Miss You Love You Hate You Bye

by Abby Sher

  “If that’s what you want…?” Alli asked with a coy smile.

  “Yeah … I mean yes,” Zoe declared.

  “Okay. Well, I did think of some lyrics. Just about, you know, the male hegemony and the urgency of female redemption. Which … I don’t know. Take them or leave them. I can print them out if you want.”

  “Sure,” answered Zoe.

  “Okay, but wait.” Alli addressed me now too. “Dash told us that we should film everything. Even if it’s a rough cut. ‘Film cold, edit hot.’ Or whatever he said.” Alli took off her lavender jacket and threw it on the ground. Underneath, she had on a matching tank top that obviously had a push-up bra built into it. “I know I look totally ratty. But Hank and I are just background noise, really. Zoe, go get the pussycat top for us. I just washed it.”

  “Alli.”

  “Do it.”

  While Zoe went upstairs to try on her costume, Alli took out her phone and propped it on the windowsill next to the discarded lyric sheet before pressing RECORD. Then she turned on another video camera on a tripod in the corner by the washer, which I had somehow missed.

  “Maybe you can be in charge of getting footage from behind?” she asked me. “The more angles we capture, the better.” I handed Alli my phone and she set it up on one of the basement stairs so we could record the backs of our heads, I guess. Then, without further ado, she started swimming around the empty basement—her arms, head, and neck undulating.

  “That’s really … pretty,” I said.

  “Bah,” Alli answered with a leap. “Don’t you dare put this on YouTube or something like that.” The thought had actually never occurred to me. “Hashtag hasbeen,” she added, smiling at me for approval. Or maybe so I could protest. I did neither.

  “If you want to play something hip-hoppy?” she asked, nodding at the keyboard.

  “Sure. Yup.”

  I pressed that trusty hip-hop preset button. Letting that scattered beat eat up the room. Alli started tearing it up now. Lunging and gyrating, waggling her hips and shoulders. Rubbing her hands up and down her torso and shimmying. I didn’t know if I was going to laugh or cry. I had never witnessed anything this fearless and exposing. After what felt like an hour but was probably five minutes, she stopped abruptly.

  “Phew. Guess an old broad can learn new tricks.” She panted. As I fidgeted with more knobs on the keyboard, I heard wild clapping from behind me. Alli and I both turned around.

  On the stairs was Zoe, holding herself inside that same drooping hoodie she had had on before—her arms wound so tightly around her middle it looked like a straitjacket. Only with her bare legs sticking out from the bottom hem and bright pink satin ears on top of her head.

  “Come on, take that thing off,” Alli instructed. She started unzipping Zoe’s sweatshirt.

  “I didn’t know how short the top was,” Zoe whined. “It’s really…”

  Even before she had her arms out, I felt my neck tighten, a chill slashing through me.

  Zoe was so minuscule.

  So drawn and hollow.

  Her rib bones stuck out from under a pink satiny bustier like a rickety stepladder. Her stomach was sunken, leaving her hips to jut out in two stark angles. Worst of all, I saw three more red marks carved into her upper inner biceps. They looked so fresh; they glittered with new blood.

  “Whoa,” Alli said.

  “Yeah,” I echoed. “Whoa.”

  I didn’t know what Alli’s whoa meant, but mine could be translated roughly as:

  What the hell is going on? How is this acceptable in any way?

  Also, Are you just going to let your daughter kill herself? Am I the only one who finds this horrible?

  “It’s too small, right?” Zoe asked. She sounded angry. Without waiting for an answer, she yanked the sweatshirt back from her mom and burrowed inside it. “Forget it. Ugh!”

  “Oh, Zoozoo,” Alli said. “You look beautiful.”

  “Stop, please,” Zoe said in a low monotone.

  “Seriously.” Alli sounded like she was pleading. Maybe she was. “You look…”

  “I said STOP.” Zoe was barking orders now. “Stop standing there staring. We need to rehearse.”

  Alli went to Zoe and took Zoe’s face in her hands. “I get it. I do,” she whispered. “But listen, Zoo, you are gorgeous. I mean it. Inside and out. Am I right, Hank?” Alli asked me over her shoulder.

  I was still too stunned and horrified to speak.

  “Am I right?” Alli urged.

  There was no right answer.

  “Yeah. Yup. You look … gorgeous,” I repeated. “You do.”

  * * *

  And that was the biggest lie I ever told Zoe Grace Hammer.

  Or maybe just the worst one.

  Dear Hank,

  Did you hear about the new emo pizza?

  It cuts itself!

  (“Emo” is how the girls in here talk about someone who’s super-emotional.)

  Can I tell you a really ugly secret?

  The first time I cut myself, I was at your house.

  Sick, right?

  Wait, it gets uglier.

  We were at your place after school because you were fixing my poor excuse for a paper on Animal Farm. I was so embarrassed by how many times I’d misspelled words or forgotten apostrophes. Apostrophe’s? You acted like it was no big deal, but we must have sat at your kitchen table for hours. I felt like the biggest idiot ever.

  Meanwhile, Gus came home, and he was really upset about something, but I told him just wait till life gets actually hard. Then your mom came home, and she started making dinner. It was taco night and she burned the rice. Not that I was ravenous or anything.

  Still, you wouldn’t get up until we’d finished my essay. And when we did, the clock said 6:52. Your mom told us that she was amazed at our dedication and that she’d reheat us some beans and had plenty of chips and guac left. (My mom of course had yet to notice I wasn’t home and my dad was still at work.)

  I said no thank you, like I’d done so many times. You started munching away on dinner and I excused myself to go to the bathroom.

  I really just planned to pee. But I saw your row of pink razors on the shower ledge.

  I’d read about cutting. I’d even seen some girl vlog about it.

  But I didn’t know how awesome it could be until that day.

  The quick pinch.

  The line of blood rising.

  The release.

  It was so quick and effective. I had to laugh. I loved it so much and so immediately. I even thought of telling you about it.

  But then I thought, no. NO. This is just for me. This pain and this blood are only mine. Not Hank’s. Not anyone’s.

  I lifted up my shirt and squeezed my bloated tire of belly fat. Then I used that same razor to make three more neat slices.

  Marking my territory.

  CHAPTER 10

  the student, the teacher, and me

  The weekend forecast called for torrential rain with a chance of hail. Another reason to give thanks that I was not going on Mom and Elan’s campiversary trip.

  “Who knew it was monsoon season in New Jersey?” Elan said, chuckling as I came downstairs at eight o’clock Saturday morning. Elan had probably been up for hours already. He was just rushing in from tying another tarp to his Subaru’s roof rack. He looked like somebody had dumped a bucket of rainwater on his head. Which I wish I’d had the foresight to do, but I can honestly say I didn’t.

  “Oh, hon,” Mom said to him. “It’s okay if we have to postpone, y’know.”

  Honestly, I felt a little bad for her. Mom had never been much of a camper as far as I knew. Currently, she had on so many different rainproof layers that she crackled and creaked as she found me in the doorway to the living room and pulled me in for a hug. “Ooh, Hank. Are we totally crazy?” she asked.

  “Define crazy,” I answered with a starched smile. I knew she didn’t want my real answer.

  “Not at all,” Elan cu
t in. “We can handle it.” He flexed his biceps under his soggy windbreaker, then scratched at his dark beard as if he was a mutt, flicking droplets of water out in every direction.

  “Help!” Mom giggled. Maybe this was their version of foreplay. That was not a thought I wanted to think, and now that I had, I couldn’t unthink it. I headed toward the kitchen to pour myself a cup of coffee.

  “Hold on, Hank!” Elan said, traipsing after me. “It is better to travel well than to arrive,” he drawled in a low voice. Then, to make it extra-weird, he grinned at me.

  “I’m sorry?”

  Elan turned to Mom and said, “Hey, love, did you give her the book?”

  “Oops! I’m sorry, sweets. No, I think it’s still on the dryer downstairs. I was down there folding laundry and then you handed it to me—”

  “No sorrys!” Elan yelped. “It’s A-okay in the hizzay!”

  I did not know what the heck that meant, nor was I willing to ask him for clarification. Mom squeezed my hand and winked at me. Which could have been her way of communicating that she was ensnared in a sham relationship with a hypnotic male cheerleader and needed me to unleash her from his trance. Or, more likely since she was still chuckling softly to herself, it meant she somehow found his whole act charming.

  “Uno momento, my beautiful ladies,” Elan said to me and Mom, backing out of the room with a deep bow. “Actually, now I can stick this stuff in the dryer too.” He planted his feet firmly so he could take off his sodden jacket and sweatshirt. Which in and of itself seemed like a fair move. Only, as he did so, the bottom of his T-shirt rolled up too, revealing a swatch of his belly hair. It was thick and dark. Like a wild boar’s.

  “Okay, that’s enough!” I squeaked instinctively. I slapped a palm over my eyes to shield me from any more nudity. “Have a great trip and see you later bye!” I spun on my heel and tried to flee to the kitchen before any other flesh was exposed.

  “Wait wait wait—please!” Mom pleaded. “He wants to give this to you so badly, Hank. Can you please just wait?”

  It wasn’t fair that Mom was positioning herself on his team. Although I knew it also wasn’t fair that I was making up teams in my head. I stood there, counting to infinity while Elan hightailed it down to the basement. I kept my hands over my eyes, though. I really didn’t want to connect with my mom or have her tell me how excited she was about this trip.

  “Ta-da!” Elan bounded back in with a rectangular package wrapped in turquoise tissue paper.

  “Here,” he said, his eyes bright with hope as he handed it to me. “Your mom said you were taking a yoga class and I just wanted to share my favorite book of Buddhist teachings.”

  Elan hadn’t tried to bribe me in a while. I used to enjoy the occasional coffee card or chocolate bar from him. But now that we were marking three years with this trespasser, I needed to make it painfully clear that his tricks were not magical to me.

  “It’s power yoga,” I clarified. “It’s just part of the new PE requirements at school.”

  “Awesome!” Elan said, undeterred. “I wish I had found yoga earlier in my life, but I guess the student is only ready when the teachings appear. Or maybe it’s the teachings appear when the student is ready? Either way…”

  He pressed the book into my hands, then kept staring at me like I could finish his sentence. I couldn’t though. I couldn’t condone what he was doing, preying on my mother, the young widow. I couldn’t welcome him into my family or my heart, no matter how earnest and kind he was to me. I hated him.

  On cue, Mom tilted her head at me, as if she could hear my thoughts. She thought hate was a vulgar, overused term. So okay, I disliked Elan tremendously. He smelled like tea tree oil and his eyelashes were too long. He believed in mandals and matcha tea and could name every sprout.

  Just to put that in perspective (and give a reality check), my dad smelled like Old Spice and cocktail onions. He drank his coffee black and didn’t like vegetables unless they were hidden under ranch dressing. Not that I was comparing, but I would forever be comparing. And my dad once took me on a piggyback ride that lasted three miles, while Dr. Elan here had a whole section on his Spinal Freedom™ website about not carrying anything over ten pounds on your back. (Not that I’d been snooping on him or anything.) So, for that reason and a thousand others, I could not, would not, in a house with a mouse, on a box, with a fox, here or there or anywhere ever like this man.

  I did accept his book though. And I remembered my manners enough to murmur, “Thanks.”

  Mom and Elan both looked at me with self-satisfied grins. “Well, then,” said Mom. “Wish us luck.” She held her arms out for a hug. But I was pretty sure that would lead to a hug with Elan too, or worse still, a three-way smush, so I backed away from it all.

  “Good luck! Have fun!” I wrapped both arms around that teachable-moments book and then bounded up the stairs to my room as if I had some very important business there. Yes, it was a bit cold and juvenile of me, especially considering that my mom was heading out into an icy, driving rain with nothing but a rubbery raincoat, a hirsute chiropractor, and some freeze-dried tempeh to keep her warm. But then again, my mother had made her own choices and she would have to suffer her own consequences. No one had forced her into the intrepid arms of Elan the Plucky Pioneer.

  I sat on my bed and picked at my toenails until I heard the front door shut. Honestly, my only plan was to try to get another hour or two of sleep. I was more than a little peeved and jealous that Gus was still snoring away in his room, leaving me to be the bon voyage crew. Usually when it rained, I loved just lying on my bed and listening to the drops thrum on the eaves. But as I lay down, it felt like my bed was vibrating. There was some sort of buzzing sound coming from down the hall, as if my house was on top of a giant beehive. I followed the noise, expecting to find a teeming colony of yellow jackets. Instead, it was Gus standing over the bathroom sink. In his hand was a silver wand with chattering blades at the end.

  “What’s happening?” I asked, squinting at him.

  He pressed a switch and the noise stopped. “Sorry, too loud?”

  “I don’t know. What is that?”

  “Electric razor,” he replied.

  “Why?”

  Gus petted his upper lip carefully.

  I tried again. “I mean, where’d it come from?”

  “Elan,” he mumbled.

  “I’m sorry, where?” I knew exactly what he’d said. I just wanted him to have to say it again.

  “Elan,” Gus repeated. A little more audibly this time, but still only looking at the sink drain.

  “Fascinating,” I said. “You guys are pretty tight now, huh?”

  “Um, no,” answered Gus. “I mentioned that I was looking for a razor, so he lent me his last night.”

  I snorted in response. Yes, I knew I was being petty and obnoxious. And yet Elan’s name set off a runaway train of indignant anger inside me. He was the one person I could detest without reservation.

  “What the hell, Gus? Why didn’t you just ask me for help?” I could smell my sour breath as I raged.

  Gus looked like he was going to laugh, but then thought better of it and cleared his throat instead. “Because you don’t have a … beard,” he said carefully.

  “Whatever. Can I at least get in here to brush my teeth please?”

  Before Gus could answer, I pushed past him to the sink and squirted a glob of Crest onto my toothbrush. Then I sawed back and forth viciously, building up a nice froth to complete my rabid-beast look.

  “Those things are really dangerous,” I told him, pointing at the dormant razor. “It’s probably extra-loud because a blade is loose.” Minty bubbles flew and dribbled as I spoke.

  “Really?” Gus’s face was dipping into a worried frown.

  “Yup. Didn’t you hear about all those product recalls? Super-risky. They can blow a fuse and catch fire, or there was some guy who got electrocuted out in Utah, I think.”

  “How do you know so much ab
out electric razors?”

  “Coulda told you that before. If you asked.” I spit a snowball of toothpaste on that last statement and watched it slide through the flecks of Gus’s newly shorn facial hair. They looked like those filaments from Wooly Willy—that game Gus and I played as kids where we had to draw on Willy’s mustache and sideburns using a magnetic pen. We hadn’t played Wooly Willy in eons. Probably never would again. I heard Gus retreat from the bathroom behind me and stomp downstairs.

  A few minutes later, I heard the muffled cries of ghouls and zombies leaking out of the den. RighteousZombieSlayer was Gus’s favorite video game. It involved mazes, machetes, and various forms of the undead. I had no idea how to play, but after two cups of coffee and twenty minutes of reading sad headlines about civil wars and dying coral reefs, I sure felt lonely enough to try. I toasted up two flax-nutmeg-amaranth waffles (courtesy of Dr. Spine) and smothered them with butter before wandering into the Zombie Zone.

  I held out the plate of waffle pucks as a peace offering.

  “You hungry?” I asked.

  “Eh.”

  “I’ll try it if you do.”

  Gus just shrugged. He clearly did not need me to stay.

  “Sorry about before,” I mumbled.

  “Whatevs,” he replied. “S’all good.”

  “Thanks. But I mean…” I wondered who’d taught him to say whatevs and if that was somehow cool in the ninth grade or whether it would get him in trouble. Though it seemed like Gus couldn’t care less what was cool or not. I watched him blow a tuft of hair out of his eyes and reveal a patch of shiny forehead pimples. If that was me, I’d pick at them and then slather on every vanishing cream invented before being seen in public. Gus just seemed to accept that it was part of his adolescence. Or maybe he hadn’t even noticed.

  “Can I sit down with you?” I asked.

  “Sure,” he said. I put the plate down on the coffee table and tried to explain where I was coming from on the whole Elan issue.