Chasing Days

by Deirdre Riordan Hall

  If I keep this question inside any longer, it'll smoke itself out and the coughing and sputtering will necessitate the Heimlich. “Who were you talking to last night? I mean, after you found out?”

  Thirty-second hesitation. “I called Jerusha. He goes there.”

  “Oh.”

  The way Teddy says it suggests he likes Jerusha. Like, likes him. They went to the same studio for classes last summer, before he went off to college. Teddy has never confirmed my suspicions about his sexuality, other than his proclamation a few moments ago about accepting himself. Apparently, last summer was a prolific time for sketched and sculpted studies of curvaceous women in the nude, suggesting he appreciated the extra time spent with Jerusha at the studio. It was like he'd moved in.

  Despite the increasing heat of the day, there’s a teeth chattering chill between us. If I say another word, it will come out like wahhuh-eye donnn't yoooou askkkkk himmmm outtttt? I like knowing the answers to questions before I ask them, but this one stumps me and I think it him, uncomfortable so I keep my mouth shut. I also want to know why he didn't call me at all, or at least respond to my texts.

  He's activated his force field again so I tell him about Heather and her plea for help with warding off her mother's plan for a grad party.

  “Hell no. We’re going to the Clam Shack. Sherman or not, a humiliating afternoon with H will be worth every bite.”

  “You’re so cruel.”

  “Kidding. Sorta. Who says the girl can’t make the first move? She’s on the rebound—all the more reason. She can accidentally knock into Jud's tray, spilling oysters everywhere, and then they'll do something about the inferno of attraction that melts everyone in a ten mile radius every time they’re in a room together.”

  “Are oysters really an aphrodisiac? It seems like eating one would be like inhaling giant gobs of mucous.”

  Teddy closes one eye, squints the other, and sticks out his tongue. “When you put it like that, nasty. But I suppose anything can make for the sexy time. Also, I can’t help it if I think with my stomach. The lobster rolls at the Clam Shack are the bomb.”

  When we pull into the parking lot at Puckett High School, Grady O'Rourke slams the door of a truck that looks like he stole it from a scrap yard. The kind plucky kids dance and drum on top of in a spirited musical; the lively productions my dad digs. He's a film and theater buff.

  In some circles, Grady has the reputation for being the sort of guy who thinks with the part of his anatomy that lives south of his stomach. He cruises across the lawn with his backpack lazily slung over one shoulder. He nods at a group and fist bumps a couple of his friends. The way his jeans hang from his hips and how his strong shoulders rise and fall as he laughs would make me swoon if it wouldn’t result in Teddy laughing at me for days afterward. I'm not really that kind of girl anyway, and yet my inner tide laps foreign shores.

  Nonetheless, Teddy's radar is finely honed. He catches me ogling. He laughs at me anyway. “Really? His Royal Hotness, still? Even after the rumor Layla Leonard gave him crabs?” Teddy asks.

  I ignore him. I can’t explain it, but Grady is the singular guy at Puckett that I’m attracted to and since my life has been one long dry spell, I white-knuckle the possibility of a him and a me. It’s never really mattered before that I’m a virgin and only had a boyfriend once in tenth grade that I made out with a few times. A few slimy-tongue, drool-everywhere times. His fault, not mine. Also, the thing about crabs was a poorly timed joke that turned into a misunderstanding during his shift at the Clam Shack. I casually had it confirmed by multiple sources.

  There are only two weeks of senior year left. What else do I have to show for four years in high school? Decent grades? A functional understanding of ingrained stereotypes and social structure? A dislike for soggy tater tots? A mastery of isotopes and cell division? Two best friends?

  Teddy thumbs the steering wheel, distracted. He’s probably fantasizing about Jerusha just like I am about Grady…and Joss. Last night on the futon sofa in the living room rushes back with a pleasantly warm sensation between my thighs. But I can’t tell Teddy because I can hardly admit it to myself. Anyway, he’d have to go first. He called dibs on homosexuality without actually calling dibs. I feel kind of like a cell-dividing mutant with mismatched furniture and a tidal wave of confusion. Did that make any sense? Not really. I'm beginning to think change tends not to.

  Finally, Teddy breaks my trance when he grabs his bag from the back seat, whacks me on the shoulder, and we get out. I slam my door and thunder shakes the trees and people alike, right down to our roots. As students scatter toward the building hoping to outrun the impending rain, I walk shoulder to shoulder with Teddy.

  I prickle when I spot Jaze, a hybrid jock-jerk aka jork. He calls across the lawn, “Hey, turd eater, did you hear about the gay—”

  I don’t hear the rest of his chumpy joke over a clap of thunder. Teddy picks up his pace.

  When Jaze started picking on Teddy, about four years ago, I would stand up for him, shout back comments about ignorance and tolerance, but last year Teddy told me to let him make a fool of himself. He said, “He’ll figure it out.”

  Doubtful. We move on and I worry that if Teddy comes out, the bullying will get worse. I’m not even the target of the hostility, but Jaze's words sting. I don't want Teddy suffering in silence and vow, despite whether he tells me to keep quiet or not, to take a stand if Jaze or anyone else gives him a hard time should he openly declare that he's gay. We only have two weeks left, but I have a feeling he'll do it.

  A streak of lightning brightens the sky. I associate thunderstorms with cozy afternoons, watching the weather through rain-streaked windows, and curling up with a mug of tea. It’s before eight a.m., storms like this need to make an afternoon appointment.

  I’m afraid to hear why Teddy didn’t call me first so I bury the question under others, namely my concern about the early morning distress in Mrs. Westing’s voice silenced by the ear-burning acid in Mr. Westing’s.

  Then the girl with a megawatt ton of ferocity and blue-black hair appears, quieting my command of the English language and apparently my ability to walk. I stumble over the flat and unobstructed ground. Teddy, quick as a cat, catches my hand and we proceed. He nods at Joss like they’re part of an exclusive club for under-twenties with colorful hair. She glances in our direction, with a smile-not-smile smile, and marches on, a flannel tied around her waist like she doesn’t care if she gets soaked.

  Teddy stops me at the entrance as the wind kicks up slips of paper and a few crinkly leaves left over from when the snow melted. “One other thing. You should call me Theo now,” he says.

  Either his drawl got thicker or I misheard him. “Huh?”

  He doesn’t answer as he sweeps into the building.

  Stunned, I only budge when fat drops fall from the sky. I don’t have time to go to my locker or even run to the bathroom to dry my face when the warning bell rings.

  Theodore Westing is Teddy, always has been. He’s my flamboyant, take no shit, best friend who’s been there since the beginning. When the Westings moved into the yellow house with the white picket fence next door, that’s when the neon appeared and I gained a vague understanding of them and us. There are people in the world, and apparently my neighborhood, who don’t want to see or hear or smell the us sorts. Even though sometimes I want to turn the volume down on us, only so I can get a clear reading on exactly what us is supposed to be about, I would never tell anyone to be someone they’re not.

  Autumn and Kurt’s statement, or rebellion, started small with just the front door. They painted it neon pink. Then they coated the glass window with glitter. Shortly after, they moved onto adhering sea glass and broken bottles to cover the foundation of our house in a shimmery green and brown mosaic that looks like tree roots and earth.

  Teddy endeared himself to Autumn and Kurt when he came over one afternoon, missing his two front teeth, and asked if he could help paint the porch railings purple.
Incidentally, they went for earthy tree house in lieu of the wacky colors and patterns they'd started with, but I will forever be the girl that lives in the weird patchwork house. Half hippie, half Muppet barf.

  But this, Teddy changing his name to Theo, is like a mute button on my entire world. I try saying Theo aloud, but can’t get my voice over a whisper. Despite what he said earlier, it’s like he’s hushing himself by using a new name.

  As the day drags me along, Teddy/Theo, isn't at lunch. He’s probably visiting his academic advisor. I doubt she was thrilled when he informed her—after secretly applying to art school—that he now has a funding problem on his hands. Typically, I avoid that section of the building altogether.

  When my dad was going through old papers, converting the spare bedroom in our house to Beacon Brewery headquarters, he found a stash of my stuff from kindergarten. There was a page with the heading When I grow up I want to be… My answer? Me. Not a doctor or physicist. Me. Not an actress or hair stylist. Me. My parents were so proud; it hung on the fridge for ages. But in that folder of drawings and penmanship practice, there aren't any diagrams or outlines for how to be Willa Wohlbreuk.

  Later, I almost expect the Grapesicle’s parking spot to be empty when I trundle out of the school, weighed down with all my textbooks and the dregs of senior slump. Instead, Teddy sits on the hood and leans back, laughing at something Joss says. They wrap up the conversation when I approach.

  “Hey,” she says to me in a smoky, sexy voice. It’s like the wind gusts her hair from her face and the sun shines on a few chocolate colored freckles even though it’s cloudy and the only wind is between my ears blowing out any remaining thoughts. She seems like she prefers gray and moody anyway.

  “Hey,” I say. Words escape me, for real this time. Not even under penalty of Mr. Decostanzo’s iron wrath could I utter more than a few grunts.

  “Later, Theo,” she says. I get a nod and maybe a smirk. Then she disappears into the maze of cars and trucks.

  “She’s in art with me,” Teddy offers.

  “Of course she is,” I say. Conflicting thoughts and emotions take aim at me like two parallel ships firing canon shots.

  “It's occurred to me that the universe sent me the female version of myself as a kind of mirror. It’s really weird.”

  “It's the hair. But a mirror? You’ve been listening to my mother and her Universal Laws too much."

  "Your mother speaks the truth," he says, lazily.

  "Teddy, did you know that if I was a boy, they were going to name me Obi-Wan? What does that tell you about my parents?”

  “That they’re capital F awesome.”

  “Fawesome? No, it says they probably smoked too much pot before they conceived me,” I counter.

  Teddy’s face lights up a moment. “I just had the best idea. Also, call me Theo now.”

  Forget his genius idea. “Why?”

  He shrugs. “Why Theo? Why not? I’m ready to step out, go all in, and live my life.”

  “But isn’t that what we’ve been doing?”

  “No, darling, we thought we were at the dress rehearsal. Missed the big announcement that this is it!”

  How nice that he has that sorted, but figuring out how to be me is a persistent itch that won't be satisfied until I scratch it, maybe raw. Except I'm stalled on step one, the methodology, the how-to.

  Teddy brushes the imprint of road-hardened salt from his pants. We get in the car. He hardly misses a beat and goes on. “You didn’t badger Lola Barnes when she decided to go by Eve.”

  “That’s different. You’re Teddy, the one and only.” I’m not sure what being friends with Theo will be like, but I get the creeping sense that change is going to blow by me or through me, and it’s up to me which. But still. Theo?

  “I asked Heather about Sherman today. The grad dinner, it’s on,” he says, changing the subject.

  “And she’ll be mortified.”

  “I dared her to talk to him today. Thirteen days and counting,” Teddy says as if the days leading to graduation can't pass fast enough.

  “Don’t remind me.” Four years, narrowed down to just thirteen days until absolute freedom. “I saw H at lunch; she didn’t say anything about it…” I worry that they've suddenly shunned me from the loop because I’m not bold like them. I've never ventured beyond my wash and wear beachy waves. Essentially, I've had the same style since ninth grade: worn in jeans, comfy castoff tees, and converse sneakers. I just don't care that much. I also have the confirmed inability to make conversation with boys other than Teddy. And apparently, girls like Joss.

  “I saw H in the school office,” Teddy says, clarifying. “You know Heather, she bombarded Ms. Schaffer with ALL the questions about orientation, student housing, meal plans...”

  “Typical.” Everyone, except me, marches ahead, ready to leave Puckett, and walk right into their new lives.

  “And for you, Miss Wohlbreuk,” Teddy drums his hands on the steering wheel, “I dare you to talk to Grady before the end of the day.”

  “What? Today? It’s already two. We’re almost home.”

  “I have his number.”

  “How’d you get his—How will I call—What would I say?” Of course, I’ve imagined all of this, in mortifying detail, right down to my outfit and shoes and the anchor bracelet wrapped around my wrist—it’s good luck—, to the way he brushes a stray hair out of my face, and how he eyes my lips, silencing my words, leaning in for a…

  Teddy interrupts the pathetic train wreck in my mind. “Use the force Obi-Wan.”

  Chapter Three

  ☾

  Monday

  Teddy and I sit in the car for a solid ten-minutes, like usual. Only this time it’s because he doesn’t want to venture into the canyon of his house where his parents’ no echoes from the walls. My parents pull into our driveway, honking the horn of their frosted tulip new wave Volkswagen Beatle. My dad picked the shade of pink because he’s progressive like that. I get out and give Teddy a wimpy wave goodbye.

  After I drop off my bag, I walk over to Mrs. McGregor’s house, our elderly neighbor. When I was nine, I wanted to start a dog-walking service in a solid plea to show my parents how much I wanted a dog and that I was responsible, would help pay for it, and take care of it.

  It was a long conversation, but came down to my dad having allergies.

  Mrs. McGregor was and is my only customer. Her kids had bought her a puppy to keep her company after her husband passed away. Daisy, the Maltese, and I became best friends. I stopped charging Mrs. McGregor a dollar per walk about five years ago when I realized after I took Daisy out, she’d feed me cake or hot chocolate and we’d chat for half an hour. She’s the nicest ninety-year-old I’ve ever met and the closest I'll ever get to having a grandmother and a dog of my own. Even though Daisy's hypoallergenic, when my dad is in her proximity his mouth hangs open slightly like he has a stuck sneeze.

  An hour later, I pace in front of the computer, procrastinate my homework, and try to talk myself out of not calling Grady. I write and then delete texts to Teddy. He'd tell me that I'm a hot mess.

  “Honey, do you want a glass of kombucha?” my mom calls from the kitchen.

  “No,” I say, then, "Ew," not loud enough for her to hear.

  Two-seconds later, she appears with a glass anyway. She sits down at the dining room table and eyes the computer, which hums itself into hibernation mode. Stars stream hypnotically across the screen. “Tired? Not feeling inspired? Tell me what’s on your mind,” she says.

  I want to feel heckled and annoyed, but instead I slouch into the seat across from her. She slides the glass toward me.

  I take a sip and choke it down. “Seriously, this is gross.”

  “But it’s a fresh batch.”

  “It’s like drinking a jellyfish smoothie.”

  “Kombucha contains the perfect synthesis of fermented bacteria and yeast. It’s good for your intestinal health. It'll help you purge toxins. The SCOBY is an active—
”

  I make a gagging noise.

  She takes the glass and has a sip. “Okay, you’re right. It’s gross.”

  I take a deep breath and turn in the direction of the yellow house next door as Mr. Westing's tan Lexus pulls in. He leaves it in the driveway as if to compare the polish of his vehicle to the filth of his son’s.

  “Theo’s parents are so bland,” I say idly.

  Mr. Westing strides up the walk to the etched-glass door. I imagine him going inside and congratulating his son instead of meeting him with his typical silence or scorn. “Café latte walls, white carpet, gold metal frame glasses, jobs that involve desks and—” I make my kombucha face. I'd like to throw the glass of slime at Teddy's dad.

  “Who’s Theo?” she asks.

  “Good question.”

  Just then, my dad crashes through the kitchen door, plops down at the table with us, and wipes sweat from his brow before he downs the kombucha. “Refreshing.”

  “That’s so wrong,” I say. I strain my ears for signs of life from next door. I hope Teddy’s in his room, hatching an awesomely diabolical plan for us to both scrap school and drive cross-country or go on an adventure in Thailand or some other far-flung locale.

  “How was your run?” my mom asks.

  “Excellent, pretty soon, I think I can ditch the Vibrams and go barefoot.”

  “But I like when your feet look amphibious,” my mom answers.

  See? They're so weird.

  My mom and dad laugh and discuss dinner. Their eyes sparkle as they debate whether to roast the daikon or sauté it in coconut oil. They’re so madly in love with each other, with life, with strange concoctions containing plum vinegar, the fine points of brewing beer, and being my parents. I’m by no means a pessimist or cynic, but sometimes even with all the love they have for me I feel lonely, like a third wheel.

  I stare at my homework assignment.

  “Willa, we’ll entertain your procrastination for another hour if you run out and grab some fresh ginger. I still can’t figure out why it won’t come up in the garden,” my mom says.