What to Say Next

by Julie Buxbaum

  She stares right back, though I have no idea what she’s saying. I never know what anyone is saying.

  It is only later, during AP Physics, that I realize exactly what that eye contact cost me. While I was busy staring at Kit, Justin swiped my notebook.

  So now everyone knows: David Drucker is hot. Once you look at him, like really look at him, which I did that first time in the bleachers, it’s so obvious, you are amazed you haven’t noticed it before. Like one of those weird optical illusions that my mom likes to show me on Facebook.

  “Is that why you’ve been sitting with him? You knew there was, like, this freakin’ hot guy underneath all that hair?” Annie asks. She and Violet are so excited by the revelation that is David, they are practically vibrating. We are between periods, standing in our usual spot by my locker. Throngs of kids squeeze past us in the halls. I shake my head. “I guess we shouldn’t be so surprised, because Lauren Drucker is so stunning it’s unfair. But still. David?”

  To be honest, I’m not sure what I think about David’s transformation. He now feels somehow less mine. As if he has exposed what was once small and private, a secret we shared, to the rest of school. A haircut and now Gabriel and Justin are bothering us at lunch.

  All I want is for everyone to leave us alone.

  “I just think he’s interesting,” I say. I chose David’s table for his silence and for his refuge. I keep going back because it turns out I like being around him, even though I’m not sure exactly why.

  I guess I’m not being fair about his new look. Good for him that other girls will notice him now. That his world will grow bigger. It’s not his fault that I’m desperate to keep mine so small.

  “Interesting like the Hemsworth brothers are interesting,” Violet says.

  “Whatever, he’s still weird, though,” Annie says.

  “Good-weird,” I say, and they both look at me like I’ve lost my mind. And maybe I have, though not about David Drucker. I consider explaining everything to my friends. Finally coming clean. Telling the whole story of this nightmare from beginning to end. But I can’t. There are some words we are not allowed to say out loud. I don’t know how to explain that I spent the weekend in my bedroom because my mother and I are no longer on speaking terms. That my mother betrayed my father, had an affair—a word I hate because it sounds so harmless, like she threw a cocktail party, not like she screwed my dad’s best friend. I don’t know how any of the past five weeks actually happened.

  It still doesn’t feel real. I keep repeating it in my mind, as if it will eventually make sense. My mother had sex, probably repeatedly, with Jack. When my father found out, he was devastated and was planning to leave her, or us. I don’t know. Now he is dead. The first two facts are in no way related to the third, and yet they are commingled forever in my brain and playing continually on repeat.

  A triple whammy.

  Maybe I should just say these words out loud: I no longer have two parents.

  That’s the shorthand version.

  Until recently I thought I was the exception: I had a happy family. I don’t understand what I have left now.

  I get that I’m being melodramatic. After all, I’m pretty sure Annie’s father cheated on her mom, and Annie didn’t have a mental breakdown. Her dad moved in with his assistant the same week he left their house, and though Annie’s still pissed off about the whole thing, she lets him buy her guilt presents and stays at his new place on alternating weekends. She says the whole arrangement isn’t so bad.

  Is it different when it’s the mom who does the cheating? It shouldn’t be. And yet I don’t know. I’m so angry at my mother that I found myself punching the wall last night. My knuckles are bruised and red. They don’t hurt as much as I wish they would. That seems to be the paradox of grief: There is so much pain and yet sometimes, when I need to feel it, not nearly enough.

  “Has he asked you to prom yet?” Annie asks, but I’m too lost in thought to answer. I’m imagining my dad finding out about my mom and Jack. How had that terrible scene played out? And were their tears at the funeral real? Was it grief or guilt?

  My mother knocked on my door a bunch of times over the weekend, and again this morning, when I didn’t get up on time for school. I ignored her. She texted too. Variations of: Let me explain. Can we talk? I’m sorry. I wonder if she sent these same texts to my dad before he died.

  I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

  I’d check his phone, but it’s gone along with everything else.

  Pulverized.

  Or maybe I have the story all wrong. Maybe my mother was psyched to divorce my dad and start a whole new life. No doubt I’ve learned in the past five weeks that my mom has a complicated relationship with the truth. No lie is too big. She’ll lie about anything.

  “What? Who?”

  “Hello? David Drucker? Prom?” Annie repeats.

  “Oh. No, course not. I’m not going.” Violet shoots me a concerned look. I ignore her. She is waiting for me to get with our regularly scheduled program. To return to the Land of Normal. I don’t know how to tell her I’m never coming back.

  “First you’re just, like, bailing on editor in chief, and now you’re not even going to the prom?” Violet asks.

  I don’t answer, because it doesn’t feel like a question.

  “I know it’s been hard and whatever, but you’ve got to at least try to start having some fun again,” Violet says.

  I shrug, because prom doesn’t sound like fun to me. It sounds like torture.

  “I want Gabe to ask me,” Annie says in a confiding tone, and Violet and I pretend like we didn’t know this already. That it hasn’t been obvious for months. This is what good friends do.

  Or maybe not. Maybe I should take a page out of David’s book and just say it like it is: Gabriel is a jerk. Annie, you can do better. So much better. Gabriel is the human equivalent of insert generic, almost-but-not-quite-popular high school boy here. There is nothing particularly interesting or appealing about him. Even when he’s rude, like he was to David today, he’s boring and unoriginal. He gets all his dimension by standing next to Justin, who, albeit also a jerk, is at least a clever one.

  “Why don’t you ask him?” I decide this sounds like a good alternative. A way to put control back into her hands. If he says no, screw him. Life is short and cruel and we shouldn’t waste a single second of it worrying about stupid things like school dances. Of course, yes, Annie should ask Gabriel to the prom. And I should…I should what? Move out? Never speak to my mother again? Kiss David Drucker? Kill myself?

  I am not brave enough for any of it. I am only brave enough to sit at a quiet lunch table, to hide in my bedroom, to pretend to my friends for only ten minutes at a time that everything is—that I am—okay.

  “I don’t just want to go with him, I want him to ask me. Duh,” Annie says, and peers into my locker. As if its dark, woefully underdecorated depths will tell her something. “It doesn’t matter. I bet he’s going to ask Willow.”

  “I’m getting a little tired of those girls,” Violet says.

  “I’m so over them,” Annie says. “Kit, they show up at Pizza Palace every day now, and they act like we’re not even there. Like Justin and Gabriel are only their friends.” As she speaks, she somehow conjures them up, and Willow, Jessica, and Abby walk by. They don’t say hello, just pick up their hands in a silent simultaneous wave. Like they choreographed it. Annie, Violet, and I used to be in sync like that, I think. But not anymore. Another thing that’s my fault.

  “I overheard them talking about David Drucker,” Violet says, interrupting my thoughts.

  “Everyone is talking about D.D. That’s what they’re calling him now. D.D.,” Annie says. I don’t ask who they are. Again she works her magic, because suddenly David appears. He walks by, his headphones covering his ears, his eyes fixed straight ahead, and he doesn’t see us. He’s obviously off in his own world, so I can get a good look at him without getting caught. His hoodie pulls across h
is broad shoulders and he’s muscly under there. He smells good too. David’s lemony. Fresh. Sweet.

  “Is that an outline of a six-pack?” I ask.

  “Never noticed that before,” Violet says.

  “Yum,” Annie adds after he passes, her eyes now fixed on his butt, which is showcased in perfect jeans. “I mean. Just. Yum.”

  —

  My phone buzzes in physics and I sneak it out of my bag and glance at it under the desk.

  David: Busy after school?

  I glance back at him. For a moment I forgot how different he looks, and I’m startled all over again. My stomach clenches. Annie’s not wrong. He’s delicious.

  Me: Nope. What’d you have in mind?

  David: First we need to feed you.

  Me: K.

  David: Then we start the Accident Project like we talked about.

  Right, the Accident Project. David’s idea to help me figure things out. Is there such a thing as Masochists Anonymous? Because clearly I need to go there pronto.

  I look at Mr. Schmidt. I don’t want to listen to him drone on about Newton’s third law and stare in suspense as I wait for that little flake of tuna fish stuck to his mustache to fall. I’d much rather be out of class, eating with David and even, yes, undertaking the Accident Project, as sick as that may be.

  Me: Let’s go now.

  David: Now? But…physics.

  My hand raises in the air, an impulsive move, and I talk without waiting for Mr. Schmidt to call on me.

  “I’m going to the nurse,” I say assertively, like I’m not asking for permission. I pack up my books and my computer and walk out the door, my brain still a few steps behind my legs. Better make good use of my one short life.

  I leave it up to David whether he wants to follow me.

  If I hadn’t gotten Miney’s makeover, I could have just walked right out. Slipped through the door without a single person noticing. Now, because of new clothes and three fewer inches of hair, I need to come up with an excuse, a lie, because I have shed my cloak of invisibility. Of course I’m following her. That’s not even up for debate. There’s just no way I could stay here and finish out the remaining forty-two minutes of this period staring mournfully at her empty chair. Also, Gabriel is sitting next to me in all his olfactory glory and I can’t bring myself to ask about my missing notebook. It’s gone. Stolen. I feel it nearby, though, like a phantom limb. I’ve decided not to worry. Surely they’ll read the first page, realize it’s not full of history or physics notes, and then give it right back. No harm, no foul.

  “Mr. Schmidt? I need to…” I make a mental note that next time I will think of my excuse before I raise my hand. He’s looking at me. No, not just Mr. Schmidt. The entire class. Again. “I need to empty my bowels.”

  I say it loudly and with confidence, which Miney claims is the key to a good lie. Sounding like you believe it yourself. There is laughter, but it holds a different quality than usual. It doesn’t sound like breaking glass. It sounds collaborative. Could the change be a result of my haircut and new clothes? Nah. I may not like my classmates, but they can’t be so stupid that their opinion of me could be swayed by something as inconsequential as my appearance.

  “TMI,” Mr. Schmidt says, which I know from Urban Dictionary means too much information, an expression that makes little sense to me, because my defining ethos is that there is never enough information. That’s how one gets smarter. “Go, Mr. Drucker.”

  He points to the door, and though it doesn’t fit my cover story—I’m a terrible liar—I throw my backpack over my shoulder and run.

  —

  I find Kit in the school parking lot, standing in the middle of the road with her head back and her arms outstretched.

  “It’s snowing,” she says. “Can you believe it?”

  I nod because I can believe it. Last night, when I checked my NOAA Radar Pro weather app, it said there was a seventy-two percent chance of precipitation today between the hours of one and five p.m. It’s twenty-six degrees.

  “Sorry to make you skip. I just thought—” She doesn’t finish her sentence, just lets the words trail off into the air. Sublimated into another form, like snow to fog. I reach over and catch a flake just before it lands on her cheek.

  “Did you know that it’s not mathematically impossible for two snowflakes to be identical? They’re made up of a quintillion molecules that can form in various geometries, so it’s just highly improbable.”

  “A quintillion?”

  “Picture a one and then add eighteen zeros.” She shrugs and I don’t think she pictures it. Which is too bad because the image of a quintillion looks just like a line of poetry. “The point is it’s totally possible. Unlikely, of course. The chances are like one in a gazillion. Which is not an actual number but an exaggerative placeholder, but you get my point. It’s possible.”

  I look at the falling snow. Wonder if any of these flakes have a twin somewhere, if they have somehow defied the odds. Here’s the thing about making a friend that I didn’t understand before I started talking to Kit: They grow your world. Allow for previously inconceivable possibilities.

  Before Kit, I never used the word lonely, though that’s exactly what I was. My mind felt too tight, too populated by a single voice. I don’t like excessive noise or light or smell, which are the inevitable by-products of human interaction, and yet my consciousness—that which will hopefully survive my inevitable death—still longs for personal connection. Just like everyone else’s.

  It’s basic physics, really. We all need an equal and opposing force.

  Kit stares at me, and I stare back. Eye contact usually feels like an ice headache. Just too much, too fast. Sharp and unpleasant. With Kit it feels like the first few seconds on a roller coaster, all gravitational force, no escape, pure thrill.

  I am nervous. I keep talking.

  “There’s something comforting about the thought, isn’t there? That even something crazy like that—two identical snowflakes—can actually happen? I think about that sometimes when I’m upset.” She flashes her perfect smile at me, which isn’t perfect, not really. Her third tooth from the left is slightly chipped. But it’s literally breathtaking, and so I stop talking because I don’t want to activate my asthma.

  “Everything is so unbelievably shitty right now,” she says, even though she’s still smiling. “I can’t even begin to tell you how shitty.”

  I nod. I don’t know what to say to this. I want her words to match her face or, maybe to a lesser degree, vice versa. A tear escapes out of the corner of her eye, and she wipes it away, fast.

  “But I’m going to take that as good news. The snowflake thingy,” Kit says. “So thank you for that.”

  “Should we walk?” I ask, because I suddenly don’t want to climb into a car. I want to stay outside, in this light, quiet snow. I want to stand next to Kit, watch her brace herself against the wind, hear the tiny whoosh of snow as it falls onto her jacket.

  “Yes, please,” she says, and then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like we do it all the time, she interlaces her fingers with mine.

  —

  We hold hands for two minutes and twenty-nine seconds, but when we turn the corner onto Clancy Boulevard, we stop, and I wish I knew who initiated the release. Did I get distracted by the counting and accidentally reduce my pressure, thus signaling a desire to let go? I don’t know. There’s a ninety-two percent chance it was Kit. I liked the feeling of her hand in mine. Her fingers were longer than I would have guessed, the collective weight of a dog’s paw. I think about what it would be like to kiss her, to touch my fingertip to her clavicle cluster, to not worry about our physical boundaries. I imagine it would be like splitting an atom, a distillation into component parts. Everything small enough to be countable. Everything as perfect and forever as pi.

  “You’re quiet today,” Kit says. We haven’t spoken in two minutes and twenty-nine seconds. Too hard to talk and hold hands at the same time. That would b
e system overload.

  “Was just thinking,” I say.

  “Me too. I wish I could do it less.”

  “What?”

  “Thinking.” I look over and see that Kit’s face is wet. From the snow? From tears? Has she been crying since we left school?

  “You’re sad,” I say, and it occurs to me that it is entirely possible, likely even, that I’ve been having the best two minutes and twenty-nine seconds of my life while Kit has been crying.

  No, I was wrong: There will never be two identical snowflakes and I will forever be out of synch with the rest of the world.

  I look at the mini mall across the street because I don’t want to see Kit’s face. The mini mall is an emotion-free zone. A bagel place, a dry cleaner, the Liquor Mart, and a knickknack store that sells an assortment of useless items like miniature figurines and napkin holders. Why do they wrap everything up in clear cellophane and twirled ribbon? Little Moments, that’s what that store is called. Little Moments. I hate that place almost as much as I hate Justin.

  “My mom cheated on my dad. I just found out,” Kit says, and uses both of her hands to wipe her face. “How screwed up is that?”

  I don’t say anything, because I’m pretty sure her question is rhetorical. And if it’s not, I wouldn’t even know how to begin to measure the precise dimensions of how screwed up something is. So I stay quiet and wait for her to say more. This technique seems to work with Kit.

  “I don’t even know what to do, you know? Like what the hell am I supposed to do with that information?” she asks, and this time I think she is seriously asking, but before I can answer she goes on. “It’s all irrelevant now anyway. I mean, he’s dead. D-E-A-D. Dead. Adios, amigo. Hasta la vista, baby. Why should it matter?”

  “I’m sorry.” I picture a Venn diagram and three circles overlapping for this catchall phrase, I’m sorry, best used (1) when someone is sad, (2) when someone dies, and (3) when you have no idea what else to say. In this case, all three apply. In my mind I scribble the word Kit in the overlap. “It probably doesn’t matter, but I get upset all the time about things that don’t matter. Like open loops, for instance.”