Getting Over Garrett Delaney (11 page)

I wake the next morning with sunlight spilling through my open window and the spark of determination in my veins. I bounce out of bed, full of energy. This is it: the first day of the rest of my life. I never really bought into that kind of thinking before, but now the simplicity is irresistible. Things are going to be different now. I’m writing my own rules. Well, steps. No waiting around for Garrett to call, no hanging on his every message … Maybe it won’t even be as hard as I think, I decide, flossing enthusiastically. Sure, it feels like being in love with him is the only state of being I’ve ever known, but that will pass, it has to, and soon —

Bing!

The familiar sound of my IM alert bubbles to life.

I freeze.

Bing!
it goes again. I look over at my computer screen; there’s a new chat box up, the text scrolling as the sender adds to the message.

There’s only one person that could be.

I stay stranded in the middle of the room with my tank top pulled halfway over my head. I shouldn’t be so surprised. We always chat in the mornings — it’s become our new summer routine. But despite the breezy promises that were just running through my mind, I find that every instinct I have says, “Go! Read it!
Reply!
”

I pause, considering. I mean, it’s one teeny, tiny IM. And it’s not like I’m going out of my way to talk to him — it’s only four steps away!
Besides,
a little voice whispers,
what harm would it do?
I could start the detox after. And shouldn’t I warn him somehow — mention I’m going to be busy and not around to talk, so he doesn’t get worried when I ignore him?

But then one message will turn into five, and then he’ll call, and I’ll be powerless to resist.

No!

I lunge across to my keyboard and click the
X
at the top of the chat box, keeping my eyes fixed on a spot on my wall above the screen so I’m not tempted to read the message. Then I quickly pull on the rest of my clothes, grab my book, and thunder down the stairs.

It’s eight a.m., and already I feel the pull. Something tells me this is going to be a long day.

You know that thing where somebody says “Don’t think of an elephant,” and suddenly, the only thing on your mind is just that: a whole parade of elephants stomping through your thoughts? All it takes is for me to try and not think of Garrett, and suddenly, he’s consuming my every idle musing. Picking a radio station? Garrett only listened to NPR. Browsing the refrigerator for orange juice? Garrett likes the pulp style best. I stare for ten minutes at breakfast options, remembering the many times Garrett has dropped by in the morning to mooch my scrambled eggs and drink coffee before giving me a ride to school, until finally I have to pass on eating anything at all.

How am I going to deal with this? What single thing can I think about that doesn’t have some Garrett-related story attached? In the end, I fold myself into lotus position on the back porch and try to just think about nothing at all. Meditation. Clearing my mind. Focusing on calm breathing and the delicate slant of light through the railings rather than other, less important things. Like, say, the message I left unread upstairs, and whether my Internet service has it saved in an emergency file somewhere… .

“Do you want some pancakes, honey?” Mom calls from inside.

“No, I’m fine!” I yell back.
Think calming thoughts, Sadie. Calming, non-Garrett thoughts …

“Are you sure?” She comes outside, lingering in the doorway. “Have you eaten anything yet? Because coffee has zero nutritional value, and you know that breakfast is —”

“The most important meal of the day,” I finish, sighing. So much for an uninterrupted calm. “Yes, I know.”

“Maybe something else then,” she tries again, giving me that head-to-toe look that I just know means she’s assessing my height-to-weight ratio and comparing it with whatever charts she has pinned up in the Sadie’s Developmental Progress corner. “I could do some French toast. You always like —”

“I told you, I’m not hungry!” I snap.

She blinks.

I catch my breath. “Sorry,” I add, “I’m just … cranky this morning.”

“Clearly.”

“It’s nothing.” I wave away her concern. “And yes, I’ll have some pancakes. Thank you.”

“OK, batter’s in the fridge. I’ll be at the conference until five, but you can use the car. Oh, and your father called.” She tries to keep her voice even, but I can hear the usual disapproving tone slip through the moment she mentions Dad.

“What about?” I ask.

She shrugs. “I don’t know, nothing urgent. He said you weren’t picking up your cell.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m keeping it on silent at the moment. Too much distraction,” I quickly explain. “I read an article about teens and ADD.”

“Is that what you were talking about last night?” She looks impressed. “Technology detox. What an excellent thought. I might add that to my course.” She kisses me on the forehead, then goes back inside, already whipping out her cell phone to record a note to herself, completely unaware of the irony.

I wait until she’s inside before retrieving my own phone. I’ve kept it on silent as a defense against Garrett, but I guess I need a tactic that doesn’t cut off everyone else from my life, too.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Pumpkin!”

Yes, I’m seventeen years old. No, he won’t stop calling me that.

“What’s up?” I ask. “Everything OK?”

“Hold on a sec, will you?”

I wait. There’s music in the background, the familiar jagged edges of a jam session, but it recedes as Dad leaves the room. There’s a click, and then he comes on again, clearer this time.

“So how are you doing? How’s summer shaping up? You written that magnum opus yet?”

“Not yet.” I laugh. “Summer’s … OK, I guess. I got a job at the café, which is fun.”

“I used to make a mean cup of joe myself, back in the day.”

Dad lives in D.C. — when he’s in one place for long, that is. He plays the saxophone — not just for kicks or like those guys playing for money on the subway but as an actual career. He does session music for singers, his band gets booked all over, and they even have a CD that was nominated for a Grammy way back when. Sure, it was for Best Zydeco/Cajun Album, and they didn’t get invited to the big main ceremony with Beyoncé and everybody, but it still counts.

“Did you get my e-mail?” he asks. “I sent you this great link to a dog playing piano.”

“No, I’m just … trying to stay off-line.” I sigh. “Not so much e-mail and Internet, that kind of thing. But it’s hard. I keep wanting to check my phone, it’s like a compulsion or something.”

“Too right. It’s the habit that gets you. Remember when I was trying to quit smoking? I nearly went crazy at first, but it turns out the key was just to keep busy, give my hands something to do instead of holding a cigarette.”

“Busy,” I repeat. “I can do busy.”

“Sure, you can. Listen, I’m sorry I didn’t get back for your birthday, but I’m going to be in Boston soon for a show. Do you want to come up? We can hang out, make a weekend of it.”

“That sounds great!” I brighten. “Can we go see this singer, Jonny Pardue? He’s playing in the city for the next few weeks, I think.”

“Absolutely. Look, I’ve got to get back to practice, but I’ll figure out the details with your mom, OK?”

“OK, see you soon.”

I hang up, thoughtful. Dad’s battle against cigarettes was epic — won and lost on many occasions. While Garrett’s messages aren’t rotting my lungs, they’re definitely corroding my soul. Doing less clearly isn’t working out, but maybe I should be doing more instead. Sure, there’s the usual list of errands and odd jobs tacked to the fridge, but how am I supposed to focus on anything with my computer so tantalizingly close?

Check mail!
it calls to me.
Check mail!

I’ve never been one of those technology-dependent kids — the ones who go into meltdown if they’re dragged away from their computers for all of five minutes — but now my hand is reaching for my cell phone as if it’s possessed. Garrett has texted twice already (at least I assume it’s him, since I’ve stoically ignored the tantalizing buzz), and that’s not even thinking about whatever could be lurking upstairs in my e-mail in-box… .

It’s clear that the house is way too dangerous in my current state of Garrett OCD. Here, peril and temptation lurk at every turn, so I do what any smart warrior would: I grab my keys and bag, and I flee.

It’s time for some distraction.

I never figured Totally Wired as a sanctuary, but it turns out there’s nowhere safer from my cruel addiction than the noisy, bustling café. Three days of Garrett detox later and I have my coffee serving down to a graceful ballet.

“Order up for table five!” Josh hits the bell and deposits two plates on the hatch ledge.

“I need two lattes and a soy tea!” Dominique calls from behind the register.

“Excuse me? Can someone come clear this table?” A customer lingers by a trash- and mug-littered table, trying to catch my attention.

“Coming, right away, absolutely!” I call back to each in turn. Flicking some switches on the Beast, I start the lattes, then grab the full plates and swoop through the café, depositing them at table five with a cheerful “Enjoy!” and a handful of utensils before pivoting, sweeping up the debris on the next table, and stacking my arms high with dirty plates. By the time I get back to the counter, fresh espresso is dripping obediently into the mugs, herbal tea is steaming, and even Dominique is looking at me with what could be admiration — if admiration can be masked beneath a scowl, that is.

“You’re learning fast,” she tells me grudgingly.

I beam. With my cell phone stowed safely in the staff locker and my idle hands put to good use, I can almost,
almost
forget the texts I’m deleting unread (because having them there in my in-box is a temptation too far) and the e-mails that must be piling up back at home. I unplugged my computer that first night and haven’t touched it since, instead, filling my evenings with gritty cop shows on TV (the least romantic thing I can find) and reading my way through Mom’s extensive library of self-help books. By the time I collapse, exhausted, into bed, it feels like I’ve run a marathon of self-control.

But it’s working. I’ve struggled through seventy-two hours of a Garrett-free existence, and it almost,
almost
feels like that itch is lessening. To, say, a fiery burn, rather than a full-on red-ant attack. Soon, it might even fade to a mild irritation.

I can but dream.

But just when I feel like maybe, just maybe, I can make it through another day triumphant, the door dings open and an icy chill blasts through the café. OK, so maybe not a literal one, but the sight of Beth Chambers sauntering in is enough to freeze me in my tracks.

“Hi,” I gulp. “I mean, welcome to Totally Wired. What can I get you?”

“You work here?” Beth asks, looking slowly around. Oversize sunglasses are propped just-so on top of her hair, and she’s wearing another of her fabulously stylish outfits — skinny black pants and a striped shirt that just scream Audrey Hepburn.

Right then I decide, she’s not going to get to me. Nothing is going to ruin my sunny mood, not even Little Miss Drama Queen and her chic monochrome wardrobe.

“Yup, I do.” I brace myself for a scathing retort, but instead she just smiles at me.

“That’s cool. It’s a great place,” she says, then orders a frothy chocolate concoction. “Is that OK?” she asks. “I can get something simpler, if you don’t want to …”

“No, it’s fine.” I blink at her, thrown. What happened to the über-bitch of old — the Beth who would send Garrett out for a bottle of water during lunch, and woe betide him if he came back with Poland Spring instead of her precious Evian? “Do you, um, want whipped cream with that?”

“Sure — if it’s not too much trouble,” she adds quickly.

There it is again: trouble. As if she cares about my time and energy. For what would be the first time in the history of the universe.

I assemble the drink, wondering what has prompted this personality makeover into a new, humble, conscientious Beth Chambers. Did finally graduating the confines of Sherman High make her realize that treating people as if they’re nothing more than inconvenient gnats might not, you know, endear her to people, out in the real world? Or is this all an elaborate ploy, to set me up for another confidence-shaking smackdown?

“Here you go.” I put her drink on the counter, still staring at her suspiciously.

“Thanks so much,” Beth gushes. She passes me the money for her drink and stuffs a couple of dollars in the tip jar, then meets my eyes, looking awkward. “I, um, want to let you know, I’m sorry for saying that stuff to you at the party.”

I blink, truly amazed now. “Oh,” I manage. “That’s OK.”

“No, I mean … I was such a bitch, it’s not even funny.” She gives me this shrug, seeming to be genuinely uncomfortable. “I was just so mad at you. I mean, you guys were always so close. I guess I was just jealous, that’s all.”

“Jealous? Of me?”

Beth stares at me. “Of course. You’re, like, his favorite person. I could never compete with that.” She exhales. “Even now … I mean, we were so close, and suddenly, I can’t even talk to him anymore. You’re so lucky,” she tells me. “You’re still friends with him, but I don’t get him in my life at all anymore.”