“Spanish.”
We talked about Señora Friedman and her Shakira obsession for a few minutes, and then he said he had to go.
“I feel like I never see you anymore!” I said.
“Besides nearly every day at school?”
“No, but I mean see you, see you.”
He didn’t say anything.
“I thought you were one of my besties,” I said, and instantly loathed myself. I’ve never uttered the word “besties” in my life, and only used it with Grady because I was feeling so awkward and nervous that I was trying to transform into some other person on the spot.
“I am,” he said. “But, Chloe . . .” He stopped, looking upset.
And then one of his skater friends came along and said, “Vamos a clase” in a terrible accent. Grady hesitated but then headed off to Spanish class.
“But, Chloe” what??? Now I’ll never know.
Tuesday, September 20
Grady found me right before fourth period and said, “Can I talk to you for a second?”
“Sure.”
The girl at the locker next to Grady’s turned to look at us, like she was excited to hear what he’d say next.
“Um, hang on.” Grady put his hand on my lower back and guided me down the hall.
Grady is touching me. Grady is touching me. Grady is touching me, my brain announced. I don’t know why it seemed so different, when I spent the entire summer pushing him out of my way and feeling nothing but irritation whenever his sweaty naked torso got between me and the freezer, but it did.
We wandered around for a while without talking and finally ducked underneath the open staircase. Class was starting and the hallways were emptying out. We were going to be late, but I didn’t care.
“Uh, how are you?” he said.
“Oh, fine, fine,” I said. “And you?”
“I’m just dandy,” he said. We smiled at each other, and for a second it felt like we were in the concession stand again.
“Don’t freak out,” he said. “I’m not going to tell you I like you again.”
“OK.” I should have felt relieved, but I didn’t.
“I get that you’re not into me. And that’s fine. I mean, I have no idea why you’d turn down all of this.” He swept his hand around his body like a game show hostess showing off a prize. It was so nice of him, to go to all the effort of making a self-deprecating joke at such a tense moment.
He looked into my eyes. “But, Chloe, I don’t think I can be friends with you right now.”
“Oh.” The inside of my chest got icy. “Why not?”
“I don’t know. I wish we could go back to the way things were before, but I can’t.”
I’d never heard him sound this serious before. It made him seem older.
He said, “It just makes me feel like garbage, seeing you and, like, flirting at our lockers.” He looked into my eyes. “You understand, right?”
“I guess.”
“It’s like being starving and staring at a big pepperoni pizza you’re not allowed to eat. Not that I think you’re a pepperoni pizza. You know what I mean.”
I nodded.
“Obviously I still want to say hi to you in the halls. We don’t have to ignore each other or anything.”
I nodded.
“Are you all right?” he said, maybe because it was obvious I was trying not to cry.
I nodded.
“OK,” he said uncertainly. “Well . . . sorry if this was awkward.”
We stared at each other, and he hugged me quickly, and pulled back to look into my eyes again, and then walked away.
Wednesday, September 21
I called Tristan, and then I called Hannah, but I didn’t wind up telling either of them what Grady said. I’m not sure why. I couldn’t.
If he’s starving for pizza, that means he still likes me, right?
He is nice, and he is cute, and I do love hanging out with him. But he doesn’t make me feel sick with excitement, the way Mac does! I want to feel sick.
What is wrong with me?
I wish I could keep hanging around Grady’s locker and squeezing his face and flirting with him until I figure out how I feel about him. But of course I see how unfair that is. Mac did that to me, and it was awful.
Maybe I make Grady feel as sick as Mac made me!
I shouldn’t be happy about that.
WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?
Thursday, September 22
Saw Grady in the hall today and we nodded at each other with somber faces, like we were crossing paths at a funeral. I guess this is how things are going to be from now on.
Friday, September 23
Tris and Hannah and I went to the football game tonight. I don’t understand the rules, I don’t care about any of the players now that Mac’s in college, and I know the sport causes brain damage and mental illness, so why do I enjoy the games so much? I love everything about them: Showing up at school in the dark and heading toward the floodlights in a crowd of happy kids and parents. Sitting on the metal bleachers. Buying a snack. Watching the halftime show—all those earnest kids marching around in red-and-white uniforms, bravely risking getting teased to do something they enjoy (and why do people tease them?! They’re amazing!). Talking to people in my class I don’t know very well. Running back to Hannah and Tris when I need a break from talking to people I don’t know very well. Whispering to Hannah and Tris about Grady and Roy and Zach. Seeing who’s flirting and who’s not speaking to each other and who’s obviously having a fight even though they’re keeping their voices down and trying not to look upset (Luke Powers and Danielle de Vincenzo). I even liked seeing Grady with his friends, because it made my chest ache in a way that almost felt good. He had his skateboard with him and was trying to do some trick that involved spinning it between his feet. He kept falling down and laughing and trying it again. He didn’t look my way. Maybe he didn’t see me.
Saturday, September 24
Of course he saw me. He didn’t want to look at me, that’s all.
Sunday, September 25
Went to Hannah’s and we wound up stalking boys online, like we always do. She wanted to look at pictures of Judgmental Zach, which I discouraged, but you can’t keep a girl with a smartphone away from photos of the guy she loves but shouldn’t. Unfortunately, there was a new album showing Zach’s band playing at a club. In one of the pictures he was singing with his eyes closed, standing under a blue light, with his face twisted up like he was in pain. He looked beautiful. “That’s a nice one,” Hannah said bravely.
Monday, September 26
Mac called me today at 9:13 p.m. I almost had a heart attack when his name came up on my phone.
“Chloe SNOW!” he shouted when I picked up. He sounded kind of drunk.
“Hi!” I said.
“Man, it’s good to hear your voice. I miss you, kid.”
“I miss you so much. How are you?”
“Dying.”
He told me how hard practice is, and how crazy it is that they expect him to do problem sets when he’s been up since dawn and his whole body hurts, and how unfair it is that he’s not getting playing time just because he got in a fight with the O line coach during a summer workout.
After half an hour he said, “Hang on,” and then bellowed, “DUDE! GET OFF MY ASS!” Then to me: “Sorry, Chlo. Some whiny little loser wants to leave for a party. GO WITHOUT ME, DICKFACE!”
I heard manly shouting in the background. Mac laughed and said, in the direction of the shouting, “SHE’S UNDERAGE. CALM DOWN.”
Was this friend of Mac’s talking about me? Was he asking what I look like?
It’s embarrassing to be underage, but it’s a good thing, too, in a porny way, right?
My heart was racing.
“I gotta go, babe. Be good, OK?”
After we hung up, my bedroom looked different to me. Mac and his friend were still echoing around it, making it strange.
Tuesday, September 27
I broke down and asked Dad to order me a PSAT prep book. He did a pretend double take, which I knew he would do. If parents weren’t 100% predictable, they wouldn’t be so annoying.
“Dost mine ears deceive me?” Dad said. “Did you say you want to prepare for a test?”
I moaned. “Dad, please.”
“Have you been replaced by a pod person?”
“I don’t understand your old-timey references.”
“What’s with the sudden interest in studying?”
I shrugged. “Tris and Hannah are a good influence.”
“Thank God for that.” He looked thoughtful. “Aren’t they jumping the gun, though? I don’t think I took the PSAT until I was a junior.”
“Life is harder now.”
He got out his phone and started scrolling. “This one looks good,” he said. “Cookie9874 gives it five stars. ‘Super detailed and has the new math info.’ ”
He tried to show me his screen. I saw an appalling brown-and-pale-blue cover and shut my eyes.
“Pick it for me,” I said. “I can’t look.”
“This should be a great use of eight bucks,” he said. “You know you’re going to have to look at the book to use it, right?”
“I’ll see it when it gets here,” I said.
He spent at least half an hour reading reviews of different prep books while I ate string cheese. He is a good egg.
Wednesday, September 28
Dad sprang for one-day shipping, so I got to start the book tonight. This doesn’t seem so hard! Finding an implicit meaning in a text? I do it every other day in English. Using a counterclaim to support a claim? My father’s a lawyer. I’ve been listening to him lecture me about straw men since birth. Completing sentences? of cake.
Thursday, September 29
Well, I’ve reached the math section. “You will be expected to solve a linear equation in one variable when there are an infinite number of solutions.” Sure, no problem. Just an infinite number of solutions!!!!!
Friday, September 30
Tris was waiting for me by my locker after second period. He handed me his phone and said, “Look at this!”
It was a picture of Roy with someone I don’t know, presumably an NYU kid. They were standing and smiling under the arch in Washington Square Park.
“Hey, that’s where Sally drops Harry off in the movie!” I said.
“Look at this hot guy,” Tris said, stabbing his finger at his phone. “His shoulder is pressed against Roy’s shoulder! Don’t you think that’s suspicious?”
I studied the photo carefully.
“You have nothing to worry about,” I said.
“Really?” Tris looked hopeful.
“They’re barely touching. And they’re so relaxed! They don’t look like people with secret crushes on each other. Plus, Roy’s not an idiot. Why would he post a picture of a guy he’s into when he knows you’ll see it?”
“That’s true.”
We looked at his phone together.
“I’m going to like the picture,” Tris said. “To show how totally fine I am with it.”
“Good idea.”
He tapped the empty heart, and it turned red. I put my arm around his waist and gave him a little squeeze. It must be hard, being in a long-distance relationship.
Saturday, October 1
What the double F?
Dear Chloe,
I’ve finished rereading my novel, and I have thrilling news: what I thought was the first draft is actually very, very close to completion. A few touch-ups are needed in spots, but no major surgery is required. I hope to start querying agents within two weeks.
After these long months of silence from you, I would fear for your safety were I not in contact with your father, who tells me you’re thriving. As you probably know, he’s insisting that we work with this ridiculous mediator. What there is to mediate, I have no idea. I’m insulted that he thinks I’d be unreasonable about any of this. But basta ya; I vowed to myself that I would never speak ill of him to you.
I won’t ask you to write, since my pleas fall on deaf ears, so I’ll only sign off, with fondest love,
Your mother
Sunday, October 2
I tried not to take her bait. I tried to be unflappable and silent, like a sphinx. Then this morning, the smell of bacon woke me up, and before I knew it, I’d run downstairs in my pajamas and was yelling “WHAT’S A MEDIATOR???” at Dad.
He sighed. “Did Mom email you?”
“You can’t not tell me this stuff! I have to know what’s going on!”
He looked angry. “No, you don’t have to know what’s going on, and it’s completely inappropriate to talk to you about the details of the divorce.”
Mom hadn’t used the D word.
“But you know I’m going to hear the details from Mom, so what’s the point of keeping things from me?”
“Your mother and I agreed—or I thought we agreed—that we’re not going to burden you with more information than you need.”
“I’m not a child! Don’t you know I think about the—about you and Mom constantly? It’s making me sick!”
I ran up to my room crying, which I haven’t done in a while.
Dad knocked on the door after about 20 minutes. My pillowcase was soaking wet.
He sat on the foot of my bed. “A mediator’s a neutral third party who can help two people figure out the terms of their divorce.”
I sat up and wiped my nose on my sleeve. “OK. Is Mom going to come back, then, for the meetings?”
“No. We considered that, but it wasn’t feasible.” He picked at a hangnail. “But I found someone willing to work with us over Skype.”
“Oh. Weird.”
He laugh-grunted. “Yeah, it is weird. Blow your nose.” He yanked a tissue out of the box on my nightstand and handed it to me.
“How long will it take?”
“If everything goes smoothly, six months.”
I started crying into the tissue.
“What’s wrong, honey?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you upset about the divorce?”
I nodded without looking up. The tissue was full of tears and snot.
He put his hand on my right foot. “Are you wishing we’d stay together?”
Mom skipping dinner to work on her novel. Mom hissing at Dad, throwing a spoon at him, pulling out a clump of her own hair in her fury. Mom never once asking me how that test went, or making a fuss when I got another A in English. Mom leaving me.
“No. I guess not.”
He kept trying to get me to talk, and I wanted to, but my feelings were like a shapeless gray blob. I didn’t know how to describe them. Finally Dad patted my foot and went downstairs. Now it’s the middle of the night and I can’t sleep. I keep picturing Dad driving on a four-lane road. He’s listening to ’90s rock and singing along, and then the guy driving the car next to him hears a notification, looks down at his phone, and veers into Dad, who gets bumped into oncoming traffic and hit head-on by a semi. I can see the blood and the bones. This isn’t a vision of the future, is it? It’s just my diseased brain torturing me?
Monday, October 3
I invited Noelle over, and we went through every guy in our class and discussed who’s good-looking and who’s repulsive. It was fun to hear some new opinions; I could recite Hannah’s and Tristan’s takes on everyone in my sleep. I almost told Noelle about the situation with Grady, but something made me hold back. Even though she’s my friend now, I don’t completely trust her. What if she made fun of me, or said she thinks Grady’s lame, or did something else I could never get out of my head?
I asked her about the dance, and she said she’s not going. “Reese and I were planning to dress up as the twin emoji—you know, the girls wearing black leotards and bunny ears? It was her idea. I’m terrible at thinking of costumes.”
I said, “I’m sure you can come up with something,” but she looked miserable, so I dropped it.
>
Tuesday, October 4
“We’re starting Emily Dickinson today,” Miss Murphy said, when we were all seated and quiet. “Get psyched! She’s the mother of American poetry.”
One nice thing about honors English is that you don’t have to pretend to be bored. You’re excited to learn about the mother of American poetry? Great! So is everyone else in the room. Go ahead and write “EMILY D!” in your notebook with huge stars all around it. No one will tease you.
Miss Murphy walked slowly back and forth in front of us. “This is a woman who never married. Rarely left Amherst. Rarely left her house, even. Became a recluse in the 1860s. And yet she traveled wherever she wanted to through books. Because of her reading, and because of her great mind, she was sophisticated, wry, worldly.”
She told us more: Emily Dickinson loved Valentine’s Day. Her father was a lawyer (like Dad!) and a congressman. Dickinson had a sister, Lavinia, and a brother, Austin. She had intense crushes on people who hardly knew she existed. (I can relate.) Her editor described her as “a little plain woman with two smooth bands of red hair and a face . . . with no good feature.” (Her editor sounds like a real turd. Also, I looked her up on Google Images after class, and I think she was pretty! A little eyeliner would have helped, but who among us doesn’t need a little eyeliner?)
Then we read a poem that starts, “Wild Nights—Wild Nights! / Were I with thee / Wild Nights should be our luxury!”
I jumped when the bell rang—Miss Murphy had just asked us to interpret “Might I but moor—Tonight / In Thee!” and I was wondering if anyone would have the courage to point out the obvious, which is that it definitely means “I wish I could bone you,” and I was so engrossed, I had no idea class was almost over.
Wednesday, October 5
I spent hours reading Emily Dickinson and copying out her poems by hand. She uses tons of exclamation marks, which goes to show that grown-ups who make fun of teenagers’ punctuation have no idea what they’re talking about.
The Year of Living Awkwardly Page 5
