Tangled

by Carolyn Mackler

  Munchie break was wrapping up. As Jason solicited a few kids to help him push the food table off to one side, Abby corralled the rest of us into a wide circle on the carpet. I leaned against the wall, my knees bent in front of me, and listened as she explained how, for this activity, we had to reveal something about ourselves that no one else knows.

  A girl raised her hand. She had freckles and bangs cut straight across. “No one here or no one at all?” she asked.

  “No one here, Cassandra,” Abby said.

  “But we’ve just met,” the girl said. “No one here knows anything about me.”

  Except that people don’t need a ruler when you’re around, I thought. We can just use your bangs.

  “Try to think of something interesting,” Abby said. “A little factoid.”

  “I’ll go first,” Jason said, squeezing in next to Abby. “I’m obsessed with table tennis.”

  “And I play intercollegiate field hockey,” Abby said.

  A guy to Abby’s left said, “I love to water-ski. I may compete later this summer.”

  What is it about sports? Even here, in this bastion of extreme geekdom, people still need to prove they’re all jocks deep down.

  Cassandra said how she liked to fence and the kid next to her told everyone he’s a vegetarian. And then, this small girl with reddish hair and glasses looked up for a moment. “I don’t wear underwear on Thursdays,” she said.

  Everyone stared at her. A few kids laughed, but Abby quickly shushed the room. “This is a safe space,” she said. “You can be whoever you want here.”

  When it was my turn, I said, “Pass.”

  Abby shook her head. “You have to say something.”

  “I did say something. I said ‘pass.’”

  Abby looked over at Jason. “Fair enough, dude,” Jason said, shrugging. But he said it in this stiff way, like he came from another planet and read in an instruction manual that guys on Earth call each other dude.

  When the confessions were over, Jason clapped his hands together. “So here’s the deal,” he said. “We’ll call out two names at a time. You’re going to pair off and initiate a casual conversation based on the facts that each of you just revealed.”

  Abby glanced at her clipboard and began reading names.

  Of course, I wound up with the girl who doesn’t wear underwear on Thursdays. We sat across from each other on the floor. She said “Hey” and I said “Hey” and then she began picking her fingernails. I glanced at her name tag. Hello, my name is Julia Nicholson. I can’t wait to be your friend! My palms were clammy and my tongue was heavy in my mouth. She wasn’t exactly cute. In fact, she bore a strong resemblance to a chipmunk. But she was wearing a skirt. And today was Thursday.

  Abby squatted down next to us. “Hey, you two. How’s it going?”

  “Fine,” we both said.

  “Julia,” Abby said, “did you ask Owen why he passed?”

  Julia bit her thumbnail.

  “Why’d you pass, Owen?” Abby asked me.

  I stared at her. What was her deal with me? I can’t stand the kind of people who think the best way to summon a shy kid out of his shell is to ask him lots of questions. She probably chucks small children into deep water to teach them how to swim. Man, she was going to be one terrific therapist.

  “Is it that you don’t want to be here?” Abby pressed.

  I shrugged. “Yeah, maybe.”

  “It’ll get easier.” Abby smiled at Julia and me. “By Saturday night you guys will be having the time of your lives.”

  Abby slapped me on the back so hard it made me cough, and then she ambled away. The problem is, once I start coughing I have a hard time stopping. I considered digging through my duffel for my inhaler. Always a fun moment, being the pale skinny guy with the inhaler.

  Finally, I got hold of myself, and just in time because Julia was looking at me funny, almost like she was about to perform mouth-to-mouth, which would not be good given her current underwear situation.

  “It’s just asthma,” I assured her. “I was born premature.”

  “Me too,” she said.

  The silence hung awkwardly between us, but where were we supposed to go from here? Compare notes on our neonatal intensive care experiences?

  Just then, Jason clapped his hands and announced that it was time to get our roommate assignments. He explained how we had an hour to bring our bags upstairs, relax, and get ready for dinner and the luau tonight.

  Cassandra’s hand shot into the air. “We’re having a luau?”

  “We decided on the theme at the last minute,” Abby said. “But don’t worry if you didn’t pack any Hawaiian gear. We’ll pass out flowered shirts, grass skirts, and leis after dinner.”

  I shuffled into line for my roommate card, silently cursing my mom for sending me to this place where it was acceptable to assume that some of us, by mere chance, brought along Hawaiian clothing. Because that’s just what real life is like, after all.

  I didn’t get the buzzing kid, which was no small relief. My roommate turned out to be the vegetarian. John something or other. Husky Asian guy. Friendly enough. We said hi to each other and then he got on his phone. Damn, I thought, watching him. I was stupid to use mine in front of Abby. I mean, it was printed all over the orientation material. No cell phones WHATSOEVER. Turn off your phone and be present. And my favorite: Don’t get trapped in the cell of your cell. I assumed they were referring to prison cells and not, like, mitochondria.

  After a few minutes, there was a knock on the door. John clicked off his phone and crossed the room. It was another guy from the seminar. All I knew about him was that he told everyone he once went to juvenile court for hacking into his school’s network.

  “What’s up?” the guy said, nodding at me.

  I was sitting on my bed, watching television and dealing a hand of solitaire. At least I’d thought to bring along my brother’s cards, which he’d left behind the last time he stayed over. “Not much.”

  “You have it?” John asked him.

  The other guy unzipped his hoodie and produced a slim laptop.

  “Contraband computer!” John declared, pushing an extra chair toward the heavy wooden desk.

  The two of them began playing a futuristic role-playing game where aliens are invading the planet. Max and Nigel, my friends from Alty, are really into that game, but I’m just not a sci-fi guy. Five minutes later, there was another knock. This time it was the water-ski kid. He cruised toward the computer and began playing, too.

  I watched them for a while. Where was I when they made this plan? We were all in the same conference room this afternoon. But, as usual, I was oblivious to the cliques forming. I can’t help but wonder how people pull it off. Like my brother. Our whole life, if our family went camping or to some police ball game that my dad was in, the second we got out of the car Dakota would hit the ground running with a pack of kids, leaving me stranded in the parking lot.

  I scooped together my cards, dropped them in my bag, and reached for the room key.

  “Where’re you going?” John asked, looking over. The other guys were staring at the screen.

  “Business center,” I said.

  “Proceed with caution, bro,” John said. “Those facilitators seem hardcore.”

  I closed the door and headed down the long hallway toward the elevators. When I got to the third floor, I walked completely in the wrong direction, of course, before following signs to the business center. I swiped my card to unlock the door. There was no one inside, just two dingy desktops and a printer with the red light flashing, jammed paper fanning out of every crevice. I settled into a swivel chair. As I entered the password for my blog, I immediately felt better. This was me, after all. This was home.

  I started Loser with a Laptop when I was thirteen, relatively new to Rochester, and didn’t have any friends yet. I wrote about missing my old bedroom and discovering which grocery stores gave free samples and how I lived in constant fear that my voice wo
uld crack. I’m sure it was boring drivel, but cathartic nonetheless. That’s why I keep writing, nearly every day. Usually I write about personal stuff. Like when my brother’s girlfriend was in a fatal car accident in February, I wrote a lot about that. Not that Natalie and I were best buddies, but it still shook me up. I’d never known anyone who died before, not even a grandparent.

  Every now and then I get visitors. Fellow bloggers from Akron or Dallas or even Europe, telling me to cheer up or keep on keeping on or whatever emotional vitamins people shove down your throat when they think you’re having a tough day. They’d usually comment for a week or two, all caring and I’m here for you, before vanishing into the blogosphere.

  But then, in late April, Miz J left her first comment. Pretty soon, she was visiting every day. She told me she was sixteen and from a town called Topeka, north of New York City. She’d post short comments, but they were really insightful, like she was actually taking the time to think about what I was writing.

  A few weeks later, Miz J asked if she could IM me. I gave her my screen name and we began chatting. She told me that her grandmother had just had a stroke and all these terrible feelings were pent up inside of her. I said I’d give her posting privileges if she wanted to blog. Later that night, she put up a post that was so heartbreaking, all about how her grandma had always encouraged her to love herself as she was, but she never really got it until now. After that, I said she could post anytime.

  I glanced through the window of the business center to make sure Jason or Abby weren’t anywhere nearby and then looked back at the screen. Sure enough, Miz J had posted a few hours ago.

  Butterflies and Dancing Stars: A Guest Blog

  from Miz J

  posted July 11 at 3:11 pm

  Since O-Boy is in exile (a shout-out to O-Boy—hope you’re surviving prison camp!!), I thought I’d do a random post to fill the time until he’s paroled. I don’t think I’ve mentioned this before, but I’m spending the summer working at a children’s museum. The woman I babysit for got me the internship. Four mornings a week, I take the train into Grand Central Station (all by myself!). I always stop at the same cart and get a sesame bagel. The Egyptian guy working there always says something about how if I lived in his country I’d have men falling at my feet. I smile and, for a moment, I feel all Cleopatra. (I am so not Cleopatra in the U.S. of A.)

  But that’s not what I wanted to write about. I wanted to write about the butterfly exhibit on the second floor of the museum. It’s these wooden monarchs clustered on the ceiling. They have ropes dangling down from them. When you pull a rope, the butterflies flap their wings. Sometimes, on a break, I lie under the butterflies. All around me toddlers are shrieking. But somehow, in spite of the madness, I feel a sense of peace. That’s the way life is, right? Chaos everywhere, but we need to keep focusing on those butterflies that keep us sane. Then again, as Nietzsche said, “You need chaos in your soul to give birth to a dancing star.” So maybe the chaos is good? After all, what girl doesn’t dream of one day pushing out a sharp, multipointed object?

  I was cracking up as I read Miz J’s post. She’s always funny in this self-deprecating way. Definitely my style. I went onto Instant Messenger and, sure enough, she was online.

  O-Boy: Cool post. Love the Nietzsche quote. Also, it made me think—do you know about the butterfly effect?

  Miz J: Hey, O-Boy!!! How’s the slammer? I thought you wouldn’t have a computer.

  O-Boy: Located one in the business center. Good until the wardens bust me. They’ve already confiscated my phone.

  Miz J: That bad?

  O-Boy: I have to go to a luau tonight.

  Miz J: Word. Have you considered a prison break?

  O-Boy: And go where exactly? I’m in a hotel in Syracuse.

  Miz J: Good point.

  O-Boy: But what? You’re being quiet.

  Miz J: I’m just thinking about this other quote. Want to hear it?

  O-Boy: Sure.

  Miz J: “Break the monotony. Do something strange and extravagant!” Ralph Waldo Emerson.

  O-Boy: And what does that have to do with my situation?

  Miz J: You could take a bus to NYC and hang out with me. You’d be back before your mom returns from Key West.

  O-Boy: And where would I stay?

  Miz J: You get here. I’ll figure out the rest.

  O-Boy: You’re joking, right?

  Miz J: I guess.

  Miz J: What? Now you’re being quiet.

  O-Boy: I’m just thinking…

  Miz J: What?

  O-Boy: Those butterflies sound cool.

  Miz J: ?

  Miz J: Oh, hold on! What were you gonna say about the butterfly effect?

  O-Boy: The butterfly effect = a massive upheaval created by a seemingly insignificant event, like how a butterfly flapping its wings in one part of the world can ultimately cause a tornado on the other side of the planet.

  Miz J: SO AWESOME. Where did you learn that?

  O-Boy: I work at a library. Oh, and I’m a dork.

  Miz J: Libraries = good. Dorks = even better. I think it’s true, by the way.

  O-Boy: What’s true?

  Miz J: How one little thing can set an entire chain of events in motion.

  O-Boy: Like how my blogging landed me at a luau in Syracuse?

  Miz J: Exactly. Don’t get lei’d, by the way!

  O-Boy: Ha.

  After we signed off, I wrote a quick post, all about the fascist facilitators and that girl who doesn’t wear underwear. But the whole time I was describing ReaLife to a Real Life, I was thinking about Miz J’s suggestion that I tunnel out of here and meet her in New York City. Even so, I didn’t mention anything about it in my post. Maybe because I was worried she’d read it and laugh at me for taking her invitation the slightest bit seriously. Or maybe because if she commented back and said please come, there’s a good chance I’d jump on a bus.

  three

  The luau took place in the same conference room we’d been in all day, except now there was a pineapple on either end of the long table. Caramel popcorn was swelling out of beach pails. And someone had positioned an inflatable tiki pole next to fake palm trees. Jason’s iPod, plugged into speakers, was blasting ancient songs like “Hot Hot Hot.”

  To add to the humiliation of simply being here, I had to wear a yellow plastic lei. There was a sign on the door that read HAWAIIAN GARB MANDATORY—GET SWEPT AWAY BY THE TROPICAL SPIRIT. A few of the girls had grass skirts over their jeans and my roommate, John, was wearing a flowered shirt. Jason had offered Hawaiian shirts to all the guys, but John was the only taker. He also had about six leis around his neck and he was walking around saying “Aloha” to everyone as he slurped a virgin Mai Tai through a purple straw.

  Abby was wearing a sheer tank top and a coconut-shell contraption over her breasts. When I first saw her, my legs went shaky. And then she, of all people, had to stroll over to me and slip on my lei. As her fingers grazed my neck, I forced myself to do geometry equations in my head. The Pythagorean theorem is the best way for me to, well, reverse the boner effect. But even as Abby toted her armful of leis to the next person and I discreetly positioned my lower half behind a table, Pythagoras wasn’t pulling through. Finally, after calculating the circumference of three circles, I was back to normal.

  “Hot Hot Hot” segued into “…Baby, One More Time.” Once that finally ended, Jason paused the iPod and clapped his hands. “Hey, everyone!” he shouted. “Looks like we could use a little something to lube the conversation.”

  Lube the conversation? This guy was definitely not from Earth.

  Abby sidled up to him. “My name isn’t Abby anymore,” she said. “It’s Api. That’s the Hawaiian translation.”

  “And I’m Iakona,” Jason said.

  “We looked up the Hawaiian translations of all your names,” Abby said. “Are you guys ready?”

  There were a few meager uh-huhs, but mostly no one said anything. I had to wonder whether e
veryone else thought this whole thing was pathetic. How could they not? Then again, some kids had actually been dancing just now.

  Abby glanced at her clipboard and began reading names, pointing to each victim as she went along. Cassandra was “Kakanakala.” Julie was “Kuli.” Every time Abby announced a name, all the kids stared at that person. I swept my tongue over my retainer, flush against the roof of my mouth. Even here, where I didn’t really care what anyone thought of me, I still detested the idea of a public gaping.

  “Owen,” Abby said upon arriving at me, “is Owena.”

  People looked over at me, laughing. Like, Ha, ha, now the skinny shy kid has a girl’s name, so funny. I could feel my cheeks growing hot. I composed a mental text message to my mom, cursing her for sending me here. Seriously, is this what she calls enhancing my social life?

  When Abby was done with the names, Jason said, “Limbo contest in ten minutes. Participation is mandatory.”

  He started up the music again. People meandered back to the food table. And I stood there in my yellow lei, fending off this strong sense that if I didn’t escape right now, there was no hope for me ever again.

  I edged out of the conference room before Jason or Abby could grab my arm and give me a lecture about mandatory fun. I hurried down the carpeted hallway and took the elevator to the third floor. There were two middle-aged men on the computers. One was checking stocks. The other was cruising profiles of single women. I noticed he had a wedding band on his left hand. Jerk, I thought, watching him. I wish I could find a way to email his wife and tell her what her husband really does on his business trips.

  As he stood up from the computer, I shot him a poisonous glare which, judging from his boneheaded expression, he totally didn’t notice. Then I sat down, logged onto my blog, and began writing.

  From ReaLife to a Real Life to a REAL LIFE

  posted July 11 at 8:37 pm

  A few hours ago, a girl invited me to escape to New York City. She even quoted Ralph Waldo Emerson. I’ve never met this girl in person, but she’s read my blog so she knows more about me than anyone probably should. When she suggested the great escape—something along the lines of “stop your stupid monotony and do something cool for once” (I’m paraphrasing, sorry Ralph)—I was like, “No way could I run away from this hotel, locate a bus, and ride it halfway across the state.” For one, I’m officially signed into ReaLife to a Real Life and I’m not a rule-breaking kind of guy. Like, what if they called my mom and told her I was gone? I’d be on house arrest until college, if not grad school. Also, couldn’t this girl have suggested Binghamton or Albany? I’ve been to NYC once, when I was nine, and it was the noisiest, most crowded, and—I’ll admit it—scariest place in the world. Even my dad, who as you all know can split wood with his bare hands, kept grumbling about how he should have brought his pistol.