Fans of the Impossible Life (25 page)

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Couch-hopping your way through Nick's connections was better than any of the possible alternatives. Better than risking staying at Nick's place, a tiny house that his sickly mother never left, stacks of newspapers slowly filling up rooms. Even Nick hardly ever stayed there. He needed to lie low right now too, worried that they had also given his name when they had called the cops. So it was a tour of couches and floors for both of you. Being on the run was less glamorous then it sounded.

When there was nothing around to help you fall asleep, no money for alcohol, no leftover pot to smoke, you lay awake on that night's floor thinking about what you could have said to them to make them understand. What it felt like to know that the two people who knew you best couldn't ever really know what your life was like.

Nights spent in Jeremy's bed you knew that you had been playing pretend. That his home was your home. That you could
go out and screw up but that it would be okay because there was a place to return to. People who would not let you fall. You thought about the beautiful privilege of having normal problems. Not like the ones you had now, trying to decide whether or not lying on yet another floor was better than being inside the system, the bunk beds and behavior control and the madness of others that was promised if you went back.

For now the goal was staying invisible. And helping Nick make enough money for the two of you to be able to eat. Telling them where you were wasn't an option. They believed too deeply in the world's ability to take care of its own. They couldn't understand how someone could fall through the cracks.

What made them beautiful was that none of this could touch them. You couldn't blame them for that. It's what you loved about them. But you had always been walking along the edge of it, and now that it was here you weren't surprised. You always knew that this was coming.

Only in this life could freedom mean so much trouble, so much that you were not free to keep. You had been in training for how to give things up for sixteen years now. This was the place where you could take care of yourself. You knew how. But you couldn't take care of them too.

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I finally got a text back from Sebby three days later.

I'm okay
, he wrote.
Can you bring me my stuff?

We agreed to meet me at the diner that night. I called Rose and she picked me up in her car. I was waiting outside my house with the garbage bag when she got there. She popped the trunk and I threw the bag in, got in the passenger seat.

“How are you doing?” she asked when I closed the door.

“Not great,” I said.

She had called me as soon as she heard about everything with Peter, asked me if there was anything that she could do. This ride was the first thing I could think of.

“Where do you think he's been?” Rose asked as she pulled out of the driveway.

“With Nick,” I said.

At the diner we sat by the window so I would see Nick's car when he drove in. Ali brought us coffees. None of us said much.

I was wearing my ratty blue cardigan, the one that he had picked out for me that day at Arc's almost nine months ago. I wanted it to serve as a symbol, a way of jogging his memory. Couldn't it be that easy? To say, “Remember how happy we were? Remember the wishes that we made? The things we wanted to stop being afraid of?”

I was afraid now. Of losing them both. Of having to go back to the way that things were before them.

It wasn't until a little after ten that I saw the car pull in and Nick and Sebby get out. I left the table and went outside. Rose followed behind me.

Nick pushed past us to go in the diner.

“Gotta piss,” he said.

“Great, thanks for the information, Nick,” Rose said.

Sebby was leaning on Nick's car smoking a cigarette. Rose lingered behind me.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi,” he said.

I paused, unsure for a moment. Then I went to him.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

He nodded.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Where have you been?”

“I can't tell you, Jeremy.”

“Why not?”

“You would tell your dads. And Mira.”

“Would that be so terrible?”

He didn't say anything.

I took his hand. He let me.

“Come with me,” I said.

“Where?”

“We'll go to Provincetown. We'll get Mira and we'll just go. Tonight. And everything can be like we said it would.”

Nick came out of the diner and got back in the car. He turned on the radio. The music vibrated from the inside.

“It's not that simple,” Sebby said, glancing at the car.

“I know that you're mad at us,” I said. “For telling Peter that you were gone. For what happened at the party . . . everything just got out of control.”

Sebby shook his head. “It's not about that.”

“Whatever we did wrong, I can fix it.”

“This is just the way that it is,” he said.

“It doesn't have to be.”

“It does, actually.”

I let his hand go, looked at Nick lighting a cigarette in the drivers' seat. “Are you with him now?” I asked.

“No,” he said.

I could hear Rose behind me, opening the trunk of her car, getting out the bag of his things.

“Hey, Rose,” he said.

“Hey,” she said, setting the bag down next to him. He nodded his thanks and she went back into the diner, leaving us there alone, Nick's music still blaring.

“What should I tell Mira?” I said.

“I don't know,” he said.

“She's in the hospital again. She's really upset, Sebby.”

He looked down at the cigarette in his hand, burning into ash.

“Would you just talk to her?” I said. “Please.”

“It's not possible right now.” He threw the cigarette on the ground. “I need you to take this one, okay?”

“I don't know if I can.”

He picked up the bag of his stuff, opened the back door, and threw it inside, then slammed the door. He turned back to me. He looked far away already. Like he was already gone.

“I know you think that we saved you or something, Jeremy,” he said. “That we were stronger than you. But we're not. We weren't. We're all just trying to survive however we can. And the way that I have to survive right now is not going to be something that I expect you to understand.”

“I need to fight for this,” I said. “For you.”

“Fight for her,” he said. “That's one you can win.”

I grabbed his hand again and he came to me, took my face in his hands and kissed me, a long kiss that felt like a plea to not make this more difficult.

He let me go. I was crying.

“Please don't hurt yourself,” I said.

He smiled. Sad smile.

“How about just a little?” he said.

I shook my head.

He walked away from me and my fingers left the fabric
of his jacket, the inches of air sneaking in quickly between us, adding up until they multiplied into an unfathomable distance. Until a part of myself had driven off into the night, leaving me standing there alone.

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She only had to stay in the hospital for a few days this time, since she hadn't tried to hurt herself, hadn't gotten that far. She was released with new prescriptions and instructions to see a real psychiatrist once a week. Kelly the nutritionist would no longer be considered enough.

Her mom picked her up in the afternoon and drove her home. They didn't talk much in the car. Mira was still sleepy from the sedatives that they had her on for anxiety. But it was better than the alternative. Sleepy meant no thinking.

Her mom handed Mira her phone when she got in the car. She turned it on. Fifteen text messages. Eleven from Jeremy, four from Rose. She scrolled through them quickly, then put the phone in her pocket.

When they got to the house there was another car in the driveway.

“Julie's here?”

Her mom smiled and they went inside. Julie was standing in the front hall with a bunch of balloons.

“I didn't know what you're supposed to get someone in a situation like this,” she said, “but I figured you can't go wrong with balloons.”

Mira let her sister hug her. Then their dad was there too, and Mira let them both hold her and wondered how long it had been since she had hugged them like this.

They sat in the living room, Mira, Julie, and their dad all on the couch together, the two of them taking up posts on either side of her. Their mom went into the kitchen to make hot chocolate. Even though it was seventy degrees outside, hot chocolate somehow seemed like the right thing.

“Aren't you missing class?” Mira asked Julie.

“Yeah, it's okay, though. It's just a lecture. I can get the notes from someone else.”

They sat and talked about normal things, about nothing. Mira listened to their voices and thought, through the haze of the sedatives, that she was grateful for those voices, for familiar sounds to return to.

After a while she said she was tired and went up to her room to lie down. Her mom had attempted to straighten up while she was away. Her scarves were folded in a pile in the corner, her makeup lined up in neat rows on her vanity.

Mira lay down on her bed and looked up at the wings. Then she couldn't look at them anymore.

There was a soft knock on the door and her dad came in
the room.

“Is it okay if I come in?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said. “It's okay.”

He came and sat down next to her on the bed. He smiled in a way that seemed unsure about smiling.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Better,” she said, knowing that it was what he needed to hear.

“We were so worried about you,” he said.

“I guess I'm always making you worry about me.”

“We just want to know that you're going to be okay.”

Mira pulled her legs up under the covers, wrapped her arms around her knees.

“I can't make any guarantees,” she said. Now she tried to smile. It wasn't sure either. “I want to be okay,” she said.

“You'll tell us,” he said, “if there's something we can do.”

She nodded.

“Okay,” he said. He stood up to go.

“You know it's not your fault, right? That I'm like this. I think it might just be a part of who I am.”

He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. He nodded. “I'm just glad you're home,” he said.

“Me too,” she said.

“I'll let you rest,” he said. “You want your hot chocolate up here?”

“No, thanks.”

“Okay, honey,” he said.

“Dad?”

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

He went out and closed the door behind him, and Mira closed her eyes and let herself sleep.

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For the second year in a row, I was missing the end of the school year. It had been almost two weeks since the day that I was called into the dean's office, and I had no plans to go back. Peter would not be there. Mira would not be there. And Sebby was gone.

After a week without any response from her, I had resorted to calling Mira's house phone to find out how she was doing. Her mother had answered a few days before and said that she was back from the hospital but wasn't ready to talk to anyone.

Rose and Talia finished installing the Art Club exhibit for me, and Rose texted me that I should stop by and make sure it was okay. Our “opening” wasn't happening anymore, and our advisor was banned from the school, but somehow I still cared about it, even after everything that had happened. I told her I would come in after school so I wouldn't have to see anyone.

But on the afternoon that I headed over there, I got to the
St. F building and kept walking. There was something else that I needed to take care of first. I made my way down the block to Peter's house. The trees in his front yard were blooming with big white flowers dropping petals onto the lawn. Summer was so close. We had almost made it.

I rang the doorbell. After a minute he opened the door.

“Jeremy,” he said. “You really shouldn't be here.”

“I need to talk to you,” I said.

He shook his head.

“Please,” I said.

We stood there for a minute, then he stepped aside and let me in.

The living room looked conspicuously neat, some cardboard boxes stacked in the corner.

“Are you leaving?” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “I need to move out of here at least.”

“Are they firing you?”

“Probably,” he said. “And they don't want me in their housing while they think about it.”

“Where will you go?”

“My mother's house. For now. She lives about an hour away.”

I sat down on the couch.

“Have you talked to Mira?” I asked.

“I haven't talked to anyone since this all happened, Jeremy. This all looks very bad for me.”

“I made a mistake,” I said. “When I was talking to Dean Pike. I said the wrong thing.”

Peter sat down.

“Okay,” he said.

“He was saying that a student had seen you and Mira in your car, that it was inappropriate . . .”

“I know.”

“Who would say something like that?”

He shook his head.

“I don't know.”

“It wasn't, though, right?” I regretted asking as soon as I said it.

“I don't know what someone thought they saw,” Peter said. “Mira was very upset. I was trying to calm her down. We were in my car because it was raining.” He looked at me. “What did you say to Pike?”

“He wanted to know if I had ever been to your house. And I thought I should say no. That it would look bad if I had, if they thought you were getting too close to your students or something.”

“So you said no.”

“I said no.”

“But Pike knew that you had been here,” he said.

“Yes,” I said.

Peter took a deep breath. “He knew because I told him that you were here last spring. After the locker incident.”

“I didn't know,” I said.

“I wanted them to know because they were very concerned about your situation. Your father was understandably upset and
had threatened to sue. And then when the bomb threat happened you were one of the students who was under suspicion. So I wanted them to know that we were working together on what had happened.”

“Oh,” I said.

“I didn't want you to know that they suspected you,” Peter said. “You were already upset enough. Rightfully so. I'm sorry that I attempted to shield you. I don't know.” He put his head in his hands. “To tell you the absolute truth, I'm not really sure how I could have handled all of this differently.”

I sat there watching him, sitting among the boxes of his packed-up life. It wasn't fair. That he could help us so much and that this was what he got for it.

I opened my mouth to tell him everything—that he was wrong to have defended me. That I wasn't the person that he thought he was. But all that came out was, “I'm sorry.”

“It's okay,” he said. “It's not your fault.”

I nodded, realizing that it would be kinder to spare him from this last injustice. What I had done was my own problem, not Peter's.

“Will you be able to find another job?” I asked.

“Getting fired from your last teaching job doesn't exactly make you a desirable candidate,” he said. He sat up a little. “But I'll figure it out. Look, I don't want you worrying about me.”

“I wish I could do something,” I said.

He shook his head.

“Me too,” he said. He stood up. “You should go.”

I followed him to the door. He opened it, and we stood there for a moment.

“You helped me so much,” I said. “Everything you did for me. I just need for you to know.”

He smiled. “Thanks, Jeremy.”

I walked out and he closed the door behind me.

“Good-bye,” I said to myself. “Good-bye, Sebby. Good-bye, Peter. Fucking good-bye, fucking everyone.”

I walked down the street, thinking I would just keep going past St. F. back home. There was no reason to go there. I didn't care about the exhibit. I didn't care about anything at that place anymore.

As I came up to the school, my phone beeped in my pocket and I took it out. It was a text from Rose.

Are you coming to see it? Talia and I will be in the library.

I put my phone back and looked up at the main building. I had a sudden surge of anger. I couldn't stand it anymore, being asked to accept that I had no control over who left me, over our lives. There had to be something that I could do.

I made my way up the driveway to the front door, past groups of kids headed to their buses. A few noticed me and stopped to look and whisper. I kept walking, in the front door, down the hall to the library.

Rose and Talia were standing there, waiting for me.

“Hey,” Rose said when she saw me.

“Hey,” I said.

The exhibit looked good. There were a few trippy sculptures and paintings by the emo kids, hands oozing flowers and a man's head growing antlers. Rose's Jenga tower was next to Talia's landscape drawings of trees and mountains. Mira's dress was on the dress form in the corner, hundreds of tiny pockets sewn together with jeweled clasps. And at the end of the hall was my painting. A three-by-five-foot canvas. A cloud of colors, blending from the outside in, forming a cave of paint around three figures. A boy with wings and angel-blue eyes and a boy and a girl on either side of him, each holding a burning stick of incense. In pencil along the bottom I had written the words “fans of the impossible life.”

“Does it look okay?” Rose asked.

Talia was straightening one of the sculptures on its pedestal.

“Yeah,” I said. “It looks good.”

“Have you heard anything else?” Rose asked. “About what's going on?”

“I just came from Peter's,” I said. “It's not good.”

Talia turned around.

“You saw Peter?” she said.

There was something about the look on her face. Something in her voice. And I just knew.

“It was you, wasn't it?” I said.

Talia said nothing.

“You saw Peter with Mira,” I said. “Of course you would be at the college fair. You saw them in his car.”

Rose looked at Talia.

“Wait, what?” Rose said.

“And you were, what?” I said. “Jealous? Did you really think something was going on? Or you were that mad at Mira for saying something stupid at Molly's party?”

“Talia? Is that true?” Rose said.

Talia didn't answer.

“Fuck this,” I said. “Fuck this fucking place.”

I went over to my painting and took it down off the wall.

“What are you doing?” Rose said.

“I'm taking my shit,” I said. I looked at Mira's dress. “I'm taking my shit and Mira's shit.” I grabbed the dress form and tried to drag it down the hallway while carrying my huge canvas under my arm. I looked ridiculous. Like the worst art thief ever.

“Jeremy,” Rose said. “You can't just do that!”

“Yes, I can,” I said.

“You can't even carry it,” she said.

“I'll figure it out!”

She came up next to me and took Mira's dress.

“If you're going to be dramatic at least let me help you.”

Rose helped me load the painting into her trunk and squeeze the dress form with the dress on it into the backseat, and we drove to Mira's house.

In the car I ranted over Talia, yelled out the window at the
injustice of it all. How could she be so blind? She loved Peter enough that she was willing to destroy his life? Well, we were all destroying things left and right. Why shouldn't she have her turn?

Rose pulled up in front of Mira's house. We got out and she helped me unload the stuff from her car. We looked like a deranged garage sale, standing on the front lawn, staring up at Mira's bedroom window.

“What are you going to do with this stuff?” Rose asked.

I thought about my phone full of unanswered text messages.

“I'm going to sit here and wait.”

“Until what?”

“I don't know,” I said.

Rose looked up at the house.

“Well, at least you have a plan.”

I picked up the painting and propped it against a tree. Rose brought the dress over.

“I can't believe all the work she did on this,” she said. She opened one of the little pockets on it, pulled out a tiny folded piece of paper. She unfolded it, looked at it. She opened another pocket and unfolded another piece of paper.

“Look at this,” she said.

She handed me the little squares of paper. One said, “Sebby.” The other said, “Jeremy.”

“Did you see what she called it?” Rose asked. “The wall tag that she made for it?”

“No.”

“It's her
What I Love
dress.”

Rose sat with me under the tree for a while, not quite understanding why I wouldn't just go ring the doorbell. After about an hour she said she had promised to meet Ali, but that she would check on me later. She drove off and I was left alone with all I had left to show for the past eight months of my life.

After a while longer a car pulled into the driveway and a girl who looked like Mira stepped out. She was taller and leaner than Mira, but they were undeniably related. The same unruly curls. The same eyes and mouth. It was as if, in the strange two weeks that had passed, Mira had transformed into a slightly different person.

“Who are you?” the girl said, standing with her hands on her hips, staring at me.

“I'm Jeremy,” I said. “I'm Mira's friend.”

She came over and looked at the painting propped up against the tree, looked at me again, then turned around and went inside.

I kept waiting.

It was another ten minutes before I saw the curtain open in the window to Mira's room. The late-afternoon sun glared off the glass and I could only barely see an outline of her. Then she opened the window and leaned out.

“Jeremy?”

“Hey,” I said.

She looked at me, looked at the garage sale art show set up behind me.

“What are you doing out here?” she asked.

“Waiting for you,” I said.