More Happy Than Not (15 page)

“I was thinking Two Truths and a Lie,” Genevieve announces to everyone's applause.

How to Play Two Truths and a Lie: everyone shares three stories or facts about themselves and then you take turns figuring out everyone's lie. It's the perfect icebreaker game.

Problem: I don't like a Genevieve who knows this game.

“You start, birthday boy,” Genevieve says.

Everyone gathers around while Thomas counts off what he's going to say with his fingers. “Okay, I got it. I worship Walt Disney. I worship Steven Spielberg. I worship Martin Scorsese.”

“You don't worship Disney,” Baby Freddy says. “Who worships a guy who created princess movies?”

“Who worships another guy, period,” Brendan adds.

“You don't worship Martin Scorsese,” I answer before anyone else can say something stupid. “You think he's cool but you're not hanging up posters of him around your room.” Thomas nods and raises his cup. “So it's my turn now, right?” I ask Genevieve.

She throws back the rest of her drink. “Let's see who knows you best, babe.”

I really wish we were playing kings or flip cup or even spin the bottle right now. “Uh
. . .
I'm great at tic-tac-toe. I love skateboarding. I hate a lot of Spanish music.”

“You're Puerto Rican so you definitely love Spanish music,” Deon says.

“Yeah, and you probably shake your hips to it while skateboarding,” Skinny-Dave says.

“You're not great at tic-tac-toe,” Genevieve agrees less offensively.

“You don't skateboard. You skate on rollerblades,” Thomas says.

I point at him and click my tongue. “He's right.” I turn to Skinny-Dave. “When the fuck have you seen me skateboard around the block?”

“No way you're good at tic-tac-toe!” Genevieve shouts. “I beat you all the time.”

“He beat me every time we played the other night,” Thomas says.

Genevieve rakes her hand through her dark hair, and she looks super ill, like she could throw up any minute now. “I guess it's your turn again, Thomas.”

“No, please. You go.”

She covers her face with her hand. I think she does this so we can't detect any lie. Or she's actually about to throw up on me. “I'm ready. I grew up wanting to be a ballerina and an actress and a nurse.” For a drunk girl, her tone remains so steady I think every single one can be true. Everyone's about to start shooting guesses when she holds her hand out. “Let Aaron go first. Which is the lie, babe?”

“You never wanted to be a ballerina. Come on, that was easy.”

“Yeah,” she says to my relief. Bluffing FTW.

I'm about to offer my turn to someone else when Genevieve stands up, a little wobbly. She raises one arm above her head and trails one leg up the other until she kind of resembles a flamingo—a wasted flamingo. “I wanted to be a ballerina badly. Owned tights and everything.” She stumbles and Baby Freddy catches her. “I was never good enough so I mock the girls who are.” She sits down next to me and nudges my shoulder with hers. “I guess you forgot.”

Skinny-Dave and Fat-Dave hiss like something is sizzling, and Me-Crazy chimes in with, “You got burned!”

I glance at everyone clockwise
. . .

Brendan unties his shoelaces so he can tie them again.

Thomas pulls out his phone and I bet anything he's typing nonsense to no one.

And everyone else is just drinking or looking like they feel very fucking sorry for me. Maybe they feel sorry for her.

“It's only a game,” Genevieve says, shrugging. “Thomas, you should totally open up Aaron's present.”

Holy shit, my girlfriend has the biggest balls ever.

“Present time!” Thomas shouts, killing zero tension.

Crystal's drunk friend tosses Thomas the gift-wrapped present.

“It's nothing big,” I say.

Thomas unwraps it and rocks forward laughing. “This is awesome!”

“It's a toy,” Genevieve says.

“It's Buzz Lightyear!” Thomas breaks Buzz free from the box and presses a button on his wrist; red lights blink.

Fat-Dave asks, “From
Toy Story
?”

Me-Crazy says, “Me-Crazy likes the talking piggy bank.”

Thomas goes into the whole story about how his asshole father said he would give him Buzz Lightyear for his ninth birthday and just drove away. “I've been waiting for this guy for so long. Thanks, Stretch.” He reaches over and we fist-bump. “Nope. Not good enough. Get up.”

I stand and he full on hugs me, none of this one-arm hug with a pat-on-the-back nonsense.

Reasons Why I'm Feeling Warm Right Now:

1. I downed my drink pretty quickly on a fairly empty stomach.
   
2. Everyone on the roof is staring at us.
   
3. My unspeakable truth.
   

“No homo.”

“No homo,” I say back.

Everyone resumes drinking but Thomas sticks around. “Stretch, seriously: best birthday since I celebrated my sixth birthday at Disney World. Getting me Buzz Lightyear just made you beat Mickey Mouse.”

“I mean, Mickey Mouse never stood a chance, did he?”

“I have an idea on how I could top this night on your birthday.”

“It's not a competition, dude.”

“Game on,” Thomas says with a smile. He leaves to grab another drink.

Maybe an hour or so later, the bottles are all empty and everyone clears out. I stop helping Thomas clean up because Genevieve is pretty damn drunk and needs to get home, so we bounce.

I've been trying to hail her a cab for a couple minutes now without much luck.

If the tension between us were a person, I would snap its neck and kick the corpse for good measure.

“I'm losing you again,” Genevieve cries.

“No you're not, Gen—”

“Yes I am! Yes the fuck I am!” She's crying harder and I don't know what to say. A cab pulls up and she opens the door.

“Do you want me to go with you?”

“You shouldn't have to fucking ask if you should fucking take me home, Aaron!” I try to follow her into the cab but she pushes me
back. “Not tonight. I'm going home alone to go punch a pillow or something. We can figure this out tomorrow.” She closes the door and the cab takes off.

I should chase after the cab. But the impulse isn't there. In my head, I play a round of One Truth and a Lie.

I need Thomas to be happy. I need Genevieve to be happy.

I can't keep lying to myself about the truth.

2

THE WAR INSIDE ME

I
t's been nonstop raining the past couple of days, which sucks
for a lot of reasons. Genevieve has been using it as an excuse for
why she can't hang with me, even if I know it's because she wants more time away from me. I can't play any card games with Thomas on his rooftop, or go on any job-hunting adventures with him. And I can't stay outside and lose myself in a game of manhunt or Skelzies or anything without risking pneumonia. If there's anything worse than being stuck in the smallest home ever with thoughts I shouldn't be left alone with, it's being stuck while coughing all over my brother's stuff, who will in turn get sick, and then cough all over my stuff
. . .
and will get me sick again in a cruel, cruel cycle of screwing each other over until we're both so immune we could eat candy off the floor of Washington Hospital's ER.

But Mom has tasked me with post office duty today.

My little cousin's birthday is tomorrow, and she needs me to overnight a gift to Albany. The umbrella I leave with gets its ass kicked by the wind within two minutes, and while paying twenty dollars for an umbrella has always seemed excessive to me, having to buy a new five-dollar umbrella every single time it rains just seems like shitty math on my behalf.

I walk the block to the post office, my bad mood growing heavier like a backpack of big-ass bricks I'm calling “THE WAR INSIDE ME.” The heaviest bricks are “GENEVIEVE HATES ME” and “I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH THOMAS” and “I STILL MISS DAD.”

The last brick weighs the most right now. This is the first time I've come near his old workplace since we lost him. When I was a kid I'd pretend I was a security guard outside the bedroom door, and only Mom would entertain my high-five fee if she wanted to enter, whereas Eric would storm past me.

The package is getting wet, and I'm risking pneumonia, so I rush inside before I can change my mind and walk the twelve blocks to the second-nearest post office. The line isn't too bad. No one here recognizes me as the kid of the security guard who killed himself, so that's a plus. The clerk hands me my receipt and on my way out, I spot Evangeline sitting down on the wooden bench by the envelopes and stationery, writing a postcard.

“Evangeline, hey,” I say.

She looks up. “Hey, kiddo. What brings you here?”

“Mailing some plush giraffe to my little cousin for her birthday. Who you writing to?”

“I broke some hearts back in London and promised to keep in touch. Didn't give them my email either. It's better this way.” Evangeline shows me all of the ten postcards she's sending out. She signs her name and writes today's date on a Yankee Stadium postcard. “Phillip was a sweet one, but his brother was falling for me too. I couldn't come between family.”

“So the brother isn't getting a postcard?”

“No, I've already shipped him a letter asking him to stop writing me.” Evangeline makes room for me on the bench and shuffles all her postcards as she tells me, “Anyway, thought I would hang around here and get these sent out before the siren song of unread books back home captures me. How are you doing?”

“I'm really wet.”

“Another reason I'm hiding out here.”

I'm not sure why I feel the sudden urge to confess to my former babysitter, but maybe it's because she's both a stranger and someone I trust. “I'm really missing my dad pretty hard this week. I just don't know why the hell he would leave us, you know.” I breathe in and out, in and out, in and out, trying to push the anger back down, but instead it beats me and I spit out, “It's affecting my relationship with Genevieve, who thinks she's losing me and
. . .
I don't know.”

“
Is
she losing you?”

“I think I'm kind of, sort of, definitely losing myself right now.”

“In what way, kiddo?”

“I don't know. Maybe I'm just growing up.”

“You mean you're done playing with Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle toys?”

“They were action figures, Evangeline.” I feel a little better talking to someone outside the universe of my problems. But I don't know if I want to fill her in on how someone who doesn't have much direction is seriously disorienting me. “I should probably get home and see if Genevieve is in the mood to answer my calls. Or go fucking punch myself if she isn't.”

“Language,” Evangeline says.

“The babysitter never died in you, did it?”

“Afraid not, kiddo.”

She mails out her postcards and walks me back home under her large yellow umbrella. I don't even change into dry clothes before jumping onto my bed and calling Genevieve. I'm not really sure I even know what I would say, but it still sucks when she doesn't answer.