If He Had Been with Me

  My mother sits down next to me and crosses her ankles. “It’ll be a bit,” she says. “He’s running a little late.” She picks up a Newsweek and begins reading.

  I look down at the table. Most of the magazines are for parents or golfers. While I’m looking, a man gets up and takes a kids’ Highlights magazine off the table and sits back down.

  “Mom?” I whisper. She looks at me and raises her eyebrows. “All these people are really weird.” My mother covers her mouth and laughs silently.

  “Honey,” she whispers, “what did you expect? And what do you think they would say about the girl with the tiara and ripped knee socks?” I scowl at her and she goes back to reading.

  “Aw, shucks,” the old man mumbles.

  ***

  “Autumn?” a nurse in blue says. I stand up, suddenly feeling exposed in front of the others. The old man and the crying lady have been replaced by a girl my age and her cranky baby.

  “I’ll be waiting,” my mother says. I do not look at her. The nurse leads me to a narrow hallway. A small Indian man is waiting for me.

  “Autumn?” he asks. I nod. He pronounces my name “Ah-tim.” “Ah,” he says, “come with me.” His accent is thick, like a character in a movie, like I’ve never heard in real life before. We walk to an office even smaller than the waiting room, and crowded with a desk, a bookshelf, a filing cabinet, and a small chair. He motions for me to sit in the small chair. I’m disappointed that it isn’t a couch. He sits down at the desk and opens a file.

  “So, Autumn,” he says. “What brings you here today?”

  “My mother.”

  “Mmhhm, and why is that?”

  “She says she’s worried about me.”

  “Hmm,” Dr. Singh says. I look back at him. “Why do you wear the tiara?”

  “Because I like it.”

  “I see, and how long has this been going on?”

  “I don’t know. A couple of years.”

  “Are you frightened to be without it? Anxious or worried?”

  “No.” We stare at each other for another few moments. He writes something down.

  “How is your appetite, Autumn?”

  “Fine,” I say.

  “Really? What did you eat today?” It sounds like “et” when he says it.

  “My mother made me oatmeal for breakfast—”

  “And did you eat the oatmeal your mother made you?”

  “Yes.”

  He makes some notes on his papers. I watch him. His handwriting is too small and messy for me to read.

  “Autumn,” he says. He stands. “Come over here and I will check your weight.” He leads me over to a small scale. The scale is covered with the name of a drug I’ve seen advertised on TV. I stand on the scale and he makes some notes.

  “I don’t have an eating disorder,” I say.

  “Mmhhm,” he says and makes more notes. We sit down again.

  “Why is your mother worried about you?” he says.

  “She thinks I’m depressed,” I say. “Like her.”

  “Like her?” He gives me an intent look as if I’ve let something slip.

  “She’s one of your patients,” I say.

  “Ah,” he flips through some papers in the file. He reads something, looks at me, then reads again. Finally he closes the file.

  “And so tell me about your depression, Autumn.”

  “I don’t think I’m depressed.” He cocks his head to the side.

  “Are you sad?” he says.

  “Well, yeah.”

  “What is making you sad?”

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “You do not know?” he says. I shake my head and look at the floor. He writes something down and keeps talking. It is the longest he has looked away from me this whole time.

  “How long have you been sad?”

  “A few months,” I say. “It’s winter.”

  “Are you sad every day?”

  “Pretty much, but that’s not that weird, right? I mean, it’s not that big of a deal.”

  “Do you have increased feelings of anger, Autumn?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are you finding yourself irritated more often?”

  “Well, yeah,” I say.

  “Are you anxious or worried?”

  “No.”

  “How are you sleeping?”

  “Okay, I guess,” I say. “I sleep a lot, but I’ve also been waking up early in the morning.”

  “And you cannot get back to sleep?” he says.

  “No,” I say.

  He nods. Dr. Singh lays his pen down and looks at me. “Have you had any suicidal thoughts? Do you wish to die?

  “No,” I say.

  “Are you sure, Autumn?”

  I nod slowly. The question frightens me.

  He continues, “Depression affects the sleeping patterns. Some sleep more and some sleep less. Very often, the people who wake up very early in the mornings are the ones who have suicidal thoughts.”

  “But I’m not depressed,” I say.

  “You think you deserve to be sad,” he says. There is a moment of silence as we look at each other. “You think it is okay for you to be sad every day. But it is not okay. And you do not deserve it.”

  I look down at the floor, even though I know he has already seen the tears stinging my eyes.

  “It is not shameful,” he says. “It is okay.”

  I nod. I hear his pen scratching against the paper as he writes again.

  ***

  My mother takes the prescription from me without saying anything and we drive by the drugstore before we go home. At first, she is constantly asking me if I took my medicine, then it drops off and no one says anything about it ever.

  After a few weeks, I start to feel better, but whether it is because of the pills or because spring has finally come, I am not sure.

  40

  The smell of bleach stings my nostrils and Sasha is laughing in my ear as I bend over her. It is Thursday after school and we are dying her hair, first blond, then we will add blue chunks in the front. I’m trying to spread the white cream through her hair without getting any of it on her skin or mine. My fingers work intimately over her scalp, twined in her hair.

  “Don’t move your head,” I say. My hands are sweaty inside the thin plastic gloves the kit provided. The window behind me is open. The air is still a little chilled, but the sun is warm and the smell is too strong not to leave it open.

  “When are you going to dye your hair again?” Sasha says. Her head is tilted back, and her eyes follow my face as my hands move through her hair.

  “Never,” I say. “It’s too much trouble.”

  “Is it because you don’t think Jamie would like it?”

  “No,” I say. “Jamie says he would think I was beautiful no matter what.”

  “You guys are so cute. Sometimes I’m jealous.” Sasha is the only single one in the group now. Alex has taken up with a freshman girl with a fake diamond in her nose. We don’t like her. We think she is presumptuous and kinda slutty looking. Jamie calls her “Alex’s bitch” when they aren’t around.

  I peel the gloves off of my hands and set the timer for twenty minutes, then slump down on the edge of the tub.

  “I wish you would get back with Alex,” I say.

  “I’ve been thinking about that lately,” Sasha says. I sit up and grip the ledge of the clawfoot tub.

  “Really?” I say.

  “I miss him,” Sasha says. “But he’s with that Trina girl now.”

  “If you took her place, you would be doing us all a favor.”

  “Yeah, I know.” We make faces of disgust at each other. I jump up.

  “We need to get to work on this immediately—I’m going to call Jam
ie.” I dash out the door and down the hall to my room, where my cell phone sits on my dresser.

  Jamie picks up on the first ring.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “We’re going to break up Alex and Trina,” I say.

  “Awesome,” he says. “How?”

  “We’re going to get Alex and Sasha back together.”

  “Oh. Can we break them up without doing that?”

  “No, Sasha wants to get back with him. And this will make the group all neat again.” I twirl around and cross my room.

  “She does?”

  “You sound surprised.” I begin to make my way back toward the bathroom. I can hear the ticking of the timer again.

  “I dunno if I liked them as a couple,” he says.

  “What?” I stop in my tracks outside the bathroom door. “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. Never mind. We need to get rid of Alex’s bitch.”

  “Exactly,” I say. I open the door and the smell of bleach hits me again. “Why don’t you come over after I’m done dying Sasha’s hair and we can plot?”

  “What color are you dying it?”

  “Blue.”

  “Cool.”

  “I know. She wanted green but I changed her mind. I’ll call you okay?”

  “Okay. Love you.”

  “Love you more.” Sasha makes a gagging noise and I swat at her arm. Jamie hangs up. “He’s in,” I say. Sasha laughs. I look at the timer. There are still ten minutes left. I sit down again. “You’re going to love your hair.”

  ***

  At school the next day, we complain to Alex that we never see him anymore. We make up private jokes that he missed because he was hanging out with Trina. The next night, we go to a movie and Angie brings Preppy Dave, but we do not tell Alex to invite Trina. Sasha sits next to Alex in the theater, and they share a bucket of popcorn. Alex spends the night at Jamie’s. Jamie tells Alex that he doesn’t like Trina. That nobody likes Trina. That everybody likes Sasha. That Sasha misses him.

  It isn’t until the following Monday, after Alex has broken up with Trina and is holding Sasha’s hand on The Steps to Nowhere, that I see anything frightening in what we have done. I had not known that my friends and I held such power over each other, that we could change Alex’s heart as easily as I had dyed Sasha’s hair. We have created among ourselves something that is more powerful than any of us could hold separately. Over, around, and through us, we are a force, woven, tied, and bundled together. If in the future we separate, it will look so simple on the outside, a falling away, a slipping of ties. And on the inside, we will be ripped and shredded, torn as the bonds that hold us are pulled away.

  We grew apart, we will say. It was an accident.

  I sit on The Steps to Nowhere with my friends, and we laugh. It is spring and a breeze is ruffling our hair like loving fingers. We sit so close together that we constantly brush against each other. We touch each other with the casualness that love allows. Noah and Alex thumb-wrestle. Angie pokes me and asks what I’m doing after school. Brooke reaches out to admire Sasha’s new hair. We have sat like this for a hundred days and we think we will for another hundred and one.

  This is friendship, and it is love, but I already know what they have not learned yet; how dangerous friendship is, how damaging love can be.

  41

  I am asleep in my bed, dreaming something that I will not remember in a few moments, because my cell phone is ringing. The glow of the screen in the dark night wakes me as much as the chirping song. I fumble instinctively for it on my nightstand, and somewhere in my mind, I am registering the late time on my clock, somehow trying to sort through the dream I am losing. My fingers wrap around the phone and hold it close to my face for reading.

  Finny.

  My dream is gone, and all that is left is the reality of Finny’s name glowing at me in the dark. I sit up in bed. The phone chirps again.

  “Hello?” I say.

  “Dude, it’s a girl.” I do not know the voice or the laughter in the background.

  “Hello?” I say. My sleepy logic thinks that if I say my correct lines, the other side will follow.

  “Hey, what are you—” There is a shout and some shuffling, and the noise stops. I look down at my phone, which dutifully tells me that the conversation lasted fifteen seconds. I blink down at it, and the phone rings again. Finny. I press the button. I hold it to my ear.

  “Hello?”

  “Autumn? I’m sorry.”

  “Finny?”

  “Yeah, it’s me.” I fall back on my pillows and close my eyes. I feel relieved, but I’m too tired to try to sort out why. It’s just that it’s him, so it’s okay.

  “What was that?”

  “Some guys got a hold of my phone—I’m at a party—I guess they called you because you’re first in my phone—”

  “I’m first in your phone?” I feel the corners of my mouth turn up and hope he cannot hear my surprised pleasure.

  “Well, yeah. Alphabetical order. You know.” His voice trails off at the end.

  “Oh, right.” I rub my eyes and sigh. “I’m still half asleep.”

  “I’m sorry,” Finny says.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “Really.”

  “They’re drunk and being stupid. It won’t happen again.”

  “Are you drunk?”

  “No, I’m driving.”

  “That’s good,” I say. I don’t know what I mean by that, but it feels true, so it’s what I say.

  “Hey, hold on,” he says. And then quietly, not to me, “Is she sick again?” Another voice, female, answers him. “Okay,” he says. “Hey, Autumn?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m gonna let you get back to sleep, okay? Sorry about before.”

  “It’s fine. Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  I wait for him to hang up first. I can hear the noise of the party in the background. I count to three slowly, and I can still hear him breathing.

  He hangs up.

  The phone drops to the floor and I roll over and bury my face in my pillow. The ache in my chest pounds and hums with my heart. When was the last time his voice was in this room with me, in the dark? A deluge of memories hits me. Us, such small children, sleeping curled together like baby rabbits. Older, we whisper secrets to each other at night. We place fingers over each other’s lips to stifle our giggles. Our despair when The Mothers said we were too old to sleep in the same bed. Finny signaling me with a flashlight from his window, and me taking the cup and string to my ear, “Can you hear me?”

  The love I’ve tried to hold back breaks its dam and flows over me, curling my toes and making fists of my hands as I breathe his name into my pillow.

  “Finny,” I say to the lonely dark. “Finny. My Finny.” My breath shudders and my eyelids close against the pain of loving him. Finny. My Finny.

  42

  On the last day of school, Jamie and I make out in his pool after the others have gone. The concrete rim digs into my back when he presses into me. My hand is down the back of his trunks and I can feel his muscles clenching. I want to bite his shoulder but he wouldn’t like it. Instead, I draw my lips back to his and he slides his tongue inside. His groan vibrates in my mouth.

  “Jamie, I love you,” I say.

  “How much?” he says. He presses into me again.

  “So much,” I say. The urge comes over me again and I kiss his shoulder instead.

  “Please?” he says, and as he presses, my skin scrapes against the concrete.

  “Ow,” I say.

  “Do you want to go inside?”

  “Yeah.”

  We pad barefoot across the patio and inside. It feels as if my heart is beating between my legs. The scrape on my back aches as my skins tightens with goose bumps. Chilled from the walk throu
gh the air-conditioning, I start to crawl under his covers when we reach his room.

  “Don’t,” he says. “You’ll get my sheets wet.”

  “I’m cold.”

  “Then take off your swim suit.”

  “Yeah, right,” I say. He slides in next to me, holding my eyes in his. We lie on our sides facing each other.

  “Autumn,” he says. He has the look in his eye that tells me what he is going to say before he says it.

  “Jamie, I—”

  “This is ridiculous,” he says. “Look at us.”

  “Can’t you just kiss me?”

  “I want to make love to you,” Jamie says.

  I cannot say anything in reply. I cannot say that I want to make love to him. I cannot say that I do not want to make love to him. He says nothing. I wonder what he thinks I’m thinking about as we gaze at each other. Perhaps he thinks that I am considering the idea, deciding if I’m ready or not.

  He could have just asked me if I wanted to go on the roof and try to fly. He could have suggested that we drive to the airport, right now, and buy two tickets to Paris. It’s not that I don’t like the idea; it’s just not possible.

  “We can’t just have sex,” I say.

  “Why not?”

  “Because,” I say, but I cannot find the words to explain what is so obvious to me.

  “What can I do to make it right for you?” Jamie says.

  “I need—” I don’t know what I need, so I hazard a guess. “I need time.”

  “How much time?”

  We look at each other. His gaze is intent, calculating. He studies my face.

  “A year,” I say.

  “Okay,” he says.

  “Okay?”

  “After graduation.”

  “Okay.”

  Jamie kisses me.

  Perhaps in a year, I will have found out what it is I really need. Perhaps if I can’t find it in a year, then I will never find it. Perhaps it will be better then to just give in.

  Jamie kisses me. I close my eyes and lose myself in the pure physical sensation of it, the warmth and the skin and our breath. We’re barely clothed, in bed, and in love, and this is almost sex. And it’s almost right.