Isla and the Happily Ever After (23 page)

The following scene shows him in detention. My skin flushes when I see him hunched over in the back corner of the classroom beside the window overlooking the courtyard with the pigeons.

I
have
been sitting at his desk. I knew it. Somehow, I knew it.

Josh throws himself back into his work. He wants to lose himself in it…and maybe find himself in return. But when St. Clair breaks up with Ellie, St. Clair’s new-found joy with Anna only further cements Josh in solitary misery. And by the time Josh and Rashmi break up, they both know it’s coming, and they’re both ready. They’re exhausted. Too tired to keep fighting. He begins travelling to other countries every weekend – in secret and alone – separating himself from his friends before they can do it to him.

And then it’s summer.
Our
summer.

My heart is hammering as I grab the last stack from the box. On the first page, he’s alone inside Kismet. And then I’m on the second, shouting his name and startling him out of a waking slumber. There’s a dreamlike tone here. It mirrors both how I acted and how he reacted. I cringe at everything I say, but the way he draws me is like a beacon of light.

There’s a flashback to our freshman year, and his brushstrokes become softer. He sees me reading Joann Sfar. He tries to talk to me, but he’s a bumbling idiot. And then
I’m
the one who gives him a crazy look.

The story returns to Kismet. Josh realizes that I’m flirting with him, which he finds puzzling and hilarious. But also pleasing. He walks me to my door and then hurries home to draw me again – the garden-rose-halo illustration – before falling asleep. The next night, he returns to the café and discovers me with Kurt. He curses, drags himself home, and then he’s back in DC, where he spends a miserable summer dreading his senior year.

The last few pages are loose, rough sketches of his first day of school. Hard to follow. His interactions with me are flattering, but the messy panels make it feel less concrete. Like the ideas inside of them are still subject to change.

And then…I’m out of pages. The box is empty.

Chapter twenty-three

I’m filled with too many strong emotions at once. Jealousy. Sadness. Anger. There’s certainly an acknowledgement, though it’s unreasonably begrudging, of the fearlessness it took for him to create this, but the negative thoughts keep shoving their way to the top. They sour the positive. I thought I knew my boyfriend, but it turns out that I had only an out-of-focus snapshot. Now I have the full picture.

Josh had…this entire
life
before me.

How can something so obvious be so shocking?

And Rashmi. I knew she’d be in there, but how could I know
all
of her would be in there? I didn’t want to see her. With Josh. Like that. It’s not fair that I’ve seen it, because I’ll never be able to un-see it.

I kick at my sheets. I’m thinking about rabbits. I’m thinking about too-tall French girls. I’m thinking about Josh thumbing his nose at an education that I’ve chosen to take seriously. It’s never bothered me before. Why is it bothering me now? I toss and turn for hours until I’m jolted awake – out of a restless sleep I didn’t even know I’d succumbed to – by a flying leap. An oddly fuzzy sister is bouncing up and down on my bed.

“Wake up!” Gen bounces the bed harder. “Hattie and I are already dressed and coffee’d. Those balloons won’t make fun of themselves.”

Great. Because this is exactly what today needs. A parade.

Our house is on the wrong side of Broadway to see or hear the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, but it only takes a few minutes to walk someplace where we can witness the grotesque spectacle first-hand. My sisters and I have a tradition of poking around the parade’s outskirts in the early hours of daylight.

My head is throbbing from crying all night long. “I don’t feel well.”

“You have to get up so Maman will stop bugging me about my hair.”

Her orange-red fuzz is about two inches long. It sticks out in a thick sphere around her head. “You look like a corgi,” I say. “Are you growing it back out?” But Gen is rifling through the papers on my bed. I lunge between her and the manuscript.

“Did Josh draw this?”

I snatch at the paper that’s still in her hands. “Give it!”

“Jeez, calm down. I just wanna see.” She extends her arm, holding it as far away from me as she can. “Wow. What
is
all of this?”

“Please.” I’m on the verge of tears.

Gen looks at me, startled. She hands it back slowly. “Sorry.”

“It’s just…it’s private. Don’t tell Hattie, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Seriously. You know how she is.”

“Yes, darling. I
seriously
won’t tell her about your
seriously
weird reaction to something I
seriously
don’t understand.”

I clutch my pillow against my chest. She stares at me for a long time. Finally, she stands and heads for my door. “Five minutes.”

“I’m not going. I don’t feel good.”

“It’s not optional.”

When Gen wants something, it’s impossible to stop her. I know better than to try. I place the manuscript back into the box. I’m careful not to crease the pages – any more than they’re already creased – but I don’t bother putting them in order. I shove the box back into my closet, throw on some clothes, and meet my sisters at the door.

Hattie frowns. “What’s up with you?”

“Leave her alone,” Gen says.

“Your hat clashes with your gloves,” Hattie says to me. “And they look even worse with that coat. Won’t you, like,
die
or something if you don’t look perfect?”

I pull down the woollen hat further over my eyes. Gen links her arm through mine and marches me outside before I can change my mind. Or my outfit. Hattie trudges behind us.

The feeling in New York in the autumn is what you’d expect elsewhere in the spring. Renewal. Locals are happy to be outside again. The subways have cooled, the humid stench of summer has passed. Celebrations and festivals are everywhere. The air is crisp, and its accompanying scarves and boots are a comforting return. I try to appreciate my surroundings. I search for yellow or orange or golden leaves, my own favourite aspect of the season, but the branches are already bare. I’m too late. Everything is dead.

Gen chatters away about her life in Massachusetts while Hattie interjects with colourful commentary. I don’t really pay attention. We cross Columbus, and the streets grow crowded with families and dancers and cheerleaders and police officers. Several marching bands are warming up – there’s a hum of brass, staccato drills on snare drums, and airy scales on woodwinds. The enormous Horton the Elephant balloon peeks out from behind a building, a street ahead, and its trunk is holding a bright pink flower.

“Cheer up,” Gen says to me. “I’ve signed you up to walk the route with them this year.” She points at a group of dancers in blue cowboy chaps and goofy fringed vests.

At least a dozen horrifying clowns in tattered rainbow jumpsuits pop into the drugstore beside us. “Over there,” I say. “They’re looking for you, Gen. They need you.”

“Have you seen those tap-dancing Christmas trees? They asked if you’d swing back around and have a second go with them. You won’t be too tired, right? I mean, I already paid for your tinsel pants.”

“I’m glad you guys didn’t sign me up for anything,” Hattie says. “Because it’s really awesome doing nothing.”

I shoot her an annoyed look. When Gen sees that I’m still not willing to fulfil my usual role as peacekeeper, she steps in. I sink back into myself. Back into the manuscript. I can’t erase this image from my mind: Rashmi, covered in rabbits. The Kermit balloon floats out from behind another building, and I think about rabbits. We get cold and walk home, and I think about rabbits. Maman calls us into the kitchen, and I help her make crescent rolls. Rabbits. I help her set the table. Rabbits. The turkey is carved, the drinks are poured, the toast is made. Rabbits, rabbits, rabbits. The plates are cleared, the mashed potato and gravy remains are scraped into the trash can. My boyfriend loses his virginity, and, oh, who’s that looking on?

It’s a rabbit.

My family parks around the television for a feel-good movie. I’m still thinking about rabbits an hour later, when I hear the faint sound of my phone ringing inside my bedroom. My heart catapults into my throat. I sprint upstairs and barely catch it in time.

“I love you,” Josh says. “Hold on.” There’s laughter and loud voices, and then the sucking sound of a sliding door being shut. “Okay, I’m on a patio. Or a private balcony. Or something. Actually, I don’t know where the hell I am.”

“But you’re at the White House?”

“Yeah.”

Rabbit.

“I know,” he says, when I don’t say anything. “It’s weird. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s not that.”
Rabbit rabbit.
“I’m just tired. It’s been a long day.”

“My mom said I could call you. I’m using her phone again.”

“So, um. How is it?”

“Did you get my package?” he asks over my question. I can practically hear his sweat dripping into the receiver.

“I did. I read it last night. It was great.”

There’s a long, dead pause. “Wow.” His voice is as dull as my delivery. “That didn’t sound convincing even to you, did it?”

“No. I just—” And then I burst into tears, hating myself.

“What’s the matter?” He turns panicked. “What is it? Which part?”

“No. It’s good.” I can’t stop crying.

“Please,” he begs. “Don’t. Listen, I know I was a dick to Rashmi, especially when we fought, but I swear that won’t happen with us. It’s so different with you. I would never be like that with you.” It’s the fastest I’ve ever heard him speak. “I was younger, and I was so much stupider—”

“It wasn’t the fighting. It was…” My tears explode into gut-wrenching sobs. “
The rabbits
.”

“Rabbits?” But his confusion is only momentary. “Oh.
Oh.
”

“Why would you draw those things? Why would you show them to me?”

“I-I didn’t think it would be that big of a deal—”

“You didn’t think it would be a big deal for me to see your ex-girlfriend
naked
? To learn the explicit details of you guys losing your virginity together?”

“I don’t know.” He’s reached a full panic now. “I wrote about it because it happened. And I shared it with you, because I wanted to be honest with you. I wanted to show you everything.
The ugly parts
,
too
, remember?”

“Well. Maybe not everything belongs in a book.”

“I’m sorry. Ohmygod. I’m so sorry, Isla.”

I don’t say anything. It’s unfair, but I’m hurt. I want him to hurt, too.

“Please don’t hang up. What about the end, the part with you? How was that?”

“Yeah, those eight whole pages were fine.” I regret the words the moment they leave my mouth. I’ve never said anything more selfish in my life. It’s not like he’s even had time to draw us yet. It takes for ever to do the kind of work he does. He shared something personal with me, and I threw it in his face.

His silence is terrible.

“I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.” Tears and snot are rolling down my face. “Your book is great, really.”

Josh snorts, but now he’s crying. My guilt quadruples.

“It
is.
It just caught me off guard. I
know
what you draw. I should’ve known what would be in there. We shouldn’t even be talking about this, I should be telling you about all of the parts that I loved—”

“And now you’re apologizing to me, and that’s insane.”

“It’s not!” I clutch my phone harder. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

There’s no reply.

“Hello? Josh?
Hello?
”

“My mom is calling me. Shit. They’re about to serve dessert or something.”

“No!”

“Do you still love me?” His panic rises again. “You didn’t say it when you answered.”

I pull out a handful of tissues from a box. “Of course I do!”

“I can’t believe I have to hang up right now.”

“Don’t go. I love you.”

“I’ll call you back as soon as I can.” And the line goes dead.

Like the sucker I am, I stay beside my phone all night hoping that
soon
means “soon”. It doesn’t. How could I have lashed out at him like that? He trusted me. He bared his soul, and I held it against him. I hate this. I hate that I hurt him. And I hate that I’m still upset about his work, and I
really
hate that I’m gonna have to pretend like I’m not.

I keep the box in my closet, hoping for an out-of-sight, out-of-mind experience, but it’s impossible. It’s the
only
thing on my mind. By Saturday night, I still haven’t heard from him. Fear of my wrongdoing reaches a critical peak. I have to do something. I add a small peace offering to the box and carry it to the Wasserstein residence, using the return address already on the package. The weight of the box is heavy, burdensome. But it still doesn’t take me long to get there.

Their brownstone looks similar to the others on the street – beautiful, old and well kept. They have miniature evergreens and ivy in the window boxes, an American flag hanging from the second storey, an autumn wreath on the door, and a silver filigree mezuzah affixed to the door frame. The curtains are drawn.