“It sounds like it,” Justin says. And the way he looks at me—it’s like he’s finally realized how real I am, how here I am. What I’ve just said isn’t worth that. Which means I must be worth that.
“I can’t believe I just told you that,” I say. It’s like I’m giving him a chance to change his mind.
“Why?”
“Because. I don’t know. It just sounds so silly.”
“No,” he says, “it sounds like a good day.”
“How about you?” I ask. I know I’m pushing it. It’s one thing for him to listen. It’s another to have him actually tell me something.
“I was never in a mother-daughter fashion show,” he says.
Ha ha. So maybe he isn’t taking this seriously after all. I hit him on the shoulder and say, “No. Tell me about another day like this one.”
I can see him thinking about it. At first, I think he’s debating whether or not to tell me anything. But then I realize that, no, he’s just trying to come up with a good answer.
“There was this one day when I was eleven,” he starts. He’s not staring out to the ocean or looking anywhere else, distracted. He’s looking right into my eyes, his way of saying this story is for me. “I was playing hide-and-seek with my friends. I mean, the brutal tackle kind of hide-and-seek. We were in the woods, and for some reason I decided that what I had to do was climb a tree. I don’t think I’d ever climbed a tree before. But I found one with some low branches and just started moving. Up and up. It was as natural as walking. In my memory, that tree was hundreds of feet tall. Thousands. At some point, I crossed the tree line. I was still climbing, but there weren’t any other trees around. I was all by myself, clinging to the trunk of this tree, a long way from the ground.
“It was magical. There’s no other word to describe it. I could hear my friends yelling as they were caught, as the game played out. But I was in a completely different place. I was seeing the world from above, which is an extraordinary thing when it happens for the first time. I’d never flown in a plane. I’m not even sure I’d been in a tall building. So there I was, hovering above everything I knew. I had made it somewhere special, and I’d gotten there all on my own. Nobody had given it to me. Nobody had told me to do it. I’d climbed and climbed and climbed, and this was my reward. To watch over the world, and to be alone with myself. That, I found, was what I needed.”
I’m almost crying, imagining him there. Every now and then he’ll tell me something about when he was little, but not like this. Usually he only tells me the bad things. The hard things. Mostly as an excuse.
I lean into him. “That’s amazing.”
“Yeah, it was.”
“And it was in Minnesota?”
I want to show him I remember what he tells me—his family’s moves, how cold it was there—so he’ll feel he can tell me more.
I want to tell him more, too. I always want to tell him more, but now that I know he’s listening—really listening—it means something different.
“You want to know another day like this one?” I ask, moving even closer, like I’m building a nest of our bodies in order to catch all the memories.
He pulls me in, settles the nest. “Sure.”
“Our second date,” I tell him.
“Really?” He seems surprised.
“Remember?”
He doesn’t. Which is fair, because it’s not like we labeled everything as a date. I mean, there were plenty of times before our first date where we were in the same place with other people, flirting. I’m talking about the second time we arrived together and left together and spent most of the time together.
“Dack’s party?” I say.
“Yeah….”
Still unclear. “I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe it doesn’t count as a date. But it was the second time we hooked up. And, I don’t know, you were just so…sweet about it. Don’t get mad, alright?”
I don’t want to ruin it. I am afraid I’m ruining it. Why don’t I just stop when things are good?
But then he says, “I promise, nothing could make me mad right now.” And he crosses his heart. Something I’ve never, ever seen him do before.
Smile. I’m not ruining it. I’m really not. “Okay,” I say. “Well, lately—it’s like you’re always in a rush. Like, we have sex but we’re not really…intimate. And I don’t mind. I mean, it’s fun. But every now and then, it’s good to have it be like this. And at Dack’s party—it was like this. Like you had all the time in the world, and you wanted us to have it together. I loved that. It was back when you were really looking at me. It was like—well, it was like you’d climbed up that tree and found me there at the top. And we had that together. Even though we were in someone’s backyard. At one point—do you remember?—you made me move over a little so I’d be in the moonlight. ‘It makes your skin glow,’ you said. And I felt like that. Glowing. Because you were watching me, along with the moon.”
I have never said this much to him. In all the time we’ve been together, I’m not sure I’ve ever let the words come out like this, without inspecting them first. I thought I knew what we were, and that was good enough for me.
What is this? I think. Because now he’s leaning over and kissing me, and it’s making everything romantic. Justin has been able to do romantic things before, sure. But he’s never made everything seem romantic before. The universe, at this moment, is romantic. And I want it. I want it so badly. I want the touch of his lips on mine. I want the way my heart is pounding. I want this nest, my body and his body. I want it because it’s that unreal kind of real.
There are so many other things we could say, but I don’t want to say any of them. Not because I’m afraid of ruining it. But because right now I have everything. I don’t need anything more.
We close our eyes. We rest in each other’s arms.
We’ve somehow made it to the better place you always want to be.
—
I don’t even realize I’m falling asleep. We’re just so comfortable that I guess we go there.
Then my phone is ringing, the ringtone so much shriller than the ocean. I know who it is, and even though I want to ignore it, I can’t. I open my eyes, shift away from Justin, and pick up the phone.
“Where are you?” Mom asks.
I check out the time. School’s been over for a while now.
“I just went somewhere with Justin,” I tell her.
“Well, your father’s coming home tonight, so I want us to all have dinner.”
“That’s fine. I’ll be home before that. In an hour or so.”
As soon as those words leave my mouth, the clock that had stopped begins to tick again. I hate my mother for causing this to happen, and I hate myself for letting it.
Justin’s sitting up now, looking at me like he knows what I’ve done.
“It’s getting late,” he says. He picks up the blanket and shakes it out. Then we fold it together, drawing nearer and farther and back nearer again, until the blanket is a square. Usually we just roll it up and throw it back in the trunk.
It feels different, driving home. It’s no longer an adventure; it’s just driving home. I find myself telling him all the things he never wants to hear about—other people’s relationship drama, the way Rebecca’s really trying hard to get into a good school and leave the rest of us behind (which I fully believe she should do), the pressure I feel to do well, too, or at least good enough.
After a while, the sun has set and the headlights are on and the songs we’re choosing are quiet ones. I lean on his shoulder and close my eyes, falling asleep again. I don’t mean to do it, but I’m just so comfortable. Usually I’m leaning into him to prove something, to claim something. But now—it’s just to have him there. To rebuild that nest.
When I wake up, I see we’re getting close to my house. I wish we weren’t.
The only way for me to avoid being depressed is to create a bridge between now and the next time we’ll be like this. I don’t need to p
lan exactly when we’ll get there. I just need to know it’s there for us to get to.
“How many days do you think we could skip school before we’d get in trouble?” I ask. “I mean, if we’re there in the morning, do you think they’d really notice if we’re gone in the afternoon?”
“I think they’d catch us,” he says.
“Maybe once a week? Once a month? Starting tomorrow?”
I figure he’ll laugh at that, but instead he looks bothered. Not by me, but by the fact that he can’t say yes. A lot of the time I take his sadness in a bad way. Now I almost take it in a good way, a sign that the day has meant as much to him as it has for me.
“Even if we can’t do this, I’ll see you at lunch?” I ask.
He nods.
“And maybe we can do something after school?”
“I think so,” he says. “I mean, I’m not sure what else is going on. My mind isn’t really there right now.”
Plans. Maybe he’s right—maybe I always try to tie him up instead of letting things happen. “Fair enough,” I say. “Tomorrow is tomorrow. Let’s end today on a nice note.”
One last song. One last turn. One last street. No matter how hard you try to keep hold of a day, it’s going to leave you.
“Here we are,” I say when we get to my house.
Let’s make it always like this, I want to say to him.
He pulls the car over. He unlocks the doors.
End it on a nice note, I think, as much to myself as to him. It’s so natural to drag a good thing down. It takes a lot of control to let it be what it is.
I kiss him goodbye. I kiss him with everything, and he responds with everything. The day surrounds us. It passes through us, between us.
“That’s the nice note,” I tell him when it’s through. And before we can say anything else, I leave.
—
Later that night, right before sleep, he calls me. I never get calls from him—he always texts. If he wants to let me know something, he lets me know, but he rarely wants to talk about it.
“Hey!” I answer, a little sleepy but mostly happy.
“Hey,” he says.
“Thank you again for today,” I tell him immediately.
“Yeah,” he says. Something’s a little bit off in his voice. Something has slipped. “But about today?”
Now I’m not happy or sleepy. I’m wide awake. I decide to make a joke.
I say, “Are you going to tell me that we can’t cut class every day? That’s not like you.”
“Yeah,” he replies, “but, you know, I don’t want you to think every day is going to be like today. Because they’re not going to be, alright? They can’t be.”
It’s almost like he’s talking to himself.
“I know that,” I tell him. “But maybe things can still be better. I know they can be.”
“I don’t know. That’s all I wanted to say. I don’t know. Today was something, but it’s not, like, everything.”
“I know that.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
He sighs. Again, I have to tell myself this sadness is not something directed at me. It has to be directed at the fact that he can’t be with me.
“That’s all,” he says.
I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. If he’s worried that I’m really going to expect this from him every day—he can’t think that, can he? I decide to leave it alone. I say, “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah, you will.”
“Thanks again for today. No matter what trouble we get into tomorrow for it, it was worth it.”
“Yeah.”
“I love you,” I say.
It’s not like Justin to say I love you back. Most of the time, he resents it when I say it, accuses me of saying it just to see if he’ll say it next.
Sometimes he’s right. But that’s not why I’m saying it tonight. And when he responds by saying “Sleep well,” that’s more than enough for me.
I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow, but for once I’m really looking forward to it.
Chapter Two
Mom is up before me, as usual, in the same place at the kitchen table. It’s like she thinks Dad or I will steal her seat if she doesn’t beat us to it—and if she loses the seat, where will she spend the rest of the day?
“You look nice,” she tells me. Which would be a compliment, if she didn’t sound suspicious.
I don’t tell her that I made sure to look nice because it’s the one-day anniversary of everything getting better. She’d shoot that down real quick.
“I have to give a report,” I tell her. “In class.”
I know she’s not going to ask me what report, or what class.
Eager. I want to get to school as soon as possible, to see him. I hope he’s feeling the same way over at his house. I could text him and ask, but if things are going to change, then I can change, too. I don’t need to know everything all the time.
Mom and I say more to each other, but neither of us is really listening. I want to go, and she wants to stay. It’s the story of our lives.
—
I have to take the bus because my car is still at school. I could ask Rebecca or someone else to drive me, but then I would have to spend the whole ride talking about things instead of thinking about them.
—
His car isn’t there when my bus gets in. In fact, he doesn’t show up until almost everyone else has pulled in.
But this time he notices me waiting. Walks over. Says good morning.
I am trying hard not to barrage him with happiness. It’s still early in the morning. He’s barely awake.
“Sure you don’t want to run away?” I ask. Just to pull a little bit of yesterday into today.
He looks confused. “Are you serious?”
“No,” I tell him. “But a girl can dream, right?”
“Whatever.” He starts walking, assuming I’ll fall in step right beside him. Which I do.
I get it. Kind of. Since it’s not like we’re going to do it again today, it’s probably best not to think of it as an option. Otherwise, whatever we do today will feel pathetic in comparison.
I reach for his hand.
He doesn’t take it.
“What’s gotten into you?” he asks.
Yesterday, I want to tell him. But from the way he looks straight ahead, I figure now’s not the right time.
He doesn’t even wait to hear my answer to his question.
He just keeps moving.
I tell myself it’s not Angry Justin. It’s Lost Justin. It has to be.
When you picture someone lost, it’s usually in someplace like the woods. But with Justin, I imagine a classroom. It’s not that he has a learning disability or anything. That would be a good reason. But no. He’s just bored. So he doesn’t keep up with what’s going on. And it only gets worse, and he only gets more lost, which only makes him hate it more.
—
I am trying to stay on the beach. As the teachers talk and as Justin and I barely say hello between first and second period, I am reminding myself what it was like. I am turning my mind into a time machine, because I need to.
—
I know Rebecca’s going to pin me down third period, when we’re sitting next to each other in art. And that’s exactly what she does.
“Where were you?” she whispers. “What happened?”
Art is one of the only classes we have together, because my school likes to keep the smart kids away from the not-smart kids, as if being in class with me might hurt Rebecca’s test scores. In art, some of the not-smart kids get their revenge. I like that it gives me and Rebecca a chance to be together.
Mr. K has put a car engine at the front of the room, and has asked us to draw it in charcoal. He always says we’re not supposed to talk while we’re working, but as long as we’re not too loud and we’re getting our work done, he doesn’t really mind.
Rebecca’s engine is turning out wors
e than mine, and I feel bad that this makes me feel better.
I tell her that Justin and I escaped to the beach. I tell her it was an in-the-moment thing, and that it was wonderful.
“You should have asked me and Ben to come along,” she says.
Ben is her boyfriend. He’s smart, too. Justin doesn’t like him at all.
“Next time,” I tell her. We both know it’ll never happen, but we’re okay with that. Our friendship doesn’t need her to skip school, and it doesn’t need Ben and Justin to get along. She and I have enough history that we don’t need to make a whole lot happen in the present to be close.
“Wasn’t it cold?” she asks.
“Too cold to swim,” I say. “But warm enough to be there.”
She nods. Whatever I say to her usually makes sense.
I’m just leaving out some of the details.
—
I wonder if I’m supposed to meet him at his locker like yesterday. But lunchtime habit takes me to the cafeteria first, and there he is, at our usual spot.
“Hey,” I say.
He nods. I sit down.
“Has anyone said anything to you about yesterday?” I ask. “I mean, you haven’t gotten into any trouble, have you?”
He dips a French fry into some ketchup. That’s all he’s having for lunch.
“It’s all good, I think,” he says. “You?”
“Rebecca was curious. But that’s it so far.”
“Rebecca? Curious? Now there’s a shocker.”
“She said next time she and Ben want to go driving with us.”
“I’m not sure Ben would let us inside his Mercedes. We’d have to take our shoes off first.”
This one time, we went over to Ben’s house and he asked all of us to take off our shoes before we came inside. Justin and I found that hysterical. “Doesn’t he know that our socks are much nastier than our shoes?” Justin asked. It became one of our jokes.
Another Day Page 3
