Where I End and You Begin

by Preston Norton

  “Okay…”

  I took a deep breath. This was when things were going to get tricky.

  “We need to go to school,” I said.

  “School?”

  “More importantly, we need to go to that theater class.”

  Wynezra snorted. “Nope.”

  “We need to be in that play!”

  “Wrong again.”

  “I need to go to prom!” I said. “I can’t get banned from prom. I just can’t.”

  “Why?” said Wynezra. “Give me one good reason why you just absolutely need to go to prom.”

  I bit my lip.

  “So you can ask Imogen to prom?” Wynezra prodded. “So you can ask out a girl who has no idea that you’re obsessed with her BECAUSE YOU NEVER TALK TO HER?”

  “What?” I said. I immediately felt my body flush. My sweat glands were going the way of Chernobyl. “I am not obsessed—”

  Wynezra snorted.

  “Okay, okay. Maybe…it’s possible…that I have a small crush—”

  Wynezra snorted.

  “Okay, a moderately sized, normal crush—”

  Wynezra snorted.

  “Fine! I have a big, fat crush on Imogen. I have since fourth grade. I’m obsessed with her, and I can’t stop thinking about her. Are you happy?”

  “Why would that make me happy?” said Wynezra. “That’s just creepy.”

  “Oh, c’mon. Like you’ve never had a crush on anyone.”

  The sky went dark. I hadn’t been paying attention to our surroundings—where we were even heading—until now. It was all concrete ramps, pillars, and rows of expensive cars. We had pulled into a parking garage.

  “Where are you going?” I said.

  “Home,” said Wynezra.

  She pulled into a convenient open spot by the silver doors of an elevator. Exited the car. Strolled leisurely off, leaving me behind.

  “Wait!” I said. “Can we even park my car here?”

  “Not my problem.”

  I became an immobilized fixture in the passenger seat, paralyzed with indecision, glancing between my illegally parked car and my body—possessed by the spirit of a teenage anarchist—storming off.

  “Dammit,” I muttered. I jumped out of the car and chased after her.

  When I caught up to her, she had already pressed the up button on the elevator, causing it to light up. The door opened almost immediately.

  She stepped inside and pressed the button for the third floor. I reluctantly followed. Slowly, the elevator door closed—like a solemn metaphor of any chance I ever had of asking Imogen to prom.

  “Let’s talk this over,” I said.

  “If you want to go to school as me, go without me,” she said. “Go ahead. Ruin my reputation. But there is no way I’m going to school pretending to be you, and there is NO WAY I’m doing Shakespeare.”

  “You do realize that this is a half-assed production, right?” I said. “Principal Durden is filling it with detention kids! So if you’re worried about not being any good, I can assure you that no one is going to be any—”

  “You do realize that I don’t give a fuck, right?”

  The elevator door opened into the long, wool-carpeted hallway, lit by crystal sconces. Wynezra stormed out.

  I followed.

  “You’re not even you,” I said. “What’s your grandma gonna think when she sees some random boy in her house?”

  “Her name’s Carol,” said Wynezra. “Stop calling her my grandma. That makes her sound like a decent human being.”

  “What’s Carol going to think?”

  “She works at the university until shit-thirty in the fucking evening. So I don’t have to worry about her for a while.”

  “Is she a teacher?”

  “She’s the head of the department of anthropology.”

  “What’s anthropology?”

  “It’s, like, fancy social studies.”

  Wynezra marched directly into her room and threw herself on her bed. She lay there for only a brief moment—then tweaked her head up, glancing from side to side. She reached her arms out, spread-eagle, measuring the width of her mattress.

  “Well, this sucks,” she said. “I feel like my queen just turned into a full.”

  “Carol’s going to come home eventually,” I said. “What if we haven’t changed by then?”

  Wynezra sighed. “Then I suppose it’d be helpful if you were here, so you could tell her I’m your new boyfriend.”

  “What?” I shrieked. I actually shrieked—activating feminine vocal frequencies Wynonna had never dared to utilize.

  “Or my gay friend. Although I’m probably not very convincing. I’m wearing day-old clothes, and I haven’t showered. Your body smells like fermented heterosexual frustration. Hmm. On that note…”

  Wynezra bounced off the bed and waltzed out of the room.

  “Where are you going?” I said.

  “Shower,” said Wynezra.

  “What? But…”

  “Oh, c’mon. I’ve already seen your package in full throttle. I need to shower. I smell like actual balls.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Would you rather we hop in the shower together, blindfolded, and scrub each other’s bodies? Is that more appropriate?”

  I felt a bonfire of embarrassment ignite inside my face.

  Wynezra laughed. “Oh my god! Who’da thunk I could blush like that?”

  Wynezra walked into the bathroom, stepped in front of the mirror, and then took off her (my) shirt. Then—to my horror—she flexed.

  “Oh baby!” she said. “Look at those deltoids!”

  I had no idea what a deltoid was, but she appeared to be putting an obscene amount of emphasis on the shoulder-y region.

  Once Wynezra was satisfied, she grabbed the door. “Okay, peep show’s over, pretty lady.”

  She closed the door in my face.

  Well, this was a total disaster. What was I supposed to do now?

  I retreated to Wynonna’s room and sat on her bed. Then I fell back on the mattress, arms flailed out. In Wynonna’s baby-blue puffer coat, I felt like I should be sweeping my arms up and down, making a snow angel.

  Wynonna knew I had a crush on Imogen.

  I’d question how she knew it, but who was I kidding? It was probably super obvious. How many people turned into speechless idiots when they were within the immediate vicinity of Imogen Klutz?

  Then a thought occurred: Had Wynonna and Imogen ever talked about me?

  Wynonna said that Imogen had no idea I had a crush on her. But how would she know that? Maybe Imogen never said anything about it—that could be evidence enough.

  Or maybe Wynonna knew this because she asked Imogen about it. I could already see the hypothetical conversation in my head:

  Wynonna: I’m so cool. I’m so badass. PS: I think Ezra has a crush on you.

  Imogen: Why ever would you say such a thing? Surely, he and I are merely friends who share a platonic bond that transcends the spoken word. By the way, did you notice his elegantly disheveled hair today? Very debonair.

  I suddenly couldn’t stop thinking about the hypothetical conversation that took place.

  I could ask Wynonna if said hypothetical question actually took place. But that would be embarrassing. Besides, I just so happened to be in her bedroom—the most sacred and private place of teenagekind—and Wynonna was currently distracted, showering my naked body.

  Did she keep a diary?

  I jumped off the bed and started snooping. I started with her bedside table, then moved to her cluttered desk, then to her dresser. With each place I looked, I made sure not to disrupt the intricate order of her chaos. Nothing, nothing, nothing. I took a step back and absorbed the bedroom in all its anarchy.

  If I were Wynonna’s diary, where would I be?

  Hell, if I were Wynonna’s diary, would I even exist? Wynonna didn’t exactly seem like the diary-keeping type. Maybe no one was the diary-keeping type these days. Everything was di
gital.

  Did she have a computer? A laptop?

  The desk was empty, but my gaze continued to scan the room.

  It stopped on Wynonna’s backpack, dropped delicately to the right of the door. An electric cord was sticking out of the open zipper.

  Bingo.

  I plopped myself in front of her backpack, cross-legged, and rifled through the contents. The computer—a silver MacBook covered in stickers—was easy enough to locate. It was tucked in a fabric slot designed for laptops. I pulled it out carelessly—not realizing the electric cord was still plugged into it, and most of said cord was tangled beneath Wynonna’s ultra-graffitied notebooks, several papers and assignments, and a small shoe box covered in some sort of scrapbooking treachery. So basically, when the laptop came out, so did all of Wynonna’s shit—the shoe box, the notebooks, dozens of papers—spilling all over the floor.

  “Crap!” I hissed.

  I stopped pulling on the laptop. Gently slid it back into its pocket. I then gathered all the papers and assignments and notebooks and attempted to stack and arrange them how they probably—hopefully—had been organized. Carefully, I slid them back inside. Then I turned my attention to the shoe box. Every square inch was covered in a scrapbook-style arrangement of pictures.

  All the pictures were of Holden Durden.

  name of fuck?

  I hovered over the shoe box. Studied the pictures—just to make sure that my eyes weren’t playing tricks on me. That this wasn’t some water-in-the-desert optical illusion. Surely this was just someone who looked like Holden from a distance, but when you looked closer, you realized the guy was actually six feet tall with a giant mole on his face, and his name was Pierre because he was a foreign exchange student from France. Theoretically.

  I leaned forward. Absorbed the images.

  Nope. It was Holden.

  If that wasn’t already the damnedest thing, there was also the nature of the photos to consider. Holden was never looking at the camera. Never. These were paparazzi-type pictures, taken at school while he was going about his daily routine—in the halls, at his locker, eating in the cafeteria. This meant that I was in a majority of these pictures—at least, I would be, except that I had been mostly cut out, and when I wasn’t, I was just a human-colored smudge in the background.

  I lifted the lid off the shoe box. Inside was a portable cassette recorder/player—a super retro–looking one at that—and a series of colorful cassette tapes stacked to the side. No two tapes were the same color. A strip of cardboard acted as a divider, keeping everything wedged in place.

  I pulled out a cassette tape—a yellow one—and examined it. I realized it had been spray-painted that color. There was no label.

  I removed the cassette recorder. A pair of headphones was already plugged in and wrapped around it. I unwound the headphones and pressed the open button.

  I inserted the yellow cassette tape, closed the deck, inserted the headphone earbuds in my ears, and pressed play.

  “Hey, Holden,” said Wynonna’s voice. “This is going to sound crazy, and my heart is beating in my throat just thinking the words, but I’m going to say it: I like you.”

  Oh. My. God.

  I kept listening.

  “Do you ever have that feeling when you’re around someone where the room grows brighter? Where the air is suddenly crisp and biting and fills your lungs with icy electricity? And your skin tingles, and your chest throbs, but in a good way, a really good way, and the world is alive with details you never would have noticed, all because of this one person?

  “I hope you haven’t—unless that person is me. Because that’s literally what you do to me.”

  I stopped the player.

  Ejected the tape. Set it aside.

  Grabbed another tape from the box—a red one—inserted it, closed the deck, and pressed play.

  “’Sup, Holden,” said Wynonna. “I’m just gonna say it: I like you. What you do with that information is up to you. I really couldn’t care less. But, you know, if you wanna date, or…hook up, or…whatever…you know. Just lemme know. I’m down to clown.”

  It ended there.

  I ejected it. Grabbed a black tape from the box. Inserted it and pressed play.

  “Fuck you, Holden. Why can’t you just get a hint? Do I have to spell it out for you? You know what? I’m not even gonna say it! You don’t deserve that much. All I’m gonna say is, what kind of girl has to tackle a guy to the ground, just to get his attention? Huh? I swear, you wouldn’t know a hint if it kneed you in the balls, dropped you to the floor, and started kicking you in the ribs! I’m not the one with a problem, Holden. You are! Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—”

  I stopped the tape. Switched it out for a bluish-gray one. Pressed play.

  Wynonna was sobbing.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, sniffling. “I’m sorry I can’t just tell you how I feel. I’m sorry I’m the way that I am. I just…I wish you could see inside of me. I wish you could know that I’m not this horrible person you think I am. I…I…”

  She started sobbing again.

  Stop. Eject. I switched the blue-gray out for a neon-orange tape.

  This one began with the fierce, jagged strum of an acoustic guitar. The tune sounded familiar, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

  “Come on, Holden!” Wynonna belted out.

  That’s when it clicked. It was “Come On Eileen” by Dexys Midnight Runners. Well…sort of. A raw, angsty, Joan Jett–style rewrite of “Come On Eileen.”

  Poor old Nona Jones

  Sitting sad upon the patio

  List’ning to sad songs from Edge and Bono

  Wynonna cried

  Sang along, who’d blame her

  You’re grown

  So grown

  Now I must say more than ever

  Too ra loo ra too ra loo rye aye

  We can sing this tune forever

  Come on, Holden, oh I swear, gentleman

  At this moment, you mean everythin’

  You in that shirt

  My thoughts are pure dirt

  Oh, so dirty

  Ah, come on, Holden

  I liked to think of myself as a genuinely sympathetic human being. However, evil may have prevailed for a moment as a sinister smile crept across my face and I thought to myself:

  I have the ultimate blackmail on Wynonna.

  Then it happened—a flash.

  Suddenly, hot water was pouring down on me, and my surroundings had altered entirely and so had the position of my body. I was standing, hands against the wall, head hanging down, letting the water hit the back of my neck and run down the planes of my body.

  I was in the shower.

  I was naked.

  I was me.

  That’s when I heard the scream—Wynonna’s scream—from the floor of her bedroom where I left her.

  All of her secrets laid out in the open. Her own vulnerable words wailing in her ears.

  I had expected a reenactment of the scene from Psycho. Silhouette appears outside the shower curtain, knife is raised overhead, slash, slash, slash. Ezra Slevin topples over the edge of the bathtub, ripping the shower curtain down with him. Camera fixes on his open, lifeless eye, slowly panning out to reveal his terrified face pressed against the tile of the bathroom floor.

  Okay, so maybe my paranoia was a tad dramatic. Still, I expected something. I waited in the shower a long moment for that something, but it never came. I held my breath when I finally heard footsteps in the hall. They grew louder.

  And then they grew quieter.

  Then I heard the front door open and close.

  “Wynonna?” I said.

  I turned the shower off. Listened breathlessly for a sound. Wynonna was just faking me out, right? I would walk out of the shower with a towel around my waist, and then she would jump out of nowhere, cosplaying as her quite-possibly-dead mother, and stab me to death.

  I dried myself with a towel, wrapped it around my waist, and stepped out of
the bathroom.

  “Wynonna?” I said again.

  I peeked inside her bedroom. No Wynonna.

  I did, however, notice that the baby-blue puffer coat—and the rest of the clothes Wynonna had been wearing—were unceremoniously shed into a pile on the floor.

  Maybe she was hiding?

  I wandered into the kitchen. Into the living area. I even dared to look inside Carol’s bedroom—a dim, foreboding, sophisticated-looking chamber with a massive, wooden, antique canopy bed carved and polished like a throne, some sort of Persian-ass rug, and a hefty copy of Anna Karenina on the nightstand.

  No Wynonna.

  She seriously just left me here.

  Maybe she went to school? Where else would she go?

  I returned to the bathroom and got dressed. Pulling on day-old clothes that I had slept in—after a shower, no less—should have been the most unpleasant experience imaginable. However, I was kind of grateful to be putting on my clothes at all.

  After double-checking to make sure I had car keys on me, I left Wynonna and Carol’s condo. I navigated my way through the hallway, back to the elevator. Took it down to the parking garage. Power-walked to my Subaru, which—thank god—didn’t have a ticket.

  I hopped in, turned the key in the ignition, backed out, and stomped on the accelerator.

  I floored it all the way to school.

  • •

  “Dude,” said Holden. “Where the hell have you been?”

  I closed my locker door, and there was Holden’s face—where a masked serial killer would be if my life were a horror film.

  Nope. Just a body-swap comedy—funny to everyone but me.

  “Uh,” I said. “I slept in.”

  “No shit,” said Holden. “Just in time for lunch. Well, I guess if anyone has a right to sleep in, it’s you.”

  The hallway was a riptide, pulling everyone and everything into the cafeteria. Holden and I stepped into the flow of bodies, submitting to the undertow.

  Today, on the Piles Fork lunch menu, was “pizza.” You’d think it would be impossible to ruin something as simple and perfect as pizza, but Piles Fork had it down pat. The trick was to make the crust too thick and crunchy, with too little sauce, too little cheese, and turkey pepperoni. Then they burned it.

  “You know you live in a dystopian society when the pizza is consistently worse than the meat loaf,” said Holden.