Love You Hate You Miss You (2 page)

80 days

J,

Dad and I went to one of those huge office supply stores this afternoon. I now have more notebooks and pens than anyone could ever need. When I was shopping with Mom we couldn’t really talk because I was constantly trying on things and telling her I didn’t want them. (Plus I think she was mentally rehearsing for the sex conversation.) With Dad there was a lot more silence to fill because it’s not like there’s a lot to talk about when it comes to notebooks.

I did learn I’m going to be a junior—I guess my final grades from last year were better than you’d said they’d be. Also, on the first day of school, I have to go in with Mom so we can meet with a guidance counselor and talk about “my future.”

I was looking at pens when Dad told me that, and I thought about the first day of school last year. We were at your locker, bitching about our schedules, and Kevin walked by and said, “Hi.” You smiled at him. That was how you two began.

I’d been hoping I wouldn’t be let back into school at all.

I picked up a package of pens and ignored Dad, who was still talking. I didn’t want to remember past that, the first day of school last year and your smile, but I did. I remembered the party, remembered your devastated face. Remembered looping my arm through yours that night and saying, “Let’s go, everything will be fine, school’s finally over and summer’s here. Screw Kevin and his freshman skank, you can do better and you will. It’ll be okay. We just need to get out of here.”

We walked out of the party, warm night air blowing over us, and didn’t look back. I was proud of myself, you know. I really was.

“My future,” and there’s another “ ”for me to hate.

I told Dad we had to leave and sat in the car while he paid. We came home and I’ve been here, in my room, ever since.

And I—

I want a drink so bad. I just want that moment where all my worries melt into warmth. I want that moment where everything feels right, you know?

I don’t deserve to have that feeling.

I still want it anyway.

I’M GOING BACK
to school soon. Very soon, in fact. Tomorrow is the big day.

Tomorrow is too soon.

After I found out, after Dad told me, and after I wrote to Julia, I had to—I couldn’t stand being in my own skin. I couldn’t stand myself.

I went up to the attic. I looked around, sat on the floor, and then got up again. Mom and Dad found me there after a while, looking for something to drink.

They made an emergency therapy appointment for me right away. I hate that I’ve become a bunch of quotation marks. “In Recovery.” “At Risk.”

“Murderer.”

Julia’s mother screamed that at me in the emergency room the night Julia died. She screamed it and screamed it and then stopped, stared at me with her face drawn tighter than I’d ever seen it. She stared at me and then whispered it.

The screaming I hadn’t even really heard—it’s how Julia’s mother always talks—but that whisper, that little cracked sound.
Murderer.
It hangs heavy around me. Inside me.

It is me.

Laurie didn’t seem too surprised that I ended up coming to see her a couple of days before I’m supposed to. She said it was “good” I didn’t drink, and it was still “good” even after I pointed out that I would have if I’d found something.

“But you didn’t find anything, did you?” she said.

“I wanted to,” I said, and then she clicked her pen twice and gave me one of her “I see something you don’t” looks. I hate it when she does that. I hate her pen clicking too.

Mom drove me home after, and stayed with me because the university was closed for Labor Day. I went up to my room, and when she came to check on me she seemed surprised to find me lying on my bed, flipping through one of her art books.

I suppose given everything she and Dad were forced to realize once they had to face up to the fact that, “hey, we have a kid and she’s really messed up,” she expected to find me squatting on my bed cutting my hair with nail scissors or something.

I sort of wished I’d obliged her. Their whole trying-to-care thing is too strange.

Anyway, she did the “I care” thing, sat down next to me, and said, “I have a better book about that period. Would you like to see it?”

“No,” I said. I was looking at the book because it was Julia’s favorite, the one she always flipped through after she came over and smoked a joint out the attic window and then bitched at me for never doing it with her. Pot never made me mellow like it did her. It just made me hungry and tired.

“Well, would you like to go somewhere?”

“No,” I said again, and she frowned and asked me if I wanted a cigarette.

I said, “What?”

“Well,” she said. “Every time your father and I visited you at—at Pinewood, you always smelled like smoke. And I know that…I know giving up drinking has been hard, and I don’t want you to think that your
father and I don’t understand that. So if you want, we could set up a little area outside, maybe near the edge of my flower garden, and you could—”

“I don’t smoke,” I said.

“Oh,” she said, and then sat there looking at me.

I stared at the book. What did Julia see in the pictures? I wish I’d asked her. I thought about what she’d say if I had until Mom left.

I wanted Mom to say, “Why don’t you smoke?”

I wanted to tell her I used to, that Julia and I started the summer her mom threatened to send Julia to stay with her aunt because she was being more paranoid than usual. (Just thinking about J’s imitation of her mother’s “Are you on DRUGS?” speech makes me smile.)

I wanted to tell Mom I stopped because the night I looked into Julia’s unseeing eyes I had a cigarette in my hand, that despite everything it was still between my fingers, the red tip sparking faintly, just waiting for me to breathe it back to life. All around us, the air smelled like burned rubber and cracked metal, and my cigarette still glowed as the world ended.

I haven’t smoked since. I learned to live with the sight and smell of them at Pinewood even though I went out of my way to avoid it, always making sure I
washed my clothes if they started to smell, and lathering my hair until my fingers were numb and smelled of nothing but cheap shampoo. And the thought of having one, of breathing in and out and watching it burn—I could never do that again. Not now. Not ever.

82 days

J,

I’m sitting in the bathroom. The teachers’ bathroom, even. You remember the signs, and how they’d glare if it looked like we might walk near it. It’s not much nicer than our bathrooms though, which surprised me. You’d think all the glaring would at least protect something interesting.

I’m pretty sure as long as I don’t move, as long as I stay right here, invisible—well, if I do that, I think my first day at school will be just fine.

Mrs. Griggles was the guidance counselor me and Mom had to see. She actually tried to look happy when we showed up. She ended up looking like someone had shoved a lemon in her mouth. Good old Giggles. (I wish
you’d been there to call her that. I could never work up the nerve.) I thought she was going to explode when she saw the suggested class schedule Pinewood had put together for me. I kind of thought I might explode.

One of the things I had to do at Pinewood was take a bunch of tests. You know, in case I was “developmentally damaged” from drinking. I refused to see the results—what did they matter? The only thing I like is words, and English in Lawrenceville County schools is all about stomping the enjoyment of them out of you. School is a waste of time, and school without you wasn’t something I wanted to think about, but apparently I’m not developmentally damaged at all. In fact, I may have started drinking because I “wasn’t challenged enough in class.” I bet you anything Laurie wrote that. Pen clicking idiot.

So anyway, instead of my normal schedule of study halls and low expectations, I’m taking honors English, honors U.S. history, honors physics, French, math analysis, and psychology. (I smell Laurie in that one too.) When Giggles was reading the list I tried to say, “No, I don’t want this,” but my throat had dried up, and when I glanced at my mother she looked like a stranger.

For a second, I forgot and looked around for you, because when I’m in Giggles’s office it’s always with you.

It was always with you. God, J.
Was.
You should have
been there, but you weren’t. You never will be again. I had to get out of there then, so I asked to go to the bathroom.

I was actually going to leave, but halfway down the hall I realized where I was going. I’d automatically headed for it.

Your locker.

I saw it, J. Do you know what they’ve done to it? It’s plastered with foil stars covered with glitter. On the stars are bad poems and little messages about you. People MISS YOU! and LOVE YOU!! and are THINKING OF YOU!!! I opened it—it was unlocked—and inside was the same thing. All your stuff was gone. The card Kevin got you for your six-month anniversary. The pictures of you and me. Your makeup bag. The plastic bag way in the back, the one you always kept filled with tiny liquor bottles for me and a couple of pills for you. The coat you never wore and the picture of you and your mom where you were both smiling for real that you kept hidden in the pocket. It was all gone, replaced by fake stars and fake words.

I wanted to tear it all down. You could have. You would have. You always knew what to do, what to say. You knew how to make anyone smile or shut the hell up. You dyed your hair purple with Kool-Aid for kicks and made
snoring noises when Giggles lectured us about being late. Even drunk I could never do those things.

So now I’m here, at school, hiding out in the teachers’ bathroom, and I don’t know what to do. I can’t leave, Julia. I’m just stuck here freaking out. If I close my eyes, will you come to me? You don’t have to make everything all right. You don’t have to do anything. I just want you here. Just for a second.

Please.

82 days

J,

Me again. Guess where I am?

History class. Excuse me,
honors
history. Mom found me in the teachers’ bathroom. I wanted to ask how she had but couldn’t. I don’t know how to.

“You’re a very smart girl, Amy,” she said, and it was weird to be sitting locked in a toilet stall and hear that. It was weirder hearing Mom say it. “You have an opportunity for…” She trailed off then, which was good because I was afraid she was going to say something like “a new start” or “a second chance.” I was afraid she’d say something I have no idea how to get and wouldn’t be able to even if I did.

I was afraid she’d say something I don’t deserve to hear.

This one girl keeps staring at me. She looks kind of familiar. She has very straight, very blond hair and is totally adorable in that way only girls like her can be. You’d imitate her, make me laugh and forget I’m a million feet tall and not adorable at all.

There are two guys looking at me too. I think maybe I made out with the first one once or something because he looked away when I stared back at him. He probably has a girlfriend, and she’s probably in this class too. Great. The other one guy—I don’t know. There’s something about him, plus when I looked at him he just stared back at me. That’s not what guys do when I look at them. They smile and look away or just look away. I don’t get it.

That girl is
still
staring at me. This is going to be a very long day.

I HADN’T MADE OUT
with the guy who looked away. In fact, I hadn’t done anything with him. The more I looked at him, the more I was sure I didn’t even know him. I mean, I’d seen him around at a few parties, but that’s how it is with parties. Or at least it’s how it is with the ones around here. You see everyone at them eventually.

In English he sat down near me, smiled, and said, “Hey, I’m Mel.”

“Hey,” I said back, and noticed everyone—by which I mean the girls—was watching me. It was easy to figure out why. Mel would be the most beautiful boy ever except for two things:

1. He barely comes up to my shoulders.

2. He will not shut up. (That’s when I knew for sure
that I hadn’t done a thing with him. I never went for the talkers.)

These honors kids have everything so fucking easy. In English, for example, our assignment was to sit in groups and discuss our thoughts about a novel. That’s a class?

Please. It was just like study hall, only more boring.

Anyway, Mel ended up in my group. The bitch girl from history was there too. Mel called her “Caro,” and as soon as he said it I realized I did know her.

Julia and I used to be friends with her.

Back in middle school, we hung out with Caro for a while. Or, as J called her, Corn Syrup. I can’t remember when Julia came up with the name, but it fit. And still did.

She gave me a look as I sat down but (obviously) didn’t speak to me. The last person in the group was the other guy who’d stared at me in history. He didn’t say anything to me or anyone else, just looked at his desk until Mel said, “Patrick, what do you think?”

Patrick looked up, shrugged, and then glanced at me before staring at his desk again. That’s when I realized that while I hadn’t messed around with Mel, I had definitely hooked up with Patrick.

He looked at me and all this stuff I thought I’d forgotten came roaring back.

I got through the rest of class by staring at the wall and thinking about how me and Julia used to go to that twenty-four-hour pancake place after parties and eat chocolate chip pancakes and drink coffee until our waitress would come by and say, “So, are you going to pay your check or what?”

As soon as the bell rang I went to the nurse’s office and faked cramps. They called Mom, who called Dad, who called the school back and asked to talk to me. He said, “I called Laurie and she said you really need to stick it out.” A pause. “Honey.”

Yes, Dad has taken to trying endearments on me. It’s not working. It’s obvious he’s only ever said them to Mom and it makes him feel weird to use them on anyone else.

“Fine,” I said, and hung up. Stupid Laurie. I thought shrinks were supposed to help you, not torture you.

The nurse should have sent me back to class then but she didn’t. That was nice of her.

I should have guessed something bad would happen.

She told me to lie back down and got me a cup of water. When I was done with it she started telling me about her oldest son and how he was in Pinewood once
too. Then she said, “You know, I remember seeing you and Julia—” and before she could say another word I told her I was feeling better and left.

I only had one class to get through after that. It was physics, which dropped me back in with the honors kids again. Also more group work, this time solving some problem involving rolling metal balls through some contraption and then measuring stuff. No one would let me touch anything, which was fine with me. I just sat there, and then some girl said, “Are you sure you’re supposed to be in this class?”

I tried to do that freeze-you-out thing Julia would do when she was mad. She’d turn away and act like whoever spoke didn’t exist. It worked on guys pretty well, even Kevin, and the two times she did it to me I begged her to talk to me again after less than ten seconds.

But my attempt at it? It didn’t work. I turned away too fast and caught my hip on the table with a nice hard smack. I acted like I didn’t notice my clumsiness (or the pain), ignored all the snickers at my table, and looked around the room. I actually recognized a lot of the kids from parties. They just look different when they aren’t messed up. Less human.

Mel nodded at me when I saw him and said something to Patrick, who pushed a pencil around in his hands and
then stared out the window. Mel sighed, gave me a small half smile, and then went back to work. Patrick kept staring out the window, even when someone at the table next to his said something, making sure my name and those of a few guys were loud enough for me to hear. As if I didn’t already know I had a reputation. Please. I worked hard for it.

I have this theory about sex. I never told Julia about it because…well, because I just came up with it today as I sat in that stupid class. But I think it’s pretty good. And I think Julia would have liked it.

This is my theory:

If you sleep with one guy—well, who cares? Nobody. It actually generates less talk than if you’re a virgin.

Two guys—same deal, unless you do both of them in the same night and are stupid enough to let someone take pictures. (Stephanie Foster!)

Once you get past two, the number of guys you sleep with gets more complicated. Say you sleep with three guys. Everyone will know you slept with ten and talk a lot of crap about you.

Four guys means people think you’ve slept with so many that every drunk or high (or both) guy will talk to you at parties because, hey, you put out for anyone.

Past four? You’re a pathetic, diseased slut and everyone knows it, so the only guys you can get are the loser ones, and even then they’ll never call and always wear a condom because—well, look where you’ve been!

That’s why five is the perfect number. You get left alone and if you do feel like doing something (which I don’t—getting to five was enough work, thank you), you can find someone stupid and forgettable and it won’t turn into drama. Or a relationship. (Which is really the same thing.)

I wish I could have told Julia this. She would have loved it. She would have had a shirt made that said “pathetic slut” in sequins. She would have worn it too, and laughed her ass off at anyone who said something.

I’ve been with five and a half guys. I always told Julia five. I didn’t—I didn’t talk about the half. Not even with her.

Patrick was the half. It happened at a party in Millertown late last spring, the one Julia decided we should go to because she was fighting with Kevin and hoped he’d be there.

He wasn’t and so she had some acid and then got pissed at me because I wouldn’t, waved me away when I reminded her that acid always freaked me out and that I was fine, I had the vodka we’d picked up beforehand.

“You won’t even drink unless you get to open the bottle,” she said, her voice soft but her words sharp, slicing me open in the way only she could. “You’re such a control freak.”

I stumbled back, hurt by the anger in her voice, and she sighed and threw her arms around me, said, “God, Amy, come on, have some fun. Let go a little! Live!”

And then she whirled away, caught up in the party. She didn’t look back.

I drank my vodka, trying to get up the nerve to find her, but it didn’t work. The world was blurred the way I liked, but I didn’t feel relaxed and safe. I felt too tall and stupid, out of place. Everyone around me was having fun, but I wasn’t.

I felt like I should have been having fun but I knew, deep down, that I never would. Not the way Julia could. I could never just let go. It sucked, but it’s how things were for me. Plus I hated knowing Julia was mad at me. So I left the party and went outside to wait in her car.

I tripped over someone as I was walking down the porch steps. A guy, sitting there with a mostly full cup of beer by his side. He was staring off into the distance, arms wrapped around his legs. He looked as unhappy as I felt.

“Sorry,” I said automatically.

“My fault,” he said, and then, “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” I said, another automatic response, and he said, “Okay,” and stood up. When he did, his hand touched mine, and I felt something, a strange, sudden jolt inside me.

I used to act annoyed whenever Julia talked about Kevin and how she felt a spark every time he touched her, but the truth was I knew exactly what she meant after that night. I just never told her.

He must have felt that jolt too because he said, “Oh,” quietly. Almost startled.

We ended up in the basement, jimmied open a sliding glass door and went inside. It was dark and unfinished, a single bare lightbulb shedding a tiny ring of light onto the sagging sofa we sat on. We didn’t talk much. His name was Patrick. I said, “I’m Amy,” and waited for the usual crap about how he’d seen me around before. Instead he looked at the floor and said, “You hang out with that girl, Julia, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought so. I don’t go to many parties.”

“Yeah? I go to a lot.”

He nodded and then looked at me. There was something almost frightened in his eyes. It was weird, but it…I don’t know. It made me really look at him, not just as some random guy, but as a person.

“It’s lonely, don’t you think?” he said, gesturing around the room. It was all bare walls and exposed beams. Even the spiderwebs in the corners of the ceiling were dusty, like they’d been abandoned. One of his fingers brushed against my arm and I felt that spark again. It was like part of me had been asleep until that moment. Like somehow, I’d been waiting for something I hadn’t even known about.

“It looks safe,” I said, honest like I never was with guys, spinning on that spark, and the fright in his eyes melted into something else, something like understanding. If he’d tried to kiss me then, nothing important would have happened. We would have had sex and that would have been it. But he didn’t try to kiss me. He just leaned over and pushed my hair back with one hand, tucking it behind my ears. Guys did that to Julia all the time because her hair was long and honey-colored, beautiful. Mine is short and the color red leaves are right before they rot.

“Why did you do that?” I said.

“I wanted to,” he said, and looked so surprised, like wanting was brand new to him, that I kissed him.

I’d kissed guys before that, kissed guys after that. They were all the same. They were nothing. But I remember that kiss; the strange rightness of it, the taste of his mouth, shockingly raw without the layers of smoke and alcohol I was used to.

He touched me like I expected, which was fine, the clumsy peeling away of my clothes and the hitch in his breathing when I tucked my hands in his shirt and pushed it up over his head. It felt better than usual though, touching him and having him touch me, and that made me feel strange. Anxious. But I didn’t pull away. That damn spark, that pull I felt when our hands had touched—it kept me there.

I’d always picked skinny guys before, guys who were all bones and angles. Guys who were small in my arms, guys I could see around. Patrick was solid, and instead of ribs and shoulder blades, I felt muscle rippling under his skin. It should have felt strange, but it didn’t. I couldn’t even see around him, but I didn’t care. He was rubbing against me, still in his jeans, and it felt so good I couldn’t bring myself to reach for his zipper and move things along. My skin felt too hot and too tight in a way it hadn’t ever before, and I dug my fingernails into his shoulders, unable to really think but somehow sure something was going to happen. And then it did.

It’s the only time it has, despite what I said to Julia when she got pissed at me after I told her there was no way the orgasms she had with Kevin were worth putting up with walking in on some girl blowing him. She said I’d never understand, and how could I since I only
screwed guys who were too stupid to know girls could have them? I had to lie to her then, if only so I could make my point.

I wish I hadn’t now.

I wish I could have told her she was right about the guys I picked. I wish I could have told her that having one scared the shit out of me.

I pushed and then shoved at Patrick till I was free, getting up and throwing on my clothes as I rushed out the door we’d snuck through. I looked back once. I don’t know why I did. He was just sitting there, staring after me, and I saw his bewildered face, the tiny marks I’d left on the tops of his shoulders. I saw him and I wanted to go back.

I never wanted that, not ever, no matter how much I drank, and so I ran. I ran as fast as I could. I went to Julia’s car, got in and locked the doors. I curled into the backseat, into the dark.

J found me later, like she always did, and said she was sorry for earlier.

“What have you been doing?” she said, and I lied to her.

“Nothing,” I said. “I’ve just been here.”

I’m sorry about that now. I just didn’t think she’d understand. Sex was always something Julia hoped would lead to more, to really being with someone.

I never wanted it to lead to anything. I had sex when I was drunk because it was a way to be close to someone without really being close at all. I know what people say about it, the physical and emotional intimacy of sex and whatever, but less than a minute of latex-covered flesh inside me isn’t intimate. It’s not even skin touching skin.

I don’t know why I’m thinking about this. About Patrick. It happened ages ago and it doesn’t matter. I just feel so awful about this whole stupid day and all my stupid classes, and I have to get up and do it again tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that and—

I just called Julia’s house. I had to. I didn’t say anything when her mother answered. I couldn’t find the right words, couldn’t find any words, but I guess she knew it was me. She told me she hoped I was proud of myself.

She said, “How does it feel to know you’ve taken someone’s life?” I don’t know if she meant herself or Julia’s. Maybe she meant both.

I said, “I’m sorry,” the words finally starting to come, but it was too late. She’d already hung up and I spoke to silence. To no one.