Getting Over Garrett Delaney

by McDonald, Abby

  “Nothing, it’s just — what happened to order being the enemy of creativity?” He reaches over and flicks my pencil. “You’ll turn into your mother if you don’t watch out.”

  “And what would be so wrong with that?”

  Garrett laughs. “Only that you’ve been complaining about her for years. Decades even. Maybe you were right all along,” he adds, teasing. “Maybe the pod people did brainwash her. And now they’ve come for you, too!”

  “At least pod people get things done,” I inform him lightly, flipping my notebook closed. “Instead of being scatterbrained and late for everything all the time. Like some people!”

  “Guilty as charged. I’m sorry,” Garrett apologizes. “I promise I won’t be late tonight.”

  “What’s tonight?” I steal a corner of his cookie.

  “I’m taking you out. It’s a surprise.” He grins at me, but I waver.

  “I don’t know. . . . I was maybe going to hang with Kayla. . . .”

  “But I already organized everything!” Garrett gives me the puppy-dog look again. “Come on, you’ll have the best time — I promise.”

  A big surprise? I have to admit, I’m intrigued. “OK, I’m in,” I decide.

  “Great! I’ll pick you up at eight.”

  “Not the blue — it’s too sexy.” Kayla folds her arms, keeping a careful watch as I delve through my wardrobe that evening, hunting for something to wear for this big surprise.

  “What?” I hold up the plain shirt, confused. “How is this sexy? More importantly, how is anything I own sexy?”

  “I’m just saying, you don’t want to give him the wrong idea.” Kayla presses her lips together.

  “Sure, because everything in my wardrobe has thus far filled him with longing and desire.” I hurl myself down on the bed in exasperation. “This is the thing about surprises: they don’t help you figure out a dress code!”

  Kayla shifts out of my way. “You shouldn’t even care,” she points out. “Not if you’re as over him as you say you are.”

  “Of course I’m over him.” I sit up, determined to get this fashion crisis resolved before Garrett shows. “Maybe the vintage dress, the red one? If it doesn’t stink of smoke from the party.”

  “Sadie . . .” Kayla drags my name out. “Just listen to yourself! You can’t do this again.”

  “Do what?” I bound back over to my dirty laundry hamper and pluck the dress out. I sniff it carefully, then hold it out to her. “What do you think? I’ve got some perfume somewhere, to cover the cigarettes.”

  “Sadie!”

  I sigh. “Stop worrying, Kayla. I’m fine.”

  “No, you’re not,” she insists. “I’ve seen you, fluttering around him in the café.”

  “Fluttering?”

  “He’s flirting with you,” she continues, stern faced. “And you’re falling for it! After everything we’ve done . . .”

  “A, he’s not flirting,” I tell her, stripping off my T-shirt and pulling the dress over my head, “and B, even if he were, I’m not falling.”

  “What about yesterday?” Kayla shoots back. “You were sitting there, laughing with him for, like, half an hour.”

  “So? That’s not a crime.” I check the mirror. “Ack, I’m going to need a different bra.” I cross to my dresser and rifle through the drawers for something seamless. “Look, Kayla, it’s really great that you’re looking out for me, but you don’t have to — I promise. He’s my friend, remember?

  “Yes, and we all know how that worked out last time around.”

  I turn. She’s looking at me with this accusatory expression, as if I’ve already committed grave crimes against girlhood. I feel myself start to get defensive. “What do you want me to say? That I’m never going to see him again?”

  She shrugs. “Maybe that would be the smart thing.”

  “Why?” I exclaim. “Because I enjoy his company? Because we’re hanging out?” I take a breath, trying to stay calm. “Look, I know you never liked him, but he’s my friend, and I’d appreciate it if you could give him a break.”

  “You want me to just stand back and watch while you drape yourself all over him again?” Kayla asks, her voice dripping with unfamiliar sarcasm. “Sure, why not?”

  “I’m not draping!” I protest. “But I like Garrett, and I want us all to be friends. Is that really too much to ask?”

  “Yes, Sadie, it is.” She gets up. “Because what you wanted was to get over him. And you did! You were actually thinking for yourself, instead of wandering around like a little Garrett clone.”

  “Gee, thanks.” I glare, tense now. “Says the girl who’s planning her whole life around a boy — at sixteen!”

  Kayla’s expression hardens. “Not my whole life, my college town,” she spits back. “Because unlike you, I know about real relationships, not just fantasies in books and movies!”

  I gasp. “That’s not fair! And this is a real relationship — a real friendship. Garrett cares about me.”

  “Right.” Kayla rolls her eyes. “You finally don’t adore him anymore, so now he wants to reel you back in. Yup, that sounds like a great friendship to me.”

  I back away, shocked by this sudden venom. Kayla is the perpetually upbeat one, the ultimate cheerleader, and here she is, full of bitterness and vitriol. Out of nowhere! “You know what? I don’t have to listen to this,” I tell her.

  “Oh, no, not when you could be listening to him instead.” Kayla clasps her hands together and bats her eyes. “Garrett, tell me about that boring book again. What’s that? You want me to drop everything to hang out? Sure, let me trail you around like a pet poodle!”

  “Screw you!” I yell.

  She grabs her cardigan. “Enjoy your date. And yes, that dress smells like a freaking ashtray!”

  Kayla storms away, her footsteps harsh on the stairs. Then the door slams and I see a flash of her blond hair through my front window as she hurries back across the street. I turn away and catch my breath.

  Where did that come from?

  Kayla is the last person I’d expect to flip into bitch mode, but the things she was saying. . . . She must be jealous, I decide, quickly stripping off the dress again and grabbing a plain white T-shirt. Jealous, that’s it. After all, Blake is away at college now, and with Garrett back, I haven’t been so free to hang out with her. But even so, that’s no excuse for saying those things!

  I hurry to get ready, and by the time Garrett arrives, I’m waiting on the front step in jeans and a cute jacket, my hair carefully styled into bouncy curls.

  “Hey, you look great.” Garrett greets me with a hug. He looks dressier than usual, sporting a dress shirt and cords, his hair combed into something resembling a neat style. I look past him to the gleaming car parked by the curb.

  “Where’s Vera?” I ask, shocked. “Did she finally give up on you?”

  “No, she’s good. My parents lent me theirs for the night.” Garrett grins proudly, spinning the keys on his finger. “They said it might rain, and I didn’t want you getting wet.”

  “Ooh, fancy.” I follow him to the car, where he hurries to the passenger side to open the door for me. “Remember the time we got caught in that hailstorm?” I ask, sliding into the leather seat. “I thought I was going to freeze to death.”

  “Not this time.” He closes the door behind me, then walks around to the driver’s seat. “Tonight, we ride like kings!”

  We drive a half hour out to Northampton, where Garrett insists on covering my eyes as we make our way — very slowly — from the corner parking lot to some mysterious destination.

  “Can I look yet?” I ask, his hands still over my face.

  “Hold on.” He steers me forward.

  “But we — ow!” I exclaim as I trip on a hard step.

  “Sorry!” Garrett keeps his hands in place, maneuvering me down a flight of stairs. “OK, now you can look!” He uncovers my eyes. “Ta-da!”

  I blink. I’m standing in a dark, dingy basement-café-slash-b
ar. Through the dim lights I can make out some faded, torn couches, with a bunch of college kids sitting around a small stage area. The smell of something not entirely legal wafts in the air.

  This is his big surprise?

  “Over here.” Garrett leads me to a table in the corner with a red-and-white checked tablecloth and a single rose in a chipped vase. “It’s a poetry night,” he announces, clearly thrilled. “Some of the guys from camp told me about it. They should be here later.”

  “Oh . . . awesome,” I say slowly, taking a seat in one of the rickety chairs.

  “You want a drink? Soda?” He asks eagerly. I nod. “I’ll be right back.”

  He goes to the bar, while I scope out the room and try to shake the niggling feeling that’s been stalking me ever since he arrived to pick me up. I know I’m not exactly experienced in this department — OK, not at all experienced — but I know Garrett, and I’ve seen him at work when it comes to other girls. The borrowed car, the dress shirt, the special table . . .

  It can’t be a date, can it?

  “One soda for the girl with the amazing hair.” Garrett returns, pulling out the chair across from me. I take the glass and gulp down a long swallow, remembering what Josh said about it settling your stomach. For some reason, mine is suddenly twisting in a strange dance. Garrett seems totally at ease, but now that that thought is in my mind, it’s all I can focus on. Is this a date? Does he want it to be? Does he think I want it to be?

  But the biggest question of all is, do I want it to be?

  “I’m glad we got to do this.” Garrett smiles at me. “You’ve been so busy since I got back, I feel like we haven’t had any time to ourselves. You know, just us.” He pushes back a lock of hair — the one that’s always falling in his eyes. Despite the cleanup, he still has faded ink on his fingertips, and something about the familiar gesture makes me take a breath. What am I doing? I’m overthinking this; there’s nothing wrong with us hanging out and talking, the same as we’ve always done.

  I relax. “Me too.” I smile. “Anyway, I have all this news. You’ll never guess what my dad said —”

  “Here they are!” Garrett suddenly bounces up, waving across the room to a group of college-age kids who just came in. They wave back but stay on the other side of the room, where they claim a couple of the moth-eaten couches. “I’m just going to go say hi,” Garrett says. “I’ll be right back.” He heads across the room and greets them with backslaps and handshakes.

  I sip my soda and wait. The room is filling up now, the crowd full of guys in army jackets, with dreadlocks and/or goatees, while the girls all seem detached and disdainful in that “dark eyeliner and piercings” kind of way. A few of them shoot me curious stares, and I feel painfully young in my plain outfit, wishing I hadn’t let Kayla talk me out of that vintage dress.

  Kayla . . . I’m starting to feel guilty about our fight now, and the things I said to her. I didn’t mean to snap, but the way she was talking about me and Garrett. . . .

  I look over at him, but he’s pulled up a chair and is talking enthusiastically with his new friends, showing no sign of getting back to me anytime soon. I waver, uncertain, but as the minutes stretch out, I start to feel even more conspicuous, sitting here alone. Finally, I scrape back my chair and approach his group. A boy with one of those Russian army coats is in the middle of talking about Hemingway and how he’s the ultimate male writer.

  “Absolutely,” Garrett agrees, leaning back in his seat. “Although, that braggadocio was always more myth than man.”

  “I knew you’d say that,” the girl next to him mutters darkly. She’s got her hair bobbed in a sleek flapper style, and her carefully painted eyeliner disappears into two winged tips. “Never mind what a rampant misogynist he was. What about the five wives he left in his wake?”

  I hover awkwardly for a moment. Finally, Garrett looks up. “Oh, sorry — everyone, this is my friend Sadie.”

  “Hi.” I wave. They all nod back before resuming their spirited debate.

  “But you can’t write off an artist because of his personal life. What about D. H. Lawrence, or Polanski?”

  “God forbid we measure the content of their souls as well as their creative output.”

  I wait a while longer, then go and drag over a chair from the next table. Garrett scoots over to make space for me. “So, were these people all at lit camp with you?” I ask quietly.

  “Just Alex, and Charlotte there.” He nods. “But we all drove down for the slam night a couple of weeks ago and met everyone else.”

  “You came down for a visit?” I repeat, confused. “You never said.”

  He looks back at me. “Oh . . . I mean, I didn’t come to Sherman. It was just a crazy road-trip thing.” Garrett pats my knee. “Hey, look — they’re starting.”

  I open my mouth to speak, but he turns his chair to face the front. The lights get even dimmer, and the Russian army coat guy takes to the small stage.

  “Hey, everyone. Welcome to our open mic night. We’ve got some great artists lined up, so let’s get things started with Malachi and his poem in sixteen parts: ‘The Decay of Being.’”

  I blink. He can’t be serious?

  But he is. There’s applause, and then one of the goateed guys walks slowly onstage. He’s dressed all in black, except for a square of red handkerchief in his shirt pocket. “Thanks, Logan.” He nods solemnly, unfolds a thick wedge of pages, and reaches for the mic. “I wrote this poem about my breakup with my girlfriend.” He pauses and squints out into the audience. “Luna, I hope you feel my pain.”

  And thus begins my torture.

  After sixteen verses, five haiku, and three more epic odes to love unfulfilled, the last reader finally lopes offstage, and I let out a long sigh of relief. Have my prayers to the Gods of Terrible Amateur Poetry finally been answered?

  “Don’t worry — we’re not finished!” Logan bounds back, dashing my hopes beneath his battered army boots. “We’ll be right back after a short break. Feel free to discuss the work and chat with the writers!”

  The lights go back up.

  Garrett turns to me. “Wasn’t that first one provocative?”

  “You mean, the one where he imagines his ex-girlfriend’s bloody death?” I venture, blinking.

  “Right, the imagery was so powerful.”

  The rest of the group murmurs in assent, besides Charlotte, of course. “Typical,” she spits. “Another example of shock-machismo torture, literally silencing women through death.”

  Garrett ignores her. “You know, you should read here sometime,” he tells me. “I can’t wait to see what you’ve been working on this summer.”

  “Um, actually I haven’t done much writing,” I admit. “Any, really.”

  “Sadie! You have to be disciplined,” Garrett scolds. “I got up at dawn every morning and worked for an hour, just freewriting. My professor told me about it, you really get the creative muscles working.”

  Another guy with ratty dreadlocks nods. “If you don’t take it seriously, you can’t call yourself a real writer.”

  “True artists have to live, breathe, bleed for their art,” Charlotte agrees solemnly.

  I let out a snort of laughter. I try and cover it with a cough, but clearly, my drama skills are about as good as Malachi’s self-editing skills, because when I look up, they’re all staring at me.

  “You find that funny?” Charlotte asks archly.

  “Well, I —” I start to speak, but Garrett interrupts me.

  “Sadie’s starting out,” he says to them apologetically. He pats me on the knee again. “She’s just a sophomore.”

  I stop.

  “Her work shows a lot of promise,” he adds. “She didn’t get in to the program this time, but maybe next year. Right, Sadie?” He gives me a smile — full of encouragement — but I just stare at him, confused. Garrett’s support always meant the world to me, but now I can’t help wonder if he was always so . . . patronizing.

  Dreadlock guy laug
hs. “Man, I wish I could be young and naive again.”

  “Right,” Garrett agrees. “Trust me, Sadie. You’ll learn soon enough that you have to suffer for your art.” He looks past me to the stage area. “Oh, great, they’re starting again.”

  The rest of them all turn eagerly to hear the next round of poets, but something in Garrett’s expression makes me stop.

  He looked past me. The whole time he was talking about me — talking to me — he never once really looked at me.

  How many times has that happened? I find myself wondering. How many times have I sat, waiting, while he catches up with somebody else, somebody more important?

  I feel a shiver, cold on my spine.

  “Garrett,” I murmur. He doesn’t turn. “Garrett.” My voice is louder this time, and he tears his focus from the stage. “I think I’m going to get out of here,” I whisper, reaching for my purse.

  Garrett frowns. “What? But Sadie —”

  “Stay if you want,” I tell him softly. “I can call my mom for a ride.”

  I slip away, hurrying up the stairs and emerging back onto the street, lit with the neon glow of streetlights in old-fashioned lamps. I don’t know why I need to leave so fast, but something in me is itching, uncomfortable, and I can’t stay in that place — with those people — a moment longer.

  “Sadie, wait!”

  I turn. Garrett jogs down the street and comes to a stop a few steps from me. “What’s wrong? Are you feeling OK?”

  “Sure, I’m fine,” I tell him, confused. He’s staring at me with such concern, I wonder if I’ve got it all wrong. As if reading my mind, Garrett moves closer and reaches out to touch my arm.

  “I’m sorry I got distracted with those guys,” he says, giving me an apologetic smile. “I promise, the rest of the night, it’s just you and me.”

  I pause. “Oh. You don’t have to . . .”

  “Sure, I do! What do you want? Name anything.” Garrett makes a sweeping gesture, full of theatrics. He backs down the sidewalk, calling out, “The world is ours! Well, western Massachusetts, anyway.” He beckons me after him, but I don’t follow.