The Story of Us (18 page)

“We’ll probably be heading out,” I said.

“Well, it was great. I’m so glad you came. I’ll see you back at the house?”

“Back at the house,” I said.

I headed toward Oscar. “There you are,” he said. He stood. “Cricket? Are you all right?”

“Let’s go back,” I said.

“Did you drink that stuff?” he asked. “What did you do that for? What’s happening to you? Okay, wait. Let me go get Gavin. Just sit here.”

I sat. On the way down my head shimmered in a disturbing fashion. My butt almost missed the log. The wood scraped the back of my leg. There were some strange walls going in and out and up and down inside my head.

We all got back to the car. In the backseat Oscar kept peering at me. His little beard fluff looked very concerned. As the streetlights passed, his face shone with light and then went dark, light, dark. Hailey and Gavin were laughing and talking in the front. She was patting the top of his poofy hair. Did
she actually
like
it? Everything was all loud and swarmy, like a carnival inside my own head—their voices were bright and wavy, and when the car turned into the driveway, it felt like we kept turning and turning.

Gavin and Hailey were saying good-bye. Some faraway piece of me was thankful there would only be two men in the six-man tent that night. Some far faraway piece knew how anything but that would hurt Dan and my mother. The idea of hurting people—it was so far away and small, I almost couldn’t hear it. I felt a little wild and reckless, like I wanted to do something big. Huge. I could take Gavin’s keys and drive back home and knock on Janssen’s door and wake him up. I could say the words that would undo how I’d hurt him. We could stay together forever, and we could have babies that we could name Alex. I would never have to be afraid of assholes ever again. I wouldn’t have to worry where home was—I would always be home.

“Cricket?” Oscar was breathing beside me. I could hear it, really loud. I could almost see wavy breaths. Were we holding hands? “Maybe I should help you in.”

“I can go in,” I said. “I’m going to bed.”

“I want to tell you,” he said. “Now that you and Janssen … I’ve always cared—”

His bangs were falling into his eyes. I brushed them off his forehead. There. He could see better now. The better to stare at me, which he was doing. “My inside walls are going in and out,” I said.

Oscar put his arm around me, and I put my arm around his waist. Old Oscar. Good old Oscar. Great guy. I lay my head on his shoulder because my head was very heavy. Oscar’s hand was on my arm, and then it wasn’t, so finally I could leave. It released me, like ropes of a balloon being cut, and I drifted up and went inside and drifted up more, up the stairs, and the real walls were going in and out.

I went to the bathroom. I think I pretty much brushed my teeth, or something close. I was coming out and heading to my room, when I crashed into Ben.

“Cricket?” he said.

“Well, hello,” I said.

He sniffed. “Cricket, for Christ’s sake, are you
drunk
?”

“No!” I said. I’d never been drunk in my life.

He looked at me, stunned. Even then I could see the disappointment in his face. That disappointment—it cut through all the spinning and swarming, shot like a jet to the place that was me way down in there.

“Jesus, Cricket. What next? You’re losing it,” he said. “
Losing
it.”

I went to my room. Jupiter was there on her pillow. She lifted her head and watched me. I imagined, or didn’t imagine, worried eyes. Those white crescent rings under the milk chocolate as she looked up.

“I’m fine,” I told her. “Go back to sleep.”

I got into bed. The room was spinning in circles. I wasn’t sure where I was, or, really, who. This is what happened
too, when you cut the ropes. See? Here was proof. The balloon could get away from you. You could hurt and disappoint people. Home, it could drift far away. It would get tiny, and disappear. You could get lost.

It was worse when I shut my eyes. My stomach felt sick. It was swimming, and inside was a toxic mix of confusion and dread, and a very bad amusement park ride was happening in my head. The black lid of my laptop stayed closed on my desk. It kept its big mouth shut.
You,
I said to it in my whirling mind.
So there.

Dear Janssen—

All right. My turn.

The Ways Dogs Show Their Utter Devotion:

       1. They stay close, even if that means they sometimes get stepped on.

       2. They watch you, always. They keep their eye on you, waiting for a change in your weather. When you are upset, they look worried. They sit right next to you then.

       
3. They try their very best. They will run too far; they will sit and stay and wait forever, all because you asked.

       4. They are happy to see you again. If you’re gone for five minutes, if you’re gone for days. Every single time, thrilled.

       5. They guard you against anything bad. Even though they are small, so much smaller than what might harm you, they are there, ready to protect you.

Jupiter is watching me now. It’s morning, and she’s lying on that stinky pillow with her blankie and Rabbit. Her little black self, with her white spot on her back. The sun is coming through the window exactly where she is, so she didn’t even have to move to get there. It’s one of those times I love her so much, I can hardly stand it.

I just realized something. She doesn’t do that wild burst of insane running around anymore like she used to. You know, when it’s like the devil bit them in the ass? Out of nowhere, she’d race like a possessed demon, sprinting mad circles around the living room, shooting up on the couch and
flying across, then back down for another and another crazed loop. But when was the last time she did that? When was her last good lightning-fast run?

Wait a sec.

Okay, I’m back. I just tried to clap my hands and get her going, but, nothing. I said,
Come on! Let’s play, kid! Let’s go!
But she just looked at me, like,
Cricket, please. I’m tired, here.

Why do they do that, do you think? Why do they suddenly let go of their usual, respectable selves? Do you think they just need to be wild, and suddenly there’s no holding it back? They want to go, full speed. They want to
let
go. Feel. Feel the muscles in their legs and the wind on their back and their young, untamed selves leaping on some couch back of joy,
flying
.

Do you think we feel that too? Maybe when the music is on in the car and it’s a great day and you want to push down the accelerator just to do life at full speed … You can feel so hungry for life sometimes; you want it all, all at once, now. You want to drink it up, every last drop. I
do, sometimes. But then, shit. What would that mean? How would that change things? You could get hurt, running along up high on the furniture like that.

You should see her now, Janssen. She’s still lying there, but her nose is in the air, sniff, sniff, sniffing, her little nostrils going in and out. I love that. I guess sometimes a dog needs to run like crazy, and sometimes a dog needs to stay still and try to understand what is blowing her way.

I noticed that you didn’t answer any of my pleadings from my last letter. And I hate to plead. You know that. What’s happening over there? What’s going on, Janssen?

You know what’s going on here? Me, remembering the Janssen and Cricket story, that’s what. When we last left off … The church lawn. I was about fourteen, and you were about sixteen, and there was something happening between us. We both knew it that day, right? But I was your best friend’s little sister, and I was
young
(your words). So you decided to forget about me (even if you never forget about me). You dated that girl! I hated that. I hated her. I didn’t know her, but still. I’m sure
she was a fine person. Aside from that annoying laugh. But then, well, we know what happened.

My father.

And that’s when something huge shifted between us. It was right around when mom sold
Monkey M. Monkey
and then after that,
Monkey M. Monkey Has an Adventure
. She wanted to take us on a trip to New York, remember? Where she would meet her editor, and we would meet that tall chick holding a torch in the harbor. My mother gave notice to our father as required by the dreaded Parenting Plan (God, I hate those words), and then she bought the plane tickets. Ben promised you a snow globe with the Empire State Building in it, if I have that right. Maybe something else. But when it sunk in that we were actually going on a cool trip to celebrate my mother’s success, my father went nuts. He refused to let us go. He said it was illegal to take us on a plane without his permission. He actually said that. So, yeah, it got a little crazy.

They had some heated conversations. (You always accuse me of understatement when it comes to my dad.) Mom was crying and calling her attorney.
Jupiter hovered nervously. Crying made her worry. Ben and I were ready to run away. We went to Dad’s for our usual weekend, and he was sullen. Pissed. He had some new girlfriend over for dinner (can’t remember her name), but it was awkward because he was preoccupied. He wasn’t always that way, Janssen. We had a fun time over there too, you know that. Camping, skiing, the kinds of things Mom would never do.

But that trip. See, when he first left home? He yelled this thing to Mom, right in front of us, out in the driveway, where I’m sure even Mrs. Washelli heard. A terrible thing. That she would never be able to make it without him. She’d end up in a tent in his backyard, he said. I don’t think I ever told you this, because it was an awful thing for him to say. It was scary, too. I was embarrassed—the mail lady was right there. But I also remember thinking—could that be true? Is that what was going to happen to us?

It wasn’t working out that way, though, and I think that’s what made him furious. He hated that her life was changing for the better. Ben had just turned seventeen like you, but he didn’t have his truck yet. So that day Dad had to drive us home.
I think it’s funny, you know. How we’ve never talked about this really. Ever. But anyway, he drove in through the electric gate, which Mom had left open for us. The stupid Mighty Mule. He drove up our long gravel driveway and parked by the house. He pulled the parking brake, and then he just sat there. Didn’t get out, didn’t move. We didn’t know what to do. Ben opened his door, so I did too and we got our stuff out of the backseat. We said good-bye, but still he just sat there. We went inside. His car was still out there. Jon Jakes was living with us then—he was right upstairs! But there was no way
he
was going to get involved, after what our father did to him that time. There was some discussion about what might happen, who they should call or not call. Jupiter had been left out on the long front porch, and she was trotting back and forth, barking and barking, until Ben made her come in. There was that uneasy fear building. You didn’t know this part. The who-knows-what-might-happen again. It was … creepy. My mother didn’t want to call the police, she never did. Maybe she should have, but I was glad she didn’t.

She went outside to talk to him. It was stupid. Maybe dangerous. We heard raised voices. Then
they stopped. All at once they stopped. Ben and I peeked out the upstairs window to see what was going on. We didn’t understand the sudden silence. We were scared, because, well, there could have been a lot of reasons for that. But … not the one we expected.

It was you.

Oh, my God, you were walking up the drive, all casual. You said later that you were just coming to see if Ben wanted to shoot some hoops. You said that nothing special happened to make you come down that day. But I still wonder. Because that day, and every day after, you were always there if I needed you. Always.

Dad was standing outside of his car with his hands on his hips. He was parked on the cement parking pad up by the house. Mom was several steps away from him. I can see it now. You walked up. You had a basketball tucked under one arm. There were casual greetings. My father, of course, had met you over the years. You’d been to his house for that birthday party he gave Ben. That cool party, where he had the Reptile Man.