Another Day (14 page)

I don’t wait until I get home. I drive away from Ashley’s house, turn a few corners, then pull over by the side of the road and call him.

He hasn’t texted me back, and I’m worried he won’t pick up. But he does.

“What’s up?” he says. I can hear the TV loud in the background.

“I’m really sorry about that,” I say.

“Not your fault. I have no idea where you picked up that black bitch, but let me tell you, she is
not
your friend. At all.”

“I know. It was stupid of me to invite you along. I should’ve just dealt with her.”

“She was out of control. Completely out of control.”

“I guess looking like that can do that to you.”

“It’s no excuse. Seriously. What a
bitch.
”

It wasn’t really her,
I want to say.
You didn’t meet her at all.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Justin says. This is his way of saying we’re not going to talk about this anymore.

“See you in the morning,” I tell him. “And sorry again.”

“Stop. It’s fine.”

No, it isn’t.

I wonder if maybe it isn’t only Ashley’s life that has been hijacked. Maybe mine has been hijacked, too. Maybe I need to focus on the real things, not the fantasy things. Even if A is real, A will never be constant. Justin is my constant.

I’m worried that Justin will be pissed at me for what happened, but mostly he’s pissed at Ashley. When we bump into our friends in the hall before homeroom, he can’t wait to tell everyone what happened.

“Rhiannon has this total slut friend from California who
totally
made the moves on me last night—with Rhiannon right there! It was wild. She was totally hot, and she could not keep her hands off me. Finally I was like, ‘Hey, what do you think you’re doing?’ And Rhiannon came right in and told her to get the hell off. I swear to you, it was out of control.”

“Dude!” Steve says.

“Yeah. That’s what I’m saying.”

I know this is how guys talk. I know that the point of the story is that he chose me. But it still feels like he’s bragging. It still feels like the point was that this hot, slutty girl wanted to sleep with him.

I’m not going to say anything—I’m just going to let the story be over. But Rebecca picks it up and won’t let it go.

“What exactly is it that makes her a slut?” she asks. “What if she was just flirty?”

“Oh, give it a rest, Rebecca,” Justin spits out. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see this black bitch in action—it was priceless.”

“Now she’s a ‘black bitch’? Really, Justin?” Even though I don’t want her to look at me at all, she turns my way. “Can you tell the rest of us what really happened?”

“He’s right,” I say. “She was out of control.”

Now Rebecca’s not just angry at Justin; she’s disappointed in me.

“Cute, Rhiannon. Real cute.”

Justin tries to level her with a look. “Rebecca, you weren’t there. And I can call someone a black bitch if she was black and acted like a bitch. That’s just a fact.”

“Bullshit! Her being black has nothing to do with your story, you asshole. And I’ll bet if she were telling her side of the story, she wouldn’t be a bitch, either.”

“So it’s okay all of a sudden to call me an asshole?”

“One, I’ve been calling you an asshole for years. And two, please note that I’m not calling you a white asshole—because even though I’m sure your whiteness adds to your sense of entitlement, I’m willing to let it slide so we can focus on the fact that you’re a
universal
asshole right now.”

“Okay,” I interrupt. “You’ve made your point. Enough.”

“Yeah, man,” Justin says to Ben. “Turn your girlfriend off, okay?”

I know he’s saying this to make Rebecca extra mad.

“She’s right,” Ben says. “You’re being an asshole.”

I feel bad because now Justin is feeling attacked, and even though his choice of words is wrong, the story he’s telling isn’t a lie. Ashley
did
come on to him. And even though she did it with my permission, he doesn’t know that. He thinks one of my friends tried to steal him from me—and that
is
being a bitch. A universal bitch.

“If you don’t change the subject right now, I am going to unleash the biggest fart this school has ever seen,” Steve tells us. “You have been warned.”

Rebecca pulls back and lets it look like she’s dropping the conversation. But from the way she looks at me, I know she’s filing it away for later.

In art class, she launches right into me.

“Why do you let him talk like that? How can you just sit there and let him shit all over everyone?”

“Rebecca, you have to understand—”

“No. Don’t defend him. I don’t know who this California friend of yours is, but maybe
she’s
the one you should be defending. Because if you think of her as some slutty black bitch, then you’re not all that great a friend to have.”

Wait. What? What are we fighting about?

“Rebecca, why are you mad? I don’t understand why you’re mad.”

“I’m mad because my best friend is dating an asshole. And no matter how many times I point it out to her, she looks at me like I’m the one saying the world is round, and she’s like,
No no no
—
flat.
”

“It wasn’t his fault,” I insist. “She was trying to trap him into doing something. He was right to be mad.”

“That must have been so hard on him, to have a hot girl flirt in his direction. I don’t know how he could stand it. Poor victim.”

“It wasn’t like that.” There’s no way I can explain.

“Well, in his version, it was. You know, the racist, sexist version he gave us in the hall? Or maybe you don’t even notice those parts anymore.”

“I do, but…that’s not him. That’s just him being mad.”

“Oh, like it doesn’t count if you’re pissed off? I wish there were an Olympic competition where you could show off all the contortions you do in order to justify your relationship with him.”

I hate it when she uses her smartness to
contort
things about me, to make me feel so dumb.

“Why do you have such a problem with me and Justin?” I challenge. “
Why?
It’s not like he hits me. It’s not like he abuses me. It’s not like he cheats on me. Why can’t you just accept that I see things in him that you might not see. And that you might not see them because you’re a bitch to him all the time.”

“So I get to be the bitch now? Fine. Then you, my friend, are the scary girl.
He doesn’t hit me. He doesn’t abuse me. He doesn’t cheat on me.
Can you hear yourself? If those are the standards you have—
Hey, he hasn’t punched me, so everything must be okay!
—that scares me. That makes me think that at some point you’ve used these justifications.
Oh, it’s really bad right now, and he’s being awful…but at least he’s not hitting me.
Have a little more respect for yourself than that, okay?”

We are in the middle of art class. We are supposed to be drawing a sleeping turtle that Mr. K has brought in. Other people can probably hear us.

“Can we please not have this conversation here?” I ask her. When it comes out of my mouth, it sounds a little like pleading.

Rebecca sighs. “I don’t know why I bother.” Then she shakes her head, correcting herself. “No, I do know. Because you are my friend, Rhiannon. And because it kills me to see you twist yourself around to be with him. I know you’re not really hearing me right now, but one day, these words might come in handy. They might help. Which is why I’m putting them out there. So they’ll be there when you need them, and you’ll know that I’m here when you need me.”

It’s perfectly said. Too perfectly said. I want to tell her that I already have one guidance counselor and don’t really need another. I want to tell her that I can tell she enjoys seeing me suffer, because if I’m the patient, then she gets to be the nurse, the doctor, the guardian angel. Part of me appreciates it, but mostly I resent it.

She returns to her drawing and I return to mine. The turtle wakes up and tries to run away. Mr. K catches it every time it attempts to escape. The first time this happens, the class laughs. The fourth time, it’s just inconvenient.

When I hang out with Justin after school, he doesn’t mention Ashley or even Rebecca. We go back to his place and play some video games—I lose in an early round and have to watch until he’s done. Then he moves his hands on me and we start to make out, and without us talking about it, I know we’re going to go all the way this afternoon. I try to get into it, but I keep wondering if he’d like it better if I had a different body—if I had Ashley’s body. Then as we’re getting naked and more intense, I think about being in his body and having sex with Ashley. Would I like it? Do I want that? I can’t feel that way, and then I start thinking the opposite—what if A were in Justin’s body right now? What if it were A inside of me, A covered in sweat, A kissing me? I know it would be different. I know he’d be looking at me more. Feeling me more. Here more. I feel so fucked up for thinking these things. For imagining A here, A with me. I am cheating on Justin in my head, even if it’s still his body that I’m cheating with.

It finishes before I’ve really gotten anywhere. Justin asks me if I want him to keep going with me, but I tell him no, I’m fine. I’m good. I’m great.

I check my email before I go to sleep that night. No emails from Justin. No word from Rebecca. Just something from A.

I have to see you again.

A

I wonder what body A is in right now. I wonder if I would’ve wanted to sleep with it. I wonder if I’m wrong to wonder that. I wonder what the hell I’m doing.

I don’t answer. I want to see A—of course I do.

But I still don’t see the point.

Justin is in a dire mood when I catch him in the morning. Another long-distance lecture from his dad. Another test he’s not ready for. Another day he doesn’t want to be here.

I try to plant myself firmly at his side. I complain about my own history test coming up today. I tell him that hanging out with him yesterday was much more fun than studying, anyway. I don’t tell him that I studied when I got home.

“I fucking hate this place,” he tells me. I must remind myself I am not a part of the place. He is not talking about me.

It’s hard to be supportive when you have no idea what you’re supporting. It’s hard to be there for someone when he won’t let you know where he is.

I tell him I’ll see him at lunch. He doesn’t react. And why should he?—I’m only stating the obvious. We always know how our day will go.

I walk to my classes. I talk to the people I always talk to. I am barely paying attention to my own life.

I go to Spanish and I listen to people talk about the glories of Madrid. I go to art and I can barely lift a brush.

Then I’m walking into math and something inside me wakes up. Alert. Instead of going into the classroom, I glance back at the hall and see someone looking at me. In an instant I know A has come back. A is here.

It’s in the eyes. This boy with his swoopy hair and his polo shirt and his jeans could be any boy. But those eyes, that way of looking at me, could only belong to A.

I walk away from class, from the way the day was supposed to go. Everyone around me rushes to get to class as the second bell rings. But not him. Not me. Not us.

Us. I should not be thinking of us as
us.
But it feels like
us.
Here in this hallway, before we’ve said a word, we’re
us.

I don’t know if I want it to be true, but it doesn’t seem to care what I want. It exists beyond me.

Classes start, and we’re alone together. I map out where Justin is at this moment, and know he’s nowhere near.

We’re safe. From what, I don’t know.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey,” he says.

“I thought you might come.”

“Are you mad?”

“No, I’m not mad,” I tell him. “Although Lord knows you’re not good for my attendance record.”

He smiles. “I’m not good for anybody’s attendance record.”

“What’s your name today?” I ask.

“A. For you, it’s always A.”

“Okay,” I say.

And it works. By not knowing this boy’s name, I can think of him as A.

There isn’t any question of us running away. I have that history test, and things with Justin are tense enough without me disappearing and having to lie about it. I can miss math, but that’s all I can miss.

It’s so strange to walk the halls with him. I’m worried we’ll bump into someone. I guess I’ll have to pretend he’s a new student. That I’m showing him around.

“Is Justin in class?” he asks as we hit the English wing.

“Yeah. If he decided to go.”

I don’t want to stay in the halls. I lead him into one of the English rooms, and we sit down in the back so no one will be able to see us from the door.

It’s weird being in desks. It’s hard to face each other. But we turn and find a way.

“How did you know it was me?” he asks.

“The way you looked at me. It couldn’t have been anyone else.”

Taken. I don’t know my hand is waiting to be taken until he takes it, holds it. Hands so different from Ashley’s, from Nathan’s. Different even from Justin’s, even though this guy is about Justin’s size. Our hands fit differently.

“I’m sorry about the other night,” he says.

I don’t want to do this again. But I tell him, “I deserve part of the blame. I never should have called him.”

“What did he say? Afterward?”

Honest. I feel I have to be honest.

“He kept calling you ‘that black bitch.’ ”

I watch A grimace. “Charming.”

Again I feel the need to defend Justin. “I think he sensed it was a trap. I don’t know. He just knew something was off.”

“Which is probably why he passed the test.”

He won’t give up. The way he wants Justin to be a bad guy—it reminds me of Justin.

I pull my hand away. “That’s not fair.”

“I’m sorry.”

Sorry. He’s sorry. I’m sorry. We’re all so sorry.

He asks me, “What do you want to do?”

That look again. Those eyes. Not sorry. Yearning.

I do not turn away. I try to be a fact, not a feeling.

“What do you want me to do?” I ask.

“I want you to do whatever you feel is best for you.”

Too perfect, too scripted, too out of touch with that yearning.

“That’s the wrong answer,” I say.

“Why is it the wrong answer?”

He doesn’t get it. “Because it’s a lie.”

He blinks. “Let’s go back to my original question. What do you want to do?”

How can I tell him that what I
want
isn’t the point. It’s never the point. I want a million dollars. I want to never return to school and to get a good job anyway. I want to be prettier. I want to be in Hawaii. Want costs you nothing, unless you try to spend it.
What do you want to do?
isn’t what he should be asking. He should be asking me what I
can
do.

How can I make him see this? I say, “I don’t want to throw everything away for something uncertain.”

“What about me is uncertain?”

Kidding. He has to be kidding.

“Really?” I say. “Do I have to explain it to you?”

He waves his hand dismissively. “Besides that. You know you are the most important person I’ve ever had in my life. That’s certain.”

“In just two weeks,” I point out. “That’s uncertain.”

“You know more about me than anyone else does.”

“But I can’t say the same for you. Not yet.”

“You can’t deny that there’s something between us.”

I can’t deny it—that’s true. But I can deny that it means what he thinks it means.

“No,” I say. “There is. When I saw you today—I didn’t know I’d been waiting for you until you were there. And then all of that waiting rushed through me in a second. That’s something…but I don’t know if it’s certainty.”

Fourth period isn’t over, but I was planning on studying for history during math, and I still need to do that now. I have to remind myself that here is where my life is, and I can’t afford to screw it up.

“I have to get ready for my test,” I tell A. “And you have another life to get back to.”

Hurt. It crosses his face and dims his eyes. “Don’t you want to see me?” he asks.

Want. Everything about him is want.

“I do,” I say. “And I don’t. You would think it would make things easier, but it actually makes them harder.”

“So I shouldn’t just show up here?”

Is this helping? No, it’s not helping. This is the disruption, because it makes everything else seem lesser.

Instinctively, I know: I can’t show up to school every morning wondering if he’ll be here. I can’t be looking into the eyes of every stranger hoping it will be him.

So I tell him, “Let’s stick to email for now. Okay?”

I can sense all the want pulsing beneath his skin. I can see how badly he’s trying to keep himself together. But there it is. He doesn’t get to choose. I don’t get to choose.

The classroom door opens and a teacher I don’t know comes in. She takes one look at us and says, “You can’t be here. Shouldn’t you be in class?”

I mumble something about a free period. I pick up my bag. A doesn’t have one, and I hope the teacher doesn’t notice.

We say goodbye in the hallway. I know I’m not going to see him like this again. I will see him as someone else. But not like this. Not with him as hopeful as he was when he saw me this morning.

I can still feel the connection between us, even as I walk away.

I go to Justin’s locker after school, but he’s already gone.

I spend the rest of the day and night alone. My parents don’t count.