I'll Be Here Page 5

  Of course I’m disappointed.

  Of course the only person near my locker is Cade—a junior with an unfortunate lisp and friendly eyes. He smiles as he brushes past me to his first period class.

  I’m fine.

  The mantra repeats itself all morning as I push past faces—a kaleidoscope of beige and brown orbs with their penetrating eyes and tongues that whisper. I am not prepared for the whispering. I had worried about other things but I hadn’t thought about the whispers. It seems strange that the nameless humans that crowd the halls of school would find my life interesting enough to comment on it.

  I want to ignore them but it’s pointless. They break into me and sniff my organs and explore bones, joints, secrets—shining their too-bright lights in corners better left dark and dank. They pull my heart out and hold it in their hands. The blood pumps through arteries; it pours onto the floor and puddles around naked feet.

  I’m fine.

  Pen in hand, I concentrate on the work in front of me and the teachers and papers coming due and I do what I need to do. I determine that if nothing else, I can be studious. Perhaps I am the only senior who cares this late in the year but that’s fine. I’m fine.

  Just after third period, Allison finds me by my locker and puts her hand on the pocket of my backpack. Maybe she can’t bear to touch my skin in case I’m contagious. Her bottom lip sticks out. It’s obscene.

  Now Sabine surges forward and the two girls flank me and they’re all pouty faces and tin voices which is sort of annoying but then again, it’s a relief to feel tethered to something. Someone. Even them. Allison and Sabine are sisters. Twins. Their claim to fame is that they are twins but have two separate birthdays and were actually born in two different years. Sabine is the older of the two, born at 11:38 on the night of December 31st, and Allison is the baby, born at 12:04 on the morning of January 1st. They are both short and curvy with wavy dark hair and round brown eyes.

  Along with Dustin, Taylor and maybe Roland, these are my friends. Or, at least they are my group. They belonged to Dustin first. He grew up with them. All of their parents move in the same circle and are members of the same country club where things like the stock market and wine vintages are common topics of discussion. They grew up going on cruises to Alaska together and sneaking Captain Morgan and orange juice from the mini bar.

  My family vacations generally consist of tents and sleeping bags or my Aunt Delta’s couch, and my mother thinks that belonging to a country club or living in a preplanned housing community is a sure sign of moral depravity.

  Last Halloween it had been suggested (by who I can’t remember) that we girls dress as an ensemble. After much discussion we’d settled on the Spice Girls. Clearly no longer popular, the idea was that we would seem ironic. Allison and Sabine were Ginger and Sporty respectively. This was pre-Hannah and Roland’s girlfriend at the time had long pale blonde hair which meant that she was Baby and Taylor in a dark wig was the clear choice for Posh with her perfect legs and pouty lips. The girls voted me as Scary Spice which I’m still not sure was supposed to mean something or if she was simply the only Spice Girl left.

  So, even though these are Dustin’s friends, they are something to me too. We’ve been in coordinated costumes together and I’m pretty sure that counts for something and maybe adds up to real friendship.

  “How are you?” Sabine asks.

  I try to laugh but it comes out wrong, like a cross between a gasp and a moan. “I’m fine.”

  Allison cocks her head to one side. “Really?”

  Now I try for a smile. “Really. Of course I’m a little sad but I told Taylor on the phone yesterday that I’m going to be okay.”

  The girls share an uncomfortable look between them. Today we have Lunch A and we are walking to the cafeteria. I will not think ahead of this hallway to where I’ll sit or who I’ll look at, or how Dustin will treat me. The cafeteria will be our first encounter since the break-up. Our shared calculus class is after lunch.

  Deep breath.

  Sure, it will be strange—foreign, but we’ll get through it. My shoes make a clicking sound as my feet strike the linoleum floor and the sound fades into a heartbeat as I let my friends wrap me in a cocoon of girl-speak. I can forget that neither of them called or even texted me over the weekend to check up on me. It was a slight, but one that real friends move past.

  My head is starting to unfurl for the first time in days and it’s like a window being opened in a stuffy room. I feel lighter. I try to focus on their words—to the story about Brian dropping his wallet off the dock. I should be laughing. They are laughing. I hear myself make a sound. Maybe that was all right.

  I think of Aaron and his large eyes watching me as I read him a story, and Jake burning all the pancakes a few Saturdays ago, and the time that I dropped my gum in Laney’s hair and we cut it out with kitchen scissors and she had a spiky crest smack dab on the top of her head for months. I’ve noticed that her hair is short now and I wonder if that’s how she got the idea.

  At the swinging door Sabine stops and my arm presses sharply into her back. She turns to me and opens her mouth as if to speak. Her lip gloss catches the florescent light. Later I’ll realize that she is about to warn me, but at the moment there is no need.

  I see them from the door.

  Long smooth legs, plump, ample breasts, cotton candy nail polish.

  They are so close their bodies merge towards their middles.

  He smiles a question.

  She grins an answer.

  He brushes her hair behind her ear and leans in to murmur something. It is secret whisper—the kind that’s just between the two of them. She brings a French fry to her bright pink lips. I think about how much Dustin likes ketchup and suddenly the scene feels wrong.

  Dustin Rant and Taylor Irwin.

  Dustin and Taylor.

  Taylor and Dustin.

  I try it out in my head.

  Moments shudder past.

  My jaw is resting on my knees.

  A softball could fill up my mouth. A whole fist. Two hundred cotton balls. A million black ants.

  It’s like I’m in some sort of parody of high school life and I have a line that I am supposed to speak but I’ve forgotten what it is.

  I’m fine.

  Heads lift. My neck burns with the stares of hundreds of eyes. I look left and right and crash into Dustin’s gaze. His eyes are squinted and his forehead ruffled like he’s embarrassed for me. Or maybe he’s ashamed that he was ever associated with me. Taylor’s stare flickers to mine and her chin pops up with the small gesture of a challenge.

  I die a little.

  Allison is reaching for me but I push her away.

  “I—I—uh—” Clearly there are no right words when this level of embarrassment is breached. Heat spreads outward from my core. It spreads over my skin like water spilled on a glass-topped table.

  I swallow my thundering heart. Its drumbeat thuds against my breastbone with a loud clang. It is so loud that I worry that everyone can hear it even through the clunking metallic noises of people moving through the cafeteria line with their bright orange plastic trays and dangling silverware. I will be famous on television for having the loudest heart in the history of ever.

  Everyone is looking at me. Well—everyone except for the people that are really into their pudding and the weirdos that claim to be above high school drama and refuse to be caught actively taking an interest in it. I almost feel like I’m choking—like my crazy, out-of-control pounding heart is blocking my breathing and clogging up my airway. I do the only thing that I can think of doing in my off-kilter state, slightly psychotic state—I bolt.

  Whenever people agree with me I always feel I must be wrong.

  ~Oscar Wilde

  CHAPTER SIX

  My mom says that I’m slow to react when I’m processing strong emotions. According to her, it took me four and a half months to acknowledge that my father had moved out of our house. She claims that she tr
ied to talk to me about the divorce over and over but I would put my fingers in my ears and hum loudly if she brought it up.

  I was five at the time so I really can’t say my memory of the time is clear, but what I do remember about being five has nothing to do with my parents breaking up. I remember that my uncle came for a visit and took me to watch the annual boat parade and he handed me a huge stick of baby blue cotton candy and let me eat the whole thing.

  I remember that we moved into our loft apartment and I got the room with the circular window and the slanted ceilings that made me think I was living in a doll house.

  I remember that my mother dyed her hair red for a few months and that I had a bright purple bikini with a bow in the center.

  I remember that we roasted marshmallows on a burner on the top of the stove and we used them to make s’mores and that mom let me crawl into her bed if I was scared at night. She would tuck my hair behind my ears and whisper me to sleep.

  I’ve always thought of it as selective memory and in a lot of cases it’s served me well. Two years ago it may have been the only thing that got me through each day. Now I’m wondering if this “selective memory” is the reason I am so blindsided by my boyfriend and my friend hooking up behind my back.

  Honestly, how could I have not known that something was happening between them?

  How did I miss it?

  How long was it going on?

  Who else knew about it?

  After missing lunch and two entire class periods, I am able to pull myself together and come out of the bathroom stall. With the scratchy school paper towels I wipe my face dry and stare into the mirror at my reflection. Great. I look like complete shit.

  The door swings open and Macy Jones walks in with a hall pass dangling from her hand. She stops midstride when she sees me.

  “Are you okay Willow?” She’s whispering even though there’s no one else around.

  I just nod my head as best as I can manage and throw the wadded paper towel that I’ve been clutching into the trash. Macie’s eyes feel like hands on my back as I walk out of the bathroom and down the deserted hall.

  The rest of the afternoon is a blur. I stare vacantly at the board during Spanish and when Mrs. Freeman asks me to explain the answer to number twelve I don’t even know what page of the book we are supposed to be on. I am too preoccupied with the mess in my head.

  I try to remember every time that I ever saw them together. Ever.

  I start a list.

  1. There was the time that Dustin drove her home from school junior year. Taylor’s car had a flat tire and she needed a ride home. Her house was on the way to Dustin’s house. It seemed innocent enough at the time.

  2. Once, when Dustin and I were first dating I found out that their families had gone out to dinner together. They’d shared one of those big tables at a Japanese steak house. It bothered me at the time but Dustin told me that their fathers had a business arrangement and I was acting “clingy and jealous.” I didn’t want to be that girl so I dropped it.

  3. They played tennis occasionally at the club where both of their families were members.

  4. Last summer, the twins let it slip that Taylor and Dustin had kissed in the sixth grade. Apparently, it was just on a dare and nothing came of it and Taylor called him “slobbery.” Still, it irked me.

  5. When we dressed as the Spice Girls for Halloween Dustin had told Taylor that she “looked hot.” He had said the same thing to me so I hadn’t been too annoyed at the time, but looking back, should a good boyfriend say that anyone but his girlfriend looks hot?

  And so on…

  By the time I get to my car in the parking lot, the list reaches to thirty-four. It might as well reach to two hundred.

  The hurt begins to soak in. It seeps through my clothes and chills my skin. I remember the phone conversation I’d had with Taylor. Am I the dumbest girl in the world?

  Of course she didn’t think it mattered whether or not Dustin was with someone else! He was with her!

  I need to talk to Dustin. The idea starts out like a small seed—a tiny black pumpernickel seed on the crust of my brain, but by the time I’ve found a parking spot downtown and locked my car door, it’s sprouted into a full-blown plant. Wait. Is there such a thing as a pumpernickel plant?

  Ack! It doesn’t matter!

  The point is that I have made a decision to be a freaking adult and call Dustin. If you look at all the stories about break-ups it always works about better for both parties when they stay civil and friendly. Look at the cordial and incredible harmony of Demi Moore and Bruce Willis versus say, North Korea and South Korea. I’m guessing that Bruce and Demi didn’t just happen. It’s a matter of communication.

  I swallow hard and pace back and forth between two parking meters going over and over the things that I intend to say. There’s about ten minutes before I need to be to work so I sift through my purse and grasp my phone. My fingers fumble twice, but I take in a large gulp of air and do it. I’m calling.

  The ring is cut off and before Dustin can even muster a “hello” and I can lose my nerve, I launch into my quasi-prepared speech.

  The phrase “love of my life” may in fact cross my lips and yes, that isn’t exactly holding my cards close, but I can’t help it as words nervously spill out of me. Dustin’s completely quiet the entire time, letting me do all the talking and I’m shaky and breathing hard and not sure how to interpret his lack of conversation.

  “Ummm… okay?” I finish.

  “No it’s not okay,” says a voice, decidedly female and un-Dustin like.

  All the air whooshes out of me.

  Oh. My. God.

  It’s Taylor. My friend. My enemy. My frenemy.

  It’s Taylor who answered the phone and it was Taylor that I just bared my heart to and now it’s Taylor that’s saying things that I don’t want to hear. La-la-la. It’s Taylor calling me all kinds of names and warning me to stay the hell away from her boyfriend. The irony is not lost on me but I can’t think of a good retort so I just hang up.

  And then I stand in the center of the sidewalk feeling a bit shell-shocked and disgusted with myself. There’s a sensation like I’m falling and about to take flight all at once. Everything spins.

  With shaking legs, I sit down on the edge of my car’s hood and lean forward to rest my face in the palm of my hands. Should I look for a paper bag to breathe into? Is a panic attack the same as hyperventilating? Where would I even get a paper bag? Mom uses those reusable cloth bags and I’m not sure that will work because I’m not even clear on what the purpose of the paper bag is—it’s just something I’ve seen in movies and on television.

  Some guy who looks like he might be homeless is meandering awkwardly down the sidewalk and he pauses in front of me to ask if I’m okay. He’s got a patch over his eye and he’s wearing a grimy pair of underwear on top of his pants and he’s concerned about me. Lovely.

  If you have to wear a tie on vacation then you’re visiting the wrong kinds of places.

  ~Jake Beagle

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  This morning the conversation with Taylor looms large in my mind as I find a parking space and walk through the main doors. I wait in front of Allison’s locker because on Wednesdays we both have study hall first period and we usually walk to Mrs. Shaffer’s classroom together.

  Today she doesn’t show.

  The reason she gives when I pass her desk is fuzzy—something about an overdue assignment and having to stop at Sabine’s locker to grab a book. For once I recognize an excuse for what it is.

  Sabine and I normally see each other in the hallway after third period but she whisks by me without even waving in my direction. All I get from the masses is a sea of eager stares and deafening sniggers. I’m sure that I hear my name and when I turn there’s a confusion of girl with their hands shielding their whispering mouths.

  So this is what being a leper feels like.

  In less time than it takes a potato to sprout lea
ves I’ve gone from Dustin Rant’s girlfriend to this. This thing that no one wants to talk to or even look at. I probably have barnacles growing from my eyelids.

  The only people that want to have anything to do with me are the hoard of gossips who want me to spill my guts to them so that they can spread more untruths about me around campus. In an unfortunate bout of friskiness I tell Marie Vellar to go “suck it” when she corners me in the bathroom between the stalls and the mirror and asks if Dustin and Taylor and I had ever had a three way. As it turns out, those catty girls are my last link to high school society.

  Taylor doesn’t exactly have a reputation for being easygoing once she starts a “thing” with someone. I don’t know why I’m surprised. I saw this happen to Aubree Tahan junior year. She nicked Taylor’s car in the parking lot and didn’t leave a note. When Taylor found out about it, she practically ruined the girl’s life by spreading a rumor that Aubree had slept with the entire basketball team. Not surprisingly, Aubree opted to spend her senior year at a small private girl’s school on the outskirts of town.

  In Sociology we have to choose partners for an in-class project about stereo-typing and racism. Normally this is the type of thing I don’t even think about. But today my insides tighten as I hesitantly scan the classroom for a savior. He comes in the form of Nate—a lanky black kid with over-large jeans slung low on his hips and slight lisp who nods in my direction and claims the desk closest to mine.

  Nate plays on the basketball team. He’s not a starter but he’s decent. Back in middle school we were required to fulfill a certain number of community service hours and Nate and I worked a beach clean-up together. We shared a trashbag for collecting the garbage and I let him eat the fruit roll-up from my lunch. We haven’t really talked since then but I guess he remembers the fruit roll-up. It was strawberry flavored.