Together, Apart

by Erin A. Craig

  I realize too late what I’m saying, and I feel my face go hot with embarrassment.

  Oscar runs over and nibbles at my foot as if to say the same thing I’m thinking: Great going, genius. This is why you don’t have any friends. But I take a deep breath and remember what Arthur said about fighting the pits.

  Oftentimes it takes a fight.

  “I’ve got to go,” she says.

  “Wait,” I say. There’s no way I can leave this conversation having just admitted to her that I think she’s…wel …a view worth marveling at on a clear

  day. God, I cringe at how that sounds. Like bootleg Shakespeare. “Just going to leave without tel ing me your name?”

  “Names are for people you plan to see again,” she says. This girl is pure ice inside. But it intrigues me, so I keep on. I’ve got nothing to lose. She already thinks I have horrible taste in pets and zero poetic talent. Besides, I’ve got al afternoon.

  “Or for people you hope to see again,” I say.

  Nice, I think. This time, her cheeks go pink, and I smile triumphantly.

  She frowns, rol s her eyes. “Bil ie,” she says. “Yes, I’m sure it can be a girl’s name. In fact, it’s the name of the girl you could learn from in the gardening department. You know, because she reads books.”

  “Only if she promises to teach me,” I say. I’m not sure where this confidence is coming from, but I’m eating it up. My heart is pounding, but I’m having fun! Maybe this is what my extrovert friends have been talking about al this time. This “socializing” stuff.

  “This girl doesn’t make promises,” she says, looking me up and down.

  “Especial y to a nameless kid she just met.”

  “Bastian,” I say, “Short for Sebastian. Spel it B-A-S-T-I-A-N, but pronounce it however, I’m used to it by now. Pronouns are he and him.

  Aquarius sun, Cancer moon, Sagittarius rising—”

  “Bastian,” she says, cutting me off. “Cool. Stil , no promises.”

  “Come on,” I beg. “What if I just want to learn? What if I want to learn how to cook with these because I’m tired of takeout?”

  “Count yourself lucky,” she says, straightening and folding her arms. “We don’t eat it unless we cook it in this house.”

  “Damn,” I say. That’s dedication. Must mean her parents are home al the time, then. “Do your parents work?”

  “Course,” she scoffs, wrinkling her nose, “We al cook over here, not just my parents. Wai— Why am I stil out here answering your questions?” She grabs the window to close it again.

  “Because we’re both quarantined,” I say, “and bored, stuck at home, with nothing to do but kil time.”

  “Some of us stil have responsibilities,” she says.

  “Like what, vacuuming? Takes five minutes.” I shrug. “Come on, my therapist said I should work on making new friends. You know how hard that is to do in lockdown?”

  “You could start by not letting your dog bark at al hours of the night.

  Y’lose more friends that way.”

  “Quicker than hucking cats through people’s windows?” I say with a laugh. I fold my arms, awkwardly because my arm is stil stuck in an L shape.

  “Hey, that’s a low blow. I apologized for Ruby’s behavior…and I didn’t huck her.”

  “I’m kidding,” I say. “But that joke was in poor taste. Look, why don’t we just start over, huh? I’m sorry for my dog barking so loud over here, and you’re sorry for your cat jumping through my window. Fair?”

  “You stil suck at gardening,” she says. I’d assume it’s playful but her mouth is completely flat.

  “How do you know?” I launch back. I look down at my plants, which I just planted a week ago. “They look fine! Bright green and lush and happy!”

  “Just look at your planter box,” she says, motioning to it with her chin,

  “with your ‘light-skinned soil-havin’ ass.”

  “Oh, and you can do better?” I ask.

  “You said I could do better.” Oh no, the head wag is out now.

  “Did I say you could do better, or did I say they look ready for harvest?”

  If al else fails in an argument, you can always catch them on a technicality.

  “How would you know they’re ready for harvest if you don’t even cook?”

  “You own a cat. Your apartment probably smel s like cat. How do you know they’re ready for harvest if you can’t even smel them?”

  “Ruby doesn’t smel ,” she growls, but she’s wearing a trace of a smile.

  “Besides, you have a dog. How do you smel anything?”

  “My dog doesn’t pee in the house like a cat!” I tease.

  “Wel , maybe if he did, you wouldn’t have to risk your life out here taking him to do his business.”

  “Actual y, my mom takes him for most of the day,” I say. I can’t help my voice getting a bit softer and sadder. “She…drives. People. For money. You know. She, uh…got laid off, so this is an in-between thing for her.”

  There’s silence between us, and I can’t decide if Bil ie—so weird that I know her name now!—is processing what I’ve said or judging me for it. But then she sighs and leans back on the sil again, twiddling her thumbs nervously.

  “That sounds dangerous,” she says, her voice now calm and soothing, like a healing salve. “Being out like that al day. With the virus and al .”

  “Yeah,” I admit, letting my deep desire to brighten the mood a bit take over. “What about your mom? You said she’s out al day too. What’s she do?”

  “She’s an EMT. So she’s out al day, especial y now.”

  “Oh.”

  Definitely didn’t lighten the mood much. The awkward silence quickly takes over, and I worry I’ve gone and mucked this up, royal y. Who would want to see a kil joy like me again? I turn my eyes down to my little plants, who despite al the things they must overhear out of me at their place at the windowsil , stil don’t judge me. I tried, Mrs. Rosemary, I think. But then I hear it. Her voice again.

  “Tel you what,” she says, straightening again. “Since you’re right, and I don’t have much to do up here, I’l cut you a deal. You have twenty-four hours to prove you’re a better gardener than me by giving me something that you make with them, and I likewise. We’l have to get creative, with quarantine and al , but if you’re real y deserving of the ‘master gardener’ title, you’l find a way. If I win, you keep your dog quiet, by any means necessary. Training, or even a muzzle.”

  “Ouch,” I say, wincing in emotional pain. “Just gonna muzzle my best friend like that? Just gonna box in his greatness?”

  She nods nonchalantly.

  “As long as I’m boxed in across the al ey.”

  “And if I win?” I ask, my heart pounding, wondering what she’l say.

  She sighs.

  “What are you hoping for?” she asks. “Help with homework?”

  “Would you, uh…” I balance al my weight on one foot nervously.

  “Would you think less of me if I asked for your number?”

  A car horn beeps just as I say the word number, and I worry she didn’t hear me right. But then I see red creep into her face, and she doesn’t seem to notice her cat walking under her arm and out onto the planter box until it’s too late. Reflexively, she grabs at the bal of fluff with claws, just as one of her back paws scoops out a shower of soil and sends it plummeting to the ground.

  “Ruby!” she hol ers, pul ing the cat back through the window despite her incessant meowing. “You know better!”

  When Bil ie pops back through the window again, she takes a long, deep breath.

  “Deal.”

  “Deal?!” I ask happily, hoping I didn’t sound thirsty. But the smile she gives me tel s me she knows I’m walking the line.

  “I said what I said, so now we’re even.” She smirks. “Almost. Matilda.”

  Matilda?

  “What?” I ask in confusion.

  “Bil ie is short for Mati
lda. Now you know my real name like I know yours.”

  I smile, glancing up at the sky and realizing it’s getting hazy and warm orange behind the purple clouds. Sunset wil be here soon.

  “Does that mean you want to see me again?”

  “Don’t push it, Sebastian.” She smiles, leaning back into her apartment and shutting her window. Is it just me, or do her eyes linger on me for just a little longer than I expected before she draws the curtains?

  “Yes!” I cry, turning and bolting for my door, sprinting barefoot past Oscar, who’s wagging his tail and bouncing around, freaking out, understandably. I scoop him up and let him lick my face.

  “Oscar, you gotta help me, boy! We’ve got a gardening contest to win!

  Mom!” I hol er out to the living room as I hear her keys jingle. Oscar runs to greet her, but I dart down the hal toward the bathroom. “Where is the beeswax?”

  “What?” I hear her yel back as I rummage through cabinets of half-empty shampoo bottles and drawers of molds and bottles of oil.

  “Where’s the beeswax?” I hol er louder.

  “Top cabinet!”

  “Thanks!”

  I’ve got something wonderful to make.

  BILLIE VS. LASAGNA

  Okay, he may be a little forward, and a little rough around the edges, but when I heard that he has to eat takeout every night…like, every night?

  Nobody deserves that. He potential y has never had a homemade lasagna. Just the ready-bake frozen stuff with the wood pulp cheese.

  I have to help.

  Besides, this is a nice first way to use my new herbs—al of them. In fact, I’l make a chicken lasagna, which pairs nicely with the tarragon. I can always garnish with parsley and cilantro, and I’m currently mashing up the basil in my mortar, grinding the pestle against the stone, smearing green along the inside and pressing fragrant scents into the air.

  Normal y, pesto should sit overnight to let the flavors marry and the olive oil to turn green with basily essence, but if he—Bastian—thinks I’m about to lose a twenty-four-hour chal enge over some pity, he’s sorely mistaken. Not pity, that’s the wrong word. Compassion? That sounds better.

  Ruby rubs up on my ankle and meows.

  “Come on, Rubles, it’s not like that,” I insist, tucking a loose curl that slipped out of my puff behind my ear. “He’s just a nice kid who deserves some homemade lasagna.”

  A nice kid who wants your number, comes a voice in my head that I do not welcome.

  I sigh and rol up my sleeves, because this is hard work.

  Okay, fine. A nice kid who wants my number. But I won’t have to give it to him if I can just focus on folding this pesto into this shredded chicken, and this mascarpone into these eggs, and layering these pasta sheets between them into one large dish for us, and one miniature ceramic dish for him. Rubles

  slinks herself between my legs, weaving in and out like she’s saying she doesn’t believe me.

  “Of course I want to win, Rubles. Don’t be ridiculous,” I say. But I keep glancing at the open window, relieved he can’t see this far into my apartment so I can cook al of this without an audience, and not real y caring if I win or lose. Heat creeps into my cheeks as it sinks in al over again that a nice kid who may not have ever had homemade lasagna…

  …wants my number.

  BASTIAN VS. HAND BUTTER

  “Oscar, come on,” I chide. “Out of the way, this pot is heavy.”

  And it is, especial y since I’m carrying it with only my uncasted arm. It’s ful of melted cocoa butter and shea butter, after al , which feels like liquid lead. I set it down on the kitchen table in a way that I hope is gentle. It’s not.

  Liquid butter sloshes out of the top and splatters onto the table.

  “Oh god,” I breathe, slinging newspapers and a sweatshirt I left lying around al over it to wipe it up before it dries and turns into something as stubborn to remove as candle wax. I check my phone time. Four hours left til five p.m., which is the twenty-four-hour deadline. I ladle the butters into the little round flower molds and sprinkle the herbs over the top.

  The lavender—my favorite scent—won’t be ready for another few weeks.

  But the others—the sage, the rosemary, and the oregano—are al fragrant and ready to be turned into soap. Or, in this case, bath melts. I gently stir a plastic spoon through the mostly clear liquid, pushing some of the herbs deeper down to distribute the scent evenly.

  Oscar lets out a long whine that I can actual y hear through the torrent of drums pounding through my headphones, and I slip them off my head and around my shoulders.

  “What’s up, kiddo?” I ask him. But then I hear what he’s freaking out about. A high-pitched, screaming beeping sound like a smoke detector.

  Except it’s not ours. In fact, it sounds like it’s coming from outside. Out of curiosity, I set the spoon back in the bowl and make my way over to the window, cracking it open to the incessant beeping that’s amplified to an unignorable level. I look across the al ey to Bil ie’s window. She’s nowhere to be seen, at first, but the lights are clearly on. Then, suddenly, Bil ie appears behind the glass in a flash and flings open the window, releasing a gentle haze of smoke out into the evening air.

  “You okay?” I cal up to her, but I don’t think she hears me, because she immediately turns to address whatever’s burning in there. Oscar looks up at me from the cushion to my left.

  “It’s okay, buddy,” I say, fluffing his fur. “I’m sure she’s fine, whatever she’s making in there.”

  But as I turn to leave, Oscar barks at me, beckoning me back to the window.

  “What, you want me to just stare up there like a weirdo? She already caught me staring before. I don’t want to make her uncomfortable.”

  He barks again.

  “Of course a dog would tel me to do that. Y’al be sniffin’ each other’s butts and stuff.”

  He whines.

  “You know I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just a fact, okay? I’m sure she’s fine. Besides, I’ve gotta get these in the fridge so they can set.”

  I take the pan and slide it into the fridge, realizing that I never figured out a way to get this to her. With the pandemic, this is feeling a little implausible.

  Couldn’t we have just met at the window at five and waxed poetic about how wonderful our own concoctions are?

  Nah, I think, not my style.

  Pandemic or not, quarantine or not, I’ve got to find a way to get this to her.

  In person.

  BILLIE VS. THE SWAP

  I knew I should’ve taken up juggling instead.

  This gardening hobby got me creeping out the front door of our apartment cradling a baking dish of lasagna under my arm like a masked, hooded Black Santa Claus, just so I can prove I’m the better gardener, which should be obvious at this point. I’ve spent three weeks reading books on soil types, ideal sunlight and water conditions, and everything else a good plant parent should do. I’ve got this.

  I sanitized the outside of the container, lid and al , so I smel like sanitizer and tomato sauce. But the air out here smel s fresh and clear. On days like today, I’m glad I live in the Pacific Northwest, surrounded by mountains and trees in the distance, which share their fresh air with us, even deep in the city. I turn and walk to the next building over—the complex where Bastian lives.

  “Hi,” I say to the front desk woman, who’s wearing a mask and surrounded by al kinds of sanitation wipes, sprays, cloths, extra masks, and hand sanitizer. Without a word, she picks up the latter and holds it out to me.

  Since I’m holding the tray of lasagna, I set it gently on the counter and use the sanitizer, even though I’m going back out the front door in about twenty seconds.

  “I, um,” I begin. How do I explain that I’m leaving this lasagna for a resident whose apartment number I don’t know, whose last name I don’t know, and who I’ve technical y never met in person? I clear my throat and try to organize my thoughts. “I made this for
a resident—”

  “Name?”

  “Bil ie,” I answer, and then realize she may be asking for his name. “Oh, uh, his name is Bastian. Sebastian.”

  She looks up at me now, her blue eyes weighed down by her dark, thick eyebrows. “The takeout kid.”

  A pang of sadness and shock hits me. The takeout kid? Does she commonly refer to residents by how much food they have to order because they may not know how to cook for themselves?

  “Yeah,” I say, unable to hide my disgust.

  “He’s been a bit quiet lately. Thought he mighta got the virus.”

  My heart skips. What a cal ous, cruel thing to say. This virus may be everywhere, but Mom comes home with horror stories of the symptoms every day. Visions of ever-weakening patients with lung lacerations dance in my head, and I swal ow at the thought of Bastian joining them. I begin to wonder if I’ve sanitized the baking dish enough.

  “Could I have one of your wipes, please?” I ask. She hands me the wipes, and once I’ve resanitized the dish—lid, underside, and especial y the handles

  —I toss the wipe in the trash and nod goodbye to the attendant.

  “It’s hot, so if you have any way to cal him down…I just don’t want it to get cold.”

  And just like that, I realize he’s gone from being “the boy next door with the obnoxiously loud dog” to “the boy next door who I’d venture outside for during quarantine, just to make sure he has a hot home-cooked meal.”

  And the fact that my chest is pounding as I ascend the stairs back to my own apartment, and that I’m running through the list of ingredients I used—

  did I add enough salt? Did I garnish with too much cilantro? Did I let the mozzarel a on top brown enough? As if I haven’t made homemade lasagna a thousand times—tel s me…something.

  Something’s changed.

  BASTIAN VS. THE GAP

  I forgot the apartment building next door is the fancy one—the one you need a passcode to get into just to speak to the front desk. So here I am, walking back to my own complex with these sloppily molded hand butter melts in this ugly paper bag, wondering how in the world I’m going to get them to her. I check my phone and realize I have fourteen minutes to get these into her apartment before I lose the contest. And then, why would she give me her number?