Jack Kerouac is Dead to Me

by Gae Polisner

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  To all the girls and women who stand by one another without judgment, who support one another and lift each other up.

  And, to all those who continue to lift me up, too.

  Suffer me to take your hand.

  Suffer me to cherish you

  Till the dawn is in the sky.

  Whether I be false or true.

  “MARIPOSA,” EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY

  NOW. JUNE 29.

  MALIBU, CA

  Aubrey,

  I’ve started this letter three times, but each place I begin feels wrong. I get lost in the memories and my thoughts lose their way, and I have to start over again. But, as hard as it is to find my way in, I know I need to try. I have to figure out why we hurt each other the way we did, how we ended up hating each other so much.

  Sometimes, I miss you so bad I can’t breathe, and I break down in tears, or get so mad at you I wonder why I even care. But, in my heart, I know why I do. You were always my best friend, Aubrey, the one person who understood.

  I hope you will understand now.

  Part I

  We most often observe butterflies hovering amidst gardens,

  but some may be found in mud puddles;

  there are valuable nutrients to be gained there, too.

  LATE JUNE

  BEFORE EIGHTH GRADE

  The day is hot. We’re running through the sprinkler in my backyard, dodging in and out of the cold spray that fans over us, shrieking as droplets rain down onto our sun-warmed, tanned skin.

  You push me closer as the arc of water returns, and I fall onto the grass, wet, laughing, taking you down with me. The sod under us is new and soft, and the freshly cut blades stick to our limbs, our faces.

  We are giddy with summer, with each other. We are still on the cusp of everything.

  Afterwards, you turn off the hose, and we lie on faded chaise lounges we drag to the middle of my yard, our chests heaving with rapid, satisfied breaths in our barely-filled-out bikini tops.

  You reach out and take my hand and an indescribable sort of electricity shoots through me, real and palpable, as if I could reach out the fingers of my other hand and touch it, some white-hot charge that holds us together.

  We are friends—best friends—but more than that. We are entirely, platonically, in love.

  “See that cloud, JL?” You let go and point off beyond the top of the tallest sycamore branches. “It looks like a giant mushroom, doesn’t it?” My eyes follow your finger, my hand cold from the loss. “Do you see it there?”

  I bust out laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” you ask, your voice defensive.

  I lean all the way over, tilt your face a bit with my hand to change the angle. “It looks a lot like something else, Aubs. Look again.”

  You sit up and squint to see clearer. After a second, you say, “Oh my god, it’s a giant penis cloud, isn’t it?” and we both fall apart laughing.

  When our stomachs hurt so bad we have to fight from laughing more, you lie back down and ask softly, “Have you ever seen one for real, JL?”

  “A penis? No.” I think for a minute. “I mean, pictures, yes, but not in real life, in person. Why? You?”

  You nod and look at me, eyes big, mouth covered by your own hand like you’ve revealed some dangerous secret, making me sit up and demand, “Okay, spill! Whose?” You shake your head hard, your eyes round over your still-cupped fingers. I run off a few names, guessing.

  “David Brundage?”

  “Scott Silvestri?”

  “Matthew Flynn?”

  You uncover your mouth. “God, no! I hear it’s giant, though. Like a grown man’s…”

  “Well, tell, then.”

  “No one from school,” you say, covering your mouth again and adding through half-open fingers, “closer to home, JL. Come on.”

  “Ew, Ethan’s?” I squeal too loudly, and you nod, and we both shriek and shudder in exaggerated, disgusted delight. “Oh my god!” I say. “Why?”

  “By accident, obviously. I wasn’t trying! I walked in on him in the bathroom. He forgot to lock the door, and—”

  “Ew! So gross! Don’t tell me!” I cry, but I have a thousand questions. Ones I will never dare ask.

  “Right? Totally. That thing is, like, burned into my brain!” We shudder one more time for good measure.

  After, we’re quiet for a while, and the clouds shift and the mushroom one feathers out and disappears.

  I take your hand this time, feeling the electric bond return as I swing our clasped fingers together in the space between our chairs.

  “I love you,” I say.

  “Me too,” you respond too quickly. I roll my head to the side and smile, and you add, “Your boobs are getting bigger than mine. No fair.”

  “They are?” I glance down my chest toward my two pathetic, barely-there mounds beneath the bikini fabric.

  You nod. “Yes. And you’re so pretty—too pretty—you’re really perfect, you know? I’ve never had a friend as perfect as you.”

  It should be a compliment but, instead, the electricity fizzles as if short-circuited, and my chest fills with an inexplicable sense of dread. Your admiration feels somehow fragile and conditional, and impossible to live up to.

  “No I’m not, don’t be stupid,” I say, irritated. I want to untangle my fingers, get up, and sprint across the lawn, but you squeeze harder to hold on.

  “Yes you are. Admit it.”

  “Aubs—”

  “Well, I think you are. I wish I were more like you. Pretty and free, and not afraid of anything, like your mother.”

  It feels worse when you add this, because you don’t know me if you think I’m like her. I’m nothing like her, off-kilter and unfettered, nor half as beautiful. I’m plain, but I’m solid. And, yet, it isn’t about me, suddenly. It’s what you have decided. You have judged me as one thing, and at some point, I will disappoint you by proving you wrong.

  “I am not,” I say again, to right things.

  “Are too,” you insist, making my face redden in protest. But you don’t notice. You don’t see. And even if you turned and looked at me, you couldn’t tell the flush of anger in my cheeks from too much sun. “I just wish I could be more like you. Geesh, that’s all.”

  “You do?”

  You nod, and squeeze my fingers even harder, and we both close our eyes. I leave them there in yours even though a few are starting to go numb.

  “So much,” you say.

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Really.”

  So, maybe I’m wrong.

  Maybe you’re not judging me at all.

  I squeeze back, letting go of my unease, wanting to hold on to whatever spell has you enamored with me, instead.

  Or maybe I’m weak and don’t have the heart to call out the lie, and tell you how afraid of everything I really am.

  MID-APRIL

&nbs
p; TENTH GRADE

  I move the bent paper clip loop toward the butterfly’s abdomen, my thumb and forefinger pressed gently on her wings to steady her. My eyes dart nervously to the image paused on my laptop screen, and my hand trembles.

  I stop.

  I can’t do it.

  These kinds of videos always lie. They make it seem easy when it isn’t. And when you try it yourself, it never works like the guy on the screen said it would. There’s no way pinning this poor creature down like this won’t kill her. But she’s as good as dead with this break in her wing, so it’s either this or do nothing and watch her struggle and die.

  I press play, wishing Aubrey were here to calm me, trying not to glance at the photo of Mom and Dad and me together on the shelf above my desk. Smiling after eighth-grade graduation.

  A lot can change in more than a year. And he originally promised he’d be back in six months.

  “End of May, sweetheart,” he promised again last week. “Less than six weeks left to go.” But how many times in the past eighteen months had I heard that?

  “By fall, JL, I promise.”

  “By Christmas.”

  “Just a few more weeks.”

  Then, the inevitable phone call, and the same old explanation that the company still needs him, that there are options in his contract he can’t avoid.

  Followed by more of Mom’s tears, and her slipping further and further into oblivion.

  * * *

  I move the cursor back to the beginning and hit play again. The video starts over and I try to focus on the man’s calm English accent as he moves me through the instructions: “Use the paper clip to gently restrain the butterfly around its abdomen … now that you have it immobilized … use your toothpick to dab a dot of glue over the break site…” Like it’s no big deal that I will kill the poor thing if I mess up. Like he’s explaining how to fix a flat tire.

  Shit.

  I take a deep breath, fighting the inclination to close my eyes. I’d better move faster. I’m already too far behind. I press the metal loop down over her abdomen, and her wings pulse instinctually—once, twice, against the restraint like a heartbeat.

  “… glue over the surface of the cardboard splint … dry a minute or two to set. Now, using your tweezers, and making sure the wing is lined up perfectly, carefully place your card stock splint over the fractured area … no ability to redo, so take your time … dusting powder gently over the wing to counteract excess glue.”

  Is he kidding me going so fast?

  I need to pause the video, but don’t have a hand free, so I plow forward, coaching myself aloud. “You’ve watched it four times, JL. You’ve got this. You already know what to do.”

  I’m shaking so badly, I whisper the steps aloud: “Glue. Splint. Powder. Breathe. And you’re done.”

  “When the glue is dry,” he says, “gently remove the butterfly from the cloth surface. It may even be stuck … release it free. It’s good to go!”

  It moves on to the next video, Twenty Child Stars You Didn’t Know Passed Away, and I haven’t even dabbed the glue yet.

  I take my time, ignoring the noise in the background, as I move the small cardboard splint to its wing. I place the splint gently down over the break and sprinkle some powder from the bottle.

  Voila! Right?

  I lift the metal loop and wait.

  The poor creature doesn’t move at all.

  Tears spring to my eyes. I should have known better than to try to fix anything.

  I slam my laptop shut, chuck the mangled paper clip in the wastebasket, and lie back onto my bed, wishing Max were here. Max, not Aubrey. Aubrey has made her intentions perfectly clear.

  She prefers those other girls now.

  The phone rings down the hall, and I wait to hear if Mom will get it, but she rarely does. Maybe she’s not even home from her appointment with Dr. Marsdan yet. She’s up to two or three times per week with him.

  I roll onto my side, fighting the urge to call Max. He’s at work and I don’t want to bother him. My stomach flutters. I still can’t believe I’m dating Max Gordon.

  The phone rings again. Only Dad and Nana still call our landline, and Dad barely does. It’s probably a sales call, some scammer pretending to be from the IRS.

  If it’s Nana, I’ll call her back. I’m not in the mood for her, or to tell her I already lost one of the butterflies. It’s not that I don’t love her. I do. But I’m tired of her head-in-the-sand cheerfulness, the way she deflects and pretends, acting like everything with Mom is okay. Shooing away the truth like some pesky fly.

  “It’s only a rough spell, honey. Your mother has always been given to histrionics, even as a girl. She’ll be fine. And Dr. Marsdan is the best. He helped my friend Marcy’s daughter. She’s good as new. He’ll fix her in no time. Plus, everything will be better when your father gets home.”

  My eyes shift to my desk, to the photo, to my open laptop, to the mess of glue and cotton balls and underneath. To the habitat Max helped me put together a few short weeks ago. The day Aubrey was last here, the day the larvae arrived. And the last time we made any pretense of hanging out.

  She made it clear what she thought of me that day. The minute she said that stupid thing about the Jezebels.

  LATE MARCH

  TENTH GRADE

  I unpack the box from World of Butterflies—the cultures, the clamp lamp, the reagents and plants Nana and I ordered for the caterpillars to snack on—leaving all sorts of labels and pamphlets and instruction sheets strewn about my bedroom floor, and gently lift the two small remaining boxes out, one marked Greta oto/Glasswings, the other Delias hyparete/Painted Jezebels. I place them on the floor in front of us.

  “What are these?” you ask, picking up the first box too aggressively. I take it back from you.

  “Glasswings, Aubs,” I say. “And the others are Painted Jezebels. Wait till you see how cool they are.”

  You think I don’t notice how you roll your eyes before you get up and lie back on my bed, your cell phone held above you in the air. You’re texting fast. A group chat that obviously doesn’t include me.

  I could ask who, but I know. Instead, I focus on lining up the culture cups next to the boxes of larvae, which will be tiny and weird, since they’re only in their first or second instar phases.

  You used to care about this stuff, too, think it mattered. You used to be interested in all the research I did to help them emerge. Now it’s beneath you, or something.

  I try not to feel bad, look to Max for some sort of enthusiasm or support, but he’s oblivious, sitting hunched at my desk, head down, singing, and concentrating on assembling the habitat.

  “Blue-eyed son … darling young one.” He suddenly sings out loud, too loud, his muscles flexing under his plain white T-shirt, his head bobbing to whatever song he has blaring enough that I can hear it through the earbuds. Some piece of classic rock, not far from the type of stuff my dad listens to, or would listen to if he were still home.

  “Tongues were all broken … guns … swords…” Max sings, dropping every few words, others lifting awkwardly into the air, which makes you glance up and roll your eyes again, before returning to your oh-so-important texting.

  Why are you even here, Aubrey? I want to ask, but I don’t want to make things worse. Besides, it doesn’t matter what you think. I love it when Max sings, especially when it seems like he’s singing to me, his deep, raspy voice breaking through like he doesn’t give a crap what anyone thinks of him.

  Not you. Not me. Not anyone.

  I turn back to you, and watch you watching him.

  “What?” you finally ask, and I give you a look.

  “Nothing. It’s … I’m stressed about this, Aubs.” I motion at all the packages, the equipment, the moving parts I have to get right if I want these boxes of larvae to turn into full-blown tropical butterflies in a matter of weeks. “At least he’s helping. I thought you were going to help. Wanted to help. I thought you were excited.”r />
  “I was,” you say, adding defensively, “I mean, I am.” You type something else fast, before swinging your legs around the side of the bed to sit up. “Plus, I offered to help last night, remember? After the mall. But some of us were too busy to go.”

  But you knew when you invited me I wasn’t going to. You knew I wouldn’t be comfortable hanging with those girls or, worse, being stuck inviting them over here after. Not with Mom the way she can be. Is. Not until she’s doing better. There are people you can risk things with, and people you can’t.

  “But, seriously, JL,” you say, lowering your voice, “I’m still not sure what you see in him.”

  Liar, Aubrey!

  Sorry, but you are. Whatever people had to say about Max Gordon, or thought they knew about him, he is undeniably hot, and undeniably good with his hands. Not like you’re thinking, either—I’m not saying that. But he can make anything, fix anything. Build dirt bikes from scraps. Play guitar.

  People underestimate how smart he is, too. His mother is an English teacher, so he’s read all sorts of books. More than I ever will. More than you. All the classics, and famous poems, lines he can recite by heart. So if he wasn’t Mr. Honor Society, maybe it’s because he didn’t want to be. Maybe he didn’t give a crap about that kind of thing …

  And that day the Tropicals arrived? I was happy, Aubrey, happy about Max, about us being a couple, and all I wanted was for you to be happy for me, too.

  But you weren’t, were you? You weren’t even willing to try.

  I don’t answer you. I won’t justify your jealousy, or whatever it is, by defending Max Gordon. At least you slide back onto the floor as if you might be ready to help me. I hand you the cup with the Jezebel larvae.

  “Ew, gross,” you say, peering in.

  “They’re not gross. They’re cute.”

  I look into the other culture that holds several tiny brownish-yellow worms with pin-sized black heads. It’s the first time I’m raising butterflies from this early larval phase, and, yeah, they’re definitely not as cute as the full-grown Monarch or Swallowtail caterpillars, with their yellow and black stripes and little Muppet-looking faces.