it official: I’ve turned into my mother. Someone’s mother. I ignore him. He’s not my job.
No one is my job.
I shiver. Jog back and forth a bit. Stretch.
I never got warm again after that swim, to tell you the truth. The cold water filling up my eyes and ears. Shake it off, I tell myself. I bounce up and down to keep my muscles warm. Do a couple of laps around the court, my breath banging out and feet slapping the ground. I feel so noisy I can’t stand it. I freeze, stand in place and shoot so my rebound bounces right back at my feet. Bam, bam, bam.
“You’re hyper,” Is observes from his bed at midcourt. He’s almost shouting, but not quite. “Don’t you ever stop? Man.”
“Yeah,” I say. I stop.
I throw the ball at him. Two long bounces and it hits his stomach. He throws it back. Far. Hard. Farther than I would have thought he could get it from the ground. I shouldn’t underestimate his strength. I scramble for it before it hits the tangle of brambles.
“Tell me what’s up with you and Michael,” he shouts.
“Nothing,” I say, retrieving the ball. I sink five in a row from the foul line. Six. Seven. Eight. Miss.
“She’s a tighty,” he observes.
“Don’t say that,” I say. “You sound like a jerk.”
“Yeah?” he says. “So? I saw you yesterday. You think you’re invisible or something?”
“No,” I say. “What do you care? Nothing happened.”
“Mmm,” he says, making kissing gestures. Licking his arm. “I told Stasia,” he says. “She’s all jealous.”
“Yeah?” I say.
I pretend not to care. I care. I guess I wish I didn’t.
“So tell me,” he says. “What’s happening with Michael? Are you locked in now? What’s the story?”
“Nothing,” I say. “I don’t know.”
The truth is that she’s so desperate up close. It’s all over her, her want. It’s hard to not just hold onto her. But it feels wrong, like I’m playing a part that isn’t mine to play. Like I’m the freaking understudy or something, just subbing for someone else, someone who deserves her more than I do. Who wants her more than I do. She’s so pretty. But. I don’t know, it’s just weird. I don’t feel... that’s it, I guess. I don’t feel. Yesterday was such a strange day. Everything felt weird, telescoped, like through a camera lens. And she’s right there, pressing up against me. Her lips are incredible. Like, well. I don’t know. Somehow it still feels like my duty.
She’s a hottie. She totally is. I get that. Everyone wants to get with her, I know it. I know I’m lucky. I’ve noticed her, sure. I’ve thought about it, and she doesn’t gross me out or anything. But the fact that she likes me always made me feel weird, like I’d somehow be taking advantage of her.
She’s one of the prettiest girls in school if you like that sort of thing. And yeah, who doesn’t?
She’s so skinny, though. When I held her, it was like holding onto a baby sparrow or some shit like that, and not in a good way. Bones protruding into me like they were reaching out to spear my skin.
Thin is popular. Everyone is thin. Every girl wants to be, that’s for sure. Nothing wrong with it. I should call her tonight. Hook up on the weekend. Do something old-fashioned like offer to take her to a movie or something. She likes me. A lot. I like her okay. Just because the balance is off doesn’t make it all wrong.
Does it?
I don’t say any of that out loud. Instead, I pass the ball to no one, run for it. This time, I catch it before it hits the ground rolling. My right shoulder is sore. Tired or strained, I can’t tell which.
Michael’s not as something as Stasia. I don’t have the word. I can’t help comparing. They’re both great. And Stasia’s off-limits, anyway, so
I shouldn’t waste my time even thinking about her. Her dark eyes. Her incredible body.
I’m just thinking too much, that’s all. I should just go with it. Enjoy it. Who wouldn’t? Michael is hot. That should be all there is to it.
I do a few jump shots. My feet hurt as they slam down on the cold ground. I don’t care. Cold sweat spraying off my face.
Stasia is hotter.
“I’ll have her if you don’t want her,” says Israel.
His eyes are closed. I’d thought he’d gone to sleep. Almost forgot he was there. For a second, I’m confused. Stasia? No, no. Michael. He means Michael.
Israel can get anyone he wants. I’m sure he could have her if he wanted her. I squint at him. He’s got four or five girls on the hook, doesn’t need more. I couldn’t even say who they are, he changes his mind so fast. Quicksilver, like it says on the bottom of his skateboard. He’s dozily twirling the wheels with his hands while he lies there. I think about ball bearings. I can hear them spinning.
“I should tell you,” he says. “My parents are splitting up.”
At first I don’t think I hear him right. Maybe he said, “My parents have split the cup.” No, that doesn’t make sense.
Splitting up.
They can’t split up. I don’t know why I care, but I do. I pretend I didn’t hear him and I start again at one. Two. Three. Something inside me feels like it’s cleaving apart. Why? They aren’t my parents. My parents are as good as apart already. I don’t care.
“Did you hear me?” he yells.
“Yeah,” I say. “Sorry, man. I’m ...”
“It’s okay,” he says. “You know, I’ve gotta go.”
He jumps up faster than I would have thought he’d be able to. Jogs a few steps, then drops his board, and he’s off down the street, jacket flapping open. Turns into Matti’s driveway, his is the first house in sight of this dump. Disappears around the back.
I feel like a jerk.
I’m going to call Michael. She actually would probably understand why I care, even though I don’t want to care. She seems like someone who would get things about loyalty. Family.
Is loyalty important when you’re a high school senior? Even the word sounds dumb when I think it out loud.
Eight, nine, ten.
On the way home, I have to stop and grab some job applications from the mall. I’m going to need to get a job probably, in case I don’t get a scholarship. Some kind of job just in case Mum doesn’t get it together. I asked her this morning about work and she just looked at me; her eyes were so blank it was almost scary. Then, a bit later, I heard her singing in the shower.
She hasn’t sung for a long time. She used to always be singing these stupid Broadway songs. She’d never seen any of the shows and I don’t know how she knew them all so well, but she’d belt them out. She has a pretty bad singing voice, but she didn’t care.
Singing in the shower is huge.
So maybe she’ll be okay.
Maybe not.
Why can’t it be easier?
For some stupid reason, I feel like crying. For Israel. For my mum. For me.
Israel’s parents, well, it sounds dumb but I guess they were sort of the dream. Well, fuck it. They were the too-good-to-be-true, after all. I should have known. Nothing good lasts, right? You don’t have to be brilliant to get that concept.
Anyway, what do I care? Why do I care?
I guess families just suck. They all must start out sort of happy, but then it’s like a long trip down the toilet. All that emotion swirling around for years until it all ends up in the sewer. Poetic, huh?
I dribble the ball up and down the court. Back and forth. The ball hitting my hand so hard it’s like being slapped.
For some reason, I start thinking about when I was a kid, like maybe seven or eight. Me and Joe, we got it in our heads that we had to — had to — go to Disneyland. We begged and begged. It looked so perfect on TV. All those happy kids. Sunshine. Mouse ears. The ads sent us into a kind of psychotic bliss. Please, please, please. I was thrilled when they finally said we could go. Those rides! The lights and colours and all that goddamn happiness! Then when we were there, it all fell apart. Joe got caught trying to steal a keychain from a kiosk. Dad lost his temper and shouted at Mum in the ticket line. She had a migraine. It rained so hard that the rain bounced back up from the hot dry ground. I had bad stomach cramps, but I didn’t want to tell anyone and then ended up having diarrhea in the bathroom behind the Pirates of the Caribbean ride. The lineups were killer. When we finally got to the front of the first line, Joe wouldn’t go on with me because he said I was a baby. So Mum and I went one way, Joe and Dad went another way. So much for happy families. The mouse ears were too expensive. Worse, the rides made me sick and dizzy. Turned out I had an ear infection, a fever, some kind of flu. But, you know what I mean? Disneyland looked so great. But really, it just made me throw up.
An owl out of nowhere hoots loudly, swoops low in front of me. So close I can see the pattern on its feathers. I saw a show once that said that owls are the only birds that fly without any sound at all. Totally silent. Like stealth birds. I believe it. This one, other than the hooting, is quiet as death. I shudder. Drop the ball and it rolls. I jog to pick it up. Through the falling-down fence in the distance, I see a girl approaching and then running by, wearing a long, flapping winter coat. She’s moving fast. So fast. In a flat-out sprint. Somehow she looks like that owl, all that brown, like feathers. Her hair, too, lifting in the wind. Her coat looks tattered but it’s not. It’s just the way it’s moving. She’s running hard; her feet are pounding the ground. Like she’s being chased, but when I look behind her, I can’t see anyone. She doesn’t seem to see me. She’s running with her head down.
I see that it’s Yale. Messy hair. Wild eyes, which I glimpse for only a second. Is she crying? Glass necklace bouncing up into her face, she reaches up and grabs it with her hand to stop it from moving.
She doesn’t see me.
I feel a pull of attraction to her that I think I’ve never felt before. Not actually for anyone. And when I say a “pull,” I mean it’s like a punch in the gut. What is that about? I can’t breathe.
It’s not that she’s pretty. It’s not like that. Michael and Stasia are pretty. It’s like suddenly I just fall. My stomach drops.
I dribble the ball.
I shoot some more baskets even though I’m just freezing. My heart’s beating hard, like maybe I’ve got that heart disease, that cardiac weakness, that causes athletes to suddenly drop dead on the playing field.
Am I going to drop dead?
My sweat is cold. Ice.
One, two, three. Ten more and then I’ll get going. Ten more and I’ll head home before it’s completely dark.
****
Michael
Chapter 9
Angene and Chelsea are making dinner, an exercise that for them involves adding too many foul-smelling vegetables to a pan of sizzling oil and shouting as much as possible. Michael can smell it from her room. The smell seeping into everything. Into her pores, it feels like. If she actually eats it, she’ll stink for days. Gross. Garlic and mung beans. She’ll make something else, she decides. A salad. Clean fresh vegetables, unfried. Baked chicken. Something okay. She’ll make some for Sully, too. He’d never say (well, obviously) but he doesn’t like the sisters’ choices either. She can tell. Probably it also drives him crazy the way they eat like animals, the grinding of their jaws chewing and the saliva sounds of swallowing. Thinking about it makes her feel sick. She’ll take Sully into the den and they’ll eat in front of the TV. No one will mind. They think it’s “sweet” how she dotes on Sully. She thinks that’s patronizing. She doesn’t “dote” on him. He’s her brother. She takes care of him. Which is more than she can say for the rest of the family. Her dad hiding in his beer can, fixated on the animals. Her mother so consumed by whatever project she’s working on (or that the sisters are working on) that she scarcely seems to notice Michael or
Sully for that matter.
It’s not fair. But what is?
Michael drops down onto her yoga mat without bothering with the cute clothes bought expressly for the purpose. Her clothes don’t need to breathe. She just needs to think. To really think.
The problem is that Tony hasn’t called. She can’t even try to meditate because all she is doing is obsessing. From the mat, she reaches for her cell phone and dials up Aurelia to talk about it. Or to try to get a word in edgewise. Two words in and Aurelia has already cut her off with a long gossipy story about Sam hooking up with some guy named Mitch from the track team, something about how he had bad skin and wasn’t it gross that Sam would make out with him? And she wasn’t even drunk.
“But,” Michael wants to say, “I want to talk about Tony.” But she doesn’t. She realizes right then and there, the phone curled in her hand like a weapon, that her “friend” isn’t listening. In fact, never really listens at all.
Sometimes, especially lately (like right now), Michael has felt such a stab of loneliness that she’s nearly doubled over from it. She can hardly stand the gossipy chatter. The who-said-what-to-who and why The Girls must now hate this person or that. It’s just not sitting right with her. She’s starting to feel like The Girls are almost — and it’s hard to define exactly — but sort of using Michael because she’s pretty, a bit like an accessory almost, to decorate the group. It’s starting to make her wonder if she really is the “leader,” or if that’s just something she imagined. It’s making her contemplate whether she really even cares.
It’s obvious, in fact, that The Girls — Aurelia in particular — are not actually liked. They’re just scarily, relentlessly bitchy. Is she, Michael, like that? Is she a bitch, too?
