Page 31 of The Way I Used to Be
This is this first time I’ve ever said the f-word at another person, out loud like this. As I look down at him, staring up at me like I’m insane, I feel my eyeballs boiling in their sockets. And then his image before me begins to blur and wrinkle like a mirage—I have to leave because the tears, I know, are on their way. And I don’t cry in front of boys. Not anymore. Starting now.
I storm out of his room. He calls my name once, halfheartedly, like out of obligation, not because he actually wants me to come back. I slam the door behind me as hard as I can. I wipe at my eyes. I walk home.
The next day at school I see him walking down the hall in the midst of his herd. So, of course, I pretend to be absorbed in finding something in the very depths of my locker, pretend not to even notice. They’re the kind of people who always have to be drawing attention to themselves—talking just a little too loudly, taking up just that extra bit of space, laughing like goddamn hyenas in that way that always makes me wonder if they’re really laughing at me. I hate those kinds of people and yet I can’t quite force myself not to look as they pass.
There’s no chance of salvaging the wreckage of last night. I watch him say something to this Jock Guy he walks next to, and then Jock Guy looks at me. Looks at me as if he’s calculating some unknown criteria in his mind. I let my eyes meet Josh’s for just a fraction of a second. But I feel like I might die or throw up, so I promptly return to examining the contents of my locker, trying to remember how to breathe.
“Hey,” he says, suddenly leaning against the locker next to mine, incredibly close. People were certainly staring now.
“Hi,” I reply, but I feel so stupid, stupid, stupid—the way I screamed at him, the way I left. The way he sat on his bed looking at me.
We just stand in front of each other with nothing to say, both of us trying to pretend we don’t notice the eyes of every passerby on us. I shut my locker, forgetting the one thing I actually needed for my next class. I fidget with the dial of my combination, spinning it around and around, unable to stop.
“So...,” he finally begins, but doesn’t follow up with anything.
And more silence.
“Oh, just kiss and make up already!” Jock Guy shouts from across the hall. Josh waves his arm at him, in a get-the-hell-out-of-here kind of way.
“Sorry,” he mumbles. “Look, I know you’re still mad, but—”
“What did you say to him?” I interrupt.
“What?” He turns around to look at his friend walking away. “Nothing.”
“Well, not nothing; obviously you told him something. I saw the way he looked at me just now.”
“Eden, I didn’t say anything. Look, I’m just trying to apologize here.”
“Don’t. Don’t apologize, it’s fine, it’s just—it’s whatever.” The truth is that I don’t want to have to apologize.
“Well, I am sorry.” He pauses, waiting for me to tell him it’s okay, waiting for me to apologize right back. After it becomes clear I’m not going to, he adds, “I’m not sure what for, but anyway... here.” He holds out a folded-up piece of paper for me to take.
“What is it?” I ask.
He rolls his eyes; he’s getting really good at that. “It’s not anthrax. Jesus, Eden. Just take it.”
I take it.
He walks away without another word, without so much as a glance back at me.
Eden,
I feel bad about last night. I still don’t really know what happened, but I’m sorry. My parents are still out of town, so if you want to come over later, you can. I want you to, but I’ll understand if you don’t. You could even stay over. We wouldn’t have to do anything, I promise. We could just hang. It doesn’t matter to me.... I just want to see you. We have a game tonight, but I’ll be home by eight. I hope I’ll see you later.
J
AT HOME THAT NIGHTI hold the piece of paper carefully between my fingers. I’d read the note enough times to recite it. Still, I unfold it one more time:I hope I’ll see you later I hope I’ll see you later I hope I’ll see you later.
But I had decided. No. This thing with him could not go any further. It was supposed to be simple, it was supposed to be easy and uncomplicated, but in one night it’s suddenly become a dense, unnavigable labyrinth. And I’m lost in it. I just need out. By any means. I was a fool to think I was ready for this.
As I fold the note back up into its neat square, Mom yells my name from the living room as if it were a matter of life and death, as if it were her last word. I race to unlock my door, letting the note fall from my hands. As I swing open the door I almost run right into her, standing in front of me with her arms crossed tight, hands clenched, and knuckles taut.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, my brain processing her rigid stance, the hardness in her face.
“Can you not feel that wind, Eden?” she asks between clenched teeth. But before I can respond or even try to understand what she’s even talking about, she keeps going. “I’ve been begging you for weeks—weeks—to put in the storm windows. Is that so much to ask? Is it? Is that too much for you to handle?” The volume of her voice rises steadily with each word.
“Oh my God, who cares?” I sigh.
