Love You Hate You Miss You

by Elizabeth Scott

  I felt like I should have been having fun but I knew, deep down, that I never would. Not the way Julia could. I could never just let go. It sucked, but it’s how things were for me. Plus I hated knowing Julia was mad at me. So I left the party and went outside to wait in her car.

  I tripped over someone as I was walking down the porch steps. A guy, sitting there with a mostly full cup of beer by his side. He was staring off into the distance, arms wrapped around his legs. He looked as unhappy as I felt.

  “Sorry,” I said automatically.

  “My fault,” he said, and then, “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, another automatic response, and he said, “Okay,” and stood up. When he did, his hand touched mine, and I felt something, a strange, sudden jolt inside me.

  I used to act annoyed whenever Julia talked about Kevin and how she felt a spark every time he touched her, but the truth was I knew exactly what she meant after that night. I just never told her.

  He must have felt that jolt too because he said, “Oh,” quietly. Almost startled.

  We ended up in the basement, jimmied open a sliding glass door and went inside. It was dark and unfinished, a single bare lightbulb shedding a tiny ring of light onto the sagging sofa we sat on. We didn’t talk much. His name was Patrick. I said, “I’m Amy,” and waited for the usual crap about how he’d seen me around before. Instead he looked at the floor and said, “You hang out with that girl, Julia, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I thought so. I don’t go to many parties.”

  “Yeah? I go to a lot.”

  He nodded and then looked at me. There was something almost frightened in his eyes. It was weird, but it…I don’t know. It made me really look at him, not just as some random guy, but as a person.

  “It’s lonely, don’t you think?” he said, gesturing around the room. It was all bare walls and exposed beams. Even the spiderwebs in the corners of the ceiling were dusty, like they’d been abandoned. One of his fingers brushed against my arm and I felt that spark again. It was like part of me had been asleep until that moment. Like somehow, I’d been waiting for something I hadn’t even known about.

  “It looks safe,” I said, honest like I never was with guys, spinning on that spark, and the fright in his eyes melted into something else, something like understanding. If he’d tried to kiss me then, nothing important would have happened. We would have had sex and that would have been it. But he didn’t try to kiss me. He just leaned over and pushed my hair back with one hand, tucking it behind my ears. Guys did that to Julia all the time because her hair was long and honey-colored, beautiful. Mine is short and the color red leaves are right before they rot.

  “Why did you do that?” I said.

  “I wanted to,” he said, and looked so surprised, like wanting was brand new to him, that I kissed him.

  I’d kissed guys before that, kissed guys after that. They were all the same. They were nothing. But I remember that kiss; the strange rightness of it, the taste of his mouth, shockingly raw without the layers of smoke and alcohol I was used to.

  He touched me like I expected, which was fine, the clumsy peeling away of my clothes and the hitch in his breathing when I tucked my hands in his shirt and pushed it up over his head. It felt better than usual though, touching him and having him touch me, and that made me feel strange. Anxious. But I didn’t pull away. That damn spark, that pull I felt when our hands had touched—it kept me there.

  I’d always picked skinny guys before, guys who were all bones and angles. Guys who were small in my arms, guys I could see around. Patrick was solid, and instead of ribs and shoulder blades, I felt muscle rippling under his skin. It should have felt strange, but it didn’t. I couldn’t even see around him, but I didn’t care. He was rubbing against me, still in his jeans, and it felt so good I couldn’t bring myself to reach for his zipper and move things along. My skin felt too hot and too tight in a way it hadn’t ever before, and I dug my fingernails into his shoulders, unable to really think but somehow sure something was going to happen. And then it did.

  It’s the only time it has, despite what I said to Julia when she got pissed at me after I told her there was no way the orgasms she had with Kevin were worth putting up with walking in on some girl blowing him. She said I’d never understand, and how could I since I only screwed guys who were too stupid to know girls could have them? I had to lie to her then, if only so I could make my point.

  I wish I hadn’t now.

  I wish I could have told her she was right about the guys I picked. I wish I could have told her that having one scared the shit out of me.

  I pushed and then shoved at Patrick till I was free, getting up and throwing on my clothes as I rushed out the door we’d snuck through. I looked back once. I don’t know why I did. He was just sitting there, staring after me, and I saw his bewildered face, the tiny marks I’d left on the tops of his shoulders. I saw him and I wanted to go back.

  I never wanted that, not ever, no matter how much I drank, and so I ran. I ran as fast as I could. I went to Julia’s car, got in and locked the doors. I curled into the backseat, into the dark.

  J found me later, like she always did, and said she was sorry for earlier.

  “What have you been doing?” she said, and I lied to her.

  “Nothing,” I said. “I’ve just been here.”

  I’m sorry about that now. I just didn’t think she’d understand. Sex was always something Julia hoped would lead to more, to really being with someone.

  I never wanted it to lead to anything. I had sex when I was drunk because it was a way to be close to someone without really being close at all. I know what people say about it, the physical and emotional intimacy of sex and whatever, but less than a minute of latex-covered flesh inside me isn’t intimate. It’s not even skin touching skin.

  I don’t know why I’m thinking about this. About Patrick. It happened ages ago and it doesn’t matter. I just feel so awful about this whole stupid day and all my stupid classes, and I have to get up and do it again tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that and—

  I just called Julia’s house. I had to. I didn’t say anything when her mother answered. I couldn’t find the right words, couldn’t find any words, but I guess she knew it was me. She told me she hoped I was proud of myself.

  She said, “How does it feel to know you’ve taken someone’s life?” I don’t know if she meant herself or Julia’s. Maybe she meant both.

  I said, “I’m sorry,” the words finally starting to come, but it was too late. She’d already hung up and I spoke to silence. To no one.

  88 days

  J,

  Things aren’t going back to how they’ve always been at home, and it’s kind of freaking me out. Not “going to take a drink” freaking me out, though I suppose if I knew how to do drama right I’d be doing exactly that. But then I never did know how to do drama, did I? No matter how gone I was, I never confronted my parents or danced on tables. I just slumped onto sofas or chairs at parties and nodded at people or talked to you. I had sex five times—three times in ninth grade, twice last year. (I know what you’re thinking, and yes, I know you know about Patrick now, because I bet you know everything, and yes, I should have told you, but I don’t want to get into that again. Okay?)

  When I first got to Pinewood and had to talk about the things I did while “under the influence,” I got these looks, these “That’s your story? That’s all you did?” looks.

  They went away when I talked about you. What I did.

  The thing at home is that my parents keep talking to me and it’s—well, it’s weird. I don’t know how to talk to them. I alternate between wanting to scream at them for not caring enough to do it sooner and wanting to tell them everything.

  Everything, J. I want to tell them it’s too late and why. I want to tell them I feel lost. I want to tell them how creepy it is to be in classes with the grade-obsessed freaks. It sucks that you had to die
before they realized that maybe they should try talking to their own kid once in a while.

  Let me illustrate the weirdness. This was the conversation I had with my mother yesterday after she drove me home from school:

  Mom: [calling] Amy. [long pause] Honey. (Apparently, she’s trying to get the hang of the endearment thing too.) Where are you? Maybe we should talk about your—oh. You’re in the kitchen.

  Yours Truly: Yeah. Remember, we came in here about five minutes ago? You watched me sit down and said you were going to put your bag away?

  Mom: Of course! I just thought you might have gone up to your room.

  YT: Oh, I can. I mean, I will. Just let me get my stuff and—

  Mom: No, no, stay. [sits down] How was your day?

  YT: Um. Fine.

  Mom: How are your classes?

  YT: Fine.

  Mom: Are you working on homework?

  YT: Yeah.

  Mom: Are you—how is it going? I know it must seem like a lot of work. Not that I don’t think you can’t handle the work, but—

  YT: It’s fine.

  Mom [visibly relieved]: Oh, good. I feel like a snack. Do you want a bologna sandwich? I’m going to have one. [stands up]

  YT: I’m a vegetarian. Have been since I was thirteen.

  Mom: Oh…I didn’t…I’ve seen you pick pepperoni off pizza but I didn’t think it meant anything—I mean, I didn’t realize you were so committed. I think that’s great, really, and—

  YT: Thanks. I’m just going to grab my stuff and go upstairs.

  I did, and the thing is, Mom looked so sad, standing there in the kitchen all alone. Like she…I don’t know. Wanted me to stay and talk to her? But if that was true, why didn’t she just say it? I think you know why she didn’t. She felt bad for the mess she and Dad made. It wasn’t really about me at all.

  But still, J. That look. It made me feel horrible. It made me feel something else too, something that left a bitter taste in my mouth and cramped my hands into fists.

  See, now everything I do is worth noticing. Now the things I do mean something to them. Now, when what I’ve done is all I can see when I look at myself in the mirror.

  Then there’s school. As long as I avoid your locker, it’s okay. Sort of.

  Okay, not really. It sucks. Obviously, I’m not hanging out with the people we used to. Just looking at them makes me think of you and, well, I can’t handle it. Plus…J, they avoid me. I don’t blame them. I wouldn’t talk to any of them after what happened or even at your funeral. I went to Pinewood this summer, not parties. I was there when you died.

  I’m the reason you’re gone.

  So no old friends. And no new ones among my dumb-ass honors classmates either, which, frankly, is fine with me, as I’m not interested in hanging out with people who have poles shoved up their butts. However—and I know you’ll find this amusing—Corn Syrup Caro has actually spoken to me! We were sitting in our groups in English class when someone across the room mentioned your name, and I just…I zoned out or something. Freaked out, I guess. My brain just kinda went pzzzt, and my face got all hot, and it was like I couldn’t hear or think or anything. I was dimly aware of Mel glancing at me and then at Patrick (who, as always, was staring at his desk, though I think he might have looked at me). But Caro actually said something. She said, “Amy, are you okay? Do you need some water or—” but then Beth Emory sneered at me and Corn Syrup shut up. She hasn’t spoken to me since.

  You remember Beth Emory, right? Another middle school nightmare. She’s still exactly the same. Gorgeous, mean, and able to say things that make her friends act like frightened little sheep. Baaaaa. Of course Caro still hangs out with her.

  There is actually one person who does talk to me. It’s that guy, Mel. In English class, when we’re stuck in that stupid group, he’s always asking me questions. “What’s your favorite color?” or “How come you dropped psychology to take environmental science?” Stuff like that. It’s weird, because while he seems to know an awful lot about me—like my schedule, for instance—and is always asking stuff, he doesn’t seem all that interested in the answers. I can’t figure him out, but since I don’t care it works out fine.

  You know what my biggest problem with school is? Lunch. I didn’t expect that. In Pinewood we had to do a lot of role-playing (I know!), and I was always fine with “learning to be by myself.” But at school it’s different. Who sits where, with whom, and why, matters. It matters a lot, and the fact that I don’t have anyone to sit with—well, you know what that makes me.

  There’s a couple of other kids who eat by themselves, but I’m in no mood for a very special episode moment, and even if I was it still wouldn’t be enough to make me sit with the girl who needs to be told to bleach her mustache or the guy who always wears a suit and tie. I suppose he’s making a real fashion statement, but this is high school. You’re not supposed to be real. You’re supposed to be enough like everyone else to get through and out into the waiting world.

  FIVE

  SCHOOL STARTED OFF normally enough; annoying classes, annoying people. The usual. And then came lunch.

  It was the same as always at first. I bought fries and a soda, and then grabbed a seat at the far end of the freshman reject table. The rejects—all pimples and desperation—gawked at me. I heard one of them whisper “Julia,” and thought of her sitting outside my house waiting for me in the morning, drinking coffee from the convenience store and picking the foam cup apart. She always made it “snow” when I got in the car, and for a second it was just like it used to be, me buckling my seat belt, yawning, and her laughing as little pieces of foam fell down on us. I felt my eyes get all prickly hot and stared at my fries.

  Then someone sat down across from me. I was sure it was that fat girl with the mustache, and I know I’m supposed to be kind to my fellow losers, but screw that. I know they look at me and see exactly what I see when I look at them. They see someone who can’t find one person to eat lunch with. They see a loser. That’s what I am. That’s what mustache girl is too, and well, if there’s a reason no one wants to hang out with me…it’s not that hard to figure out why she’s alone too, is it?

  It wasn’t her, though. It was freaking Corn Syrup Caro with a tray full of diet soda and lettuce and her cute little purse. I dropped the fry I was holding.

  “I thought maybe you might want to go over the physics notes from yesterday,” she said. Her face was bright red, and her hands were shaking. I looked around the cafeteria. It took me a second to find her table—it’s on the other side, where the people who have some social standing are allowed to sit. Her friends were giggling, and Beth was eating salad and looking smug. I knew what was going on right away.

  Before Julia, Beth and her dopey band of losers were my “friends,” which meant Beth was always getting mad at me and making me do stuff to prove I was sorry or worse, doing stuff to make me sorry for whatever it was I’d done wrong. In fourth grade she made me sit by myself on the way home from a field trip to the aquarium while she and Caro and Anne Alice put crap in my hair. I still remember feeling Caro rub cupcake into my scalp.

  Today I got to be the crap in Caro’s hair.

  “How long do you have to stay before Beth forgives you?” I asked. Caro’s face got even redder.

  “I’m not—” she said, and looked over at her table. Beth gave her a tight smile and then turned away just enough for me and Caro to see her say something. “I just thought you might want some help catching up.” Over at Beth’s table, everyone laughed again.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.” She tried a smile, failed, and twisted her fork around in her salad really hard, spraying wilted lettuce and carrot into the air. Her face got even redder. I almost felt sorry for her, but then remembered she chose to hang out with someone who treated her like dirt.

  So I said, “Did you have a choice? Like was it me or the nose picker or mustache girl, or am I the ultimate punishment? Talk to the girl whose best
friend is dead and—”

  “No one thinks it’s your fault,” Caro said quickly, too quickly.

  I choked even though there was nothing in my mouth, my throat closing up tight around her words. The room went blurry around me, my vision tunneling, and I pushed away from the table.

  The thing is, I know people know what happened. I do. I know everyone looks at me and sees death scrawled across my skin. It was just weird to have someone finally say it. It hurt a lot more than I thought it would, this weird grinding twist in my chest, like my heart wanted to stop beating but couldn’t. Wouldn’t. I looked over at the mustache girl. She was staring but quickly looked away as our eyes met. Clearly I’d overestimated my social standing.

  “I’m sorry,” Caro said even more quickly. “Don’t go. Please. I have to talk to you for five minutes.”

  I know what Julia would have done. She would have dumped her fries on Caro’s head and walked off. But I looked at her, so miserable and so clearly desperate to make her friend (admittedly, a friend who is pure evil, but still) talk to her again, and I could get that. I mean, I always hated it when Julia was mad at me. So I sat back down.

  She actually talked about physics. I thought we’d sit in silence but I guess Beth told her to talk and Caro figured physics would be easiest or something. The funny thing is, she was happy talking about it. Like, her face lit up, and she was smiling, and when I asked her questions she really started talking. Caro’s a lot smarter—at least about physics—than she lets on because she started talking about stuff we’ve barely touched on in class. Halfway through her explanation of measuring the speed of light we got into a conversation about time travel (I know how it sounds, but it really is kind of interesting) and before I knew it lunch was over. Surprised the hell out of me. Corn Syrup too. The bell rang and her eyes got huge. She looked around for Beth and started to race off. And then she hesitated, just for a second, like we were going to keep talking.