Ghosting

by Edith Pattou

  He will be Dr. Sayanantham number three.

  5. Me:

  Son number two.

  Expected to be

  Dr. Sayanantham number four.

  And even though, yes,

  science and math come easy,

  I love words, too.

  And I don’t know if I wish to follow

  in the footsteps of my

  cheeseburger-loving brother.

  The end result, these simple

  but puzzling equations:

  a ≤ b

  or

  a ≥ b

  or

  a ≠ b

  a being what is expected of me

  b being where my heart lies

  x being an unknown quantity

  utilized to figure out the intersection

  between them, assuming I ever

  find out what b actually is.

  EMMA

  I down a tall glass of Cran-Apple

  with crushed ice, too fast,

  but I can’t help it.

  It tastes so good, cold and tart,

  filling what feels like

  a bottomless thirst.

  I am exhilarated, wrung out,

  but keyed up,

  from an amazing practice.

  I love that feeling

  after I’ve pushed my body

  to its limit.

  It’s nice to have the kitchen to myself.

  No nagging from Mom.

  No questions from Faith.

  Sweet Faith, who watches me like a hawk,

  which can get annoying, sometimes,

  like she’s memorizing me.

  I like the quiet, but I miss Polly

  banging her tail against my sweaty legs,

  drooling and panting love all over me.

  Mom and Faith must’ve taken

  her with them on their

  last-week-before-school-starts errands.

  It’s Faith’s first year at the high school

  and even though quiet is her style,

  I can tell Faith is pumped.

  I don’t remember feeling like that,

  except for maybe the first time

  I went to soccer camp.

  It was the summer before 8th grade.

  I remember making out with the

  cute, blond assistant coach.

  A total rush, until he got clingy

  toward the end.

  Which was awkward.

  But high school, no.

  I’m so done with high school.

  Can’t wait to play soccer at Penn.

  I wish I could wave a wand

  and whoosh away

  the next nine months.

  My cell buzzes with a text

  from Brendan. Damn, I still haven’t

  told him about Saturday night.

  About how we have to drag

  Maxie Kalman along with us.

  Thanks to my mom.

  Saw Mrs. Kalman in the grocery store, Mom said. Poor thing, she looked miserable. I told her you’d include Maxie in your plans this weekend. She was so grateful.

  Maybe I’ll see if I can get Felix

  to join us, for old time’s sake.

  Brendan doesn’t mind Felix.

  Who could mind Felix?

  Not the winner he used to be,

  but still a good kid.

  Maxie and I and Felix were tight

  back when we were kids.

  Lemonade stands, kickball, the whole bit.

  But that was a long time ago.

  I hope she isn’t too weird now.

  She always was the artistic type.

  Whatever.

  As long as she doesn’t ruin

  Saturday night.

  CHLOE

  “I Am/I Am Not”

  My mom is big into personal inventories.

  Back when Dad dumped her

  and right before she became a realtor,

  she stocked up on all these self-help books

  and they all told her

  to make a list of who she is

  and who she hopes to be.

  She’s always trying to get me

  to do them, but I always refuse.

  They remind me of those “I am” poems

  we did back in 5th grade.

  I am cheerful and tan.

  I wonder if I will ever finish this poem.

  I hear the sound of one hand clapping.

  I see rainbows and unicorns.

  I want a boyfriend and a new smartphone.

  I am cheerful and tan.

  Okay, I don’t think that’s really

  what I wrote in 5th grade,

  but close.

  So here’s my up-to-date, honest,

  anti personal inventory.

  What I’m not:

  a cheerleader.

  a soccer player, or a jock of any kind.

  an art nerd.

  a math and science nerd.

  a Christian nerd.

  a drama geek.

  a Harry Potter freak.

  Oh, and I’m not:

  smart.

  quick with a comeback.

  careful.

  What I am:

  a klutz.

  pretty.

  cheerful, or at least decent at faking it.

  What I am good at:

  babysitting.

  picking out clothes.

  makeup.

  blow-drying,

  showering, and exfoliating.

  cleaning my room.

  sex.

  What I’m not good at:

  just about everything else.

  MAXIE

  Mom kept at me about Emma,

  to call her just as soon

  as we moved back.

  You two were best friends, Mom said.

  That was a long time ago, I answered.

  I kept putting it off.

  It’s not like we stayed in touch

  while I was gone.

  She’s the one who faded away,

  stopped writing,

  stopped calling.

  She’s probably too busy with soccer, Mom would say.

  Yeah, right.

  But I understood,

  life goes on.

  It’s not like we can

  just pick up

  where we left off.

  But to get Mom

  off my back

  I sent Emma

  an e-mail.

  A few days later:

  Jeez, sorry, I just saw this. Never look at e-mail,

  what’s your cell? I’ll text :)

  But she didn’t.

  Then my mom ran into her mom

  at the grocery store.

  After that Emma texted me.

  Sorry!! Crazy busy. Free Sat night?

  Can’t wait to see you!

  Yeah, right.

  Thursday, August 26

  ANIL

  1. Girlfriend:

  Chloe Carney,

  for the past month and a half.

  At least I think she is.

  The code for these things

  mystifies me in a way that

  math equations

  never do.

  Especially since I’ve never

  had a girlfriend before.

  And what kind of dumb luck is it

  that Chloe Carney should be my first.

  Chloe Carney, with her looks that stop traffic.

  Literally.

  (I saw a pickup truck

  rear-end an SUV last week.

  On account of Chloe Carney

  and her blue sundress.)

  2. Let’s be honest:

  I am not Chloe Carney’s usual type.

  I’m

  not good-looking,

  not a lacrosse player,

  not white.

  3. How it began:

  After teaching junior clinics all morning

  Zander and I were goofing around on the


  tennis courts.

  Some kid from the community pool

  next to the courts kept hollering “Marco Polo”

  in this high-pitched pirate accent

  that cracked Zander up.

  So I kept hammering his backhand.

  Beat him 6–0.

  I didn’t even notice Chloe Carney

  watching through the chain-link, but Zander did.

  At the changeover he told me a hot blonde

  was checking me out.

  I didn’t believe him. Looked over,

  but she was gone by then.

  But later, when Zander and I were leaving,

  this girl from my class, with honey-blonde hair,

  was hanging out by the tennis shop.

  Chloe Carney.

  I knew her name because she’s one of those girls

  whose name you just know, everyone knows.

  She said something dumb like

  Hey, Mr. Six-Pack.

  I don’t usually play without a shirt,

  but it was blistering hot that day

  and I was soaked through

  and I’d had this reckless so-what feeling,

  so I stripped off my shirt after the first set.

  Reckless.

  Good word

  when it comes to describing how

  Chloe Carney makes me feel.

  She said she’d seen me at the high school

  and wasn’t I on the tennis team and what was

  my name?

  I said Anil. Then introduced her to Zander.

  He’s on the team, too.

  But she didn’t seem to care.

  Hey, Anil, Zander said, let’s go. I gotta get home.

  Nice meeting you, Anil, Chloe Carney said.

  Polite words.

  But she said my name like it was

  some exotic, mouthwatering candy

  from World Market.

  4. That weekend:

  a party at a kid’s house,

  and Chloe was there.

  She and her friend Emma came up to me.

  This is Anil who’s a tennis player, Chloe said, and he’s ripped.

  Emma rolled her eyes and then eased away,

  calling someone’s name.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off you, Chloe said in a husky, flirty voice.

  Then she laughed,

  and I laughed back.

  5. How could I say no to Chloe Carney?

  How could anyone?

  She is one of the prettiest girls I’ve ever seen.

  Hair the color of clover honey,

  with all sorts of shifting lights in it.

  Deep blue eyes.

  Royal blue.

  I haven’t brought Chloe Carney home,

  but my parents know about her.

  The only thing my father said,

  It’s okay to have fun, Anil, but be careful.

  Use protection.

  Which made me blush,

  but he was using his white-coat doctor voice

  so it was okay.

  And remember, he went on, once school starts you’re going to be busy.

  6. Busy, yes.

  My senior year:

  Tennis team captain

  School newspaper editor

  AP classes

  International Baccalaureate

  College applications, more than one, in case, God forbid,

  I don’t get into Columbia.

  7. But sometimes it’s nice

  to feel

  no pressure.

  Just be

  reckless,

  with Chloe Carney.

  MAXIE

  I am not ready to walk

  through the doors to

  George Washington High School

  on Monday morning.

  Even though

  when I was

  a kid I

  couldn’t wait.

  In middle school I’d walk by

  George Washington High School,

  watching kids in their hoodies

  and ratty sneakers,

  smoking cigarettes,

  swearing at each other.

  I wanted that.

  I still remember the day Mom

  told me we were moving to Colorado

  and I’d be going to high school

  at some place called East High,

  which I had never seen

  and where I wouldn’t know

  a single person.

  I felt cheated,

  betrayed.

  Like my parents had

  stolen my future.

  But it wasn’t so bad.

  I made a few friends,

  learned how to ski,

  and, most important,

  had this awesome teacher,

  Mrs. Gablowski.

  She’s the one who put

  a camera in my hands

  for the first time

  and told me I was a natural:

  observer,

  composer,

  finder of moments.

  So here I am, back again.

  A senior.

  At George Washington High School.

  I feel like I’m going

  the wrong way in a

  revolving door.

  I’ll know people

  but not really.

  And they’ll know me

  but not really.

  I’ll have to start over,