First, Last, and Always

by Lehman, Kim

  I remember this one time when we were at a park around the corner from our house. We’d spent hours rolling around in the grass, just the two of us. We had started off that day looking for pebbles among the crevices of the grass and dirt beneath the jungle gym, and somehow our pebble-hunting adventure turned into a day of rolling down hills like logs and cartwheeling side by side. Grass stains speckled our clothes, and dirt dusted our skin, but we didn’t care. Our laughter somersaulted downhill with us. Every now and again we would crash into each other and for some reason we found this sidesplittingly funny. “You ran into me,” I had choked out between heaving gasps.

  “No, you ran into me.” Alexa chortled.

  “I can’t breathe.”

  “Me either,” Alexa shot back, and as if she had delivered a punch line, we both roared with uncontrollable laughter until we were so exhausted from laughing and rolling and kicking that we couldn’t move, could hardly breathe, and all we could do was lie lifelessly, side by side, smiling up at the sky.

  “Alexa,” I had said when I was finally able to catch my breath, “you’re my favorite sister.”

  Alexa chuckled, still looking up at the clouds. “I’m your only sister, silly.”

  “You’re still my favorite,” I told her.

  Rolling over onto her side, she tucked her hand under her head. “Yeah,” she said with a sigh, a big smile planted on her face, “you’re my favorite sister too.”

  “Always?” I’d asked.

  She nodded. “Always,” she assured me.

  “What the hell are you staring at?” Alexa asks, realizing I’m standing behind her.

  “I...I was just thinking,” I say.

  She gives me a funny look. “Well stop. It’s creepy.”

  From the window, over Alexa’s shoulder, I look out and see Mom, Dad, Uncle Paul, and Aunt Claire sitting in the backyard. Mom and Dad are in lounge chairs, a glass of wine and a beer respectively in each hand. Sitting on a blanket, Aunt Claire curls up next to Uncle Paul as Dad makes a comment, which must be humorous, because everyone laughs. Uncle Paul responds, but I don’t focus on what he’s saying. It’s Aunt Claire I’m watching closely, who is gazing up at him. When he’s finished talking she reaches over, as if it’s a natural movement in the moment, and she tucks her hand into his. Affectionately, he smiles back at her.

  “Why aren’t you outside with everyone else?” I ask.

  She gives me a look like I have five heads, like my question could not be more ridiculous. “I’m going to bed,” is all she says. There’s a moment when I think she’s about to say more, but then she closes her mouth. Hurrying past me, she scowls and heads up the stairs. I stand there for a moment wondering if it was something I said. It’s always hard to tell. Our understanding of each other seems to diminish more and more every day. Maybe that’s what popularity does? It slowly disconnects you from reality, creates a world where you become bigger than everyone else until you wake up one day and you actually believe you are bigger than everyone else?

  Sliding open the glass door to the back porch, I walk outside. “Hi,” I announce.

  “Hey!” a chorus erupts.

  “I just wanted to say goodnight. I’m heading up to my room.”

  “How was your night?” Mom asks.

  “It was fun,” I say. “We had a good time.” I decide to leave out the part where Miles was dressed up in drag and I spent ten minutes banging on the door outside begging him to let me in after I laughed in his face.

  “You babysat with a friend, right?” Aunt Claire asks.

  I nod. “Yeah. Miles.”

  “Miles.” Mom smiles. “Such a nice boy.”

  Aunt Claire nods in agreement. “I like him.”

  “Isn’t he your boyfriend?” Paul asks.

  “Friend,” I correct, blushing. Everyone always gets it wrong.

  “Hey,” Paul adds. “Where’s your sister? Where’s Alexa?”

  “She went to bed,” I say.

  Paul arches an eyebrow and looks over at my dad. “How is this possible? You have two teenage daughters going to bed before their parents?”

  Dad nods. “We threaten to have a family movie night.” Then he looks at me. “And when that doesn’t work, we beat them.”

  I roll my eyes. “Night, Dad.”

  “Night.” He winks.

  There’s another round of goodnights and good-byes with Mom and Claire before I head to my room, where I change into sweat pants and a T-shirt, then walk to the bathroom down the hall to brush my teeth. The door’s open. Alexa’s already there. We’re no strangers to brushing out teeth together. We used to do it all the time when we were younger, so it doesn’t feel weird to say, “You mind if I brush mine, too?”

  With a shrug, she scoots over at the sink.

  Wetting my brush, I squirt out the toothpaste and stick the bristly end in my mouth. When I smile at Alexa in the mirror, she rolls her eyes. Pausing she spits into the sink, then puts the brush back into her mouth, scrubbing the front teeth side-to-side. By now I have a mouth full of toothpaste, too. I go to spit. I pull the brush out of my mouth and lean over. Just as I lean Alexa spits again. With my head close to the sink, I close my eyes. Whatever was in her mouth missed the basin completely. Slowly, I lift my head. The frothy glob of toothpaste is dripping down my hair.

  Alexa lets out a guttural laugh. “That was awesome.” Looking at each other in the mirror, her toothpaste smirk, my toothpaste hair, she shakes her head. “Next time you should probably wait,” she says as if I planned to lean over at the exact time she planned to spit. I have no response to her comment.

  With laughter trailing behind her, she leaves me standing at the sink. I’m sure it was a total accident, but still, I can’t help thinking that “Always” is never as long as you think it’s going to be.

  4

  Miles

  Hanging on to hope can be courageous and dangerous, like riding a bike downhill without brakes. This is how I’ve looked at my relationship with Charlotte—like I’m accelerating down a long and windy hill, going from friendship to something more, trusting that someday the hill will level out and Charlotte will appear, waiting to grab me, and we reach for each other, the ride stops, and everything is as it should be. I believed this. I still believe this. I have to, but today in the cafeteria, on our fourth day of high school, a large branch fell into my path and knocked me off course.

  The cafeteria, as usual, is a mass of chaos—dozens of kids yapping and laughing and screaming. Charlotte, Lani, and I are standing off to the side, near the table with condiments, napkins, plastic spoons and forks. My eyes drift around the room, looking for a place to sit. I notice that the table we sat at the first few days of school is now occupied with people we don’t know. The only other table open is one between the derelicts and the jocks. I debate whether we should go in at all. “We could always eat lunch outside,” I suggest to Lani and Charlotte.

  “No way,” Lani says. “Let’s just grab the empty table.”

  Before we have a chance to move, Charlotte takes in a deep breath, her pupils get wide, and she stares straight ahead. I follow her eyes to a kid in jeans and a blue T-shirt. It appears he’s walking toward us. I watch him for another few seconds. He stops and stands directly in front of Charlotte. She’s frozen. It’s quite possible drool is also lingering from the corners of her mouth. I’ve never seen her like this before.

  “Hey, Grayson,” she says.

  Huh. So this is that guy.

  I really didn’t want to know who he was. I preferred to picture him as a scrawny, homely oaf who had pimples all over his body. He’s not, of course. Giving a quick glance up and down I’d suppose, by girls’ standards, that he’s good-looking, if you like that just-rolled-out-of-bed-and-threw-on-some-clothes look.

  Lani leans over and whispers in my ear, “That’s Grayson Miller.”

  Thank you, I want to tell her. I wasn’t sure if I could figure that one out.

  “Hi,” Grayson says to Ch
arlotte with a smile.

  His teeth are too white. No guy’s teeth are that white.

  Charlotte’s eyes widen as he leans toward her. I watch as she gulps. I catch myself gritting my teeth, unusually tense. I’m mentally preparing myself to jump in and help. Although if it came down to it, I’d probably call for help.

  “Uh...do you mind?” Grayson asks, extending his arm out, inching closer to Charlotte’s chest. Somewhere hidden deep under the epidermis, dermis, and hypodermis layers of skin, my muscles twitch.

  Charlotte looks dazed. “Huh?” She looks down and flinches as Grayson’s hand moves past her shoulder.

  “I just need to grab a few napkins,” Grayson says to Charlotte. “They’re right behind where you’re standing.”

  “Oh.” Charlotte’s face turns red. “Sure. Yeah.” Moving out of the way, she lets Grayson by.

  He nods at all of us before turning. “See you in class,” he says to Charlotte.

  When he walks away Lani looks to Charlotte sympathetically. Charlotte covers her face with her hands. “I’m so embarrassed.”

  “Come on,” Lani says to Charlotte, grabbing her arm. “Let’s get you something to eat and find a seat.”

  I was hoping that any further discussion about Grayson would stop there, but five minutes later, as the three of us sit down, Lani is still talking about him. “He’s really cute,” she says. “He kind of reminds me of Liam Hemsworth.”

  That’s a stretch.

  “He has great hair, too,” Lani adds.

  I don’t get it. He has highlights. Seems kind of feminine, if you ask me.

  “Do you know if he has a girlfriend?” Lani wonders. I wish she would stop talking.

  Charlotte shrugs, taking a bite of her sandwich. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him around school with anyone, but it’s only been a few days, so it’s possible.”

  I look down at my lunch—ham and cheese, potato chips, a snack-size Snickers. None of it looks appetizing.

  “Do you want me to find out for you?” Lani asks.

  More eating, less conversation! I want to shout.

  The corners of Charlotte’s mouth turn down. “What’s the point?”

  “If he doesn’t have a girlfriend, I can drop a hint about you.”

  “You’re funny.” Charlotte’s laugh is soft, but filled with sarcasm.

  “I’m serious. Maybe—”

  Charlotte looks up from her food and cuts Lani off. “No, Lani. Please. I don’t want you to talk to him or find anything out. I don’t want him to think I like him.”

  Lani rolls her eyes. “But you do like him. I saw the way you looked at him.”

  Charlotte blushes for the third time in ten minutes. “He’s okay. I don’t know.”

  Lani continues to press. “See! I knew it. Come on. You have to at least let me find out if he has a girlfriend. What if he doesn’t? What if he likes you too? I mean, you don’t know unless you try, and—”

  “She said no, Lani. She doesn’t want you to say anything.” My voice is more forceful than I intend. Both Lani and Charlotte stop moving and look at me. I look down at my food and take a bite. Bland.

  A feeling of déjà vu surfaces.

  And then it hits me.

  It feels like third grade all over again—the day Charlotte told me she liked Harry Collins. Once again, I feel the hope of her ever liking me shatter into twenty-six cutout paper hearts. I remain quiet the rest of lunch.

  As we throw our trash away and walk out of the cafeteria, I’m five steps behind Lani, looking at Charlotte, who’s three steps behind Lani, who’s looking at Grayson, who’s twenty steps ahead of all of us walking with a couple of other guys.

  In the café there was this look in Charlotte’s eyes that reminded me of the time she wanted an American Girl doll for her birthday and never got it. It was the only thing she really wanted. I know how she feels.

  When she sighs a good-bye before heading to her next class, I offer my best fake smile. “See you on the bus?” I ask. Charlotte responds with a nonchalant nod.

  I wonder if telepathy is a legitimate form of transmitting information. I know scientists don’t believe in it, but they also can’t explain the beginning of the universe, and I know that’s legitimate or we all wouldn’t be here. Looking at the back of Charlotte’s head as she walks away, I focus. Turn around if you can hear me. Nothing. Turn around just a little. Please. There’s something I want you to know. I don’t want to say it out loud. I can’t say it out loud. Please turn. Move an arm, scratch your head, something.

  “What are you doing?”

  Startled, I realize Lani is standing beside me. Her right eyebrow is arched. Her head is tilted. She’s staring at me as if a foreign object is growing on my face. I’m guessing that I looked a little strange to her, staring persistently down the hallway in Charlotte’s direction.

  “Nothing,” I say as fast as I can. I turn to walk to class, but she keeps step with me.

  “Why are you walking so fast?” she asks.

  “I didn’t know I was,” I say.

  “You are.”

  I slow my pace, but apparently I’m still not walking slowly enough for Lani. She grabs my arm and pulls me to a stop. Her five-foot frame stares up at me. Her eyes narrow into slits the size of flat pennies.

  “So...how long have you been in love with Charlotte?” she asks, still holding my arm.

  Shit. I don’t usually like to swear, but this is one of those moments when I’m saying pretty much every single curse word I can think of in my head. A chuckle escapes my lips. It comes out sounding like hiccups. With her holding me the way she is, it feels like a hostage situation. My neck begins to perspire. I stare at Lani for a while, trying to come up with a response, before finally going with, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Double shit. I wish that sounded more convincing.

  She looks around, pulls me out of the middle of the hall to a doorway, and lowers her voice. “Tell me the truth.”

  “I am,” I whisper, avoiding all eye contact.

  She shakes her head. “I saw you when Grayson walked up to Charlotte at lunch. You looked like you were ready to punch him, and I’ve never seen you act like that with anyone. Then you practically bit my head off when I told Charlotte I would talk to him, and there’s no mistaking that look on your face two seconds ago. I saw that same look on a National Geographic documentary about this male gorilla in heat. You looked just like him.”

  I don’t even know how to respond to that.

  “So, out with it, Fiester: How long have you been in love with Charlotte?”

  “A long time,” I finally admit.

  She narrows her eyes, hugs her books into her chest, and nods. “Uh-huh. Thought so.”

  “Charlotte has no idea,” I explain, hoping the plea in my voice lets her know that I want to keep it that way.

  “I figured as much.”

  “So...are...you...gonna say anything?” Lani is so unpredictable, this could go a thousand different ways for me.

  There’s a pause before she shakes her head. “No.”

  I let out a sigh of relief.

  “I don’t have to say anything,” she says, backing away, “’Cause I’m gonna make sure you do.” She gives me a big, exaggerated smile before turning around and skipping down the hallway.

  The bell rings. I don’t move. I can’t.

  My stomach feels like it’s just been kicked. I’m inclined to think that maybe Lani was joking, but I know better. Lani doesn’t say things she doesn’t follow through with. I guess that’s what scares me the most. Just thinking about telling Charlotte how I feel makes me want to throw up.

  Charlotte

  For the record, I’m not following Grayson. I’m just walking a safe distance behind him as we head in the same direction to the same class. In no way, shape, or form would that make me a stalker. Stalking involves harassment and intimidation. I’m observing.

  He turns left. We’re in a hallway I’ve never bee
n in, which is perfect, because I’ve wanted to see this side of the school. When he stops to grab a drink of water, I happen to notice an amazing painting on one of the walls. It’s really great—colorful, with lots of squiggly lines and— Ooh. He’s moving again. I find myself tilting my head as I watch him. I have this theory that you can tell a lot by the way a person walks. It’s kind of like having a fingerprint.

  My sister, for example, has a very distinct walk—she’s a confident strutter, perhaps overly confident sometimes. When you see her in the halls you can tell she’s comfortable with who she is, and she expects half the people in the halls to glance at her as she passes by. Lani, on the other hand, is a rapid shuffler, which fits her erratic personality to a T. She walks and moves fast, trying to get wherever she needs to go. Sometimes it looks like her feet never lift off the ground. Miles is a quiet slinker, like me, introverted, preferring to hide in the footsteps of others, hoping not to get noticed.

  Grayson is different from all of these. I haven’t really seen his walk before. I suppose I would call it a solid stride—confident, but not overly. He’s aware of his surroundings but doesn’t appear to know that there are people watching him as he walks by.

  Another strange thought jumps into my head: The back of his head is just as nice as the front. He has this one swooping highlight that looks like filigree running across the back of his hair. When he stops to talk to some guy in the hall, I find myself stopping too, near a group of sophomores congregating near a classroom. I pretend to listen in on the sophomores’ conversation, like I’m part of it. One of the guys in the group notices me and gives me a strange look. Fortunately, Grayson starts striding again and my feet slink after him, allowing me to avoid a potentially embarrassing situation. By the way, I’m still not following him. I’m taking my time. Across the hallway, a girl waves. Grayson waves back. She’s cute. I think she’s in my English class. I wonder if she likes him, or if he might like her. Not that it’s any of my business. Halfway to class, I find myself staring at his feet, my gaze drifting up his legs, back, neck. Amazingly, even his eyes draw me in.