Away From Here_A Young Adult Novel

by Christopher Harlan

  Me: Oh, okay.

  Annalise: Anyway, my whole family is there. I’m going away for two weeks over the holiday to visit. Sorry I forgot to tell you.

  Me: Oh.

  Annalise: My family over there is kind of rich. Peruvian rich, anyhow. They have this big house in Lima, so it’s nice to spend time there.

  Me (being fake as hell): Yeah, that sounds amazing.

  I hated myself right then. I was so full of false sincerity that I could smell the bullshit radiating off my phone. I wasn’t happy at all. I didn’t think it was amazing for her to go to Peru, so why the hell was I saying it? Habit. Politeness. Didn’t wanna start a petty fight with the girl of my dreams just ‘cause I was incapable of having a normal, emotional reaction to anything. But there I was, nonetheless, pretending to be a good. . .whatever I was to her. Boyfriend seemed extreme, but we sure as hell weren’t just friends after what had happened. We were some undefined hybrid creature, the boundaries and limitation of which were unknown to me. That’s the thing about titles. People hate on them, but they establish rules we can all follow. Like, your girlfriend or boyfriend can ask you things that your friends just can’t. They can push boundaries. They can demand that you stay in the damn country while waiting for your zygote of a relationship to at least become an embryo. But us? I didn’t know what I could and couldn’t say, so I went with a default politeness that I knew wouldn’t cause any problems.

  We went back and forth a few more times, with her telling me about how excited she was to leave, and me thinking how sad I was to see her go, even for a short time. It didn’t seem fair. As the conversation wound down I felt like complete dog shit, but luckily it was texting, so she couldn’t really tell. Just as I’m about to say goodbye Annalise texted.

  Annalise: What’s the matter?

  Me: Nothing, it’s fine. I’m fine.

  Annalise: Yeah, so what’s really wrong? Because when people say that something is ‘fine’ it’s never really fine, that’s just code for something being terribly wrong but not wanting to talk about it. So what’s wrong?

  It frightened me a little that she seemed to know me without actually knowing me. It seemed to be like some strange magic that women have, but only certain women; only the great ones.

  Me: Nothing.

  Annalise: If you keep lying to me this conversation is over. Like, bye. What is it?

  I felt like she should have known why I was upset. Wasn’t it obvious? Wasn’t it plain as day that I had such intense feelings for her, and that her jumping the country for a few weeks might hurt me?

  Me: Bummed about Peru, is all. I mean, I’m happy you get to go see your family, but after today I was hoping we could spend some more time together.

  Annalise: What happened today?

  My heart sank. Was she crazy, or did this morning just mean nothing to her? Maybe she went to those rocks every day; maybe she brought everyone she knew there.

  Annalise: I’m kidding!

  My heart started beating normally again. I wasn’t used to being the one on the receiving end of the sarcasm and I didn’t like it very much.

  Me: Please don’t scare me like that.

  Annalise: I’m sorry, it was just too easy (smile emoji). I loved this morning. I loved being there with you, and I think that you’re amazing. And thanks for listening to me vent, you didn’t have to.

  I smiled as a looked down at my phone. If only she knew how I dreamed of a morning like that, how she never, ever needed to thank me for anything, because it was me who should have been thanking her for even existing, and for allowing me to be there in that car with her. I was about to text back ‘you don’t have to thank me’ when I stopped myself and hit the delete button until my screen was clear. Instead I thought of something I wanted to do instead; an impulse that hit me.

  Me: This may sound totally random and weird, but if I wrote something for you, would you read it?

  Annalise: You going to write me a book?

  Me: Not a book. Not yet, anyway, I don’t have enough material for a book. But something else.

  Annalise: Of course, I’d love to. I bet you’re a good writer. No one’s ever written anything for me before.

  Me: Don’t get your hopes up, I don’t know if it’ll be any good. But it’ll be from the heart, I promise.

  Annalise: I’ll love it.

  My heart started to pound. Once upon a time, in a reality that was getting farther and farther away, I used to write stories that no one would ever read. I put everything down on paper. Every dumb sci-fi short story, every Lord of the Rings knockoff (yes I did create a more complex and sophisticated language than Elvish, and no you’ll never get to read it), everything I had in my crazy adolescent head would eventually find its way onto a piece of paper or my phone for an audience of zero, but it had been a long time since I’d done anything worth mentioning. And even though I hadn’t had the impulse to write anything outside of the bullshit school papers and essays I was assigned, that night I was inspired; I was inspired by Annalise. I hated that word normally. It seemed like everyone was constantly talking about how inspired they were to do this or that; the word was overused. But I couldn’t think of a better word, because what I felt inside was inspiration.

  Me: Ok, great, well, goodnight then. I’ll email it to you when I’m done, okay?

  Annalise: Okay. You know we don’t have to email each other anymore.

  Me: This might be too long for a text.

  Annalise: Got it. Night.

  Game on. I was nervous that I’d built it up too much. Called my shot, Babe Ruth style. My thumbs hung just above the keyboard of my Notes app, waiting to strike the right keys. I stayed in that posture for about thirty seconds, waiting for the feelings to transform into words and for the words to transform into sentences. Funny how it all came flooding back to me, as I sat with fingers poised. The words came.

  I realized right away after we pulled up that I was underdressed. I also realized how easily I would give up control to you, because I trusted you. I didn’t know that after a few minutes of driving I'd be pretending to not shake uncontrollably as I squatted on a bunch of cold rocks overlooking that beautiful water. I also didn’t know that I’d be inadvertently saving your life by keeping you from talking to those obvious serial killers pretending to be fishermen. So I guess in that way we’re even. I rescued you from a newspaper headline that would have eventually been made into a gripping episode of Law & Order, and you saved me from the prison of school. The truth is that it wouldn't have mattered if I knew about the cold, though. I would have sat naked on frozen tundra if you asked me to. I would have gone anywhere and done anything that you asked me to.

  Isn’t it funny how easily we could have missed each other; how our morning on the rocks could have easily never happened. It’s funny how it seems almost meant to be, even though I don’t believe in that sort of thing. I know people find that romantic and all, but I look at it differently. I look at a lot of things differently. If there really were fate, and we really were meant to be there, then the story’s already written, and some magical force preordained everything to happen. I find more comfort in randomness. Think about it. Of all the possibilities, of all the ‘what if’ scenarios, or all the variables that could have kept us apart, you still found me and I still found you. That’s so much cooler than fate. Randomness gives a big middle finger to the odds sometimes.

  There's this specific way that you looked when you turned away from me, an expression that framed your entire face and made me wonder just what you were thinking and feeling at that moment. I wondered what you were thinking when your eyebrow shot up just a little bit, framing your deep brown eyes as your cheeks bent upwards to meet them. I had seen smiles on other people's faces a thousand times, but yours was different. Your smile matters to me. I want to find out what I said or did to have you make that face, and then I want to repeat it forever. I’ve never written an actual love letter that I’ve given to a girl—don’t think I’m very good a
t it. I’m sorry because you deserve better, but it's all I have to give you now, and I hope it means something special to you.

  Our time on the rocks was only the beginning.

  I hit the send button, and after I did I realized that there were tears in my eyes. I hadn’t meant to cry; hadn’t even known it was happening until I felt the downward momentum rushing down my cheek. I hadn’t been able to cry in a very long time; not that I wanted to. The last thing my household needed was another person with overactive tear ducts, so I learned to hold it in. Mom got to cry. I just bought the tissues. But I couldn’t stop it from happening after I had written to Annalise. I felt happy to have been crying. I wasn’t sad, I felt. . .alive.

  After my brief elation, I felt a more familiar feeling–panic. I had just sent Annalise, the girl I’d wanted obsessively for 365 days of my life; the girl who I stood like a moron in my tub praying to the empty sky for; the girl who filled my soul with a reason for being…I just sent her a long-ass love letter that I typed on my phone. I felt light-headed. I closed my eyes because it was the only thing I could think of doing at the time, and I laid on my bed feeling only the rapidity of my heart in my chest. I couldn’t perceive just how long I laid there attempting to bring my heart rate down to a normal pace. When I panicked, which was often, time lost all sense of meaning. It was like in a dream, where you wake up feeling like you were dreaming all night, only to learn that it was most likely 10 minutes. My luck being what it was, at the exact moment I began to calm, the vibration of my phone snapped me back into anxious reality. In my heightened state, the text message double vibration seemed to shake the entire room.

  When I opened my eyes to look at the clock I saw that 30 minutes had passed since I laid down. 30 minutes. As I heard the double vibration repeat itself, I realized that 30 minutes was what Annalise needed to realize that I was a needy creep; 30 minutes was all it took for her to read over my sappy bullshit, get scared, realize that I’m an asshole and that she was wasting her time with me, and to figure out a way to let me down easy. The text probably started with “…well, it was really sweet, but…” Screw it. I reached for my phone and entered my password. As the screen unlocked I refused to look down, instead choosing to stare at the cracking white paint of my ceiling. I wiped what remained of the clammy, anxiety sweat from my brow, feeling a new layer forming, and I wondered about the exact moment I had turned my dream into a waking nightmare. When I finally mustered the courage to look down, her text read:

  Annalise: It took me 20 minutes to read it and re-read it over and over again…you’re amazing for writing that for/about me. You don’t compare to anyone else. I wish I could express my emotions but it’s hard…but I will tell you how happy and smiley and just…I don’t know…but it’s a great feeling. I couldn’t stop smiling reading the email.I knew I made a good choice by taking you there.

  Me: I’m…I’m really glad that you liked what I wrote.

  As I began to write my heart steadied, and I felt like I felt as I was writing to her; calm, self-assured, loved, and only slightly scared. And I also felt something else that was hard to put my finger on. It was a sort of strange and unnatural comfort that came when I spoke to her. I should have been terrified, I should have been afraid that her next words would have destroyed me, but I wasn’t, I was just happy to tell her exactly what I felt inside.

  Me: I thought it might have sucked. Glad it didn’t. I got kind of emotional a few times as I was writing it.

  Annalise: Did you really?

  Me: Yeah, that’s why it took so long to write.

  Annalise: Not gonna lie I teared up a little while I read it.

  Me: Oh, wow, so I guess we both cried a little.

  Annalise: Potato

  This time I was less baffled, I was starting to understand the meaning. Smiling ear-to-ear, I wrote back.

  Me: Potato

  Annalise: No, that’s my word, remember?

  Me: Right, forgot, I’m sorry. Won’t happen again, promise.

  Annalise: Don’t promise.

  Me: But I promise I won't say potato.

  Annalise: Don't promise. What if you can't follow through? There’s nothing worse in the whole world than a broken promise.

  Me: I'm pretty sure I can restrain myself from saying potato, unless I'm talking about actual potatoes, and why would I talk to you about real potatoes?

  Annalise: Well who knows where all this will take us? We could very well end up in a situation in which talking about real potatoes is necessary. You just never know, so don't promise.

  Me: Okay, I don't promise.

  Annalise: Oh, so now you're saying you'd lie to me?

  Me: Wait, what?

  She texted a smile emoji back to me.

  Me: So...what happens now?

  Annalise: Tomorrow? Cut school again?

  Me: Of course, tomorrow it is. 7:15?

  Annalise: Perfect.

  After agreeing on the time we stopped talking for the night. It was time to go to sleep. I closed my eyes and allowed that day to be archived in my personal history, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t peel the smile from my face. Then came the well-deserved sleep, and the promise of Annalise the next day.

  Five

  Where I watch a film of us in my head.

  The next morning we went back to our place on the rocks. I picked Anna up at her house like last time, and again she traversed the bumpy street from her front door to my car without an upwards glance, like a ninja, staring at her phone until she was sitting next to me.

  “I’m exhausted,” she said when she got in. “I didn’t sleep at all.”

  “Me either. But then again I don’t think I’ve slept well in a few years.”

  “Bad dreams?” she asked.

  “Something like that,” I answered, looking away. “Sometimes it’s bad dreams, but mostly I just can’t get to sleep at all until really late.”

  “I know what you mean,” she told me. “I stay up till 4 or 5 a lot.”

  “You win,” I joked. “I think my record is one or two in the morning at worst.”

  “Well, aren’t we two peas in an insomnia pod.”

  “I guess we are. What’s your reason for not sleeping?”

  “Besides the craziness in my house?” she asked, sounding a little sarcastic. “I share a room with my older sister, and she comes and goes all hours of the night. Plus I can’t sleep if there’s any light in the room and when she gets home from work or being out with her boyfriend the first thing she does is turn her lamp on. Then there are other times my mom is ranting or raving about whatever. It’s a miracle I sleep at all.”

  “That sounds like a rough situation,” I told her. I didn’t really know what to say. This wasn’t unique to my interactions with Anna, either. I basically never knew what to say when people complained about things in their life. Saying oh that sucks seemed rehearsed and soulless, but I never knew what else to say.

  “I’ll live. What about you?”

  “Let’s get on the road and I’ll tell you.” While we continued to bond over our mutual sleeping issues I pulled out and started driving towards the parkway. I still needed her to guide the way or we would have likely ended up stranded in New Jersey, God forbid. It was another cold day, but this time I’d come prepared with a jacket.

  “So what’s your blood type?” she asked out of the silence we had been sitting in a moment sooner. I’d come to love her random questions, and she asked them a lot. I realized later that they weren’t random at all, they were her way of getting to know me, but her sense of context was about as strong as my sense of direction, so the questions came out of left field most times.

  “Umm… I actually don’t know, to be honest. How come?”

  “Just curious.” That was the expression she used whenever I asked why she wanted to know whatever random piece of information she wanted to know. In the last day, either in person or over text she’d asked me the following random questions like I was on a gamesh
ow:

  My blood type

  My favorite animal

  My favorite color

  My favorite food

  They all involved my favorite something or other. I’m sure that she was curious about my preferences in colors or foods, or whatever, but I wondered what thought ran through her head while we were talking about school, or family, or any other topic and she asked me something like that. At what point did complaining about a teacher, or gossiping about other kids in the school lead her down a mental path of wondering my blood type? I decided that this time I’d push a little further because I wanted to know.

  “What made you think of that?” I asked her playfully. “My blood type, I mean.”

  “Just curious.”

  “Yeah, but like, were you thinking about something involving blood?” The question sounded as ridiculous out loud as it did in my head, but I didn’t know how else to ask a follow up question. She gave me a funny look and grinned

  “So you think that I think about blood a lot?”

  “No,” I said. “That’s not what I meant, I’m sure you don’t think. . .” Before I was finished she jumped in in that same tone of voice.

  “So you’re saying I think about blood, like I’m weird and dark? Okay, I see, it’s fine.”

  I took a minute to look at her, even as I had no idea how close I was to the exit for the rocks. She’s squared her body off to mine, putting her back against the window and making intense eye contact with me even though I wasn’t looking back most of the time. Even though I only saw it for a second before looking back at the road, the look on her face made me feel like I was in trouble. I tried to find a verbal save.

  “No, I mean. . .” But before I was done she smiled to let me know that, once again, she was just messing with me. For some reason I hadn’t picked up her patterns yet, so my default setting was to believe everything she told me, but I was starting to see that she liked to keep me on my toes and make me a little uncomfortable from time to time.