(“Sucks nugs” was a new one on me. “It’s short for nuggets,” Morgan kindly explained.)
We weren’t rude. Morgan kept her voice quiet, like the way you might talk in a crowded elevator or library, and I had to lean in to hear. I felt loose strands of her hair tickle my face, smelled the warmth of her mint-flavored breath.
(We had just plowed through a box of Junior Mints.)
It was fun, I was happy, and she was happy too.
Then I said, “This is like our secret world, you know.”
“Yeah,” she answered.
“Nobody even knows we’re friends,” I said. “It’s like we’re in a bubble. Here’s to our impossible friendship. No one ever has to know.”
She didn’t have anything to say. Morgan got like that sometimes. She’d go dark for stretches, like that space on the dial between radio signals. A few moments later, I heard the clink-clink of glass in her bag. She pulled out two little bottles of rum, like the ones they have on airplanes. I was pretty surprised.
“Pass me your soda,” she said.
“What are you doing?”
Morgan emptied the bottles into my cardboard cup of Coke, stirred it with her pinky. She took a long sip, took another. “Here,” she offered the cup to me.
I took a sip. It tasted gross. I faked it, real smooth. “Cool.” I half-gagged and gave back the cup.
She recapped the empty bottles and returned them to the bag. “I’ve got a system,” Morgan said. “I use these bad boys to steal booze from my parents.”
“Don’t they miss it?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I used to replace the booze with water, but,” she shrugged, “my parents are basically clueless. Besides, my dad’s not around much anymore. He’s checked out. Cheers!” She took a long sip.
Later she emptied two more tiny bottles into a new cup of soda. I didn’t drink any. It kind of freaked me out, to be honest. I never expected it from her.
“Baby,” she teased. Her voice got louder as the movie wore on. She laughed more often. Her breath lost its minty freshness. Something sour took its place.
You know that feeling when you leave a dark theater and step into the sunlight? It only happens after matinees. There was a line of people outside buying tickets. I blinked away purple dots, blinded by the daylight. After my eyes adjusted, I saw Jeff Castellano staring at me. I’ll never forget the look on his face. A combination of shock, sorrow, and disgust. He was standing in line with Gavin Flynn and Demarcus Alston.
I felt like I’d fallen into a well. I was alone in a deep, dark place.
I tucked my head and took off around the corner. “Hey, wait, the bikes are the other way, dork,” Morgan called after me. I kept my eyes fixed on the ground and hurried as if my hair was on fire.
I kept berating myself, the same words echoing in my head: What a mistake, what a stupid mistake!
NOTHING
I refused to get our bikes until I was sure they had gone inside the theater. Morgan didn’t understand any of it. “What’s wrong with you?” she asked.
I pulled out my phone, stared at it. There was a text from Jeff: “WTF?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Just chill please, okay? Is that too much to ask?”
“Fine.” She shut her mouth, crossed her arms, and leaned against a brick wall. Already I could feel a distance separate us. She was five feet away, but that brick wall might as well have stood between us.
(Things can turn to crap so fast.)
Riding home in unhappy silence, she asked, “What did you mean before, about being in a bubble?”
Something in her voice put me on guard. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” she repeated. “You said it, but you don’t know what you meant?”
I glanced in her direction. She was glowing with anger.
“I was happy, that’s all,” I said. “It felt like, I don’t know, nobody else existed except for us.”
“And what about our, um, what were your exact words? I’m trying to remember. Oh, I’ve got it: ‘our impossible friendship,’” she said, her voice dripping with resentment.
I kept pedaling.
She continued, spitting out the words as she rode behind my right shoulder, like a devil (or an angel) in my ear. “It’s impossible for us to be friends—or, I should say, for you to be friends with someone like me—because why?”
This would be over in ten minutes. Almost home, almost home. I had to keep pedaling, keep rolling forward.
“We are friends,” I said.
“As long as no one else is around,” she shot back.
“They saw us!” I nearly shouted. “How dense can you be?”
She pulled over and sat on the curb. I circled back, steadied myself with one foot on the ground without getting off.
“What are you talking about?” she asked. Her eyes looked distracted, moving from object to object, never settling on me. “I don’t understand you.”
“Jeff Castellano,” I said. “He was at the movie theater with Demarcus and Gavin. They saw us.”
“So? What did you think would happen?”
I groaned, shook my head. (What a world, what a world.) “Maybe it doesn’t matter to you,” I said. “But on Monday, in school, it’s gonna suck to be me.”
In that instant, I saw all the hurt and confusion drain from her face. It was replaced with something else, something cold and terrible. “Forget you.” She rose to her feet, awkwardly yanked at the bicycle, stumbled, moved to ride away.
“Wait,” I said.
“Why should I?” she said. “You’re just like them.”
I called after her, “I’m not. I’m not!”
I watched her pedal away. I didn’t know it then, but I do today. She was right. I was just like the rest. I was afraid to be anybody else.
SATISFACTION GUARANTEED
She was the one
who killed herself.
So why do I feel
like something inside of me
died?
This makes no sense
at all. I may ask
for a refund,
weren’t we all born
with guarantees—satisfaction
or our money back?
THE REFUSAL
Looking back now, I can see that I made a series of mistakes. I imagine them as a line of circus elephants, sad gray trunks clasping short tails.
Going to the movie with Morgan …
Getting caught with her …
I realize—I do, I really do—that the worst mistake was the first mistake, putting anything on her message board. I own it now. I should have never done that, and I will regret it forever. It was like rolling a snowball down Mount Everest. Eventually that one mistake became an avalanche.
(Does that even remotely make sense? How do avalanches work? Just another thing I don’t know.)
My second-worst mistake was making the wrong enemy.
On the Tuesday after the movies, I got “tagged” again.
Let me back up. The timing could not have been worse. I was in a sour mood already, annoyed by everything, pissed off at the world.
How can I describe it?
Everything got under my skin. The sound of people’s squeaky sneakers in P.E., the idiocy of teachers and their pointless homework assignments, the noise in the hallways, morons shoving, girls jabbering, people yelling “squeeeee!” It was like I was living in a different universe. I felt alone and disconnected. No Wi-Fi.
That’s when I opened my locker and learned that I’d been tagged.
No, I thought, not today.
I’ve had enough.
She’s had enough.
I had to do something. I knew Athena would be at the lacrosse game after school, because her burly boyfriend, Fergus Tick, played on the team.
It was time to tell her what’s what.
She was standing with a group of girls, chatting loudly, laughing, not paying much attention to the game. For once in my l
ife, I wasn’t nervous. I strode right up. “Can I talk to you?”
She looked at me like: You? Really?
My face must have answered back: Yeah, really. Because Athena shrugged and followed me as I walked out of earshot from the others.
I stopped and held out the card. “I won’t do it anymore.”
Athena didn’t react. She showed no emotion. She just placidly looked at me for what seemed like a long moment. Her skin, I noticed, was flawless, smooth as fresh-fallen snow. The old nervousness came back to me. I shifted on my feet, waiting uncomfortably. The card wavered in my hand between us, while she stood there deciding my fate.
I imagined that Athena was like one of those medical examiners on CSI, and I was the cadaver on the table for her inspection. Her eyes burned green, but without warmth. Still, she didn’t quite know what to make of me.
Finally, Athena brought those perfect lips into a smile and showed two rows of dazzling white teeth. She plucked the card from my hand. “I’ll fix it.” She brought her hand tenderly to my face—her soft fingers smelled of vanilla wafers and cut lemons—and said, “No worries, Sam.”
A sudden cheer rose up from the sidelines. Our team celebrated before the opponents’ net. Sticks were raised in the air. “Athena! Fergus just scored!” Wendy cried.
Athena turned to watch the field, momentarily forgetting me.
Fergus let out some kind of howl from deep inside his belly. “Aaaaaaarrrrgggghhh!” He strutted and bumped chests with his teammates. Fergus, I figured, would probably make a good congressman some day.
Lacrosse looked like a rough game, where big guys whacked each other on the arms with sticks. I was glad I played baseball. “So we’re good?” I finally said, after the on-field celebration died down.
“Sure, no worries,” Athena said, caressing a hand across her tight abdomen, as if realizing that she was suddenly famished. I almost thanked her, but I’m glad I didn’t. “Okay, then. Um, catch you later, I guess.”
She inclined her head to her phone and sent a quick text, scrolled, read, beamed, sent another. I stood by, unsure if our conversation was over or not. Satisfied, Athena pocketed the phone and gave me a radiant smile, the way a gentle sun might gaze upon a small planet. I stood bathing in her luminous rays.
“Oh, Sam. I almost forgot to ask,” she said, ever so warmly. “Have you seen any good movies lately?”
“Wh-what?” I stammered.
(WHAT?)
I think, in that moment, I might have gone temporarily blind. Everything a blur.
She knew.
Athena gave a queenly sweep of long, thin fingers. “And don’t worry about that other thing, Sam. It’s been handled.”
HANDLED
Fragile.
Handle with care.
Do not fold or mutilate.
THE FALLOUT
I wrote before in this journal that we never touched. That wasn’t strictly true.
It happened on the day after I spoke to Athena by the lacrosse field, between second and third period. The main hall was filled with shuffling hordes of students, moving like cows in a slaughterhouse. Morgan grabbed me on the arm.
I could see fury in her eyes. “You … two-faced … liar!” Her fists were clenched. No, her entire body was clenched. Morgan’s blazing eyes looked wild, red-rimmed. I could see that she’d been crying. “I can’t believe you were one of them all along.”
“What?” I said. “I didn’t—”
“Don’t lie!” she shouted. “Don’t even—”
It was literally as if she were unable to speak. Morgan’s mouth opened and closed, opened and closed, but she could not find the words. It looked as if her entire operating system had failed. File not found. At last, Morgan raised her right hand and slapped me across the face. The blow made such a huge sound that everyone—and I mean everyone—stopped to stare.
Morgan turned and stormed away. She stomped toward the main doors. Huge drama.
“Miss, excuse me, miss?” an elderly hall monitor called after her. “Unless you have a pass, you can’t—”
Morgan didn’t turn around. She was nearly to the door.
I became intensely aware of the eyes and faces that surrounded me.
Eyes everywhere, all focused on me, then Morgan, then back to me. My friends, my classmates, kids I didn’t even know. They were all watching to see what I’d do, wondering what it was I did.
(I knew what I had done, and knew that she knew. Instantly I realized that Athena had sent Morgan a text. She had handled things, all right. My secret was out. To the one person who mattered, I was not anonymous anymore. She finally saw the real me.)
“Dude, did you see that?” a voice whispered. “That girl whaled on him.”
Another guy laughed.
I was an actor performing on a stage, in a play in which I wanted no part, but I recited my lines perfectly: “You. Fat. Ugly. Beast.”
She heard me. No question. I made sure that everyone heard me. More laughter now. The audience was back on my side. Bravo, bravo!
“Miss, oh miss?” the monitor kept calling.
(Who hires these people?)
The door flew open with a crash. Morgan had left the building.
IDENTITY
Sam I am.
I am
Sam.
I am, I am, I am.
HOURS SEEM LONG
“Sad hours seem long.” William Shakespeare.
Don’t get the wrong idea, it’s not like I’m one of those deep guys who actually likes reading five-hundred-year-old plays with insane language. I didn’t have a choice. In English, we read Romeo and Juliet, which is basically West Side Story without all the music, dancing, and greasy haircuts.
It made me think of Morgan a little bit. Not like we were ever a couple or anything, not like that at all. It was more the way we lived on separate islands floating in the same sea, like the Montagues and Capulets, or dogs and cats. It’s an old story, I guess. I didn’t see a way for us to be normal in school, freaked about what people might think.
School is only where we live about 35 hours a week, after all.
I had my friends, and she had whatever. Her mind? Her family? The little bottles of booze and cigarettes? Whatever other secrets she kept?
I guess.
Shakespeare called Romeo and Juliet “star-crossed lovers.” Somehow nature itself was opposed to their ever getting together. It was against nature! So it ended the way it did—twin suicides, bam, back to back. Bring down the curtain.
That’s why I hate school sometimes, and why I’m not too proud of myself either. At least Romeo and Juliet were courageous. They didn’t care what anyone said. They followed their crazy, twisted, star-crossed hearts. The hell with everybody else.
What did I do? I’ll tell you: I blinked and stood there and wondered what just happened. I guess that’s still me today, except now I have a pen in my hand. I’m the guy with a journal. She is gone and I remain.
“Sad hours seem long.”
GOOD DOG
Really, really glad
I have a dog right
now. Max gets me,
understands, has no use
for the internet. I wish
I could be that pure &
true. Glad to just
lay here, dear dog,
and love you.
LANEWAY, REVISITED
I began to see Mr. Laneway every two weeks. “Just to check in,” he called it. We even ate lunch together a few times.
Once he told me this idea that I can’t escape. I can still picture that moment with such clarity, the exact day of the week, what he was wearing, even the stupid Tweety Bird necktie he wore. I can even see the framed photograph on the wall behind his desk. The photo wasn’t much, just two silhouetted figures on a beach with a caption that read: “The first to apologize is the bravest. The first to forgive is the strongest.” Typical Laneway. His office was filled with feel-good messages.
“I’ve been think
ing, Sam, that maybe you’ve been getting bad advice.” He smoothed the tie between his fingers. “At least we should explore that as a possibility. People say that you have to move on, put it behind you. But let’s consider the opposite. Maybe, just maybe, you need to put it in front of you—look directly at it.”
I felt an electrical jolt in my body, like a guitar’s plucked string, thrum, thrum, thrum.
“I’ve tried,” I said, “a little bit, in my journal.”
“Well, that’s good,” he said. “You should keep at it.”
“What’s on the other side?” I asked.
He didn’t understand.
“I mean, after I dig into it?” I asked. “Where do I come out when I finally get to the other side?”
The prospect scared me. I didn’t want to confront that monster.
“I can’t tell you that, Sam. I don’t have the answers. I’m only here to help with the questions.”
On the way out, I saw Athena seated on the bench outside Laneway’s office. I didn’t like seeing her there. This was my place. Her presence soured it. Even worse, it linked us again, Athena and me. I glared at her with all the anger in my heart. Athena’s face went white—she shrank back, as if it were painful to withstand my gaze. Somehow she didn’t look so amazing anymore. Mostly, she looked frightened.
That’s the moment when I felt the most confusing sensation of all: I felt sympathy for the enemy.
BABY STEPS
Morgan finally answered one of my texts.
She said:
STOP TEXTING, DORKFACE.
Progress!
SPRING
She got worse in the spring
as if every flower,
and every new leaf,
was an insult.
The Fall Page 6
