The Sea of Tranquility (11 page)

Now I spend my time thinking about what I’ll be doing over the next twenty or so hours and hoping it involves something resembling sleep.

***

I’ve been able to run every night for a week now. The weather has cooperated. My legs are coming back. I push myself harder than I should but I haven’t thrown up again since the second night. My body is remembering. The best part is that I can exhaust myself, drain everything the day dredges up, so I can sleep. I still can’t do without the notebooks, but the running helps. It gives me something, or maybe more accurately, it takes something away. I don’t care. I know I depend on it too much but it’s the one of the only things I can depend on. Exercise, notebooks, hate. The things that do not let me down.

I know my way around the streets now. I can pay attention without paying attention. I’ve memorized the ambient sound. I know what belongs and what doesn’t. I know where the sidewalks are uneven, where the pavement has been pushed up by the roots of an angry tree. My mind has learned what to expect from the night I run in. I leave around the same time every evening but I don’t run the same route twice. I can get myself home a dozen different ways from any direction if I need to. I am not comfortable. I’ll never be comfortable leaving the house again, but I feel prepared, and that’s better than I was the last time and the most I can expect to be.

For the past six nights, I have purposely avoided the pale yellow stucco house on Corinthian Way. The one with the perpetually open garage. I run past the street every night, but I can’t ignore the pull I feel to at least glance down the road from the turn off. I can tell by the pattern of the lights whether or not the garage door is up and it hasn’t disappointed yet. It hasn’t been closed once, no matter what time it is. I always wonder what he might say if I were to show up there again. I know it won’t be much but I wonder what the words would be anyway. Would he say anything? Would he ignore me and keep working as if I wasn’t there? Would he tell me to leave? Ask me to stay? No, I know he wouldn’t do that. Josh Bennett doesn’t ask anybody to stay. I could come up with a hundred possibilities, but I really can’t figure out which of them would be the closest to possible. Then, for a just a moment, I lose focus. I stop thinking about what he would say to me and start pondering what I would say to him. That’s the moment I push my feet hard and fast in the opposite direction. And I run far away from Corinthian Way and my absurd, self-destructive thoughts.

I get back to Margot’s house at 9:25 and head straight for the shower. I talk more to myself in that shower than I have in months. Within the safety of an empty house, under the muting of the running water, I remind myself of all the complications that will come from opening my mouth. I try to get all of the words out of my system. I tell Ethan Hall that he’s a douche while I visualize administering a perfectly executed palm heel strike to his face. Or a fork to his eye, which is equally appealing. I tell Ms. Jennings that, contrary to popular belief, Bach was not more prolific than Telemann; he’s just better remembered. I tell Drew which of his pick-up lines works the best and who I think he should really use them on instead of wasting them on me. I tell my Dad that he can still call me Milly because, even though it’s a sucky nickname, it makes him happy and that makes me happy in a way I don’t know how to be anymore. I tell my therapists thank you, but that nothing they do or say or try to make me say will help. I talk until the water runs cold and my voice feels hoarse from overuse. I hope it’s enough to help me keep my mouth shut. I haven’t said a word to another living person in 452 days. I write my three and a half pages, tuck away my composition book and crawl into bed, knowing how close I came to not making it to 453.

***

I’ve been doing a decent job avoiding Josh at school. Other than fifth hour, the only time I have to see him is in shop, which is always a humbling experience since everyone in that class knows their way around lumber and power tools and I’m lucky I can identify a hammer, maybe not even that. The other day this kid named Errol asked me to hand him one, and when I did, he looked at me like I was an idiot. Apparently there are like four hundred kinds of hammers and I didn’t give him the right one. Now nobody even asks me to get them stuff.

I could have tried to drop the class, but I decided to choose my battles with the guidance department and shop was the lesser of the evils when compared to Speech and Debate and Intro to Music. Between the two of those, I figured I could survive Speech since Mr. Trent had told me I could earn my grade doing research and finding interpretation material. Plus, I had crash hot sexy Drew to amuse me and I’ll take all the amusement I can get. And if I’m being completely honest with myself, which I usually endeavor to avoid, I knew from day one that I needed the hell out of Intro to Music. That class was a fault line running just beneath the surface of my unstable mind. I’d rather avoid it. I’m good at avoiding.

And besides, being the teacher aide in Ms. McAllister’s fifth hour has been more entertaining than I could have hoped for. It’s like the school equivalent of watching
Big Brother
; I get to eavesdrop on the drama and it’s not mentally taxing in the least. Drew is in there, along with Josh, dirtbag Ethan, fuckwad Kevin Leonard and this badass girl named Tierney Lowell who Drew argues with non-stop. I don’t think she’s my biggest fan, either. She hasn’t told me outright, but she glares at me like I spend my free time murdering puppies, so it’s an educated guess.

Shop really isn’t so bad, either, even if it does make me feel inept and useless most of the time. No one bothers me, and Mr. Turner doesn’t expect me to do much of anything. Josh is apparently some sort of god there. He walks around like he built the place. They should give him a dedicated phone line in the workshop, because every time the phone rings, the same thing happens: Turner answers, Turner summons Josh, Josh leaves. He gets sent out a lot. Shelves need fixing? Call Josh Bennett. Drawers stuck? Get Josh. Need an exquisitely-crafted, custom-built dining room set? Josh Bennett is your man.

Just don’t ask him to talk. He hasn’t said anything to me since the day he told me he wasn’t going to make me relinquish my seat at his table, benevolent despot that he is. I, obviously, have not said anything to him.

CHAPTER 13

Josh

Drew walks in at about ten after eleven on Sunday morning. I forgot to lock the door when I went out to get the newspaper this morning so he walks right in. I have to cancel the stupid thing. I don’t read it. It’s another remnant from my grandfather living here. I tried to convince him to read it online but he wouldn’t have it. He said he liked the feel of it in his hands and the smell of the paper. I hate the way newspaper feels and I like the way it smells even less. I make a note to call today and have them stop delivery. I don’t want to have to see another one in my driveway.

“What’s up?” I ask while he makes himself at home.

“Sarah. House. Girls. Too many,” he sighs, collapsing prone onto the couch and staring up at the ceiling.

“I didn’t think there was such a thing as too many girls in your world.”

“When it comes to Sarah’s friends, I make exceptions.”

“You never make exceptions.”

“OK. True story. But I should.”

I don’t blame him. Sarah’s friends are painful. They’re nice to look at, but they all know it, which kind of diminishes the appeal. They’re all the things about the girls at school that I can’t stand and Sarah’s turning just like them. I guess I’m lucky I intimidate them, because after they try their flirting thing once, they usually realize they’re not going to get a reaction and they don’t come back for more.

“You’ve already hit at least three of them. Finally learn your lesson?”

“Think they finally learned theirs. Plus, Sarah put her foot down and said no more with the friends. Off limits.”

“Does she really think you’re going to listen?”

“She put her foot down to them.
I’m
off limits.”

“How deprived they must feel.”

“Don’t mock. It’s true. I’m like a rite of passage.”

“Why are you here?”

“Told you. Can’t be in the house. I feel my testosterone levels dropping by the second in there.”

“Yeah, but why are you
here
?” My house is usually not the first resort for escape when Drew needs to get away from his. It used to be a few years ago, but not anymore. I think it might have something to do with my possession of a Y chromosome.

“Nowhere else to go.”

“You could pick up some grain alcohol. Go make a peace offering.”

“I’m not going over there alone. They might never find my body.”

“Giving up so soon?” There are a hundred other girls he could go after; this one I just don’t get.

“No. Just have to switch tactics. Ideas?”

I don’t have any ideas and if I did I wouldn’t help him out. I do have questions, though, and I seem to come up with more every day. “Why do you think she doesn’t talk?”

“Nobody knows. I hit her with some of my favorite material, and judging by the look I got, she has no problem grasping the English language. I’m voting no vocal cords.”

I know for a fact that’s not true. She laughed when she was here‌—‌full-on laughed. I looked it up. You need vocal cords to produce sound like that, so I know that’s not it. Maybe it’s still a physical thing. I don’t know shit about anything like that, but something tells me it’s not physical and that makes me wonder even more. What reason does someone have to not talk? Did she ever talk? Maybe she’s never uttered a single word. I don’t know. I do know that she pays attention; she’s watching everything all the time, even when she’s not even looking. I don’t think she misses a damn thing. It might creep me out if I didn’t kind of get it. I wonder if she sees things that I don’t, but it’s not like she’d tell me and I would never ask anyway.

“She doesn’t seem like your type,” I say. With rare exception, Drew tends to go the vapid, cute and popular route. He’s all about the path of least resistance when it comes to girls, and fortunately for him, that path seems to lead to almost any girl in school. I don’t think he’s ever been turned down, even though they all know the reputation and he’s never done anything to sugar-coat it. He’s never pulled out the love card and pretended to have any sort of feelings for a girl to get her to sleep with him. He doesn’t have to. They do it anyway without any emotional persuasion from him. They provide that all on their own.

Most girls think they’ll be the one he ends up staying with but it never happens. You’d think at least one of them would publicly call him out for it. Try to make him take responsibility and own up, but none of them do, because at the end of the day, they know that Drew did exactly what Drew does and most of them realize they probably shouldn’t have bought into the reform-the-asshole fantasy.

I’d like to blame him, but it’s hard when he doesn’t deny or make excuses or apologies. He is what he is. Take it or leave it. I couldn’t do what he does, not that there isn’t a certain appeal. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t something I’ve thought about, but it’s way too much responsibility for me. Too many feelings coming off of those girls and I’m not good at deflecting them. They seem to roll right off Drew. The tears and the name calling and the bitterness don’t even faze him. I have enough responsibility and I don’t want anyone else’s feelings to worry about. I banished my own a long time ago and I’ll be damned if I have to deal with someone else’s.

“She’s female. She’s hot. Requirements met,” he says bluntly.

“She seems to hate you.” She seems to hate everyone but I don’t bother to say that. I’m really trying to figure out why he’s wasting his time with this girl. It’s out of character. He should have given up on this a while ago.

“So, it’s a challenge.”

“Exactly. Doesn’t exerting effort go against your personal philosophy?”

“It does, but maybe I’m entering a personal growth phase. Trying to improve myself.”

I stifle a laugh or a gagging sound. I’m not sure which.

“You’re lack of faith is insulting. Besides, not all of us have a sure thing in our back pockets with no strings and no effort required.” He looks deliberately at me. I can’t dispute it. There’s no point in acting all high and mighty when I don’t ever have to worry about getting a girl to have sex with me.

I’ve got Leigh, even though she’s not around as much as she used to be now that she’s in college, but that just makes it easier. She’s only a couple of hours away and she comes by whenever she’s home for weekends and holidays. Then she leaves again. She doesn’t tell me she loves me. She doesn’t ask if I love her. I don’t and I never will. We have an easy non-emotional arrangement; we use each other and go home. It’s about as perfect as a situation gets. Even if I didn’t have Leigh, I don’t think I’d be desperate enough to sink to Drew’s level. I like getting laid well enough, but knowing me, I’d still feel like a prick and end up dating the girl for months out of guilt.

“You don’t get to judge me. In fact, in light of my newfound self-improvement goals, I’m going to conquer my fear of being flayed alive and go over to her house right now.” He jumps up off the couch and heads for the door.

“Good luck with that,” I say, not meaning it in the least.

***

I spend the rest of the afternoon involved in varying degrees of avoidance. I finally did pick up the phone and cancel the newspaper, which I wasn’t sure I’d actually do. Then I figured as long as I was dealing with things I’d call the hospice and have them come take away the hospital bed they delivered for my grandfather two months ago. He’s been gone for two weeks, but it feels like forever. If there weren’t so many phone calls to make, I might wonder if he was ever here at all.

When I hang up with hospice, I look at the phone and think about calling my grandfather. I thought about calling yesterday and the day before and the day before that. But I haven’t actually called. I spoke to him last week and it sucked. He’s a hundred times worse since he left here. His mind isn’t his anymore. It belongs to oxycodone and morphine and every other pain killer they can pump into him to make it easier. Talking to him isn’t even talking to him anymore. He’s a body on the other end of the phone, but the mind is all but gone. I can almost hear his brain struggling to process the words as I speak to him. He can’t make sense of it and I know it frustrates him, and if there is any part of my heart left to break, it breaks with his confusion. Still, I get selfish sometimes and call him anyway. For me. And I talk. I tell him things I wouldn’t tell another living person, because I know that when I hang up, it will be like I never told anyone at all.