by Niki Hager
The tone in his voice tells me he is not pleased.
"What? Why didn't you do something with Marty?"
"She was out of the state visiting friends, so to top it off, she wasn't even in the same time zone."
"Oh. I'm sorry that sucks." I scrunch up my nose.
"I told her I didn't mind she was going because I have my own tradition."
Ouch, I know where this is headed.
"I told her all about how we stay in and order Chinese and play scrabble and cards. Every year. How every year we watch the ball drop together."
"I'm sorry," I say, ashamed. "I thought because we both had a boyfriend and girlfriend we for the first—”
"You didn't even talk to me first, Bee," he interrupts.
"I know, and I said I was sorry but you have to understand how now—"
"Now what? Now we don't tell each other things. Now we don't need each other anymore? I was practically the only thing to get you through high school, and then this is how it is? You get a boyfriend and none of what I do matters? With everything I've done for you, it all just ends."
Okay, now he's making me mad.
"You know, there are a lot of things you don't know about me. Some of it isn't good, but none of it is your fucking business anymore. How many times do I have to tell you? I don't need you to save me anymore. I need you to be my friend while I work on myself now. I thought you would be happy. Happy for me and happy you are officially off the hook when it comes to me being your problem. I shouldn't have to feel guilty for something I'm not at fault for."
"You were never my problem! You were my best friend," he whispers the last part.
"You still are my best friend," I remind him as my eyes fill up with tears.
He looks at me for a long ten seconds or so and then turns around and walks into his bedroom. He closes the door softly, but I definitely hear it lock.
The next morning, I wake to the smell of coffee, which is completely unusual because Enzo doesn't drink it. I'm sure I look like one of those cartoon characters who float with their nose in the air as I follow the aroma out of my bedroom and into the kitchen. When I get there, I see Enz already pouring my cup.
"What are you up to today?" he asks me while he hands me my cup.
"Oh, you know, crying on the corner of Stupid Street and Overwhelming Avenue."
"I had a dream about you last night." Weird.
"Did you?" I ask.
"Yep, you drowned in a swimming pool filled with hot coffee," he says with a smirk.
"Nice. Love me or hate me because both are in my favor," I recite the famous Shakespeare quote we sometimes say to each other when we bicker. "All right, Miles Teller, your dry sarcasm is on point this morning; keep it up, and I'm gonna start thinking you're just a jackass."
"If you're done trying to be so am-bitch-ous this morning, I was thinking we should probably talk," he says with a half smile.
He waves at the table chair he has already pulled out, silently asking me to stay. I hesitantly sit down and take a sip of my coffee before I decide to go ahead and start speaking my mind.
"Long story short, the difference between you and me, Enz, is significant. When you go to bed at night and you have a nightmare, for example, me being hit by a car," I sarcastically add in the second part, "you can wake up. My nightmares don't end. I live them. I went out for New Years’ and for the first time in a very long time, my nightmare ended. I wasn't worried or nervous, and I didn't feel different. I felt like I fit in. These people were just as weird as I am. I may have ended up puking all night, but I still had an epiphany. I saw what I was missing. When I was around them just hanging out it was like I was being pulled out of my personal darkness for a while …"
"You said long story short a helluva long time ago, wrap it the fuck up will ya."
"I didn't have a single attack."
"Fair enough. But, why? Was it the alcohol or the people?"
"C'mon, I really didn't want to ruin everything by overthinking."
"You are pretty creative," he tells me.
"What does creativity have to do with anything?" I ask confused.
"Well, creativity can be used in many ways. You, for example, use yours in two ways. The best of it is shown through your painting."
"Thanks," I say with a bit of pride.
"And the worst use of your creativity, shows in your anxiety. Your ability to create such detailed and dynamic ‘what if’ scenarios in your head." Damn.
"Very true," I admit with a whisper.
"So, if you say Roman and his friends and their parties are helping you get through your stuff, I will trust you. In fact, I will support you one hundred percent."
"Enz, you have no idea how much your support means to me."
I get up and go over to him to give him a big hug.
"I'm sorry I missed the ball drop with you."
He leans in to whisper in my ear, "Remember something for me, will ya? There is absolutely nothing wrong with your selective participation. It means you're a good judge of character, okay?"
"Okay," I agree. "You know, maybe things are falling into place instead of apart for me after all."
"Dear John"
Don't Lose Touch-Against Me
Rigbee
won’t do anything stupid, promise
Roman is trying too hard to assure me through text. He is in Miami for a paintball tournament for the next few days. I guess I could have gone with him since first semester is over and we've been on break since before Christmas, but I thought I would let him do his guy thing and I can hang out with Enzo a little bit. Since Enz and I had the spat on New Years’ Day, things have been much better with us. Things have gotten back to normal around here.
Me: didn't ask you to not do anything I text back, perplexed by his random outburst.
I know but now that I have you I don't feel I have to go out drink and get high
Having you is my high
Bug
I receive the next three messages back to back, my phone now sounding spastic with the ping ping ping.
I miss you more than you know
Another one, wow.
Me: Miss you too xoxoxo
I wait a few moments. When I don't get anything back, I assume we're done texting for the night, so I plug my phone in on my nightstand and get ready for bed. A little while later, I hear the new ping of the incoming message.
I wish I could reach out and touch that skin of yours right now. If this goddamn phone and so many miles weren't in the way you have no idea
Damn. I have no idea what has gotten into him, but whatever it is, I think I like it.
Me: Ooooh talk dirty to me :-)
I'm lying in my comfy bed surrounded with blankets and pillows. I seem to have subconsciously built and tried to bury myself inside a pillow fort, which ends up being appropriate because I feel like an overexcited child right now with where our conversation is going.
After my last text, I really thought he was going to continue with the sexy talk, but to my disappointment, I didn't receive anything after the last one. What a bummer, but it is getting late. I lean over and turn off my side lamp and try to get some much needed sleep.
The next day, I decide it would be a good idea to take the time Roman's away at his tournament to get to know Marty a little bit. As Enzo's girlfriend, I have no doubt she must be a pretty bad ass human being. Every time I've seen her has been a pleasant experience, but so far it's been mostly just in passing. So today I suggested we all go out for coffee.
"What's the name of the band again?" Enzo wonders.
"They're called Against Me! and they're actually really good for being pretty heavy," I tell him.
"And it's in Toronto?" Marty asks me with slight reservation in her tone.
"Yeah, but Roman said he'd drive there, and Lyle will drive back, so no worries about the driving situation. We'll all fit in the same car."
"All right, sweet. What do ya say, Marty? You wanna go?"
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I notice how excited Enzo looks when he turns to Marty for her response.
"Yeah, it sounds fun," she answers, but her hesitance is still apparent. Enz seems pretty oblivious to it.
"We're not driving home the same night, are we?" Enzo asks.
Maybe driving at night is what Marty was hesitant about, makes sense. I try to comfort her a bit by letting her know everything will be situated.
"Nope, we already have a hotel room booked right down the road from the venue. Everyone will fit if someone sleeps on a cot or the floor. Lyle, I'm guessing," I reassure her with an encouraging smile.
"Perfect," she tries to say upbeat, but I can tell by the look in her eyes she is still uneasy about something. There is more to her, and I wonder what it is.
Well, we found out what Marty was so apprehensive about once we arrived at the Canadian border.
It took us an hour to get to the border by Windsor. Thank goodness we chose to go through Windser and not Sarnia, due to Lyle wanting to stop by some strip club named Cheeta's or something, because, as it turns out, we weren't allowed in the country.
When we pulled up to the Ambassador Bridge Border Crossing I was a little worried, I'm sure to anyone of authority we look like a bunch of punk kids, which we are, but I was still hoping to get through security without the full on search with the drug sniffing dogs—who are trained to attack you at the flick of a finger or a nod of the head.
We first pulled up to the booth and a guy asked for our identification and passports so we each handed it all over. Next, he asked us why we were visiting the country. Very standard questions. Stupid Lyle went ahead and answered for everyone before we even had a chance.
"To see a show, dude." His tone was defensive and arrogant.
The security man lifts an eyebrow and leans in to the window. "What show?"
"A punk show. You wouldn't know ‘em. Why does it matter?"
"What's in your trunk?" the man says, with a heavier sense of authority in his voice.
"Um … our stuff, obviously." Lyle rolls his eyes like he's bored with the customs guard and his highly important line of questioning.
"Sir, pull the car over." Fuck.
"C'mon, dude, really?" Enzo says to Lyle, confused and irritated, from his seat next to me in the back.
Roman is quietly sitting in the driver seat, seeming a little too calm for comfort. He's either really used to Lyle being this much of a dumbass, or he is silently steaming and plotting his murder. Either way, it's not good.
From the seat behind him, I knock Lyle over the head repeatedly with the magazine I was reading.
"What.” Smack. “The.” Smack. “Hell is wrong with you! You so clearly do not know how to act when being questioned by Border Patrol," I say furiously through my clenched teeth.
"That's who those people are, Border Patrol?" Lyle turns his head around and asks sincerely, actually not knowing who he was talking to.
"Are you friggen kidding me!" I throw my hands in the air in utter disbelief of how someone could be so oblivious. "Who else would it be? When they come back you, don't say one more word outta that mouth of yours or I swear I will throttle you!" I threaten him.
"Shit," Lyle mutters under a breath when he realizes his mistake.
"Yeah, Shit," Roman echoes.
He's showing his frustration now, as he pushes a hand threw his thick hair and then starts rubbing at the back of his neck.
"Guys, I should probably tell you—" Marty didn't get to finish her sentence before Border Patrol was at our car with the dreaded dogs, asking us to step out of our vehicle.
"Double shit."
"A convicted felon?" I over hear Enzo question Marty.
He took her over to the corner of the holding room we are currently sitting in, but the room isn't exactly big enough for us to not hear the argument. I'm sitting cross-legged in a flimsy, hard plastic chair which is killing my butt bone, and the chair is has nothing to do with why I'm super uncomfortable right now. I feel like I'm eavesdropping, even though I'm trying my best to not, on a conversation I shouldn't be a witness to.
I was worried she didn't have her passport or something fixable, but a convicted felon? I definitely did not see that one coming.
"I promise you, I really didn't know I wasn't allowed to leave the country. I mean, I thought maybe they would give us a hard time, but I didn't know this would happen, I swear!" Marty exclaims, as her eyes turn glossy. "It was a misunderstanding. I stole a phone from a store, but I really thought the whole thing was resolved by now." She lays her head in her hands.
"You stole a phone?"
"Yes."
"On purpose?"
"At the time, yes," she whispers, radiating a guilt and shame I'm not even sure she should feel.
"It wasn't a misunderstanding if you did it on purpose!"
Enzo is beginning to reach the same decibel he was at on New Years’ Day when he was pissed and howling at me.
"Stop yelling at me! It was a long time ago, and from a part of my life completely over."
"Yet, here we are, sitting in a holding room at the Canadian border!" Yep. He just leveled up.
The tears begin to escape the corners of Marty's eyes, and I watch with sympathy as they stream down, even though she was trying so hard to keep them in. She takes a hand, swipes quickly across both cheeks, and pretends they were never there at all. Standing up straighter now, she lifts her chin and looks Enzo square in the eyes.
"Enzo! Stop it already, she gets it! What's done is done, there is nothing more we can do about it," I try to reason with him. Listening to them fight is beginning to give me a panic attack. Marty walks over and sits in the plastic chair next to mine. I can see she's trying to fight back tears so I reach over and do the only thing I can do for her right now: I give her a hug. I think it took her by surprise because I feel her tense up next to me, but after a few seconds, she accepts the embrace and relaxes into it. I look over at Roman, and he nods his head at me in approval and gives me a wink. At the moment, I feel good. I am not the one breaking down in a holding cell at the Canadian border, I am the one giving comfort to the other girl.
So, needless to say, we were not let into Canada. After the thorough background checks, we were sent on our way back. You would think our border problems would end there, but oh no, that would be too easy, right? We were sent into the line of cars going over the border to get back into the U.S. This should be easier, right? Our mother country welcoming us back home. Nope.
"Why are you all crossing the border today?"
"We live here," Roman tells the woman.
"And how long have you all been in Canada?"
"We didn't even make it in," Lyle decides to chime in with an attitude.
"Pull over." Son-of-a-bitch.
I am seriously going to duct tape his mouth shut.
At least we didn't end up in a holding cell the second time around. No, this time we are standing on the side of the road, in Canada, in February, with no coats on, because apparently they need to be searched as well, while we watch strangers tear our car apart. We were told to leave everything in the car, including wallets and purses. I can see them pull everything out of our bags, throwing our shit around when they're done looking. No common courtesy whatsoever.
"They're not going to find anything anyways," Lyle scoffs.
"Looks like they found something," Roman says and points.
We all turn our attention to the car to see the three Border Patrol men inspecting something with confused looks on their faces.
Oh, no. No, no, no. This cannot be happening.
They press the button on the small object in question and jump at the start of it.
Okay, this is actually happening.
One of them tosses it to the other one in disgust, and then the second guy tosses it back as if it's a grenade about to go off. All three stand still for a moment, in surprise no doubt. At once, they all begin laughing. Hard. I watch in complete horror as they settle
down and try to contain themselves.
"What is that?" Roman squints his eyes to try to get a better look.
"Not mine," Enzo, Marty and Lyle all say.
I start fidgeting, in part from the cold and part from embarrassment. "C'mon, these guys are so unprofessional. I mean, it's not that funny," I think aloud, waving my hand toward the scene.
"If that's what I think it is, then yeah, it is kind of funny." Marty looks at me and shrugs one shoulder.
I give her my best eat shit and die look in return. I was comforting the girl not ten minutes ago, and now she's turned on me. Traitor.
The three men come walking up to us with my gadget, which they politely placed in a plastic bag.
"Which one of you does this item belong to?" Really? How is who the thing belongs to relevant?
"It's mine," I try saying with as much dignity as possible.
"Well, ma'am, I'm sorry, but any item of which is purposely made to replicate or imitate any other item, is required to be inspected. While doing so, I think we broke it. We apologize." The man did a pretty good job of talking with a straight face. What he really wanted to say was "We broke the doodad you use on your hoohaw when we played an unintended, yet violent, game of hot potato with it" but I don't think they're legally allowed to say that in so many words.
He hands me the plastic bag currently holding my metallic pink clit vibrator that doubles as a functioning pen. It's called the "Dear John" and it's actually very useful and incredibly discreet, as in it looks like a pen until you press the button. Well, it was discreet, until three Border Patrol men got ahold of it, anyway.
We dropped Marty off at her house and now we're on our way back to Canada. Again. At the rate we're going we'll get to the show by the headlining band, which is who we're going to see, but we'll barely make it. I would've liked to have been early. It's an anxiety thing. Enzo knows it too. My knee has been shaking, and I've been tapping my fingers repeatedly. Enzo places his hand on my knee and gives me a look, silently telling me, "It'll be fine."
"So, do you really use your thing?"
"Lyle!" I shout and then groan into my hands.
"What? I'm just asking." He shrugs his shoulders.
