The Way I Used to Be Page 18

  “Hey!” she responds, smiling with her entire body.

  “What are you doing? Studying?” he asks.

  “Trying to, anyway.” She sighs, her head falling into her hands. “This is evil!” She lets the pages of the book fan over, losing her spot.

  “Well, why don’t we study together?” he asks. “What are you doing tomorrow night? Steve’s coming over, we’re just gonna be studying. You should come over too. It’ll be like a study group. Moral support, you know?” He laughs. “She can even come if she wants,” he adds, gesturing to me. I turn another page.

  “Oh, thanks for offering. But I have plans tomorrow night. We both do. Or probably, anyway. I’m going to a party with this guy Alex I’m seeing, so . . .” She makes a point of referring to him as “this guy Alex I’m seeing” whenever she talks about him to Cameron. And he cringes more noticeably with every mention of his name. She knows exactly what she’s doing, just like I know what I’m doing. Most of the time, anyway.

  I glance up. Cameron’s just gazing into Mara’s eyes, not saying anything.

  “What?” she asks innocently.

  “Let me know when you get sick of that.” He lays his hand on her shoulder for just a moment as he stands. And then he walks away. Mara turns around in her seat and watches him leave.

  I take my headphones off just as she turns back to face me, her eyes wide. “Oh my God,” she whispers, reaching across the table to grab both my arms. “What just happened? Did you get all that?”

  “Yeah, I did.”

  “What am I supposed to do? Should I follow him? Is he mad at me?” she asks, talking fast. “Should I go after him?”

  “No, you’re not supposed to follow him. And he’s not mad. He’s jealous.” I smile. “Congratulations.”

  “What do you mean?” she asks, her face blank.

  “Come on, wasn’t this the whole point of Alex?” I close the book—this conversation is definitely going to take up the rest of the period, if not the rest of our lives. “To make Cameron jealous?”

  “No. No, not really. I mean, not entirely, anyway.” But as the thought sinks in deeper, a slow smile forms across her face. “This is good, isn’t it?” she asks.

  “Well, considering you’ve been in love with him for the past three years, and now he’s finally here—yeah, I would say this is good.” I laugh.

  “He’s finally here,” she repeats in awe.

  I never would’ve thought I’d be spending a Friday night at Cameron’s house—in Cameron’s family room—with Cameron’s mother and father and shih tzu roaming in and out, bringing us snacks and drinks. I never would’ve thought Cameron, with his piercings and hidden tattoos that Mara swears are there, his punk-goth style, and his infamous blue hair, was the product of a Brady Bunch household.

  We sit cross-legged on top of these giant pillows his mother insisted upon, Cameron and I opposite each other across a big round, shiny wooden coffee table. Mara excuses herself to go to the bathroom, probably to reapply her lip gloss for the hundredth time. I look around—everything decorated in the most traditional way imaginable. A painting of a boat sailing peacefully under a bridge hangs above the couch, delicate neutral colors adorn every surface, a vase of soft yellow tulips sits perfectly centered on top of a tiny table that could serve no other purpose than to hold a vase full of soft yellow tulips.

  “What’s her name?” I ask Cameron as his little dog nuzzles her face into my hand.

  “Jenny.”

  “Why Jenny?” I raise my eyebrows at him, amused he would choose such a sensible name, and for such a sensible dog—but mostly just amused at his super-sensible life.

  “I don’t know,” he mumbles. “I guess because when I was eight—that’s when we got her—I had a crush on a girl named Jenny. It was the best name I could think of.” He shrugs.

  “And now you have a crush on a girl named Mara?”

  “Yeah, I guess I do,” he says quietly. “Look, pretend I’m someone else for second, okay?” he whispers, leaning over the coffee table toward me, keeping one eye on the door. “You’re her best friend. What do you think my odds are? I mean, this Alex guy—he sounds like a total loser.”

  “I don’t know what your odds are,” I lie. “Mara’s a pretty special person—you know that, right?”

  The doorbell rings. His mother yells, “I’ll get it,” from the next room.

  “Yeah, of course I know that,” he whispers.

  “Good. Well, then, I’d say you have a shot. I mean, she’s here, isn’t she?”

  “Okay. Thanks, Edy,” he tells me, very seriously.

  Just then a guy appears in the doorway.

  “Steve’s here,” Cameron’s mother calls.

  Cameron instantly breaks eye contact with me as he hops up from the floor. “Hey, man!” He does that guy-handshake thing where he holds his hand out, but just cups his fingers enough to slightly grasp Steve’s hand, moving in to hug him briefly with his other arm. “Come in, sit down, get comfortable.” Then to me, “Edy, you know Steve.”

  “Eden,” I correct. “Hi.”

  “Hey,” Steve says slowly, staring at me. “Wow, I—I didn’t know you’d be here,” he says, looking from me to Cameron.

  “Yeah, I texted you,” Cameron tells him. “Mara’s here too. She just went to the bathroom.”

  Steve sits down on the floor between me and Cameron—the only free spot left. “I guess I didn’t see your text,” he says under his breath.

  I look at Cameron. Then back to Steve. Something’s going on. Steve is clearly not happy I’m here. I look at him closely. He almost doesn’t even look familiar anymore. He’s changed so much, I almost question if he really is Stephen Reinheiser, aka Fat Kid. I look at him again. No, not fat, not gawky, not awkward. Not Stephen. Maybe some alternate universe Stephen. Steve Stephen. He doesn’t look anything like that kid who always took my side in book club arguments. Not the same shy, dorky, four-eyed kid who once sat at my kitchen table with me, trashing Columbus. He could almost be sort of cute now. He’s gotten taller. Not thin, but a good solid, medium build. He’s actually fit. Reasonably confident. But he kind of has that look about him—like a sad, waiting-for-something-to-happen kind of look. If I didn’t know any better, he could almost be someone I would hook up with at a party.

  Cameron sucks in a deep breath of air and holds on to it, swinging his arms in front of him, nervously catching his right fist in his left hand over and over. I pick up a Triscuit from the cheese-and-cracker plate his mother brought us. No one says a word. It’s just the sound of Jenny panting faintly in my lap and the cracker crunching between my teeth. Thankfully, Mara comes back right then, her lips perfectly pink and shiny.

  “What did I miss?” she asks, smiling happily at all of us, touching Cameron’s back as she walks behind him to take her spot on the floor between us, opposite Steve.

  “Well, Steve’s here,” Cameron says, finally exhaling.

  “I see that! Hey, Steve,” she tells him.

  “And you’re here too,” he says with a playful, friendly smile, like he’s relieved to see her. Suddenly I feel like a total outsider.

  “Cameron,” his mother says, standing in the doorway clipping on an earring. “Your father and I are heading out—we have those tickets for tonight, remember?”

  “Yeah, okay, Mom,” he answers.

  “Call if you need anything. We’ll be home early,” she says, and I swear she looks at me when she says it, like maybe she knows, like everyone across at least two school districts knows, I’m that girl.

  “Bye,” he tells her, Steve chiming in.

  “Have fun,” Mara calls to them.

  I hear the front door close and lock. I exhale too loudly. They all look at me. “Any chance there’s anything to drink around here?”

  Cameron pushes a can of ginger ale toward me.

  I look at Mara—You’ve gotta be kidding me, right?

  “Edy, come on,” she giggles, “we really do have to study h
ere.”

  “In that case, I’m gonna need a cigarette, at least,” I tell them, standing up.

  “You have to go outside,” Cameron tells me quickly.

  “I was going to, don’t worry.” I roll my eyes at him as I put my coat on.

  The backyard is so impeccably landscaped and orderly, I’m afraid to move my feet because I’ll make too many shoe prints in their flawless white snow. I light my cigarette and try to make it last as long as possible. I never did ask Mara what she said to Alex about us not showing up tonight. I don’t mind too much anyway. I don’t really want to see Troy again. Especially not after our altered-state sweet and slow make-out session in Mara’s car. Especially because I still can’t really put all the pieces back together to figure out how that night ended. I close my eyes and try once again, but it doesn’t happen. What I see instead is Caelin, the next day, standing over me in my bedroom, grilling me. His angry voice still echoing through me: “. . . fucked up, Eden . . . not okay . . . not cool . . . are you listening . . . you could get seriously hurt . . . in serious trouble . . . why are you laughing . . . this is not funny . . . are you listening to me—”

  “Eden?”

  I turn my head. My cigarette has burned all the way down, the ashes still holding its shape. Steve is standing there. “What?” I answer.

  “Um, hey. I brought you your phone; it keeps going off, so . . .” He stops midsentence, extending his arm all the way to hand me my phone, keeping us an arm’s length apart.

  “Thanks.” I take the phone from him. Then he stands there and puts his hands in his pockets. I light another cigarette. A series of texts from Troy are still visible on the screen in reverse order:

  are you mad at me?

  I want to see you. . . .

  hey, pretty girl, it’s been a while. are you coming tonight?

  I look over at Steve, looking down at his sneakers. He obviously saw the texts. I put my phone in my pocket without responding. “Want one?” I ask him, holding the pack of cigarettes toward him.

  “No,” he says, holding up his hand, “but thanks, I guess.” He tries to smile. I can’t quite tell what he’s all about these days. He wears some kind of comic-book-superhero-type T-shirt over a long-sleeved thermal. His hair is just slightly unkempt, but his eyes are bright and clear and focused, not at all like Troy’s, or any of the guys I’ve been around recently.

  “Do you not like me or something?” I finally ask.

  “No. I thought it was the other way around?” He looks me straight in the eye; he’s bolder than I remember.

  “Why would I not like you?” I ask, instead of answering him.

  “I have no idea,” he says, crossing his arms. “Why do you not like me?”

  “I never said that,” I tell him. “I don’t not like you.”

  He nods his head and looks up at the sky. He opens his mouth to say something, but Cameron opens the screen door, interrupting us, yelling impatiently, “Okay, really, it’s time to start studying this shit! Seriously.” Then he pops his head back inside and slams the door.

  “All right.” Steve laughs. “I guess it’s time to start studying this shit,” he echoes, gently mocking Cameron, like maybe I’m not such an outsider after all. I stub my cigarette out and follow him inside.

  Senior Year

  I’VE BEEN WITH FIFTEEN different guys—sometimes it seems like too many, other times it seems like not nearly enough. But each one takes me just a little farther away. I’m so far gone now, sometimes I feel like maybe it’s almost enough. Because, honestly, there isn’t the slightest trace left of that frizzy-haired, freckle-faced, clarinet-playing, scared-silent little girl. And her big secret is really not such a huge deal anymore. It was all so long ago now, it practically never even happened.

  After all, I’m only one month away from turning seventeen, twenty-two days to be exact, which means I’m almost eighteen, which means I’m practically an adult. Which means I’m allowed to be cutting my last class of the day. Which means it’s perfectly fine to be doing what I’m doing with this guy in the back of someone’s crappy old Dodge Caravan that smells like dog-chewed sneakers. And so what if I bombed the SATs last spring. It’s all fine—great, actually.

  I slide the side door open and hop down onto the damp pavement.

  I look at him once, trying to remember his name before slamming the door shut. It doesn’t matter anyway. I make my way across the student parking lot, boots clicking in time with my heart, pounding from that empowering rush of making out with some guy I don’t know or care about, already unable to conjure up his face in my brain. It feels like I’m flying. I check the time on my phone and pick up my pace. I know Mara’s waiting for me.

  She smiles when she sees me coming.

  “Hey!” I call out as I take my spot next to her, leaning up against the driver’s side of her car. And like every other day she hands me an already lit cigarette, complete with her lipstick print on the filter. We wait for the stream of cars to empty before entering the fray.

  “Where you been, girlie?” She exhales a stream of smoke and laughs, because she already knows where I’ve been.

  I shrug. “I don’t know. Nowhere, really.”

  “Hmm,” she mumbles through the cigarette hanging out of her mouth as she picks a few pieces of lint off her sweater. “Nowhere with someone special, perhaps?” she asks, her voice all light and hopeful, thinking maybe I had finally found someone like she had.

  “Not anyone special, that’s for sure.” I don’t know why I say that; I regret it instantly. This isn’t parking-lot conversation.

  “Well, you know . . . ,” she starts, but looks away, not finishing. She flips her hair over her shoulder and looks out across the parking lot; she’d let the cranberry grow out and now she has these streaks of pink running through her dark hair underneath. She had somehow managed to seamlessly and fully segue out of her dork role into this new cool, unconventional, artsy girl.

  And me, well, before it was like you had the girl and then you had the rumors about the girl, but now there’s only the girl, because the rumors aren’t just rumors anymore, they’re the reality—they are the girl.

  “Edy, you know Cameron’s friend—” she tries again, but I interrupt before she can even finish.

  “No, Mara.”

  She flicks her cigarette against the side mirror over and over, not looking at me.

  “Sorry, I just—I’m really not interested. Thanks anyway, though.”

  “Okay. Yeah, I know. It’s fine. Whatever.” She slides her sunglasses from the top of her head to her eyes, letting her bangs fall down into her face. “What do you wanna do tonight?”

  “I thought you’d be busy with Cameron—date night and all?”

  “No. He’s hanging out with Steve tonight.” She pauses. “You know, Edy, Steve really is a good guy, and he —”

  “Yeah, I know,” I interrupt again. “Really, I’m not looking for that. Not with anyone. And most of all not with Stephen Reinheiser, okay?”

  “All right, all right. Girls’ night in, then?” She smiles, raising her eyebrows. “We haven’t done that in so long, it’ll be great. We can order takeout and have a movie marathon?” She laughs, staring out at the emptying parking lot. “Sounds fun, right?” she asks, nodding her head enthusiastically as she slides into the driver’s side, closing the car door on our conversation.

  Like always, we split another cigarette and keep the music just loud enough to drown out our thoughts, to silence the things we should be saying to each other.

  When we get to my house, she turns to face me. “How ’bout you come over after dinner? Maybe you could . . . I don’t know, procure us some refreshments?” she hints with a smile.

  “Got it covered,” I assure her. The gas station guy has become more partial to me than Mara ever since her nose ring and pink streaks; his tastes are a little more conventional, I suppose.

  My house is quiet. The sound of Mara’s car pulling out of the driveway fad
es to silence. And leaves everything feeling too still, too vacant. Empty, haunted—this house. Not by ghosts, but by us, by our own history, by the things that have happened here.

  I choose the cracked ceramic mug from the cupboard—the one with flowers on it that no one uses anymore—and fill it halfway with the gin Vanessa keeps at the back of the spice cabinet, as if the mint leaves, and cayenne, and cream of tartar can hide the thick glass bottle, or its contents, or the reason she needs it to be there in the first place. I take my cracked mug into the living room, turn the TV up loud, close my eyes, and just float.

  When my eyes open again, the shadows in the room have shifted. The mug is nearly tipped over, my hand slack around its cylinder body. I sit up to see the clock: 5:48. Vanessa and Conner will be getting home any minute. I take the last gulp of gin and swish it around my mouth. I carefully rinse out the mug and put it in the dishwasher. Then I dump my books out of my backpack onto my bedroom floor and throw in a change of clothes, my toothbrush, hair stuff, and makeup. I find the notepad on the kitchen table, with Vanessa’s note from last weekend scribbled in blue pen:

  Went to the store. Leftovers in fridge.

  Love, Mom

  I rip out the page and begin a new one. Our preferred method of communication these days.

  Sleeping at Mara’s. Call you in the morning.

  —E

  THE NIGHT IS A total blur. We didn’t order takeout. We didn’t watch movies. We just sat on Mara’s bedroom floor and drank. And drank. And drank until there was nothing left.

  “Morning,” Mara mumbles as I sit up too fast.