Every Girl's Guide to Heartache

by Marla Miniano

  But I am done being the bigger person. So I look him straight in the eye and tell him with conviction, “I said, fuck you, Nico.” No explanation, no elaboration. I get up off the sand, walk back to my room, and lock the door behind me. I need to talk to someone I can really trust, and I hope Anna’s not busy. I reach for my phone and blink at the screen. Thirty missed calls. One from Anna. One from Rickie. Two from Nathan. Eight from Mommy. Eighteen from Daddy. It starts ringing, and I stare at it with my mouth hanging open.

  “Hi, Nathan,” I answer. “What’s wrong?”

  “Chrissy, where are you?”

  “I’m in Zambales with Nico and Enzo.”

  He doesn’t say anything for what feels like hours. And then, “I’m really sorry, Chrissy. I didn’t know.”

  “What? Nathan, what’s going on?” I am desperate for someone to tell me this is not what I think it is, but all I hear are three short beeps at the other end of the line. Call duration, 00:48:16.

  My phone starts ringing again. Crap crap crap. I press Accept in a daze.

  “Dad,” I say, barely able to keep my voice from trembling.

  “You are going to pack your bags and come straight home right this minute,” he tells me. He sounds firm yet calm and detached, like a stranger barking out orders, and tears spring to my eyes. “I don’t care how late it is, I don’t care what you’re feeling, I don’t care what you think your mom and I did to deserve this. I just spoke to Nico’s parents. The driver is bringing the both of you back here tonight. Now hurry up and get ready. Don’t make this worse than it already is.”

  “Daddy, please, I’m so sorry, I didn’t think you’d find out...”

  “Exactly.” His voice has softened—temporarily stripped of all the anger, it echoes mostly of grave disappointment. “You didn’t think we’d find out.” And then he hangs up. I wonder if I will ever be able to repair this damage.

  Someone knocks on my door, and I open it to find Nico with his hands in his pockets. He looks nervous and scared and guilty. “I’m sorry,” he tells me. I am still crying, and he tries to hug me but I push him away. I sit on my bed and he stands there, shifting from foot to foot. “I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he says. “You know me, Chris. I would never do this to you on purpose.”

  I shake my head at him. “I don’t even know you anymore.”

  He sits beside me. This time, I don’t push him away. He says, “You know that’s not true.”

  I stare at my knees. I know we are supposed to be getting into the car at this moment, and that I might subconsciously be doing this just to delay our return, but I also know that if I don’t say this right now, I may never again have the chance or the courage to. I know it’s about time I bring this up, because everything hinges on whether it is fact or fiction: “I thought you came back for me.”

  Nico struggles to come up with the best way to let me down, then decides to just be honest and direct. “I came back for myself.” Funny how we spend most days of our lives avoiding the complex truths we don’t want to hear, and yet they always become so simple and solid once they’re said out loud. The truth becomes irrevocable once it’s brought out into the open—and maybe that’s why we’re constantly concealing it in the shadows.

  “I knew you’d be different,” I tell him. “I expected the changes; I knew you wouldn’t be coming back as the same person who left more than two years ago.” And this was true—I was sensible enough to know that it was possible for him to outgrow me, that it was possible for us to drift apart. “But no matter how much two people change, I think they have to believe that underneath all the layers, they are still fundamentally one and the same. I think that’s a requirement for friendship, and for love, because otherwise, there just won’t be enough common ground to build anything upon.” I cannot even look at him at this point, but I urge myself to go on. “I knew you’d be different. But I didn’t know we’d be different. I would never leave you by yourself at a party. I would never take advantage of our friendship by stretching it as far as it could go without actual commitment. I would never let you think you aren’t special or important enough. I would never make you feel as confused and uncertain as you’ve been making me feel lately. And I would never even entertain the thought of making you lie to your parents.”

  He cannot look at me, either. “We used to be so alike, weren’t we?”

  It takes every ounce of strength in me to be able to admit this to him, and to myself. “It’s never going to work, Nico.” And he just says again, “I’m sorry.”

  Best friends don’t hurt each other.

  The ride home is quick and quiet. He welcomes the silence without the slightest tinge of discomfort, like it is the most natural thing in the world. Like it is something he is used to, like it has always been this way. I don’t even have to tell him that I have run out of things to say, that there is nothing right or real left between us anymore. He knows. I guess he always has.

  I sit on the couch opposite my parents. Mom looks like she’s about to cry. Dad looks like he’s about to start yelling. Both of them look like they are trying and failing to make sense of me.

  The first time I lied to them was when I was nine. They gave me money to pay for my intrams shirt, giving me strict instructions to put it in my wallet inside my bag. Instead, I stuffed it into my uniform’s pocket, and after running around in the playground during recess, discovered that I had lost it. Anna had enough cash for two shirts, so she was able to cover for me. But I still had to pay her back. So I lied and told Mom and Dad we were required to buy another shirt, which isn’t a very brilliant idea because of course they asked to see both shirts and I could only show them one. I wanted to die. Instead, I promised them I would never lie to them again. And I’ve kept that promise. Until now.

  So I haven’t had much practice lying, which explains why I’m such a terrible liar. I can tell them this is all Nico’s fault, that he was the one who came up with this intricate scheme, that I didn’t have a choice but to take his lead. But this isn’t true. I did have a choice. I’ve always had a choice. I could have said no. I could have told him to go ahead without me. This morning, I could have demanded he march right back downstairs and retract all the lies he told my parents. But I didn’t, because it would have been too much work to stand up for myself. It would have been too much work to stop Nico from turning me into someone I’m not.

  Dad speaks first. “Did you really believe we’d never find out?” Maybe this is what hurts the most for a parent, the fact that his child is arrogant enough to think she can get away with anything because she is younger and faster and supposedly smarter. Maybe this hurts the most because they’ve been trusting me enough to treat me like an adult all along, and I have betrayed this trust by going behind their backs. Maybe I should have known better—of course they’d find out. They’re my parents.

  I reply, “I wanted to.”

  Mom says, “I thought you’d be more responsible than this.”

  I say the only thing you’re supposed to say when you fall short of somebody’s expectations: “I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”

  “Nathan showed up with chicken soup and bottles of orange juice, saying he hoped you were feeling better. I asked him why he wasn’t in Zambales with the rest of the Student Council for the weekend sports clinic, and he said, ‘What weekend sports clinic?’ And it confirmed what I’ve been suspecting since this morning.” Dad speaks evenly, like he is just narrating the events of a regular day.

  “One month,” Mom says. “No phone calls, no texting, no Internet, no going out, no parties, no shopping, no visitors, and definitely no out-of-town trips. You are to come home straight after school, except when you have Student Council meetings, which I shall have to verify beforehand.” She pauses. “You want to act like a little kid, then prepare to be treated like a little kid.”

  I nod stoically. I don’t argue. I have no right to.

  “Good,” Dad says. “Now go up to your room.”
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br />   I trudge upstairs and close the door behind me. I set down my overnight bag on my bed and start unpacking. I need to do something systematic, something that doesn’t involve emotions. I re-fold my clean clothes and place them in my closet, then line my toiletries up by height on the sink. I toss my empty bag onto the bathroom floor, but something clinks against the tiles, and I open it expecting to find a broken perfume bottle, or a shattered compact mirror. Instead, I find Nico’s silver watch, a thin crack running across its glass face. Oh no, why is this with me? And then I remember—Nico asked me to put it in his bag when he went surfing with Enzo, and I must have absent-mindedly put it inside mine. He always did this when we were younger: he’d ask me to hold on to a handkerchief or a piece of gum, or lend me a book or a CD, then forget all about it. He’d often call me at odd hours, asking me if he had left a jacket or a folder or a set of keys with me. I’d scramble to look for whatever item he was missing, knowing I was partly accountable for it. I’d swear to never allow him to leave stuff with me again, and he’d laugh and tell me, “If you say so, Chrissy.” And then he’d do it all over again. He was so careless with his belongings, and I was so careful about making myself better, making sure I was somebody he could count on. I wonder what I should do with his watch now. Should I wait for him to realize it’s gone, or return it right away? He is always losing things; I am always losing him.

  Rule number 10:

  Open your eyes to the

  infinite possibilities.

  .

  It is always just a matter of perspective. When you realize “no Internet” means “no online advice column,” you can choose to see it as a positive thing; you need a break from it all anyway. In between classes, you describe the parental situation to your friend Anna and ask her to post a note explaining that you are going to be on leave for a while, and that you would be back soon. Besides, you don’t think you’re in any position to be giving good advice right now, so maybe it’s all for the best.

  It is always just a matter of perspective. You can choose to look at being grounded as an opportunity to rest: catch up on your reading, spend time with yourself, update your old-fashioned journal, watch the DVDs of foreign movies you’ve never gotten the chance to sit down with, and just lie on your bed staring off into space and thinking about why you’re grounded in the first place. You can choose to look at being grounded as a vacation from your own normal fast-paced life, as something that will be beneficial in the long run.

  It is always just a matter of perspective. When your parents are mad at you, you can either sulk and insist it wasn’t your fault, or get up off your ass to earn back their trust and approval. When your parents are mad at you, you can bring them breakfast in bed every day, offer to wash the car or do the dishes, and write them a long, sincere, heartfelt apology letter. You can prove that you are still “responsible” and “mature” and “level-headed,” even if you make the wrong decisions sometimes. You can prove that they have still done a wonderful job raising you, even though you can be stubborn and inconsiderate and childish. You can be persistent enough in showing how sorry you are, until they finally smile at you and start talking to you again.

  It is always just a matter of perspective. When you’re stuck at home on a Friday night, you try not to think of it as torture. Instead, you knock on the door of your little brother’s room and tell him how much you’ve missed him. You’ve been too caught up in your own life that you’ve sort of been ignoring him recently, and you’d like to make it up to him. And so you watch cartoons, and eat cookies, and play board games. He asks, “You wanna draw?” and you say, “Okay.” You sit on the floor with a basket of crayons, drawing mountains and flowers and trees and houses. You peek at his paper, expecting to see a bunch of stick figures. Instead, you see actual portraits of people, with very realistic-looking eyes and ears and noses and mouths. Impressed, you ask, “Wow, Justin, how did you learn to draw like this?” and he replies, “Kuya Nathan taught me.” You ask, “When?” and he says, “The weekend after Gio moved away. He came over to cheer me up.” He tells you, “His basic rule was, ‘Draw what you love.’ And I like drawing people, so I’ve been practicing.” He shows you a booklet full of sketches of a girl who looks quite familiar. Your brother says, “Kuya Nathan left that with me. It’s his sketchbook. He says it might inspire me.” And you realize that the girl looks familiar because she looks a lot like...you. A happy you, a sad you, an annoyed you, a bored you—all captured fondly by hands belonging to someone who obviously appreciates all these various aspects and facets of yourself. Draw what you love, he said. And he chose to draw YOU.

  It is always just a matter of perspective. When you see Nathan in school after dismissal the following Monday, you can be mad at him for ratting you out to your parents, for visiting your house and winning over your little brother without your knowledge, for being the reason why you’re grounded right now. Or, you can be happy that he’s in front of you at this moment. You can be happy that he seems to have forgiven you for everything you’ve done. You can be happy that, when it all amounts to something, the pure, simple truth is that he loves you.

  It is always just a matter of perspective. This is what you can do: You can take his hand and thank him. For being patient, for being understanding, for being who he is. You can thank him for giving you time and space, for driving you home and taking care of you, for stepping aside and being the bigger person, for knowing you needed help even when you didn’t ask for it and probably didn’t deserve it. For always being in the background of your life.

  You can say, “I hope you’re doing fine with Queenie Cooper,” to which he will reply, “I’m not with her. We’re friends. We have fun. But that’s it.” And then you can say, “I really thought you’d be good together,” and he will say, “Maybe. But she’s not you, Chrissy.”

  And then you can wait for him to squeeze your hand and smile at you like you are the only person in the world, or at least the only person in the world for him. You can wait for him to tell you, “It has always been just you. And it will always be just you,” before putting an arm around you and offering to walk you to your car.

  You can wait for him to do this. Because he will.

  Dear friends,

  My month-long hiatus is over. My parents have finally taken pity on me and un-grounded me, and it feels great knowing things can go back to the way they were.

  But here’s the thing: I don’t want things to go back to exactly the way they were. This past month has made me realize so much, and mostly, it made me realize that change is inevitable. There has been a lot of speculation about my life lately (and I really don’t get that—I am not interesting at all), and maybe it’s time to clear things up. Yes, Nathan and I are officially a couple now. We’re trying to take things slow, working on building both the friendship and the romantic relationship. Nico has decided to move back to the States with Enzo; he feels he can find himself better there. He has promised me that if he ever comes back here again, he will do it for the right reasons.

  Forgiveness—I guess that’s what this past month has truly been about. People hurt you, and lie to you, and take you for granted, and treat you badly, but eventually you learn to forgive. You learn to forgive because you have your own shortcomings and imperfections. You learn to forgive because life is too short to be bitter and angry. You learn to forgive because it is the only way you can move forward.

  Which is why I hope you guys can forgive me for closing this site down. My mind is already made up—this site has fully served its purpose, and I thank you all for sharing this with me. Someday, I’d like to be able to be heard in this way again. But right now, I have my own problems to find solutions for, my own mistakes to make, my own dreams to chase, and ultimately, my own happiness to create.

  Because, much like you, I am still learning.

  Love lots,

  Chrissy

  Next in the Every Girl’s Guide series:

  Every Girl’s Guide to Flingsr />
  Rule number 1:

  Know where to start.

  Hi, I’m Ericka Barcelona. Some people know me as Rickie, the wayward friend of good girls Anna and Chrissy—the girl in short skirts and high heels who has a hip party to go to every Saturday night, who so-and-so dated or so-and-so had a summer fling with—and I can’t really say I mind.

  But most people know me as the sister of Alexa Barcelona, ”theater’s next big thing”, “favorite teen leading lady,” which translate to only one thing—superstar.

  She came home last night in a good mood, as usual, telling our parents how the audience hung on to her performance. Of course, she was being all modest and humble and trying to downplay how amazing everyone thought she was, as usual. My parents gave her their full attention, as usual, listening to her story like they were not yet used to their daughter being so extraordinary. I simultaneously tried to tune them out and keep my ears peeled for the point where they finish fawning over her. I sulked in a corner of the living room, flipping through a gossip magazine as I waited. As usual.

  And then she said, “Mom, Dad, do you remember Timmy Fernandez?”

  “Your Philosophy classmate?” Mom asked. Of course she remembered. Lexi has had a crush on Timmy since heaven knows when. But then again, every other guy on the planet has a crush on Lexi. Timmy also happened to be Anna’s older brother, but I guess my mom wouldn’t know that, since she’s never had a single decent conversation with my friends.