She's the Worst

by Lauren Spieller

  “No,” he says, releasing my hand. “No. I don’t want to put a time limit on it.”

  “Okay, but—”

  “And, actually, I don’t want to call it a break, either, because then it feels like we’re going to get back together no matter what.”

  “But . . . aren’t we?”

  “I don’t know.”

  My eyes fill with tears. Of all the things I worried about today—April being upset, my parents freaking out—I never once imagined that Tom might not want to be with me anymore. Not when he didn’t answer my calls, not when he didn’t come to lunch. I never once thought the one person I could always turn to would leave me.

  “When did you decide you didn’t want to be with me anymore?” I ask, my voice raw.

  Tom stares down at the table, like he’s studying the grain in the wood. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” he says, “but when I came over yesterday and you still hadn’t told your parents the truth, I realized that I’ve been doing the same thing to you: withholding how I really feel. So when I got home, I made up my mind.”

  “Then why not just tell me last night on the phone? Why ignore me all day and then make me come to dinner if you were only going to dump me anyway?”

  “I was going to say something last night, but then you told me about your sister’s idea to spend the day together, and I thought maybe fixing things between the two of you would make this conversation easier.”

  “Easier on me?” I demand, glaring at him. “Or on you?”

  The waiter comes back to the table. He must have noticed I’d stopped crying and figured, Hey, this is a great time for raw fish, don’t you think?

  “Are you ready to order?” he asks.

  “No,” Tom and I both say.

  He smiles tightly. “Okay. I’ll come back—”

  “That’s okay,” I say, placing my napkin on the table. “I think we’re going to be leaving instead.”

  “Uh . . . okay,” the waiter says. “I’ll get you a check.”

  When he’s gone, I pull a five-dollar bill out of my wallet and place it on the table. “That should cover the iced tea.”

  Tom nods. “Thanks.”

  I stand and straighten my clothes. I might have just been dumped, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to walk out of here looking like it. But before I can walk away, Tom takes my hand. “I still love you, Jenn. You know that, right?”

  My heart gives a little twist in my chest. “Bye, Tom.”

  Then I turn around and walk out of the restaurant as fast as I can, my eyes filling with tears again as I hurry toward the door. I wipe them away, refusing to let them fall. But the moment I shut myself inside my car, I let the tears win.

  CHAPTER 21

  APRIL

  I can’t believe you told them about Stanford,” Nate says as he kicks my soccer ball across the patch of grass behind his house. “Jenn’s going to kill you when she gets home.”

  I’ve only been here for about thirty minutes—just long enough to have recovered from my long walk and to tell Nate everything—and already he’s giving me a hard time.

  “That’s why I’m not going home.” I block the ball with my bare foot and kick it back. “Ever.”

  Nate stops the ball but doesn’t return it. “Oh . . . so you’re staying here for a while, then?”

  I frown. Nate’s never asked me that before. We pretty much come and go as we please. “If that’s okay?”

  Nate shrugs and takes a few steps back. Then he runs toward the ball and kicks it—hard. I prepare myself to receive it, but the ball goes wide, spiraling into the avocado tree in the corner of his yard. A few avocados fall into the grass. His mom’s going to kill him.

  “I’ll get it.” I chase the ball down, but when I turn to kick it back, he’s already sitting on the small porch attached to his house.

  “What’s up?” I ask, joining him.

  He squints up into the sky. “Nothing.”

  “Not this again.” I put the soccer ball on the ground and roll it back and forth with my foot. “Come on, what is it?”

  He sighs. “It’s Bo.”

  I stop messing with the ball. “Oh.” Nate’s older brother moved to Colorado for med school a few years ago, but dropped out when he realized he didn’t want to be a doctor. “No luck finding a job, then?”

  “He got one. He’s gonna be a paralegal.”

  “Sounds fancy.”

  “Yeah,” Nate says. “I guess.”

  We sit in silence for another few seconds, then I nudge him with my shoulder. “I feel like I’m missing something, but I don’t know what it is. Do you not want him to be a paralegal?”

  “No, it’s a good job. That part’s fine. But my mom’s worried about him. At lunch, she said he almost never returns her calls.” He looks down at his hands. “She thinks he’s depressed.”

  The idea that Bo could be anything other than happy sends me for a loop. He’s always joking around, and he’s got a smile for everyone—just like Nate. But I know that doesn’t mean anything. Cheerful people can still be depressed. “What do you think?” I ask. “Does Bo seem depressed to you?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “We haven’t talked.”

  “Wait, what?” I turn on the steps so I’m facing him. “In how long?”

  Nate grimaces. “Six months?”

  “Six months? How can you go six months without talking to your own brother?”

  Nate glares at me. “Let’s see how often you and Jenn talk after she leaves.”

  His words hit me like a punch in the gut. “That was a little mean. You know things between us are rough.”

  Nate drops his head into his hands. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I just feel bad enough already, you know? And what you said about not talking to him is exactly what my mom said right before she spent an hour guilt-tripping me about calling him once in a while.”

  “Is something going on between you guys? Jenn and I haven’t been close in years, but you and Bo always seemed to get along really well.”

  Nate reaches down for the soccer ball and squeezes it between his hands. “We did get along. We still do, for the most part. It’s just . . . I don’t know how to talk to him about this, you know? What do you say to someone who’s depressed?”

  I chew on my lip. “Maybe it’s not about saying anything specific. Just ask how they’re doing.”

  “But what if he says things are really bad? What do I say then?” He holds the ball to his chest. “What if he . . . cries?”

  “Then he cries,” I say gently. “You’ve seen me cry, and you handled it pretty well.”

  “That’s different. You’re my best friend.”

  “And he’s your brother.”

  He sighs and puts his head between his knees. I want to comfort him, but I don’t know what else to say. Not just because I’m not an expert on how to talk to someone with depression, but because he’s right—Jenn and I barely talk as it is, and it’s not likely things are going to get better once she leaves, especially not after how today turned out.

  It’s almost laughable how badly it went. If someone had told me yesterday, as I sorted through photos on the floor in the living room, that my perfect day—a day meant not only to cheer up my sister, but to reconnect with her—would result in us being further apart than ever, I probably wouldn’t have even tried in the first place.

  But that would mean I’d be right where Nate is now, head between my knees, wanting to help but not knowing how.

  I bump my knee against his. “It’s not too late, you know. You can still call him. We can do it together, if you want.”

  Nate sits up. “Really? You’d do that?”

  “Sure,” I say. “I’d do anything for you.”

  I blush as soon as the words leave my mouth. What am I doing, talking to Nate like that? But he just smiles. “Maybe later, okay?”

  I shrug, relieved that he’s not going to give me a hard time. “Sure.”

&n
bsp; “So what are we going to do the rest of the night?” he asks, standing. “Do you want to watch a movie or something?”

  I turn around on the porch steps and look inside Nate’s house. The living room is cozy and inviting, and the allure of snuggling into my usual spot on the right side of his couch while we watch Netflix is strong. But we’ve done that at least three times a week since summer started, and with school right around the corner, it feels like we should do something else. Something bigger.

  Plus, if I don’t keep myself busy, the likelihood that I text that asshole Eric is a whole lot higher.

  I turn back to Nate. “Jenn and I didn’t finish the list. Would you want to do the rest with me?”

  Nate clutches his chest. “You’re inviting me to your Special Sister Day?”

  I groan. “I hate you so much.”

  He laughs, and this time his smile is full-blown. “I’m in. What’s left to do?”

  “Let me look at the list.” I reach into my pocket, but my phone isn’t there. “Hold on a sec.”

  I cross Nate’s backyard and grab my purse out of the grass. I root around inside, but come up empty-handed.

  “What are you looking for?” Nate asks.

  “My phone.” I dump the contents. Chapstick, two tampons, a receipt from lunch, sunglasses, a compact, earbuds, and my house keys tumble out . . . but no phone. “Oh, no. I think I forgot it at the store.”

  “We can go get it.”

  I look across the yard to my house. The lights are all off, which means Mom and Dad are probably still at the store. I could go grab it. But after the way my last visit went, I’m in no hurry to go back. “Let’s get it later tonight. There were only four stops left on the list anyway. And we can make up our own stuff too.”

  “What if someone texts you?” Nate asks.

  I start shoving everything back into my purse. “I’ll just talk to them later.”

  “But won’t Eric worry?”

  My fingers freeze around my house keys. “Um, no. I don’t think he will.”

  I don’t want to tell Nate about the text. The whole thing is humiliating, and every time I think about it, a flush of embarrassment races across my skin and my stomach cramps up.

  “Suit yourself,” Nate says. He picks up my boots from the grass and tosses them to me. “Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER 22

  JENN

  The drive home is a miserable blur. I follow every traffic signal, obey every law. I even smile when Mrs. Iniguez from down the block waves at me as I drive past her house. But inside, in the place I never let anyone see, I am screaming at the top of my lungs.

  The house is empty. On any other day I’d take advantage of this by reading in bed, or stretching out on my yoga mat and daydreaming about all the things Tom and I are going to do next year—the classes we’ll take, the people we’ll meet, how happy we’ll be once we’re finally away from home.

  But none of that’s going to happen now, and the only thing louder than the suffocating silence is the awful realization playing on an endless loop in my mind—I was wrong about Tom. So instead, I let the scream in my head out. I scream and scream until my throat burns and my face is wet from crying. Then I collapse onto my bed.

  How could I have let this happen?

  I try to bury my face in my bed, but the quilt Grandma gave me scratches my face, so I turn my head to the side, but then I catch the scent of mothballs and immediately start coughing. I hate this stupid quilt, but I can’t get rid of it, no matter how many times April always makes fun of me for keeping it. It’s so old and itchy. Grandma isn’t going to find out if you throw it away. But things like that are easy for April. She doesn’t waste time worrying or overthinking. She just does whatever she wants.

  Easy to do when other people’s feelings don’t matter to you, I guess.

  My phone rings, and I sit up so fast it makes me light-headed. I search the bed, but I can’t find it anywhere. It rings again. Crap. What if it’s Tom, calling to tell me it was all a mistake? I can’t let it go to voicemail. He might change his mind—

  It rings again, and I realize the phone is on my desk. I lunge for it, swiping to answer before I’ve even read the screen. “Tom?”

  “Hello! This is an automatic call from—”

  I end the call and shove my phone back into my purse. I can’t stay here. I have to do something to beat back the grief and rage twisting inside me before it makes me crazy. Plus, Mom and Dad could come home from work any minute, and I am not ready to talk to them about Stanford. Or anything else, for that matter.

  I grab my phone and purse and head back out to the car.

  • • •

  Shruthi lives at the end of a cul-de-sac just outside downtown Culver City. Like all the houses on her street, Shruthi’s is big and white and sits at the end of a driveway lined with colorful flowers. I ring the doorknob and step back, my hands clasped in front of me. As always, I’m rewarded with the sound of frantic barking and toenails scrambling across hardwood—the signal that Pancake is on her way.

  “Down!” Shruthi says on the other side of the door. “Get down, Pancake. What is wrong with you?”

  There’s a scuffle, and then the door opens. Shruthi appears, one hand on the door, the other holding her giant golden retriever back by the collar. “Oh, it’s you!” she says. “No wonder she’s freaking out.”

  She lets go of Pancake, who immediately jumps all over me. I drop to my knees and hug her furry, wiggly body . . . and burst into tears.

  “Oh my gosh,” Shruthi says, kneeling beside me to rest a hand on my back. “Are you okay? What happened?”

  “I’m—so—sorry,” I choke out, my arms still wrapped around the dog. “I didn’t mean—to—cry—”

  “No one ever means to cry,” Shruthi says, rubbing my back. “It’s okay. Let it out.”

  I sniffle and wipe my eyes, then let Pancake go. She licks my face and runs back into the house, her duty as Welcome Dog complete.

  Shruthi helps me to my feet. “Do you want to come in? We’re cooking—”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” I say, backing away. “I’ll go.”

  “No!” Shuthi says, pulling me inside. “I was just saying that if you come in, my amma will make you help. It’s the family rule—if you’re eating, you’re helping.”

  I’m about to tell her I don’t need to eat, I’ll be fine, when the smell of garlic and onion reaches me. My stomach grumbles. “Are you sure it’s okay if I stay?”

  “Totally,” Shruthi says. “Amma! Jenn is staying for dinner.”

  “Good,” Mrs. Thakur calls from the kitchen. “She can help cook.”

  Shruthi smirks. “Told you.”

  We go into the brightly lit kitchen. Mrs. Thakur is standing at the sink, rinsing what looks like ten to twenty whole chickens. The counters are covered in vegetables, pots of rice soaking in water, tubs of plain yogurt, and small bowls of brightly colored spices. Two steel pots bubble on the stove, their contents covered by heavy lids. “Wow,” I say. “This is a lot of food.”

  “It’s not for tonight,” Mrs. Thakur says, waving hello to me with a wet hand. “Amara is turning seven tomorrow, so we’re having a party.”

  “More like a festival,” Shruthi mumbles beside me. “She’s inviting her entire class, plus their parents.”

  “And my ballet class,” Amara says, appearing in the doorway. “Miss Yasmin said they’re going to perform a special dance for me.”

  Mrs. Thakur holds out one arm, and Amara rushes forward and buries her face in her mother’s side. Shruthi rolls her eyes.

  “You girls go pick the leaves off the coriander,” Mrs. Thakur says, pointing to Shruthi and me. “I’m making dhania chicken for tomorrow.”

  “It’s my favorite,” Amara says.

  “It’s my favorite,” Shruthi corrects. “Not yours. And it’s also a total pain to make. Amma, can’t you make something else? It’ll take forever to prep enough coriander for this many chickens.”


  “When it’s your birthday, you can choose what to make for dinner,” Mrs. Thakur says. “Get to work.”

  Amara sticks out her tongue at her sister, then hides her face in Mrs. Thakur’s robes again. Shruthi sighs and pulls two produce bags from the fridge. “This will get us started.”

  Shruthi grabs two plates and leads me out of the kitchen to the dining room. We sit down next to each other at the table, and Shruthi dumps the contents of a bag onto a plate.

  “Oh,” I say, picking up a thin, leafy stem. “Are coriander and cilantro the same thing?”

  “Yup,” Shruthi says.

  “Cool. I love cilantro.”

  “Prepare to hate it by the time we’re finished. This is going to take forever.”

  We get to work pulling the leaves off the stems and piling them on the plates. Shruthi is right—it takes a long time to get through the bags—but I don’t mind. My mind feels blissfully quiet for the first time since I left the restaurant. I don’t think about Tom, or my parents, or anything really. I just focus on plucking the little green leaves, one at a time.

  The distraction doesn’t last.

  “So,” Shruthi says when we’re halfway through the bag. “Do you want to talk about what happened?”

  I shake my head.

  “Okay,” she says. “You don’t have to.”

  She twists a discarded coriander stem around her finger. Then she lets go, and it springs back. She picks it up again and twists it around her finger a second time. I watch her do this, over and over again. When it springs back for the fifth time, I exhale, and look up at her face.

  “Tom broke up with me,” I say. “He said I don’t listen to him. He wants to take a break.”

  Shruthi twists the stem around her finger again. “A break?”

  “Yes,” I say. “Actually . . . no. He said he didn’t want to call it that. He also didn’t want to put a time limit on it.”

  “Hmm.”

  “And now I’m not sure what I’m going to do.” I pick up a coriander stem and wind it around my finger, just like Shruthi did. Instead of letting it go, I twist it even tighter. “Maybe April’s right. Maybe I should defer a year.”