Starting From Here

by Lisa Jenn Bigelow

  Mo crept forward and licked my hand in apology.

  I could only blame myself for not stashing the garbage can in the bathroom. I’d learned to shut the bathroom door after finding the furniture mummified with shredded toilet paper. I’d learned to shut the bedroom doors after finding my old soccer cleats on the couch, covered with teeth marks. It was tempting to let Mo have them, but I didn’t trust him to know the difference between shoes that had outlived their purpose and those I actually cared about. Meanwhile, he kept scraping his stump along the floor to scratch it. I’d had to retape his gauze a million times.

  Winter break was half over, and Rachel hadn’t called yet. When my phone woke me late on the morning of New Year’s Eve, I dived for it. I couldn’t think of a better way for us to start over than with a kiss at midnight.

  But it was Van. “Quick,” he said, “Danielle has this idea I’m babysitting tonight, but I told her I already have plans.”

  “Good for you!”

  “Yeah, except I don’t. Can we make some, fast? There’s that all-ages party the Gay and Lesbian Resource Center has—the one we went to last year. That was fun.”

  “No way. Only losers without a real party go to that party,” I said, even though Van was right; last year it had been really fun. Last year when I’d been so eager to meet girls, to dance and flirt and maybe have something come of it. Nothing had happened that night, but I’d felt absolutely free to be myself, unjudged and unafraid in a way I never felt at school.

  Van said nothing.

  “Please don’t make me go,” I said. “New Year’s Eve is all about couples.”

  Van said nothing.

  “I’m over Rachel, okay? I’m just not ready for someone else.”

  “Well, maybe I’m ready,” Van said.

  Immediately, I felt ashamed. Last year at midnight Van and I had stood at the side of the dance floor and hugged before clinking glasses of sparkling white grape juice with everyone else. After a whole year of being single, of course he was hoping for more. I took a deep breath and dug my fingers into Mo’s ruff. He squirmed onto his back so I could massage his belly. “I’m sorry,” I said. “You’re right. Let’s go.”

  That night I left Mo with his new batch of chew toys and revved up Scarlett. It was bitterly cold, and her engine choked a few times before roaring to life. I’d put on my nicest jeans and my dressiest shirt: a pink, sparkly pullover. I even put on lip gloss and stuck the tube in my coat pocket for later. There was no point in looking like a slob, even if I was only going for Van’s sake.

  At the McIneanys’, Van hopped in, his breath clouding around his head. He bounced up and down in his seat. The springs squeaked.

  “Excited much?” I asked, pulling onto Harrington Road.

  Van looked away. “Just cold.”

  Something sweet tingled in my nostrils. “Is that cologne I smell?”

  Van sank so low the shoulders of his down vest came up to his ears.

  We headed downtown, where I managed, after about fifty tries, to parallel park Scarlett a couple of blocks from the party. The GLRC had rented out a nearby church for the event. We ran all the way there, our sneakers skidding on the slick sidewalks. We were greeted by a blast of warm air and remixed eighties music pumping through the sound system. Most of the crowd were middle-aged, button-down adults who probably volunteered at the center, but there were a fair number of teenagers who, like us, didn’t have somewhere else to be. There were a couple of other kids from the Alliance, but no one I usually hung out with. Rachel, of course, was nowhere in sight.

  Van started flailing to the music. I shimmied beside him, hands in the air. And everything was fine until a guy with a jagged, black mohawk whisked Van away.

  Suddenly, I was aware of a girl standing solo across the room trying to catch my eye. When I looked away, there was a different girl alone in a different corner. I didn’t want to dance with them, bump shoulders with them, feel them soft and vulnerable through their shirts, hoping the negative space in our hearts would somehow add up to a positive. What I wanted was for Rachel to walk in and tell me Michael was history.

  I retreated to the snack table, ladled myself a cup of sticky-sweet punch, and shoved a handful of sugar cookies into my mouth. A slow song came on, and Van spun by with Mohawk Boy, cheek pressed against the taller boy’s shoulder. He winked at me, and I gave him a halfhearted thumbs-up. I hoped their romance lasted until midnight, at least. One of us deserved a kiss.

  I didn’t realize the butch girl in the leather jacket had her eyes on me, and not the tray of cookies beside me, until she asked if I wanted to dance. Her face was friendly, but I hesitated. “You don’t have to think so hard,” she said. “It ain’t like I asked you to prom.”

  “I can’t,” I managed. “I’m sorry. It’s not you, believe me. I just—I can’t.”

  The girl’s lips pinched together, and she walked away. A couple of minutes later I saw her dancing with some other girl. I edged away from the snacks, hoping I could melt into the shadows and stay there until the countdown and kisses were over.

  No such luck. Fifteen minutes later, after turning down the third girl who’d asked me to dance, I dodged my way across the room and tapped Van on the shoulder. “Can I cut in?”

  Mohawk Boy sneered at me, but Van squeezed his arm. “Back in a sec.” He put his hands on my waist and started bouncing again.

  “I’ve got to go,” I hollered above the pulsing beat.

  “What? You’re kidding! We practically just got here!”

  “I was hoping you could get a ride back with someone else.” I nodded at Mohawk Boy.

  “Ohhh.” A smile appeared on Van’s face. “I think that can be arranged!” Then he frowned. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine! It’s just—” I couldn’t tell him the truth, not without another lecture on the vast number of fish in the sea. “I’m worried about Mo.”

  Van was too giddy to argue. “Okay! Drive safe! Happy New Year!” He whirled off.

  I wanted to go straight to bed. But when I pulled into Trail’s End, it was seething with kids and dads setting off firecrackers. Not the small, fizzling kind, either. You could tell from the bangs and showers of sparks that they’d been bought from warehouses across the Indiana border. The Van Der Beeks hooted at me, their faces devilish in the glare. I wouldn’t be sleeping any time soon.

  When I pushed open the front door, Mo didn’t scamper to greet me. I’d left a light on for him, so I quickly saw the big, yellow puddle on the kitchen linoleum. Mo’s first accident. “Mo!” I called over the crackle and boom of the firecrackers outside. No answer.

  “Mo?” I crept across the living room. Maybe some psycho had broken in and killed Mo and was now hiding in the bathroom or my bedroom closet waiting to cut my throat. A cold sweat broke out on my forehead.

  I barely breathed as I pushed open my bedroom door. Nothing there. Nothing in my dad’s room or the bathroom. Of course—I’d left all the doors shut, so unless Mo had sprouted opposable thumbs while I was out—

  I called again, voice breaking, “Mo! Where are you?”

  A rustle came from the direction of the couch, and the curtains behind it stirred. At last Mo toddled from behind the couch, his tail tucked tightly under him, his lamp shade collar knocked askew.

  “You poor thing! The noise must’ve terrified you.” I threw my arms around him and squeezed him to me before taking off my coat and cleaning up the mess. He watched warily from a distance. “I’m not going to hit you, for God’s sake. Just don’t make a habit of it, okay?” He made a noise: part sigh, part whimper. I took it as “Okay.”

  There was no point walking Mo now. He flinched every time a firecracker went off, and his bladder was already empty. I removed his lamp shade, sat on the couch, and tuned the TV to Times Square, my phone nearby in case Dad or Van decided to call. Mo meekly climbed up beside me and settled down with his head in my lap. I pulled a blanket off the back of
the couch and draped it over us.

  “Happy New Year,” I said, stroking Mo’s floppy black ears.

  Mo’s only answer was a low, doggy snore.

  THE NEXT MORNING I went to work raccoon-eyed. Eight hours of bagging frozen pizzas and canned tuna, not to mention mopping up unspeakable messes in the public restrooms, did nothing to improve my mood. When I got home, I barely had the energy to take Mo out for a pit stop. I was grateful the Van Der Beeks were too busy playing Blow Up the Kitchen, Tie Up the Baby, or whatever it was they did when they weren’t playing Ninjas, to jump us.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have answered the phone when I saw it was Rachel, but I couldn’t stop myself. I slowly pressed my thumb to the remote, silencing the TV. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” she said. “I just called to say hi. And Happy New Year.”

  “Hi and Happy New Year yourself.” I plopped back against the couch cushions, and Mo flopped against me.

  “How’s your break going? Did you do anything fun last night?”

  I longed to tell Rachel I’d spent the whole night in the arms of some amazing, gorgeous girl. But what if she was happy for me, relieved she hadn’t permanently broken my heart?

  I decided on half the truth. “Not much. Watched the ball drop in Times Square. You?”

  “I went to this party at the JCC with Michael. And his parents and my parents.”

  “JCC?”

  “Jewish Community Center.”

  “Oh.”

  “It was pretty dorky. Lots of dumb games and hokey music.” Rachel laughed a little. “You weren’t alone, were you? You were with Van?”

  “Actually, I hung out with Mo.” I smiled, imagining her confusion. Who’s Mo? Is Mo short for Maureen? I added casually, “Mo’s my dog.”

  “Oh, um, I saw what you wrote in the Lounge, but I thought you were kidding. I thought your dad—”

  “He changed his mind.”

  “How did—Where did—”

  “It’s kind of a long story.”

  “I’ve got time.”

  “Do you really? Because I’d hate to interfere with your college applications or your plans with Michael.”

  Rachel sighed. I pictured her shuffling her feet, fidgeting with the phone. “I called to ask if you wanted to hang out before school starts. There’s only a few days left.”

  My heart leapt. “What do you want to do?”

  “I don’t know. Watch a movie? Play cards? And you could tell me all about Mo.”

  My organs sank back to their usual places. Well, what had I expected her to say? Drive to the lake, lie under the stars, and kiss until our lips bruise? Cards, a movie—they were nothing, like I was a sniveling kid at the checkout counter whose mom buys a bag of Skittles just to make it shut up.

  I remembered a time at the park last fall. Van had been off skateboarding or something; it was just the two of us. Rachel and I had dribbled my soccer ball down to the creek bank and then pulled off our shoes and socks, rolled up our pant legs to our knees, and gone wading, her hand in mine. The water had been so cold I had to bite my tongue to keep from yelling, and the pebbles at the bottom hadn’t felt nearly as smooth as they’d looked.

  Rachel had gotten this thoughtful expression on her face and said, “Wow. This water is really, really cold. And these rocks are really, really sharp.” Then she grinned at me. “But it’s totally worth it, isn’t it?”

  It had been: standing shin deep in icy creek water, freezing my ass off while the girl I loved smiled at me, only me.

  What changed for her? Why hadn’t I been worth it?

  On the phone, Rachel was still waiting. But what could I possibly say that would make things right between us? I stroked Mo’s neck.

  “Should I even bother?” she said.

  “Bother what?”

  “Anything. Talking to you. Trying to be friends.”

  So I could still get through to her—make her feel something, even if it was only anger. “Maybe you shouldn’t bother,” I said. “Maybe I’m not worth it.”

  “You know that isn’t what I meant. But look, Colby, you don’t make this easy.”

  “Is that my job? You’re the one who broke up with me, Rachel.”

  “I know! Trust me, I feel plenty guilty already.”

  “Then why’d you do it?” I hated the whiny note in my voice.

  “I tried to explain,” Rachel said. “That last night, I tried.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Rachel sighed again, a huff of static. “Things with Michael aren’t easier just because he’s a guy. It’s who he is. He likes school. He’s got all these plans for college and his career. I never have to worry about him.”

  “You didn’t have to worry about me.”

  “Yes, I did!” Her ferocity startled me. “You think I didn’t care about you, but you’re wrong. How do you think it made me feel, knowing you didn’t give a shit about anything?”

  “I gave a shit about you! I gave a whole lot more than a shit.”

  “I know that, but what else? Everything is fine with you, everything is fun, it doesn’t matter if you’re flunking out, it doesn’t matter if you bag groceries for the rest of your life. I can’t stand that you talk like these things don’t matter. They do matter. They matter a lot.”

  “Well, sorry I’m not perfect, but things haven’t exactly been easy since—”

  “Since your mom died. I know. But, Colby, it’s been almost two years.”

  If Rachel had been in the room with me, I don’t know what I would have done. Slapped her? Run away? Blood rushed to my head, and my hands felt icy. “If your mother were dead,” I said, “you’d know it’s not that simple. But she’s not, so shut up, okay?”

  “Okay, but tell me this,” Rachel said. “What do you think your mom would say if she knew you were failing out? Do you think she’d be proud?”

  “Don’t you dare put words in her mouth,” I said. “You never even knew her!”

  “You’re right,” she said quietly. “And I never will, because you know what? You never talk about her. Just like you never talk about anything serious. ‘Pretend it doesn’t exist,’ isn’t that what you say?”

  I fumed silently.

  “Look, Colby, isn’t it enough that I just don’t think we’re right for each other? It’s not like we would’ve stayed together forever. Next year I’ll be going away to college, and you’ll—”

  She didn’t need to finish, and I didn’t let her. I threw the phone on the floor.

  The phone rang again after Mo and I had gone to bed. I hoped it was Dad. I knew he’d be home the next day, but maybe he was calling to wish me a Happy New Year.

  I should have known it would be Van. “Ask me if I’m a boat.”

  “Uh, okay, freak. Are you a boat?” I said.

  “Yes. Ask me if I’m a truck.”

  “Are you a truck?”

  “No, silly monkey, I just told you I was a boat!”

  “I’m hanging up.”

  “Well. Crappy New Year to you, too.”

  “I had another fight with Rachel.”

  “Oh. Wow. Want to talk about it?”

  “Honestly? No. How did things go for you last night? You know, nudge-nudge, wink-wink.”

  “Oh, that. It went fine till we got to his place, and he got out a bowl and a dime bag.”

  “What’d you tell him?”

  “That I wasn’t going to dull my senses with drugs or alcohol, and I hoped he felt the same way.”

  “And?”

  “He laughed at me and asked where I’ve been, straight edge is so last week. Like it’s something I do to be cool!”

  It didn’t seem like the right time to remind Van that it wasn’t particularly straight edge to hop into bed with a boy you’d just met at a party. “Screw him,” I said. “He’s a loser.”

  “He was so hot, though. Did you see his eyelashes? They were amazing! Like beaut
iful black spiders.”

  “What’d you do next?”

  “Called a cab. As if I wasn’t broke already.” There was a long pause as each of us reflected on the utter lousiness of the past twenty-four hours. Finally, Van said, “I’ve made a resolution.”

  “Oh, yeah? You haven’t resolved for me to make honor roll again, have you?”

  “I’m afraid I’ve given up on that. No, this one’s better.”

  “You’re going to demand fair payment for babysitting Teddy?”

  “You’ve got to think bigger. Listen closely, Col, because this is the year our lives are truly going to change for the better.”

  “You’ve found a way to rig the lottery. You’ve invented a time machine. We’re moving to Tahiti and selling our bodies to rich American tourists.”

  “Don’t be ridonkulous. And why does your mind always go right to money?”

  Because if I were rich, Dad could quit his job and come home.

  Van plunged on. “This is the year that you, Colby Bingham, and I, Donovan McIneany, find true love. No more girls waiting for boyfriends. No more unbelievably sexy punks who think straight edge is nothing more than the flavor of the week. We’re going to set our sights on people who deserve us as much as we deserve them. Then aim, lock, fire Cupid’s missile of love!”

  “And you call me ridonkulous,” I said.

  I STUMBLED OUT of my room the next morning to find Dad frying up sausage links and omelets. “Happy Happy, Bee!” he called from the stove. “Happy Happy” is, for some reason, what truck drivers say instead of “Happy New Year.” They also say “Merry Merry” instead of “Merry Christmas,” so go figure.

  “Happy Happy to you, too,” I said, hugging him.

  Dad ruffled my hair. He smelled like strawberries and mint. He must have been so tired from driving half the night that he grabbed my new, fruity body wash instead of his own. “How are you?” he asked, releasing me.

  “Not terrible.” I dumped a couple of scoops of chow into Mo’s bowl. Mo took his eyes off the sausages long enough to snarf that up, then went back to drooling at the stove. I set the table and poured our orange juice. Behind me, I heard a sausage link being gulped in midair by a dog with a bottomless stomach. I smiled and shook my head.