Page 47 of Fade into You
“Is your dad dead?” she asks cautiously. “Sorry, that came out weird. I just wondered.”
“Why?”
“Whenever you talk about him, with skating and his records… it seems like all you have is memories of him.”
“Well, thatisall I have. But he’s not dead. We think he’s living in Boston,” I tell her. “Wow, that’s the first time I’ve said that out loud. Haven’t even told Kayla,” I add, quieter.
“Youthink? You mean you don’t know?”
I shake my head. “Me and my older brother Charlie have been trying to track him down. It was a bad breakup between my parents.” It was quick, but bad, I remember. He was there one day and gone the next. The last time I saw him was from Charlie’s bedroom window, the two of us watching as they screamed at each other in our driveway—I’d never seen either of them like that before. “So he just kinda disappeared,” I finish, and when I look at her, she’s really listening, eyes crinkling around the edges as she meets mine. “Sorry, there I go being all serious and boring again.”
She places her hand on top of mine for a only split second before she jerks it away. “Hey, I don’t think you’re boring.”
“Thanks,” I tell her.
“That sucks, Bird. About your dad, I mean,” she says, and seems to mean it.
“Sucks balls,” I add, and smile.
She bursts out laughing. She laughs until tears are leaking from the corners of her eyes. It’s contagious and I’m hysterical too, and why does it feel liberating to say the word “balls” with this weird girl I still barely even know? Why does it feel like we’re the only ones left in this whole place?
It’s one o’clock in the morning at Kayla’s house and we’re lying side by side in her bed, staring at the ceiling, and she still has not stopped obsessing over Dawn. We’ve created a monster. Or I guess the monster was there already; we just fed it. “Tell me one more time,” she says.
“Again?” I groan—I’ve already told her fifteen times. “Jessa said that Dade had a crush on her last year. They flirted. She didn’t think anything else happened between them, though.”
“She’s pretty,” she says softly, sadly. “Do you think she’s skinnier than me?”
“Kayla…” How can she even be asking me that—Dawn is at least six inches taller than her, all buxom and curvy. Isn’t it obvious?
“Never mind. I already know she is. Sheis, isn’t she?”
“She’s not. But why does that matter? You’re two completely different people.”
She sits up in bed and looks down at me. “Thanks. A. Lot. So you’re saying she’s skinny. I’m fat. She’s gorgeous. I’m a dog. He’s going to dump me for her because I’m just…” She looks down at her body and punches her thigh. Hard. “Fat,” she finishes, angry tears forming at the edges of her eyes. “I’ve lost thirty-nine pounds, and still. Fucking fat.”
I turn my head to look at her, and all I can see is that monster staring back, ravenous. And I’m starting to wonder if she cares about anything at all other than being skinny. If she actually cares about Dade anymore. Or me.
JESSA
I’m absentmindedly picking at thescab on my knee, watching Bird and Kayla eat a lunch made of tension and possibly a touch of irritation. No, definitely irritation. Bird has that face she gets when I deliver an off-color joke or mean comment. Nonetheless, Sleater-Kinney is chanting about “good things” through my headphones and I’m trying to have my chill-out lunch in what Bird defined as my liminal space. It doesn’t help that I slept in and forgot to grab food, so my short trip to the caf earned me a nice performance from Olivia Fucking Rubens and her turd of a boyfriend. Soon as she spotted me, she pulled her cardigan close. Like I was even trying to look at her mosquito bites, and her darling dipshit started yelling,“Eyes off my prize, jessbian!”Their table started laughing and her C.H.U.D. boyfriend leaned in and added, “Come on… she just needs a good deep dicking to set her straight.” Not the first time I’ve heard the phrase, but the implication… Fear pitched up into my throat and I got the hell out.
Now it’s me and girlpunk and a distant look at Bird’sdysfunctional friendship. I keep thinking about her at the rink, how she glided about, swooped in, grabbed me up. How gentle she was with my knees. How she didn’t freak out about the blood or touching me, how she brushed away the one tear I managed to let loose. How she yelled at DadeandKayla for laughing. Damn. I don’t think I’d have the courage.
She makes me think about things. Like when she said it wouldn’t be funny to see Kayla biff it. ThenIbiffed it and it wasn’t funny. Made me wonder how many times I did that shit to someone else. How she thinks Dade is mean… I might be a bit mean too. I don’t like the idea of her thinking that about me.
Before I can brood deeply about how I feel like an asshole, here comes Emmanuel, spiked collar and darkened eyes and chipped black nail polish. A far cry from two years ago, when he was still in orchestra on the upright bass and wearing Hilfiger. He rebelled all the way into a noise-rock trio called Fat Baby Moose that… well, they do make noise. They dream of being Lightning Bolt, and maybe they might have a chance if they stopped drinking during shows and if Keller on drums practiced a bit more. In spite of us both frequenting Touchstone, Emmanuel and I don’t really talk much. Usually just a nod as we pass each other. But here he is standing in front of me.
I hold up a finger and finish my way outta the song, then pull my headphones off.
“What’s up, killer?”
Emmanuel shifts awkwardly from foot to foot, all weird-like. Is this dude actually nervous around me?
“Hey, uh, Jess?”
“Jessa.” Good god, why does everyone drop theA?
“Yeah, uh, Jessa, how are you doing?” He starts picking at his wallet chain, what is wrong with him?
