by Karen Rivers
“Ugh.” I rolled my eyes. “Why waste our time on them?”
“You don’t really think ‘ugh,’” she said. She gave me a look, eyes half shut, a look that meant she thought she knew me better than I knew myself.
I glowered back. “The No-Boyfriend Rule.”
She shrugged. “You’re right—it’s better—just me and you. I love you, Sloaney.”
“Just me and you,” I echoed, but the sun and the alcohol and the sound of the waves lapping at the shore were pulling me into a daydream and I stopped listening. I don’t really hear what she was telling me. I didn’t understand until it was too late.
* * *
The art show was when everything changed. Maybe it was changing before that, but so gradually it was hard to really pinpoint.
I didn’t even know it had changed until afterward, but by then, it was done.
If I had known what she was going to do, would I have done anything different?
We arrived early so I could set up my video installation at the end of the corridor, in a dark alcove. In the gym, white walls had been erected, creating a corridor of art. Soup Sanchez’s paintings filled one whole wall of the art room: all vibrant colors, spray paint, and Sharpie. The canvases glowed with energy and accolades. The smell of them made me dizzy. They were like something you could fall into, bottomless illusions. Oh my God, I love him, I realized.
I had lied to Piper about the No-Boyfriend Rule.
I had time for boys. I had time for Soup Sanchez.
I felt light-headed.
I’d always had a crush on him, but somehow seeing his paintings that night, something was different. Something changed.
My heart raced. I realized that I might be in love with him.
Real love.
But what is love?
I tried to calm down, to remind myself that love is a chemical reaction.
Dopamine.
Serotonin.
“Hey, I didn’t know Soup did art like this,” Piper whispered. Her breath smelled like coffee and stale alcohol from yesterday. “He’s talented, like whoa.”
“He’s always been super talented. Have some gum, your breath stinks.”
I felt weirdly like crying. Or maybe it was Sharpie fumes that were making the room spin. The wall made my heart go quiet. My brain felt shivery and metallic.
“You should go for him,” Piper said, like she was reading my mind. “He’s basically your dream boy. Besides, he’s cute. When did Soup Sanchez get cute?” She snapped her gum.
“Remember the pact. Boy-free for you and me.”
She rolled her eyes. “You should embroider that on something,” she said. “Throw cushion. Ironic T-shirt.”
“Tattoo,” I said. “That would be cooler. And, as you know, I’m the coolest.”
She laughed.
I don’t know why I didn’t tell her. I’d told her literally everything for our entire lives. Like when I got my first period on the bus and left a huge bloody mark on the seat and an old lady yelled at me when I stood up and everyone knew and I thought I’d die from embarrassment. Like the time when I had to pee in third grade but ran to the toilet so late and accidentally peed on my math textbook, which I’d dropped on the floor.
But I’d never told her that I had a crush on Soup. I didn’t want her to laugh at me. When it started, it felt embarrassing. But when I started to feel more, I just couldn’t. It was good to have a secret from her.
Soup Sanchez was my secret.
In fourth grade, Soup and I built a liver out of clay together, molding veins and arteries, painting the whole thing an unappetizing brown. At his house, after school, the first time I’d ever been alone with a boy, I knew, I just knew that one day, me and Soup Sanchez, we’d be something. There was almost a light in the air around us while we worked. I knew then. It was a thing that I was so sure of, but I also knew I wasn’t ready yet.
I thought about how to tell her, right then and there. To get it over with. “I do think he is … pretty great.”
“Oh my God, you like him! Sloane and Soup, sittin’ in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G. Why didn’t you ever tell me? You’re blushing! I thought you didn’t have a crush. I thought you said crushes were lame.”
“Are you twelve?” I hissed. “He’ll hear you!”
“We’re best friends! You didn’t tell me! You’ve been holding out!” She mock punched my arm, a bit too hard. “I have to know everything about you, always. That’s our deal.”
“Don’t be crazy.” I frowned. “Love is a chemical reaction. Crushes are the result of biology and boredom. That’s what you always say! Boy-free! Et cetera!”
“That’s not the point!” She paused, making a dramatic gesture with her arms. “The point is now Soup Sanchez!”
“Shut up!” I hissed. He was around somewhere, I wasn’t sure where. I half expected to turn around and see him standing behind me. “I don’t have a ‘crush’ on him! You’re making me feel dumb! Soup doesn’t matter! I totally do not like him like him! I think he’s fine. He’s cute. But he’s not my type. He’s not!” I was protesting too much. She was turning it into a joke and I couldn’t handle it. I didn’t want her to turn this feeling I was having into something cheap and stupid, embarrassing and awkward. I wanted to crawl out of my own skin. I stared at her. I wanted to turn my back on her and walk away. Instead, I put my arm around her shoulders.
“Enough,” I said. I faked a laugh. I played with her hair until I felt her relax again.
I didn’t need Soup.
I had Piper.
We had each other.
We were going to the year-end dance together next week in toothpaste-green circa 1987 prom dresses we found at the thrift store that still stank of ozone-depleting hair spray. Mine had a stain on the bodice, lipstick or a pink drink that someone probably regretted. Hers had a broken zipper that needed to be repaired.
But they were perfect.
We were perfect.
I grabbed her hand. “We don’t need no stinkin’ boys,” I said. “Right?”
“Right,” she agreed. She smiled at me. “Meow.”
We walked a few steps like that, holding hands. We were both wearing denim shorts with white tank tops, plaid shirts tied around our waists, our long blond hair pulled shimmering straight with her straightening iron.
“Actually, I’m forgetting why it matters,” she mused. “Why does it matter?”
“What? About boyfriends?” I shrugged. “We’re better than that, that’s all.”
She pulled her hand away and twisted around, an expression on her face that I couldn’t read. “Don’t you ever get sick of always taking yourself so seriously?” Then she was gone, pushing through the crowd, disappearing down the hallway, out of sight.
Piper did that sometimes. She ran. I was used to it.
“I was kidding!” I yelled after her. “Sort of? It was your idea in the first place!”
I took out my camera and filmed slowly across the display of Soup’s art, silently: a painting of a cola can hurtling through space, leaving a trail of sparks and feathers. A teetering pile of cars, a tiny house balanced on the top. A dog and cat sitting next to each other, between them a fish flopping in a puddle. A family portrait of him and his mom, an empty chair between them with a guitar and a cobweb, which housed a dead fly with tiny shimmering wings. I saved it. I’d look at it later, when I could be alone, when I could really see what Soup Sanchez was trying to say.
* * *
For the show, I’d made a video called “High School 2.0.” It was mostly a sped-up clip of people walking between classes, in and out of the front doors, and then it slowed down to slow motion as kids texted on their phones. It had no voice-over, only classical music that Mr. Aberley helped me pick out. He has a huge music collection. Hundreds of records and CDs. My video was meant to be an ironic statement about how we’re all the same, going through the motions, thinking we’re different when we aren’t, and haven’t ever been. I’m not sure it r
eally worked, but it was trying to be something. The whole thing had a layer of sounds from a chicken farm over the top, the endless clucking, the squawks of pain. I’d worked on it for weeks. Afterward, my dad said it was awesome, and Mom said, “Sometimes you worry me a little, but I love it.” They were trying. My parents are like that: people who try really hard to be good parents. But I could tell they didn’t get it. Piper is the only one who would have understood it, but she didn’t even see it.
“In case it’s not obvious, I’m mad,” I said the next morning, when I finally found Piper in the hallway at her locker.
“Sorry,” she said, not looking at all sorry. She was smiling, her hands fluttering to her hair and back to her books. “I’m totally sorry. I love you. I don’t know what happened! I sort of lost it.”
“I love you, too. But you hurt my feelings! I needed you to see it! Why did you leave? Why do you look so happy? I’m mad!”
She kept smiling coyly; something was weird about it. “I can’t tell you.”
“Try.” I was annoyed. “Please.”
“Okay, okay, okay, I have to tell you! I can’t wait to tell you, actually! I’ll tell you at lunch. Meet me at the Vee?”
I nodded as the bell sounded. “Meet you at the Vee,” I echoed.
* * *
The Vee was a pie-shaped parking lot behind the 7-Eleven where we regularly went to buy snacks during our spare periods. It was about three blocks from school. Usually we walked over together, but that day, I looked everywhere and I couldn’t find her in the usual spots. I walked alone. She was already there when I got there, sitting on the low wall that separated the parking lot from a small stretch of scrubby grass and trees. We called it the Park, because it was the opposite of a park, littered with broken glass and empty chip bags. It was a scraggly mess.
“Why didn’t you wait?” I was mad. She must have been able to tell.
“I just flew! I feel like I can’t keep my feet on the ground!”
“What the what? Why are you talking like the Good Witch from the school musical? What aren’t you telling me?” I dropped to my knees and pretended to sob, to play along, because she was Piper and my best friend and that’s what best friends do. “Is it drugs? TELL ME.”
“Get up,” she said. She was looking at me strangely. “Don’t be weird.”
“I was kidding around!” I felt misunderstood. “What is wrong with you?”
She looked down, bit her lip. I got up and sat next to her on the wall, putting my hand on a piece of chewed gum. “Oh, man, gross,” I said. She looked up at me from under her lashes with a strange look on her face. Her lashes were fluttering. It was like her whole being was fluttering.
“You’re officially freaking me out,” I said. “Are you having a seizure?”
She shook her head, tossing her hair. “I want to tell you … I mean, I have to talk to you. I want you to be the first to know. This is sooo hard to say.” I stared at her mouth. She flipped her hair behind her and I got a waft of apple-scented shampoo, her favorite coconut body spray. Her tongue kept darting out between her small, square teeth and tapping her lip. It was making me furious. I wanted to tell her so badly how irritating it was, but I didn’t know why. It made me think of lizards and sex, in that order.
“I’m still mad,” I said finally. “No matter what you say by way of apology. That was really crummy. I wanted you to see it.”
She looked like she was trying to look downcast, but her smile kept breaking through. “Oh, your little film? Yeah, I am sorry, tweetie, but it’s not that. It’s so much bigger. You’re going to forget about your movie when you hear.”
I blinked at her, trying to decide which part of this I should address first. The use of the dreaded old nickname she had for me, “tweetie”? My little film? Or should I be a real friend and let her tell me, overlooking the other stuff?
“Spill it.” I sighed. “Did you lose your V to that kid from One Direction? Should I call the tabloids? Is there something on your lip?”
“It’s so much more than that…” She was whispering now. “You were kidding yesterday about how you have a crush on Soup, right? You said you were kidding?”
“What?” I had to lean my long blond hair toward hers so I could hear her better.
“Me and Soup Sanchez,” she says. “Last night. When I left the show, I bumped into him. And we started talking. Really talking. Like you and I used to talk, you know? I mean, it’s a thing. We talked all night. We’re a thing. Me and Soup. I can’t explain it. It just happened. Like kismet.”
“What? Kismet?” I said. I felt like she’d punched me so hard in the gut that my breath wouldn’t fill my lungs. I must have looked like a fish, mouth open and gasping, just for a second. “When? What?” And then, “When? Kismet?”
“You keep saying that! You should see your face!” She laughed. “I’m sorry. You’re mad. I’m breaking the No-Boyfriend Rule and I’m sorry, but that was always sort of a joke, right? For me! Not for you. I know you mean it. I know it’s important to you. I totally respect that. You should see your face! You look so weird! Please don’t be weird about this.” She grabbed my hands and pulled me to my feet. She twirled me around.
A car pulled into the parking spot and honked. “Idiots!” a guy yelled. I stumbled, almost falling into the brick wall.
“I’m in love!” Piper shouted. “The rules no longer apply!”
“That hurt,” I said, rubbing my shoulder. “God, I think you made a bruise.”
The thing with Piper is that she goes too far; she doesn’t know when to stop. She never knows when to stop. My heart was skipping beats all over the place. I was dizzy. I took in a slow breath and then another. And another. See something, hear something, touch something, smell something. Do something. “Keep it together,” I whispered to myself. Piper play-punched me in the shoulder where I’d hit the wall, right on the bruise. She was giddy, I could see it.
She was happy.
I wanted to hit her back. I wanted to run.
I won’t panic, I told myself. I’m not panicking.
But I was panicking. My hands were shaking. Adrenaline overload.
I remember once watching a documentary about the earthquake belt that the island rests on. It showed in slow motion what would happen if the plates slipped, the way the whole island would be thrust not down into the sea but upward at a terrifying trajectory, before splitting open “like a zipper.” That’s what the narrator said: “Like a zipper.”
Piper had split me open like a zipper.
My secret crush.
But I told her.
The tectonic plates of our relationship shifted, right then, at that exact second. I was thrust up toward the sky before falling back down again, shattered into a million pieces.
“Okay,” I made myself say. My voice sounded tinny and strange to my ears. “Yay, you! You have a boyfriend. I’m so happy for you.” My voice crackled on “happy” like a car that was driven into a tunnel, interfering with the radio.
I would be a good friend to her, no matter what. I promised myself. We would always put each other before boys.
I didn’t want a boyfriend anyway.
Boys get in the way.
Boys put their own needs first.
Boys want you to put them first, too.
Boys change everything, and I didn’t want anything to change.
Not yet.
“Thanks.” She sighed and tipped her head onto my shoulder; the familiar smell of her filled me up. “I knew you’d understand.”
I nodded. I wasn’t crying. Not very hard. Not so much that she’d notice. If she looked, I’d say it was just rain on my cheeks.
We live in the Pacific Northwest. It rains so much here that it’s literally a rain forest. The rain will come back. It always does.
But right then, there was just the sun: too bright, too hot, too everything, stinging my eyes, burning my heart.
* * *
After that, everything is just a bit
harder, like I only fit into myself awkwardly, the wrong size and shape.
Instead of dressing in mint green, going to Piper’s, helping each other style our hair, on the day of the dance, I go to Mr. Aberley’s.
Piper and Soup are together now. Soup and Piper. Piper and Soup. It’s the shadow behind everything I say and do. It’s the bitter taste in my mouth.
I try to convince myself it doesn’t matter. Sometimes it works better than others. The dance, the last event of junior year, it’s a harder day than the others, which blend together and disappear behind us more easily.
There are two houses on this bay, ours and his. His is huge and old and he’s lived in it since he was a kid. I like looking at the photos that line the hallway of him as a baby and a little boy on the beach out front. There’s a thing about beaches that I love: how they never change, how history seems to pass through them. Beaches remain the same; only winter storms rearrange their furniture. Nothing is built there, nothing grows, nothing changes.
Mr. Aberley was married on the front lawn of his house, which unspools down to the water in slow, undulating lawn-covered hills. He raised his kids there: their rooms upstairs still have posters and kid stuff littering them; he leaves everything as it was in case they come back, which they won’t. He lives there alone. His wife left him forever ago. His children won’t forgive him for being gay. Love messes everything up, he’s living proof. He seems happy, though. Happy-ish. He has a boyfriend named Jean Paul who is French and seventy-five and likes to mumble French swears under his breath when I appear. Jean Paul isn’t visiting today, his Mercedes missing from the driveway, and I am relieved. Some people are easy to make small talk with. Other people are Jean Paul.
I knock on the door, but there is no answer. I know he doesn’t hear well, so I open it up and shout, “MR. ABERLEY! IT’S ME!”
“Well, well, well!” he says, emerging into the front hall from one of the many doors that I’ve never been behind. I try to catch a glimpse of the room behind him, but he’s fast for an old guy; the door snaps shut briskly. “Ms. Sloane,” he says. “To what do I owe the pleasure? And where is your other half?”
“Ha ha,” I say. “She’s busy. Just me today. Sorry.”
