Uninvited

by Amanda Marrone

  I push Lisa’s voice out of my head and open the vampire encyclopedia I got out of the library. This is my list. Mine alone.

  I get a pencil and paper and open the book to the page I’d marked: “How to Dispose of a Vampire.”

  Top ten ways to get rid of Michael Green:

  1. Submerge in water (bathtub?)

  2 Remove the heart (avoid blood splatter)

  Yeah, right.

  A gust whips under the windowsill, rustling the paper sitting on my bedside table. I shake my head. Making that list was a joke. There’s no way I can pull off any of that stuff, and my heart is beating double time anticipating the jolt I get when Michael pops up at the window. I crumple the paper up and toss it in the trash.

  I reach under my bed for the peach schnapps I snagged from the liquor cabinet. I hate drinking stuff this sweet, but one of my mother’s stupid Mahjong buddies always brings a bottle, so it’s not as likely to be missed, compared to one of the eighty-freaking-dollar bottles of wine my stepfather collects. I make a mental note to add it to my list of booze for Adam to replace when he gets home for winter break. I take a couple of swigs, grimacing as it burns its way down my throat.

  Lights out. I flop back onto my pillow and pull the comforter up to my chin. It’s getting colder every night, and the schnapps is warming only my belly. I reach my hand out to shut the window, but pull it back, wondering which part of me is stronger, the part that’s tempted to let Michael in, or the part that wishes he’d just disappear? That’s what I really want him to do. If he disappears, I can get on with my sorry little existence and not have to think so much.

  I mean, picturing myself drowning Michael in a bathtub or heading out into the night and coming home with his heart in my backpack is laughable. And there are some very compelling reasons to let him in. Just the thought of not having to deal with school or my mother’s crap makes the prospect appealing — never mind the fact my life sucks, and that in itself would be enough to seal the deal.

  So why haven’t I let him in?

  Rachael shouldn’t have asked “Haveyou always been a head case?” The real question is, when did things get so bad that letting Michael in is something I might contemplate?

  “Jordan, let me in.”

  I draw a quick breath and my heart takes it up another notch. “God, Michael, can’t you at least cough? You scare the hell out of me every time you do that. You need a bell.”

  “Let me in, I’m so cold. I miss you. I can’t stand being so close and not being able to hold you. You used to fit so perfectly in my arms.”

  My stomach flutters like it did the first time he kissed me. I start to smile, but realize getting gushy over every little thing coming out of his mouth is counterproductive to clear thinking. I may be waffling about the whole opening-the-window thing, but it’s not in my best interest to get swept away by compliments. I need to be tough.

  “Look, Michael, I know this is usually where I do my ‘Go away, I’ll never let you in’ bit, but I’m worried our relationship is getting stale. You know, same old conversation every night? We’re like some B-listers in a horror movie being overplayed on the Sci-Fi Channel. I really think we need to shake things up a bit, recapture some of the spontaneity we once had.”

  “Real nice! You’re not the one stuck out here every night. You’re not the one whose life was destroyed.”

  “You’re totally right, Michael. I’m an insensitive ass and I don’t know why you put up with me. Perhaps you’d have better luck skulking outside Neela Nelson’s window. She’s the one you started dating after me — the very day we broke up, I believe. If you’re doing this stalking thing in chronological order, it only makes sense to try her next. Who knows, maybe she lives in a ranch and you won’t have to mess with a tree.”

  Michael sighs, and I look out the window. I can tell he’s running his hands through his hair. I try not to think about how I used to play with his curls, or the way my bare skin burned under his hands.

  “You know Neela doesn’t matter. She never did. It’s you I came back for. Doesn’t that mean anything?”

  “Yeah, well, pardon me if I’m feeling more trapped than flattered. I had to blow off working on the fall play, I couldn’t join the cross-country team, and I never see my friends anymore because I need to be home before dark! Sorry, Michael, I’m just not feeling the love.”

  “You don’t need to hide from me. I’d never hurt you. I’d never force you to do anything you didn’t want to do.”

  A laugh escapes from my mouth. Never force me to do anything I didn’t want to do, huh? I guess technically he hadn’t, but all the same, having your new boyfriend’s very large hands shoved down your pants on the first date falls on the forceful side of things, I think. But I didn’t say no, I didn’t say anything. I just let it happen.

  “Look, Jordan, let’s talk about something else. How’s school? Are you still hanging out with the Diva Twins?”

  “They hated when you called them that. Do you even remember their names?”

  “Uh, Abby and Janine?”

  “Gabby and Janine. And you only remember Janine because you were friends with her brother.”

  “Yeah, Gabby, whatever. But you can’t tell me they aren’t divas. You all but laughed your ass off the first time I called them that, because you know it’s true.”

  “Well, every group’s got to have its hierarchy. Yours had Marnie Shaw and you, of course. And, as Gabby and Janine have the best voices, they get to be the drama club queens — literally. At least they don’t lord it over the whole school.”

  Michael snorts. “Like they could. Like you’re even into hanging out with them. All you used to do was bitch about them.”

  “We were in the middle of the summer show and they were being, well, divas.” He laughs and a smile warms my face. “And if you’d gone to see the show with me you’d know that Bye Bye Birdie doesn’t really have a standout female lead, and…”

  “And even though there wasn’t a real star, they each fought like hell to become one. Yeah, yeah, I remember.”

  “I sometimes wondered if you were paying attention, I mean, musicals not being on your top ten list of ways to spend an evening, unless it was ‘the top ten things worse than being—’”

  “Dead.”

  “You hate musicals that much?”

  “I’d rather eat glass.”

  He’s laughing, but I feel like I’ve been insulted. I try to remember what common ground we had.

  “Or kiss Marjory Stiles.”

  “Gross, Michael! Stop! Enough, I get it. But to clarify things, the Divas and I do share a lot of interests. We’re all in the drama club and we all have parents who could care less what we do or where we are, and they know the people to buy pot from. And Rachael? Well, Rachael and I have a lot in common.” Even I have to roll my eyes at that one.

  “You’re so full of shit! You and Miss I’m-in-Desperate-Need-of-an-Extreme-Makeover are worlds apart. I sure as hell could never see why you were hanging around with that Mohawked freak.”

  Why do I hang out with any of them? I’ve wondered that myself. Yeah, we like shows, but Gabby has a mean streak, and Janine, well, she’s a little dim and it kind of bugs me that she’s never finished a book. Rachael drives me crazy with her endless quest for self-improvement, but bottom line is they’re willing to hang out with me and that’s better than being alone. And there’s that whole thing about our parents not giving a damn what we do. It’s very convenient to hang out until all hours when nobody has a curfew and there’s no one to do a breath check when you do stumble home.

  Not that I will admit this to Michael. He doesn’t need to know that I haven’t had a real friend since Lisa.

  “I’ll have you know that Rachael grew her Mohawk out over the summer. But let’s talk about you. How deep were your relationships? I could tell you were real tight with Steve and Eric. I mean, the way you guys constantly slugged each other in the arm was obviously a sign of great affection. Not to
mention your very public grope sessions with various cheerleaders, model wannabes, and jockettes. They weren’t the epitome of deep, if you know what I mean.”

  “Look, I never said I had anything great going on. Never. Why do you think I’m here with you? I don’t go to Neela’s or Ashley’s or Monica’s. I’m here, here with you. You were the only one that got me, and I’ll wait as long as it takes until you admit we belong together.”

  I want to believe him, I really, really do. But he moved on so fast. How could he if I really was the one?

  Of course I was ready to move on with Danny last summer, and if Michael hadn’t come back, I would have. But at least I waited ten months before I started hooking up again. Well, hooking up seriously. I don’t want to dwell on the other hooking up I’ve done. And it doesn’t really count since I’m always pretty trashed when it happens. But what I’ve done is nothing compared to the sheer number of girls Michael was with. I had to watch him laugh and flirt with girl after girl — he didn’t even look at me in the halls. How much could I have meant?

  “Be honest, Jo, what do you have going on that’s worth hanging around this lame town for?”

  I keep my mouth shut because there’s no way I’m going to tell Michael he’s not the only guy that gets my pulse racing, that I get to my Comparative Lit class early so I can watch Danny Douglas walk in, that I hope I’ll get another chance with Danny and maybe that’s why I’m hanging on?

  “You can’t tell me you’d really miss your family. I know you can’t stand your mother, and your dad’s, what, three states away? Heard from him lately? Then there’s your brother — quite the stellar guy. Who wouldn’t miss a big brother who’d buy booze for his underage sister and then let her get so trashed she pukes in her room? Are you feeling that love? And let’s see… Rachael, Janine, and Gabby? They don’t even know you, Jordan. They don’t even care. I’m the only one who cares.”

  His words slice into my stomach. It’s bad enough getting crap about my life from Rachael, but at least she’s trying to help. Michael’s just trying to cram salt in an open wound; make it bigger, make it fester. But I’m not there yet. I’m not ready to give up. “Go away, Michael.”

  “You know it’s true. I’m all you have. Just ask me in.”

  “Get the hell out of my tree.”

  I want to shut the window, but I’m scared to get too close to him. I’ve dreamed about him reaching through the opening too many times. I’ve dreamed that when he touches me, I turn to ice.

  “Get a clue, Jordan. Nobody cares. I’m the only one.”

  “What about you, Michael? Do you miss your friends? Your family? How do you feel now that you can never go back? How does it feel knowing everyone is moving on just fine?”

  “Fuck you!”

  He breaks a branch and throws it at my window. I draw back and watch him jump away.

  I count to ten, then reach out and close the window.

  “Right back at you.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I see Rachael standing at the corner waiting for me. She waves, and I swallow hard. Her hair is bright purple. I guess she’s forgoing the extreme haircuts in favor of extreme color. Her hair is almost down to her shoulders, and the way the wind is whipping it around, it looks like she’s got a sea anemone sprouting from her head. Purple is not a good color on Rachael. I consider being mean and telling her about the “under the sea” vibe she’s sending, but then she smiles, and I remember to feel grateful I’ve got someone to walk to school with.

  “New color, huh?” There, that was perfect — a noncommittal acknowledgement of the bizarre new hue that leaves her feelings intact.

  “Yeah, but what’s up with you? You look like hell,”

  Rachael says as I get close. “Don’t you sleep anymore?”

  Touché.

  I reconsider the sea anemone analogy, but bite my tongue and start walking. “I haven’t been feeling well, I guess.” Our boots click in unison, and the sound calms me. I contemplate telling her that Michael’s been visiting me the last three months, and even though I haven’t let him in, he’s sucking me dry all the same, but I know it’s one thing to look like crap and another to sound crazy.

  “Well, maybe you should lay off the smokes for a while. Detox your system. You know, like I did that seaweed-and-water-purification regime. It got me back on track, and I can party harder than before.”

  “I think I’ll manage okay,” I mumble. “You know me, not much of a seaweed kind of gal.”

  Rachael drives me crazy sometimes. If she’s not doing her self-help guru spiel, she’s pushing some diet or colon cleanser on us. How can someone be a radical vegetarian and not eat two-thirds of the food chain, but still throw back shots, snort lines, and get stoned — that’s healthy?

  “I think I know what your problem is.” She stops walking and turns to me. Her eyes are wide, and I can tell she thinks she’s on to some life-altering stuff. “We talked about it in Bell’s class on Friday.”

  Oh, no. I should have known it would just get worse when she signed up for Psych II. I wonder if the administration is aware of how much Mr. Bell deviates from the text so he can play shrink for all the hot girls in class. What I don’t get is why Rachael’s buying into it. I know she has a thing for all this nonsense, but Mr. Bell taught European history for fifteen years before he switched to psych, and it’s so obvious he’s making half the stuff up as he goes along.

  “Please, Rachael, not another Bell diagnosis.” I start down the sidewalk, hoping to stop this before Rachael morphs into her version of Dr. Phil. “Isn’t it enough I’ve sat through several lengthy discussions about my ongoing battle with social anxiety disorder — like it’s so out there to have a major problem talking to the jerks that populate our school? But do tell, what’s next? Purple-hair envy?”

  Rachael’s boots grind to a halt. I half expect to see clouds of smoke puff up from the sidewalk.

  “Oh, that’s real nice. For your information, Jordan, I’ve been getting a lot of books from the bookstore, so it’s not just parroting back some high school class jargon. Like you’d ever dare mess with the sweet, wholesome facade you’re sporting. And at least I’m honest; at least people aren’t scratching their heads wondering who the hell the real me is!”

  Rachael doubles her pace and I have to hustle to catch up with her. So much for the soothing rhythm of boot clicks.

  I’ve seen Rachael’s book collection and find it hard to believe that Reviving Ophelia or Queen Bees and Wannabes would have useful advice pertaining to my real problem: Michael. But I don’t want to piss her off any more than I already have. “Rachael, I’m sorry. I’m not sleeping well and I guess I’ve really been on edge, and I shouldn’t take it out on you.” I run ahead and stand directly in her path. “Please — you’ve got to help! What’s my problem?”

  Rachael stops and scowls. “Like you’re really interested?”

  “I am.”

  “Fine. You’re depressed. Though I’m not sure if you have major depression or this dys-something disorder. Either way, you need help. And for your information, lack of sleep is a major symptom.”

  “Like this is news? Like I haven’t chronicled my downward spiral into teen hell in my journals?”

  “I’m serious, Jordan. You’ve got the symptoms.”

  “I’m serious, too. I filled out the depression checklist in Mr. Callahan’s health class last month, and you know what? From the looks on the faces of ninety percent of the class, I’d say I’m part of a very big club.”

  Rachael starts walking again, shaking her head. I should’ve just nodded and asked what I could do to help myself. Whenever I piss her off, she comes up with some excuse to ditch me the minute we get in the school doors, and I have to go to my locker alone. I’ve admitted to myself that I do have some sort of social anxiety problem, but she knows I know it, and I think it is the height of cruelty to desert someone with my condition.

  “Rachael, wait!” I match her quick strides and wish
my legs were as long as hers. My breath comes out in short wheezes and I curse myself for blowing off the cross-country team this season, and for smoking so much pot. “Slow down, okay?”

  She turns sharply and puts her hands on her hips. “You know, Jordan, I’m just trying to help. You never go out anymore. You never call. You’re like a completely different person. I really needed you last month when Thomas and I broke up, but you couldn’t be bothered to call. Nobody called.”

  Oh, silly me! This isn’t about Rachael being concerned because it’s obvious I’m about to self-implode. This is about Rachael being bummed out because I wasn’t around to pick up her shattered ego and bring her back into the group.

  Gabby and Janine never tolerate her I’m-done-with-my-current-boyfriend-so-now-I-can-hang-out-with-you-guys-on-the-weekend-again routine. They like her to suffer awhile, and it’s always been my job to convince them that Rachael’s learned her lesson and deserves to be let back in the fold. They’d come around eventually, but apparently I’ve shirked my negotiator duties, and reassimilation into the group is taking longer than Rachael is used to.

  Is she even aware that I’ve been missing in action on the weekends for three months, that I only see Janine and Gabby at school? What does she want from me?

  She’s still staring, waiting for the expected groveling. Part of me wants to tell Rachael to go screw herself because I’ve got enough trouble negotiating the opening of my stupid window with my stupid ex-boyfriend — I wonder what Mr. Bell would have to say about that — and part of me is terrified I’ll blow this standoff and end up walking to school alone for the rest of the year. Gosh, I wonder why I’m depressed!

  “Things have been extra screwy at home,” I say finally. I look down at the sidewalk, kick some acorns into the grass for effect, and take a deep breath. “And Steve has been a major pain. He’s been fighting with my mom twenty-four seven for blowing all his money on things she doesn’t need, and I guess I’m just not handling it well.”