Don't Ever Change (19 page)

“What problem?” Steph asks.

“The problem of missing you both too much, and freaking out about it. Of basically dying inside because I know soon we won’t be together anymore.”

They both go quiet, caught off guard by this.

In general I’ve never been a big apologizer, and I wonder if that’s also part of the problem. But the real truth is I don’t
mind
apologizing; it’s super easy if you really mean it, which I really do. “I’m really sorry, guys. Seriously.
Seriously.
”

“We
do
love you,” Steph says, looking sadder for it, and then Michelle says, almost tearfully, “We accept you, even when you
are
judgmental . . . and close-minded . . . and a little mean.”

“Don’t accept me! Force me to change!”

“Can’t,” Michelle says.

“Don’t know how,” Steph admits.

“Six months from now I’ll be like a completely different person, you’ll be like, ‘Who’s
this
Eva?’”

“That’s not what we’re asking for,” Steph says.

Michelle just shrugs.

How can I be this person who likes the way she is, has self-confidence—or at least some
semblance
of what
appears
to be self-confidence—if I still have to spend so much time trying to change? Why am I always having to search deeper for self-improvement and self-love or self-worth or whatever Courtney would call it? I don’t know and I don’t know, so all I can do is keep saying I’m sorry and I’m sorry. Sorry, sorry, sawry, sari, sari—a bright and colorful sheath to wrap yourself in—sorry!

“Thanks,” Michelle says, seeming appeased, while Steph finishes, “For being the bigger person.”

“Are you guys calling me fat?” I say, trying to lighten things.

“Your eyes seem better,” Steph says, ignoring the joke. “No more twitching.”

“Still not wearing your glasses?” Michelle asks. “You’re, like, blind.”

“
Undiagnosed
,” I say, but no one laughs at that either. “Hey, laugh,” I tell them, which only makes it weirder.

I want to explain to them that staying friends through four full years of high school is this epic accomplishment, it’s
monumental
, and so just staying friends four more weeks should be a breeze for us. I want to convince them how it’s not childish or regressive to try and hold on to the best friends we had in high school, even as we separate and go away to college, but how can I honestly do that? All I know is that I’m
working on
becoming a Better Eva, a Bigger Eva, so I want my favorite people to see my struggle for, like, inner enrichment and be proud of me, or happy for me, and like me even more. But clearly that’s not happening.

“This is silly!” I say. “I love you guys, you’re my best friends, we can tell each other anything—a million different things. Should I start? I can start!”

Michelle smiles, but it’s not that big and not that bright.

“Okay, do you want to start?” I ask.

“I’ve never been fired before,” she says. “She found out I was lying about being able to commit to the position for at least a year.”

“Your six weeks is better than any dumb girl’s year,” I say. “That jewelry lady is the stupidest woman alive.”

“She totally is,” Steph says, and then we’re all nodding,
Sooo stupid
.

“What am I going to do now?” Michelle asks.

“Ah!” I shout. “I’ve got it!”

Michelle and Steph wait.

“The Gap!” I scream, punching a pillow we tie-dyed last summer.

Steph shakes her head, twists her hair. “I’m seasonal,” she says nervously.

“So?”

“So they can’t take on
another
seasonal employee now that the season’s started.”

“Steph already asked,” Michelle tells me. “They’re not hiring.”

“Maybe Shelby knows a salon that needs a receptionist,” I offer.

“Shelby?” Michelle says, with a very superior huff. “No way.”

“What about Sunny Skies?” Steph asks me.

“You think
summer
camp isn’t
seasonal
?”

“Can you at least ask?” Michelle says, and then Steph says, “
I
at least
asked
.”

“I can’t,” I say.

“You won’t,” Michelle says, annoyed.

“It’s just that I’m in trouble. I Frenched Foster.”

“Is he your boyfriend now?” Steph asks, not in a nice way.

This is one of those impossible friendship crossroads, where every direction is wrong. But I’m also beginning to sense something deeper behind why they’re upset with me, and it’s not just because I dug out everything we’ve ever done and made together, everything we poured our love into, and piled it on the carpet where you can see it for what it is: outdated and juvenile. It’s because instead of writing about my experiences with Michelle and Steph—all the funny, true, goofy,
epic
,
monumental
things we went through together—I chose to invent a bunch of sad stories about imaginary strangers. At the time I didn’t want to draw from my own life because it felt so un-unique and forgettable, and I think gradually my best friends came to realize that—even though I didn’t. So now when they look at me, they don’t see an old friend who’s trying hard to improve and grow; they see someone who started to leave them a long time ago, has pretty much already left, and maybe didn’t care about being there in the first place.

“You put the
art
in martyr,” Courtney once told me, “like it’s your job.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

MY CELL PHONE
rings at four a.m., and it’s the last of the several people I expect it to be: Elliot. I have a chest-tightening
Oh yeah, Elliot
! moment that’s more shock than surprise, which I can’t disguise in my voice as sleepiness. But Elliot didn’t call to pay attention to
me
, so I just listen to him ramble about hating his band, hating music, and hating his stupid tour, and hope he doesn’t say anything about
love
.

But why would he? This is what I always do: put too much
pressure
on everything. If Elliot was here I’d probably kiss him, and if he’d stayed all summer I probably would have dated him, but since he’s
not
and he
didn’t
, the reality is much milder. Elliot only calls me because he thinks I’m funny or smart or both. He calls me because we’re friends; it’s not about love.

I ask Elliot about groupies, like if he has any. He laughs, like that’s a joke. I ask him about gigs, and he giggles. I even ask him if he’s drunk, because I don’t remember the last time someone had this much fun talking to me. But he’s not drunk and he’s not smoking and he’s not taking any pictures, he says, because there haven’t been any “Kodak-ota” moments—because they haven’t made it to North or South Dakota yet. Ha!

“What was tonight’s show all about?” I ask.

“It was in this long, hallway-type room with a small stage at one end and a DJ-slash-sound booth at the other. There was so much slapback I had to stop playing five or six times, and once I even had to unplug. But the rest of the band just kept going, like I didn’t matter, even though I’m the singer
and
the lead guitarist.”

“I
get
that,” I say, in a way I hope comes across as soulful.

“The crowd had their arms folded most of the show and were way too dressed up and mainly awful.”

The thing about Elliot I’d sort of forgotten is that he’s
cool
and easy to be friends with. He doesn’t really expect anything from me except that I’ll answer my phone at four in the morning on a work night, and since that’s something I have no problem doing, our friendship isn’t a burden at all. Also, Elliot’s older, so I assume he sees something innocent and puppy-like in me, like how excited I was to get to know him when we met and how excited I was to kiss and pre-miss him. That must’ve seemed naive and sort of sweet, and isn’t it okay to want to be seen that way in someone’s eyes?

Another surprise: Elliot asks about my writing. I tell him something I’ve never told anyone, which is that I don’t really like to write. What I mean by that is the
act of writing
, which makes me feel stupid and slow. Like when my mother opens the fridge and just stands there, with no idea what she wants.

“Writing’s like that a lot of the time,” I say, “except when everyone loves your writing, I assume.”

Elliot, probably thinking about his own music, agrees.

Then he gets kind of serious, apologizing for not communicating more.

“The road sucks, but at least we’re at the farthest point east, which means we’ll be looping back west now. Back to Hell-A,” he says, “to see you before you go.”

First I liked Elliot and felt sad when he was gone. Now I like Elliot gone; I might even like him
more
because he’s gone, which feels wrong.

But I’m tired of being wrong.

I’m tired anyway, so we say good night.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

MY MOTHER WAKES
me seven minutes before my alarm, which is a complete injustice. I have no problem telling her so.

“Mom, this is one of the worst things you’ve ever done.”

“Then I’m doing pretty good,” she says. “I should run for office.”

My mother’s holding an old toaster. It looks pretty banged up.

“Have we stopped making toast in the kitchen?” I ask.

“I found it in the garage,” she says, extending her arms so the toaster’s right in my face. “For your dorm!” my mother exclaims, and then shakes the toaster like I’m supposed to leap out of bed and immediately bubble-wrap it for Boston.

“I don’t want that,” I tell her. “It’s crusty and gross.”

“You’ll need a toaster.”

“Why?”

“You’ll have to eat.”

I sit up so I can really look at her, to see which way she’s acting: lonely or crazy. Courtney says since both of us are leaving, we have to get used to Mom ping-ponging between the two.

“What’s happening?” I ask, because sometimes if I’m very direct with my mother, she’ll stop being weird and just say what’s bothering her.

“I’m just giving you this toaster for your dorm room,” she says innocently.

“But what’s
really
happening?”

“I don’t understand what you mean, Eva.”

I gently pull my mom onto the bed, so she’s sitting beside me, the toaster between us. I glance around my room, which already feels like it has less of a sense of
me
about it. Soon it’ll be my mother’s
other
room, where she can go to watch the TV shows no one else will ever watch with her, or read the long articles in her
Vanity Fair
that she normally only has time to skim. “Call me a cab,” my mother used to say whenever my sister and I would make simultaneous sleepover plans. I thought it was so sweet how Mom hated to be home without us, that when we left she wanted to leave too. But then Courtney explained that she didn’t mean “call me a taxi,” she meant “call me a Cab,” like a
Cabernet
, her favorite type of wine.

“You’re going to love it when we’re gone,” I tell her. “You and Dad are going to party all the time.”

“Is that what you think?”

Her voice sounds too hollow, like she’s in her own world, which confirms my diagnosis: she’s lonely. I open my arms to her, but she doesn’t realize it’s for a hug, she thinks I’m reaching for the toaster.

“Mom,” I say, “I don’t want this old-ass toaster.”

“Why not?” she asks, her voice all choked up and sad-sounding.

“I’m not leaving yet. I’m not thinking about, like, appliances yet.”

“So you’re going to make me ship this to you when you change your mind?”

“Mom, don’t give me that Mom Guilt, come on.”

Then my mother tries to take back the toaster, but I grip the cord and don’t let go.