Maxine M.: says the boy to the girl with a susceptibility to ennui
CUSTOMER: ennui. Fancy.
Maxine M.: This is weird, by the way.
CUSTOMER: Which part?
Maxine M.: . . . texting you
CUSTOMER: Yeah, but the whole world is weird so it’s like a double negative. It cancels out.
Maxine M.: That logic is airtight.
CUSTOMER: Waiting for an emoji. I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic.
Maxine M.: Oh I don’t believe in emojis.
CUSTOMER: They aren’t Santa Claus, Max. Emojis exist. They are a reality. Like climate change.
Maxine M.: What I mean is that I’ve taken a principled stance against emojis. Like if there were enamel pins that could support the fight against emojis, I would have five pinned to my jean jacket because enamel pins, unlike emojis, I freaking love.
CUSTOMER: OK, wow, a lot to unpack here. So did you have a traumatic formative experience with an emoji? Is this like a scary clown type thing? Max, are you afraid of emojis?
Maxine M.: I’d rather not say.
CUSTOMER: This is a safe space. I can recommend resources. Start a support group.
Maxine M.: . . .
Maxine M.: . . .
Maxine M.: OK, fine.
Maxine M.: I was dumped via emojis.
CUSTOMER: Serious?
Maxine M.: Dead.
CUSTOMER: It’s settled then. I’m never using emojis again. Out of solidarity to those whom emojis have harmed.
Maxine M.: Thanks.
Maxine M.: Moving on. So . . . are you, you know, worried?
CUSTOMER: Max, worry is my permanent state. I worry about the soccer goal I missed at an away game 3 years ago. I worry about my SAT score. I worry about that one time my voice cracked when I raised my hand in AP Euro. So yeah I guess you could say I’m worried
Maxine M.: Not really what I meant. But anyway. I can’t keep my eyes open.
CUSTOMER: That’s lucky. I can never get mine to shut.
CUSTOMER: Hey, do you mind if I save your number?
Maxine M.: Yes.
CUSTOMER: OK . . .
Maxine M.: I mean no!
Maxine M.: I mean I don’t mind.
Maxine M.: Good night Jonah Stephens
CUSTOMER: Good night
Maxine M.: zzzzzzzzzzz
* * *
• • •
I wake to the sound of my mother’s voice talking loudly into the phone. My Mickey Mouse alarm clock reads 6:00 a.m. and I roll face-first into my pillow. Sir Scratchmo jumps onto my back and begins kneading it, sneezing twice like he’s allergic to me.
My best friend, Dannie, had strong-armed me into a joint New Year’s resolution to start mornings off with “mindful meditation!” and “gratitude journals!”—in my defense, I’d been three glasses of sparkling cider deep—and now the first thing I think when I peel open my eyelids each morning is: How . . . dare . . . you, Dannie. Which, when I told her, she somehow took as a compliment. Like: Thinking of you too, XOXO!
My sleeping laptop trills from the corner of the bed where I fell asleep with it half open. It trills again. Relentless. Sir Scratchmo gets the boot and I wriggle sideways to reach my keyboard, jostling the screen to life.
“Hiya.” My friend Imani’s face pops up the moment I click on the Google video chat. The third side of the Max-Dannie-Imani triangle. Imani and I know each other from way back when we started at the same day care down the road. Then we met Dannie when Mom and I lived at the Crescent Moon Complex circa fourth grade. There was a community pool. Times were simpler.
Imani has a glowing sheen of sweat on her dark brown skin. She’s wearing a sports bra and sipping from a green smoothie. “I had to finish my Zumba video before Sweets starts watching the Today Show, and I knew you had to work, so.” She shrugs like this should be a perfectly good reason to contact someone before sunrise.
I grunt, my chin still smashed into the comforter.
“Oh grouchy Max. You know I love grouchy Max. Not as much as hyper Max but definitely more than in-her-feelings Max.” She uses her hands to weigh the options. “You’re just so cute when you snarl. Grrr. Yeah, like that.”
I pull a blanket over my head.
“Okay, so I came up with a whole quarantine to-do list and I want to run it by you to see what you think.”
“Already?” I peek out from underneath the blanket.
“Yeah. It’s been like two days. Get with the program.” On-screen, Imani flourishes a notebook. “First, learn to knit. Second, Marie Kondo my whole closet. I want to spark major joy over here. Third, train for a marathon, but not if I’ve gotta wear a mask, shoot, I didn’t think of that, and fourth—I’m struggling with a fourth.”
“Read War and Peace.”
“I guess I could, but—”
“Oh my god, I was kidding. I think one through three will keep you plenty busy. It’s not like this will go on for an eternity.”
“I just hate the idea of having nothing to show for this time, you know?”
“Really? Because my only goal is survival.”
“You’re working. That’s so important.” The Athleta store where Imani has a weekend job had announced its closure two days ago. “Speaking of which, could you pretty-please snag some Aleve and fiber gummies for my grandparents?” Imani and her parents have been living with Sweets and Big Paw since two Christmases ago. It’s a long story with a mostly happy ending, but she can’t get away with anything around Sweets, and her apartment’s so crowded that when she comes over here, she’s just excited to get fifteen minutes alone in the bathroom. “Oh and Dannie needs some packs of frozen fruit. She’s scared she’s going to get scurvy by the end of this. I think that’s the thing people get on ships.”
“Done and done.” Technically, I’m not supposed to do any personal shopping while on shift, but who am I kidding? “I better get a move on. You know what they say: Early bird gets the good canned soup.”
“Godspeed. And maybe run a comb through that hair? There’s enough fear in the world right now without you scaring the good citizens of Fountain Valley too.”
I log off and tug at the blinds cord before prying open my sticky window. Sunlight is just starting to seep into the sky and palm fronds rustle in the breeze. On the best days, I can smell the ocean right from my room. Today is one of those days. I poke my head out and take a deep whiff. There’s salt in the air. A skateboarder rolls down the middle of the quiet street below, the low hum of his wheels on asphalt close enough to hear.
Reluctantly, I slide off the mattress and spend the next twenty minutes trying to become human. By the time I’ve washed my hair and brushed my teeth and rubbed lotion into my face, I’m at least not snarling anymore. Openly.
I pour myself a cup of coffee from the half-full pot waiting for me and clutch a mug with both hands, sipping slowly. “Did you sleep?” I ask Mom. My dad left when I was four years old, which, no matter what anybody says, is late enough for me to remember but apparently easy enough for him to forget, because after he took me to Disneyland that one time when I was six, I never heard from him again. The day after Disney, Mom took me to sit by the ocean and said, “See how big the ocean is? That’s how much I love you, which is plenty.” She had a point.
“A couple hours,” she says. “Early shift today?”
“The world is ending. The people need their shaved Brussels sprouts.”
“Be smart out there. You hear me?” She pushes a granola bar into my hand with the same gravity with which she might hand over a loaded weapon, as though granola might protect me. This is the part where I’m supposed to roll my eyes, but even though this might not sound “cool,” I actually like when my mom goes all mama bear on me. It makes me feel lucky. Maybe not a thing you
think to appreciate unless you came close, like we did, to losing everything, even each other.
“I will. Text me if you need anything while I’m out, okay?”
Something triggers: Text. Last night. That guy from the grocery store.
That guy who has a name.
Jonah.
Oh right. So, that happened.
And it wasn’t terrible.
I grab for my phone and see that there’s a new message on-screen, sent at 2:01 a.m. All the better to ignore me by followed by a link to Spotify. My mouth does a little twist.
“Don’t forget these.”
I look up. Mom forks over a plastic bag. In it, hand sanitizer and the Clorox wipes I’d conned Jonah out of. At the door, I push my feet into my worn-out shoes and lace them. I slide on latex gloves. I swipe hair out of my eyes. I put in my AirPods. I hit play on the first song. Listen. Grin. Type.
Oh . . . so you’re *that* guy?
Jonah’s Greatest Cannot-Debate-It *Essential* (get it?) Playlist
7—Catfish and the Bottlemen
Rill Rill—Sleigh Bells
This Year—Mountain Goats
Loving is Easy—Rex Orange County
We are the People—Empire of the World
Ready to Let Go—Cage the Elephant
Making Friends—Joey Cape
Mass Pike—The Get Up Kids
Waiting for the End of the World—Elvis Costello
The Kids Don’t Stand a Chance—Vampire Weekend
Big Jet Plane—Angus and Julia Stone
Such Great Heights—the Postal Services
Maps—Yeah Yeah Yeahs
chapter four
JONAH
A panic attack is the classic chicken vs. egg scenario.
I am having a panic attack because I am afraid of having a panic attack because I had a panic attack last week because . . . it’s the circle of (a miserable) life. My therapist said to stop asking which came first. Just do the steps, Jonah. It doesn’t matter where anxiety starts—only where it ends. Apparently, I get to decide that part.
Of course, I suck at making decisions. So, naturally, I am in my bedroom having a panic attack with my hand on my cell phone ready to call 911 because my heart is pounding and I can’t breathe and maybe this one is it and I am actually dying and . . . It isn’t.
I see it out. I breathe deeply: in through the nose, out longer and slower through the mouth. The attack passes without pressing the call button, or having a heart attack, or whatever the hell else I’m afraid of. The aftermath leaves me feeling like a deflating balloon.
I used to turn to my mom. Warm eyes and an easy calm and that wry smile that pushed the dark away. But these days I turn to, well, me. It’s not quite the same.
I catch sight of myself in the mirror. Bedraggled auburn hair from my own grasping hands, glazed blue eyes, shoulders slumped forward in defeat. I look awful. I feel worse. Every panic attack leads to the slow creep of derealization . . . that numb I’m looking through a screen feeling where there is no past or future or anything but this deeply shitty now. I manage to get to my bed and flop there, staring up at the ceiling. My phone was pinging a couple times through the attack, and I finally check my messages. It’s my best friend: the enigmatic Carlos F. Santi.
P.S. He actually writes Carlos F. Santi for everything and even introduces himself that way, so I just gave up and went with it.
Carlos F. Santi: DUDE I am so bored come hang out
Carlos F. Santi: At least play COD with me. I have gossip. I won’t tell unless you play
Carlos F. Santi: OK fine Emerson messaged me today. Like . . . now you want to talk?!
I sigh. He’s been trying to get me to hang out for days now, but Kate keeps giving me a hard no. And to be honest, I would be worried anyway for Olivia’s sake.
Carlos and I talk about fifty times a day—most of it involves his ever-changing love life—but it feels weird not to see him. He’s clearly having a hard time with all this too. I’m about to message him back when I hear the familiar ominous clacking of heels outside my doorway.
“You look like hell.” The Wicked Witch of the Wills is wearing a striped gray pantsuit, even though she is working from home. Her ponytail is pulled back in that Maleficent look, which matches nicely with her crimson lipstick and cold, dead eyes. No wonder her clients just sign shit and leave. I know I sound awful, but like, she broke a dude’s nose doing Muay Thai. She could kill me on a whim.
“I know,” I mutter.
“Do we need to make a virtual appointment—”
“Yes.”
My biweekly appointments have been put on hold, of course, but Dr. Syme is apparently opening up some Zoom calls. He already says I space out a lot during regular sessions, so this should go well. In fairness, things have gotten better in the last two years. After . . . Mom, I was spiraling hard. Panic attacks twice a day. Not sleeping. Not eating. This, by comparison, is an improvement.
She nods. “Good. I’ll set one up. Are you doing your breathing exercises—”
“Yes.”
“Hmm.” Kate examines the room. “You know, Charla can’t come for a while. You’ll have to clean this place yourself. No more towel swans and throw pillow roses.”
“I’ll survive.”
“We all have hard times,” she said. “When I lost my husband—”
“Didn’t you divorce him because he wanted to be a surfer?”
She nods unabashedly. “We met in law school. He changed.”
“What’s the point of this anecdote?”
“I was sad. But I picked myself up, got back to work, and look at me now.”
I glance at her. “You want me to wear pantsuits and feed on old people’s souls?”
“You’re impossible.” She pauses. “Your father didn’t catch his flight today. Has to wait it out . . . A few people at the firm tested positive. He’s stuck in the hotel. He’ll call later.”
I sit upright, snapping back to reality. “How long until he can leave—”
“I don’t know. He has to monitor for symptoms. Spain has a lot more cases than we do.”
“Can’t he just get on a plane anyway and—”
“No. I’ll book the next available appointment. Have a shower, Jonah. You stink.”
Then she’s gone, mercifully, leaving me to wallow in brand-new anxieties about my father. And my stench. I run my hands down my face, pulling my bottom lip with them. I really do need a shower and a distraction. Kate is evil. Max has gone radio-silent.
* * *
• • •
That leaves only one other woman in my life.
I watch helplessly as Olivia completes her dominion in Settlers of Catan. She gave me a free choice of games in an attempt to level the playing field—UNO was a complete disaster—and then still kicked my ass. This is supposed to be my specialty too. I beat Carlos in like twenty-five minutes when we played. Granted, he thought it was called Settlers of Canada even after the game was over and questioned the inclusion of deserts, but still.
“Well, that was fun,” Olivia says. “You almost had me. Napping, I mean.”
“I thought you’ve never played this game,” I mutter.
“I haven’t. I am simply superior in every facet of life. Including settling.”
“That is true,” I agree, eyeing her. “You were born to be quarantined.”
She’s in her petrified bathrobe again. Her hair has become a chaotic, possibly sentient mass atop her head, and she has abandoned all pretenses of teeth-brushing, semi-regular bathing, and socks. The last one troubles me the most, since she puts her feet up on the coffee table where I eat lunch. I make a note to give it a thorough Lysol wiping.
Olivia snorts and goes to the fridge. “Pretty much. Though Crohn’s at twelve really
sealed the deal. Trust me, there are worse fates than staying home.”
“Are we out of anything?” I ask as she paws through the fridge.
“Here we go,” she groans. “I don’t know. Yes, I suppose. We could use milk.”
“Milk, huh . . .”
“If you’re debating whether calling your crush to deliver you milk in the midst of a pandemic is a questionable romantic gesture, then the answer is yes. Thoroughly . . . yes.”
“It’s been two days since I’ve seen her. She . . . didn’t message me back yesterday.”
Olivia sits back down with a glass of water and a stack of chocolate chip cookies. It’s nine a.m. “Where did you leave off?” she asks, sounding deeply bored already.
I pause. “Well, I sent her a playlist—”
“Oh, god. Did any of the songs include the words crush, love, longing—”
“Only in passing,” I murmur, burying my head in my hands. “I liked the songs.”
“Well, you’re all in now. You might as well propose.”
“What do I do, Olivia?” I look up at her. “Save me from myself.”
Olivia curls one wayward strand of hair around her finger. “Well, considering I have self-respect, I would dig a deep hole and hide in it. Of course, you, on the other hand, don’t. So do something romantic. Get her here in a way that doesn’t scream Where is my liver pâté? And by here, I mean outside, ye of always questionable judgment.”
“Hmm.”
“Think while you clean the board, serf.”
“You know, I’m astounded you don’t have a significant other.”
“Me too,” Olivia agrees, downing her water in one gulp. “I’m such a treasure.”
I ponder that for a moment. “Do you like scavenger hunts?”
“I’m not ten years old, so no. Let me guess: You did one of those for Ashley.”
“Okay, ow.”
“It probably sent her running to that goalie. Save me, Adam. Ha!”
I stand up, mind racing now. “This could work.”
“I’m embarrassed for you already.”
Hello (From Here) Page 3
