I'll Be Here (6 page)

“Not alright with
me
.”  My voice comes out sharper than I intended and mom looks hurt.  Jake’s eyes widen a fraction but he smothers the awkward moment by asking Aaron to explain why he doesn’t want to see his friend Jonathan at school.  Apparently they had an argument on the playground yesterday about who crossed the monkey bars the fastest.  Oh, to have the problems of a four year old!

Mom’s face is carefully blank when she asks me if I want to pack a lunch or buy.

“Umm.  I’ll just take a granola bar and get a soda at school or something.”

She purses her lips to keep from making a comment about my poor nutritional choices and starts to go over the schedule.  This is part of the daily routine.  Jake has some major funding meeting that might run late so we’ll need to come up with something easy for dinner.  Jake is a marine biologist and he’s been working for six months to get funding for a conservation project that will focus on a mollusk that no one’s ever heard of but really should care about because it’s a member of an ecosystem that is delicately balanced and constantly under siege.  It’s grueling work. 

“Don’t forget that I’m working this afternoon so I won’t be home until after six.”

Mom looks at me like I’ve spouted two heads.  “You already worked Saturday so why don’t you ask for the day off?  I’m sure that Patty will understand under the circumstances.”

“I’m not skipping out on work because of a break-up.  That’s too pathetic even for me.”

Mom looks to Jake for support but he wisely keeps his face neutral.  “Willow…”

“I’m fine.”

“But—”

I say it again slowly.  “I’m fiiiiiine.”

She looks like she wants to fight me on this but she bites her bottom lip and continues to talk about the daily schedule and who is going to get Aaron from school.  Good.  It’s not like I’m an invalid.  And I
am
fine.  

I’m starting to believe it myself.

The feeling of okayness comes and goes on the way to school, sloshing around my belly like room temperature jello trying to congeal into something solid.  It’s not
Dustin
I tell myself as I make a left into the school parking lot.  It’s the
knowing
.  The feeling of knowing where to go.  Of knowing what to do.  Of knowing who to be.  Of knowing that I’m real.  Of being
connected.

I’m fine.

Northridge High School is a small town unto itself.  About ten years ago, the county rezoned the local school districts and some of the fancier neighborhoods got zoned for Point High, which was basically a collection of rundown buildings masquerading as a school.  A collective of influential citizens put up a fight and the superintendent of schools realized that he would have to readjust the district lines or forfeit his job but he was afraid to come off as an elitist for sending the poorer neighborhoods back to Point High so he came up with an alternative plan.  Point High was condemned and both Northridge High and Bayview High were expanded. 

Everyone to the north of Salvo Boulevard was sent to Bayview and everyone to the south of Salvo was sent to Northridge.  The geographical irony of the name was not lost on the populace and there was a push at the same time as the rezoning to change the name of the school.  This argument polarized the community for a second time in as many months. 
Yes
, Northridge was located in the south end of town. 
But
, Northridge had been Northridge for as long as anyone could remember and that apparently meant something to a lot of people.  It came down to dollars in the end.  The Cougar booster club did not like the sound of the “Southridge Cougars,” and the booster club traditionally bought the team jerseys so the name stayed and about four hundred and eighty transplanted students were newly minted as Northridge Cougars.

The black and gold school logo dangles from a tag on my rearview mirror.  There are still ten minutes until the bell rings but the parking lot is already packed.  I have to maneuver my silver Honda between two large SUVs and park on the gravel extension that abuts the baseball field.  Out of habit I scan the sea of parked cars for Dustin’s Beemer.  It’s hard to miss.  I catch a glimpse of it on the opposite side of the lot almost as far from my car as possible.  Taylor’s sports car is parked beside it.  My stomach flips, but I remind myself that I only have one class with him—something that we complained about at the beginning of the semester.  If I face front in calculus and don’t let my eyes drift too much, I can go most of the day without seeing him.  Except for lunch.  Ugh!  What am I going to do at lunch?

I’m fine.

Maybe he’ll come find me before school and tell me that he’s changed my mind. 

The prospect makes my heart race a bit and I pick up speed as I cross the parking lot.  I concentrate all my mental energy the way my mother has showed me and I
will
Dustin to be waiting for me by my locker, his long body relaxed, molded to the cool, hard metal.  I tumble through the glass-paned double-doors, half-expecting to see him smiling impishly, sorry for the mix-up and wanting to fix things. 

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 31
^st
, and Allison is the baby, born at 12:04 on the morning of January 1
^st
.  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 tried 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.