Side Effects May Vary (4 page)

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollinsPublishers

Alice.

Then.

I
was dizzy, my sixth dizzy spell in three weeks. The first had been that day in Luke's car after I'd seen my mom with that man. I thought it was just a reaction to being so overwhelmed, but after the fourth dizzy spell during World History last week, I started to think something might be wrong. But it felt like a dumb thing to go to the doctor for. What was I supposed to say? I saw my mom with some guy, and I've been feeling dizzy ever since? I probably needed more iron or something like that. Then last night I woke up shivering and covered in sweat, and now I didn't know what was wrong.

I sat down on the bench in the locker room. Everyone else had already changed into their school-issued gold shorts and gray T-shirts and left for gym. Closing my eyes, I pulled at the neck of my T-shirt. It felt too close to my throat, like I couldn't breathe.

“You look really tired.”

I recognized that voice. I took one more deep breath before opening my eyes. Celeste stood a few feet away from me, holding her arms to her chest as she tried to find her T-shirt in her gym bag. She wore a black-and-white-striped bra, the straps cutting deep into her shoulders.

“What are you staring at?” She rolled her eyes as she maneuvered, trying to hide her stomach now too. “Is that your thing now? Staring at girls in the locker room?”

Celeste had always been the thickest girl in ballet. When we were in sixth grade, I heard Natalie telling my mom that she had to select a different costume for our entire class because Celeste didn't fit into junior-size anymore and the costumes didn't come in regular adult sizes. It's not like she was fat. She just didn't have a ballet body, and that was something she would never get by practicing. Height and curves, that was Celeste. She would do things like eat lettuce and lemon juice for six weeks and called it a “cleanse.” I wanted to feel bad for her, but she made it so damn hard. She might not have had the body of a dancer, but Celeste was good. When I was still in ballet classes, the solos always came down to me and her. Ballet was different for her than it was for me. Ballet was my life. For her, it was a vehicle. Celeste wanted nothing more than to be a triple threat—dancer, singer, actress—and it killed her that, when it came to dance, I'd always have her beat. She probably thought our competitive rivalry was over when I quit right before freshman year. But then I started dating Luke and it got even worse because Luke wasn't something Celeste could audition for.

“Yeah, I just want you so bad,” I said, my voice monotone. “That's why I have a boyfriend.”

She flinched for a second, but made an effort to act cool as the searched her gym bag for her T-shirt. “You really do look like shit.”

I touched my fingers to my cheeks, warm and clammy. “Luke doesn't seem to mind. What are you doing without your one-girl minion anyway?” I asked, referring to her eternal sidekick Mindi, who was best known for her runner-up beauty pageant titles. The only thing worse than losing was almost winning.

Celeste ignored my question and pulled her T-shirt on over her head. She bit down on her lip for a second before she said, “I heard about your mom.”

I stood up. I wish I hadn't, but it was like a reflex and it was the exact response she was looking for. “What are you talking about?”

She threw her bag into her locker. “That's got to be hard,” she said, “catching your mom with some other guy.”

Luke. Oh my God. I didn't think he'd actually seen anything. I ground my teeth as panic, betrayal, and rage coursed through me. “I don't know what you're talking about. Those batshit cleanses must be going to your head.”

Her lip twitched and she took three steps toward me. We stood nose to nose, a few inches apart. “Really? No idea? I can't even imagine. Skipping school to lose your V-card to your boyfriend only to find that your mom's getting more action than you ever will.” Her lips twisted into a pout and she shrugged. “Rough stuff.”

I hadn't told a single person—not even my dad—about what I'd learned that day. Luke must have seen her. Why would he have told Celeste? I didn't know, but I wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of me asking. “Fuck you, Celeste.”

“No,” she said, “your boyfriend's got that pretty much covered.” She turned and walked off toward the gym.

I sat. Not on the bench, but right there on the floor. Her words hit me like a gunshot, so quick I hadn't noticed it, until the blood had pooled around the wound. It would have been easy to call her a liar, but I didn't see any other way she could have known.

Maybe Celeste was lashing out. Maybe Luke had just told her for the umpteenth time that he was going to break up with me for her. Maybe I'd sent her over the edge or maybe she hated me that much. I wouldn't ever know, but it was in that moment that she and I went from frenemies to mortal enemies. I could believe that Luke was fooling around with other girls. The doubt had already been there. But he was cheating on me with
her.
Her, of all people. And on top of that, he had shared a secret that wasn't even his to share. I wanted to destroy them both, but all I felt was powerless and foolish. A burning sensation spread across my chest as I began to cry.

 

You start high school and it feels new and shiny, but what no one tells you is that the sophomores, juniors, and seniors all have these tricks and games they've been playing for a while now. That's the thing they don't tell you at freshman orientation. And everyone is totally aware of this stuff except for the doe-eyed freshmen. I should have known better than to date Luke. Laurel had warned me, and I should have believed her.

It hurt to know the truth. Not because I loved Luke, but because I was mad at myself for not knowing any better. I had to break up with him and it had to be public. I was going to send a message.

The next morning, he found me at my locker again.

“I'm bored,” I announced, my voice carefully controlled.

“You want to cut out of here early today? Maybe go do something not so boring?” asked Luke, and his eyebrows rose with expectation.

Two days ago I would have thought that he was kind of adorable, but now I thought he looked like a severe case of herpes. I rolled my eyes. “No, Luke, I'm bored.
With us
. We never do anything anymore that doesn't involve the backseat of your car.”

“So we'll grab some dinner on Friday and go to a movie.”

“I don't think you understand,” I said, raising my voice. “I'm more bored with the
you
part of us.”

Luke leaned toward me. “What the hell, Alice?” The words spilled out of his mouth in a rushed whisper. “Are you trying to break up with me?”

“I'm not
trying
to. I
am
breaking up with you.”

Bodies froze all around us, and life felt slow like when you turn a snow globe right side up and everything falls into place again. Onlookers whispered behind us, and a few girls pointed at us. To the side of me, some guys whistled, saying things like, “That's busted.” Another group of girls directly behind Luke smiled, ready to pounce. I hoped Harvey was watching too, but I couldn't risk a glance.

“What are you looking at, homo?” yelled Luke.

I looked over my shoulder to see Tyson—one of the few openly gay students at our school—rushing off in the other direction. I rolled my eyes. “You're such an ass.”

Luke slammed his hand against the locker, catching my eye for a second before glancing over my shoulder once more. “Is it some other guy?”

I wanted to scream at him and tell him of course there weren't any other guys, but all I could think of was Celeste saying,
Rough stuff
. The cheating hurt, but him telling Celeste about my mom was unforgiveable. “Oh, Luke,” I said, “there are plenty of other guys.”

I turned around and walked down the hallway with the eyes of the entire school on me. Without turning back, I lifted my hand and gave a little wave.
Good-bye, Luke
.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollinsPublishers

Harvey.

Then.

T
he roads were a little slick, but they were nothing I couldn't handle. I'd always been a good driver. My mom had hated driving for as long as I could remember. I don't think she ever had to do a lot of driving until she had me.

Mom flipped the radio over to some easy rock station and leaned back into the passenger seat, closing her eyes. Not normal behavior for a mother while her fifteen-year-old son sat behind the wheel of the family car.

Every night after we closed down the studio, I would say, “Hey, Mom, I'll drive home tonight.”

“Ha-ha, Harvey. Get in,” she would reply.

But one night when I was fourteen years old and about halfway through eighth grade, she tossed me the keys and said, “Back roads only. Don't forget, gas is right; brake is left.”

This became our nightly ritual four days a week. Before then, my mom had let me skid around parking lots, but this was the first time I was ever allowed to drive on real streets.

Every night after that, her body seemed to melt into the passenger seat. Once I had a solid handle on the drive to and from the studio, she got in the habit of tilting her head up and closing her eyes the whole way home. Sometimes she was sleeping, other times just relaxing. I think my mom had been waiting a long time for me to be old enough to drive because by driving us home every night, I was fulfilling one of her needs. It wasn't the first time I had felt like that. We'd had this partnership. It was hard not to share responsibilities when it was only the two of us. She didn't talk much about her life before me. It's weird to think that your parents had this whole world and you had nothing to do with it.

When I was four years old, my mom decided it was time for me to learn her craft. This was fine with me, it was. I wasn't like most boys. I had grown up with ballet and even my four-year-old self knew that both boys and girls could be dancers. The problem being: I was horrible at ballet.

Sure, every four-year-old is horrible at ballet, but I was exceptionally tragic. I begged my mom to let me quit. I never took an issue with ballet; it was the me-being-horrible-at-it part that made it unbearable.

A few weeks after my fifth birthday, my mother took me to Mrs. Ferguson's house for my first piano lesson. It wasn't love at first sight, but it wasn't as gruesome as ballet had been. By the time I was eight years old, I was playing piano for a few of the intermediate classes; and most of my after-school time on Tuesdays and Thursdays was spent at Mrs. Ferguson's house. At the age of twelve, my lessons were limited to Sunday mornings, and I spent Monday through Thursday playing the piano for most of my mother's classes. She had always loathed the bulky black stereos usually found in the corners of dance studios, but hiring a pianist would slice right through her budget. My playing the piano for her was sort of like that night when I was fourteen years old and she tossed me the keys. She was waiting for me to be ready.

With just the two of us, we had no other option except to be resourceful, but sometimes I wondered what it would be like to go home after school and watch TV or play video games with Dennis.

“Can I talk to you, Mom?” I asked as we rolled out of the parking lot and toward home. With my driving test coming up in one month at the end of October, I was careful to use my blinkers and look both ways.

“Harvey, you don't have to ask me if we can talk.” She paused. “Of course we can.”

“I'm thinking that maybe when I turn sixteen, I'm going to get an after-school job. I could pay for my car insurance and gas, you know?” I tried my best to sound casual, like it didn't matter either way. But it did matter. Big-time.

“Harvey, you don't really have time for that. I appreciate you wanting to help out, but it's not necessary. We're doing okay. What about piano?” The minute the question left her mouth, she seemed to have answered it herself. “Oh.”

We drove in silence for several minutes before either of us uttered a word.

“I don't really enjoy it, Mom.” I idled at a stoplight, waiting for it to turn green.

“And you've always felt this way?”

“I don't know. I guess I want a break.” The older I got, the more aware I became of time and how I was wasting mine. I didn't want to fill my time with a new hobby—at least not right away. I wanted to fill my time with something that fifteen-year-old Harvey chose to do, not something five-year-old Harvey did because his mother told him to.

I was a pretty decent pianist. I had these long, slender fingers, perfect for playing, and it came naturally to me, but I wasn't a prodigy or anything. If you're going to dedicate your life to something like music, it had to be an all-consuming thing. It had to be the reason your body got out of bed every morning. Maybe it would have been different if I had stumbled upon piano on my own, I didn't know.

I knew this would be hard for her to accept. Mom had always known she would be a ballerina. I wondered if this whole thing would be easier for her if I said I was quitting piano in favor of theater or art or something like that. Maybe she just wanted a talented son, but my talent for the arts was mediocre. Maybe I wanted the chance to find the thing I loved, like she had with ballet. And, yeah, I didn't want to be that guy in high school who hung out at the ballet studio every day after school.

My mom thought for a moment, then said, “You'll get a job when you turn sixteen and have passed the state driving exam. Until then you'll continue playing the piano for classes. I'll cancel your lessons with Mrs. Ferguson.”

I was a little shocked that she had agreed to this so easily. “Thanks, Mom.”

“I'm not your captor, Harvey. We're not a traveling circus. If you're not happy with the piano, then there's no point in you doing it.” I pulled into the parking lot of our apartment complex and she added quietly, “But it would really mean a lot if you continued to help out at recitals.”

I placed my hand on her knee. “Yeah, Mom. I can do that. No problem.”

She was sad, I could tell.

Piano had always tied me to her, almost in the same way ballet tied my mom to Alice. When Alice quit ballet the summer before freshman year, my mom was heartbroken. Dancers had this secret language that you couldn't understand unless you were a dancer too. But playing the piano for my mom and Alice let me in on their secret, if only for a moment. The two of them were alike in so many ways. When I played piano for them it felt like I was in on it. Like, for a few minutes, I could be a part of this world that was outside of mine. In that world, though, where I was only a guest, I was their accompaniment. And I was tired of being everyone's damn accessory.

It tied me to my dad too. I couldn't picture what he looked like, but I could picture his fingers—close-trimmed nails, with knobby knuckles, dry with use—and I thought if all I got out of piano was having it in common with my dad, then it was worth it. But he'd left us, so I shouldn't have to stay for him.