by Robin Talley
Gretchen laughed. Her whole face opened up when she laughed. Dear lord.
My heart was racing. I did not have the mental or emotional capacity to deal with this.
Gretchen pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, looked down at me and smiled again.
Yeeeeaaahhhhh. I was going to be dead before the song was over.
GRETCHEN
Did she like me?
It seemed like maybe she liked me.
That was a flirty thing to say, wasn’t it? “Nice shoes,” all casual like that? When I wasn’t wearing shoes at all? Ha ha.
Also, she kept, like, staring at me. In a cute way, not a creepy way.
It didn’t matter, though. She already had a girlfriend. The little ninny in the poufy blue dress. A pox on the poufy ninny, I wanted to say.
Still, I felt like touching Toni. Nothing dramatic, I mean. Maybe I could just accidentally brush up against her shoulder. Or maybe a piece of her spiky red hair would fall down into her eyes and I could brush it away. Yeah, that would be perfect.
I waited, but none of her hair fell down. It was packed pretty solid with gel. Plus, most of her hair was tucked under her top hat.
Maybe the music would switch to a slow song, and I could put my hand on her waist. Or loop my arms around her neck. Yeah, that. The neck thing.
Except you weren’t supposed to do that to someone else’s girlfriend. Darn it all to heck.
Maybe Toni and I could be friends. I needed friends at my new school.
Except I didn’t want to be friends with her. Not just friends anyway.
She leaned into my ear again. I got the same thrill I’d gotten when she’d done that before. “Are you new here?” she asked.
I nodded. “I’m from New York.”
She opened her eyes wide, like she was impressed, and smiled. I smiled back.
She moved in again. “So. Would you rather run for president or go to Mars?”
I laughed. It was such a random question. “Mars.”
“How come?”
“Because then at least you get to do something no one’s ever done before. Go exploring. Learn new things. Being president just means you have to try to fix a bunch of stuff no one’s been able to figure out how to fix yet.”
I had to lean close to her for a long time to say all that. By the time I pulled back, I was blushing as hard as she was.
“What about you?” I asked.
“President,” she said. “Just because no one’s figured out how to fix it yet doesn’t mean no one ever can.”
I nodded. If anyone could fix the world’s problems, it just might be this girl with the red hair and the top hat.
I smiled at her.
The music switched to a slow song.
TONI
I put my hand on her waist.
So she was probably straight. Whatever. Screw it. She could take my hand off her waist if she wanted to.
She didn’t take my hand off her waist.
GRETCHEN
My heart was pounding so fast.
I had exchanged, like, three sentences with this girl, but somehow, I felt like I’d known her forever.
My hands were trembling, but I linked them behind her neck and stepped in closer. I was a couple of inches taller, so I looked down into her eyes and smiled again.
God, she had the most amazing eyes.
TONI
I wanted to ask Gretchen something else. I wanted to know everything there was to know about her.
It was just—
There was something about the way she was looking at me.
I love to talk. I talk constantly. When you’re talking, people always know you’re there.
But I didn’t have any words just then.
Not with her looking at me like that. Like she could see all the way inside me.
GRETCHEN
I leaned in to her ear again, even though we were close enough now that I didn’t need to. I swallowed my nervousness and asked, “Is that your girlfriend in the blue dress?”
Toni didn’t pull back. She didn’t answer, either. For an anxious second I thought she hadn’t heard me.
Finally she shook her head. “Just a friend.”
TONI
“Oh,” Gretchen said.
She was blushing.
God, she was adorable.
I nodded toward the blond guy who was now leading Renee around the room in a dramatic-looking tango. Everyone was watching them. Which meant they weren’t looking at Gretchen and me anymore. “What about you? What’s up with that guy?”
“Oh, right.” Gretchen glanced over, then turned back to me with a cute little quirk in her eyebrow. “I don’t know. My dad’s friend knows him or something? He’s all right. Not for me, though.”
She scrunched up her face adorably. God, everything this girl did was adorable.
“Not for you ’cause...why?” I asked.
She blushed again.
I seriously could not deal with how this felt.
Oh, my lord.
I was really, truly, genuinely about to melt into a puddle of utter uselessness.
Oh, my lord.
GRETCHEN
I was still nervous.
So nervous I didn’t know how I was even going to stay standing, let alone move.
So nervous I could hear my heart beating in my ears. Louder than the music. Louder than the people talking and clapping.
So nervous it was like I was floating outside my body, watching this whole thing play out from the ceiling of the hotel ballroom, somewhere near that carefully crafted balloon arch.
I was so nervous I could barely breathe.
But I kissed her anyway.
TONI
I melted.
1
AUGUST
SUMMER BEFORE FRESHMAN YEAR OF COLLEGE
1 YEAR, 10 MONTHS TOGETHER
TONI
I still melt every time I kiss Gretchen, but it’s different now.
That first night, back at a high school dance, we barely even knew each other’s name. Now we’re about to leave for college, and we know each other inside and out.
Before I met Gretchen, I wondered if I’d ever even have a real girlfriend. It seemed impossible, once. I’d gone out with other girls, sure, but nothing had ever lasted. I didn’t think I’d actually find anyone willing to put up with me for more than a month or two.
But I still daydreamed. I’d sit there in health class, my eyes soft-focused on the whiteboard while I pictured some pretty girl and me skipping hand in hand through daisy-strewn meadows, gazing into each other’s eyes, laughing at our little inside jokes and never, ever getting tired of each other. I used to think no real relationship could be as exciting as my health-class fantasy.
What blew me away was that the reality turned out to be so much more. I never imagined that being one half of a whole could make you feel more whole all by yourself. I never dreamed I’d want to tell someone all my secrets and know their secrets, too.
But now everything’s changing. I don’t know what our lives are going to be like after tomorrow, but at least I know that no matter what happens next, we’ll always have each other.
Knowing I can count on that is the only thing holding me in one piece while I count down our last few hours together. I’m trying to act like it’s not a big deal, but as the minutes tick by it’s getting harder and harder to pretend.
“Pass me the shampoo?” Gretchen asks. I find the Target bag with four bottles of Sun-Kissed Shiny Grapefruit and hand it over.
“You know, they do have stores in Boston,” I say as Gretchen loads the bag into a suitcase. I’m sitting in Gretchen’s desk chair, one of the only
surfaces in the room that’s not covered in open boxes, suitcases and laundry baskets. “You don’t have to turn your dorm room into your own personal CVS.”
“You are so funny, T.” Gretchen kisses me on the cheek and grabs a stack of socks from the dresser. “You must teach me your ways. How much shampoo are you going to pack?”
“I already packed, but I’m not bringing any shampoo. I’ll get some when I’m up there. How are you going to take all these suitcases on the plane anyway? Are your parents going to pretend your bags are theirs or something?”
Gretchen laughs. “Do you think I should bring all my shoes or just some of them? I can probably leave my cowboy boots here, right? They’ll take up so much space.”
I eye Gretchen’s closet door, still covered in photos from two years’ worth of debate tournaments. “You only own, like, two pairs of shoes. I think you should bring them all unless you want to go around barefoot.”
Gretchen sighs fake-dramatically. “I own more than two pairs of shoes.”
“Well, yeah, I guess there’s three if you count your sneakers and your Birkenstocks.”
Gretchen laughs again, even though it’s the oldest joke there is. For the last two years of high school Gretchen wore Birks every day unless it was raining or snowing. On those days, the sneakers came out. Gretchen always looked totally out of place in hallways filled with girls in designer ballet flats or chic dress code–friendly one-inch heels.
Not that any of it ever stopped Gretchen from becoming absurdly popular. That part was pretty much guaranteed from the first fateful Homecoming dance on. When you make that much of a stir before it’s even your first day of school, you’re going to amass a sizeable crew of devotees.
Which I guess meant I wound up being kind of popular, too. Walking down the hall holding hands with Gretchen every day was enough to make anyone feel like a celebrity. Winning that fight with the school administration junior year didn’t hurt, either. The blue plaid pants I finally got to wear looked ridiculous, like old-man golf pants, but it was such a relief to be out of those stupid skirts I’d been wearing since kindergarten.
Every time I walked down the hall wearing my old-man golf pants with my gorgeous girlfriend by my side—every single day felt like that night at the dance. Ever since Gretchen came here, it felt like I could finally be—well—me.
Now it’s all over. High school. Everything about the life I’ve had here. The bad parts and the good.
I watch Gretchen pack, dressed in an old pair of cutoff shorts and a tank top, blond hair hanging loose and messy, perpetual smile firmly in place.
Gretchen is definitely one of the good parts. Gretchen’s the good part.
I can’t keep pretending.
“I’m going to miss you.” I don’t mean to say it. The truth just sort of spills out of me. “So much.”
Gretchen turns around, face falling. Right away I feel bad. I hate making Gretchen look like that.
It’s been happening more and more lately. All summer we’ve been making plans, looking up our roommates online and studying the Boston T map and talking about what it’s going to be like to be on our own, but over the past week or so, Gretchen’s gotten a lot quieter. I think it’s only just started hitting home for both of us how big a change this is going to be.
“I mean,” I go on, trying to act nonchalant, “I know we aren’t going to be that far apart in the geographical sense, but it just feels like I need to see you every day, you know? This is going to be so hard. I actually kind of can’t deal when I think about how hard it’s going to be.”
“I know.” Gretchen puts down the socks and draws me into a hug. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” I squeeze tighter. I love the way Gretchen feels in my arms.
I can’t wait any longer.
“Hey,” I say, still trying to make my voice sound breezy. “You know how I snuck off at Target while you were in the toothpaste aisle?”
“Yeah.” Gretchen pulls back. “I figured you were buying something embarrassing. I saw you checking out that box set of Pretty Little Liars.”
“Well, yeah. You know I always had that thing for Emily. That wasn’t why I snuck off, though.”
“So why did you?”
Gretchen’s leaning against the hand-me-down dresser, the sad expression from before replaced by the smile we both get whenever we play this game. The I-have-a-secret-and-I-can’t-wait-to-tell-you game.
“Close your eyes,” I order.
Gretchen obeys.
“Now promise not to laugh,” I say.
“T! You know I can’t promise that. I always laugh, even when it’s not funny. I’m already laughing now just standing here!”
“Okay, but you have to promise not to laugh with malicious intent.”
“I swear I won’t laugh with malicious intent! Can I please open my eyes?”
I stand up and pull the tiny bag out of my pocket. “Okay.”
Eyes open, Gretchen looks inside the bag, then claps and laughs. “This is perfect! You really got this while I was picking out my Aquafresh?”
“Yep.” I grin and pull out another bag. When Gretchen gets happy like this, especially when it’s because of something I did, I always turn into a giant, embarrassing, grinning goof. “I got one for me, too.”
“Aww. You are such a sap! I love it!” Gretchen hugs me again. “That was such a fantastic night, remember?”
“Yeah, I remember.”
The Target has a kiosk where you can get jewelry engraved. I got us each a silver disk on a leather cord. Gretchen’s disk has a top hat in the center. Mine has a bare footprint.
When we leave tomorrow, Gretchen and I will be apart for the first time. We’ll be in the same city, but at different schools—Gretchen at Boston University, me at Harvard. We’ll only be able to see each other on weekends. Maybe the occasional weekday if we’re up for trekking across the city.
I wanted us to have something solid we could look at. Something to hold in our hands when we couldn’t hold each other. Something to remind us both of where we started out. Not that there’s any way we could forget.
“This is so insanely sweet,” Gretchen says. “I should’ve gotten you a present, too.”
“No, you shouldn’t. Don’t be crazy. It only occurred to me when I saw the kiosk.”
“Toni. Tell the truth.”
“Okay, I’ve been thinking about it for months.” We both laugh. “If you want, you can always pay my mom back for the twelve ninety-five I put on the credit card.”
“Your mom can afford it.” We laugh again, and Gretchen’s arms link behind my neck. I’m still freaked about tomorrow, but touching Gretchen helps. Touching Gretchen always helps.
“Thank you,” Gretchen says. “Really.”
“You’re welcome, really.”
We kiss.
Have you ever wanted to breathe someone in until they become part of you and never let them go? That’s what kissing Gretchen is like.
Maybe that’s how it is for everyone when they kiss someone they really love. I don’t know.
We break away and Gretchen goes over to the closet, where most of the clothes are still hanging.
“Hey, so, there was something I wanted to talk to you about,” Gretchen says, grabbing a bunch of pants still on their hangers and tossing them into an open suitcase. I wince at the thought of the wrinkles. “It’s kind of, um, a thing.”
“What’s up?” I sit on the edge of the bed to watch Gretchen pack.
“Well, it’s just that—”
Gretchen’s phone buzzes. That’s the third time in the past five minutes.
“Who keeps texting you?” I ask.
“Uh.” Gretchen glances down at the screen. “Well. If I tell you something, will you promise not t
o get mad?”
I laugh. “You know that’s never a good way to start, babe.”
Gretchen puts on a mock-innocent expression I’ve seen many times before. There’s no way not to smile at it.
“It’s possible,” Gretchen says, “that I told Chris and Audrey they could come over and help us pack tonight.”
“Why?” I can hear the whine in my voice. It’s our last night together.
“They were asking when they could say goodbye,” Gretchen tells me. “This was the last chance. I said they can’t stay long. Chris tried to make a stink about it, but I told him he’d just have to deal.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t really complain. Chris is my best friend, and Audrey is my little sister. I’ll see Gretchen every week once we leave for school, but I’m not going to see Chris or Audrey until Thanksgiving. If I come home for Thanksgiving.
“It’ll be fun,” Gretchen says. “We can hang out on our own after. Don’t worry.”
I cross the room, loop my arms around Gretchen’s waist and kiss the back of Gretchen’s neck, provoking a round of giggles.
“I never worry about anything when you’re around,” I say. “How long until they get here?”
“Half an hour, maybe?”
We both smile. Then we start making out.
It’ll be a while before we get another chance, after all. At least a week. The last time I went a week without seeing Gretchen was when my family went to a resort in the Dominican Republic. I was so lonely. Plus I kept feeling guilty about the exploited workers who handed me fresh towels every morning. For the first two days I texted Gretchen every other minute. Then my sister told me to put the phone down already because I was embarrassingly whipped.
I guess we lose track of time, because we’re still kissing when the front door slams.
“Crap.” Gretchen scampers off the bed. I go over to the mirror to check my hair. It’s all mussed. I try to smooth it back, but it’s a lost cause.
Gretchen’s mom opens the bedroom door without knocking, coming in with a bright smile and a long glance around the room. The rule in Gretchen’s house, which we tend to break a lot, is that we can hang out as much as we want but we’re supposed to leave the door open. Gretchen’s parents are keeping up the pretense that all we do is hold hands. It’s kind of cute, actually. My parents prefer to believe Gretchen and I don’t even do that much.
