Page 4 of Fade into You
Letting my hair free-fall, I snap the scrunchie onto my wrist instead. Slip out down the hall, through the living room, past the computer, grabbing my bag from the row of hooks lined up next to the front door. Then I jam my feet into the huarache sandals I got on clearance for three dollars last fall during back-to-school shopping. Rushing, I forget to lift up the handle, so the door screeches open. As I close it behind me, I hear my mom call, “Birdie, is that you?”
Holding my breath, I hurry to the end of the driveway. Exhale. I don’t mind helping out with the kids, I really don’t. It’s just… I’m not ready to go back to my regularly scheduled life yet.
Two streets over from mine there’s a little dirt path that cuts through a wooded lot that belongs to no one and opens to the fields behind the high school. It’s littered with beer cans and broken glass and used condoms. I usually prefer to take the long way around, through the maze of suburbs, but the shortcut means it’s only a ten-minute walk to Kayla’s instead of twenty. The cold dew soaks my feet as I trudge through the soft, tall grass, which hasn’t been cut all summer long. If I block out the brick buildings and the football and soccer fields and parking lots, I could convince myself I was somewhere prettier.
Kayla lives at the end of a cul-de-sac in a newer subdivision, where all the houses look too similar and too clean. As I make myway over, I see her dad in the front yard, wheeling in their garbage can, stopping halfway up the driveway to admire the precise diagonal lines freshly mown into the grass.
I pick up the empty green recycling bin at the curb and say, “Want some help?”
He snaps out of it and turns to see me walking toward him. He has his tie and dress shirt on, ready to go to work. But he’s the kind of person who leaves enough time to do things like bring in the garbage cans and inspect the lawn and talk to his daughter’s best friend without needing to rush off because he’s already running late.
“Hiya! Well, look who’s back from the big city!”
“Just got in last night,” I tell him, following him into the open garage.
“Well, youlooksmarter,” he jokes with me in that TV dad way of his. “The only kid I know whowantsto go to school over the summer. I only wish some of that would rub off on Kayla.”
“Please don’t tell Kayla that,” I try to joke back.
“What’s that?” he says, taking a step closer to me.
“Is, um, Kayla up yet?”
“Oh, I doubt it,” he answers, and an unfamiliar line furrows his brow—if I didn’t know better, I’d call it worry. “But go on in. By the way, Bird,” he adds, more seriously, “we’re glad you’re back. You’re a good kid, a good influence on Kayla.”
Not sure what to make of that, I just smile and nod in return.
Her mom is in the kitchen, humming to an oldies station playing low on the radio that lives under one of the kitchen cabinets. Her house is always clean and calm, and her parents arealways present. And she doesn’t appreciate any of it. Not even when we were little. Her parents’ unwavering attention and attendance at every school concert, game, and PTA meeting embarrassed her, even when we first became friends in second grade.
I clear my throat to announce my presence.
“Honey!” Kayla’s mom waltzes across the kitchen to me and scoops me into a quick hug, and then she sweeps my hair over my shoulders. “Thank god! We really,reallymissed you around here this summer.” She pulls out a stool at the breakfast bar—which Kayla’s dad made in his garage woodshop, of course—and says, “Sit, sit. Tell me how your summer was. The university, the dorms, the classes, theboys.” She laughs. “Did you write an epic poem? The nextOdyssey?”
I laugh involuntarily, hating myself for how much I love this. “No, not quite.” I watch her pour me a glass of juice from the fridge. “But I wrote a lot of non-epic poems.”
“Don’t be so humble,” she says, smiling. “You know, I still have that sweet Mother’s Day poem you wrote for me when you girls were, what, eight or nine.”
“You kept that?”
“Of course! I’m not letting it go; it’s going to be worth something one day.” Even though I know she’s got to be leaving for work too, she pours herself some more coffee and sits down with me anyway. “So, how was it?”
“Um, it was fun. It was—it was nice. I really learned a lot. Honestly, I miss it there already.”
She nods enthusiastically, encouraging me to keep talking—something I’m not used to.
“Actually, I think I might apply there next year,” I lie. There would be no way I could go there, not for real. I got a scholarship for the summer writing workshop because my English teacher filled out the paperwork and sent it in for me. This summer was probably the closest thing I’ll get to college—at least for writing, anyway.
“Really?” she asks, wide-eyed. “You liked it there that much?”
I nod. “I did. I really did. I met some great people—the professors, and the other students were just… very cool, I guess. I’ve never—”
“Not cooler than your BFF.” Kayla’s voice echoes behind us. I stand up quickly, not wanting her to catch me trying to steal her mom. And when I turn around, I barely recognize my friend.
“Oh my god, Kay,” I begin, but I can’t think of what to say next. “You—you look…”
“Yeah…?”
“Y-you look so different. I mean, wow, your hair,” I say, instead ofHoly fucking shit I can see your hip bones and clavicles through your clothes!“It’s really cute.” I reach out and touch her formerly dark, formerly long, now bleached-blond Gwen Stefani bob and baby bangs, and try not to gasp when she hugs me and I feel her ribs against my chest and her shoulder blades under my arms.
