That's Not a Thing

by Jacqueline Friedland

  His thoughts seemed to be on the same trajectory as mine. He made no effort at subtlety as his eyes traveled down my body inch by inch, perusing at their leisure. They lingered on my chest before sliding back up to meet my gaze.

  “I was about to apologize for disturbing your long slumber, but”—the corners of his full lips lifted—“it seems that the element of surprise has worked in my favor. I like your outfit.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest and tried to ignore the heat in my face. I knew my cheeks were turning pink, and I wished I had some sort of switch to shut off the blushing. It’s an occupational hazard of sporting such a fair complexion, the tendency to turn colors at the slightest provocation. I could only imagine that in the present situation, my cheeks must be a darker red than Tabasco. This was curious, too, since I was reasonably comfortable with my body, never one to shy away from changing clothes in crowded locker rooms. But the way Wesley was looking at me, his green eyes alight with hunger, made me feel particularly exposed.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, trying to sound calm, like his checking me out in my near-naked state wasn’t making me self-conscious. I crossed my arms more tightly against my chest, praying that my nipples weren’t sending out messages all their own from beneath my top. I wanted to run a hand through my hair, to make sure it was behaving at least somewhat reasonably, but this was now a triage situation, and covering my braless breasts seemed a higher priority. Wesley turned slightly, and I noticed my silver backpack slung over his broad shoulder.

  “We forgot about this last night. This morning. Whatever.” He slid the bag off his arm and arranged the strap over the knob of the door so the bag was now hanging between us. “We also forgot”—he paused as he reached into the pocket of his faded jeans for his cell phone—“to program in your number.”

  He held out his phone to me, but I was not about to remove my arms from my chest and expose myself further, so I just started rattling off the digits.

  “Hang on!” He laughed as he pulled the phone back toward himself.

  Voices started floating toward us, other students walking through the hallway, getting closer to my room. Wesley shifted, squaring his shoulders so that he somehow suddenly filled the entire door frame, and I realized he was intentionally using his size to keep my scantily clad figure hidden from anyone else’s view. He kept his eyes locked on mine as the voices passed, and then looked back at his phone.

  “Try again?” he asked. “But slow it down so I can get it right. You’re slightly distracting in your pajamas, you know, or lack thereof.” He looked me up and down again, and I could feel his eyes sweeping over me as surely as a smooth touch, exploring my every line and curve.

  I swallowed hard and repeated the number for him. I waited for him to type it in, then asked, “Can I get back in bed now?” As much as I enjoyed the repartee, I was at too great a disadvantage in my present state. If he wanted to continue this conversation, it would have to happen after I’d had a chance to brush my hair and put on a push-up bra. Maybe even a cute sweater on top of it, if I was lucky.

  “Sure. I’ll call you.” He raised a hand in farewell, his eyes flashing with something akin to victory as he looked down at his phone and turned to walk away.

  As soon as I climbed back into my single bed and pulled up the covers, my phone started vibrating. I lifted it from the nightstand and saw a number I didn’t recognize. My first thought was that something might have happened with my mother.

  “Hello?” It came out as a demand as I answered the phone.

  “So, what’s your schedule later?”

  I recognized that voice.

  “Wesley?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Why are you calling me?” I laughed out loud. “You just left my room.”

  “Right,” he answered, his voice sounding even deeper over the phone. “And I said I would call you.”

  “I didn’t know you meant you were calling me right this second! Didn’t I say I was going back to sleep?”

  “No. You said you were going back to bed. Big difference. You could be doing any number of things in bed. I could list some of them for you, if you’d like. Even talk you through a few of them.” I could hear the smile in his voice, and I couldn’t help grinning back into the phone.

  “How about if I just go back to sleep and you call me another time? Maybe when you’re feeling a little more PG-13.” I was too giddy from his attention to be tired anymore, but I wasn’t about to admit it.

  “Nah, I’m good to talk now. I’m not really a patient person.”

  “Yeah, I’m beginning to see that. Okay, then, what’s doing?” I pulled my plaid comforter more tightly around me and burrowed into my pillow, holding the phone against my other ear.

  “I have class until seven. Can I take you out for enormous pizza afterward?”

  “Koronet?” I tried to remember if I had mentioned to him how much I loved the gargantuan slices at that place. “Wait, I can’t. I’m on duty at Community Kitchen until nine.”

  “I thought they always close up by seven. Now, you know it’s not right to open your door for me in your skivvies and then make up excuses to avoid spending time with me. Cruel, really, is what it is.” I could hear the confidence in his tone, like he knew I wasn’t deliberately putting him off, and I wondered if should make this a little more difficult for him. But the fact was, this conversation felt so effortless that I didn’t want to behave like anyone other than myself.

  “No, we do stop serving at seven.” I thought of the sign posted at the side door of the church, listing the soup kitchen’s hours in bold print, but I gave him a hard time anyway. “Pretty sketchy that you’ve been keeping tabs on my hours, don’t you think?”

  “Just doing my due diligence,” he parried, and I stifled a grin.

  “I stick around after closing to clean up and prepare sandwiches for the next day. But I need to do some work tonight. You know, seeing as how I completely blew off my classes today, thanks to my RA, who’s apparently a crappy influence. Never mind the tastiness of his cookies.” We were both silent for a beat, and then I had a thought. “You could come with me to the library, if you want . . .”

  I figured he’d probably shoot down that idea, but I couldn’t let this guy completely derail me, no matter how much I admired the definition of his jaw. Even though I was only in my first year of college, I already knew I would be applying to law school in a few years, and I was committed to making grades that would create opportunities for me.

  “Okay, sure,” he said. “I could do that. Meet me outside Butler at nine thirty.”

  “Really?” I caught myself and tried to cover my surprise. “You got it, Cookie Monster. See you there.”

  After ending the call, I rested my head back on the pillow and noticed I was still smiling to myself. Not even a minute passed before the phone, which I was still holding in my hand, started vibrating again.

  “Are you kidding me? I’m seriously trying to go back to sleep!” I answered, laughing.

  “Meredith?”

  “Oh, shit, Mom.” I sat up in bed, the covers falling away from me. “Sorry! I thought you were someone else.”

  “Why are you sleeping in the middle of the afternoon?” she asked, and I could hear the concern lacing her watered-down voice. The depth of endurance required for the aggressive chemo she was undergoing left her with energy for little else. She had only another few weeks before the treatments would be finished, but from where I sat, it seemed like the chemo was more of a danger to her than the breast cancer.

  “Would you buy it if I said I was just trying to shore up my immune system and it has absolutely nothing to do with my staying out too late last night?” I offered, trying to keep things light. My mom’s health was steadily chipping away at her emotional state, and I’d made it my personal mission to keep her spirits up. The antidepressants she was taking didn’t seem to be working, so I cracked jokes with her like it was my job.

  “I’m
glad to hear you’re finally letting loose a little,” she answered on a puff of air. “You don’t have to be perfect every single second. It won’t change my fate one way or the other.”

  I closed my eyes and willed myself not to snap at her for making another casual reference to her dismal prognosis. She might as well have been tearing my skin clean off my body for the agony I felt every time she talked like she was going to die.

  “Anyway,” she continued when I stayed silent, and I could hear a rattling in her voice that had me immediately refocused.

  “What is it?” I asked, my heart already quickening.

  “I need another surgery.”

  “What? Why?” I demanded. I heard keys in the door and looked up to see Daphne coming in with a pile of books and a container of takeout food. I noticed that her normally curly red hair was blown straight, and I held up a finger letting her know I needed a minute before I could engage with her. I mouthed the word mom, and she nodded as she took off her faux-fur coat and starting riffling through the papers on her desk.

  “It shouldn’t be a big deal,” my mother said. “They’re just going to remove the port from my chest. I shouldn’t even have called it a surgery. It’s just that with the infection around it, it’s a little more involved than a simple procedure. I’m only telling you so you don’t feel out of the loop. I promised you could trust me to tell you the truth about my condition, so I’m just letting you know.”

  “When?” I asked, trying to stay calm.

  “I’m going in Friday morning. You don’t need to be there. Go to your classes. Your father will be with me the whole time.”

  “We’ll see,” I answered, not bothering to remind her that I didn’t have classes on Fridays this semester. “How are you going to finish the chemo without having the port for the medicine?”

  “Stop worrying.” She was trying to soothe me, but all I heard was the way her voice stalled, like her words were becoming air as the life slipped out of her more each day. “It’s only a few more weeks, so they can use a simple IV line until I finish treatment.”

  She paused, and I waited for her to say more.

  “I’m getting tired, too,” she finally added, “thinking about you in bed. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  We said our good-byes and I took a deep breath, trying to contain the rush of feelings that came every time I said good-bye to my mother these days. The fear that it might be a final farewell was always there.

  After a moment, I looked over at Daphne, who was sitting cross-legged on her bed, facing me, the takeout container balanced on her lap and a spoonful of quinoa en route to her mouth.

  “Everything okay with your mom?” she asked, staring at me hard.

  “I don’t know,” I groaned. “It’s all so tangled and confusing. I never know what’s a big deal and what’s not. But I don’t want to get into it now.” It was easier for me to function when I could compartmentalize.

  Daphne considered me for a moment, and I could tell she was trying to decide whether to push the topic or drop it like I’d asked. She pursed her pink lips into a little tulip, was silent for a moment, and then switched gears. “Okay, time to spill.” she commanded, clearly aware that I had not spent the night in Bina’s room.

  “Can we not talk about spilling while you’re holding that power bowl or whatever it is in the middle of your unmade bed? You’re going to get little quinoa pellets all up in your business the next time you bring a guy back here, which”—I paused to look at the time on my phone —“should occur in only six or seven more hours.” For as long as I’d known Daphne, we had been poking fun at each other with glee.

  She rolled her eyes at me as I continued, “You should at least warn the next dude. Quinoa in the ass-crack has got to be a bitch.”

  She picked up a furry pink pillow from her bed and hurled it at me, missing me by several feet.

  “Nice try changing the subject, twat-wad. I bumped into Bina while she was getting her java at the Commons. We had a little chat about vegetarian eco-feminism, and then she mentioned she hadn’t seen you since Science and Tech yesterday. I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours . . .” She waggled her eyebrows and took another spoonful of her health bowl, sucking on the spoon for effect.

  “Nasty.” I shook my head. “No deal. I love you like a sister and all that, but really, I don’t need to hear about last night’s fuckboy, okay?”

  “Fine, then let me put it this way—unless you scoop me on your night, I will tell you every last detail of mine. Starting with what he sucked on first.” She narrowed her eyes at me in challenge.

  Rather than subject myself to her vile play-by-play, I caved. Especially since I was feeling pretty charged about Wesley.

  “Okay, fine. I was with the RA. He works at a dessert place on Amsterdam. I watched him bake for a few hours, and then he took me to an all-night diner for breakfast. It was all very tame—wholesome, even.”

  Daphne’s lip curled slightly, and she looked at me as if I had peed in her quinoa. “You spent all those hours with skinny Keith and his face-full of acne?” She recoiled a little as she considered the thought and then added, “You’re too pretty for your own good. It’s making you stupid.” She pointed her spoon at me in accusation.

  I laughed. “Not Keith. There’s a new guy,” I explained, trying to sound relaxed. “He’s meeting me at the library tonight.” I felt myself tingling just thinking about him, but then I had a sobering thought. “I just . . . I don’t know if I should be starting something right now. You know, with everything going on with my mom.”

  “Toss my pillow back so I can chuck it at you again.” Daphne’s phone started ringing from inside her bag, but she ignored it. “You have been busting your ass since you got here, and you’re allowed to have some playtime—not in spite of your mom’s illness, but because of it. She would not want you putting your life on hold for her like this. She wants to see you living, finding joy, making the most of the time God gave you, you know?”

  I felt my eyes stinging as she talked. I knew she was right. She had been my best friend since second grade, when she’d shown up at Hillside Elementary wearing the same sneakers as me and then announced the address of her new house, which was three doors down from my own. She knew my mom almost as well as I did, and I was pretty certain that my mother would wholeheartedly agree with what Daphne had just said. More than anything, my mom wanted to see me content, to know that I would end up settled, with or without her. I wiped at my eyes before any tears spilled out, wondering how I could trust my emotions when I was in a constant state of fear, carrying perpetual preemptive grief.

  “Stop second-guessing yourself,” Daphne ordered as she rose from the bed. She tossed the remainder of her food into the trash bin and walked to my closet. “And let’s figure out what you’re going to wear.” Standing with her back to me, she flipped through the hangers. “Now, what here says ‘soup kitchen–to-library date’? We may have to layer.” She pulled out a teal lace-up peasant sweater that I loved, but then shook her head and returned it to its spot. “Too complicated with the laces. We need something that he can peel right off you.”

  “Stop making me out to be such a tramp.” I said, laughing. “If I like the guy, aren’t I supposed to make him wait for it?” That was the general philosophy I followed, a Rules girl at heart and all, but I’d have been lying if I said I didn’t like the intention I saw in his eyes when he scoped me out earlier, that I didn’t want him to turn his thoughts into action. I licked my lips, a little ashamed at myself for how quickly I was able to push away the thoughts about my mother.

  For tonight, at least, I was going to try to be carefree. I climbed out from under my covers and joined Daphne at the closet so I could help find the right outfit to bring Wesley to his knees.

  Chapter Five

  January 2008

  The January night air was unforgiving, biting at my face as I hoofed it across campus, nearly ten minutes late to meet Wesley at the library. I had m
ade the mistake of calling my father on my way back from Community Kitchen, and we’d gotten into another intense debate about the ugliness of my parents’ situation. Mainly, we were arguing about my dad’s insistence on spearheading my mom’s cancer care, despite their impending divorce.

  A mere six days before my mom discovered she had cancer, my parents had announced to Noble and me that they were planning to split up. To say that I’d been blindsided would be a colossal understatement. I’d always thought we had the perfect life—the Altmans of Livingston, with our model family tucked safely away in a big suburban colonial.

  My brother, Noble, hadn’t been as devastated by the news, probably because he was older and already married, already settled into a new life down in Atlanta. What I realized from my parents’ decision was that all those years of shared weeknight dinners, family treks to the Jersey shore, and boisterous Jewish holiday celebrations, they had all been a mirage, a farce that my parents had perpetrated on me, trying to maintain the lie until I left for college. They had apparently been waiting all these years for me to vacate the premises so they could get on with some other, more desirable version of their lives.

  I barely had time for a few savage outbursts about the injustice of it all before my mother’s routine mammogram showed that we had a more dire problem. I may have been angry at my mom about the divorce, all the years of fake family bliss, but I certainly didn’t want her to die. Even if everything else had been pretend, the connection I had to my mother was real.

  My father insisted on sticking around for the duration of the illness, and he immediately began directing my mom’s treatment. I couldn’t imagine what that was like for her, letting him spoon-feed her chicken broth or carry her back to bed after she vomited, knowing all the while that their relationship was already over. I offered to defer college so I could take care of her, but when I did, my dad went ballistic. He spewed all this bullshit about how I was supposed to live my life, become independent of the two of them. Maybe that was true, but really, all I could think about during my first semester was whether I was missing the last days I might ever spend with my mother.