One Lonely Degree

by C. K. Kelly Martin

I’m tired of eavesdropping and spying. Whatever’s wrong between them isn’t shrinking, and I’ve already seen and heard more than I should. Couldn’t they pretend, at least while they’re around Daniel and me, that everything’s all right? It’s like they’re not even trying.

  “Am I supposed to keep this all a secret?” Mom shouts from her place at the door. “Are you a robot, Alan? Do you feel anything?”

  Our neighbors will talk. A familiar gush of embarrassment bobs up and down in my stomach as I stare at Mom’s blond head.

  I hear the door open and watch her hesitate. Long seconds pass and then she steps inside. I tiptoe to my door and ease it open. My bedroom is closest to the front door, and I hear Dad’s voice. “You have no right to discuss any of this with my mother. I don’t know what you think you’re trying to do, but this is between you and me.”

  “What’s between you and me?” Mom asks. “I don’t even know anymore.”

  “You’re pushing me away.” Dad’s voice is controlled, but I sense the anger. “Everything you do is pushing me. You’ve made it impossible, and now you’re making it unbearable.”

  “You won’t even talk about it,” Mom intones. “Emotionally, you haven’t been here in months. It’s like we don’t even exist in the same space. If we didn’t have the kids around, we’d never even have a simple conversation, would we?” She lets out a sob that makes my eyes sting. I press my head against the doorjamb and wait for my father’s voice. He’ll comfort her now, won’t he? Otherwise how will this end?

  But there are no more voices, just the sound of Dad’s footsteps on the stairs. I shut my door so we won’t have to look each other in the face. My eyeballs feel like they’ve been sprinkled with salt, but I don’t know whether I’m more angry or sad. How can they be so selfish? Don’t Daniel and I count for anything?

  I slide Liz Phair into my stereo and play “Good Love Never Dies” as loud as my eardrums can stand, even though I know I don’t have an ounce of control over what my parents are doing to all of us. I crawl into bed and sing along in my head as my eyes fizz and my throat swells up. Today “Good Love Never Dies” is the longest song in the world.

  Audrey’s better by Monday, but not altogether cured. She stands at my locker blowing her nose and explaining that she didn’t have the energy to finish her science homework over the weekend. We don’t need to discuss yesterday’s “Good Love Never Dies” episode. We’ve already been through it over IM last night, not that there was really anything new to say—except that this time my parents ate dinner in shifts.

  “Mr. Savin always comes around and checks our homework,” Audrey continues, cramming her tissue into her sleeve. “He deducts two percent if you’re not done.”

  “That’s nothing,” I tell her. It’s not like Audrey to worry about a measly two percent. We’re not brainiacs, after all, and your tenth-grade marks don’t count for anything.

  “I know. But it’s so annoying. It’s like we’re in second grade or something.” She frowns. “What does it matter if we finish our homework every single time—so long as we know what we’re doing?”

  Okay, so now I know what’s getting to her. It’s too much like something stepdad Steven, obsessed with checks and balances (and common colds and criminals), would do.

  “Show him last week’s homework instead,” I suggest. “I bet he won’t know the difference.”

  Audrey’s eyes light up. “You’re devious. Have you ever actually done that?”

  “Once—and it worked too.”

  Audrey nods like she’s impressed. “It’s worth a try.”

  Of course it is. I shove The Great Gatsby under my arm, grab my pencil case, and slam my locker shut. When I look up, Jersy Mikulski’s standing beside me, hair falling into his eyes, yawning so wide that I could count his teeth. “Shit, I can’t keep my eyes open,” he says wearily. “Give me a nudge if I fall asleep in art today, would you? It’ll give you a reason to get close to Billy too.” His left hand brushes against my arm. “See how I’m helping you out.”

  I grind my teeth, mostly because this is the kind of reaction he’s expecting, and say, “I do NOT have a thing for Billy Young.”

  Audrey blinks next to me, trying to figure it all out. “She doesn’t, you know. You’re way off base.”

  “Off base?” He scratches his head, messing his hair up worse than ever. “Really?” He leans against the locker next to mine and looks at her in a way that makes me jealous. It’s not even anything as specific as lust, just interest. But I don’t want Jersy to even be aware of Audrey’s existence; I want him all to myself. It’s completely moronic and I know it.

  “Hey, you’re in my science class,” Audrey notes. “Did you finish the homework?”

  “Mostly.” Jersy nods. “You want to borrow it?”

  “That’d be great.” Audrey smiles at him as he hands it over. “Thanks. You’re a lifesaver.”

  “Yeah?” Jersy’s eyes land back on me. “Finn says I’m psychotic.”

  “Were psychotic,” I correct. Whatever. I look over at Audrey, who is smiling at Jersy like her life depends on it, and suddenly feel like a giant on stilts. I’m the kooky friend. That’s my function here and I hate it.

  “This is Jersy,” I mumble in Audrey’s general direction. “In case you didn’t know.”

  “Right,” he says. “And you’re Audrey?” He already knows her name. I want to climb into my locker and close the door behind me.

  “Yup.” Audrey shows off her teeth: straight and white. She’s not pretty in the obvious blond-bombshell way, but what she has going for her is better. It doesn’t depend on makeup, hair dye, or lighting. She flips her dark ringlets over her shoulder as she says, “So what do you think of St. Mark’s?”

  Jersy laughs. “Not much.”

  I wonder if he means that like Audrey and I do or if it’s just the smart-ass thing to say, but I just bite my thumbnail and try not to stare at him too much.

  Audrey gives him the benefit of the doubt. She leans against my locker, her posture his mirror image, and says, “Wait till you’re here a few months—you’ll hate it more every moment.”

  Jersy nods like he knows exactly what she means. He detaches himself slowly from the locker, giving me a final glance. “Remember, I’m counting on you today,” he says. “Don’t let me nod off in art. Ferguson already has it in for me.”

  “See you last period,” Audrey says.

  “Later,” Jersy says, and then he’s gone.

  “God.” Audrey slumps back against my locker, instantly deflating. “‘See you last period.’” She repeats it like it’s the lamest phrase in the English language, like she’s saying “I just wet my pants.” Audrey pulls her tissue out of her sleeve and swipes at her nose. “I’m such an idiot.”

  “What’s wrong with ‘See you last period’?” I ask.

  Audrey does drama much better than I do. She presses her eyelids shut and whispers, “I’m sinking.” We’ve used that phrase so much in the past year (for even the most remotely embarrassing episodes) that it’s lost all significance, but in this case it genuinely seems to apply.

  “It’s fine,” I assure her. “You’re being a drama queen.” I could point out that he already knew her name and that I’m so obviously just the wacky friend here that it hurts, but I’m not feeling as generous as I could be.

  “It sounds like I’m counting the minutes,” Audrey explains.

  I fold my arms loosely in front of me and remind myself that this is my very best friend. “So you like him?” I’m sinking.

  “I don’t know him—he wasn’t even talking to me. I was practically invisible here beside you.” She’s completely sincere, and that makes me feel like an evil stepsister. “What was all that about Billy Young anyway? Is that supposed to be a joke?”

  “No idea.” I shrug. “He’s psycho, remember?” I begin to fill her in on all the stuff I remember from Jersy’s daredevil years.

  “Was he that hot when he was six?” she interrup
ts, her face scrunching up like she’s in physical pain. “Moron,” she says emphatically. “Moron question.”

  “He was every six-year-old’s dream.” I adjust The Great Gatsby under my arm and attempt a straight answer. “He was okay, I guess—I mean, he was just a kid. We went swimming and stuff.”

  Audrey smoothes down her kilt and looks straight up into my eyes. “Do you like him? I mean, it’s not like I’m going to jump him in science last period, but is he available as a lust object?”

  “Audrey, I don’t even know him. I’ve spoken to him maybe twice.” I make that sound more casual than I feel because I have no intention of standing in her way. The complexity of doing anything more than staring at Jersy makes me feel claustrophobic and defective.

  “And you’re dedicated to Record Store Guy, right?” Audrey’s eyes dance, and I think of all the times I imagined losing my virginity to Ryan. He’s not Raine Maida but he’s definitely a Beautiful Boy. Even now my chest aches faintly while thinking about him.

  “In that pathetic worshiping-him-from-afar way, yeah.” I’m only partly joking, but Audrey smiles. “It’s cool,” I tell her. “Go lust after Psycho Boy.”

  “Cool.” Audrey grins with her whole face. “But if I’m gonna lust after him, he can’t be Psycho Boy, okay? It’s too weird.”

  “Okay,” I tell her, and the minute I say it I know this is going to be different. Audrey could never all-out fall for someone called Psycho Boy. That’s why he has to be plain old Jersy.

  MY ParenTS KeeP the musical chairs game going for three more days. On the fourth, when Dad sits down to dinner across from Mom, I feel like someone walked over my grave. They keep Daniel and me busy talking to cover their tension, but I feel it anyway. I’m relieved when dinner is over, and as I scoop up plates Mom announces that she’s going over to Anna’s house for tea. “Finn and I can handle the cleanup,” Dad offers.

  “Actually, I thought Finn might want to come along,” Mom says, raising her eyebrows hopefully as she turns towards me. “You can see your old friend.”

  “He’s not really my friend,” I protest. “I barely speak to him.”

  “But you were great friends,” Mom says. “You always used to want to come with me when I stopped by Anna’s.”

  “That was a long time ago,” Dad tells her, carrying dirty glasses over to the sink. “Just because you want to go doesn’t mean she does, Gloria.” Dad never sides with me when Mom’s involved; he’s usually the one who tries to stop us from fighting. It’s a small thing, but the change catches me off guard. Things could get worse. Where does it end?

  Mom stands in the middle of the kitchen looking defeated. “Anna said you were welcome to come. I didn’t think I was dragging you along—just offering.”

  “I didn’t say you were dragging me.” They’re not going to fight over this. I may not have control over many things, but this situation is one of them. “I just don’t want Jersy to think he has to hang out with me if he doesn’t want to. That’s all.”

  “Anna already mentioned it to him.” Mom pushes a stray hair back with her palm. “Of course it’s up to you, Finn.”

  Dad’s crashing the dirty dishes around in the sink, making more noise than he has to. Daniel’s on his feet, hurrying out of the room before Dad can ask him to dry. Anything I say now will be wrong. “Fine.” I put my hands on my hips and stare at Dad’s rigid back. “Let’s go.”

  Five minutes later we’re walking up to the Mikulski house. Mom makes me hold the housewarming gift, ensuring that I feel more awkward than necessary, and rings the doorbell.

  “Hi.” The girl standing in the open doorway has cropped white-blond hair and is a few years older than me but miles shorter. Her khaki cargo pants have to be three inches longer than her legs, but everything else is in proportion.

  Anna appears in the doorway behind her, opens the door wider, and motions for us to come in. “Christina, you remember Gloria and her daughter, Finn?”

  “Sure,” Christina says. We exchange shy smiles. I’m surprised to see her. I figured she’d be away at university.

  I hand over the housewarming gift and Anna takes our coats. “Show Finn downstairs, would you, honey?” she says.

  Christina nods and leads the way, glancing over her shoulder at me. “So you go to the same school as Jersy?” She’s so pretty that it’s hard not to stare. She was always pretty, I guess, but that’s not the first thing you notice when you’re six.

  “Yeah, St. Mark’s.” My voice bristles with bitterness, and Christina laughs. Her laugh sounds like a female version of Jersy’s, and that makes me even more self-conscious.

  “Sounds fantastic.” She opens the basement door, and I step in after her. Downstairs Jersy’s sprawled out on the couch with his eyes shut and his hands tucked into his underarms. Beyoncé’s bopping around the TV, “Crazy in Love,” and I want to climb back upstairs and sit in the car until Mom’s ready to leave. This is the last place on earth I should be after what Audrey told me.

  Christina bends down and taps Jersy’s arm. “Wake up.”

  But Jersy must be in a coma or something, because he doesn’t budge. A beeping noise chirps behind us, and Christina slides her hand into her back pocket and pulls out her cell phone. “Text message,” she tells me, punching the keys. “Hold on a sec.”

  I balance myself on the couch’s arm and stare vacantly at Beyoncé. Jersy’s feet are within easy reach, and he’s so still that I’m tempted to touch him. I look down at his legs, commanding myself to keep my hands to myself, and when I switch my gaze to his face, his eyes are staring back at mine. “How long have you been there?” he asks.

  “Not long.” I look at Christina behind me.

  “Great,” she says, her gaze taking in the now conscious Jersy. “I’ll see you later, Finn.” Her feet are on the stairs before I can say goodbye.

  “Later,” I shout after her, and then it’s just Jersy, Beyoncé, and me. “This song sucks,” I tell him, motioning to the TV.

  His hands are still stuck in his armpits, and he blinks like I’m being a pain. “So who do you like—white guys with British accents who stand around with guitars?”

  There’s nothing wrong with British accents and guitars, but I don’t say so. I don’t want him to think he knows something about me after two conversations. I watch him root around under the cushions for the remote and hum to himself as he peers under the couch.

  “I lose things all the time,” he admits finally, collapsing back onto the couch in a semi-upright position. “I still don’t know where half my stuff is since the move.” He pulls at one of his sleeves, working his entire hand inside it.

  A chill begins in the base of my spine as I stare at the disappearing hand. Everything is fine, I tell myself. You’re fine. Nothing ever happened in the first place. But the chill takes hold. It could slide into panic if I’m not careful. You’re all right. Everything is fine.

  And then it is. Christina must’ve left the door open; I can vaguely make out our moms’ voices in the background, and the sound brings a rush of relief. It’s true. I am all right.

  “So why’d you move anyway?” I ask. I’m terrible at small talk at the best of times. It has nothing to do with lacking iron.

  “Are you gonna sit down?” Jersy asks.

  I’m so tense I’d forgotten I was perched on the armrest. “Sure,” I say, sliding down next to him. One second I want to apologize for being awkward, and the very next I feel defensive. I have no idea how to be alone with guys. I’ve always been shitty at that, but now rooms become too small. Minutes are endless. On top of that, I can count on one hand the ones worth talking to.

  It’s all so exhausting and sad that I pull my legs up onto the couch with me, bury my face in them, and mumble, “I think my parents are about to split up.”

  Jersy’s head drops. The basement lighting is so bad that I can’t make out the color of his eyes. They still look pretty, though. Some people don’t like to use that word for guys, but I
swear that’s how they look. His body is lean but it looks strong. I’m sure he’s stronger than me, and I’m so confused, so full of wanting and bad feelings, that my eyes begin to leak.

  I stop myself quick but not quite fast enough to avoid Jersy’s detection. His hand grazes my shoulder as his head tilts towards mine. “I thought that about my parents last year. They fought so much I almost wanted them to split up.”

  “So it’s no big deal, right?” I smile bravely. “It happens all the time.”

  “Yeah,” Jersy says, nodding. “But not to you.” He leans into the pillows. “If they’re really going to do it, they’ll tell you.”

  He’s right, but I don’t want to be the last to know. If I can get used to it before it actually happens, maybe the reality won’t hurt so much. That’s too personal to say out loud, though. “So your parents are okay now?” I ask. “It stopped?”

  “Yeah, they still fight sometimes, but not like then. There was all this stress they were going through, all this shit.” Jersy’s cheeks hollow out. “Come on. I want to show you something.” He jumps off the couch and waits for me to follow.

  Seconds later we’re in his bedroom. It’s cluttered with packing boxes and smells like a warehouse. The walls are bare, but there’s a collection of photos stuck to his mirror—mostly of him and some other guys in a skateboard park. A Chinese girl with long raven hair stars in a row of photo booth snaps. Jersy’s in the very last one, with his lips pressed against her cheek. She’s beaming into the camera like she knows she’s special.

  I take all that in during the first few seconds—even before I see the tank. “His name’s Gizmo,” Jersy says fondly, bending down in front of the miniature habitat. With his leopard spots and orange skin, Gizmo is definitely one of the better-looking reptiles I’ve seen, but I hope Jersy’s not planning on asking me to hold him.

  Jersy plucks the metal screen off the top of the tank, herds Gizmo into his hand, and holds him up in front of me. “Wow,” I say, looking into Gizmo’s blinking eyes. “It’s like he can really see us.”