by Karole Cozzo
“What’s wrong?”
“All the movies are in my room.”
I see the obvious problem.
He looks so comfortable, and what a pain in the butt it must be to have to get back into the chair. I stand up. “I can go get it.”
“My room’s the first one on the right,” he says, pointing to the hallway behind the living room. “You’ll see the stack of DVDs in the corner.” He smirks at me. “So no snooping.”
But when I open the door to his room and walk inside, even though I see the movies right away, my attention is drawn to the back corner of his room. A tall bookshelf is filled with trophies, and I walk toward it to take a look. There are trophies from every sport, dating back to Little League and including swim team and wrestling, too. At the top are trophies and awards from water polo. Multiple “most valuable player” awards and team captain recognition certificates.
There are lots of pictures, too. Pictures of Pax with his teammates, looking happy and rowdy. Pictures of Pax with girls. Lots of different girls, hanging on him or planting kisses on his cheek. Seems like he was popular. Especially with those girls.
Then I notice one last picture, on the bottom shelf, and inhale a quick, sharp breath as I kneel to look at it up close. It’s an eight-by-ten that must have been taken just before his accident. In it, Pax is posing poolside, in nothing but a pair of black swim trunks. His hair is much shorter than it is now, but his face is the same, and his eyes sparkle as he grins cockily at the camera, with his muscular arms folded across his chest. His torso is perfectly defined, and that sexy little guy V is clearly visible above the spot where the swimsuit hugs his hips.
The shot was taken from far enough away that his legs are included in the frame. They look just as strong and solid as the rest of him. I stare for a minute, thinking that Pax was probably one of the hottest guys I’ve ever known in real life.
Feeling flushed, I grab a movie from the top of the pile and head back to the living room. I stare at Pax. He’s wearing a faded gray-and-red plaid shirt open over a T-shirt and a pair of worn-looking jeans. It’s one of the few times I haven’t seen him in shorts. Out of his chair, relaxing on the couch, he looks just like any other guy. And the fact of the matter is, he’s every bit as attractive as the guy in the picture.
My heart rate kicks up a little. I toss the DVD onto the coffee table and grin at him. “That’s a pretty impressive trophy collection you’ve got in there. And I see what you mean about why I’d rather have a picture of you hanging above my bed than skinny little Justin Bieber,” I say, trying to make it a joke.
“Yeah, too bad I’m not that Adonis anymore.”
There’s something off in his voice, and his words don’t come out sounding as light as I think he means them to.
“Seems like you were quite the MVP.”
“Yeah, the pool used to be my second home. Maybe my first home, considering how much time I spent there.” He shrugs. “At least I have rugby, but it’s not the same.”
It’s not fair, I think. Suddenly, I’m remembering what happened at the college fair, and I realize why I’m so upset about it.
“It seems unfair that you had to lose out on your dream when other people … still get to have theirs.… People who don’t deserve it.”
“Hmm?” Pax looks at me, confused.
I take a deep breath and slowly exhale it. “That girl who was talking to the Syracuse coach at the fair. Her name’s Haley. She used to be one of my friends. Turns out she’s not really that nice of a person. And I’m pretty sure she’s still going to end up getting a full scholarship to a Division One school. And it’s not right.”
I pause for a few seconds, and then I tell Pax something I’ve never told a single other soul. “She was one of the girls who was at my house when the pictures of Taylor got posted to Facebook. She was the one who uploaded them to my computer.” I take another deep breath. “She was the one who posted them.”
Pax sits up straight. “Are you serious?”
I nod, remembering. At first, I made a weak attempt to stop her.
“Seriously, Nikki? Shut. Up. She totally deserves it! She made her bed. It’s only fair that now she has to lie in it.”
When I didn’t look convinced, she really laid it on thick.
“Don’t you think it’s important that we stand up for Kaitlyn? Taylor totally thinks she can just hook up with Kaitlyn’s boyfriend of last week like that? What about Kaitlyn’s feelings? We’re not doing this to be mean to Taylor—we’re doing this to stand up for our friend. Get a backbone.”
She coerced me in the name of friendship, and what a joke that turned out to be.
“A lot of us were involved, yes, and I didn’t stop her, but in terms of who actually pulled the trigger … it was Haley.”
“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” he asks, incredulous.
I don’t answer at first because the irony is actually embarrassing. “I wasn’t going to rat out a friend like that. Then later, after everyone was perfectly willing to point the finger at me, I tried to tell my parents. But they were so upset—mortified and furious and shocked—they weren’t interested in hearing excuses, which is what they thought it was.” I shake my head. “Eventually I stopped bothering. Wouldn’t have ended up changing anything for me, anyway. As long as Haley wouldn’t admit what she did, it was her story against mine. And ultimately it was my Facebook account.”
I was so stupid.
And I feel stupid about being so stupid. Every day.
I hang my head, hands on both sides of the brim of my hat. Acknowledging it out loud was harder than I thought, and I’m shaken.
“Nicole?”
His voice is soft and gentle, and I bring myself to lift my head. With his index finger, he beckons me closer to his spot on the couch. I scoot closer, until I’m right beside him.
Pax stares at me for a minute, then reaches up and slowly pulls the hat off my head. “Take off that stupid hat,” he murmurs. His eyes hold mine—they’re alight with a frustration that borders on anger. He sets down the hat, reaches up, and gently touches one side of my face. His hand lingers there, cupping my jaw. “You have no reason to hide your face away. Certainly not with me.”
Unexpected tears fill my eyes.
The community at large, my oldest friends, and even my own parents … they’ve made me hate the sight of my face. I’ve made me hate the sight of my face. And here sits this person who wants to look at me, who makes me feel as if there’s still something worthwhile to be found there.
My hand finds his, and I lace our fingers together. His eyes tell me it’s okay, so I keep going.
I close my eyes. I lean forward, ever so slightly, toward him.
I’m close enough to smell the scent of his soap, to hear the catch in his breathing as my lips come close to his.
And then I hear him clear his throat.
“Nikki … um … I meant what I said, about just wanting to be friends.”
My eyes snap open. I back up, cheeks on fire. And suddenly I wish I still had my hat on.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble. “I thought…”
“I mean, I like you. A lot. Have from the first day I met you.”
I finally look at him, saying it with my eyes. Yeah. I know. So why’d you just pull away?
“If I thought I could be with a girl right now … you’re the girl I’d want to be with, all right? But it’s like … It’s the same way I feel about college. Until I get myself recalibrated, until I’m totally right with my personal situation … it’s not good to get involved with someone.”
I watch him and decide I don’t believe him. Pax is one of the most well-adjusted people I’ve ever met, chair or no chair. And I didn’t imagine the chemistry between us—I didn’t. I think of how naturally our conversation flows and the way it makes him smile and laugh. I remember the text he sent me at the end of Saturday night, how my happiness sparked his. And I certainly remember the look in his eyes when he just took off my
hat, the look that told me he feels the same way about me as I feel about him. Because if you feel angry when someone’s hurting, it’s because you care about them. A lot.
Unless …
Unless I’m still an idiot when it comes to understanding other people. Maybe I’m so desperate to believe that someone can like me, truly like me, again that I’ve been reading more into it than I should be.
I quickly untangle my fingers from his. “I understand.”
“I mean, I just really think I need to—”
“I understand,” I say, louder this time, cutting him off. “You don’t have to give me a little speech. I get it.”
Pax keeps looking at me, lips a thin line, eyes conflicted. “Nikki…” He tries to find my hand again.
But I busy myself, reaching for the DVD case, and stand up to put it in the player. I’m hurt, and I feel some bitter satisfaction in knowing he can’t follow me. “Forget about it. Let’s just watch the movie.” I glance over my shoulder and give him the first fake smile I’ve ever given him. “We’re friends. And that’s okay.”
I put the movie in the DVR player, but I don’t actually see a single minute of it. I felt so comfortable when we first entered his house, and now I feel anything but.
Chapter 8
Ms. Mitchell, our theater teacher, stands in front of the stage. She reaches forward and hands a stack of papers to a student sitting in the first row, who sends the papers down the row. “I think you’ll all be really happy to hear that we’re going to start moving away from just lecture and note-taking and get going with the performance portion of this class.”
I take one of the papers and hand the pile off to Sam, who’s sitting next to me. We’ve sat together every class since we officially met. We’ve also started meeting up for lunch on the stage on days when we have theater class afterward.
“Before we tackle any improv or monologues,” Ms. Mitchell continues, “we need to start with the basics. Lesson one: Acting is behavior, nothing more. The more adept you become at reading a person’s behavior, the more keenly you can react to it.”
Even though I’ve been trying to block the image from my mind, suddenly I’m back to picturing myself on Pax’s couch, closing my eyes and leaning in for the kiss. I wince, remembering his rejection. Clearly, I need some practice in reading behavior. I totally misread that one.
“This first activity is a partner assignment,” Ms. Mitchell says.
Sam looks over at me, and I’m grateful she’s there. A couple of weeks ago, the prospect of a partner assignment would’ve been groan-inducing.
“This is an out-of-school assignment, but you don’t necessarily need to go far. Even if you walk across the street to Wawa after school, that should do. Make sure you stick with your partner. Make good choices and be safe.”
I’m kind of intrigued now and look down at the paper as she reads from it.
“This assignment requires you and your partner to observe a stranger for at least fifteen minutes. Describe, in writing, his or her behavior. Are they sitting, standing, or walking? Who are they? What are they doing? Reading a book, waiting for someone, having a conversation? How are they feeling?” She looks up and grins. “Be discreet. If you get caught playing detective, it ruins the exercise. Afterward—and here’s the fun part—I want you and your partner to create a character based on the person you’ve observed. Round out your observations. What’s his backstory? How did she end up where you found her?”
Ms. Mitchell squints at the clock in the rear of the auditorium. “There’s ten minutes left in class. Use the time to partner up and develop a plan. Maybe generate a few other possible questions to ask yourself about the person you’re observing.”
Our classmates start talking at once, and Sam turns to me. “We’re going to partner up, right?”
“I was hoping so.”
“Since I haven’t really joined anything here, I’m free most days after school.” She looks down and fiddles with the wire binding of her notebook. “Or um … we could do it Friday night or something.” She glances back up and grimaces. “Yeah, it’s official, I have no life anymore.”
I shrug. “We could definitely hang out on Friday night.”
Sam’s shoulders relax. “Thanks for being so cool.”
Guilt flares in my gut. I feel like an impostor.
I guess it’s because I actually like her, and I don’t really enjoy feeling that I’m lying to her in some way. Even if the truth costs me the opportunity for friendship.
“Hey, Sam…” I take a deep breath, feeling really nervous. “You know how I said I ended up at ACA because of my parents, too?”
She nods.
“It’s not … that’s not … the whole story. If you were from around here, you would’ve heard it anyway, so…” I look at her face, pleading with my eyes. “Let me tell the whole story before you think anything about it. How it happened, how everyone else tells the story—that’s not exactly how it all went down.… There’s more to it than that.”
Her eyes are wide. “Just spit it out already.”
I stare down at my lap, twisting my hands. “Me and some friends of mine from my old school. We got in trouble because we posted pictures of a girl to Facebook. The photos were taken when she was drunk at a party at my house. It was … really traumatic for her. The pictures were posted from my Facebook account. And I got expelled.”
There is a moment of silence, and when I look up, I see that old flat, blank expression on Sam’s face. But not for long.
She is pissed. “Are you kidding me?”
I don’t know what to say. “No.”
She bristles visibly, like a cat with its hair standing on end. “You’re just like them. You might be worse.”
“I told you, there’s more to the story. It didn’t really happen just like that.”
But she doesn’t want to hear it. No one ever does. Only Pax.
“I just love how people like you end up making the rest of us feel like we’re the losers somehow,” she rants. “I like myself. Always have. But I’ve been turned into this reject by people like you, people who are actually the weak, insecure ones.” Sam stares me down and throws the accusation in my face. “For whatever reason, the only way you can feel good about yourselves is by making other people feel bad about themselves. The smaller they are, the bigger you can be.” She shakes her head. “And you’re so oblivious, you don’t even get that. But you know what? I do.”
Her words cut. They hit a mark in the way others’ insults have not.
She stands abruptly, grabbing her coat and her bag, not bothering to zip it. Its contents spill out. “Forget this.”
Then Sam storms out of the auditorium.
* * *
Despite her dramatic departure, on Friday night at six thirty, I end up sitting at a table for two at TGI Fridays restaurant in the mall. Sam approached me in the morning and gruffly acknowledged, “We still have an assignment.” During a terse conversation, we worked out the details, deciding we needed to meet at a place where people actually sit and stay awhile.
Sam’s late, and I’m wondering if she’s going to show.
In the meantime, I can’t stop thinking about what she said to me in the auditorium, describing “people like you” as the weak, insecure ones. I keep trying to remember why I used to feel good about myself, recall the things that made me feel happy when I looked in the mirror. I felt pretty, and I liked when people reminded me of that. I had friends, and I liked the security of having them around. I never felt alone. Had I ever learned to feel comfortable alone, comfortable with myself, confident in who I was when I wasn’t defined by my association with a group?
Even my choice of hobbies has me thinking. I liked scoring the lead onstage. And more than anything, I relished the applause, the audible reassurance from a crowd that I was good. Had my love of the applause trumped the actual joy I felt just being onstage? Was it all about the applause?
When all those things—which see
m rather superficial now—were stripped away, did I have any self-confidence underneath?
I certainly don’t have any now. But back then … Would I have liked myself without them? Based on what?
Before I can even begin formulating any answers, Sam comes up to the table and plops unceremoniously into the chair across from me.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi,” she answers without smiling. A moment of uncomfortable silence passes before she asks, “Are you gonna order food?”
“Sure.” It’s a good enough out, and I quickly open the menu, grateful that it’s nearly two feet tall and I can hide behind it.
A few minutes later, our server approaches. Sam orders a Coke and chicken tenders; I ask for a Sprite and a Cobb salad. Then we’re silent again.
I don’t really have much of an appetite, and my muscles are tense. This is not a fun Friday night. “We should probably find someone to start observing.” I open the small notebook I have placed at the inside of the table. I point to a woman who’s eating at a nearby table—or attempting to eat, at any rate. She’s with three children, the oldest of whom can’t be more than five. The mom has what looks like strained carrots on her shoulder, and the middle child just upended her burger basket onto the floor. “What about her?”
“Pass,” Sam answers. “Her backstory seems miserable. Where on earth is their dad?”
She nods her head in the direction of an older couple sitting across the aisle. “What about them?” she asks, trying not to move her lips.
I study them for a minute. They are both dressed head to toe in beige and wear the same white Nike low-tops. They are not speaking and stare absentmindedly into space as they eat their meals. “No. Definite pass. No story there.” I adopt a monotone expression and let my eyes glaze over. “‘We’ve been doing this every Friday night for the past twenty-two years. We are here tonight simply because we’ve been doing this every Friday night for the past twenty-two years.’”
