by Ted Michael
DUKE
You don’t have to keep us in the dark, dude. Tell us what’s going on.
NIGEL
We’re worried about you, Henry.
I should just tell them things are getting serious with me and Garrett, but all I can think about is how much shit they’ll give me for ditching them and getting involved in something, well, serious. For abandoning the Crasher Code and keeping it from them.
ME
Look, I’m gonna be late. I’ll text you guys later.
I know they deserve a friend who can open up and let them in. Deep down, I want to be that person. But until I can, I’d rather put the inevitable confrontation off for as long as possible.
Our shift doesn’t start until later, so Garrett and I watch what I’ll call one of the best romantic comedies I have ever seen. Audrey Hepburn plays a princess who is pretty overloaded; she pretends to be a commoner and wanders around Rome with the help of Gregory Peck’s character, a reporter who realizes her identity but keeps quiet in the hopes of scoring an exclusive story and some pictures of her to sell for a lot of money.
Peck ultimately winds up doing the right thing, but he and Audrey don’t get together in the end. It’s not sad, though. You finish the film with a smile on your face, wondering what might have been between the two of them but glad they got the chance to meet.
“Are you okay?” Garrett asks during our break. We’re standing outside, drinking fountain sodas and leaning against the brick wall of the cinema.
“Sure. Well, I don’t know. I think Nigel and Duke are mad at me.”
“For what?”
“Spending time with you,” I say.
“Are you upset?”
“I mean, sort of. Yeah. What can I do, though? I’m not going to stop seeing you, which is what they want.”
“It doesn’t have to be all or nothing,” Garrett tells me. “I’m sure they want you to be happy.”
I shake my head. “It’s hard to explain. They’ve been my friends since forever. I wouldn’t have made it this far without them. But it’s complicated…. They wouldn’t approve of you and me.”
“Why not?” Garrett asks.
I shrug. “They just wouldn’t.”
There’s a thoughtful expression on her face. “Despite what you may think, I know a thing or two about complicated friendships.” She touches my shoulder and says, “You know, we haven’t really spoken about last night.”
“What’s there to talk about?”
“Your mom …”
“There’s not much else to say.” I’m not harsh, but my tone is definitely I don’t want to have this particular conversation right now. Which is true. Being emotional at night when you’re in bed with someone is one thing; doing it in the daylight is something else entirely. I don’t know if I’m ready for that.
“I think there’s a lot to say.”
“Garrett, can we talk about this later?” I ask. There is a hint of pleading in my voice, and she picks up on it.
“Okay. Later.”
3. West Side Story, 1961
Monday Night
“There’s nothing better than star-crossed love,” Garrett says emphatically. She’s hooked up her iPod to my car stereo and is playing one of the songs from West Side Story, which we’re on our way to see.
The song is called “One Hand, One Heart.” It’s basically about two people becoming one, and how the only thing that can separate them is death, and even death isn’t enough to keep them apart forever.
“Isn’t it romantic?” she asks, resting her hand on my knee.
I am still getting used to having a girl—the same girl—touch me day after day. My instinct is to push her away and say Stay on your own side of the car, but there is something comforting about Garrett’s touch, about the ease and confidence with which she handles me, as if there is no doubt in her mind that I want her to touch me. What would it be like to be that kind of person?
“Nothing says romantic more than dying,” I tease.
“Oh, you know what I mean.”
And the funny thing is that, yes, I do.
2. Gone with the Wind, 1939
Tuesday Night
I could try to explain everything that happens in this movie, but I would fail miserably. It’s nuts. The main character’s name is Scarlett O’Hara, and she has a lot of husbands even though she only loves one man, who is married to someone else; eventually, she realizes she actually loves the man she is married to (her third husband), but it’s too late. In the end, all she’s left with is her home and her hope.
“I have no desire to end up like her,” Garrett whispers. “One guy is enough for me, thanks.”
“You won’t,” I assure her.
Me, on the other hand? I’m not so sure.
1. Casablanca, 1942
Wednesday Night
Clearly one of the best films ever. Humphrey Bogart sacrifices his love for Ingrid Bergman and does the “right thing,” sending her off to America with her husband while a war rages in Europe.
Sucks.
“I wish he’d left with her in the end,” Garrett says.
“He couldn’t have. She would have hated him for it, ultimately.”
She considers this. “Maybe. But maybe not. What if he made the wrong decision?”
“At least he made a decision. Didn’t keep her in limbo.”
“So making any decision at all is more important than making the right decision?”
“No, I’m not saying that. But what’s right? There are no ‘right’ decisions in life. There are just decisions. And people make them. Then they deal with the consequences.”
Garrett touches my chin with her hand. “You think a lot of things.”
I laugh. “And that’s bad?”
“No. It’s wonderful. There’s so much inside you. Every day I see you there is more and more.”
I’m unsure where she’s going with this.
She kisses my cheek. “It means you’re human.”
“Did you ever think I wasn’t?”
“I had my doubts.”
Ingrid Michaelson’s “Be OK” is playing, and we listen to her wispy voice as I drive.
“So, is now ‘later’?” Garrett asks.
“What do you mean?”
“You said you would tell me more about your mom later. You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but I’d really like to hear about her. And about you.”
I pull into her driveway and turn off the engine. I sit silently for a few seconds before answering, “Why?”
“Because I want to know you, Henry.”
I have never had anyone want to know me. I have never had anyone I want to want to know me. And here is this remarkable girl sitting next to me asking all the right questions. And I think: So what if she leaves someday? Is that a good enough reason to shut her out? Would it be so wrong to let her in? Is she going to run away as soon as she realizes how incredibly fucked up I am? And so what if she does? Would I care?
Yes. I would care.
“Okay,” I tell her. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything,” she says, reaching for my hand in the dark and finding it. “I want to know everything.”
And so I tell her. What it was like to one day not have a mother anymore, to know that she was out there, somewhere, but that it was more important to her to live her life—however she’s living it—than to be with me. How it felt to miss her every single day, clinging to the most insignificant things (the way she brushed her hair, the sound of her making breakfast every morning), until now, when the recollections I have of the woman who gave birth to me, who helped raise me for the first twelve years of my life, are like copies from a printer that has run out of ink.
“My dad boxed up all her pictures in our basement about a year after she left, once he realized she wasn’t coming back. I used to go down there every day and look through them, hoping that if I closed my eyes and wished hard enough she would just appear.” I try t
o laugh, but the sound gets caught in my throat. “One day, I stopped looking at them because they made me so angry, and so sad.” Garrett squeezes my hand. “How can someone you love just leave you?”
Then it happens. Suddenly and surely and finally, I am crying. I don’t know if it’s for my mother or myself or both of us, but it doesn’t really matter. The tears spill out and I can’t stop them. Garrett whispers “Shh” in my ear, and “It’s okay, I’m here,” and I don’t feel like a baby for crying in front of her, which kind of surprises me. I just feel like me.
Later, I lie awake in bed and ache for her. I wish she were next to me, her hand on my chest, her legs wrapped around mine. Because being with Garrett, well, it’s the first time I haven’t felt alone since my mother left. And the interesting thing about not being alone, the good thing, the revelation, is that it feels much better than being by yourself.
GARRETT
“On a scale of one to ten, ten being Rachel McAdams, nine being Rihanna, eight being Lindsay Lohan when she filmed Mean Girls, seven being Beyoncé, six being Kim Kardashian’s ass, five being Kelly Clarkson, four being Jordin Sparks’s thighs, three being the girl from the Hairspray movie remake, two being Raven-Symoné, and one being Rosie O’Donnell, how does this dress make me look?”
The J Squad and I are standing in the dressing room area of Betsey Johnson at the mall. London is trying on a strapless white gown with tiny flowers embroidered in blues and purples.
Jyllian squints and tells London to turn around. “Eleven?”
“I think you look like sunshine,” says Jessica, who is trying on a pink dress and twirling in front of the mirror.
“Shut up,” London says, smacking her. “G, what do you think?”
“You look cute,” I say, “but like, too cute. Like you’re thirteen or something.”
“Ugh,” London says. A few minutes later, she’s back in her regular clothes. “Thanks for being honest,” she tells me. “You’re such a good friend.”
“Of course.”
“Jessica, are you getting that dress?” London asks.
Jessica stops twirling. “I don’t think so. When I spin, you can’t see my underwear.”
London sighs. “All right. Let’s go, then.”
Jessica and Jyllian go to Bloomingdale’s, while London and I go to Anthropologie. Luckily, they have the dress I like in my size.
“How does it look?” London asks, standing outside my changing room.
“Not sure yet,” I say. There’s a knock on the door. “I don’t need anything else, thanks!”
“It’s just me,” London says.
I undo the lock and she slips inside. “Here.” London zips the back. “Turn around.”
The dress is gorgeous. I feel shiny and new. “What do you think?”
For a moment I wonder whether London’s going to say something curt, which is sort of her way. “It’s great,” she says. “It’s perfect for you.”
“Thanks,” I tell her, surprised by the compliment. “I’m glad you like it.”
And I am. I’m glad that she is here with me and that she thinks the dress looks good on me, because her opinion is important. I try to forget about Henry, about all his kisses and the way he makes me laugh. I’ve had boyfriends before. Shopping and spending time with girlfriends—this is what I’ve been missing my entire life. I suddenly want to be in the J Squad so badly that it hurts.
London smiles at me. “You know, I’m really happy your family moved to Long Island.”
Oh?
“You’re just what we needed. Something to spice up senior year. I can’t wait for Destiny’s party to be over and for you to be an official member of the J Squad, you know?”
I want to say: Why do we have to wait until after the party? You’re the one who made up the rules. Can’t you just break them?
“Me too,” I say.
London sighs dramatically. “Okay, dear. I’ll be right across the hall if you need me. You can’t be the only one who looks hot for all the cameras!”
I close the door behind her and look in the mirror. Really look. I am all sharp lines and dark hair. I try to picture myself stepping out of a limo and walking into Destiny’s party with Henry by my side. Henry. I think about his mother leaving. I think about how hard it was for him to tell me that he was alone and sad, to tell me about his father crying (and Henry crying!) and what it felt like to grow up without anyone really standing by him, supporting him. My parents, despite their general craziness, have been the complete opposite. If anything, they care too much.
The longer I stare, the heavier my heart gets. There is one flaw in my plan with the J Squad that I’d never truly anticipated until it was staring me in the face: falling for Henry Arlington. Is it possible to stop in midair? To catch myself from landing splat on the pavement and breaking into a million pieces? Because no matter what happens, the one thing I can’t foresee is a happy ending.
At home, I take out my guitar. The strumming relaxes me. I can smell my mother fixing dinner, and my dad is still at work “In the City” (The Eagles, 1979).
I’ve only been playing for a few minutes when my phone rings. I figure it’s Jessica or Jyllian calling to gossip, or Henry, but when I look at the screen I’m so surprised I nearly fall off my chair.
I accept the incoming call and wait. I feel like I just swallowed a million packets of Pop Rocks.
“Hello?”
“Hi,” I say.
“Garrett?”
That voice. It’s him. “Hi, Ben. How are you?”
“Good,” he says casually, as though he didn’t dump me the last time we spoke. As though there hasn’t been radio silence between us. As though he didn’t “Shut Up and Let Me Go” (The Ting Tings, 2008). “You?”
“Oh, you know. Fine.”
“It’s been a while, huh?”
That’s the understatement of the century. Pop quiz. Should I:
Cry
Scream
Cry while screaming
Demand to know why he didn’t return my texts or my calls
Tell him that I miss him
Read some of the poetry he wrote me last year and ask if all the times he compared me to a [insert flower type here] were lies
Tell him he’s an asshole
Tell him I’ll pay for him to fly halfway across the country and visit me
Tell him I’ll never see him again, even if he does fly halfway across the country to visit me
Say random things in Spanish and hope he hangs up
Hang up
Tell him he has the wrong number
Ask if he remembers the time we hooked up on a blanket in my backyard when no one was home
Ask him if he remembers the time we hooked up while my old golden retriever, Daisy, watched us and barked
Read him some of the e-mails I wrote to him that I never sent
Deny sending the ones I did send and claim that someone hacked into my Gmail account
Cry again, but harder this time and less intelligibly
Quote Shakespeare
Quote 50 Cent
Quote Taylor Swift
Sing him a song I wrote about how we’re meant to be together despite everything
Sing him a song I wrote about how much I hate him and never want him back
A and J
M and S
All of the above
None of the above
I go with Z. “Yeah, it sure has been.”
“It’s good to hear your voice,” he says.
“Is it?”
“Sure.”
“Is that why you’ve called me so often?” So much for playing it cool. I try picturing him in his bedroom. Is he at his desk? On his bed? What is he wearing? I feel oddly numb. I would have thought that talking to Ben for the first time since we broke up would elicit some huge emotional response on my end, but it doesn’t. I’m not even sure how much I really miss him.
Finally, I ask, “So, how’s good old Mercer High
?”
“The same.” He laughs. “Coach is totally riding my ass about applying early to Duke, and I’m like, Dude, I don’t wanna be stuck in North Carolina for the next four years, no matter how good their basketball team is.”
“Gotcha.”
Then there is silence. The uncomfortable kind.
“I haven’t really had a chance to speak with Amy,” I tell him. “Her phone always goes straight to voice mail, and she’s never around when I call her house. How is she?”
“She’s … good,” Ben says hesitantly. “We’ve been hanging out a lot since you left.”
“Talking about how lost you are without me, I’m sure,” I say jokingly.
“You haven’t spoken to her at all?”
“For like, five minutes when I first moved, but nothing since. She’s impossible to get ahold of. More so than you, even. Is she okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, she’s fine,” Ben says. His tone makes me nervous. “Listen, Garrett, there’s something you should know. Amy and I … well … we’ve kinda been hooking up since you left.”
I laugh. It’s quick and short, like a hiccup. Then my heart bursts. Suddenly, it all makes sense. Why I haven’t heard from Ben until now. Why Amy has avoided me.
Oh God.
“I know it’s totally weird, and we didn’t plan it or anything. It sort of just happened. I hope you’re not upset. I mean, we’re over, right?”
I remind myself to breathe. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry. “Right.”
“And Amy’s your best friend, I get that, but it’s not like we’re dating. It’s just a little bit of fun.” Long pause. “Are you mad?”
“Why are you telling me this, Ben? Are you trying to hurt my feelings?”
“Of course not,” he says. “I just thought you should know.”
