Analee, in Real Life

by Janelle Milanes

  I’m so obviously not, but for some reason I nod. “How bad is it?”

  “It’s, um . . . Let’s go to the bathroom.”

  She steers me by the shoulders while I cover my nose to stop the bleeding. When I face the mirror, I see a multicolored bruise running down the bridge of my nose.

  “Holy mother of God,” I say. “This is actually worse than what I imagined.”

  I catch Lily’s eye in the mirror. She studies me, her mouth scrunched up. “It’s not broken, though?”

  “It doesn’t matter if it’s broken or not. Look at me!”

  “Okay, yes. It’s bad. But it’ll heal. And in the meantime there’s always concealer.”

  “Fuck me,” I say, leaning into the mirror. “It’s starting to swell.”

  “Here.” Lily grabs a handful of paper towels and runs water over them. She squeezes them out and hands the wad to me.

  “Thanks,” I mumble. I touch it lightly to my nose, grimacing at the dull throbbing feeling when I touch the bruise. As if I didn’t hate my nose enough. Now it’s going to double in size and turn every color of the rainbow.

  “You always stare at your feet when you walk,” she says. “I’m surprised you don’t get into more accidents.”

  “Are you seriously going to lecture me right now?”

  “I’m stating an observation.”

  “What about you?” I shoot back. “You were practically sprinting for the bathroom! Maybe if you didn’t travel at the speed of a freight train—and why were you coming in here anyway? You know I use this bathroom in the morning. You’re an afternoon user. And you use the one on the first floor.”

  “Jesus,” she says, shaking her head. “I forgot about your rules.”

  “They’re not rules. They’re just . . . how things go.”

  “So I’m not allowed to vary my bathroom schedule without your permission? How much notice would you prefer? Would two weeks do it?”

  “Oh, shut up.” I inspect my nose again in the mirror. I don’t know why. I guess I’m hoping a bunch of wet paper towels will have magical healing powers.

  “You should get an ice pack from the nurse.”

  “Ugh. It looks all squished.”

  “Do you want me to go with you?”

  “And it’s turning purple. Great.”

  “You’ll be fine.”

  “By this weekend?” I ask.

  “What’s this weekend?”

  “Just my dad’s wedding,” I say. “No big deal.”

  Lily blanks. “What?”

  “Yeah. I have to give a toast. While all this”—I circle my finger around my nose—“is going on.”

  “Your dad and Harlow are getting married this weekend?”

  “There’s a good chance.”

  Her eyes cloud over. “Holy shit. I had no idea.”

  “Well, why would you?” I reply.

  “I don’t know. I just . . . I thought I would have heard.” She leans against the towel dispenser, staring down at the floor. “How are you feeling about it?”

  And the extent of the damage between us hits me in that moment. Now she decides to ask me how I’m feeling. Now, when I needed that question so badly back then.

  “Do you honestly care how I’m feeling?” I ask, turning to face her.

  “Of course I care,” Lily says, but she doesn’t meet my eyes. This conversation is hard for her. That’s fine. Hard is better than nothing.

  “You should try showing it more often.” I toss the wad of paper towels into the trash and sweep past her.

  “Wait,” she calls after me. “I’ll come with you.”

  “Don’t bother,” I say without turning around.

  Honestly. Who the hell does she think she is? She decides to start speaking to me again, and I’m supposed to jump at the opportunity like a faithful dog? I mean, yes, I wanted this. In theory my goal was always to get my best friend back. But seeing her again reminds me how pissed off I still am about everything that happened between us. And all the paintings in the world still won’t make up for her absence.

  I storm out of the bathroom and use my fury to propel me down the hallway, through the throngs of students gathering around lockers and strolling to class.

  Then I remember what my nose looks like. Maybe the old Analee would have gotten away with escaping the attention of others, but this Analee, girlfriend of the school soccer star, doesn’t have that luxury.

  “Oh my God! What happened, Analee?” asks a complete stranger. She and her friend look at me with overstated concern. It’s bizarre to be faced with people who somehow know your name (and, bonus, can say it perfectly) when you’ve never seen them before in your life. This must be a fraction of what Seb gets on a daily basis.

  I skid to a stop beside them. “This?” I say, pointing to my nose. God, what is wrong with me? Like it could possibly be anything else. The girls don’t laugh or anything, though. They nod earnestly.

  “Did someone hit you?” the friend asks, somewhat eagerly.

  “Yeah. Got hit with some brass knuckles,” I say. “Turf war earlier this morning.”

  It’s the world’s dumbest joke, and they actually laugh at it. The type of laugh where they tip their heads back and open their mouths wide so that everyone can see them and be jealous of this hilarious conversation. This is a taste of popularity, I realize. People don’t care what comes out of your mouth as long as you’re talking to them. I can see how it would be addicting. It’s not real, though. I’m not funny. There’s desperation seeping out of their laughs. They’re not trying to connect with me, at least not in any genuine way.

  “Make sure Seb takes good care of you,” the first girl says to me. She turns a slight shade of pink when she says his name.

  “Will do,” I say. I give them a flick of a wave and continue walking to the nurse. Despite the fact that nothing about our interaction was real, and my nose is killing me, and my first full conversation with Lily since our fight was more of a snipe fest, I can’t stop the smile from spreading over my face.

  I think bridesmaid dresses are designed to enhance your worst features. I survey myself in my full-length bedroom mirror. This was a mistake. I wanted to see how the dress looked with my new nose, and the answer is . . . not good. The fabric drapes over my stomach pouch, the cut strangles my boobs, and the color clashes with my bruise.

  “You look so beautiful!” Avery screeches. I jump. I’m not sure how long she’s been standing in the doorway. She usually clomps around like her shoes are made of lead, so I get fair warning before appearances.

  “I look like a clown,” I reply.

  “Your nose isn’t that bad. It’s just plump.”

  “Oh, perfect. That’s one of the worst words you could have used.”

  The wedding is in two days, and the swelling has gotten worse. When Seb saw me after the accident, he threw his hands over his face like he’d caught a glimpse of Satan himself. Yes, he tried to play it off as a joke, but I knew the truth. And then he gave me a tiny kiss on the tip of my bruised, bulbous nose, which was kinda sweet but only led to continued confusion on my part.

  Speaking of confusion . . . My laptop dings, which means I have a message from Harris.

  “What’s that?” Avery asks. She glares at the computer like it personally offends her.

  “A message,” I say. I waddle over to the laptop (there is literally no room to walk in this stupid dress) and tap on the touch pad.

  “Are you cheating on Seb?” Avery cries suddenly.

  I pause, still hunched over my laptop, fingers poised over the keys. “What are you talking about?”

  “You still have that online boyfriend?”

  “I don’t have—”

  “You can’t do that to Seb, Analee! He loves you so much!”

  Avery’s greatest strength is also her greatest weakness. She gives her heart away too easily. Look how quickly she adopted my dad as her own. It took only a couple of months before she was tossing around the word
“Dad” and buying him a personalized mug on Father’s Day. Now she’s gotten too attached to Seb. It was bound to happen. Seb is handsome and charming and athletic and every now and then shows himself to be a decent person.

  Avery’s still young. She’ll learn. Under my tutelage, she’ll grow more and more jaded.

  “I’m not cheating on Seb, Aves. I can have friends who are boys.”

  “Just promise me you won’t break up with Seb.”

  I pause. Do I have to deliver this cold life lesson now? Should I encourage her fantasy, like when we set out a plate of gluten-free maple almond flour cookies for Santa Claus? I look at her, those blue-green eyes and the trembling chin, and I want to lie to her. But I can’t.

  “I can’t promise you that,” I say gently.

  “Why not?”

  “Because . . . sometimes things change. People leave. They grow apart.”

  Her eyes get teary. “Is that going to happen to Mom and Dad?”

  Dammit. So much for being honest. I’m not entirely heartless, so I say with as much conviction as possible, “No. No way. Dad and your mom are special.”

  And I suddenly realize who I’m going to write this toast for. I’m going to keep Avery believing in love. For her, love still means forever, and . . . I don’t know. Maybe being so naive isn’t the worst thing in the world. What’s the point of knowing better if it just makes you miserable? Maybe I shouldn’t try to make her more like me. Maybe I should try to be more like her.

  My laptop dings again.

  “I promise I’m not cheating on Seb, okay?” I reassure her.

  “You better not be.” She sticks her tongue out at me and sashays out of the room. There’s the brat I know.

  Me: Yo

  Harris: yo

  Harris: so 2 days, right? till the red wedding?

  Me: Seriously? How do you remember the date of my dad’s wedding?

  Harris: i remember everything you tell me

  Me: Damn, dude. Stop being so thoughtful. You’re making me feel inadequate

  Harris: you’re more than adequate

  Me: blushing

  Harris: how’s the toast going?

  Me: I think I’ve reached a turning point. I’ve been struck by inspiration from the unlikeliest of sources . . .

  Me: My almost-stepsister

  Harris: i thought you couldn’t stand her

  Me: Most of the time I can’t

  I talk to Harris for a couple more minutes and then get to work, flipping through my writing notebook, past lists of rules and rants about Lily and early love letters to Harris that he can never read, filled with longing and sadness. I open my notebook to a fresh page. I try to remember what it felt like before Mom died, before the world became gloomy and hostile. I was never as open and trusting as Avery, but I did believe in things like happiness. I let myself feel it without worrying that it would all go away.

  For me this wedding will be all about dodging awkward moments, surviving two minutes of public speaking, and trying not to think about Mom. But for Avery it’s a chance to solidify the family she’s always wanted. I think it’s the same for Harlow, too. For so long it was only her and Avery, ever since she was pregnant at nineteen. I used to think Harlow was this vapid, image-conscious control freak, but when I’m totally honest with myself, she’s kind of badass. She wanted to go to law school, and she made it happen as a single mother working multiple jobs. Then, to the disapproval of her parents and everyone else in her life, she quit the corporate world and become a yogi. Harlow has no problem pursuing happiness at full steam. No wonder Dad, the guy who sits and waits, who carefully measures all possible outcomes before making a decision, fell for her so quickly.

  I’m not fully sure what this wedding means to Dad. I pause, an ink spot dotting my paper. I know he’s gross with Harlow. Their over-the-top PDA is worse than all the horny teenagers at my school combined. I know he’s been less mopey since she entered our lives. She has definitely improved his fashion sense. Despite all this, I’m not sure what their relationship is based on. They started as polar opposites, and no matter how much Dad spends on a new wardrobe, I find myself still waiting to be convinced that they have this deep, forever kind of love.

  I think about Avery’s question. Will Dad and Harlow last? I never questioned it with Mom. Mom and Dad were . . . comfortable. They spoke in streams of Spanish and cleaned the house in their pajamas. They weren’t perfect. They had fights, but they fought openly and made up quickly.

  Stop it, Analee. Must not think about Mom. Especially not when I’m in the middle of writing a toast for Dad and his new wife.

  I go back to Avery. I think about what to say to a little girl on what might be the happiest day of her entire life. I continue to write.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  WHEN HARLOW ASKS ME TO do some yoga with her later, I say yes. I don’t know why. Maybe I’m full of pent-up nervous energy and I need some physical release. Maybe I need to clear my head of boys and the mess that comes with them. Regardless, Harlow is ecstatic with my change of heart.

  She drives me to her teaching studio, which we have all to ourselves. It’s the first time I’ve ever set foot in it. As we walk in, I imagine it filled with lines of yogis and Dad, clumsily attempting a balance pose while drooling over his hot blond yoga teacher.

  This is the spot where Dad and Harlow fell in love. It’s still not easy to think about.

  I used to believe that Dad’s feelings for Harlow were a betrayal of Mom. Of me, even, because Mom and I were a joint package. Her rejection was mine, too. Now, in the smallest of ways, I understand how you can feel things for two different people. With Seb I feel connected to and excited about life. Seb is vanilla lattes and Harry Potter story time and crowded bleachers. It has always been different with Harris. Harris is late nights and long conversations and escaping to magical worlds together. I don’t know if there’s a better or worse in my case. Only different.

  The studio is decorated for maximum wellness, with floor-to-ceiling windows on one wall and greenery hung along another. In the front of the room sits a white Buddha statue surrounded by flickering tea candles. Harlow turns on this soft chanting music and places two mats on the floor.

  “We’ll go through the sequence together slowly, and then start speeding it up, okay?” she says.

  I nod, digging my heels into the mat. Regret flutters in my chest. I don’t know what possessed me to come here.

  We start slowly, as promised. I sink into downward dog, tilting my butt to the ceiling and bearing down with my legs. I have to admit, though I’d never say it out loud to Harlow, that it feels good. I can feel the tension in my muscles loosening. The chanting drills itself into my brain, and if I close my eyes, I can feel my body vibrating in time to its rhythm.

  We go from downward dog into a warrior pose. My body sinks into it naturally. I like the feel of this one. I can physically embody Kiri in this pose, pretend I’m drawing my bow and arrow, eyes fixed on my target.

  “You’re strong,” Harlow says, eyeing me from my heels to my outstretched arms. “Keep holding on to the pose. Breathe through it. The shaking is your body’s way of powering through.”

  I follow Harlow’s sequence over and over again, losing count of all the warrior poses and chaturangas and half-moons. After twenty minutes my body is crying, but it’s still doing everything I ask it to do. I’m strong, I think, just like Harlow said. I never used the word to describe myself. It’s strange to think of myself not as Kiri but as Analee in this new, positive light.

  Finally we settle back into downward dog, then child’s pose. I press my forehead into the mat. Yoga is surprisingly exhausting. In the commercials you always see these smiling, sweat-free women holding their poses. Me? I’m still shaking, my body drenched.

  When it’s time for our cooldown stretch, I copy Harlow’s movements. She’s able to sit with her legs extended and reach her toes, but I can only get to my calves for now. We hold the stretch for a long time
. I run my hands up and down my legs. My muscles are still twitching, totally unused to physical exertion.

  What could I make my body do, if I stuck with this yoga thing? Could I press up to a handstand, like Harlow? Get through warrior pose with minimal shaking? Read a wedding toast and live to tell the tale?

  I look down at my thighs, and when I’d normally zero in on the cellulite dimpling the edges, right now I feel a flicker of gratitude. These thighs have been touched by Seb Matias, have powered through a yoga session, have literally carried me through life, and all I’ve ever done is criticize them. I’m a huge jerk to myself. I am my own personal Matt McKinley.

  Harlow and I lie on our backs for corpse pose, and I think about how life would be if I could give myself a freaking break, if I could adopt a Kiri warrior attitude throughout my day and maybe practice liking myself a little more.

  The chanting trails off, and I hear Harlow take a deep inhale. My eyelids flutter open.

  “How do you feel?” she asks, turning over onto her side to look at me. I stare up at the ceiling, at the light from the candles dancing on its surface. I wonder if this is how Dad felt when he came to yoga classes. Stronger. Like he could conquer his grief and find happiness again. Like being scared might be okay because you can push through that fear and come out a better person.

  I prop myself up on my elbows and face Harlow.

  I can’t explain all of this to her, so I say, “I feel pretty good.” And she smiles at me like that’s enough.

  Analee’s Top 5 Physical Features

  1. How thick my hair is.

  2. My smile.

  3. I can fill out a pair of jeans.

  4. Boobs!

  5. I look like Mom.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  THE DAY BEFORE THE WEDDING is strangely calm. Harlow and Dad decided not to have a rehearsal dinner before the event so that they can take care of some last-minute wedding prep. Avery is out, probably catching lice, at her new friend Emily’s house.

  Harris: how’s the toast going?

  Me: Pretty much written. Now I just have to worry about reading it

  Harris: you’ll be great