It’s the end of the school day and I’m loading up on books from my locker when a paper triangle falls to the ground—thick and folded with care. A letter from Gideon. The paper burns my fingers and all I want to do is read it, but I can’t keep you waiting. I tuck it into my jacket pocket, then think better of that—what if it falls out? What if you find it? I should throw it away, not read it because he’s not my boyfriend, but I bury the letter in the middle of my French book, then shove that into my backpack.
Not that I have anything to hide.
Gideon and I are just friends. We are. I love you and I have to keep telling myself that we’re gonna be okay. You have meds now; I’m graduating soon. The rest of our lives is about to start. It’s starting already. You saved me from my mom. I was in a burning car and you jumped in and pulled me out. Not Gideon—you.
I head out to the front, where you’re waiting, and that letter seems to send out shock waves from inside my backpack. I hurry, and a part of me knows it’s not because I’m anxious to see you—it’s because I don’t want to see the look on Gideon’s face when you kiss me hello. I get into the car, quick. Slam the door shut. I hate my fickle fucking heart.
“Let’s get out of here,” I say.
You lean in.
I lean in.
You taste like cigarettes and I pull away.
“What?” you say, narrowing your eyes.
Can you see it? See my desperation to go, go, go?
“Gavin—you taste like a freaking ashtray.”
“I never heard you complain about it before,” you say.
“Well, now you have.” My voice is testy.
“What’s with the bitchiness?” you say.
I shrug. “Bad day. Sorry.”
You pull out of the parking lot and turn away from your house, toward the university. There’s a coffeehouse near there that you take me to sometimes. It makes me feel grown up, ordering a latte and hanging around the college kids. This will be me in just a few months.
After about fifteen minutes of driving, you pull into an apartment complex near your school. My heart sinks. The last thing I want to do is hang out with your friends. I always feel like a kid around them, like me being in high school is so lame.
“Gav, I thought we were hanging out. Just us two.”
You grin. “We are.”
You park, then jump out of the car and run around to the other side to help me out, ever the gallant gentleman.
“This,” you say, taking in the apartment building with a sweep of your hand, “is our new home.”
* * *
“YOU GOT AN apartment?” I say.
You’re so happy right now. You’re practically bouncing.
“I’m just subletting from a friend of mine from school. He’s studying abroad and the guy who was supposed to be living here fell through. I’ll have it until the end of the summer. Come on.”
You reach for my hand and I follow you up to the second floor. It’s a new complex, with peach stucco walls and balconies where people stash their grills or small patio furniture. Someone’s blasting pop radio and somewhere a kid is throwing a tantrum, but otherwise it’s quiet. I don’t see anyone else.
“There’s a pool, too,” you say. “I thought we could have people over when it starts getting hot.”
I smile and nod and why do you keep saying we? You open the door and step aside.
“Welcome home.”
It’s a small one-bedroom with bare walls, the living room littered with guitars and take-out containers and half-unpacked suitcases.
“Yeah, the guy who lives here never got around to decorating,” you say, watching me as I check the place out. “And I promise I’ll try not to leave my shit everywhere.”
You take my hand and lead me farther into the apartment, stopping at a closed door at the end of the hall.
“And this,” you say, gently pushing it open, “is our bedroom.”
Our.
The only thing in the room other than piles of clothes on the floor is a double bed with a striped comforter.
“I’ve never seen you make a bed before” is all I can say.
You laugh, soft, and wrap your arms around my waist, rest your chin on my shoulder.
“I wanted it to be nice for you.”
Sex.
It’s the last thing I want, but how could I possibly say that to my boyfriend who I’ve been with for almost a year?
You lead me to the bed and gently lay me down. I’m trembling, as if we’ve never done this before and it feels like that, like that sharp pain is going to radiate through me all over again.
You’re gentle today, excruciatingly slow. I kiss you harder, try to hurry things up, but you just laugh softly against my lips and murmur, “Patience, Grasshopper.”
You tug at my jeans and slide them down my thighs, my knees. Next is my shirt, the one Gideon said made me look like a naughty librarian.
Gideon.
I close my eyes and try to forget him, but closing them just makes him more real and suddenly I know how I can get through this.
Your tongue slips into my mouth, but it’s not yours anymore, it’s Gideon’s, and I pretend I don’t taste cigarettes and coffee. It gets easier as your mouth moves down my neck, as your hands slide all over me, expert in my anatomy.
I bite my lip as you press against me and I want you—not you, Gideon—I want the you that is Gideon and this is wrong, I know it is, but I can’t do this any other way.
You reach across me and grab a condom and you take my hand to help you slide it on and I watch as you close your eyes and lean back your head and I forget about Gideon. Screw you for being beautiful.
I keep my eyes open now and pull you closer and we are a storm that tears through the room and I hold on to you because otherwise I’ll fly apart and your hands and your lips and don’t stop, don’t stop.
You collapse on top of me, our sweat mixing.
My stomach hurts all over again and I slip out from under you. You pull me close, my bare back against your bare chest and we lie there, huddled against each other. I’m so mixed up. First I’m imagining you’re Gideon, which is wrong and pervy, and then I’m wanting you, and now I just feel sick.
You’ll get me in trouble, I say to Gideon.
You’ll be given love, Björk sings, you just have to trust it.
I slip away from you, mumbling about taking a shower. You watch me walk away, grinning.
“You sure are pretty,” you say in a Southern drawl.
I stand in the shower, hot water stinging my skin. I try to wash you off as best I can. But soap doesn’t work for everything. I don’t know how to explain to you—even to myself—why being here feels so wrong. It’s almost like stranger danger or something.
I’m not supposed to be here. Not now. Not yet.
I am filled with a fierce longing for Natalie and Alyssa and Gideon. I want to be at rehearsal and talking about how dumb it is that we still have to take the Presidential Fitness Test, running a mile because the government says we have to. I want to be laughing about the ridiculous dress code, how Alyssa got sent home because her tank top straps were one and a half inches wide instead of the required two or more inches.
Why can’t I just be honest with you? Why can’t I just let you go, stop all this misery? If I feel this bad, we have to be over.
But I can’t do it. I grab the skin on the inside of my arm and pinch it, hard.
You stupid fucking idiot girl. I hate you. You’re just staying with him because you’re a coward, a whore who’s too scared to be alone. Fuck you, Grace. Fuck. You.
I wish I could explain to myself why I’m such a pushover, why I’m so goddamn weak and spineless. You’re on meds. Maybe you’d be okay if we broke up. It’s a simple exercise: Let’s break up. I’m breaking up with you. We are not together anymore. I love someone else.
But my mouth goes dry; my heart stops. I don’t know if my body is telling me not to do it or if I’m just too much
of a coward to say what needs to be said. The sad thing is, it’s just easier to stay together. To not shake things up. To not shatter your heart.
I don’t want to be a murderer. I don’t want to be the girl who pushed you back into that bathtub. I am so messed up right now, it’s not even funny. I can almost understand why Dad escapes with his drugs and those bottles of scotch. I want to be numb now, too.
I dry off and get dressed and you’re waiting for me in the living room and you’re holding a jewelry box with a ribbon wrapped around it.
“What’s this?” I say.
You press it into my hand. “Why don’t you find out?”
Inside is a brand-new shiny key.
You shove your hands into your pockets, your telltale nervous gesture. “I was hoping … Grace, I want you to move in. We could box up your stuff this weekend—”
“This weekend?”
You run your hands down my arms. “Baby, we have to get you out of that house. They already kicked you out for the summer. Are you seriously going to stay there until June? Your mom beat you—”
“She didn’t beat me and also, Gav, I’m in high school.”
“You’re eighteen. Listen, I can drive you to school and pick you up. I’m sure Nat can give you rides to rehearsal and stuff. I can get more shifts at Guitar Center and instead of paying rent to The Giant, you can chip in here if you want. I’ve got it all figured out.” You rest your lips against my forehead. “Move in with me.”
I imagine waking up to you every morning. Cooking eggs for you in my pajamas. Making love without worrying about getting caught. Playing house. All it does is make me dizzy, like I’m on that horrible carnival ride that spins like a top and I need to get off, I need to get off right now.
I slide out of your arms. “I can’t, Gav.”
You stare at me, confused. “Yes, you can. Don’t you see? You don’t need permission from anyone. You won’t get grounded or in trouble or any of it ever again. I made it so you’re free. I told you I’d never let anyone hurt you and I meant it.”
“I know,” I say gently. “And I love you so much for protecting me. I do. But, Gav, I need to be a high schooler right now. I don’t want to be the girl who ran away from home and lives with her boyfriend.”
“Why not?”
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold. “It would feel so … I don’t know. I’d feel weird.”
“Weird,” you say, your voice flat. “I just got an apartment for us and made love to you in our bed and you feel weird.”
“It’s not our—”
“Yes it is!” you explode. “Everything I do is for you, don’t you get that?”
See, that’s the thing. You say these perfect lines—and you really mean them. It’s not bullshit.
“I do get it,” I say, quiet.
I am so bad at loving you.
“So you’d rather live with those fuckers and be their slave than be here, with me?”
You’re angry. Furious.
“No, it’s not like that,” I say.
A year ago I thought I wanted a Serious Relationship. But I don’t think I do anymore. I want sleepovers with my friends and drinking Gideon’s champagne and random dance parties where I can get down with whoever I want.
But: If you break up with me, I swear to God I’ll kill myself.
I rest my hand against your chest. I can feel every bit of your anger, your frustration.
“It’s just really intense,” I say softly.
You relax a little.
“Explain,” you say, your voice surprisingly gentle.
“I just … Everything’s happening so fast. I thought I’d never get to senior year and suddenly it’s, like, boom, real life. You know?”
“Look, Grace, if you want to wait until you graduate, we can wait.” You sigh. “It’s been a year. I can wait a few more months.”
“Actually … I’m moving in with Nat for the summer.”
“What the fuck, Grace?”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t know you got an apartment. Her mom said it was cool and—”
“So tell them you changed your mind.”
Late nights with Nat and Lys watching movies, gorging on sugar, laughing so hard we can barely breathe.
“I need to think about it,” I say.
You yank the key out of my hand and shove it into your pocket. “Fine.”
“Gavin. Come on.”
“You’re going to be late,” you say and you’re walking out the door and I follow you down the stairs. Of course this is the one day I need to be at the theater by four.
We don’t talk the whole way to the theater and when you screech to a stop in front of it, you barely look at me as I say good-bye.
I’m not worried. You’ll text me, penitent. Maybe sneak into my bedroom after my mom and Roy are asleep. Or you’ll be waiting outside tomorrow morning with doughnuts and coffee and kisses that make promises. I know you, Gavin. I know you think it’s enough.
But it’s not. Not anymore.
THIRTY-THREE
My mom and I are at Lucky Dragon Chinese, just the two of us. I can’t remember the last time we did something like this. Ever since Roy decided to kick me out she’s been acting weird. As in, she’s being nice. And not yelling half as much. And giving me permission to go out and do stuff. It makes me sad. Why couldn’t it have always been like this?
It’s a Wednesday night, nothing special, but she had a friend watch Sam and left Roy a plate of leftovers. We’re having dinner before I have to be at the theater.
Come on, she said, standing in the doorway of my bedroom. We’re having a girls’ night.
“I can’t believe you’re almost a high school graduate,” she says as she bites into a spring roll. “A little over two months away.”
Are we really going to just sit here and pretend that the slap night and me getting kicked out didn’t happen?
“I know. It’s kinda crazy.”
I’ve been waiting so long for graduation that I’m kind of reeling, being so close to it. I wish we had the kind of relationship where I could talk to her about that, where she’d tell me about her anxiety when she was graduating from high school.
“When will you find out what schools you got into?” she asks.
“Any day now—they said by early April.”
I’ve been obsessively checking my email, but so far I haven’t heard a thing. You’ve already filled out the paperwork for UCLA, so we’re waiting to hear back from them, too. It feels weird, continuing to go through with our LA plans when I don’t even know if we’ll make it through the summer.
I watch my mom out of the corner of my eye when she’s not looking and I see—really see—what these years with Roy have cost her. Gray hairs, wrinkles, a permanent downturn of the mouth. I see some of myself in that weariness and it scares me. I think about how Roy doesn’t discriminate between treating me like shit and treating her like shit. He’s very even Steven about that. I imagine what it’d be like to be married to someone like him, to live my life flinching every time that person came near. I wonder if that would make me mean sometimes, if I’d be obsessed with invisible dust and forget what it was like to be young.
When I was little, Mom used to turn on the Supremes and sing along as she cleaned and she’d bake cookies in the middle of the night, just because. We’d eat them for breakfast. One time, when I was in sixth grade, she called me out of school to go ice-skating. She once spent an entire month sewing the perfect Snow White Halloween costume for me.
Somehow, in the past five years, that mom disappeared. Little by little, she floated away, a leaf on the breeze.
Now, the air between us is heavy: it’s been too long since we’ve laughed together, talked. How do you relearn love?
“Thanks for this,” I say, pointing to my dinner.
It’s very rare to get a treat like this from my mom. Roy controls her money, so she never has the cash for extras like dinner out with her daughter
. She nods, spearing a piece of tofu with one chopstick. She pops it into her mouth, swallows.
I laugh a little and she looks up. “What?” she says with a small half smile. “It’s easier to use them this way.”
I hold up my chopsticks. “Don’t you remember Karate Kid?”
It was my go-to movie when I was little. I must have watched it at least three hundred times, no joke.
“That scene where he has to catch a fly with the chopsticks?”
I nod. “Yeah. You just need practice.” I hold up my hands like Mr. Miyagi, the karate instructor. “Wax on,” I say, making a circular motion with my right hand. “Wax off,” I say, making the same motion with my left hand.
She laughs. “God, I used to have to put that movie on for you every day.”
“I know.” I pause. “We should watch it sometime. Together.”
She smiles. “That’d be nice.”
Neither of us says what we’re thinking, but I bet it’s the same thing: we will never get a chance to do that, will we? I can’t imagine having a movie night with my mom under Roy’s roof. But it’s a nice thought, sitting beside her with a bowl of kettle corn between us.
“I’m sorry about the other day,” she says, with difficulty. “Things … got out of hand. And I don’t want you to move out. But … I don’t have a lot of control,” she says, “over … the situation. With your stepfather.”
“It’s okay. I’ll have fun at Nat’s.”
Her mom’s going to be away at a summer camp she works at until the end of August, so it’ll be just me, Nat, and Lys. Funny how things work out. I get kicked to the curb and it results in what is probably going to be the best summer of my life.
“Plus,” I add, because I can’t resist a little dig, “she doesn’t want me to pay rent. So I’ll be able to buy some of the stuff I need for school.”
“Oh.” Mom nods, takes a sip of her iced tea. She looks unbearably sad. “That’s … that’s very nice of Linda.”
We eat in silence for a bit. An old eighties power ballad comes on—the Police’s “Every Breath You Take.” For the first time, I actually hear the words.