Meant to Be

  My voice has mortifyingly receded into the far reaches of my throat, and I have to clear it several times before I’m able to eke out, “I was wondering if he—you—had a physical reaction to your MTB before you met them. Or after. Or at all. I want to know if what’s going on with me and my friends is normal.”

  “None of this is normal, darling. You got a world of people trying to find and figure out love and then—wham!” Sam smacks his hands together zealously, and I jump. “All of a sudden a Name is going to make life simple? Fuck that,” he scoffs.

  “Aren’t you with your MTB?” I ask.

  He resigns, “That I am. But I didn’t go willingly. I fought it tooth and nail. Sleeping around with whomever I could. Avoiding my computer, my phone. Spending all hours at work.”

  “So what happened?”

  “I couldn’t shake this nagging sensation. In my brain, in my chest, in my…” He blinks his eyes downward, and I feel the blush creep back into my cheeks. Sam Hain’s crotch is one area I try not to think about. “I finally thought, to hell with it. She’s another woman out there, why not at least try her out? I found her easily through an app, chatted her up, and that was it. We’ve been together ever since. Fuck all if I ever thought I’d end up with a lawyer,” he chuckles. “I hate to admit it, but whoever had their hand in these MTBs might have got something right.”

  “Who do you think did it?” I ask, enthralled by this man who I revere and slightly fear.

  “Balls if I know. God? The devil himself?” Sam points at the images on the wall. “A mad scientist trying to rule the world? Does it matter? It happened, and we all gotta deal with it. Poor Brian’s probably losing his hair because of it.” We both look off into the tunnel, as though we can see the receding top of Brian’s lonely head. “What’s your plan?” Sam asks me.

  “I guess I’m moving to Australia.” I shrug.

  “You guess? That’s a plan? What’s in Australia?”

  “Luna Park. Thought I could teach them a thing or two about scary rides.” Sam puffs at the flattery. “And aside from a kick-ass amusement park? It turns out my MTB just happens to live there. Unbeknownst to me until after I chose to make the move.”

  “Ain’t that a kick in the balls?” Sam asks, and I have no idea to what he’s referring specifically. “You’re still going, right?”

  Hesitantly I answer, “Yeah. I think so.”

  “You think so? That doesn’t sound like you, Agatha. You know why I hired you?” I shake my head no. “You came in here all tiny but held yourself so confidently. You told me some story about Halloween being your favorite holiday and how you wanted it to last all year. And since it couldn’t, working at Haunted Hollow would at least give you the chance to relive it all summer. Then you told me a story about a disturbing book you liked to read as a kid about amusement parks where people died.”

  “Abandoned Amusement Parks,” I interject. “People didn’t die at all of them. Some were just haunted.”

  “See! That’s it right there! Even if you were going to freak out a potential boss, you didn’t care. You really knew what you wanted, and I admired that.”

  I’m taken aback that Sam Hain, after the hundreds of kids he’s interviewed, remembers mine from three years ago. “Why don’t you know for sure if you want to travel halfway around the world?”

  “I want to go because I choose to. Not because of this bullshit Name on my chest.”

  “They always say listen to your heart. What is your heart telling you to do, Agatha?”

  “It’s telling me that I have no choice,” I say, frustrated. “Even if I want to be with whomever I want. Even if I tried to like someone else. Even if I had sex with someone on the Devil’s Dinghies, say, I still would rather be with my stupid MTB!” I’m exasperated.

  “That was you?” Sam slaps his knee hysterically. “You are part of Haunted Hollow lore, my friend.”

  “You didn’t know it was me?” I ask, horrified.

  “It’s all good. Your secret is safe with me.” He zips his lip with an imaginary key. “I can’t say I’m not a little bit of a proud papa.” Sam beams, and I kick my shoe in the grass awkwardly.

  “Look, whether your body is telling you to do it on rides or go find this lucky fella whose name is on your chest, it’s still your body guiding you. Take it where it feels good. Does thinking about your MTB make you feel good?” Sam pats his hand on my shoulder in a fatherly way, if my father were covered in tattoos and could bench press seven thousand pounds.

  “Annoyingly so.”

  Another jarring clap. “Well, there you go! Fly to Australia! Box some kangaroos, and go find your MTB. If it stops feeling good, you can always choose to do something else. You’ve got chutzpah, kid.”

  Who is this man? “I suppose,” I concede.

  Sam Hain slaps me on the back encouragingly. I fall forward several feet. “That’s my girl! Now about this wall…”

  Sam is so pleased with my work, he offers me an extra $666 for my summer pay. I tell him Luke helped, and he says he’ll give him a little something, too. “I know it was all you, though, kid. Consider…,” he pontificates, “if you ever make your way back to this neck of the woods, you’ve always got a job waiting. Hell, maybe I’ll give you this place when I die.”

  “Uh … uh…,” I stutter.

  “Just kidding!” Another backslap. “But think about it,” he mutters and walks off.

  When I get home, my mom is at the kitchen table paying bills. I inform her of my bonus.

  “That’s awesome, Aggy! Money like that can help pay for books,” Mom starts about college but catches herself. “Or kangaroo burgers. I hope you won’t actually eat kangaroos.”

  My mom and I talk for a long time about my summer, Luke, Sam Hain and his advice, Uncle Jim and his revelation, my mom and her seafood guy. His MTB died, too, albeit after he met her. Car accident. It must be confusing for both of them, losing their supposed meant-to-bes so soon. Kind of magical they found each other. Definitely not fate. I refuse to cave. My mom seems content, excited about school and work, and there’s a rosy incandescence in her cheeks that hasn’t been there in forever. It’s comforting and encouraging, and I know my mom will be okay when my uncle Jim leaves.

  When I leave.

  I will myself to listen and chat as long as I can, knowing that Lish’s message to Hendrix Cutter awaits me on my computer. When my mom says she has homework, I feign disappointment at the end of our conversation. She hugs me and kisses my forehead. “I’m so proud of you, Agatha.”

  I bound up the stairs, wishing my legs were long enough to take them two at a time. Rugburn is balled up on my bed, and acknowledges me with a logy head lift. “No. Don’t get up,” I drawl.

  My computer takes forever to wake from its slumber, and I bounce my foot, crossed over my knee, impatiently. Finally, the screen is aglow, and I click to open Chapbook. There, I have five messages waiting. Displayed in a list, I can see the names of the senders and the first few words of each message.

  The first is from Luke. It begins with, “I can’t wait to meet…”

  That message can certainly wait. The next three are from Lish. The first begins, “Dear Hendrix Cutter,” and I laugh at the use of his complete name. The next two, also from Lish, begin with, “Aggy,” followed by numerous exclamation points. One would think I’d open her letter to Hendrix Cutter immediately, dying to know what my best friend wrote to my potential MTB. And I am. But the name on the fifth message causes my hand to shake over my computer. I check to be certain I’m not reading it incorrectly. Maybe it’s the first line of another e-mail from Lish. Or I’m blurring the name of his sister to read something else.

  When I steady myself, I read the name aloud carefully. The fifth message is from Hendrix Cutter.

  CHAPTER 38

  This goes against protocol! Hendrix isn’t supposed to write me a letter! It should have gone: a letter from his sister, a letter from Lish, and then there would be comical back-and-forths,
and one day, when I am ready, I would contact him. I am not ready!

  I don’t know what to read first. Do I dive right into Hendrix’s e-mail? Do I read them in order, so I’ll know what Lish said and to, naturally, build suspense?

  “Rugburn!” I shout, and the cat bolts upright. “What do I do? Tell me!” I scream. He shoots out of my bedroom. “Not helpful!” I yell after him.

  My stomach churns. It’s rotating at a rapid pace, and I question whether I’ll have a chance to read a single e-mail before I must rush to my trusty toilet. I could always bring the laptop with.

  No! I shall persevere. Too terrified to read actual words from actual Hendrix Cutter (holyshitholyshitholyshit), I open the initial message from Lish.

  Dear Hendrix Cutter,

  My name is Lish Heins, and I am the best friend of your MTB, Agatha Abrams. I’m hoping this is the correct Hendrix Cutter, but you look to be the right age and, frankly, I couldn’t find anyone else with that name. Can’t wait to learn about its origin. You can tell the story at your wedding! I’m probably getting ahead of myself. Forgive me if I’m all over the place. I’m pregnant. Don’t let that give you the wrong idea about Aggy (that’s what most people call her, but maybe you’ll have an adorable pet name for her like Aggles or Agalong. Or not). It’s not like the two of us are out there sleeping around with everyone. I was sleeping with my MTB and—oops!—now I’m having his baby. You and Aggy will be smarter about the birth control. I know she is big on carrying condoms.

  Am I telling you too much for an intro e-mail? I just feel like you guys are meant to be and all, so is anything off limits? (I know Aggy’s answer, and she will probably kill me when she sees what I wrote to you. Not really kill me. She’s not violent. Except for that time she punched a guy in the nose. He totally deserved it for talking about her boobs. She has great boobs, so get ready.)

  I feel like I’m blabbering. The whole reason for writing you is that I love Aggy and would do anything for her, and since she is still hesitant about this whole MTB thing I wanted to help move things along for her. What are best friends for, if not for writing mortifying e-mails to potential husbands, am I right?

  I was going to keep my big mouth shut, but I learned something about you, Hendrix Cutter: You live in Australia. And guess where Aggy plans on going after the summer (our summer, your winter): That’s right—Russia! Just kidding. Australia. But not because of you. She has wanted to live in Australia for years and years and had no idea you even lived there until your sister wrote Aggy an e-mail (she’s adorable, btw). That’s got to mean something, don’t you think?

  Actually, I have no idea what you think since you have made zero effort to get in touch with Aggy (what’s up with that? Are you some kind of a dick? Beware the wrath of a pregnant best friend). Even you, Hendrix Cutter, must admit that’s weird. So, I am putting the ball in your court. If you are the guy my amazing best friend deserves, you will get in touch with her. I’m not saying you have to fall in love and get married and have babies so my kid has a friend, but that would be nice.

  She’s on Chapbook under Agatha Abrams.

  Sincerely,

  Lish

  (maid of honor at your future hypothetical wedding)

  PS Dump your girlfriend.

  PPS Don’t tell Aggy I mentioned her boobs.

  You know when you first get your period, and your dad doesn’t know what to do when he finds out so all he manages to say is, “Congratulations?” I feel seven hundred thousand times more mortified right now. Let us recap all the humiliating details I learned about myself in Lish’s message:

  1) I am getting married.

  2) I am constantly prepared to have sex, with my arsenal of condoms.

  3) I only punched one guy, so that’s okay.

  4) MY BOOBS.

  5) My best friend basically called Hendrix Cutter a dick.

  6) I am supposed to have babies with him.

  All of this, and he wrote me back. What if his e-mail is him telling me never to contact him? What if Hendrix Cutter puts a restraining order on Lish? On me?

  I open the next message from Lish with a modicum of terror.

  Aggy!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  Hendrix Cutter wrote me back!

  See below:

  Hi Lish,

  Funny you should write. I’ve been thinking about MTBs a lot lately. My girlfriend, ex-girlfriend, has galloped off into the sunset with hers. Truthfully, it made me want to find mine even less. But your message intrigued me (and not just the breast part). I think a lot about fate and choice and destiny and free will. I don’t know what I’ve concluded, but the fact that Agatha (I like her full name, if that’s okay) is coming to Australia—learning that has me all mixed up. What are the odds? Or is it more than odds at work? This new life we have drives me batshit. It was a lot simpler when we could sneak off with someone after homeroom, right?

  I have to figure out what to say to Agatha. I don’t know if I’m quite as open as you. I’m guessing most people aren’t. ☺

  Thanks again for writing,

  Hendrix

  PS Don’t tell Agatha, but I have a massive …

  big toe.

  Aggy! He’s perfect for you! I love him!!! Manners and depth, and he’s funny! His girlfriend is out of the picture! I can’t stop using exclamation points! Get home from work, so you can fall in love already!

  I am completely, utterly, blissed out to the max. The ridiculous attention from Lish that I’ve missed so deeply combined with the fact that Hendrix Cutter seems the complete opposite of a dick makes my head spin. It’s too good, and I’m not ready to read the message from him. Impeccably timed, Uncle Jim knocks on my door frame.

  “Aggy, I have something for you,” he sing-songs while holding up a folded piece of paper. He smacks the document into my hand, and I peel open the flaps. It’s an airline itinerary, my full name listed for a flight from Chicago to Sydney, stopping in Los Angeles, on September 7.

  “I knew you weren’t at one hundred percent certainty, so I took the liberty of getting you there. You’ll be done with work by then, right? After Labor Day.” I nod, dumbstruck. “And it’s a Tuesday. I always liked Tuesdays. Plus, seven’s a lucky number, or so they say.”

  “I … I,” I stutter. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Thank you is always appropriate.”

  “Yes, thank you, of course, but … Uncle Jim. This is so confusing.” Uncle Jim sits on my bed and puts on his listening face. “Hendrix Cutter sent me a message.”

  “That’s great, Agatha!” Uncle Jim jumps up and leans over my shoulder to look at my computer screen. “What did he say?” His enthusiasm is slightly grating.

  “I haven’t read it yet,” I admit.

  “What?!?” This newly liberated version of Uncle Jim is too animated for my currently fragile state.

  “Uncle Jim! I need you to calm down or leave. It’s too much,” I say.

  He puts up his hands in surrender. “Sorry. It’s exciting is all.” He sits down again. “Why aren’t you feeling the excitement?”

  “I am, but it’s also hella terrifying. I’ve been anti-Empty for years. I wanted to live my life the way I choose and not have it dictated to me by love, right? And then Hendrix Cutter somehow becomes all I can think about, and it turns out he lives in Australia. And when I’m about to read a real honest-to-fuck message from this guy whose Name magically is on my body, you walk in with a ticket to Australia. It’s unsettling. How is this actual life? Meant-to-bes can’t be real, and yet all of this”—I gesture hysterically to the computer, the plane ticket—“what if I never had a choice all along? What if every moment of my life is carefully crafted by some god or demon or maniac scientist? What’s the point of living it?” I hate myself for crying, but like everything in my life these days, I have zero control over it.

  I wipe my nose with the heel of my palm.

  “That’s gross, Aga
tha.”

  “I’ll do it if I wanna!” I blubber like a child. Except that I’m not a child. If I were a child, I’d have my whole life ahead of me. But I’m eighteen, and everything has been decided for me.

  “I guess I have to go to Australia,” I mumble.

  “Oh, God, Aggy, poor you! Snap out of it! You are going on a trip to an amazing country, and you are going to meet a boy there! Maybe you’ll fall in love, and maybe you won’t.”

  “But I don’t have a choice. It’s all over,” I weep.

  Uncle Jim heaves an overzealous sigh, “Agatha Bea Abrams. Stop being such a whiny assbutt.” I sit up straight. “You will still have a billion choices to make. What cell phone company to use. What deodorant scent to buy. What you want to eat for every fucking meal for the rest of your goddamn life! Stop acting like you’re chained to a wall. You have a wide-open life ahead of you, MTB or no. Let me tell you one of my favorite quotes. I heard it on an HBO program years ago called Mondo Beyondo, hosted by one of my people’s icons, Bette Midler. I’m allowed to say that now. Like when you see another Jew and you can refer to each other as MOTs.”

  “What’s an MOT?” I ask, wiping the drying tears from my cheeks.

  “Member of the Tribe. Don’t kids know anything these days? Anyhow, there was a short film about a man on an airplane telling his story of flying to America for the first time. He spoke in an odd British accent, I think it was, and he had a very clipped, enunciated way of speaking. The stewardess also played by him because it was a one-man show, gave the man this bit of advice: ‘Build yourself a life, and live with it.’ I’ve kept that line in my pocket for more than twenty years.”

  “Your sweatpants pocket?” I ask.

  “My figurative pocket, Agatha. Are you even listening?” I nod, and he continues. “Build yourself a life, and live with it. Make choices for yourself, but accept that things are happening and go with them. It is, and will always be, your life.”

  “So what you’re saying is, just because some creepy shit is going down and it is all too coincidental, I should go with it because I’m still, technically, making a choice whether to go with it or not.”