First, Last, and Always

by Lehman, Kim

  Her eyes water. “I could never hate you.”

  “So what is it then?”

  She closes her eyes and stands there for what feels like forever, rain cascading down her face, mixing with the tears on her cheeks.

  “Charlotte?”

  She looks at me, her expression sad, hopeless.

  “Charlotte, you’re my best friend.”

  “And you’re mine,” she says. “So let’s not mess that up.”

  I’m losing her. I feel it.

  “Don’t give up on us before we’ve even had a chance.”

  She shakes her head. The tears fall harder.

  I don’t get it. “What happened?” I’m desperate. I reach for her hand again.

  This time she steps back more quickly.

  “Why?” I say again, practically pleading.

  “Because!” she shouts, her tears falling faster. “Because everyone knows that no one ever meets the person they’ll end up with when they’re fifteen! They just don’t.”

  Turning away, she rushes into the house. Without looking back, she slams the door behind her, leaving me standing in the rain, the umbrella still open, dangling in my hand at my side, water streaming down my face.

  Charlotte

  “Charlotte?” Alexa calls out as I push the front door and sprint past her up the stairs, where I stumble into my room, dive into bed, and bury my head in the pillow. The wet clothes on my body stick to my skin and seep into the sheets. I hear someone enter the room a moment later. I know it’s Alexa. She’s close, either by my bedside or near the foot of my bed. I can’t tell where exactly. My back is to her, but I can feel her in the room. I know she’s looking at me, wondering what’s going on, wondering why I’m crying. A moment later I feel the cushions beneath me shift. Alexa’s arm wraps over my shoulder. Curling up behind me, she hugs my back. Her warmth makes the tears fall harder. As she holds me, I begin to feel her shake. When she sniffles, I realize she’s crying too.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry.”

  18

  Miles

  “You ready for tryouts on Monday?” Mom asks when I trudge into the kitchen Saturday morning feeling wrecked and disheveled. An hour of sleep will do that to you. Much of the night was spent figuring out where I went wrong and what I could have said differently. I don’t understand what freaked Charlotte out so much, what made her change her mind.

  Resting my elbows on the counter I shake my head and say, “I’m not sure if I’m trying out anymore.”

  Mom pauses from grabbing something out of the fridge and turns to look at me. “What do you mean?” she asks.

  “There’s a lot of stuff going on right now,” I say.

  “Like what?”

  “Just stuff.”

  When the initial shock wears off, she seems disappointed. “Is this about your dad?”

  I shrug. It’s everything: Dad. Charlotte. The fact that I haven’t practiced as much as I’ve wanted. My head just isn’t in the game.

  When I don’t say anything, Mom points to the kitchen chair. “Sit down,” she says, pulling up a chair for herself. I take a seat. She leans forward, putting her elbows on her knees. “August tenth, nineteen ninety-nine,” she says.

  “The day I was born?”

  She nods, then says, “September twentieth, nineteen ninety-nine.”

  Off the top of my head that date means nothing to me. “I don’t know,” I tell her.

  “It’s the day you were supposed to be born,” she says, which is news to me. I hadn’t realized I was premature. “You were six weeks early. You weighed four pounds, two ounces, and you dropped half a pound. Your lungs were not fully developed. Your heart was weak. They told me you weren’t going to make it. They told me it would be a miracle if you made it through the first week.”

  I look at her and wait for the point. She narrows her eyes and purses her lips. “Can I ask you a question?” she says.

  “Okay.” I nod.

  “Why do you play basketball?”

  “I like it?” It comes out sounding like a question.

  “You like it,” she prods, “or you love it?”

  “I love it,” I confess.

  “Do you love it every year when you don’t make the team?” This seems like a question with an obvious answer. “Well?” Mom presses.

  “No.”

  “So why do you keep trying out?”

  There’s a small piece of tissue remaining in my chest after Charlotte ripped it out, and my mom found a way to rub it with salt. “Mom, I can’t do this right now.”

  She kneels down in front of me. “No. I need you to tell me. I know the answer, but I want to hear you say it.”

  I sigh and mumble.

  “What was that?” She leans closer.

  “I said, because Dad doesn’t think I can do it. He thinks I’m a failure. And...” I’ve never said this out loud before. “I want to prove him wrong.”

  She stands and rests her finger on my chest. “That,” she pauses, “is the fighter I gave birth to.” She shakes her head. “You only fail if you give up trying.” Walking away, she heads around the kitchen counter and opens the fridge. “So, what’ll it be?” she asks. “French toast or eggs?”

  We stare at each other. She waits for me to respond. I’m thinking. “French toast,” I finally say. “I should probably carb up for tryouts.” I decide.

  She smiles and nods. “Okay. French toast it is.”

  19

  Charlotte

  The weekend was spent holed up in my room talking to no one, doing nothing. I went downstairs occasionally for necessities: food, water, and television. Mom spent the weekend on and off the phone with Aunt Claire, who is temporarily staying at a friend’s house until she can make other arrangements. Mom offered to have her stay with us, but Aunt Claire didn’t feel it was a good idea. On Sunday, Mom visited her. She came home late and said Claire was doing well, considering. I’m not sure what that means for the future. I’m not sure I want to know.

  Dad spent the weekend angry at Uncle Paul, saying stuff like, “My brother’s a Goddamn idiot,” and “He wasn’t thinking with the right head.”

  Like me, Alexa stayed in her room. She came out at the same time I did late Saturday night after Mom and Dad went to bed. She joined me downstairs to watch television. Neither of us talked, but it was nice hanging out; keeping each other company.

  Now it’s Monday morning and I’m exhausted. Why, I don’t know. I think it’s from overthinking. My closet and I are engaging in another staring contest. As usual, the closet is winning and will not back down. I’m actually relieved when my sister barges through the bedroom door.

  “What are you doing?” she asks, glaring at me as I stare blankly at my clothes while standing in a bra and underwear.

  “I’m waiting for something to jump out,” I tell her.

  After a moment’s pause, her hands fly in front of me. She shuffles a few of the hangers before pulling two items off the rack and pressing them into my chest. “Wear this,” she says. “And hurry up. Mom’s letting me take the car to school, so if you want a ride, you need to be downstairs in five minutes.”

  I stare. “Did you just say I can ride with you to school?”

  “Five minutes!” she shouts.

  I don’t even look at what she picked out. I throw it on, brush my hair, and race down the stairs.

  The car ride to school is quiet. Neither Alexa nor I say much the whole way. Her music serves as background noise. When we stop at a light, she asks if I can flick a bug off the side-view mirror. I’m sure we’re both thinking the same thing—wondering what’s going on with Uncle Paul and Aunt Claire. I think we’re all still in disbelief, trying to understand, hoping that everything goes back to normal, whatever that means.

  “Isn’t that your friend, Miles?” Alexa says as we pull into the school parking lot.

  On the sidewalk, standing away from the buses and other students, Miles is hanging out on the
curb, looking at our car as we pass by.

  “Crap,” I mutter under my breath. Alexa picks up on it.

  “So, what’s going on with you two?” she asks. “Are you fighting or something?”

  “Uh...,” I start to explain. “Well...I’m sort of trying to avoid him.”

  “Why?”

  “He told me he likes me. We kissed. It’s complicated.”

  “Yep,” Alexa says, as if she’s not at all surprised. “Guys are so predictable.”

  “I want to talk to him,” I confess, “but I don’t think I should.”

  She nods. “Don’t. It will get easier. Trust me. You’re better off.”

  Miles walks over as Alexa and I get out of the car.

  She ignores him and looks at me. “If you want a ride home, meet me here at three thirty,” she says, rushing off.

  When she’s gone, Miles gives me a small curl of the lips. “Hey.”

  I hug my bag around my chest. It’s better in front of me. Serves as a more protective barrier.

  “I figured you would get a ride today,” he says.

  Squeezing the bag tighter, I stare at my feet and then back up at him. I have to grit my teeth to restrain from showing any emotion, but I know it’s better this way. It isn’t fair to either of us to start something that will never work out.

  Red blotches form on the base of his neck. “Will you talk to me?” he pleads, his eyes filling with pain.

  An excruciating tightness builds in my chest. I can’t stand here much longer or I think I’m going to explode. “Good luck at tryouts,” is all I can manage before I hurry past him and swerve through the mass of students to get into the school.

  Miles

  It’s so much worse that I thought. She can’t even talk to me. The day is going to suck. I need to find a way to put this in the back of my mind, because basketball tryouts start in nine hours and I already want to go home, crawl into bed, curl up into the fetal position, and give up.

  Charlotte

  I’m glad when the day is finally over. It was probably one of the longest days of my life. I couldn’t stop thinking about seeing Miles this morning. I can’t wait to get out of here. As I rush to the front of the building after last period, trying to get to the parking lot to find Alexa, I’m distracted by screams and commotion occurring down a hallway. It’s so staggeringly shrill that almost everyone moves closer to get a better look at what’s happening. I can’t see from where I stand, so I walk toward the crowd. It takes a moment to hone in on the source of the drama, but when I finally see where the sound is coming from, I can’t look away. My eyes lock onto the scene. It’s Vanessa. She’s flailing her arms and screaming. It looks like she’s crying too.

  Two kids walk by laughing. I stop them. “Hey.” They turn to face me. “Do you guys know what’s going on over there?”

  One of the kids nods and chuckles. “Yeah. That chick has ants in her pants.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” I’m not sure I hear them right.

  “Seriously.” The guy nods. “She literally has ants crawling all over her. They’re everywhere.”

  Oh, no. Lani’s threat about waging war on Vanessa pops into my head. This scenario has her name written all over it. I take a detour down the next hallway to find Lani.

  A few seconds later, I see her standing at her locker. She’s cracking up with another girl. “Hey!” she shouts in hysterics when she sees me. “Did you hear about the ants?”

  “Yes.” I nod. “Can we talk a second? Over there?”

  Shuffling away from the other girls, who are also laughing, Lani follows me. “Vanessa had ants crawling all over her.” She chortles.

  “I know. Lani, I thought I asked you not do anything. You could get both of us into a lot of trouble if anyone finds out,” I whisper.

  She jerks her neck back. “You think I did that?”

  “Well, yeah, I—”

  She gasps. “This is a strange feeling. I’m flattered and offended at the same time.”

  “You didn’t do it?” I say.

  “No!” She gawks. “While I would like to take credit, that genius was not moi. Apparently, there’s some huge ant infestation in the building. It wasn’t just Vanessa who was attacked. A bunch of students found ants in their stuff.”

  “How did they get there?”

  “I have no idea. I’m thinking karma, or possibly the janitor. I mean, if I were the janitor, I would totally get revenge against all the students who don’t pick up their shit after lunch. You should see some of the tables. The quads don’t leave messes that bad.”

  “Huh.” I’m perplexed and relieved. “Sorry,” I tell her. “I just thought...”

  “Oh, hey.” Lani reaches into her bag and pulls out a white envelope. “Before I forget, Miles asked me to give this to you.”

  My hand extends cautiously, taking it from her. It feels like a ten-pound weight. “What is it?” I ask.

  “I dunno.” She shrugs. “Some letter. He gave it to me before last period.”

  “Did he say anything else?” I ask, curious. If he didn’t say anything, I don’t want to say anything. Seems like the right thing to do.

  “No. He just said, ‘This is important. Please give it to Charlotte.’” Lani does a terrible Miles impersonation.

  “Okay,” I feign a thankful smile and shove it into a pocket in my bag.

  “You aren’t going to read it?” Lani asks.

  “I’ll read it later,” I tell her.

  She shrugs. “By the way,” Lani says, “where were you at lunch today? You both left me sitting solo. Uncool.” She huffs. “It’s like now that you two are a thing, I don’t exist. What did you guys do this weekend? Communication from both of you Saturday and Sunday was nada.”

  “We didn’t do anything,” I say, honestly.

  “Yeah, I bet.” She smirks.

  I want to say something so badly, but if Miles hasn’t told her, I’m not sure I should either. But if I don’t tell her, and she finds out, she’ll kill me. “We’re not a thing,” I say before I realize the words came out of my mouth.

  She gapes. “What?”

  I sigh. “The thing didn’t happen.”

  She looks sad. “Why not? Oh, you have to tell me.”

  “I can’t talk about it now,” I say, shaking my head. “I have to meet Alexa.” I start walking toward the entrance.

  Lani stays right beside me. “Okay, so you have to go, but you’re still going to call me tonight, right?” she says. “We can talk then? You have to tell me what’s going on.”

  “Okay,” I say to appease her.

  “Promise?” she shouts after me as I push open the front doors.

  I don’t respond. She stops, but I keep walking. I can hear her huff behind me.

  “Charlotte,” she whines. “Don’t forget—I know where you live!”

  In the parking lot, Alexa is leaning against the car. “You’re five minutes late,” she says when she sees me.

  “Sorry, I got stuck talking to—”

  She holds up her hand. “It’s cool. I’m not mad.” She yanks open the driver’s-side door. “Let’s go,” she says, hopping inside. I get in too. Immediately, she pulls the visor mirror down and checks her face. “So, did ya hear about the ants?” she asks, pulling her oversized sunglasses out of her bag and putting them on.

  “Yeah.”

  “Crazy, huh?” She checks her face one more time and flips the visor up.

  “Yeah.”

  “I mean, that poor girl Vanessa.” Alexa shakes her head. “I even heard Lance and Jazz got them too.” She tsks. “Some people have the worst luck.”

  For a second, I can’t move. “Alexa, did you...” I’m not sure I can finish the thought.

  “They should be happy they weren’t red ants,” she says.

  Holy shit. “I can’t believe you did that.”

  “I didn’t say I did anything,” she says, pretending to be shocked.

  “Wait.” Something else sh
e said hits me. “How do you know about Vanessa?” I ask her.

  She gives me an is-that-really-a-serious-question look. “You’re my sister. I know when someone is messing with you.”

  The most I can do is gawk.

  “Seat belt,” she says.

  Mechanically, I reach around my body for the buckle and click it into the clip, all the while continuing to stare.

  Miles

  Having tried out for basketball teams three consecutive years now, I feel like a seasoned pro, which is to say I know the routine. Walking into the gymnasium after school on Monday, I think I’m well prepared for what to expect. The coach will go through introductions, we’ll warm up as a group, and then we’ll break out into stations with various drills so that the coaches have an opportunity to review and assess our skills.

  Over three dozen freshman guys are in the gym, sitting in the bleachers, waiting for what comes next. A few seconds after we’re all seated, the large metal doors into the gym fly open and a tall, burly man with short, sparse hair, gray sideburns, and a mustache barrels into the gym looking like he’s ready to kick someone’s ass.

  “Stand up, fresh-mutts!” he shouts with a new level of ferocity. All of us look at each other to see what we’re supposed to do. Slowly, like random kernels of popcorn, we each stand. The man who entered stares across the gym, rubs his head, and says, “Pathetic.” Taking a deep breath, he turns to us again. “Sit down!” he yells. Grumbling, he spins on his heels and storms out of the gym through the doors he came in.

  The next time he enters, we’re all more prepared for what to expect. “Stand up!” he shouts a second time. Most of us shoot up like rockets. A few of the guys still seem confused. “First rule,” the man says. “If I ask you to do something, you do it without thinking, smelling, talking, burping, or breathing.”

  Okay, so this is a slightly modified version of tryouts from last year, and by slightly modified, I mean completely different. My knees are legitimately shaking.