I go back and plop on the couch.
“New song?” She smiles at me expectantly.
“Not yet. I can’t hold on to it.”
“You gotta write it down, Lil. I keep telling you that. If you kept a journal, you could write down all your thoughts and your song ideas, lyrics. You’d know where to find everything. Not to sound like a broken record—”
“What’s a broken record?” I mumble before I can stop myself. Mom shoots me a mean side eye and I grin sheepishly, hoping that’ll count as an apology. She’s not keen on age jokes even in her best moods.
“Lily, you have no idea how much better you’d feel if you gave yourself some type of creative outlet. Or an organized way to vent, if nothing else.”
I stretch out on my back and count the unnecessary wooden slats in the ceiling. Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four . . .
“Are you listening?”
“Yes. I will write the song down. It will be fine.”
“When? By the time you do it, you’ll forget again.”
I massage my temples. “I won’t forget,” I say quietly, wishing she were at the gym instead of in my face.
“Yes, you will. You know you will.”
If she’s so certain of my inefficacy, what’s the point of talking about it at all?
“I don’t mean to be so hard on you. I just want you to be your best self. That’s all I ever want,” she claims defensively. I’m not even arguing with her. Why is she on my case?
Mercifully, she stops talking for a few seconds. I just hear her breathing as I close my eyes. If I’m lucky, maybe she’ll forget I’m here and I can sneak in a nap.
“Could you stay with Jackie or Tracy?” she asks.
Nope. She hasn’t forgotten I’m here.
“No.”
“I know things have been weird, but honey, you have to at least try—”
“I said no.”
She’s silent and I can feel her staring at me, so I sit up on my elbows and stare right back. This continues for a few moments before she shakes her head in frustration and proceeds with her routine. This time she doesn’t say anything more.
Mom works out usually four or five times a week. Mostly yoga at home, but sometimes she goes running. Sometimes to the gym. This started about a year ago. I asked her why and she said fear of looking old. Then she said, “Getting old, I mean.” I think it’s really the first one, though. This cute guy kept checking her out once at Urban Outfitters. He finally got brave enough to speak to her and asked if she was in his sociology lecture at Columbia. She giggled, but never answered him. She’s shared this story with her friends more than once.
* * *
Later, I struggle with the chemistry assignment because chemistry is a dumb subject and no one like me belongs in such a class. I goof around online and briefly consider visiting my Facebook page, but then decide against it. It probably has cobwebs by now anyway. Or worse. Instead I visit Tracy’s. Her relationship status is “complicated.” Yeah, I bet. Her photo must be a new one: she’s at the beach in sunglasses with her arm around Marie. I read her status: I am so sick of certain people trying to soak up all the sympathy in the world. If you’re supposed to be so depressed do something about it! Stop blaming everyone else for your problems. She posted this at 12:49 p.m. today. Lunch. It is now 8:42 p.m. and this status has forty-eight likes and seventeen comments. My hands start to shake and I hear a loud sustained ringing in my ears. I close my eyes and breathe. She might not be talking about me. She might be talking in completely general terms. But then again, what if she is talking about me? So what? So fucking what? She obviously hates me just like most people, so what difference does it make? I open my eyes and quickly find my favorite YouTube video, “Mango loves Milkshake,” and watch it over and over and over again.
There was a time when Tracy and I would discreetly roll our eyes at Jackie’s bossiness. When Jackie’s parents took us all camping in the Poconos in the eighth grade, Tracy and I made a secret pact that if we all went to the same college, she and I would be roommates. We decided we wouldn’t tell Jackie until eleventh grade. Guess we won’t be needing to break that news.
I hear a ding and look down at the corner of my screen. Tara McKenzie is attempting to chat with me. That has never happened before, and I have no idea why it’s happening now.
Did u finish the HW ? she asks.
Nope. Didn’t get it. u?
Yes. Just a matter of following the equations.
Oh, God.
Can’t follow what I don’t get.
There is silence, and I wonder if she got bored and left. Then I see that she’s typing.
I don’t think it’s so hard, but I’ve noticed that u have been struggling. I wasn’t sure if it was the material or other stuff, she writes.
Now it’s my turn to make her wait. She’s noticed that I’ve been struggling? She hardly ever says more than two words to me, but she’s been looking at my test scores?
No, I just suck at it, I reply.
I don’t. If u want help ask for it. We are partners.
Is she just bragging or seriously trying to be helpful? It’s hard to tell from words on a screen. Then again, Tara’s so odd, I might not be able to tell if I was staring her in the face. I sigh and wonder why I didn’t just hide myself. I hate chatting. It’s invasive. I also don’t like e-mails or talking on the phone. Or talking in person. To humans.
Thanks. But I think I’ll b fine.
K, she writes. Seconds later, she signs off. Is it possible that Tara actually cares about me? Doubtful.
I watch little Mango kissing and slobbering all over Milkshake as he tries to sleep. I wonder if I’ll ever feel that happy to see another living thing. I think about my hands and remember how they felt tearing up a drum kit, or to a lesser degree, picking on a bass. I haven’t played music in a long time and I don’t know if I ever will again. It’s been tainted. Reminds me of last year, and him, and I don’t need any more reminders.
I still have Tracy’s Facebook up on my screen. The status now has fifty-four likes and twenty-one comments.
From my desk drawer, I dig out the books and papers and junk and pry up the board that serves as the false bottom. Beneath that is a treasure trove, and it will help me now. Junior Mints, candy corn, Mike and Ikes, Raisinets, Jelly Bellies. I’ll have a little of each, thank you very much. As far as addictions go, mine could be far worse. I could be rolling on cough syrup. I’d try it too, if I didn’t think it tasted disgusting.
* * *
Mr. Crenshaw drones on about the photoelectric effect, or some garbage that makes me want to dig up Einstein and punch him in the face. Tara steadily jots down notes. She seems rather enthusiastic, as though she’s been waiting for this chemistry class all her life. Must be nice.
While he speaks, he smacks his desk without realizing it. As he moves, he bounces on the balls of his feet and his cheap dress shoes click on the ugly floor tiles. I hear a rhythm being tapped out and, in my mind, I add a high hat, then a bass, and now we got something cooking, and suddenly, I’m not about to fall into an irreversible coma.
“What are you doing?” Tara whispers, without looking up from her paper.
“Huh?” I ask.
“You’re bobbing up and down like something’s wrong with you.”
Oh. Whoops.
I try to sit still after that. Dammit, Tara. She took my song from me. I can’t remember a note.
“Lilith? Miss Rothstein?” Mr. Crenshaw calls.
Oh, no.
“Um, you can just call me Lily.”
“Fine. Lily. Can you answer the question, please?”
Oh Jesus, Jesus, Jesus . . .
“I’m sorry, Mr. Crenshaw. Can you repeat the question?”
“The symbol for Planck’s constant?”
My heart is pounding so hard, I really think I might have a heart attack. Right here in school. Just fall over on my face and get dragged out of here in an ambulance.
That would be so embarrassing.
“I don’t know,” I struggle to say.
“Pardon?”
Louder, I repeat, “I don’t know.”
“Can someone help her, please?” He sighs in a way that I hate. It’s not that he’s disgusted with me. He pities me, like I’m some poor idiot that they all have to tolerate until they can get me the hell out of this school. I glance around to see if anyone’s glaring or smirking, but no. No one looks at me. Yep. Still pretty invisible. I’m just relieved that I didn’t vomit or faint or stroke out.
When the bell finally rings, I gather my things and I can feel Tara looking at me.
“Aren’t you afraid of failing?”
I give it some thought. “No,” I answer truthfully.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t care.” I almost end that sentence with a question mark. I didn’t realize I felt that way until I said it.
“Then why bother? You should just quit,” she offers, gathering her own books.
“That is a good point.”
* * *
Lunch. Dammit. I still have to go to lunch.
I agonize over the choice of the day—some kind of pork sandwich or something yellowish. Polenta? What is that? Whatever it is, it looks like it’s already been digested. I choose the pork knowing I won’t eat a bite, but I feel like I have to choose something; I’ve been standing here too long to leave with an empty tray. I press play on my iPod and let Sleater-Kinney distort my hearing as I pretend not to care that I have no one to sit with today.
I peruse the room carefully, checking out all my nonexistent options. I can’t go back to Tracy/Jackie/Marie after yesterday. I can’t ever.
And there he sits. Well. Fuck it.
Quite unceremoniously, quite uninvitedly, I join him. He keeps drawing. My hands shake. I don’t say anything. Why am I not saying anything? Say something!
“Hey,” I say.
He glances up at me and seems surprised and confused to see me sitting there. He just nods and goes back to his drawing. I turn off my music and pick at my food. He doesn’t even have a tray. He did yesterday, but he wasn’t really eating. Does he not eat? Does he have bulimia? Do guys get that? He is thin. But then again, he has nice muscle tone. I don’t think bulimics have that kind of definition. He’s pretty much ignoring my presence. I think I’ve made a grave mistake, but it’s too late now. I have to commit. I have to pretend I don’t feel like dying.
“I don’t see you around much,” I say.
He nods, I think. He does something with his head, but he keeps drawing. He is so focused. Without looking up, he asks, “Are you ever going to tell me your name?”
Oh, yeah.
“It’s Lily.”
He nods. Neither of us says anything for a few moments.
“Lilith. It’s an odd name.” I don’t know why I add this.
“That’s a female demon, right? In Jewish mythology. You Jewish?”
Wow.
“Yeah, I’ve heard that story, and I am Jewish, but—”
Dari’s eyes spot that pork sandwich on my tray and then he glances back up at me in earnest confusion. What was I thinking?
“Uh, yeah. I know. Pork. I’m not that religious, but I’m not gonna eat it anyway. I’m not hungry. And even if I were more religious, we are allowed to—ya know?—look at it.” He starts to nod, but then stops himself and frowns. Deeper confusion? I need to change the subject.
“My mom named me after some women’s music festival that used to happen in the nineties. Lilith Fair. She was obsessed with that festival. She used to be a lesbian, I think.” Why am I telling him this?
“She’s not a lesbian anymore?” he asks. He’s actually interested.
“Well, no. Not to my knowledge. I guess she was bisexual. Is? I don’t know. I just know when she talks about Lilith Fair and her special girlfriends, she gets this dazed, dreamy look on her face. I don’t know. I should ask her.”
“Really?” he asks, glancing up at me. God. His eyes are so brown.
“What?”
“You can just come out and ask your mom if she used to be a lesbian?”
“Sure. She doesn’t like secrets. They’re damaging.”
“Wow.” He’s no longer drawing. He’s looking directly at me, with a little more intensity than I’m used to in the lunchroom.
“It gets annoying. She likes to talk about everything. Sometimes I just need my space and she doesn’t like to give it.” I hope I don’t sound too whiny, but it’s nice to talk to someone who isn’t obligated to talk to me. Someone who doesn’t know me.
“Why are you sitting here?” he asks. So direct.
I shrug. “I just wanted to.”
He stares at me with unwavering regard. He reminds me of my cat. She crawls on my chest and just stares into my eyes forever without getting tired of me. I often wonder what she sees. I wonder what Dari sees.
“Why do you always sit alone?” I can be direct, too.
He breaks his gaze and looks around the room. “People here. They don’t interest me.”
I nod, feeling a bit ill again. I grip my tray, preparing to make my exit, and then he says, “Except you.” I look at him, but his eyes are already back on his drawing. I can’t explain it, but I feel like he wants me to stay, so I do. He draws, I play with my food, and we barely say anything. But it’s somehow okay. I dump my tray and come back. He still draws. Then the bell rings.
“Where are you going?” he asks. I jump because he hasn’t said anything for maybe twenty minutes.
“The bell. I have to get to class.”
“Wanna split?”
I’ve never been one to leave school in the middle of school. Sure sometimes I just skip, but that’s typically with my mother’s permission. This is advanced bad behavior. Perhaps a little too advanced for boring Lily.
But then again . . .
LIKE A JUNGLE SOMETIMES
See that guy over there?” Dari indicates the stranger by tilting his head slightly. “The one in the Nickelback T-shirt?”
“Yeah.”
“Go over there and ask him if you can borrow some deodorant.”
“What?! No!”
Dari smiles. “Does that mean you’d prefer a double dare?”
She sighs. Their impromptu game of Truth or Dare has been getting increasingly stupid as the afternoon wears on. But once you start a game of T or D, you have to see it through.
“Fine.”
Dari watches her walk over to this poor guy with terrible taste in music and an even worse haircut. He strains to hear their conversation, but it’s too windy. By the expression on Nickelback dude’s face, she isn’t cheating. He shakes his head at her, trying to smile, but he mostly looks frightened. She runs back to Dari laughing.
“He said he thought I smelled fine!”
They both crack up. People are freaks.
“Okay, truth or dare? And you’d better pick dare,” she warns.
“Yeah, yeah. Dare.”
She looks around the park and then her eyes stop on a mom (or a white nanny?) and two kids, one about two or three and a baby in a stroller.
“Go over to that woman and ask her if you can change her baby’s diaper.”
“Hell no!”
“Come on!”
“You want me to go to prison and turn up on some pedophile list?”
“Oh.” She’s disappointed.
“I change my answer. Give me truth,” Dari tells her. He notices people in the park noticing them. Giving them that look. He knows that look. Time to rein in the game.
“You can’t change your answer,” she protests.
“I think I can, because I just did.”
After ditching school, they went to an Afghan place—Dari’s favorite. He barely touches lunch at school because he’s always waiting for a better opportunity to present itself. Practically the moment they freed themselves from scholastic hell, Lily came to life. He was pleasantly surprised. Now they�
��re here. Testing each other’s boundaries. Lightly.
“You gonna ask me somethin’ or not?”
“Why did you transfer schools?”
“I was asked to leave my old school,” he says.
“Really? What did you do?”
“That’s a follow-up question. You only get to ask one question.”
“I won’t judge you,” she pushes, but it’s a gentle push. Dari fiddles with one of his dreads. How much am I willing to share with this girl?
“I’ll tell you a secret,” he whispers.
She leans in, riveted.
“I’m an asshole.”
She laughs. He doesn’t. She stops laughing. They are quiet for a moment. Long enough for Dari to return to his sketchbook and start drawing again.
“Well. At least you’re honest about it.”
Dari looks up and smiles at her. In front of them, a group of tiny kids play red light/green light, some of them too small to know the difference.
* * *
It’s getting late-ish. Lily should probably get home soon. Dari is already quite late and definitely does not want to go home. It’s a conundrum. An unpleasant puzzle Dari silently attempts to solve just before his phone rings.
“Damn.” He reaches in his pocket and looks at it, but he knows who it is.
“Hey, Izzy.”
Lily watches him for a moment before pulling out her own phone. Dari hopes she’s texting someone and not tweeting their location or what they’re doing right now.
“I know. I know. I just . . . I had to do research for this paper I’m working on, so . . . I’m NOT lying!” He sits on the curb and rubs his head in agony. While Izzy monolectures him, he reaches into his bag, takes out a lighter and a Parliament, lights it, and takes three drags before he’s able to get a word in. His voice is much lower now, resigned.
“I’m sorry. I’m on my way. Bye.” He hangs up and continues sitting on the curb, blowing smoke through his nostrils. Lily sits next to him.
“You in trouble?” she asks.
The Truth of Right Now Page 4
