Chasing Days

by Deirdre Riordan Hall

  I add some glitter glue and prop it up in my window, hopeful he’ll see it in the morning.

  It’s eleven and my phone remains dark. I lay in bed. A light breeze blows the gossamer drapes bordering my bedroom window like a pair of phantoms. Apparently, they’ve robbed me of my ability to sleep. As usual. I try and fail to resist the fact that I'm nocturnal.

  I sit up. Teddy’s window is closed. I power on my Kindle and flip through page after page of book recommendations, but don’t land on one that insists I read it now. I love books but sometimes it's like I’m not reading the right ones. Ulysses doesn’t count because that was required reading. I’ve covered the classics and some of the bestsellers. Teddy tells me I’m a sellout. He claims I have the coolest parents in town and therefore own rights to being the coolest girl in town. Except I’m not. I’m ordinary with leanings toward tomboy-ish. I'm gangly. All elbows and knees, angles and edges, freckles and gap-teeth.

  He says they’re whom we want to grow up to be; they do things their way. Not me. Autumn and Kurt can keep their hipster hall passes. I love them, but they're just weird. At least I don’t think I want to be like them.

  Teddy says I censor myself. That I’m too quick to sign on the dotted line. I’ve done stuff… I've skipped school. Okay, once. I had my period, but still.

  My feverish Kindle searching lands me on the cover of a YA novel with a faintly familiar blue-haired figure on the cover. It’s a fantasy and since reality isn’t very exciting at the moment, I dive into the sample text, hoping it'll pull me in before I buy it.

  I’m stuck on the description of how foxy the main character is. A self-determining, liberated, whip-smart babe. She reminds me of the new girl that appeared in Mr. Dicostanzo’s class last week—the fluffing epitome of cool. She walked in, while he was in mid-sentence, and said, “Hi. I’m Joss. You’re welcome,” and then plunked down in the seat next to me. She smelled like the seashore and grit, but I suppose I do too.

  Mr. D hardly acknowledged her, but he didn’t need to. I did, albeit silently and without making eye contact, possibly along with the rest of the class, Teddy included. Usually he doesn’t pay attention to that kind of thing, but maybe seeing the female version of himself came as a bolt from the blue, though I haven’t spoken to her yet so I can’t completely confirm that she is lady-Teddy.

  While the Dictator droned on about whatever, Joss buried her nose in a book that was not on our assigned reading sheet. The girl on the cover looked almost like her, short blue-black hair—the same one I’m looking at now.

  I click buy.

  I've never seen anyone quite like Joss in real life. Small features dot her face, but everything else about her is punctuated with definite swagger. Also, the sheer tights she had on beneath ripped shorts were printed with Halloween-style skeleton bones and my guess is they glow in the dark. In addition, she wore Converse, like me. But mine are black, her’s, purple. Or maybe it's that she sparks something within me I haven't felt before.

  After a couple of chapters, I'm the opposite of sleepy. Joss appears in my head at each swipe of the page.

  I sneak down to the living room and flick on the television, my mind branded hot with Joss’s image. I scroll through the episodes of Girls already watched and land on one from the second season. I mute the volume on the theme song and then shiver. I close the window and grab a blanket before turning the sound low.

  Joss could totally be cast on Girls. She’d be an interloper between Hannah and Adam or whomever. Dramatic love-triangle style. My imagination carries me into a threesome and then Marnie and Jessa are kissing on the screen. The place between my legs warms. The scene is relatively tame, although I wouldn’t know any different. There’s a distracting hooting sound in the background, but it's not enough to deny how lit up I feel. Then the guy—can’t remember his name, though he reminds me slightly of a grown up Grady—starts hollering about something spilled on the rug. I mute the TV again.

  Reclined on the couch, I slide my hand under the waistband of my shorts. I’ve touched myself before, but now I get the idea behind the term burning with desire. I can’t not do it. My fingers tremble a little and my pulse races. In the glow of the TV, the blanket lifts and lowers until my breath catches and releases.

  Chapter Two

  ☼

  Monday

  My clock clicks to three a.m. on the dot, and I blink my eyes at the ceiling. It's futile to ask myself why I’m suddenly awake. I consider grabbing my skateboard and taking a night ride, that usually does the trick, but voices, hissing in the near dark, draw me to the window.

  Mr. and Mrs. Westing stand, framed, in front of their kitchen sink, just beneath Teddy's bedroom.

  I lean in closer.

  “We are not calling the police or bringing him to the hospital. Do you know what kind of media attention that will draw?” Mr. Westing asks.

  “But he could have—” Mrs. Westing counters, her shrill voice somehow several octaves higher than usual.

  “We’ve managed to keep him out of the picture this long.”

  “What if he needs help?”

  “We’re this close, Rhoda.” Mr. Westing's first two fingers pinch the air.

  There are more words exchanged like danger, media field day, and patience, but the venom in Mr. Westing’s voice makes me wince and I don't hear the rest.

  Muffled sobs sneak out of Teddy’s dark bedroom window. I lean against the wall, sweat pricking my forehead, my palms moist. The poster I made for him suddenly feels stupid, but now, more than ever, I want him to hear my voice in the encouraging message. I want to text him or run over there and find out what’s going on. I want to help him. But the atmosphere is thick, like a storm blew in while I was asleep and I’m not brave enough to rush out into it.

  My mind spins circles around trying to figure out what happened and what to do until I doze off.

  In the dim light of the morning, I fail at rubbing off the fuzz of sleep, but shuck myself to sitting, peering out my bedroom window like I’ve done every morning since Teddy moved in next door and we became friends. His closed shades draw a strange barrier between us as the conversation I heard in the night floods back to me. I leave the poster board wedged there, hoping he'll see it.

  Gray clouds hover low in the sky. They’re dreamy and foggy, spreading across the landscape like a still-warm sheet, reflecting my mood. I pull on shorts. Unable to find my Team Teddy T-shirt, I tug on a gray V-neck.

  I drift to the bathroom, yawning at my reflection. I drag a comb through my long blondish hair, twist it into a messy bun on the top of my head, and brush my teeth.

  Downstairs, my mom left me a note on the refrigerator. Left early for the brewing expo. Smoothie in fridge. Not sure when we’ll be home. XO

  The Mason jar on the shelf contains the usual green concoction. I run my essay to the printer and fold the blanket from last night, not sure if I should be embarrassed or let the embers continue to smolder down south. I close my eyes and shiver. Yup, there’s smoldering for sure. I exhale, tempted for a second go, but then glance at the clock. When the word horny comes to mind, I stick out my tongue, repulsed at the term, one my parents would use or randy. Yuck.

  I return for the smoothie, trot out to Teddy’s car, and avoid leaning on the dirty hood. The Mason jar is half-empty by the time he slams the etched-glass door behind him. Other than his scowling at the ground, the sky, and the yellow house, there’s no indication of a situation necessitating the police or a trip to the ER.

  I examine Teddy as he clicks open the car door and gets into the hand-me-down Toyota. The Grapesicle. It’s a dirty shade of white since he hasn’t brought it to the car wash after his parents replaced it with a new Audi for Mrs. Westing last year. Teddy considered painting it purple. My parents would have helped. Salt and sand from winter dusts the smattering of bumper stickers for equality, gay rights, and "whirled peas" on the back. The one that says I hate bumper stickers is new so it’s still shiny.

  Wordless
ly, Teddy plugs in his seatbelt, puts the key in the ignition, and places his hands at two and ten o’clock. He doesn’t move.

  The familiar smell of purple grape juice comforts me. Whenever we give people a ride and they mention the scent, Teddy and I exchange a knowing glance, like the grape juice smell means something, but we really have no idea why, one day, a week after he got it, the fragrance appeared.

  “Even though I'm not the driver, I’m pretty sure you have to turn the key to make it go.” I tease Teddy, hoping he defrosts soon.

  I’ve never liked driving. I’ll do it in a pinch, but it’s as unnatural to me as eating mayonnaise and cheese together. Bleck. It’s like putting a blondish-koala behind the wheel. That’d be me. I belong in a tree or on a skateboard. I don’t fit in the driver's seat with my foot on the accelerator and my hand on the gearshift.

  “Last night,” I say, offering him an opening.

  Teddy whips his head in my direction. “It was not a cry for help.”

  His meaning drifts like silt into the depths of my understanding. “Of course not,” I say softly.

  “They basically have a pharmacy in their bathroom. I took one too many, but I just slept. That’s all.”

  Oh. My. God. “That’s all.” My voice is barely a whisper. I want to hug him and tell him everything is going to be okay. I want to slap him and ask what were you thinking, but he has a force field up. I think he special ordered it online around the time his parents started nagging about college.

  He slams his hand against the steering wheel. “I’m not the standard definition of a seventeen-year-old male or the exact person my parents or society wants me to be. I like pedicures, grooming, facials feel nice, and fashion, don’t even get me started. But that’s just me and shouldn’t point to my gender unless you’re the supreme emperor of industrial sized asshattery. First name Arnold. Last name Westing. Rhoda too. Such a bitch.”

  My eyes grow wide. Not at how he’s criticizing his parents but the other thing: the dark and could-be-permanent for all eternity thing, the one that involves funerals and grief.

  “Teddy, did you try to—”

  “Try to effing off myself? No. If I really meant it, I would have done it.” His voice is brick, but I'm not convinced the mortar is dry.

  Part of me feels under water, but I dare to meet the depths of his dark brown eyes. He glances away. Fear grips me with the possibility of him not having woken up to this sullen day and never seeing him again. “But Teddy, that—”

  “Gives you a stupidity headache? Yeah, me too. I was shithouse mad last night. I just wanted to sleep. For a long time. To go away and leave those assbackwards people who call themselves parents.” His drawl swings between anger and exhaustion.

  “Maybe we should—” But I don’t know what. Call a suicide intervention line? Go to the school psych? Run away?

  Teddy is very still like the oppressive air around us compresses every inch of his being.

  I hold my breath.

  Then slowly, he shakes his head.

  I’ve seen many sides of my best friend: happy, giddy, gleeful, silly, goofy, doofy. Mad at his mom and dad and sometimes society for being assbags—his word, not mine. But right now he seems empty and whatever choice he makes in the next two-seconds, whatever he says, will tell me if this is permanent or if someday he’ll be okay. I think he knows this too. Seconds pass in time with Teddy’s head shifting from no to nodding yes.

  Thank you Jesus, Yahweh, Buddah, Allah, and Mary. Especially thank you, Mary. I make a mental note to leave some flowers by the ceramic statue in Mrs. McGregor's yard.

  “You know what, I’m an idiot if I’m not the first one to get in line and just accept myself. This is who I am. Take it or leave it assnumbing, grave digging, douchebag, suck ass suckers,” he says in his slight accent and with enough fuel to light fires with his words. "They try to be so vanilla when they're as black as me."

  Aaaannnnd he’s back. Phew.

  “That’s where I’m at. I’m done denying fundamental parts of myself or pretending to be someone I’m not or letting people think I’m someone else. I mean, maybe I even denied or tricked myself for a while. But no, I’m a man who likes things society says are feminine. Tough shit, ass nuggets. I’m not sorry.”

  The wind blows the flag hanging off my front porch as Teddy wordlessly backs out of his driveway and onto Druery Lane. There should be fanfare, because that was the kind of ground shaking that necessitates pomp. Or music. As if on cue, Teddy cranks up the stereo. The Who, the legendary rock band, triumphantly blasts, “Who are you?”

  My parents’ freak flag blows as if in salute. One night, they got together with some friends, polished off a case of their latest craft beer, and stitched together a colorful flag with a pirate-octopus, patching in words like authenticity, gratitude, and fuck conformity. It's possible Teddy’s parents and mine made a secret pact to switch kids or perhaps some government conspiracy swapped us in the night as a social experiment. I look for a ripple in the dome. Nothing. I’m actually not at all like Mr. and Mrs. Westing, but I’m also about as right of my parents as they are left of me, making for a very unconventional cube. Or half-sphere or whatever.

  Teddy sighs as we roll by the brooding Atlantic. “I applied late. They waitlisted me. I got the letter. I got in.” His voice is monotone. “It’s meant to be.” It sort of sounds like he needs convincing.

  On an ordinary day, we’d be out of the car, jumping up and down, clutched in a hug and squealing, not caring that we were waking up the neighborhood or blocking traffic. Okay, I’d care and then we’d be back in the car, but Teddy would just tell anyone who complained to shut it, he got into art school. When my vision reaches its end, placing us exactly where we are except without the glee, I put my hand on his arm. He needs another kind of hug altogether. The kind where I hold him and don't let go until I know we're both okay.

  “They refused. The only word they said was no. One syllable, repeated a hundred times, forms a wall. No. No. No.—” I lose track of how many times he repeats it. “I temporarily gave up. We argued, but that was it, end of discussion.” Dashed dreams and the sobs of a hundred gloriously buxom women sculpted out of clay fill his eyes.

  I let him be sad a minute, but only one. “Yeah, except it’s meant to be, like you said. How could it not?”

  He turns to me. Half a grin lifts his cheek. I give him the full gap-toothed Willa Wohlbreuk smile, and he relents, his own smile beaming through the film of the word no that temporarily blocked his ability to see his tenacious spirit.

  “Fuck yeah. You’re right. I won't give up,” he says. "I can't."

  I wait for him to hoot. When he doesn’t, I clear my throat.

  "Yeah?" he asks.

  I do it again. I don't mean to, except I do.

  “What’s with the throat clearing?” he asks.

  “Congratulations.”

  Teddy rolls down the window as if he wants to blow away his moment of doubt and the residue of the argument and everything that could have happened the night before, but the future, when it looks bleak, is a sticky thing. I know this, intimately. I want to remind him that I’m here, Willa, best friend for life, sister from another universe, and comrade. He can tell me anything.

  The inside of the car is a wind tunnel. I clear my throat again.

  “Thank you, but the congratulations? That’s not it why you keep clearing your throat. I can tell when you have something you want to tell me. You do that.” He demonstrates.

  I fight against doing it again. “It’s the smoothie. My mom put some kind of grass or celery or some other atrocious nutritional in it."

  He takes the last sip. “Kale, cucumber, a pear, nutmeg for sure. A banana, spirulina...” He slurps, sucking more air than concoction. “Some flax, coconut milk. Cinnamon. No celery. No wheatgrass.” Teddy loves my mother’s smoothies and usually drinks mine for me unless she makes one for him too.

  We hit every red light, punctuating the not-celery threading
between us.

  The air is turbulent. The blemished clouds of a thunderstorm loom off toward the east, ferried in from the sea. I wouldn’t mind a beach walk today. It might calm my molecules and cells, ionizing me or whatever new age nonsense my dad’s friend, Nelson, goes on about.

  Teddy can’t stand silence for longer than ninety-seconds. This is a fact. I’ve conducted a study. He's a talker and no one can resist listening to that smooth subtle, southern drawl of his anyway.

  Since I won't admit to his accuracy on the throat clearing, he hits neutral territory when he speaks after eighty-eight-seconds. “I went to the post office box yesterday and after being empty for weeks there was a thick envelope wedged inside. Return address: Rhode Island. That was a good idea, getting the post office box by the way. My parents would have just thrown the letter away without looking at it.”

  “They wouldn’t do that,” I say. The question, waiting on the tail of the throat clearing, is why didn’t you call me right away and who did you call instead?

  “When they asked me how I applied I told them about getting the post office box and that I signed their names. Then I confessed my trip for a second look at Brown was really a weekend spent at RISD. My dad said if the letter had been sent to our house he would have shredded it.”

  “Was he drunk?”

  “A little. They were at a pollster thing. I think he might really run for the House of Representatives just as soon as I’m out of the picture.”

  Mr. Westing’s words curdle my stomach. We’ve managed to keep him out of the picture this long.

  “What did they say this morning?”

  “Nothing, as usual. Mom perfecting her makeup. Dad not breaking from his newspapers. I’m never listening or speaking to them again. At least not until some indefinite time after graduation.”

  I clear my throat. Teddy gives me a stern look.