Finding Mr. Brightside

by Jay Clark

  It must be time for my pill. I pull a tiny fourth from my jeans pocket.

  “Didn’t you just take one?”

  Yes, but that was a long time ago—several minutes, at least. He looks worried.

  “Here,” I say, casually transferring the pill from my hand to his. “To help you get through class.”

  He swallows it without a word, tells me he wants to know what it feels like to take what I’m taking. It’s the nicest, most disturbing thing anyone has ever said to me. We walk into class together. Abram pumps his fist that our English teacher, Mr. Pewsey, hasn’t come back from his cig break yet. I spot a familiar pink North Face jacket and a pair of long, tanned legs in the back row, where my friend Heidi likes to sit and not pay attention. Is there a nice way I can tell her to stop wearing Crocs? Never mind, I’m not ready.

  I head in her direction, Abram ambling slowly behind. I find her leaning over and flirting with a lacrosse player I don’t approve of. Heidi is perfect just the way she is, except for the Crocs and two more things: 1) Trust issues (she trusts way too many people), and 2) Bad taste in guys. She’s the girl who’d smile and wave when the white van rolled up and the scraggly-haired guy inside who smelled like public-restroom soap offered her a dollar if she’d accompany him to his cabin in the woods. Sure! Mind if my friend Juliette comes, too? she’d reply, as I tackled her away from his extended hand.

  I sit down in the desk beside hers and make myself uncomfortable. Abram sits directly behind me.

  Heidi turns around, grabs my arm, and says, “We need to talk before Mr. Pussy gets back.”

  The nickname is still funny every time she says it.

  “Did you remember my tennis-themed Halloween party this weekend?” she asks, seemingly unaware that she’s double-booked the theme.

  “Yes,” I lie to her smiling, adorably freckled face that looks like it escaped from a Wendy’s hamburger wrapper. “Not really, no. Where is it again?”

  “My house,” she says. “Well, my dad’s house. Should I feel bad for hosting it while he’s out of town?”

  “Not when he still owes you for a lifetime of disappointment.”

  That came out exactly right, but wrong. Heidi looks less excited about the world now.

  “Sorry, Heid.” I sigh. “What can I bring to the party, besides a better attitude?”

  “Hard liquor, if you have it,” she says, “and a date.” With a deliberately creepy smile, she nods in Abram’s direction. I pretend not to know what she’s talking about. “Yeah, okay,” Heidi says, letting me play it my way. “Let’s shop online for costumes tonight.”

  “Yay.”

  Shopping online with Heidi means her hovering over my laptop, talking about “getting deals,” not letting me buy anything cute, and then forcing me to select something from this offbeat clothing store where almost all the inventory is colorful and sporty: her closet. Looks like I’m going as Maria Sharapova, which is fine, since I’m already wearing the bitchy-face part of the costume, 24/7.

  I look back to check on Abram, see if he’s having an allergic reaction to the pill I gave him, and maybe watch him do a little homework for the first time. He’s picking a scab on his arm.

  I send him a text that says Stop it! and he responds with a winky face. I almost reply that he’s only allowed to text me winky faces when I can relate to the joke, but I have enough dumb rules to keep track of as is. Instead, I send him my specialty: a mixed message.

  Come to Heidi’s party with me on Saturday?*

  *Please assume I still want to go when I try to cancel. ;/

  13

  ABRAM

  THINGS WERE GOING so well until Juliette avoided her locker for the rest of the week, instead choosing to lug around her entire textbook collection from room to room, walking faster whenever she pretended not to hear me calling out for her. I didn’t get the hint, just went ahead and kept fooling myself, thinking she might show up in my basement and be like, Hi, sorry—you’re not making popcorn tonight?

  Trust me, I made the popcorn. Every night. She remained a no-show.

  Now it’s Saturday morning, and I’m guessing Juliette’s status for Heidi’s party is “canceled,” but I’ve already taken a shower per her instructions to assume she secretly wants to go. I may have to settle for walking over to the window and watching her storm into a cab in exactly four minutes. Still remember the first Saturday I saw her do this, a few weeks after the accident. I could tell she was having to struggle to keep it together but was refusing to succumb, her eyes glassy and sleep-deprived, the skin underneath shadowy. I almost knocked on the window that day, but there was never going to be a smooth follow-up to taking such an action, let alone a right thing to say. Couldn’t pantomime to her, for instance, how watching her getting on with life made me feel like things had a chance to be normal for me again someday, too. No doubt they’ve been better than normal these past few weeks, in turn making it harder to go back to standing here, my breath fogging the glass, a completely separate entity from her.

  I have to see her. Even if it’s not on her terms. Even if there’s never going to be a right thing to say.

  I’ll need help, though, which is hopefully where my mom comes in. I find her in the kitchen, distributing a huge wad of cash into the envelopes arranged on the table. She’s been on a lucky streak at the casino lately, and I need to borrow some of it for a few hours, along with her car.

  “Morning, Mom.”

  “Someone’s up and ready early.” She looks at me and smiles. “Come here, let me smell your hair.”

  I dip my head so she can sniff the conditioner she bought me, determine if she made the right decision. While she’s deciding, I pluck her car keys from her purse.

  “Mind if I borrow?”

  “Did my son run out of gas again?” She’s not asking this as a way to point out a past error of mine—just making conversation.

  “Nope, he just wants to wash his mom’s car.”

  She raises her eyebrows. “He does?”

  “He does. Automatically.”

  She nods like that’s the son she knows, hands me a twenty for the Ultra Wash, and then another twenty just for being me. It kind of feels like blood money I don’t deserve … but we’re blood, and it’s not as if I’m drawing a salary from somewhere, so I accept it, promising to vacuum the interior, too.

  Juliette

  DON’T GET ME WRONG, I can tolerate Abram more than I’ve ever been able to tolerate a guy in my age demographic. I’m ignoring his existence now because I care. And I can foresee the dead end that will come from letting our feelings fester on and on, as long as we both shall not kill ourselves.

  He needs to find himself a people-pleaser—a natural-born pushover who will do weird things like wear a special dress when the occasion never calls for it, forget to complain about going to the amusement park or a baseball game, and agree with his point of view for the sake of getting along. Like that musically talented Asian girl he cheats off of … but not, because I recently decided to hate that girl.

  What Abram doesn’t need is a problem-maker, and he’s looking at her. The back of my shoddily straightened hair, actually, through the windshield of his mom’s candy apple Lexus.

  What is he doing?

  According to the side mirror of the cab, he’s singing. Doesn’t seem to care if any passing cars catch him getting into it, tapping the wheel as he strains his neck muscles for a high note. He’s going to hurt himself. He’s so … quick to embrace the present moment for what it is, even if he doesn’t understand why I’m complicating it. I briefly consider teaching him a lesson he’ll probably forget, but that kind of effort is what got me into this tailgating party in the first place. Besides, I don’t want to keep this other guy waiting—the cute one I’m on my way to visit right now.

  I unsnap a hidden pocket of my purse to make sure I brought him a treat.

  14

  ABRAM

  THIS DOESN’T SEEM like Juliette’s kind of place, but
she gets out of the cab and power-walks straight through the entrance like she owns it, so I’m gathering we’re here. I park toward the back of the adjacent lot and wait to see if anything more characteristic of her happens, like maybe she emerges with her earphones in place and starts pounding the jogging path that circles the building, or she brings a random laptop to one of the picnic tables outside, laments the slowness of the Wi-Fi, and gets a jump start on the weekend homework I’ve already forgotten about. With her, the sky’s the limit … among other limits.

  Thirty minutes later and she walks out of the Loudoun County Humane Society with a lucky dog: a pure-bred Saint Bernard with a shiny black nose, a well-groomed coat, and a long tongue that he’s using to go to town on Juliette’s hand. She doesn’t seem to be enjoying the licking, but she tolerates it.

  In conclusion, every Saturday morning, for the last however many months I’ve been window-watching her, Juliette’s been volunteering at the Humane Society? Come to think of it, I have noticed my very own dog chewing some higher-quality bones lately—assumed they’d been stolen from my neighbor’s fickle Labradoodle.

  Just now noticing the twin daggers shooting out from Juliette’s eyes—looks like they’ve been there awhile. In case there’s any confusion over who her target is, she points in my direction and then makes a throat-slitting gesture with the same index finger.

  I step out of the car, still excited to see her.

  Juliette

  MY DAD’S PRETEND-ALLERGIC to all animals, so the shelter’s where I go to get my embarrassing weekly dog fix. Sorry, cats—I just can’t, okay? Dogs are preferable because they have nothing in common with me. I’ve yet to meet a cocker spaniel who’s addicted to her heartworm medication, a golden retriever with too many emotional barriers to count on four paws, a Dalmatian with unresolvable mother issues.…

  The attractive young man at the end of my leash is Bing; I named him after the search engine, not Crosby, the depressing “White Christmas” crooner. Bing is a three-year-old Saint Bernard, but to any potential adoption applicants who inquire about him today, he’s practically a puppy, and possibly a pure-bred descendant of a recent Westminster Dog Show winner, depending on if I get my first-ever believable feeling re: someone’s ability to provide a loving home.

  “Hey,” is all Abram has to say for himself as we approach him. Bing doesn’t play hard to pet, would much rather sit down on Abram’s foot, lick the taste off his hand, and fall unapologetically in love.

  “Why are you here?” I ask, annoyed that he smells good, like some sort of ocean-breeze cologne and the rosemary-mint conditioner his mom bought him last week.

  He could ask me the same question, but just shrugs. “Hadn’t seen you in a while.”

  He leans down until he’s eye level with the dog while I try to think of something discouraging to say to that. I can’t do it, so I introduce the two of them.

  “Abram, Bing. Bing, blah.”

  The formalities over, Bing immediately flops onto his back so Abram can scratch his chest properly.

  “I can take a hint,” Abram says, winking up at me and scratching away.

  Bing lets out a skeptical sigh, so I don’t have to. Cute. Not sure which one I’m talking about.

  “We still partying together tonight?” Abram asks me, skipping over the part where I’ve been crazy for the past three days. I make the mistake of noticing the hope in his eyes, digesting it long enough to feel a nagging pinch of optimism myself. I’m not someone to get your hopes up over, I try to tell him with mine, but I’m much better with non-verbal death threats.

  “Sure,” I say, covering the dog’s ears. “If Bing gets adopted.”

  “Deal.”

  Abram insists the three of us shake on it.

  15

  ABRAM

  I ASK JULIETTE if Bing’s dad really medaled in a bunch of dog shows, as we watch him ride away with his new owners. She shakes her head no, her lips curving up, up … and this time the smile sticks. Her capacity for happiness is a lot roomier than she gives herself credit for. I ask if I can give her a ride home, and she can’t think of a reason why it’s a bad idea, probably because it’s a win-win.

  A short car ride later, I’m dropping her off at the stop sign at the end of our road. She doesn’t want to further distract her dad if he’s staring out the window when he should be writing, and her reasoning sounds pretty logical to a slacker like me.

  “Don’t touch his papers,” I warn her, and her eyes narrow as she wonders how I latched on to that little detail, or maybe why I’ve chosen this moment to remind her I remembered it.

  She opens the door, steps out, then pokes her head back inside. “Pick me up at seven thirty?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  She starts shutting the door, then stops. “In a cab.”

  “I’ll be in there.”

  “Ask for Asad or Farrukh,” she says, “and I’m really shutting the door this time.”

  “No rush.”

  “Abram?”

  “Yep?”

  “Thank you for following my cab today.”

  “Anytime.”

  She shuts the door less forcefully than she usually does.

  Juliette

  HE JUST SENT a text asking what kind of costume he should wear to the party. Typing in my response: Don’t ever text me while driving again! Send. Sometimes I wonder if I’m coming off as too flirtatious—such a fine line.

  His next message informs me he’s at the car wash down the road, and also that he’s lol’ing. Abram has “lol/ha-ha” disease—rarely sends a message without one or the other—but unlike everyone else in America, he almost always laughs as he’s keying in the chuckles. I tell him I’ll pick up something extra special for him at CVS, which also gives me a reason not to disturb my dad. The threatening You better have some new material written when I get home! text I sent him a half hour ago might be working.

  Want me to pick you up there in 20? asks Abram’s text.

  Yes, please.

  16

  ABRAM

  FORGOT HOW MUCH EXCITEMENT I can get out of a good, clean game of beer pong; I should start a league or something. Juliette wouldn’t join. She’s standing off to the side of the table, looking out-of-my-league in her red tennis dress, her hair tightened back in a low ponytail. She seems uninterested in the pong proceedings as well as her other Halloween-themed surroundings. Her best friend and my formidable pong partner, Heidi, is helping me keep track of Juliette’s whereabouts in between throws. It’s a tough job, but somebody’s gotta stop my girl from French exiting before I can finally kiss her.

  Juliette

  ABRAM HAS SUNK every single shot at Heidi’s portable beer-pong table tonight. Apparently that’s impressive, because I’ve been watching from the sidelines like some sort of That’s my man! pong groupie. Maybe I should leave without saying good-bye to anyone? Such a good idea, but then Heidi will get her feelings hurt, and there are only so many times I can right my wrongs with a package of headbands. Let me just grab my purse.…

  “Where ya going, Maria Sharapova?”

  Since when is Heidi so observant? It’s like she has eyes in the back of her head tonight. Ironic, since there’s also a plastic knife extending from her spine, the centerpiece of her Monica Seles costume.

  “Just looking for my Chapstick,” I say, holding up a closed fist of air like I’ve found it.

  Heidi yells out a supportive “C’mon!” to celebrate my find—ever the best friend to my worst. She arcs a ball into one of the cups across from her and then holds her hand in the air afterward to rub it in. I like her playing style; the boys at the table are turning in strangely sportsmanlike performances. Abram gives her a high five as their two opponents, Jeff and Aaron, former teammates of Abram’s who are both showing a lot of thigh in their identical Bjorn Borg costumes, seem genuinely happy for her success.

  Abram sinks another shot and then adjusts the Andre Agassi mullet I found for him at CVS, picks a we
dgie from the tight jean shorts he borrowed from Heidi, and smiles at me. I text him a half-smiley and then ask Heidi if I can use her phone. Instinctively she hands me the rubber cell-phone flask at the edge of the table, watches as I unscrew the antenna and make a call that tastes like a wrong number.

  “Pretty smooth, right?” Heidi says.

  “Rough,” I reply through the flames in my throat.

  “The next call will be better,” she promises, taking a swig herself.

  Half an hour later I’m still here, and Abram’s carefully filling up the cups for rematch number eight. Haven’t seen him this into something that doesn’t matter since the whole being-around-me thing started happening. Here comes Heidi to check on me again.

  “Having fun yet?” she asks.

  “Getting there.”

  I bob my head once to the music for emphasis.

  “Abram is such a great guy.”

  “Neat, why don’t you date him?”

  “Because I like my men five-seven and below, you know that.” Heidi nods downward toward the dwarf licking his chops in the corner. I groan and remind her that the guy is a) grotesque, and b) in a weird relationship with the oblivious girl beside him. She raises her eyebrows like maybe he’s not as off-limits as he seems, mouthing the word hot for extra-unfortunate emphasis. At a loss, I tell Heidi she looks pretty tonight, over and over again in slightly different ways. “Like a tennis player,” I add, and that’s the one she’s looking for, all she’s ever wanted to hear from anyone in lieu of the basketball-player comparison she unfairly gets. “The braid suits you.”

  “You mean it?” she asks, flipping it around so I can see it again.

  “I do.”

  I don’t love the braid, but I like that it’s making Heidi happy. She should be in a Paxil commercial, dancing like she is now, encouraging others to join in on the joy, which of course Abram can’t resist (if you count putting your fists in the air, rolling them around, and relying on your increasingly handsome face as dancing).

  Is it really necessary to never make the best of anything just because life dealt me a difficult mom and then yanked her away before I could figure out what to do with her?