One Lonely Degree (6 page)

MY P
aren
TS K
ee
P
the musical chairs game going for three more days. On the fourth, when Dad sits down to dinner across from Mom, I feel like someone walked over my grave. They keep Daniel and me busy talking to cover their tension, but I feel it anyway. I’m relieved when dinner is over, and as I scoop up plates Mom announces that she’s going over to Anna’s house for tea. “Finn and I can handle the cleanup,” Dad offers.

“Actually, I thought Finn might want to come along,” Mom says, raising her eyebrows hopefully as she turns towards me. “You can see your old friend.”

“He’s not really my friend,” I protest. “I barely speak to him.”

“But you were great friends,” Mom says. “You always used to want to come with me when I stopped by Anna’s.”

“That was a long time ago,” Dad tells her, carrying dirty glasses over to the sink. “Just because you want to go doesn’t mean she does, Gloria.” Dad never sides with me when Mom’s involved; he’s
usually the one who tries to stop us from fighting. It’s a small thing, but the change catches me off guard. Things could get worse. Where does it end?

Mom stands in the middle of the kitchen looking defeated. “Anna said you were welcome to come. I didn’t think I was dragging you along—just offering.”

“I didn’t say you were dragging me.” They’re not going to fight over this. I may not have control over many things, but this situation is one of them. “I just don’t want Jersy to think he has to hang out with me if he doesn’t want to. That’s all.”

“Anna already mentioned it to him.” Mom pushes a stray hair back with her palm. “Of course it’s up to you, Finn.”

Dad’s crashing the dirty dishes around in the sink, making more noise than he has to. Daniel’s on his feet, hurrying out of the room before Dad can ask him to dry. Anything I say now will be wrong. “Fine.” I put my hands on my hips and stare at Dad’s rigid back. “Let’s go.”

Five minutes later we’re walking up to the Mikulski house. Mom makes me hold the housewarming gift, ensuring that I feel more awkward than necessary, and rings the doorbell.

“Hi.” The girl standing in the open doorway has cropped white-blond hair and is a few years older than me but miles shorter. Her khaki cargo pants have to be three inches longer than her legs, but everything else is in proportion.

Anna appears in the doorway behind her, opens the door wider, and motions for us to come in. “Christina, you remember Gloria and her daughter, Finn?”

“Sure,” Christina says. We exchange shy smiles. I’m surprised to see her. I figured she’d be away at university.

I hand over the housewarming gift and Anna takes our coats. “Show Finn downstairs, would you, honey?” she says.

Christina nods and leads the way, glancing over her shoulder at me. “So you go to the same school as Jersy?” She’s so pretty that it’s hard not to stare. She was always pretty, I guess, but that’s not the first thing you notice when you’re six.

“Yeah, St. Mark’s.” My voice bristles with bitterness, and Christina laughs. Her laugh sounds like a female version of Jersy’s, and that makes me even more self-conscious.

“Sounds fantastic.” She opens the basement door, and I step in after her. Downstairs Jersy’s sprawled out on the couch with his eyes shut and his hands tucked into his underarms. Beyoncé’s bopping around the TV, “Crazy in Love,” and I want to climb back upstairs and sit in the car until Mom’s ready to leave. This is the last place on earth I should be after what Audrey told me.

Christina bends down and taps Jersy’s arm. “Wake up.”

But Jersy must be in a coma or something, because he doesn’t budge. A beeping noise chirps behind us, and Christina slides her hand into her back pocket and pulls out her cell phone. “Text message,” she tells me, punching the keys. “Hold on a sec.”

I balance myself on the couch’s arm and stare vacantly at Beyoncé. Jersy’s feet are within easy reach, and he’s so still that I’m tempted to touch him. I look down at his legs, commanding myself to keep my hands to myself, and when I switch my gaze to his face, his eyes are staring back at mine. “How long have you been there?” he asks.

“Not long.” I look at Christina behind me.

“Great,” she says, her gaze taking in the now conscious Jersy. “I’ll see you later, Finn.” Her feet are on the stairs before I can say goodbye.

“Later,” I shout after her, and then it’s just Jersy, Beyoncé, and me. “This song sucks,” I tell him, motioning to the TV.

His hands are still stuck in his armpits, and he blinks like I’m
being a pain. “So who do you like—white guys with British accents who stand around with guitars?”

There’s nothing wrong with British accents and guitars, but I don’t say so. I don’t want him to think he knows something about me after two conversations. I watch him root around under the cushions for the remote and hum to himself as he peers under the couch.

“I lose things all the time,” he admits finally, collapsing back onto the couch in a semi-upright position. “I still don’t know where half my stuff is since the move.” He pulls at one of his sleeves, working his entire hand inside it.

A chill begins in the base of my spine as I stare at the disappearing hand.
Everything is fine
, I tell myself.
You’re fine. Nothing ever happened in the first place
. But the chill takes hold. It could slide into panic if I’m not careful.
You’re all right. Everything is fine
.

And then it is. Christina must’ve left the door open; I can vaguely make out our moms’ voices in the background, and the sound brings a rush of relief. It’s true. I am all right.

“So why’d you move anyway?” I ask. I’m terrible at small talk at the best of times. It has nothing to do with lacking iron.

“Are you gonna sit down?” Jersy asks.

I’m so tense I’d forgotten I was perched on the armrest. “Sure,” I say, sliding down next to him. One second I want to apologize for being awkward, and the very next I feel defensive. I have no idea how to be alone with guys. I’ve always been shitty at that, but now rooms become too small. Minutes are endless. On top of that, I can count on one hand the ones worth talking to.

It’s all so exhausting and sad that I pull my legs up onto the couch with me, bury my face in them, and mumble, “I think my parents are about to split up.”

Jersy’s head drops. The basement lighting is so bad that I can’t
make out the color of his eyes. They still look pretty, though. Some people don’t like to use that word for guys, but I swear that’s how they look. His body is lean but it looks strong. I’m sure he’s stronger than me, and I’m so confused, so full of wanting and bad feelings, that my eyes begin to leak.

I stop myself quick but not quite fast enough to avoid Jersy’s detection. His hand grazes my shoulder as his head tilts towards mine. “I thought that about my parents last year. They fought so much I almost wanted them to split up.”

“So it’s no big deal, right?” I smile bravely. “It happens all the time.”

“Yeah,” Jersy says, nodding. “But not to you.” He leans into the pillows. “If they’re really going to do it, they’ll tell you.”

He’s right, but I don’t want to be the last to know. If I can get used to it before it actually happens, maybe the reality won’t hurt so much. That’s too personal to say out loud, though. “So your parents are okay now?” I ask. “It stopped?”

“Yeah, they still fight sometimes, but not like then. There was all this stress they were going through, all this shit.” Jersy’s cheeks hollow out. “Come on. I want to show you something.” He jumps off the couch and waits for me to follow.

Seconds later we’re in his bedroom. It’s cluttered with packing boxes and smells like a warehouse. The walls are bare, but there’s a collection of photos stuck to his mirror—mostly of him and some other guys in a skateboard park. A Chinese girl with long raven hair stars in a row of photo booth snaps. Jersy’s in the very last one, with his lips pressed against her cheek. She’s beaming into the camera like she knows she’s special.

I take all that in during the first few seconds—even before I see the tank. “His name’s Gizmo,” Jersy says fondly, bending down in front of the miniature habitat. With his leopard spots and orange
skin, Gizmo is definitely one of the better-looking reptiles I’ve seen, but I hope Jersy’s not planning on asking me to hold him.

Jersy plucks the metal screen off the top of the tank, herds Gizmo into his hand, and holds him up in front of me. “Wow,” I say, looking into Gizmo’s blinking eyes. “It’s like he can really see us.”

“Of course he can see us,” Jersy says.

“How old is he?” I skim my fingers across Gizmo’s back. He doesn’t seem to mind.

“Three.” Jersy deposits him carefully back in the tank. “They can live to twenty.”

“Wow,” I say again. That’s longer than my dog. Somehow it doesn’t seem fair. I sit down on the bed before I realize what I’m doing. Jersy sits on the far end, rubbing his eyes and yawning.

“So why’re you so tired all the time?” I ask. I’m glad that we’re not talking about my parents anymore. It feels okay to be up here with him, despite the weird smell and Gizmo’s beady eyes blinking at us like he knows exactly what’s going on.

“I’m a bad sleeper.” Jersy touches his scar, slowly, like he’s smoothing away an eyelash. “I get into these phases where I’m wide-awake in the middle of the night. Nothing I can do about it. Just wired, you know? It’d be okay if I could sleep late, but I can’t—not during the week. That’s why I was late for art that day. Overslept.”

“Insomnia,” I say.

“Isn’t that when you can’t sleep at all?” Jersy sits up straighter. “It’s more like I have my timing backwards.”

“How long do the phases last?”

“I don’t know.” Jersy pauses to give it some thought. “Maybe six weeks.”

“That’s a long time to have your schedule inside out,” I tell
him. “You know what happens to people who don’t get enough sleep, right? They go crazy.”

“Yeah.” Jersy shrugs. “I’m already psycho, though.”

“That’s true. You could be beyond help.” I’d never say that if I thought it was true. He’s fine the way he is. Even if he is a stoner.

Jersy smiles. “Could be. Could even be contagious. Maybe you should keep your distance.”

“Yeah.” I get off the bed and look through his window. Snowflakes the size of golf balls are drifting gently down from the sky. Everything looks so safe in the snow. It’s almost like a cocoon. “There are mutant snowflakes out here,” I say, turning to look at him.

Jersy comes to the window and peers out next to me. “Feels like Christmas,” he says. “We should go outside.”

He stands sideways like he’s ready to go, and I raise my eyebrows and say, “Seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously,” he repeats. “Why not?”

Because I don’t like my cold quite so chilly. The controlled cold of my bedroom is one thing; arctic chills that make your bones freeze and break off like twigs are something else. The thing is, I really do love the snow. It makes the ordinary look beautiful and pure, like you’re seeing it through different eyes. “Okay then,” I tell him.

We shove our shoes on and go out through the sliding door in the kitchen. The backyard has a swimming pool in it, but it’s impossible to imagine summer. The snow’s coming down so thick and soft that Jersy and I are already covered in fuzz. I fold my arms in front of me and hunch over, doing my best to hold on to my body heat. It’s quiet the way only winter can be, and I’m almost afraid to say anything, in case words ruin it.

“It’s like the inside of a snow globe,” Jersy says, smiling and hunching over next to me. I look at his breath on the air and nod.

We stand silently watching the snow fall for as long as I can stand it. The hazy orange lights from other houses seem miles away. It feels like we’re the only people on the planet, Jersy and me. It’s weird. He’s so quiet next to me, but that only makes him feel more real and near.

I sneak another look at him, for safekeeping. If I had more guts, maybe I’d do something more.

Shit.

Trust me to ruin the moment for myself without even saying a word.

D
an
I
e
L
an
D I
are the opposite of twins, whatever that is. He’s addicted to
The Simpsons, South Park
, and nauseatingly stupid reality TV shows. He loves wrestling, video games, and rock climbing at the Y and avoids all creative activities like the plague. It seriously makes me wonder about genetics.

If he was a Mini-Me, I’d probably be more worried about how he’s handling the situation with my parents, but I don’t understand him at all. Maybe I’m a crappy, self-obsessed older sister. That does occur to me from time to time, and when I get back from the Mikulskis’ I decide it’s time for an official check-in with Daniel.

Because we have limited points of reference, this is clumsy and obvious. I sit next to him on the couch and listen to Cartman screech at Kyle and Stan on
South Park
. The show’s actually pretty funny, in small doses, and I laugh and groan at the same time. But the longer you wait to do something, the harder it is. That’s why I
force myself to say something as soon as the commercials come on. “Mom and Dad are driving me crazy.” I spy on Daniel out of the corner of my eye. He’s not looking at me; he’s staring at a dog food commercial like he’s hypnotized.