Just Listen

by Sarah Dessen

  “The pool is closed at night,” Clarke told her, sliding the pizza onto a cookie sheet.

  “So?” Sophie said. “Everyone goes up there. It’s not a big deal.”

  I knew instantly Clarke was not going to go for this. First, because her parents would kill her if they found out. Second, because she always followed the rules, even the ones everyone else ignored, like taking a shower before getting in the pool and always getting out of the water the second the lifeguard announced adult swim. “I don’t know,” I said as I thought this. “We probably shouldn’t.”

  “Oh, come on, Annabel,” Sophie said. “Don’t be a wuss. Besides, one of these guys was asking about you specifically. He’d seen us together and asked if you would be there.”

  “Me?” I said.

  She nodded. “Yeah. And he’s cute. His name’s Chris Pen-something. Penner? Penning—”

  “Pennington,” I said. I could feel Clarke looking at me; she was the only one who knew how I felt about him, the crush I’d had forever. “Chris Pennington?”

  “That’s it,” Sophie said, nodding. “You know him?”

  I glanced at Clarke, who was now making a point of focusing on putting the pizza in the oven, adjusting it on the rack. “We know who he is,” I said. “Right, Clarke?”

  “He’s so hot,” Sophie said. “They said they’d be there around eight, and they’d have some beers.”

  “Beers?” I said.

  “God, calm down,” she said, laughing. “You don’t have to drink if you don’t want to.”

  Clarke shut the oven with a bang. “I can’t go out,” she said.

  “Oh, you can too,” Sophie said. “Your parents won’t even know.”

  “I don’t want to,” Clarke finished. “I’m staying here.”

  I just looked at her, knowing I should say the same thing, but for some reason, the words just didn’t come. Probably because all I could think about was Chris Pennington, who I’d watched at the pool a million afternoons, asking about me. “Well,” I said, forcing myself to speak, “maybe—”

  “Then me and Annabel will go,” Sophie said, hopping off the counter. “No big deal. Right, Annabel?”

  Now Clarke did look at me. She turned her head, and I felt those dark eyes watching me carefully. Suddenly I felt that imbalance, that unevenness of three, with me left to choose which way to go. On the one side was Clarke, my best friend, and our entire routine, everything we’d always done and known. On the other was not only Sophie and Chris Pennington but this whole other world, unchartered and open, at least for a little while, this one night. I wanted to go.

  “Clarke,” I said, taking a step toward her. “Let’s just go for a little while, like, a half hour. Then we’ll come back and eat the pizza and do the movie and all that. Okay?”

  Clarke wasn’t an emotional person. She was instead a born stoic, extremely logical, her entire approach to life one of figuring out problems, stating solutions, and moving on. But in that moment, as I said this, I saw something rare on her face: surprise, followed by hurt. It was so unexpected, though, and gone so quickly, that it was hard to know if I’d really seen it at all.

  “No,” she said. “I’m not going.” And with that, she walked across the room to the couch, sitting down and picking up the remote. A second later, she was scrolling through channels, images and color flickering across the screen.

  “All right then,” Sophie said with a shrug. Then she turned to me. “Come on,” she said.

  She started toward the front door, and for a second, I just stood there. Everything about the Reynoldses’ kitchen and this night was so familiar: the smell of pizza in the oven, the two-liter Coke on the countertop, Clarke in her spot on the couch, my spot open and waiting for me beside her. But then I looked down the hallway to Sophie, who was now standing in the open door. Behind her, it was just barely dark, the streetlights flickering on, and before I could change my mind, I walked toward her and stepped outside.

  Even years later, I remembered that night so well. Like how it felt, after climbing through the hole in the pool fence, to walk across the dark parking lot, right up to Chris Pennington, who smiled at me and said my name aloud. And the way the beer he’d brought tasted as I took my first sip, fizzy and light in my mouth. Then later, after he walked me around the back of the pool, how it felt to kiss him, his lips warm against mine, my back pressed up against the cool of the wall behind me. Or hearing Sophie laughing in the distance, her voice carrying over the still water from wherever she was with his best friend, a guy named Bill who moved away at the end of that summer. All of these things register, but there is one image, one moment, that rises above them all. That was later, when I glanced over the pool fence to see someone standing across the street, under a streetlight. A small girl with dark hair, in shorts and no makeup, who could hear our voices but not see us.

  “Annabel,” she called out. “Come on, it’s late.”

  We all stopped talking. I could see Chris squint as he looked into the dark. “What was that?”

  “Shhh,” Bill said. “Someone’s out there.”

  “It’s not someone,” Sophie said, rolling her eyes. “It’s Ca-larke.”

  “Ca-what?” Bill said, laughing.

  Sophie reached up, pinching her nose shut with two fingers. “Ca-larke,” she repeated, her voice sounding so like Clarke’s, stuffed up and adenoidal, that it was startling. I felt a pang in my chest as everyone laughed, and I looked back over at her again, knowing she could hear it. She was still there, across the street under the light, but I knew she would come no farther, and that it was my job to leave now and go to her.

  “I better—” I said, stepping forward.

  “Annabel.” Sophie leveled her gaze at me. At the time this was new, but later I’d come to recognize her expression, a mix of annoyance and impatience. It was the look she’d give me a million times over the years, whenever I wasn’t doing what she wanted. “What are you doing?”

  Chris and Bill were both watching us. “It’s just,” I began, then stopped. “I should just go.”

  “No,” Sophie said. “You shouldn’t.”

  I should have just walked away, from Sophie, from all of it, and done the right thing. But I didn’t. I told myself later it was because Chris Pennington had his hand on the small of my back and it was summer, and earlier, his lips on mine, hands in my hair, he had whispered to me that I was gorgeous. Really, though, it was this moment with Sophie, my fear of what would happen if I stood up to her, that stopped me. And shamed me for years to come.

  So I stayed where I was, and Clarke went home, and later, when I tried to go back to her house, the lights were off, the door locked. I went up anyway, but unlike that night we’d gone to Sophie’s, the door didn’t open. Instead, Clarke left me waiting, as I had done to her, and eventually I went home.

  I knew she was really mad at me. I assumed, though, that we’d work it out. It was just one night—I’d made a mistake; she’d come around. But the next day, when I walked up to her at the pool, she wouldn’t even look at me and ignored my repeated hellos, turning away when I sat down on the chair beside her.

  “Come on,” I said. No response. “It was stupid of me to go. I’m sorry, okay?”

  But it wasn’t okay, clearly, as she still wouldn’t look at me, giving me only her sharp profile. She was so mad, and I felt so helpless, I couldn’t stand to sit there, so I got up and left.

  “So what?” Sophie said when I went to her house and told her what had happened. “Why do you even care she’s pissed?”

  “She’s my best friend,” I told her. “And now she hates me.”

  “She’s just a kid,” she replied. I was sitting on her bed, watching her as she stood in front of her bureau mirror. She picked up her brush, giving her hair a few strokes. “And to be honest, she’s kind of a nerd, Annabel. I mean, is that how you really want to spend your summer? Playing cards and listening to her sniffle? Please. You hooked up with Chris Pennington last night
. You should be happy.”

  “I am,” I said, although I wasn’t sure this was true, even as I said it.

  “Good.” She put down her brush, then turned around, looking at me. “Now come on. Let’s go to the mall or something.”

  And that was that. Years of friendship, all those card games and pizza nights and sleepovers, finished in less than twenty-four hours. Looking back, maybe if I had approached Clarke again, we could have worked things out. But I didn’t. It was like the passing time and my guilt and shame opened up a chasm, wider and wider. Once, I might have been able to leap it, but eventually it was too distant to even look across, much less find a way to the other side.

  Clarke and I would run into each other again, of course. We lived in the same neighborhood, rode the same bus, went to the same school. But we never spoke. Sophie became my best friend, although nothing ever happened with Chris Pennington, who, despite all the things he’d said in the dark that night, never talked to me again. As for Clarke, she found a new group of friends on the soccer team, which she joined in the fall, going on to be a starting forward. Eventually we were so different, and moving in such different crowds, that it was hard to believe we’d ever been close at all. In my photo albums, though, there was page after page of proof—the two of us at backyard cookouts, riding bikes, posing on her front steps, that ever-present pack of Kleenex between us.

  Before Sophie, people knew who I was because of my sisters and my modeling, but it was only once we were friends that I was popular. And there was a difference. Sophie’s particular brand of fearlessness was perfect for navigating the cliques and various dramatics of middle school and high school. The bossy girls and whispered comments that had always unnerved me didn’t bother her at all, and I found it was much easier to cross the various social barriers once she’d already busted through them for me. Suddenly, everything I’d always watched and envied from a distance—the people, the parties, and especially the boys—was not only closer but altogether possible, and all because of Sophie. It made the other things I had to put up with, like her moodiness, and everything that had happened with Clarke, seem almost worth it. Almost.

  At any rate, everything with me and Clarke and Sophie had happened ages ago. But this past summer, I’d found myself thinking about Clarke a lot, especially when I was alone at the pool. So much would have been different if I’d just stayed in that night, taken my spot beside her, and let Sophie go on without me. I’d made my choice, though, and I couldn’t take it back. Although sometimes, in the late afternoon, when I’d close my eyes and start to drift off, listening to kids splashing in the water and the lifeguard’s whistle, it almost seemed like nothing had changed. At least until later, when I’d jerk awake to find myself in the shade, the air suddenly cooler, long past time to go home.

  When I got home from school, the house was empty and the light on the answering machine was blinking. I pulled an apple out of the fridge, polishing it on my shirt as I walked across the room to play the messages. The first one was from Lindy, my agent.

  “Hi, Grace, it’s me, returning your call. Sorry it took so long, my assistant quit and I’ve had this useless temp manning the phones, it’s been a total disaster. But anyway. No news yet, but I have a call in to the Mooshka office, so we’ll hopefully hear something soon. I’ll keep you posted, hope all is well, love to Annabel. Bye!”

  Beep. I’d hadn’t thought about the Mooshka go-see for days, but clearly it was on my mother’s mind. I didn’t want to think about it now either, so I moved on to the next message, which was from Kirsten. She was famous for leaving long, rambling missives, often having to call back for a part two when the machine cut off on her, so as soon as I heard her voice, I pulled out a chair.

  “It’s me,” she began, “just calling to say hello, see what’s going on. I am right this minute walking to class; it’s a gorgeous day here…. Don’t know if I told you guys, but I signed up for a communications class this semester, heavily recommended by a friend, and I am just loving it. It’s taught with a psychology angle, and I’m just learning so much…. And the TA who runs my recitation is brilliant. I mean, a lot of times in lectures I just find myself zoning out, even if I feel the material is interesting, but Brian, he’s just riveting. Seriously. He’s even got me considering a minor in communications, just because I’m getting so much out of the class…. But there’s also my filmmaking class, which really interests me, so I just don’t know. Anyway, I’m almost to class now, hope all of you are well, miss you love you bye!”

  Kirsten was so used to being cut off she always sped up at the end of her messages, so she blurted out this last part, barely beating the beep. I reached over, hitting the SAVE button, and the house was quiet again.

  I stood, picking up my apple, and crossed through the dining room. When I got to the foyer I stopped, as I often did, to look at the big black-and-white photo that hung opposite the front door. It was a horizontal shot of my mom and the three of us girls, standing on the jetty near my uncle’s summer house. Each of us was all in white: Kirsten in white jeans and a plain V-neck T-shirt, my mother wearing a sundress, Whitney in a bathing suit top and drawstring pants, me in a tank top and long skirt. We were all tan, the water spread out wide to the corners of the frame behind us.

  It had been taken three years earlier during one of our extended family beach trips; the photographer was a friend of a friend of my father’s. At the time it had seemed spontaneous, him casually suggesting we pose, but in fact my dad been planning it for weeks as a gift for my mother for Christmas. I remembered how we’d followed the photographer, a tall, lithe man whose name I forgot, out across the sand to the jetty. Kirsten had stepped up first, then extended her hand to help my mother, while Whitney and I brought up the rear. The rocks were hard to navigate, and I remembered Kirsten guiding my mom along the jagged edges until we got to a flat spot and gathered together.

  In the picture, we are all intertwined: Kirsten’s fingers are wrapped in my mother’s, Whitney has her arm over her shoulder, and I’m in front, curved slightly toward my mom as well, my arm around her waist. My mother is smiling, as is Kirsten, while Whitney is just staring into the camera, her beauty, as usual, breathtaking. Even though I remembered smiling each time the flash popped, my expression in the final product is not one I recognize, my face caught somewhere between Kirsten’s broad grin and Whitney’s gorgeous hauntedness.

  The picture was beautiful, however, the composition perfect. People always commented on it, as it was the first thing you saw when you walked in the door. In the last few months, though, it had started to look kind of eerie to me. Like I couldn’t just see the fine white-on-black contrast, or the way our features repeated themselves, in different measure but always similar, across our faces. Instead, when I studied it, I saw other things. Like how Whitney and Kirsten stood so close to each other, no space between them. The way my own face looked different, more relaxed. And how small my mother seemed with all of us bent around her, pulling her closer, shielding her with our bodies, as if without us to hold her down, she might just fly away.

  I picked up my apple, taking another bite just as my mother’s car pulled into the garage. A second later I heard doors shutting and voices as she and Whitney came inside.

  “Hello there,” my mother said when she saw me, putting down the bag of groceries she was carrying on the counter with a thump. “How was school?”

  “Fine,” I said, stepping back as Whitney brushed past, not acknowledging me and taking the corner quickly, disappearing upstairs. It was Wednesday, which meant she’d just come from her shrink’s, which always put her in a mood. I’d thought seeing a therapist was supposed to make you feel better, not worse, but apparently, it was more complicated than that. But then everything was more complicated for Whitney.

  “There was a message from Lindy,” I told my mom.

  “What’d she say?”

  “The Mooshka people haven’t called yet.”

  My mom looked disappoint
ed, but only for a moment. “Oh, well. I’m sure they will.” She walked to the sink, turned on the faucet, and lathered up her hands with liquid soap, looking out the window at the pool. In the afternoon light she looked kind of tired—Wednesdays took a toll on her, too.

  “And Kirsten called. She left a long message,” I said.

  She smiled. “You don’t say.”

  “The upshot,” I said, “is she likes her classes.”

  “Well, that’s nice to hear,” she said, drying her hands on a dishtowel. She folded it, putting it back by the sink, then came to sit down beside me. “So. Tell me something that happened to you today. Something good.”

  Good. I thought for a second about what was going on with Sophie, my daily observations of Owen Armstrong, the fact that Clarke still hated me. None of these things fell under this heading, or anywhere near it. As the seconds ticked by, I could feel myself starting to panic, desperate for something to offer up to her to make up for the Mooshka people, for Whitney’s mood, for everything. She was still waiting.

  “There’s this guy in my gym class,” I said finally. “He’s kind of cute, and he talked to me today.”

  “Really,” she said, smiling. Score. “What’s his name?”

  “Peter Matchinsky,” I told her. “He’s a senior.”

  This was not a lie. Peter Matchinsky was in my gym class and he was kind of cute and a senior. And he had talked to me that day, although it was only to ask me what Coach Erlenbach had just said about our upcoming swim test. Normally, I didn’t stretch the truth to my mom, but in the last few months I’d learned to forgive myself these little trespasses, because they made her happy. Unlike the real truth, which would be the last thing she wanted to hear.

  “A cute senior,” she said, sitting back in her chair. “Well. Tell me more.”

  And I would. Even though there wasn’t much else. If I had to, I’d pad the edges of the story, filling it in, trying to make it substantial enough to nourish this need, her hunger for my life, at least, to somehow be normal. The worst part was that I had things I wanted to tell my mother, too many to count, but none of them would go down so easy. She’d been through too much, between my sisters—I could not add to the weight. So instead, I did my best to balance it out, bit by bit, word by word, story by story, even if none of them were true.