It doesn’t look like Dad’s going to let me get away with my usual avoidance tactics. But then he goes, “What else has been going on in your life?”
We stay out on the dock for a long time, catching up on all the things that happened while I refused to see him. It feels good to have someone listen, even if I can’t talk about everything I should. It’s just good to know he’s still here.
27
Being back at school as Derek’s girlfriend is awesome. People are definitely noticing me more, and not in a bad way. All I want to do is be with him. The thing is, I can’t tell him about myI parents. Talking about it with Sterling helped and I really want to tell Nash, but Derek is out-of-bounds. Who would want to go out with a loser who’s nothing but problems and misery?
When I’m with Derek, it’s like none of that stuff exists. I can escape into this happy place and block out my problems. I can pretend that everything’s okay. Kind of like when I’m in my darkroom.
There’s a whole new series of river photos I’m developing. I’ve been capturing the Now of the river in each season. So far, I like the ones from last summer the best. On the sunniest days, the river has all these bright sparkles in it. The light radiates in a way that makes it seem like it’s coming from within the water instead of just being reflected from the surface.
I hang up the prints to dry and head to the kitchen for a drink. I stop outside the doorway. Aunt Katie is here, talking to Mom. Mom tried to talk to me after I found out the truth from Dad, but I just went to my room and slammed the door. That was two days ago and I’ve been avoiding her ever since. Oh, and I found out who that blue letter was from, the one for Dad. It was from Megan, who was his high school sweetheart. She got in touch with him before the separation and he didn’t even respond until he moved out. Being reunited after all these years must be weird. I wonder if you can really be just friends with someone you used to love.
There are some crumpled tissues on the kitchen table and Mom looks like she’s been crying. They haven’t seen me, so I move to the side where I can listen.
“You did the right thing,” Aunt Katie is saying.
“Maybe,” Mom says. “But that doesn’t make it better.”
“It’ll get better. Give it time.”
“I should have seen this coming,” Mom says. “I shouldn’t have let it get this bad. I was going to tell Marisa back in November, but . . .”
Someone’s spoon clinks against a mug. They usually sit in the kitchen and drink coffee and talk about stuff, but I never knew they talked about this. Not here, anyway.
“You have to tell them now,” Aunt Katie says.
“I know. I have no idea how I’ve avoided it this long. I hinted at it when I told Marisa about the separation, but I just couldn’t admit everything.”
“What are you afraid of?”
“They’ll hate me. Look how Marisa’s been treating me.”
“She doesn’t hate you. They’ll understand.”
“What if they don’t? What will I tell Jack?”
Jack? Who’s Jack?
“Don’t worry,” Aunt Katie says. “It’ll work out.”
“He really wants to get to know them . . . and I hate the girls not knowing about him. . . . I just wish I knew how to do this.”
“It’s not like Mom gave us much to go by.” They laugh for some private reason.
Who the hell is Jack? We don’t know any Jack. And the only way Mom would meet someone new would be at work, where—
Wait. Jack who came to dinner Jack? How could she like that guy? He was a total dumbass!
“This kind of stuff happens a lot these days,” Aunt Katie says. “Separation, divorce, stepparents . . . it’s very common.”
“God. What does that say about us?”
“That you’re not settling. That you’re insisting on happiness.”
“I feel so selfish.”
“Don’t. Jack gives you what you need. There’s no way you knew this would happen when you got married.”
“It was a good marriage.” Mom’s voice cracks. “We had nineteen good years.”
“And that’s what’s important.”
Suddenly, I’m standing in the kitchen.
“Hi, hon,” Aunt Katie says to me. She darts a glance at Mom. “How did the pictures turn out?”
I stare at Mom. Ever since I found out that she was the one who destroyed us, she’s seemed like a whole different person. All this time . . . how could I not have known?
“You should have told me!” I yell. All this rage is boiling up. It’s the kind of rage you can’t let go of. It boils up inside of you and when something like this happens, it explodes.
“I should go,” Aunt Katie says.
“No,” I tell her. “Stay. Stay and hear how my mother let me think it was all Dad’s fault and never told me the truth.”
Mom tries to say something else, but I don’t let her. “No! You let me believe it was Dad! You said someone else was involved and that’s why you guys separated! You should have told me it was your fault!”
“It wasn’t—”
“You wrecked our family for some other guy? Seriously? You’re married !”
“Jack and I—”
“I don’t want to hear it!” I scream. I run up to my room and slam the door. Then I open it and slam it again, louder.
This is not real.
Except it is.
I wish I could tell Derek all of this. And I wish things with Nash were the way they used to be. We started talking more after I saw him in Shake Shack. I don’t know if he’ll ever feel comfortable around me again, but it seems like he’s trying.
My computer dings and an IM box pops up. It’s Nash. Like he could tell what I was just thinking.
dorkbot10013: Are you there?
f-stop: wishing i were anywhere but.
dorkbot10013: Sounds fun. How’s that chem homework going?
f-stop: my brain refuses to do my homework for me.
dorkbot10013: You should get a brain refund. Or hey, I hear they’re on sale this week at Target.
f-stop: wait, they sell brains?
dorkbot10013: You didn’t know?!
f-stop: i’ll pass. i’m a lost cause anyway.
dorkbot10013: I think not. Everyone hates homework.
f-stop: no, this is bigger than that. everything’s messed up.
dorkbot10013: Like what?
f-stop: like my parents.
dorkbot10013: Are they fighting?
f-stop: it’s more than that.
dorkbot10013: I’m calling you.
When my cell rings, I’m relieved. I can finally tell Nash everything. I have a feeling that he’ll find a way to make me feel better.
I tell him about the separation and everything my dad said and the fight I just had with my mom.
Nash goes, “I can relate.”
“Really?”
“My mom ditched us when I was eleven.”
I knew Nash only lived with his dad, but I’ve never asked him where his mom is. I learned to mind my own business the hard way. I was friends with this girl in middle school who only lived with her mom. When I asked where her dad was, she told me he was in rehab. I stopped asking after that.
But Nash was the one who brought it up. So I ask, “Why did she leave?”
“I don’t know exactly. She just said, ‘I can’t do this anymore.’ And the next day she was gone.”
“That’s just like what my dad did. Only, he didn’t tell me anything.”
“I hate that you’re going through this,” Nash says.
“It’s so unfair. My parents were like the only ones who weren’t killing each other. They didn’t even fight!”
“I have an idea. Can you come over?”
“When?”
“In like, half an hour?”
“I’ll be there.” I could not get out of here fast enough.
“When my mom left, there was one thing that made me feel better. I think it migh
t work for you, too.”
“What is it?”
“You’ll see when you get here.”
I don’t know what I was expecting. But when Nash flings open the door to his room and booms, “Ta-dah!” it wasn’t this.
He’s got his room set up like a private movie screening. A stack of DVDs is on the coffee table. A big bowl of popcorn is on his bed. And there’s extra pillows for me to lean on because he knows I love the extra pillows.
“Wow,” I say. “This is impressive.”
“Thank you, thank you.”
“You didn’t have to do all this.”
“I know. But I wanted to.”
Nash is into obscure and/or retro movies. I’m not so much into the obscure, but I’m definitely liking the retro. This one time when we were burned out on the longest lab write-up ever, we took a movie break. He wanted to watch this one called Pump Up the Volume, but I voted for When Harry Met Sally, which started this whole detailed critique of every eighties movie Nash had ever seen. So now he has a stack of eighties movies, some that I’ve heard of and some that I haven’t, and watching them together is his plan. Which I think rocks.
It feels really good being friends with Nash again. I can sense something changing between us, shifting back to where it was before. And the way we’re laughing and talking, it’s just like we’ve been friends this whole time. Like he never tried to kiss me. Like I never rejected him. Just like we used to be.
February-April
28
Nash has a new shirt. News like this would normally seem so uneventful that it wouldn’t even be classified as news. But with Nash, it’s a whole different story.
This is major.
Nash never has new shirts. All of his clothes look like they’re from some unidentifiable time period when the things people wore just weren’t cool. Oversize flannels, strange jeans, outdated sneakers, like that. He’s never really cared about his clothes before. And even though he’s taller than he was at the beginning of the year, everything still seems to fit. More or less. I always feel like I just want to grab him and take him to the Notch and force him to buy stuff from this decade.
His new shirt rocks.
“You have a new shirt,” I notify him. We’re on his bed, watching another retro movie. This one’s about a slacker boy who likes the valedictorian and how they get together after graduation.
“Oh, yeah. Do you like it?”
“I love it. Where’d you get it?”
“Urban Outfitters.”
“Get out.”
“Yeah, I think—”
“That’s not possible.” There’s no way Nash not only got a new shirt, but actually went to a cool store to get it. I didn’t even know he knew what Urban Outfitters was.
“Why not?”
“When was the last time you got a new shirt?”
“Uh . . .” Nash thinks. “Like . . .” He thinks some more.
“Never mind. I’ve never seen you with a new shirt.”
“Well, now you have.”
“Apparently. So when did you get it?”
“I didn’t. Rachel got it for me.”
I should have known this was Rachel’s influence. She’s definitely having an effect on Nash. Why else would he suddenly get a fashion clue?
“It’s nice,” I say.
“Thanks.”
“So. How are things going with you guys?”
“Great.”
“You never told me you liked her. I didn’t even know you were going out until you showed up that day at Claire’s.”
“Yeah.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Oh. Well . . . I guess I didn’t want to jinx it. Or anything.”
Nash tells me this funny story involving a Rubik’s Cube from their first date and I wonder why I want to hear it but at the same time I don’t. Why can’t I just be happy for him? Why does everything always have to bother me so much?
I reach for the popcorn at the same time Nash does. Our hands touch in the bowl.
“When did she get you that shirt?” I go.
“Yesterday. Good thing, too, because I completely ignored my laundry.”
Nash has laundry issues. With Nash and his dad, there’s a lot of basic stuff they don’t know. They haven’t really learned how to do simple things like laundry. It’s not like his mom stopped to explain it on her way out the door. I remember this one time last year when Nash threw darks and lights into the same load and all of his white shirts came out pink. Or the time he left his wet clothes in the washing machine overnight and everything smelled like mildew. That was gross.
This shirt is a total improvement over all that laundry drama.
I’m like, “Wow, so . . .”
Technically, Nash and I are friends. Which means we should be able to talk about the normal stuff that friends talk about, like who we’re going out with and what we did with them.
“. . . so you guys are . . .”
Only, the other stuff gets in the way. Like how I know Nash liked me as more than a friend.
“. . . getting serious,” I conclude.
“I know.”
Now that I think about it, I don’t want to hear about Rachel any more than Nash probably wants to hear about Derek.
29
I once read that time doesn’t really exist. It’s just a concept invented by humans. And how quickly time passes depends on the way we’re perceiving it. Like, when I’m making out with Derek, time accelerates to warp speed. But when I’m at work or waiting around until the next time I can see him, one second takes forever. Let’s just say that time’s been passing really quickly lately.
We’ve been spending every day we can together. All I want to do is be with him. And when I’m not with him, all I can think about is the next time I can be with him. We kiss for hours. I never thought just kissing could be so intense. But it is. So things are getting serious. Derek even told me he loved me on Valentine’s Day. Of course I told him I love him back. That was four days ago and I’ve been ecstatic ever since.
Well, until today. Today has two versions.
Version #1. The Way Things Were Supposed to Go.
When I get to school, Derek is already waiting for me at our spot. He kisses me. Two girls walking by stare at us with longing in their eyes. We walk in and own the hall with our perfect relationship, rising above the crumbling bits of all the breakups that have happened around us.
Version #2. What Actually Happened.
When I get to school, Derek’s not at our usual meeting spot on the front lawn next to the small tree. He’s always at our spot. I wait ten minutes for him in the wicked cold. Then I go in.
This sinking, nervous feeling attacks my stomach. I think I know why Derek’s not here. And where he is instead. But maybe that’s just my paranoia flaring up.
Don’t jump to conclusions. Think rationally based on real information.
“Hey, sexy!” Derek jogs up to me in the hall. He’s wearing the new shirt I picked out for him. It’s got that guy from the classic Maxell ad, sitting in a chair and being blown away by the speakers, which are blasting so hard his tie is flying out behind him. “Where you been?”
“I was waiting for you.”
“I was waiting for you!”
“Where?”
“At our spot.”
“Well, I was there and you weren’t.”
“Oh, did you get here early?”
I really don’t want to fight. Especially over something that’s probably nothing. So I’m like, “Whatev. Let’s just go.”
“Isn’t your homeroom the other way?”
“So? I was going to walk you.”
“Then you’ll be late.”
“No, I won’t. Or you could walk me.”
Derek smiles. “Then I’ll be late.” He kisses me in this way that’s so divergent from the kiss in Version #1 I don’t even know what to do with it.
“We can’t have that, now, can we?” I say, try
ing to minimize the sarcasm in my voice.
“Not so much. See you later.”
“Yeah,” I yell after him. “Later.” But he’s already halfway down the hall.
I’m in a horrendous mood all day. And not just because Derek is acting weird. Finally getting to be with him is exciting and exhausting at the same time. Sometimes it feels like I’m posing for him, like I’m acting a certain way I think he wants me to be, or how I wish I was. I don’t even know why I do it. I never feel totally comfortable around Derek, like I can just be myself.
In global, Ms. Maynard gives us a worksheet to do in groups. Darius is all over it. He’s half done already and we just got it two minutes ago.
Darius is back. And he’s on fire.
No one can touch him now. It’s like he was suddenly resurrected from the flames of academic destruction when the new semester started and now he’s got all this renewed energy that is full-on scary. He obviously figured out that the hard-core slackers he was hanging out with before weren’t worth his time. It was so strange seeing Darius with this pack of boneheads who think it’s cool to cut class and smoke and generally mess up their lives before their lives even have a chance to begin. I guess it’s further evidence that people can always shock you, no matter how well you think you have them figured out.
I can see how that crowd might be appealing at first. Imagine you’re Darius. Since kindergarten, you’ve been the overachiever, the kid who knows everything and thinks life is over if he gets an A-minus on one quiz. So after years of trying to be perfect, you’re tired, right? And here are some kids who, for whatever reason, want to let you into their group when you’ve never really belonged to any group before. You were always the loner, the freak, the nerd who sits alone at lunch. And now here’s your chance to belong. Even if it’s to a loser group, it’s still a group and you can still belong. If you change the way you dress. And the way you are. You just want to belong so badly and this group lets you in and you don’t care if it messes you up.
Waiting for You Page 11
