Analee, in Real Life

by Janelle Milanes

  The bag is starting to cut the circulation from my fingers. I switch it to my other hand. “Can I . . . um . . . see him?”

  “You a friend of his?” she asks.

  “Yes. Um. Girlfriend.” Has anyone in life ever uttered the word “um” this many times in the span of a minute?

  She smiles. Not in a nice way. “You’re not his girlfriend.”

  Whenever I think about which superpower I would want most, teleportation is the one that springs to mind. Like right now, under this woman’s sneering gaze, I want to disappear in a burst of molecules that can rearrange themselves on an entirely different continent.

  “I am,” I say in my most assertive voice, but she looks thoroughly unmoved. This woman can smell weakness. She is a jungle cat; I am a gerbil.

  She moves over slightly, still holding the door. I guess this is my invitation. I slip past her, plastic bag still dangling from my fingertips, and hurry upstairs out of her sight.

  There are three bedrooms upstairs and only one closed door. Due to my excellent deduction skills, I surmise that Seb is behind the closed door. I hesitate. Will he be happy to see me? Is this a stupid idea? What if he’s sleeping? I wouldn’t want anyone to see me when I’m sick. Maybe if I had a real boyfriend, I would allow it, but definitely not a fake one.

  I knock softly.

  “Yeah,” comes his voice. Something about it soothes my nerves.

  I open the door a crack and poke my head in. “Seb?”

  He looks pitiful. Pale and tired, with a computer positioned on his lap. When he sees me, his face breaks into a grin.

  “Thank God,” he says. “I thought you were her.”

  I make sure the door is shut tight, then say in a whisper, “Seb, she is a nightmare. Is she always that mean?”

  “She’s actually been better than usual today. No screaming.”

  “I will never complain about Harlow again.” I hover by the door, still wondering if I should be here. Being sick is so private. I haven’t been around anyone sick since Mom, and to see someone like Seb, who should be running around on a soccer field, bedridden and lethargic . . . it makes my stomach drop. It makes me think about things I’m determined not to think about.

  “Get over here,” Seb says, patting the spot next to him on the bed.

  I creep closer. “Are you going to infect me?”

  “I might,” Seb says. “But you’re gonna want to see this.”

  I get into the sickbed and lie stiffly beside him, and he shows me his computer screen.

  “Shut up,” I say. “You got to level five?”

  “Analee, I have killed. So. Many. Boars.”

  I press my hand to my chest. “I could not be prouder. But you know there are other ways to level up, right?”

  “Yeah, but I’m not ready for questing.”

  “Wow.” I sink back into the pillow. “So Seb Matias is a chickenshit.”

  “Did you not hear about all the boars I killed?”

  “So much to learn, young Bernard.”

  “Good thing I got a skilled teacher,” he says, setting the laptop aside. He puts his arms around me and pulls me into his chest.

  “You better not be contagious,” I groan, but I let him do it. Let me get sick. Who cares? I lay my head on his ridiculously hard pec and breathe in his scent. It’s slightly stale today, but still deliciously Seb.

  And then I remember Harris.

  Is Harris my boyfriend now? Am I cheating on him? I should definitely not be in Seb’s arms, or in his bed. It feels so nice, though, with the rise and fall of his chest, and his hand stroking my arm up and down, up and down, in a way that makes me excited and sleepy at the same time.

  But what are we doing? Seb and I are not a couple! This is all kinds of ridiculous.

  I clear my throat. “Seb?”

  “Hmm?”

  “You were right about Harris.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I think we’re . . .” This should not be difficult to say. This was one of our goals all along. “I think we’re dating now?”

  His hand stops moving. I feel his body tense against me. Or maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m the one who tensed up, and that’s what he’s responding to. Whatever it is, the air has shifted. And Seb isn’t talking, and now I’m not talking either, and everything is awkward.

  “Oh,” he says finally. “That’s . . . great. That’s great, right?”

  “I mean . . . yeah. Yeah, it’s great. It’s not official yet, I guess. He just said he liked me, and I said I liked him.”

  “That’s great,” he says again. “I’m happy for you. This is what you wanted.”

  “It is, yeah. It is what I wanted.”

  What is wrong with me? Why am I talking like this? I’ve lost all ability to form an original sentence.

  “Well, in that case we should probably stop pretending,” Seb says.

  I lift my head from his chest. “What?”

  “If you have an actual boyfriend now, you’re not going to need a fake one.” He removes his arm from my shoulders, and I suddenly feel lonelier than I have in a while.

  “But what about Chloe?” I ask. “You want her back, don’t you?”

  He doesn’t say a word. Does that mean he changed his mind? Stop it, I tell myself sternly. I shouldn’t care if he changed his mind. Chleb, no Chleb, it makes no difference in my life.

  “Yes,” he says finally.

  Oof. My heart feels sore. Which goes to show how idiotic I’ve been this whole time. Never get invested in people. They will all let you down.

  “So we’ll stay together until you get her back,” I say.

  “Analee—”

  “It’s fine. Harris will understand.”

  “I don’t think your boyfriend is going to be cool with you dating another guy, unless you have some polyamorous arrangement that I don’t know about.”

  “He doesn’t have to know,” I say.

  Seb casts a doubt-filled stare in my direction.

  “It’s not a big deal,” I go on. “You and I are just pretending anyway.”

  “Why would you risk your new relationship to help me?” he asks.

  I shrug and roll onto my side, my back to Seb. I feel the prickling sensation behind my eyes that comes right before the waterworks. It’s a rational question. If I’m finally getting what I’ve wanted with Harris, why am I almost crying at the thought of losing Seb?

  “Hey.” His hand cups my shoulder.

  Don’t say anything. Not a freaking word. Be cool.

  “I just know you’re not going to talk to me anymore,” I whine.

  Oh my God. Way to say the worst possible thing in the worst possible way.

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “If we end this,” I say, “you’re not going to talk to me anymore. Everything’s going to go back to the way it was before.”

  I can’t do it again, I realize. I can’t deal with another person leaving me. I’m starting a collection of people who have vanished from my life—Mom, Lily, even my dad. When Mom left, she took a giant piece of him with her. He’s here physically, but he’s not the same. I see my life stretching ahead of me. I see me walking alone on a dark, empty path, leaving a series of phantoms and broken relationships in my wake.

  “Bullshit, Analee.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I. Do you really think I hang out with you only to win Chloe back?”

  I shrug again. “I don’t know.”

  “You think that little of yourself?”

  I turn around to face him. “I don’t think little of myself.”

  But I do. How could I not? It’s what all of my past experience has taught me, that I wasn’t enough for the people in my life.

  Seb stares me down like that, face-to-face. It’s impossible to turn away and, worse, impossible to lie.

  “Fine,” I say. “Maybe I’m lacking in the self-confidence department, but . . .”

  “But what?”
/>   “But look at Lily!”

  “What about Lily?”

  “She cut me out of her life completely,” I say. “Like I was nothing.”

  He rests his head on his hand. “Are you going to tell me what happened between you two?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Have you ever told anyone?”

  “No.” Maybe it’s time I did. Seb doesn’t push, but he keeps staring at me, waiting. I don’t know where to start, so I tell him everything. From the chemo sessions to the funeral to the night of the Incident. How Lily and I never got any closure, no final conversation to tie our friendship up in a neat little bow.

  After I explain it all to him, he stays quiet.

  “As you can see,” I continue, “Lily doesn’t care if I live or die.”

  “Oh, please. I don’t think that’s true.”

  “No? Then what’s stopping her from talking to me again?”

  “Have you tried talking to her?” he asks.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because. She obviously made her choice.”

  “But she might not know the full story,” Seb points out.

  “She knows me. Or I thought she did. If our friendship were worth anything, she would at least talk to me.”

  “I agree that she should,” Seb says. “But people aren’t perfect.”

  “Or,” I posit, “she decided I’m dead weight and has forever cut me out.”

  “Wrong.” He pokes me on the nose.

  “Uh, you can’t just dismiss what I’m saying—”

  “I just did.”

  When I think back on my friendship with Lily, some blurry details sharpen into focus. Lately I was the one doing the majority of the judging. Lily remained fairly quiet. There would be a halfhearted laugh, or a forced murmur of agreement. It seems so obvious now. She wanted to be a part of it all, all the stupid high school shit that I assumed the two of us were above. She wanted the boyfriend and the pretty friends. She wanted to be known. Even if it came at my expense.

  Except now she has broken up with Colton, and I don’t know what that says about her. I’m not sure what any of it means.

  When I bring this up to Seb, he says, “Lily finally dumped him?”

  “What do you mean ‘finally’?”

  “You know as well as I do that Colton’s a dick.”

  “If he’s such a dick, then why are you friends with him?” I counter.

  “I’m not. We know the same people and sometimes share the same lunch table, so the school has decided we’re friends.”

  “Well, you haven’t done much to dispel that notion.”

  “It’s not like I can choose a new group of friends.”

  I burst out laughing, right in his face. “It’s exactly like that! Take your pick. Everyone in school would sell their soul to be friends with Seb Matias.”

  “Not you,” Seb says quietly.

  “Huh?”

  “You wanted nothing to do with me for years. People like you aren’t interested in being friends with me.”

  “People like me,” I repeat. I don’t know what he means. Freaks? Loners? “Please define.”

  “You know,” Seb says. “You’re smart. You think about things, you analyze. You have strong opinions about unicorn lattes.”

  “Don’t get me started on fucking unicorn—”

  “You’re an interesting person. You don’t care how many goals I score during soccer season or any of the other stuff people drool over.”

  I kind of grumble under my breath, because Seb is being nice to me and I don’t know how to respond to compliments.

  “And, Analee?” He dips his head so that his eyes meet mine. “No one who knows you would ever think you’re dead weight.”

  At his words, something comes over me, because before I know it, I’m kissing a sick Seb in his bed. It’s so dumb. Here I am, catching all of his germs, ignoring the fact that I almost maybe technically have a boyfriend. Just one more time, I think. Before Harris and I make it official. This is only a good-bye kiss.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  EVER SINCE ROLLING AROUND WITH seb in his sickbed, I haven’t been able to go online. I can’t face Harris, even when I don’t have to actually see his face. So instead of hunting monsters or defining my new relationship, I pour all of my energy into writing a toast for Dad and Harlow, the soon-to-be-married couple who have yet to speak to each other since the Great Condom Catastrophe. Although, earlier tonight Dad did ask Harlow during dinner if she wanted a water refill. It was a huge leap of progress in their relationship.

  Right now my toast is exactly thirty-seven seconds long. It’s also horrible, but I don’t care if it’s horrible. I care about getting through it without any of the following happening: stuttering, fainting, shaking, crying, and anything else that would generally cause humiliation.

  I’m crouched over my writing notebook with a red pen in hand. If I crossed out every cliché in this speech, I would be left with five seconds of material. I take out only the obvious ones, like when I wish them a lifetime of joy and happiness or when I call Dad the man of Harlow’s dreams. I’m trying to figure out the next line, when all of a sudden Avery’s high-pitched voice blares through my closed bedroom door.

  “MOM! DAD! ANAAAALLLEEEEE!”

  Without thinking, I toss the pen aside and barrel down the hall. Dad and Harlow are halfway up the stairs, and the three of us storm into Avery’s room like the National Guard. She’s standing in front of her desk, frozen, staring at a spot next to her computer. Relief washes over me. From the way she was screaming, I expected to walk in on some grisly crime scene.

  “Pero qué pasó?” Dad asks. When he’s freaked out, his instinct is to go with his first language.

  Her eyes not leaving the desk, Avery points at something near her computer. “Bug.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I blurt out. Even Harlow shakes her head.

  Avery turns to us with teary eyes. “No! It came from my head! I was scratching, and—”

  “Shit,” Harlow and Dad say in unison. They glance at each other, and I see Dad’s mouth twitch into an almost-smile.

  “What’s the big deal?” I ask. “So a bug landed on Avery’s head.”

  Dad and Harlow walk over to the desk to inspect the creature. I stay behind. Only Avery would allow a bug to bring everyone’s life to a screeching halt.

  After a second Harlow takes a shaky breath and turns to us.

  “It’s a louse,” she declares. Dad curses in Spanish and, in one quick swooping motion, slams his hand on top of the bug.

  “Wait,” I say. “You’re telling me that Avery has lice?”

  Avery bursts into tears. Harlow nods at me and then rushes over to her, strokes her hair, and murmurs softly.

  Of fucking course. This is the problem with having so many goddamn friends like Avery does. One of them is bound to give you lice.

  And now my head itches. I don’t know if it’s the hypochondriac effect, but there is an unbearable itch behind my right ear.

  “Okay,” Harlow says. “We need a lice comb and that medicated lice treatment. Raf?”

  “On it,” Dad says, jingling the keys in his pocket.

  “Don’t get the comb that zaps them,” Harlow instructs. “It’s a waste of money. Breaks in five seconds. . . . Analee?”

  “Yeah?” I’m furiously scratching the nape of my neck.

  “Let me check your hair.”

  I will say this for Harlow—she is a boss when it comes to lice. She picks at my hair with her bare fingers as I stand there, nervous and itchy and completely grossed out. Is this what I was missing out on as an only child? Someone to infect me with parasites? Because if so, I’ll pass.

  Harlow clucks her tongue. “Two combs, Raf. And four bottles of treatment.”

  “What!” I screech. Maybe I misjudged Avery, because all I want to do at the moment is burst into tears. Unfortunately, I don’t have the excuse of being a thi
rd-grade drama queen.

  “Sorry, An,” Harlow says as Dad rushes off to buy the supplies.

  “I can’t have lice, Harlow,” I say. “I wash my hair every night!”

  “They actually like clean hair. It’s easier to cling on to. And regular shampoo doesn’t kill them. It’s kind of fascinating, actually, how they’ve developed an immunity in order to survive—”

  “All I hear is that I have mutant bugs living in my hair,” I interrupt as Avery’s wailing grows louder. “Avery, will you please quit it with the waterworks!”

  Instead her wailing grows more intense. I wonder if I’ve overstepped my bounds as stepsister. I expect Harlow to scold me or give me a dirty look for snapping at her precious little girl.

  Surprisingly, though, she doesn’t. She presses a finger to her temple and says, “Really, Avery, this is not a fatal diagnosis. They’re not going to kill you.”

  “They’ll just feed off your blood,” I mutter under my breath so that only Harlow can hear. She widens her eyes at me in warning, but her lips turn up at the corners.

  Revolting fact of the day: killing lice is an aphrodisiac to Dad and Harlow. Avery and I sit side by side on kitchen chairs with clean towels draped over our shoulders. Dad combs out my lice; Harlow, Avery’s. It’s a painstakingly slow process. After pouring smelly goop over your head, someone has to comb through your hair one small section at a time, using a special metal fine-toothed comb.

  As this is going on, Harlow and Dad are bragging about how many lice they get per section.

  “Coño!” Dad exclaims, inspecting his comb. “I have six here.”

  “You do not,” Harlow laughs.

  “Mira.” Dad pauses to show her. It’s like they’re immune to how horrifying this is in every possible way. “In your face.”

  “It’s not a competition, Raf.”

  “Not anymore,” Dad says. “What was your record, again? Three?”

  “I’m not finished yet,” Harlow retorts.

  “Ow!” Avery yelps as Harlow scrapes the side of her head with the lice comb.

  “Oops. Sorry, ladybug.”

  I got so used to the tension, I forgot how gross Dad and Harlow can be when they flirt with each other. They think they’re so slick about it too, like I’m as stupid as Avery. Take their code for sex. It’s disgustingly transparent. Preface: my dad is not a film connoisseur. His favorite movie of all time is Super Troopers, followed closely by Robin Hood: Men in Tights. So when he asks Harlow, out of nowhere in the middle of dinner, “Citizen Kane tonight?” with a not-so-sly wink, I’m not under the impression that he actually intends to watch a 1940s black-and-white film about a newspaper magnate.