Guyaholic

by Carolyn Mackler

  “We have the name of a wonderful therapist,” my grandma says. “Her name is Alana. She’s in Fairport, but it sounds like she’s worth the drive.”

  “We talked with her yesterday,” my grandpa adds, “told her a little about your situation. She’s expecting to hear from you soon.”

  I spring to my feet. “What?”

  “We said you’d call her this weekend or early next week,” my grandma says.

  “But I don’t want to see a therapist. I know you think that’d be good for me, but I —”

  “We saw,” my grandpa says.

  My grandma nods solemnly.

  What are they talking about? They saw the condom stash in the back of my makeup drawer? They installed a microscopic camera in my brain and saw me with Amos at that party?

  My grandpa sighs heavily and then explains how on Tuesday afternoon he drove home to see if I wanted to have lunch, but he couldn’t find me anywhere so he came up to my room and saw me sleeping and there was that i hate myself written on my hand. They were planning to address it with me that night, but by the time they got home, I’d washed it off and they didn’t want it to seem like they were invading my privacy, but since I’m refusing to consider therapy, they feel they must express their concerns.

  “I’ve got to get out of here,” I say, grabbing my phone and storming out the door.

  My immediate reaction is to call Sam. That’s what I think as I sink into an Adirondack chair in the backyard. Of course, that’s out of the question, so I consider trying Chastity, but then I remember that she and Trinity are on a plane to Daytona Beach for a monthlong volleyball program.

  I hug my thighs to my chest. Things are seriously sucking right now. At this point I just want my old self back. It’s not like everything was perfect before I met Sam, but I wasn’t this miserable, either.

  I open my phone and dial Amos. We didn’t have the smoothest good-bye at that party, but I have a feeling he won’t mind hearing from me.

  “Hello?”

  “Amos . . . it’s V.”

  “What’s up, V? It’s Henry.”

  “Henry?”

  “Amos’s brother.”

  “Oh,” I say, remembering that time in March when Amos and I were fooling around in his bedroom and his brother kept inventing reasons to knock on the door until Amos threatened to beat the shit out of him if he didn’t stay away. He was younger, like ninth grade, and hadn’t yet learned that if you stare unblinkingly at a girl’s boobs, you look like a pervert.

  “What’s up?” Henry asks.

  “Didn’t I call Amos’s phone?”

  “Yeah . . . but he’s camping, so he loaned it to me.”

  “When’s he getting back?”

  “You’re the girl who got hit by the hockey puck, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s sexy.”

  “Sexy?”

  “All that blood and —”

  “When’s Amos getting back?”

  “Next week.” Henry says. “But I’m —”

  “Okay,” I say. “Well, thanks.”

  “Now that I have your number, can I —”

  “Bye!” I shout, quickly pressing the end button.

  After I hang up, I scroll through my phone book until I find Brandon Parker. He’s that guy I smoked up with at school last spring. We haven’t talked since then because while I got suspended, he got expelled. It wasn’t the first time he’d been caught, not to mention he was one of the major suppliers of drugs to the youth of western New York.

  Brandon’s mom answers the phone. When I ask for him, she says, “Didn’t you know?”

  “Know what?” I ask. I’m imagining prison or rehab.

  “Brandon joined the army. He’s in the Middle East. Would you like a yellow ribbon?”

  “A yellow ribbon?”

  “To show support for Brandon. Or a pin with his picture on it? Whatever you want. Just tell me where you live, and I’ll drop everything off in an hour.”

  I have to say yes. I have to give her my address. When her minivan pulls into our driveway, I have to hug her and make a big display of stroking the yellow ribbon and pinning Brandon’s face on my chest.

  As soon as she’s gone, I chuck everything into the kitchen trash, right on top of a coffee filter. But then I start worrying about karma and how mine is already in the negative numbers, so I dig out the pin, rinse off the coffee grounds, and vow to wear it on my shirt for the rest of the day.

  “Who’s that soldier?” the new dishwasher asks as he stabs an oily finger toward my boob. His name is Russell, and he’s been checking me out since he started here in May.

  It’s Sunday evening. We’ve just gotten through the dinner rush, and I’m leaning against the door to the freezer, chugging watery fountain soda.

  Tonight has sucked so far. A pack of preteens dominated my section, sending back their pizzas, unscrewing the Parmesan shakers, and stiffing me on a tip. Not to mention that my phone kept vibrating in my pocket and I kept leaping for it, but it always said AMOS, which meant it was Henry, wanting to talk dirty about blood.

  “That soldier isn’t her boyfriend,” says a server named Linda. She’s a single mom in her forties, and we’ve gotten pretty friendly with each other. “V’s with that tall guy. Haven’t you seen them together?”

  “We’re not together,” I say. “I mean, we weren’t together. But it doesn’t matter. It’s over.”

  “You and Sam?” Linda asks, her face all concerned.

  “So you’re with that solider now?” Russell asks.

  “Not him, either.” I dump my cup into the sink and head into the dining room.

  A few minutes later, as I’m reciting the pan-pizza special to a middle-aged couple, I glance out the window and spot Sam cycling toward West Avenue. This time it’s definitely him. I recognize the slope of his shoulders and that navy-blue shirt I once snuck out of his room and wore to bed every night for a week.

  The man asks me which five toppings he can add to the special pizza. I’m so disturbed I repeat green peppers twice and completely blank on sausage and mushrooms.

  As I stumble into the kitchen, Linda touches my arm. “You okay?” she asks. “You look pale.”

  I shake my head and say I’m fine, but Linda insists on bringing them their raspberry iced teas so I can pull myself together.

  As soon as she’s gone, Russell tosses a congealed slice of pepperoni into his mouth. “Want to go to the parking lot for a smoke break?”

  Russell has a graveyard of crooked teeth and no apparent chin. Normally, I would blow him off, but I could use the distraction right now. I set down my pad and follow him outside.

  It’s a humid night, still dusky even though it’s almost nine. There’s a couple making out in a junky car on the other side of the parking lot. They’re seriously going at it, groping hands, steamy windows, the occasional flash of flabby skin.

  “Want one?” Russell asks, shaking a cigarette out of a pack and handing it to me.

  “Thanks,” I say, leaning into him as he holds up a lighter.

  As Russell sucks his cigarette and blabbers about the Zen of scrubbing pizza pans, I stare at West Avenue and wonder where Sam was going on his bike and whether he saw my car as he pedaled past Pizza Hut.

  “What happened to your knee?” Russell asks, blowing smoke out of the corner of his mouth.

  I glance down at my black pants. “My knee?”

  “I saw that scab. You were wearing a skirt when you came in . . . before you changed.”

  “Oh,” I say. “I tripped.”

  Russell grins. “You sure it didn’t have anything to do with your soldier?”

  “I really tripped,” I say. “Fuck you, by the way.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  I look out at West Avenue again. I wonder if Sam is going to be cycling back anytime soon. Holy shit! What if he loops around and sees me smoking with Russell in the parking lot?

  I drop my cigarette onto the
concrete. “I better go check my tables.”

  “That’s cool,” Russell says. “We should do this again.”

  As I turn to head inside, he swats my butt with his greasy fingers.

  Great.

  So now I’ve got Russell’s pepperoni on my ass. I’ve got Brandon’s face on my chest. I’ve got Amos’s brother sitting on his redial button. I’ve got a disgusting scab on my knee. I’ve got a therapist waiting for my call. And I still can’t forget. And Sam is still everywhere.

  On Monday afternoon I drive to Wegmans to buy pasta-salad ingredients. Today is July fourth. When I was growing up, Aimee used to make pasta salad every summer, with broccoli and olives and Good Seasons dressing. I’m not a culinary goddess by any stretch of the imagination. Actually, my idea of cooking doesn’t involve a stove, boiling water, or anything that has to be chopped, but my grandparents were hovering around the house all day, trying to convince me that therapy is what I need. Finally, I announced my mission to make pasta salad.

  As I’m pulling into the parking lot, I dial Aimee. Whenever I call her, a little part of me is nervous that her phone will be disconnected. Every time she moves, she trades in her old number and gets one with the current area code. But if she doesn’t call me with the new information, I actually have no way of getting in touch with her, other than e-mail, which she rarely checks. That’s how it was for five days last fall, when Aimee moved to the Georgia coast.

  “This is Aimee Valentine,” Aimee’s voice says. “Leave me a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

  I tell Aimee’s voice mail that I’m making pasta salad and I need to double-check the recipe. Then I lock my car, push my sunglasses onto my nose, and head into Wegmans.

  I forgot to grab a cart, so I’m cradling a box of noodles, the salad-dressing packet, and a can of olives. Then I cruise over to produce, where I stare at the vegetable displays. I know I need broccoli, but I’m blanking on the other ingredients. Celery? Onions? I wish Aimee would call me back already.

  “Hey, V.”

  I spin around and I’m face-to-face with Rachel Almond. I’m so freaked out, I drop the olives.

  Rachel and I watch the can roll toward the onions and garlic, and then stare up at each other. My cheeks flush when I remember the last time I saw her. She looks embarrassed, too. She crooks her head to one side, stubs her sandal against the floor, and says, “So . . . what’s up?”

  I glance into her basket, filled with bottles of Gatorade, energy bars, and two containers of strawberries. On her left wrist, she has a temp tattoo that says LOVELY surrounded by a rainbow and a sprinkling of hearts.

  Rachel gestures toward her groceries. “We’re about to take the kayaks on the canal . . . going down to my uncle’s in Spencerport.”

  “You and Sam?” I ask.

  As soon as I say that, I feel all sweaty and anxious, like I have to pee and I’m going to cry and I want to run except my feet are stuck in place. Rachel’s mouth is doing this twitchy thing, which I instantly interpret as Sam is actually on his way over here right now, which sends me into an instant panic because I’ve been “seeing” Sam everywhere this past week, but I still haven’t figured out what I’d say if I actually saw him.

  All of a sudden, I understand why Aimee ditches town, state, and time zone after a breakup. She, unlike me, knows that to hang around will inevitably lead to messy encounters, and, honestly, that’s the last thing you want when you go to the grocery store to buy ingredients for pasta salad.

  After a long pause, Rachel says, “No . . . just me and my mom. She’s on this agonizing kick to improve our mother-daughter relationship.”

  “Oh,” I say, rubbing my nose and staring at the ground.

  Rachel shifts her weight from one foot to the other. Then she reaches down, picks up the can of olives, and hands it to me.

  “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this,” she says, “but Sam is in California. He left on Friday morning.”

  “What?”

  “He found a last-minute house share, and I think he has an interview lined up at a bakery.”

  “But I thought . . .”

  “I don’t know, V. You know about my history with the hockey boys, so I’m hardly in a position to judge. But I can’t believe you did that to Sam. You guys were more than that. After that . . . after that night . . . I don’t think I’ve ever seen my brother so wrecked. He said it was too hard to be in Brockport after you . . . after you . . .”

  I can feel the tears coming. I mumble that I have to go, and then I rush past the bananas, past the Chinese food buffet, past the piles of corn. Once I hit the parking lot, I realize I’m still clutching my groceries. I set everything onto a curb, hoping one of those pimply guys who collects the shopping carts will bring it all back inside.

  Then I just stand there, squinting because it’s so bright and I can’t find my sunglasses and my hands are too slick to grip my keys and I can’t even remember where I parked my car.

  I sink onto the curb, lower my head between my knees, and cry. For the past week, Sam has been everywhere in Brockport. But he’s not here. And I didn’t even know. And it’s really over.

  I’m just unlocking my car when my phone rings. I reach down and grab it out of my bag. aimee.

  “Hello?” I ask as I unlock the door and slide onto the scalding hot seat.

  “Spiral noodles, of course, and that yummy salad-dressing mix, steamed broccoli, olives, minced red onion, and a bell pepper. Oh, and don’t forget the Parmesan.”

  I wipe my eyes with my hand.

  “Everything okay?” Aimee asks.

  I start crying all over again.

  “What’s going on, baby?”

  I fish a crumpled paper towel off the floor and blow my nose. “You remember Sam, right?”

  “The guy who caught you after the hockey puck.”

  “Well, I screwed everything up with him and I just ran into his sister and I’m a horrible person and . . .” I lapse into another round of tears.

  “Maybe Sam wasn’t right for you,” Aimee says. “Besides, you’re going to college in a few months, so why get too invested in anything at this point?”

  “Grandma and Grandpa are threatening to send me to therapy,” I say, sniffling.

  Aimee groans.

  “What?” I ask.

  “They wanted to send me, too.”

  “When?”

  “When I told them I was dropping out of college and moving to Colorado to become a ski instructor.”

  “That’s where you . . .”

  “Exactly,” Aimee says. “Where I met the Sperm Donor.”

  Aimee rarely talks about my father, and when she does, she just calls him the Sperm Donor. I’ve learned over the years that his name is Brian. He played guitar, smoked a lot of weed, and lived on the slopes. Aimee has hinted that he never knew about me because by the time her pregnancy was showing, she’d moved to a vineyard in northern California.

  “I’m not saying if I’d gone to therapy, I wouldn’t have had you,” Aimee says.

  “But maybe, right?”

  “Basically,” Aimee concludes, “it’s better I didn’t go.”

  I can feel myself choking up. I’ve never deluded myself into thinking I was a planned teenage pregnancy, but it’s nice to know I’m not altogether unwanted.

  “You should come to Texas,” Aimee says. “Have you thought any more about that?”

  “That’d really be okay?”

  “Are you kidding? Steve and I can show you around San Antonio. You’d love it. Everyone calls each other ya’ll out here.”

  “How would I get there?”

  “You could fly,” Aimee says. “Steve and I are saving for a house, so money’s tight around here. Want me to talk to Grandpa about getting your ticket?”

  I consider this for a moment. I can just hear them saying, Think about how Aimee always lets you down, V. Wouldn’t the money be better spent talking to a therapist? Besides, I’ve got my Pizza H
ut savings and that cash from the theater award at graduation, so I could probably scrape together enough for a plane ticket.

  “Let me think about it,” I say.

  “Sure . . . but you say the word and I’ll call Grandpa.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I actually have to run,” Aimee says. “You wouldn’t believe it, but I’m just boiling noodles for my pasta salad.”

  “Okay . . . well, thanks for talking.”

  “Anytime,” Aimee says.

  After we hang up, I get this aching feeling inside as I think about how much I’d like to be eating pasta salad with my mom today.

  Maybe I’ll drive to Texas.

  That’s what I think on my way home from Wegmans. Well, not home. My grandparents’ house. That’s what I’m thinking about, too. Ever since last summer, I started calling this place home. But it’s really not. It’s where I’ve been crashing because I haven’t had any other place to go. But now Aimee has invited me to San Antonio. That’s not home, either. But maybe I’m one of those people who shouldn’t attempt the whole home thing in the first place.

  Look what it’s done to me in Brockport. I grew way too comfortable here, way too soft. A few years ago, I never would have gotten so caught up in one guy. But now I’m this sobbing wreck, and even though Sam’s no longer here, everything in Brockport reminds me of him.

  I need to get out of town.

  I guess I could fly to Texas. I’m sure that’s what my grandparents would want me to do. But if I’m going to use my money for this trip, I should do it my way, right? Not their way, all pampered and protected like some delicate princess.

  Honestly, I don’t even deserve to be pampered. What I deserve is to be driving through the middle of nowhere, surrounded by cornfields or cabbage fields or whatever they have between here and Texas. I deserve to sleep in roadside motels where no one attempts to hug me good night. I deserve to speed along interstates and have no one know whether or not I’m safe. And if something awful does happen, I don’t want anyone around to make it better.

  That, at least, will feel familiar.

  By the time I turn onto Centennial, my decision is made. I’m going to drive to Texas.