Confessions of a Hater

by Caprice Crane

  I looked at her with as much empathy as I’ve ever felt in my life. “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

  “I know,” she said. “I mean, I realize you didn’t know. But … ugh. It just sucks, you know? It all sucks. I mean, I’m over it—as much as you can get over something like that—but seeing him be normal with another girl when I feel like I can never be normal again … it hurts.”

  “You can be normal,” I said, hoping that was the right thing to say.

  “I don’t want to be normal,” she barked. “Gross. What’s more boring than being ‘normal’?”

  “I don’t know what to say. I want to say the right thing and I don’t know what it is. But if you tell me what I can say or do to make it better, I will.”

  “That’s just it,” she said. “There will never be anything you can say to make it better. It happened. I got through it. And now I go to school and see him every day and since the Invisibles became a ‘thing’ I even interact with him—which is something I never thought I’d do, by the way.”

  “That must be weird,” I said. “I didn’t mean to make you feel weird. If I’d have known—”

  “No, it’s good you didn’t know,” Anya said. “If you’d known, maybe you wouldn’t have pressured us to push past all the bullshit going down, and really, I’m glad that’s not going on anymore. I don’t want things to be like that with him. You know, I’m actually glad we’re talking again—most of the time, anyway. But there’s a lot of history there. And seeing him with Emily and hearing about your date … man, it’s just … there’s stuff I’ve had locked up down there a long time.”

  “I get it,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  Her eyes welled with tears, and I pulled her in for a hug. “I’m so sorry,” I repeated.

  “Wait.” I stopped, wondering for a moment exactly how things went down. “Was he a dick about it? Did he toss you aside when he found out? Do I need to punch him? Because I will—”

  “No,” Anya interrupted me, sniffing back would-be tears. “If anyone was the dick, I was. I was scared and of course it wasn’t anything we planned for. I totally assumed he’d freak out, so I just kind of pushed him away. I really thought I was doing him a favor. I mean, I didn’t want to be the girl who was like, ‘So what if we’re barely sixteen, let’s get married! No pressure!’ So, I just ignored his calls and texts … and eventually he just stopped trying.”

  “That’s so hard. I know you were trying to spare him.”

  “I was. But I’m sure he felt like I didn’t want him to have to do anything with me. Or the … you know.” She sighed. “The baby. And then, I guess a small part of me was mad that he didn’t fight harder to get me back. I don’t know. It was just all a mess. And when you experience something that huge … it’s just really frickin’ hard to accept that the guy you went through all that shit with is now dating one of your friends.”

  It was then that her first tear finally escaped. She shrugged, helpless to fight it, allowing her truth to be real, allowing the pain to show.

  It felt like any words I could locate would be insignificant. That was okay. I knew she understood I was on her side, and the unspoken promise in that fourth-floor bathroom was that we’d figure it out together.

  Can you help me remember how to smile?

  —SOUL ASYLUM

  “Runaway Train”

  CHAPTER

  15

  If you had recorded all the times my parents fought during my lifetime, I don’t think you’d even have enough to fill a greatest hits album—which is in no way implying there was any hitting going on. (And if there were, it certainly wouldn’t be great—my mom didn’t care to lift anything heavier than a can opener, and I’m pretty sure I could kick my dad’s ass at arm wrestling. Or just in general.)

  My parents rarely fought—they barely even had a disagreement—and if they did, it was never over anything serious. When I was a kid, I just always assumed they were the perfect couple, always in love, always just thrilled to be in each other’s presence. Even when they disagreed, it seemed playful, just for laughs. As I got a little older, I realized that couldn’t be totally true, but they always seemed to get along great, nothing ever really bothering them, like a husband and wife on a sitcom: They occasionally do wacky things, right, but they’re always inseparable again by the end of the show. The stupid little shit that happens from day to day is no big deal. If there was ever friction between them, I never, ever saw it. Maybe they were great at keeping their arguments hidden from Noel and me?

  Whatever Jedi mind tricks they’d used to achieve that status quo, it had abruptly changed.

  Yes, I’d noticed that my dad wasn’t around as much, and I thought it was because of the new job … but it didn’t get past me that when we did have dinner together, the conversation was awkward and stilted. The playfulness seemed to have dissipated.

  There was something going on. I tried not to worry; hopefully it was something small. I had enough shit going on in my life as it was, although I was pretty happy that my personal life was mostly on a serious upswing. I almost didn’t want to know the deal—let them work it out—but everything seemed just a little off with every conversation, every interaction.

  So when I swung open the door one afternoon and overheard my parents arguing in the kitchen, not noticing I’d come in, it wasn’t entirely unexpected. What was entirely unexpected was the weight of whatever was happening.

  This wasn’t something small.

  “We moved our entire life for you,” my mom said.

  “I know,” my dad answered. “You don’t think I know?”

  “I don’t know what to think.”

  Then they were quiet. I stood there waiting for what would come next, wondering whether I should let them know I was there. I did not want to be there right now. But I also did.

  “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do here,” my mom said.

  I couldn’t take it any longer.

  I walked into the kitchen. My dad stood by the refrigerator, my mom on the other side of the kitchen with that kitchen counter thing—I think they call it an island, but I’m not sure why—between them. Each stood with their arms crossed over their chests. They looked, I don’t know—exhausted, I guess.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  Now they looked startled.

  My mom’s body language changed immediately. She crossed the room to smooth my hair. “Nothing, sweetie,” she said. “Daddy and I are just having a discussion.”

  “Sounds like more than a discussion,” I said, thinking, I wouldn’t have called them on this six months ago, but that seems like a long time now. “Mom, I’m not a child.”

  My mom smiled, and her eyes welled up a little. “But you are,” she said. “I know you’re not a baby, but this is between your father and me, and it’s nothing you need to worry about.”

  “Really?” I asked. “Because it kinda seems like it is.”

  My dad wasn’t saying anything. He wasn’t even looking at me. I couldn’t recall the last time that happened. Actually, I couldn’t recall that ever happening.

  “Honey, why don’t you go to your room and let your father and me finish this discussion, and then we can all talk later, okay?”

  What I thought: You’re getting a divorce, aren’t you?

  What I said: “Okay.”

  I walked upstairs to my bedroom, staring at my feet. Each step I took, I’d have a memory flash, one for every time my knockoff Marant wedge sneakers touched a stair. Step: palm trees. Step: the front lawn at school. Step: packing up my old clothes and stealing Noel’s castoffs. Step: Chris Roberts. Step: my BFF necklace from Amy, who I’d totally lost touch with.

  When I got to my room, I saw an open IM on my screen.

  Oh, welcome distraction.

  ANYA: what r u doing?

  ME: freaking out. something’s way up with my rents

  ANYA: ?

  ME: i don’t know. they were fighting when i got home. they
never fight

  ANYA:… in front of you

  ME: no srsly. they don’t. something big is up

  ANYA:

  ME: what r u doing?

  ANYA: nada. brianna is here. wanted to see if you wanted to come over?

  ME: what’s a brianna?

  ANYA: duh. she’s in your science class. she’s also STANDING RIGHT HERE

  ME: oh. way to have someone I don’t even know read shit about me that’s none of her business

  So much for a distraction. Maybe the next one would be a spy satellite falling out of orbit and right through my ceiling.

  I closed the chat window without a good-bye—Anya will understand, or she won’t, and who gives a shit anyway—and threw myself backward onto my bed, where I lay for all of five seconds.

  I felt antsy and nervous and annoyed with Anya and worried about my parents and wondered what Chris was up to because I needed to think about something that wouldn’t give me a headache.

  Wondering wasn’t cutting it, so I texted a “hey” to Chris and after a few back-and-forths he was outside my house, waiting in the driveway. (The fact that Chris had a car was a total bonus.)

  “Where are you going?” my mom called out as I slid out the door.

  “Just for a drive,” I called back, not looking back or waiting for approval or even a follow-up question.

  Chris leaned against the car, contemplating whatever was on his phone, but he looked up with his bright eyes and a wide smile that comforted me, if just a little. I think those eyes could cure cancer. Or at least a mild flu.

  “You got here fast,” I said, trying to put all my parents’ stuff behind me.

  “I was worried about you,” he said.

  “Yeah, I know. And thanks. Something is totally up.”

  Chris took my hand and lifted it to his lips, kissing it with amazing tenderness. He led me to the passenger door, opening it, helping me in and closing it behind me.

  Guys, keep that in mind: It’s the little things, the small reminders that you care and that we’re important to you, that make all the difference.

  Chris continued to hold my hand as we drove … who knows where. Who cares? No matter what was going on with my parents, in that moment I felt happy and safe. We didn’t speak that much as we drove into the canyons. I was still trying to get my bearings in the city, but I think we were in Laurel Canyon. Either way, we ended up on Mulholland and the views were just breathtaking.

  We listened to music and drove around the twists and turns, and as luck or fate or random timing would have it, we were near an overlook when the sun was setting, and we had pretty much the most perfect view I’d ever seen. Then again, Chris directly in front of me was pretty perfect too.

  We parked, and I leaned my head on his shoulder and we watched the sunset, playing with each other’s hands, tickling, tracing the edges of our fingers, outlining the lines on our palms.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Chris asked.

  “I don’t even know what it is,” I said truthfully. “My parents were in this fight and they never fight and it was tense and big … it was just big. Something big was going on.”

  “That sucks.”

  “Yeah. They sent me to my room so they could keep talking, but before I interrupted, my mom played the ‘we moved for you’ card, so … I don’t know.”

  “Do you think they want to move back?” he asked, his brow wrinkled. I liked that the idea of me moving away worried him. I felt my heart swell and ache in the same moment.

  “No,” I said, but—what did I know? Jack shit. “Actually … who knows?”

  He sighed. “I’d be really bummed if you left.”

  “So would I!” I said. For as much as I didn’t want to move before, now I was loving life. I had friends, I felt confident, the weather was uh-mazing and I had a boyfriend. A real boyfriend. Not just real, but really handsome, and funny, and a popular guy who didn’t think being popular meant being shallow and vapid and—there’s probably another good word there, but I’d only just added vapid to my vocabulary recently (it’s a pretty useful term in Skylerland), so that’s good enough, right?

  Life was good, and with my track record, that’s not something you take for granted. I did not want to give this up. I shook my head to rid my brain of the thought, as if enough shaking could will it away forever. “I’m not moving. I mean, there’s no way.”

  “Good,” Chris said. He slid his hand under my chin and lifted my face to his.

  I adjusted myself to a better kissing position and got lost in delicious kisses for I don’t even know how long. His hands went under my shirt and found my breasts, and with some agile maneuvering—this isn’t his first rodeo, it occurred to me—he unhooked my bra. But it was my first rodeo. My breath caught as he touched me, and my heart was racing as we explored each other’s bodies. I felt myself divide, half of me completely lost in the moment, the other half thinking, Holy crap I am totally fooling around with my boyfriend!

  I wondered how far we’d go, and I worried about moving too fast too soon. I mean, we’d only been together for a month at this point. I definitely wasn’t ready to go all the way … but I also didn’t want to be an “Everything But” girl on our first real hookup.

  Everything But girls do everything but intercourse, and sometimes Everything But girls even do it in the butt! (Which I guess makes sense as a pun but makes absolutely no sense otherwise.) Can you tell me how that somehow makes you feel like you’re maintaining your virginity? Insane. Anyway, I wasn’t going there yet, or there probably ever. And Chris wasn’t pushing me; another thing to like about him. He was just frisky enough without overstepping. We’d talked about this a little before, dancing around it before finally getting perfectly frank. He must have known I still had my V card, so he wasn’t being gross about it, and he certainly wasn’t going to try to deflower me in a car on Mulholland Drive. Although with this view, I’m sure that had happened many times with many couples before. This place was basically View Viagra.

  By the time we pulled up to my house, I felt much better than when we’d left, for obvious reasons. I kissed Chris one last time and kept my eyes open to remind myself that I was kissing Chris Roberts. Heaven.

  It lasted until he pulled away. The unsettling feeling sank in even as my feet hit the doormat, a goofy little thing my dad and I picked out together a few years ago at an outdoor market. It was inscribed PEOPLE WALK ALL OVER ME. It was tacky but adorably so. I hadn’t thought about that for a while, but it was one of my favorite memories.

  When I walked in, my mom was there in the living room. She had to be waiting for me, because there’s no other reason she’d be sitting there on the couch, no TV on, no radio, nothing. She looked up and her eyes were red, and there was no doubt as to why. The only other time I’d ever seen her cry was when our dog Mildred passed away. (RIP Mildred )

  “Hey,” I said. “Are you okay?”

  “I am,” she said with a tiny sniffle. “Come, sit with me.”

  I crossed the room to join her on the couch, and she smiled and smoothed back my hair. I always loved that. She’d done it ever since I was little, and there’s just something so comforting about your mom smoothing your hair. But I felt like I was supposed to be the one comforting her. She was the one with bloodshot eyes … unless mine soon would be bloodshot too.

  It was just like that for what was probably thirty seconds and seemed like thirty minutes. I guess I just wanted a little longer of this time, this time before whatever came next, because whatever came next obviously wasn’t good, and I guess she wanted that too.

  I steeled myself, exhaled, and turned to her. “Mom, what’s going on?”

  “I’m going to ask you some questions,” she said.

  “And then tell me what’s going on?”

  “Honey, I don’t know what’s going on, entirely. But what I do know is that you seem happy here. Are you happy here?”

  I was. I was not only aware of it, but it made me realize
how unhappy I was back home. Not that life was terrible, but it certainly wasn’t exciting. For all the good and bad of my California experience, I was involved now—in a lot of ways. I had new friends and despite the fact that I’d known Amy back home since I was nine, Anya and I already knew each other so well we could have entire conversations through facial expressions. And the fact that she was asking me this question made me think there was a chance we were moving back.

  “Yes,” I said. “I am happy here. Very. Happier than I’ve ever been.”

  “Good,” she replied, followed by a weak smile. “I’m glad.”

  “Did something happen with Dad’s work?”

  “No,” she said. “His job is secure.”

  This was exasperating. “Then what the—”

  I caught myself before saying what the hell, which she probably could have handled, but I didn’t want this to turn into an argument. I stopped, exhaled, started again: “Mom, if there’s a problem, I need to know. Please. I can handle it.”

  She paused for a second, then said, “If there is anything you need to know, I promise you I’ll tell you. But knowing that you’re happy here makes me happy, and everything else will work itself out.”

  God, this is frustrating! I felt like I was a detective on one of those cop shows, trying to get the suspect—I’m sorry, I mean person of interest—to confess. But this wasn’t some crackhead who’d shot a pizza delivery guy to score his—whatever they score—crack, I guess.

  I’d rather grill the crackhead.

  I figured I’d just get what I could for now, especially the most important thing: “So we’re not moving back?”

  “Nope,” she said. “You won’t move anywhere you don’t want to.”