Just Like Fate (6 page)

Joel’s scribbling intently in his notebook as I take my seat
three rows over and two seats back. His hair is freshly cut
short—he must have chopped it this weekend. He’s wearing
a black Electric Freakshow T-shirt, the jeans he wears most
often, and my favorite pair of his seemingly endless supply of
Converse. I can see his wallet chain dangling down from his
chair. I might be the freak show myself, but I’ve always wanted
to grab him by it.

I’m still staring at Joel when, without warning, he looks
right at me. His eyes are dark brown up close but from far
away, they look black. They match his hair and eyelashes and
the stubble that grows on his chin every so often when he
doesn’t feel like shaving. He smiles at me, sympathetic.

“You okay?” he mouths. Even if class wasn’t starting, I
doubt he would’ve said it aloud. Joel doesn’t like drawing attention to himself. Too bad his looks make that an impossible task.

I nod, then mouth back, “Thanks.”
Joel refocuses on his work and I try to slow my heart, feeling like a child for getting so amped up every time he even
looks
at me. I mean, it’s not like I haven’t been around him
forever.
Joel and I met at the community swimming pool the summer before fourth grade. I’d gone to private school before
then, but my parents transferred me to public when we moved
across town. I didn’t know anyone in my neighborhood, and
that summer I did a lot of swimming alone. I thought it was
going to be the state of things until one day Joel set up camp
on the lounge chair next to mine. Unlike the other boys, he
was T-shirted and dry; he preferred comics to human cannonballs. He was a lot skinnier then.
There was no memorable introduction; in fact, Joel didn’t
speak at all. He just sat next to me . . . that day and the next
and the next. Soon enough, if one of us went to the snack bar,
we brought back two Popsicles. Eventually we did have conversations—his focused mostly on Spider-Man while mine
were mainly about bubble gum lip gloss—and when school
started, even though he didn’t choose the desk next to mine, I
felt more confident when he was around. It’s not like we hung
out after that—Simone spun me into her web on the first day
and never let me out—but I’ve always felt a connection.
There was a moment when I thought he felt it, too—at a party
two summers ago. I’d been sure he was going to make a move. But
he didn’t, and we remained the kind of friends who are comfortable hanging out together but don’t do so on purpose.
Distracted by thoughts of Joel, I feel class fly by; soon
enough the bell’s ringing and everyone’s gone and I’m working my way through the rest of the day. After the emotional
bump of seeing the guy I like, I’m back to zombie for the
remainder of the morning, with movements and sights and
sounds sort of just blurring together and drifting by. Between
classes I send Simone a text to tell her I’m stopping by home
for lunch. It’s a lie—really, I just want to be alone.
At my locker I toss in my bag, then remove my wallet and
car keys even though I have no idea where I’m going. I turn
toward the main exit—the one that’ll take me through the
commons and therefore past . . . everyone. Instead of walking,
I flip around toward the auditorium, thinking I’ll use the back
exit and go around the side of the building. But when I walk
by the open auditorium doors, I find myself going in.
The auditorium is cool and dark, with only a couple of
lights eerily illuminating the stage up ahead. It smells like
cleaning solution and cookies, which strikes me as odd until
I remember that Family Sciences is in this wing. I half-walk,
half-stumble down the carpeted middle aisle and take a seat
in a creaky, cushioned chair in the orchestra section. I’m like
the only person at a badly reviewed musical on opening night,
waiting for something to happen. Then something does.
“Hiding from someone?” a guy’s voice says.
It can’t be.
I turn. Joel is standing in the aisle behind me.
“Everyone,” I admit, managing to appear calm despite my
complete shock that he’s here. “I don’t feel much like facing
the masses today.”
“Should I leave?” he asks, no emotion in his eyes. That’s
the killer thing about Joel: His expressions give nothing away.
He doesn’t move, waiting for my response.
“No, stay,” I say quickly. I move over one seat, motioning
for him to sit. “What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I saw you come in.” He sits and shifts to get comfortable,
like it’s nothing. “I was curious.”
“Oh.”
We both stare straight ahead at the stage, like we’re watching a performance silent and invisible to the outside world.
“I love this part,” I joke, hoping to lighten the mood. Saturday with Simone was so great—I want to replicate that lack of
seriousness now. But Joel just looks at me funny. “You know,
when the dancers leap into the air like that,” I say, pointing to
the empty stage.
“Funny,” he says, but he doesn’t laugh. And he doesn’t
keep the made-up story going either. Instead, his eyes still on
the ballet that isn’t there, he floors me by opening up. “My
uncle died last year,” he says, matter-of-fact. “I’m not sure if
you remember, but my dad left when I was a kid. . . .”
I remember.
“My uncle sort of stepped in,” he continues. “We were
thick.”
“That’s kind of how it was with me and my gram,” I say.
“I went to live with her when my parents were going through
their bloodbath divorce.”
“Yeah,” Joel says, shifting in his chair. His muscular legs
are so long that he looks uncomfortable in the seat. “My uncle
used to take me to baseball games in the city. He paid for art
classes. He was solid.”
“What happened?” I ask quietly. “I mean, if you’re okay
with telling me. You don’t have t—”
“Hunting accident,” he cuts in. “He was out with friends
and they were drinking. They were dicking around, not paying attention. Long story short, he got shot.”
“Oh my God,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry.”
How did I not
know about this? Why are you so secretive?
An awkward amount of time passes, and just when I think
he might stand and leave, Joel turns and looks at me. “Death
sucks.” He stares with brown-black eyes like he’s branding
me. And then, before I have time to consider what’s happening, his lips are on mine.
I’m surprised but, oddly, not shocked. Instinctively, maybe
because of all the years I’ve craved him, I kiss back. His lips
are strong but soft and this close, the smell of him is hypnotic.
His hand moves up my arm and stops at the base of my skull,
under my hair. It sort of pins one side of my body down against
the seat, in a good way. My free hand finds his face: It’s the
beginnings of scruffy. We kiss, long and open mouthed, like
we’ve done it a billion times before. But it’s new, and despite
the kisses I’ve shared with boyfriends past, this is the best.
This feels like the first.
Suddenly Joel pulls back, hand still holding my neck,
looking a little surprised that he kissed me. There are dozens of words running through my brain—
shock, sorry, yes,
wow, again, elation, please, run, hide, more
—but he says none
of them. He stares, and I wonder if he thinks I can hear his
thoughts.
I wish.
“I have to go,” he says finally, which is not at all what I was
expecting. The lunch period doesn’t end for another twenty
minutes at least. Probably seeing the disappointment on my
face, he adds an explanation. “I’m supposed to call Lauren.”
My stomach drops:
Did he seriously just say that?
Joel
releases his grip on my neck, and the coolness of his hand’s
absence makes me shiver. He steps into the aisle, looking even
more beautiful than he did earlier, if that’s possible. Maybe it’s
because now I know what he tastes like.
“Hey, I didn’t mean to . . . ,” he begins, his voice trailing
off.
“No problem,” I say, unsure what I’m forgiving him for
but trying to sound lighter than I feel. “It’s fine. Go call Lauren.”
Did
I
seriously just say that?
“I’ll see you around.”
Joel turns to head up the aisle, then hesitates. “Caroline?”
“What?” I ask, and maybe it comes out a little snippy.
“I didn’t come in there to—”
“Don’t worry about it,” I interrupt, because that’s what
you say. But I know I’m going to be worrying about it for the
rest of my natural life. “It was just . . . something that happened. Let’s forget all about it.”
“That’s not what I meant,” he says, shaking his head.
“Hey, Joel?” I say, desperately wanting this uncomfortable
situation to be over. He looks at me expectantly, like I’m going
to have the answer. To say the right thing. Instead, forcefully, I
say, “Go call Lauren.”
He holds my gaze a moment longer, then finally he nods
once and moves up the aisle. I don’t turn around to watch
him leave, but I hear him close the door behind him. Maybe
he knows that I need the space to myself even more now. Or
maybe closing the door was just something he did automatically, without thinking for even a fraction of a second about
the consequences of doing so.

I stand in the driveway of my father’s two-story house, staring
up at the white siding, the black shutters. He moved in here a
few months ago with his new wife, Debra, but I’ve never visited. And now I’m moving in.

I look doubtfully at my brother as he comes up the driveway with one of my suitcases. He told me on the way over
that Dad and Debra are trying to have a baby. They probably
didn’t expect her to be a teenager. When my brother sees my
expression, he shakes his head.

“Don’t be judgey,” Teddy says. “I know you don’t want to
like Deb, but she’s really nice.”
“And closer to your age.” I look sideways at him, and he
laughs.
“She’s thirty, Coco. Not twenty. And she teaches anthropology at Clinton, so don’t try to outsmart her. She’ll be on to
you.” He elbows my side before leading me across the walkway.
As I get to the door, my heart pounds with an uncertainty
I haven’t felt in years. Not since I waited on Gram’s porch that
day. This time I let my mother handle the details, and she and
my father had a long talk about my future—even if she made
it clear my stay here would only be temporary. She called my
current state of mind a “phase.” I couldn’t bring myself to pick
up the phone and talk to my dad; I didn’t know what to say.
Now I’m regretting it. I feel like a foreign exchange student
coming to live with a new host family.
I take one last look at the street behind me and then ring
the doorbell. Teddy kicks my foot lightly, reminding me that
I’m not alone in this. But he’ll be back at his dorm tonight
while I’ll be sleeping in the house of a practical stranger who
my father happens to be married to. And is trying to have a
baby with. Gross.
The door opens and there’s my dad, with his dark hair
graying at the temples, wearing a warm smile and a sweater
too heavy for being inside. He looks the same as always except
maybe, if I’m honest, happier.
“Hi, guys,” he says in the voice that used to read me
Goodnight Moon
. He and Teddy do one of those back-smacking
hugs, both of them beaming. I watch, smiling politely. When
Dad’s eyes fall on mine, I see relief. He reaches out and pulls
me into his arms.
I stand there, awkwardly, until I pat him on the back.
“Thanks for this, Dad,” I say. “I really appreciate it.”
He nods and I think he’s afraid his voice will crack if he
talks, so he soundlessly waves me and my brother inside. Teddy
takes my things upstairs as I follow my father, getting the first
look at his house. It’s weird—there are pieces of furniture from
my childhood strewn about an entirely new home. The leather
recliner, the painting of the Italian villa over the fireplace.
And to my surprise, there’s a picture of Gram along with
other family photos hanging on the wall near the dining room
table. I spin back to my father. “Where’s Debra?” I ask.
“She has classes today, but she wanted to be here to welcome you. She’s making a special dinner tonight.” He looks
so hopeful.
“I, uh . . . I told Teddy I’d go with him to his dorms to
hang out for a little bit. Is . . . that okay?” It feels strange to ask
his permission to go out.
“Oh. Yeah, of course. Here, let me show you around first.”
My father seems a little bummed that I’m not going to eat
Debra’s dinner, but still he’s lively as he gives me the tour of the
house. Even though I’m only thirty minutes away from where
I used to live, the entire vibe is different. We walk from the
living room double doors to the backyard, which is huge, tree
lined, and covered with bright orange and yellow leaves. The
kitchen is big and airy, and there’s a dark den that reminds me
of old dudes smoking cigars. I decide after having only seen
the main level that although my father’s house is a mansion to
me, it still manages to feel homey.
On the way to the second floor, my dad tells me about
my new school—which I’ll start on Monday. For a second, I’m
surprised at the idea. But then I remind myself that I’m not
at sleepaway camp. I’ve changed my life. I’m not exactly sure
how I feel about that yet.
“This is your room,” he says, sounding both excited and
afraid.
He pushes open the door, and immediately I smile. There
isn’t a penguin in sight. The walls are a soft brown, the curtains luxurious with long panels of red and gold. My bed is a
queen, overflowing with decorator pillows and satiny sheets.
This is a grown-up room, and I’m absolutely beside myself at
how perfect it is.
“You like it,” he says, laughing at his own relief.
“I love it,” I correct. I turn to my dad and almost hug
him, stopping myself just before. But he must have read my
thought because he reaches to put his palm on my shoulder
and smiles.
“I’m so glad, Caroline. And Debra will be too. She did
this for you. She wants you to be happy here.”
I nod, not sure how I feel about Debra yet, either. Then I
walk into the room, taking a moment to touch all the fabrics
and test out the bed. After the third bounce on the mattress, I
look up to see my dad loitering in the hall. I guess he’s just as
unsure about this entire situation as I am.
“I’m going to settle in,” I tell him. “Before I go over to
Teddy’s.”
“Right,” my father says. “Yes. I’ll see you later, then.” He
waves, but just as he’s about to leave, he glances back at me.
“I’m glad you’re here, honey. I really am.”
He’s genuine; I know he is. I smile and thank him politely,
wishing I had the guts to say it back. The second he’s gone,
I don’t waste any time before closing the door and whipping
out my phone to call Simone. I hesitate, thinking back on that
day at the hospice—the day I left.
It wasn’t her fault
, I think.
She’s my best friend, and it wasn’t her fault.
I dial her number.
Simone’s quiet when she answers. “How is it?” she asks.
“Weird,” I say, trying to make us normal again. “Things
are weird all over, Mony.”
“Weird like you not calling me anymore?” she asks in a
shaky voice. “Or weird like you uprooting your entire life—
my entire life—without so much as asking what I thought?
Did you wonder how I’d feel about you moving away? Did
you even care?”
I didn’t. When I made the decision to leave, I didn’t take
Simone into consideration. But I’m tired of feeling guilty. I’m
tired of feeling anything.
“It’s only thirty minutes,” I tell her, but know the excuse
is flat.
“Thirty minutes,” she repeats with the correct amount
of emphasis. “That means a half-hour difference every lunch
period, every trip to the mall. I know things suck for you right
now; I get it. But I think you’re being a coward.” The word
hits me hard, making my eyes tear up.
“I shouldn’t have left with you that night,” I say quietly.
It’s my only comeback, even if it’s an unfair one. To drive
home that point, Simone gets really quiet—extending the
silence long enough for me to wonder if she’s still there. But
then she sniffles.
“Go ahead, Linus,” she says. “Blame me. Blame your sister. Hell, blame everyone. Just make sure you don’t take any
responsibility for yourself. That would be too harsh.”
I narrow my eyes, anger starting to seep into my tone.
“Oh, I hate myself just plenty,” I say. “But thanks for reminding me how much I suck. Look, I have to go. I’ll call you later.”
“Yeah, sure. If you can fit me into your schedule, I’ll be
around.” And then she hangs up without saying good-bye.
I set my phone on the bed next to me and focus on trying
to quiet the desperation that comes with fighting with your
best friend. I hate her just a little, even though I know I really
hate myself. I need to pull it together before I can go back
downstairs. I calm my heart, steady my breathing.
I change into a worn T-shirt and soft jeans, opting for lip
balm instead of any real sort of makeup. Hanging out with
Teddy will set me right—it always has before. For a minute,
I’m actually looking forward to seeing the campus again, to
being around other people. I’m going somewhere where I can
feel comfortable. My dad’s house doesn’t inspire that feeling.
At least not yet.
Teddy calls up that he has to leave, and I pause to take
in my reflection one last time before going downstairs. I look
worn and broken. I look like a tattered version of me.
“Runner,” I whisper accusingly, watching the reflection as
her eyes fill with tears. And as the first one trickles down her
cheek, I watch her brush it away and walk out the door.