The Start of Me and You (2 page)

“I’m sure.” Every year the class president throws a back-to-school party and invites everyone in our grade. I’d missed last year’s, of course, since it was only two weeks after Aaron died. That period blurred like one dark shadow in my mind—the numb days holed up in my room and the jarring return to school. Morgan insisted on painting my nails every weekend while we marathoned TV shows. It seemed so silly, so pointless. Until I looked down at my mint-green or petal-pink nails in class: one beautiful, glossy thing in my life. My friends added the first colors to my black-and-white world.

Tessa nudged my arm. “I’ve got one. You could rejoin one of the groups you did freshman year. Chorus or French Club or something.”

“Perfect. Yes.” I couldn’t handle my extracurricular activities last year, between the therapy appointments and everything else. “Although … that’s ironic, coming from you.”

“I’m
involved
. I go to yoga and the Carmichael.”

Tessa was the only person in the history of the world with a fake ID and no interest in drinking. She had to be twenty-one to get into the Carmichael to see all the best indie bands perform. I think the staff knew she was in high school, but they also knew how serious she was about music. She rarely invited me or anyone else. Those shows weren’t social events for Tessa. They were personal: between her and the band onstage.

“Exercise and concerts are not cocurriculars.”

“They are if you want to work for a record label and teach yoga on the side,” she said. “You know, what you’re doing is kind of a yoga thing. Well, technically I think it’s a Buddhist thing, but I learned it from a yogi: beginner’s mind.”

I made a face like she’d suggested a juice cleanse—which she had, for all I knew. Yoga wasn’t for me. I’d tried a few sessions when she first discovered it, until my King Pigeon pose turned into Pretzel Who Fell Over onto a Nice Older Lady. “What does that mean?”

“It means trying to approach new experiences with no preexisting judgments. You always go in as a beginner, even if you’re not. That way, you’re open to anything that happens.”

“Yes,” I said. “Exactly.”

Join a group at school and go to a big party—seemed
manageable enough. But two items made for a pretty anemic plan. I would need more.

“I should probably get home,” I said, glancing at my phone. “My dad’s picking us up at six.”

My parents didn’t compromise at all while they were married, but they somehow managed to be flexible with custody—arranged around our variable schedules. This week, Wednesday and Sunday were highlighted yellow in my planner, indicating dinner with my dad.

Tessa gathered her things. “What’s he making?”

“Spinach and feta lasagna, I think.” Since the divorce, my dad had developed a flair for creative cuisine, with his successes equaled by mighty failures. This delighted Tessa, never knowing what would be served or how. It was less funny to me, since those were my odds for two out of seven dinners a week.

“Cameron won’t like that,” Tessa said. There was nothing I knew about my own sister that Tessa didn’t also know. My younger sister was infamous for her aversions—to green vegetables, dairy, and acting like a rational human being.

“Tell me about it. You could come over, if you want.”

“Wish I could, but my parents are coming home,” Tessa said, sliding her sunglasses on as we walked to her car. Her blond hair absorbed the sunlight into its white-gold waves. “For three whole days.”

Tessa’s parents, Norah and Roger McMahon, owned an international chain of boutique hotels called Maison. They moved to Oakhurst when Tessa was in elementary school, but they frequently traveled for business. Tessa had what I considered my dream life: limited parental supervision, fabulous vacations, and a massive house. Her grandmother lived with her, but now that Tessa was old enough to drive, Gran McMahon spent more than a few long weekends at Maison Boca Raton with her “manfriend.” Even when she was home, Tessa’s grandmother was always flitting off to the country club, meeting friends for bridge or attending fund-raisers.

We climbed into the car—Tessa’s, as always, since I didn’t have my own. I’d gotten my license earlier in the summer, on the exact day of my sixteenth birthday. Unfortunately for me, my mom’s car broke down a mere week before my driver’s test. Eight thousand dollars later, my hope of inheriting her car sat in the junkyard next to a blown piston, whatever that was.

After all that—six months of driving practice split between my mom splaying her hands in a panicky “stop” motion and my dad whistling while he watched out the window—no car or freedom for me.

“I know it’s the last-day-of-summer nostalgia talking,” Tessa said, opening the windows. “But it’s kind of beautiful here, every once in a while.”

Framed by the open car window, the tree-lined streets became a blur of deep greens and broad branches. These wide oaks announced every changing season, sprawling from the WELCOME TO OAKHURST sign to the oldest section of town. Along the main drag, new restaurants and shops popped up every few months, but the trees made the town feel charming and contained.

When I was younger, Oakhurst seemed like a nice enough place to live. I didn’t remember much about Seattle, where Cameron and I were born, and nothing could have been worse than muggy Georgia, where we lived in a podunk town for my first-grade year. But when Aaron died, Oakhurst closed in around me, shrinking to the size of a snow globe. I was encased inside this tiny world, where pity flurried around me instead of snow.

“Tell your dad hi from me,” Tessa said, as she pulled into the driveway. “Pick you up at seven tomorrow morning?”

“Great.” I tried to sound casual, but the first-day-of-school nerves sparked inside me as I made my way to the door.

Dinner ran long, and my mind kept wandering toward my plan. My younger sister prattled to my dad about drama in her dance class while I searched for other ways I could make a better year for myself. I needed to brainstorm with
someone I trusted—someone who would know what to do. And, fortunately, I had the perfect person.

At home, I said hello to my mom inside and hurried upstairs to call Grammy. My mom preferred that I only speak to my grandmother in person, since talking on the phone occasionally confused her. She lived only a few miles away, in an assisted-living facility. But it was too late to go over there, and I needed to talk now, so I shut my door firmly behind me.

My grandmother’s memory started to stall about ten months ago, and it quickly worsened to almost no short-term memory. It was sad to watch, incurable and degenerative, so I wanted to keep telling her all my secrets before it was too late—before I faded in her mind.

I told her about my recurring drowning nightmare, about how I couldn’t even submerge my head in bathtub water anymore. I told her how desperately I envied my friends. I complained about driving lessons with my mother and about my annoying sister. She knew every facet of my feelings about Aaron, every sorrow that lingered still.

“Hello?” Her voice sounded tired, and I almost regretted calling.

“Grammy?” I kept my voice quiet so my mother wouldn’t hear me. “It’s Paige.”

“Oh, hello, sweet girl,” she said, perking up. “How are you?”

“Okay … just making sure I’m all set for school tomorrow.” My first-day outfit hung on my closet door, ironed and ready since I picked it out last week.

“Goodness me, a sophomore already,” my grandmother mused. Wrong. A junior. This was where her short-term memory hovered—around a year ago. It wasn’t worth making the correction and confusing her late at night. “Growing up so fast. Are you excited about your classes?”

“Yeah, I am.” Some subjects bored me, of course, but I’d always felt comfortable with the structure of school, the schedule and syllabi and a notebook for every class. “Hey, Grammy?”

“Yes, honey?”

I leaned against the edge of my bed, pressing my feet into the carpet. My voice became a whisper. This was not a question I wanted overheard—not by my mother or sister or even the walls of my bedroom. “After Gramps died, what did … I mean … did anything make you feel better, eventually? Like, happy again?”

“Oh, sweet girl. I know it’s so hard, everything with your friend, but it just happened. You can’t expect to feel like yourself right away.”

Wrong again. It happened 12.5 months ago; 54 weeks. “I know. I just … wondered.”

“Well,” she said, a bit of intrigue in her voice. “I dated a little after your grandfather, you know.”

“You did?”

“Oh, sure. Never found that same magic again, but I didn’t expect to. Had enough love for two lifetimes.” I could hear her smile. My grandfather died before I was born, so her pain wasn’t fresh. She missed my grandfather with fondness now. “Dating was nice. Usually. I met new people, and I learned a lot about myself. Kissed a few frogs.”

I laughed, even though a part of me cringed at my grandmother kissing anyone. “What else did you do?”

“Well,” she said. “I traveled. I took that trip to Paris the year I turned fifty.”

“You were
fifty
?”

My grandmother and I had talked about her trip to Paris a hundred times, in the hours I spent getting her help with freshman and sophomore French homework. She’d tell me about the patisseries and the people, the museums and landmarks. I had no idea that was only twenty years ago.

“How old did you think I was, silly?”

“In your twenties,” I admitted, and she laughed. On her mantel, there was a framed photograph of my grandmother twirling in a full skirt and tan trench coat in front of the Eiffel Tower. Her body and face were blurred, but her hair was brown and to her shoulders.

“Certainly not,” she said. “It was my first time
traveling without your grandfather. Your mother was in college, and I stayed for six whole weeks. It was terrifying and liberating. One of my fondest memories.”

“Wow,” I said. Traveling solo. Like to Manhattan, for the screen-writing program.

“Wow, indeed,” she said. “I hope it doesn’t sound boastful to say that I admire my younger self. That gal had pluck. And you do, too, sweet girl. You just have to ask yourself what scares you most about moving forward.”

My mind flashed with images that the recurring nightmare had imprinted—underwater thrashing, water in my nose and filling my lungs. Swimming. That’s what scared me most.

Before I could respond to my grandmother, my mom knocked at my bedroom door, opening it simultaneously. This nettled me every time—knocking while already entering. She didn’t actually respect my privacy, but she pretended to with that little knock.

“Hey,” she said. “Who are you talking to?”

I covered up the phone’s speaker. “Tessa.”

Even if my grandmother heard me through the phone, lying to my mother, she wouldn’t remember long enough to out me.

My mom sighed as she grasped the door handle. “Okay, well … you have to be up early. And you’ll see Tessa in the morning, so I don’t want you up talking all night …”

“I won’t be,” I said as she pulled the door closed. “Good night.”

My mother had always been strict, but she reacted to Aaron’s death with even more rules—as if by controlling my life, she could protect me from harm. She constantly encouraged me to be social, but she enforced a ridiculous curfew. She asked if I wanted to talk, but if I did, she wound up telling me what to do, when all I’d wanted was someone to listen.

“Hey, Grammy?” I said into the phone. “I’m here again. Sorry about that.”

“No need to apologize. We should both be off to bed.”

I sighed. “Yeah. I guess I have a big day ahead of me.”

“You have a big
life
ahead of you, sweet girl. And beginning again gets easier with each step,” she said. My throat ached with repressed tears. After conversations like this, I couldn’t believe that she’d eventually forget my name, forget my face. Forget that she once saw me for who I really was.

After I hung up, I pulled my planner out of my bag and added the things my grandma did for herself: date and travel. If only Ryan Chase was single, we could fall in love and go to Paris: two birds with one stone.

I could barely bring myself to add the last task. The first four I actually wanted to do, on some level. But I had no interest in swimming or even going near water. I was,
however, interested in sleeping soundly again someday. So I swallowed hard and wrote it in.

1. Parties/social events

2. New group

3. Date

4. Travel

5. Swim

There
, I thought. A plan. At the top, I wrote:

How to Begin Again

Chapter Two

By the time Tessa picked me up, I had been ready for half an hour, even after reironing my skirt. I hoped the outfit would say:
Hey, Ryan Chase. I’m actually not a creepy bookstore loner. In fact, I have these legs.
I checked my schedule no less than twenty times, preoccupied with showing up to the right classes. I went to one wrong class on the first day of eighth grade, and that horrible moment—the sinking realization as the teacher never called my last name—scarred me for life.