You Look Different in Real Life

by Jennifer Castle

  I don’t know if he means here with us or here about to visit the mother you haven’t seen in five years, but it makes her smile. Then she walks quickly, almost businesslike, up to the door and rings the bell.

  “Nate?” says Mrs. Jones’s voice on the intercom.

  “It’s us,” Nate says loudly as he runs up to the door, and yes, it’s a bit strange that she didn’t say “Keira,” but we’re ignoring that.

  “Second floor,” she says, and buzzes us in. Once inside, I can tell Nate wants to lead the way, like he has been all day, but I’m glad he lets Keira go first.

  Mrs. Jones is waiting on the second-floor landing. I can see her but Keira hasn’t noticed yet because she’s climbing the stairs looking at her feet. This is a risk I have to take. I hang back, press record, and frame the scene. I have to zoom in a bit and the light in the stairwell sucks, but it will work. I’ll show the footage to Keira later and if she asks me to destroy it, I will.

  Keira looks up. Sees her mother standing there. Stops cold.

  There’s a bit of traffic backup as Nate must now stop abruptly, then Felix, then Rory.

  “Hi, sweetheart,” says Mrs. Jones, her voice unsteady.

  Keira climbs the last few steps and nobody’s sure what’s going to happen next. She freezes again when she reaches the top, and looks like she might actually be shaking.

  Then she throws herself into her mother’s arms. There’s a noise now, echoing through the stairwell. It’s the sound of Keira crying. And now Mrs. Jones is crying, and their crying together is the strangest, sweetest duet I’ve ever heard.

  According to the digital clock on the kitchen stove, it’s officially Sunday now.

  The sofa bed in Mrs. Jones’s living room is lumpy and I can feel a coil on my hip as I lie on my side, but holy shit it’s good to be still.

  Felix and Nate are already asleep on the floor on blankets a few feet apart. I’ve never seen anyone crash that quickly. It was literally head plus pillow equals out cold. Don’t guys ever lie awake worrying about recently lived-through, world-changing experiences?

  Rory’s in the bathroom and I think maybe I’m waiting for her to come out. Ratso the rabbit is sleeping in a cardboard box in the corner and still looks absolutely bewildered.

  “You must all stay,” Mrs. Jones said earlier. “I can’t let you drive all the way to Mountain Ridge this late.” None of us protested. As strange as it is to be crashing at this woman’s apartment, it seemed a far better choice than going home and facing our parents in the middle of the night. It was hard enough to text them with the news that we wouldn’t be back until morning.

  Keira’s in the bedroom with her mother. I haven’t heard a word from either of them since they went in there. I imagine them just lying in bed, holding each other. Maybe talking is too big, or too small, for where they are right now. I’m not sure how or if or why I would forgive my mother for walking out on me. I know it’s more complicated than that. The force that brought Keira here is something I will hopefully never have to understand.

  The bathroom door opens, throwing a beam of light across the floor and right onto Nate’s sleeping face, which I will admit looks overwhelmingly touchable. Then Rory shuts off the light and the beam vanishes. I see her silhouette moving across the room, then sinking into the sofa bed next to me. The coil on my hip moves and that hurts, but I take it.

  I listen to Rory’s breathing for a minute, and suddenly I’m not in an unfamiliar apartment in the middle of Manhattan but Rory’s bedroom, and we are eight or nine or ten. We have just completed a one-thousand-piece puzzle and eaten popcorn with M&M’s and worked on our comic book and looked at all the pictures in her latest biography of Queen Elizabeth I. Rory’s called the shots on all of this, which is annoying as usual, but I focus on the fun parts as usual. She’s wearing one of those floor-length flannel nightgowns with lace across the chest, and I’m in my black pajamas with white skulls on them that I found in the boys’ department at Target.

  Rory shifts. Something about this movement lets me know she’s not asleep yet, or anywhere near it.

  “What was his name?” I whisper toward her.

  In the darkness, just breathing. Then: “Brennan.”

  “Nice.”

  “Or maybe Brendan.”

  “Also nice.”

  “It could have been Brandon. I’m really not sure.”

  “He was cute,” I say.

  “I know,” says Rory. She’s quiet for a few moments, then adds, “Was I supposed to do something else? Like, get his number or something?”

  “If you really want to stay in touch with him, I’m sure Dylan can connect you.”

  Suddenly it strikes me that Brennan/Brendan/Brandon might have been familiar with the documentaries and known who we were, and who Rory was, and his motivations might not have been entirely innocent. But I’m not going to mention that. That’s not about Rory.

  “Justine, you really helped me today.”

  Her voice is all business and I know from experience that she’s just processing the facts. But I want her to get these facts straight.

  “You helped yourself, really.”

  She’s silent for a few moments. Someone on the floor is starting to snore. I can’t help but giggle, and now Rory giggles too. I hope it’s because she legitimately thinks it’s funny.

  This is my chance. I’m getting a total break here, with it being dark. I don’t even have to see her face.

  “Rory, there’s something I’ve been wanting to say to you for a long time.”

  A pause, then she asks, “Is it bad?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Okay. You can say it.”

  “I’ve just . . . I’ve wanted to tell you that I’m sorry. For abandoning you as a friend.” I pause, but she doesn’t answer. I take that as a sign to continue. “I was . . . an idiot. I’m not anymore. At least not in the same way. And I think I’ve missed you every day since then.”

  It’s quiet for a moment. I stare at the shadow of the light fixture above us, a round paper lantern that in the darkness reminds me of the earth, floating in space. Just being.

  Then Rory says, “Good night, Justine,” and rolls over, away from me.

  Alrighty then. I know her response could mean anything. But it must be enough, for now, because a wave of something washes over me, and I’m not sure if it’s relief or plain old exhaustion, but within moments I’m no longer awake.

  The rumble of some behemoth vehicle on the street takes me out of a dream so messed up I forget it instantly. Where am I? Slowly, reality comes into focus. The clock glows a very red 4:32 a.m.

  I roll off the sofa bed, gripping the cool metal frame with my hand for leverage, find my way to the bathroom, and turn on the light. It feels like a sudden refuge from the darkness, from the unfamiliar apartment, from the snoring—not sure if it’s Felix or Nate, will have to check for the record—and from The Weirdness.

  But it’s also kind of exhilarating, this fresh, unpredictable, vaguely dangerous state. I think I might love it. I got nowhere near enough sleep but it’s a done deal: I’m up.

  When I’m finished in the bathroom, I open the door and leave the light on for a few extra seconds so I can figure out who the snorer is. Then I flick it off and find my way to a corduroy armchair in the living room, where I remember leaving Leslie’s camera bag. I pick it up, sit down, and put the bag on my lap. For a few moments, I stare out the window at a light from the building across the alley. Someone’s left their living room lamp on and I can see the top of a sofa, some framed art, a tall armoire. Another person’s whole world, right there. Close but untouchable.

  I open the bag and remove the camera, then fish out the headphones and poke around a bit until I successfully get the right jack to plug them into. I turn on the camera display and navigate to the playback menu, where I can watch every clip I’ve shot since yesterday.

  There’s the road leading out of Aikya Lodge, the trees and sheets of rock, t
he side of the mountain where it drops away to show us the entire valley below, the patchwork of farms and river and the cluster of buildings in the center of Mountain Ridge that means the college.

  I see Olivia driving, and Nate and Felix and Rory in the backseat. Where we started.

  The chain of video clips takes me through town and onto the thruway, toward the city, in and out of our day. The street and the dorm and the party.

  Keira and her mother hugging. The way their sobs blended, each wrapped inside the other. Then the image jumps to black, and even though I know I didn’t shoot more after that moment, I keep waiting for the tiny screen to show me something else.

  The Cramp, which I haven’t felt since we left home, hits me hard as if to make up for lost time. It raises the hair on my arms and the back of my neck. Something else starts to happen too, but I won’t let it. I mentally stomp on it and grind it into the ground with the toe of my shoe.

  I’m not going to cry.

  But I do have to get the hell out of here.

  It’s light now and the clock says 6:07 a.m., and there must be someplace open for food. I fumble for my shoes and sweatshirt, then scribble a note (“Went for bagels”). I leave that on the bathroom mirror where the first person with a full bladder will see it, and take the liberty of grabbing Mrs. Jones’s keys from the handmade pottery bowl by the front door.

  I’ve headed toward First Avenue simply because we were there before, and it’s practically an old stomping ground compared with the rest of the city. The air’s still night-fresh but the light’s already getting strong, and there’s a feeling, something you can’t put your finger on, that the day is going to be beautiful.

  As soon as I turn the corner and point my feet downtown again, I remember a playground we passed yesterday. It was packed with parents and kids, vibrating with noise and energy. Now, though, it’s deserted.

  Once inside the gates, I notice that in between the swings and this massive maze of a climbing structure sit two small elephant statues. I get a closer look and realize they must be fountains, because their trunks look quasi-functional. I can imagine children in bathing suits on a summer day, running across the pavement as they get sprayed with water, squealing like they hate it but in fact are really loving it. I sit on one, then feel stupid, so I get up and go over to the end of a spiral slide, which really is not any less stupid but at least now I’m not squatting on a concrete animal.

  This is where I let it happen. The switch gets flipped, the cord gets cut, and I face-plant into my own hands. They’re instantly wet and the tears are seeping through the cracks between my fingers. My eyes burn so much; why do they burn so much? Maybe they’re simply not used to this.

  I’m totally losing it in front of people walking down the street and the city sanitation crew that’s arrived to empty the park garbage cans. Nobody even looks up, though. Like a girl crying on a playground by herself in the early morning is just another part of the city’s landscape.

  “Please don’t,” says a voice. I part my hands and see a familiar pair of sneakers on the pavement in front of me.

  “Why not?” I ask.

  “Because I was just getting used to seeing you smile,” says Nate. He leans against the play structure above me, sleepy-looking and adorably bed-headed.

  “Ah,” I say, brushing the back of my hand across my eyes and nose. “That never lasts long. You’ve completed Lesson One about me.” Now I force myself to look at him. “How did you know where I was?”

  “I woke up just as you were leaving, so I followed you.”

  “That’s creepy.”

  “That’s concern. Anything can happen to you alone in the city, even during daylight.”

  Nate was worried about me. This might start the crying again.

  “Lesson Two,” I say, digging back into my arsenal of smart-ass self-defense. “Nothing ever happens to me.”

  Nate motions for me to scoot over on the end of the slide, and I do, and because it opens wide at the end, there’s just enough room for both of us.

  After he settles in, his elbow digging into my side and me not leaning away, letting myself absorb the raw pressure of it, he says, “You can’t make a statement like that and not elaborate.”

  I sniffle back the last remnants of the tears. “I woke up early and started watching all the footage I shot since we left the lodge. And I have to say . . . it’s pretty amazing. In those clips I can really see everyone. Keira and her mom. Felix, facing the big truth about himself. Rory, pushing through things she’s never done before and moving that much further, finally, along her own storyline.” I hold my thumb and forefinger apart, to illustrate what a small but precious amount I’m talking about. “And you . . .”

  I freeze. I’m not even sure how to finish that.

  “Do you really see me too?” asks Nate. His voice catches on a nervous edge.

  “I know I see a different you. Not the one I saw before.” And now, because he is right here and smells like sweat and sugar—Is it apples? Can it be that he actually sweats apples?—I add, “I hated that guy.”

  “Uh, yeah,” says Nate. “I got that. Was that because of what you assumed I did to Felix?”

  I wince. He had to use that word, assume, which only makes me think of that “when you assume, you make an ass out of you and me” saying, although he certainly has a right to.

  “Partly,” I reply. “I guess I felt you sold out somehow. Remade yourself, just to look good on film. But who am I to say that? Maybe that’s just who you became.”

  Nate collapses backward so he’s lying on the slide, his feet still planted on the ground. He puffs out a long breath. “Actually, you were right the first time.”

  Now he hooks one arm over his face, smothering it with his elbow.

  “Go on,” I say.

  “After those jerks stole my rabbit and totally humiliated me, on camera, I knew I had to change things. I like to think I did it for myself and not for the films, not because Lance and Leslie would be coming back in a few years and I wanted to show everyone I’d won the game. But that can’t really be true.”

  “I wish I could have changed like you did,” I say, and as soon as it comes out, I realize why I resented Nate for his morphing abilities. I was jealous.

  “Into someone who wasn’t actually you? I’m glad you didn’t.” He takes his arm off his head now, but his eyes are still closed, and even though there’s a decent amount of pain on his face, I can’t help but want it to stay that way because it’s quite gorgeous, really. From an artistic standpoint.

  “Besides,” he continues. “I’m not sure how much I changed at all. There was the version of me I created to show the world, and the version of me that felt like me . . . and I can’t tell where they overlap.” He takes a deep breath, in and out, and shudders on the out. Is he going to cry too? I can’t begin to plan how to deal with that.

  After a few more breaths like this, Nate continues, calmer now.

  “You know where it all started? Lance and Leslie shot some stuff between Aidan and Tony and me. When my grandfather wanted them to share any footage that could prove what was happening, I begged them not to.” He looks up the slide, like he’s worried someone’s going to come crashing down on top of him. “I was such a chicken, it makes me sick to think about it.”

  I try for something positive to say here. Something Nate needs to hear.

  “Getting those guys in trouble would have made your life more difficult down the line,” I offer. “They would have come for payback. What you did was smart.”

  “Maybe. I just know that I wanted that whole episode gone, along with everything people saw and felt about me. I actually asked Lance to destroy the tape that had the footage—they were still shooting on videotape back then, remember?”

  “And did he?”

  Nate shrugs. “He sent it to me.”

  “And you destroyed it?”

  “More or less.”

  “I’m not sure what that means.” />
  Nate looks at me, his eyes twinkling. “We got off the subject. Do you really think you might know who I am?”

  “Aside from being an epic snorebeast, I think I might.”

  Nate smiles. It’s the smile I’ve seen a hundred times, the smile I used to want to slap away. Now it’s something I’d just like to hold for a while, cupped in my palms.

  “I think I might know who you are too, Justine.”

  The hair on my arms suddenly stands up straight. I need to say something to cover.

  “How could you? You should see this footage. I’m not in a single second of it.”

  “You should have asked one of us to shoot for a while.”

  “Even if you had,” I say, “what would you have shot? Me walking down the street. Me watching everyone else. Me watching, not doing.”

  “You did something for Rory at the right moment. And you went after Felix at his right moment. I don’t know if I would have done that.”

  That word, moment, hits me on the jaw. I can even feel the sting of it as I say, “I guess I’m sad that I haven’t had a moment.”

  Now Nate sits up, his body shifting against mine, and I expect him to put his arm around me but he doesn’t. Instead, he knocks his left sneaker twice against my right one. Like, Hello? Anyone in there?

  “I think you have a moment,” says Nate, “in every second of footage you shot. You weren’t just watching. You were telling the story. You were telling our story. And I think that’s your story.”

  We look at each other now and I see he’s rather proud of this theory. Maybe before, I would have seen it as arrogance. Now I understand, instinctively, that it’s just pure delight at making some sense of the world. Joy in the possibility of helping me.

  This could be the kind of moment I’ve been seeking. One that belongs to me, or even better, to us. For the first time in my life, I think, there is no distance between me and another person. We are connected in ways too scary to understand. How can I stay here? How can I make happen what I will admit, now, I want to happen? Neither of us glances away or even moves.

  Suddenly, the shouts of a child break the silence, and Nate turns to see a little boy bolting across the playground toward the swings. A weary-looking dad lags behind him, coffee cup in hand. We watch them for a few seconds, a chance to recover from this thing we just shared.