by L. Philips
Who needs love, anyway? I ask myself. Maybe it’s much better to have friends who think the world of you, enough to conspire with your mother when things are going wrong and to sit with your stinky self when you’re sad and cut the crusts off your sandwiches. Maybe especially friends who don’t mind a little snuggling when there’s a boring TV marathon on.
Maybe not having a boyfriend won’t be so bad at all.
Sometime in the middle of the night, my dad wakes me with a gentle nudge. I sit up, squinting at him in the weak light. “Dad?”
“Hey. Do you have a minute?”
“It’s the middle of the night, Dad,” I say. That’s my father, odd as can be and socially awkward to boot. “So no. No plans right now.”
“Good. Follow me.”
I get out of bed with a stretch and a yawn and follow him to the other side of the house, where his office, a converted sunroom with just enough space for his antique desk, is brightly lit by a couple of lamps. It’s a mess in here. Several boxes are piled on the floor, filled with manuscripts new and old, and the single bookcase is piled with books instead of neatly arranged, and there are so many that the shelves are bowed. He uses a few of his literary awards as paperweights, keeping some of the piles of loose papers on his desk in control. I notice he’s been smoking, which I hate because (a) cancer, and (b) that means he’s feeling really stuck if he’s resorted to smoking. There are several butts in the ashtray, one still lit and resting carelessly among the others.
As Dad sits behind his desk and starts riffling through the mess, I try to make conversation. “So how was New York this time?”
“Hmm?” He pushes the ashtray aside. “Oh. It was tolerable, I guess. Lots of meetings when I should have been writing instead, but a decent bagel and schmear selection.”
This is why my father is so good at what he does. Writing is all he wants to do, even with the distraction of a decent bagel.
“Here!” he proclaims, producing familiar pages from the bottom of one of his piles. “Your samples for applications. I took a red pen to them, but really, they don’t need much.”
I take the pages he hands to me and look them over, incredulous. There are some editing marks, a few sentences crossed out or circled here and there, but nothing major.
“Really? You don’t think so?”
Dad pulls at his hair, which is curly like mine but longer, grayer, and slightly thinner, which means it looks a bit like Einstein’s. Which maybe isn’t a compliment.
“No, they’re quite good as is. If you don’t mind me saying so,” he begins, and I nod my permission, “the one about the musician is your best. I would advise you to send that one.”
“Thanks. Jamie really liked that one too.”
Dad bites at a hangnail. “I’m sorry to hear he’s not around anymore. Your mother said he was a lovely person.”
“It’s my own fault,” I say.
“All the same,” Dad says. “I’m sorry that you’re hurting, Sam. I know it’s not your first breakup, but it never gets any easier. And I’m sorry I wasn’t around for it.”
I don’t know why but my father’s one simple apology lifts a ton of weight off me.
“You really like my samples? I mean, they’re just stories.”
“Everything is just a story, Samson. It’s the way you tell it that makes it worth telling.” He smiles at me, revealing perfectly straight teeth that are just a little too big for his mouth. Another thing we have in common. “I wrote a book about a man who rides the subway all day long. Nothing happens in it, at all. But people love it because of the telling. And you, my son, are great at telling. You have a style that is very uniquely yours, and I’m so proud of that. I’ve been so afraid that you would follow my path instead of your own, but it’s clear to me, you’ve found your own way.”
There must be something in my eye because my view is suddenly all watery. Damn it.
“I hope NYU agrees with you.”
“If they don’t, they’re wrong.” My dad’s toothy grin flashes again. “I’m sorry I woke you up. I didn’t realize how late it was.”
As if to prove it, he pulls out the cigarette butt, long ago burnt out and all ash, and looks absolutely bewildered that it’s not lit anymore.
“I didn’t mind,” I say. “You should get some rest, though. Take a break. It’s Christmas.”
He nods. “I will after this scene,” he says, which roughly translates into “I’ll sleep when I’m dead” for my dad.
I leave him bent over his manuscript, squinting at his words like they’re completely foreign to him. When I get to my room, I take one more look at his edits to my work before putting them underneath my bed for safekeeping.
Merry Christmas to me.
When I wake again it isn’t Landon by my side, or even my mother. It’s Meg.
“Merry Christmas.”
I sit up immediately so that I can hug her. She hugs back and clings to me, her soft hair against my face.
“I’m such a jerk,” I say.
“I’m the jerk. I shouldn’t have brought up Landon. I know it’s a sore spot.”
“No, I was being a hypocrite and an idiot and—”
“You were being a good friend,” she interjects, and draws back to smile at me. “Other than calling me a bitch.”
I wince. “Yeah, that was definitely a jerk move.”
She makes a pffft sound. “I’ve been called worse.”
Meg leans over and takes a plate off of my bedside table. It’s piled high with my mom’s chocolate chip cookies, and she holds it in front of my face. I take one. “Your mom’s on a baking tear so I’m staying all day.”
I laugh. “But it’s Christmas. Aren’t you supposed to be in church?”
“Nah. I’m all churched out and my parents didn’t feel like arguing in front of the family.” She inspects the pile of cookies for the one with the most chips, and takes one from the bottom. “Besides, I think I filled my quota of family time Friday night. I helped Mom dust off all her saint figurines. That’s a few hours of my life I’ll never get back.”
“Friday night, huh?”
“Yeah,” Meg says, spraying some crumbs on my bed. I couldn’t care less. “I’m a wild one, I know.”
“I just thought you had plans with Michael.”
“I did, but then you and I fought and I was worried about you and whatever. I can lose my virginity after prom, like everyone else.” I study her, and she shrinks a little under my stare. “Okay. I don’t think I’m ready, all right? And get this. My mom actually lectured me about waiting for marriage while we were cleaning, as if she could read my freaking mind. And it was all creepy and Catholic-y but she said a few things that made sense too. And so did you, so . . . I guess I’m keeping this virginity thing for a while.”
I smile, proud and relieved. “And Michael? Is he okay with that?”
She beams. “He said he’d wait forever if he had to because I’m worth it.”
I’m relieved to hear that, and it’s kind of sweet. Sickeningly sweet. Maybe Michael’s not a completely horrible person.
“So . . .” Meg takes another cookie because the first one has mysteriously disappeared. “What do you want to do today? And the answer is not ‘Sit around moping in my PJs.’ Not at Yuletide, sir. The God is reborn and we need to celebrate.”
The God is reborn. I have no idea what that means. Jesus was born on Christmas, sure, but just the once, and that’s not Wiccan anyway. Whatever. Meg’s here, we’re not fighting, she didn’t have sex with Michael, and it feels great to smile.
“How about you help me undo the spell and then we open presents?”
She freezes midchew. “What? You can’t undo the spell.”
“Why not?”
She opens her mouth to say something, shuts it, then opens it again. “Because I don’t know
how.”
I smack my forehead with my palm.
“What?” Meg asks, chewing again. “I’m new at this. I mean, I can look it up in my books, but do you really want to undo it? The Goddess might have the best saved for last.”
I give Meg a wry look. “Gee, it’s worked out so well with Gus and Travis and Jamie, I just can’t wait to see what’s next.” Meg rolls her eyes at me but I ignore it. “Besides, I’m on a break. No more guys for a while. I need to fix my list before I date anyone again. At least.”
“Fix your list? What’s wrong with it?”
I take the plate of cookies away from her because she’s about to eat another, and I know she’ll regret it. “I’ve just been thinking that maybe I wasn’t in the best state of mind when I made it, so maybe I put a few things on there that shouldn’t be on there.”
“You mean since you were completely desperate and pathetic?”
I glare. “I mean since I was kind of shallow. Like, maybe instead of putting down Thick hair I should have put down something a little more substantial. That’s all I’m saying.”
Meg nods, leaning closer to me, eyes narrowed in concentration. “Okay, I like it. Go on.”
“Like Gus. He wasn’t faithful. I mean to me, but not to his stupid French boyfriend either. So maybe—”
“Maybe all these guys are the Goddess’s way of teaching you something!” Meg concludes, and she’s got the spirit if not the concept.
I run with it. “Yeah. Like now I know that I want someone faithful, and someone dependable, and someone who isn’t going to give up if I screw up once.”
Meg sticks out her bottom lip. “Maybe Jamie will get over it and ask you back out.”
“I hope so,” I say, and my chest tightens because it’s so true. I can proclaim I want a break all I want, but if Jamie wanted me back I wouldn’t hesitate. I’d go straight back to him, do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars. I look at Meg hopefully. “So you’ll help? Maybe if I rewrite the list—”
“Nope. It won’t change the spell. But it’s working anyway, don’t you think? Just not in the way you’d planned. Trust Her. Figure out your new list, take a break, then boom! She’s going to hit you with Mr. Right. The Perfect Ten. I can feel it. Can’t you feel it, Sam? The Lady of the Moon is working.”
I have to admit, Meg’s faith in this is kind of endearing. Not just her trust in a goddess she’s never seen, but her trust that things are going to work out for me. So I don’t roll my eyes like usual at her Goddess talk. Instead I reach out and tug a lock of her strawberry-blonde hair like I used to do when we were kids, when I wanted to get her attention or wanted to make her smile.
“Thanks, Meghan Grace.”
Maybe I’m so sentimental because we fought, or maybe it’s because it’s Christmas, but when I thank her, I’m thanking her for just about everything she’s ever done. It’s so sappy and nauseating, but I mean it.
I think she gets that, because she leans forward and gives me a kiss on the forehead. “I love you, Sam.”
“Love you too.”
She wrinkles her nose. “I hope that means you got me that spell book I wanted for Christmas.”
“Spell book? I thought you wanted The History and Dogma of the Catholic Church, volumes one through ten. Crap. I hope I still have the receipt . . .” She sticks her tongue out at me but she’s already up and skipping off toward the Christmas tree, where her present waits.
I follow slowly, and get into the living room just as she’s tearing off the wrapping paper from her spell book. She lets out a squeal of excitement before digging under the tree to find her present to me, which she hands to me with an order to open right this very minute because I’m going to die when I see what’s inside.
But what’s inside doesn’t really matter to me. I have her, and Landon, and even though my heart is broken, it’s going to be a pretty good Christmas.
Sixteen
The next month passes by like a glacier—every day just a slow-moving, cold, colorless, and uneventful blob, making it impossible to tell one day from the next. Well, almost uneventful. There are only a few things that make all of January even worth mentioning.
The first is that I give Jamie his Jubjub back.
I haven’t seen him that much. It’s as if he’s made it his mission in life to avoid me. Once, he came around a corner in the hallway, saw me, and fled in the opposite direction. Another time I went to the auditorium to work on my writing samples and he was painting the sets, and the expression on his face was bad enough that I felt like I’d broken his heart all over again, which broke mine all over again, so I left. I saw him out too, at the Donkey. I saw through the windows that he was with someone. Another guy. I don’t know if it was a date, but Jamie was smiling. I hated that someone else was making him smile. I hated knowing that if he saw me, the smile would go away. I didn’t want to face either of those things, so I didn’t go inside.
His friends hate me, obviously. Landon warned me that pretty much all of the art club would have liked to have a public stoning of me, so now I go out of my way to avoid their table at lunch. It’s an extra lap around the cafeteria, but at least I’m too far away to be reached by flying food.
I haul the Jubjub into school, but since I have no place to store it, I go to the art room first thing in the morning. Half of me hopes Jamie’s there so that I can see him and maybe say I’m sorry again. The other half hopes that he’s nowhere to be found and I won’t have to cower with my tail between my legs.
He’s there, though, adorable as always. He’s got on a sweater that seems a few sizes too big and a winter hat that looks hand-knitted and more for style than function. He’s taking a picture of one of his paintings with his phone, and after it snaps, he sees me standing in the doorway.
He looks as if he’d like to run. Or scream at me. Or maybe cry, I can’t tell.
Or maybe I’m giving myself far too much credit and he really just wants me to leave him alone.
I hold up the painting. “I’m just here to give this back.”
Jamie stares at the Jubjub as if it’s the first time he’s seen it, or perhaps as if he’s a little scared of it. Like it might fly off the canvas and nose-dive in his direction.
Since he doesn’t move and doesn’t say anything, I’m left with no option other than to put it on the work table that’s in between us.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, looking at it one last time. Jamie’s looking at me. “You should sell it. I’m sure it would go for a lot of money. Or maybe you should send it to the Institute. I’m a little biased, but I think it’s one of your best.”
He doesn’t say anything at all, and I’m rambling so I need to get out of here. Fast. Otherwise I’m going to break down right in front of him.
So I turn to leave, and it’s then that I look at the painting he’d taken a picture of. It’s new, so new that some of the paint still looks wet. The painting is nearly all gray, in different shades from light silver to dark smoke, and in its center is a dove, suspended in the clouds. The dove isn’t flying, though, not like the birds Jamie usually paints.
It’s falling.
Its right wing is twisted, pointed in an unnatural angle, broken. The bird is struggling, trying to right itself with its one good wing, all in vain as it plummets toward earth.
But the worst part isn’t that the poor creature’s wing is broken. It’s the look in its eye—raw, aching pain and hopelessness, as if it’s almost relieved that the ground is rising so fast to meet it.
I look at Jamie and he turns away like he just can’t look at me. Or won’t.
There’s so much I want to do. I want to pull him close and hold him tight. I want to tell him I’m an idiot and make promises about how I’ll never hurt him again, if only he gives me another chance. I want to kiss him once for every tear I’ve caused, and then a thousand times more to make
up for it.
But Jamie probably wouldn’t want any of those things. He just wants me to disappear. So instead, I say, “See you later,” like an idiot and make toward the door.
“Are you sure you don’t want it?”
I stop, hesitating because I’m not sure. I really want that painting. It’s beautiful and it means so much to me, just like Jamie himself. But just like Jamie, I don’t deserve it.
“You should have it,” I say in answer, and leave him there, standing next to his broken dove.
The other important event comes a week later. I look up from my calculus exercises to see Landon hovering in the classroom doorway.
Landon has truly been trying to salvage his grade point average so it’s alarming to see him skipping a class. I grab my books and head to the front of the room, where Mr. Byers is grading last night’s homework at his desk.
“Mr. Byers, may I go to the nurse? I feel really queasy.”
It’s kind of a lame lie, but the great thing about being a “good kid” is that when you need to lie, most adults are willing to believe you. Then I’m out the door and into Landon’s arms. Landon hugs me so hard that I know something bad is coming, something really bad.
“What, Landon? Are you okay? Are your parents all right?”
“It’s Meg,” he says as he pulls away. He wipes at his temples, which I can see are beaded with sweat. “Hurry. I don’t know what to do.”
I have to jog to keep up with him, and we run down the long corridors of the school until we’re almost in the music wing, to the bathrooms right between the cafeteria and the doors out to the student parking lot. Meg’s curled up on her side underneath the sinks, hugging herself tight, mascara and eyeliner dripping down her face in sad, curving paths. I kneel on the floor in front of her.
“Meg, what’s wrong?”
