Wrong About the Guy (15 page)

“Wherever you want is fine,” I said. “Seriously. Take your pick. You could sleep in the master or Jacob's room or either of the guest rooms—even my room if you prefer that.” Guilt was making me chatter idiotically.

“I wouldn't want to get in your way,” she said. “My usual room is fine.”

“Let me carry that.” George took the suitcase from her.

“I was just about to offer,” Aaron said, leaping to his feet.

“I've got it.” George gestured to Grandma to go ahead and followed her out of the kitchen, listing to one side to balance the weight of the suitcase.

“P
hew,” Aaron said before they were even out of earshot.

Heather shushed him and whispered to me, “She could come with us, you know. I don't mind.”

“But
I
do,” I said. “You don't know how annoying she can be.”

“Really?” Aaron said. “Because I only just met her and I get it.”

“Yeah, it's better this way. We couldn't have relaxed with her around. And I'm sure she's fine with it.” I was trying to reassure myself as much as Heather. I felt bad: Grandma had traveled a long way to be with me, and now I was blowing her off. But she really would ruin our fun. Not deliberately. Just by being there and by being herself. Anyway, she and I would have plenty of time together—she was staying for a small eternity.

“She was probably relieved not to have to go,” Aaron
said. “Why would she want to hang with a bunch of teenagers?”

“I agree. You guys mind if I run upstairs and get changed?” I plucked at my sweat shorts. “Not exactly dressed for the movies.”

“We'll figure out what to see while you're gone,” Aaron said.

I reached the stairs just as George appeared at the top. “Hey,” I said as we were passing at the landing. “I'm just going up to get changed.”

“Hold on,” he said. He put his hand on my arm to make me stop, so I did—reluctantly. I wasn't in the mood to be yelled at and he looked like he wanted to yell at me.

But then, George always looked like he wanted to yell at me.

He didn't exactly yell; his voice was quiet as he said, “That wasn't very nice.”

“What are you talking about?” I said, even though I knew.

He just waited, his dark eyes flickering across my face with a strange mixture of hope and concern.

I waved my hand dismissively. “You mean Grandma and the movie thing? She was fine with it.”

“You hurt her feelings.”

“Did she say that?”

“She didn't have to. I could tell.”

“You're projecting. She was fine. I know her better than you and I could tell she didn't really care about going.” I wanted to believe that more than I actually believed it. I hated feeling guilty.

George shook his head. “I know it's weird having your grandmother tag along,” he said, his voice even lower. “And she drives you a little crazy. But put yourself in her shoes for a second. She left her home and flew out here just so you wouldn't be alone. After dealing with all the stress of packing and getting to the airport and flying and taking a cab, she gets here and you make her feel like you wish she hadn't come.”

“I didn't.” I looked down and rubbed at an imaginary stain on my shirt, so I didn't have to meet his eyes. “I mean, she knows I'm glad she's here.”

“Does she?”

“Of course she does.”

There was another pause and then he said, “Did you ever think about how strange this must all be for her? That you and your mom live like this?” He gestured around the house. “She told me she used to babysit you all the time back in Philadelphia. She still comes running the second you or your mother calls her even though she knows you have these incredible lives that she's not part of. Would it kill you to try to make her feel a little more welcome when she comes?”

I felt sick. Because he was right: Mom and I used to
depend on my grandmother and now we barely saw her. There was a time when I actually thought that Grandma brought the fun, when her arrival at our apartment door meant I got to watch TV and do messy art projects and bake cookies. (She wasn't into health food back then—that came later.) And now . . . my heart sank when Grandma appeared, and I didn't even bother to hide it. Yes, she was maddening, but George was right—she would do anything for me and Mom and Jacob. And I was an ungrateful pig.

But I didn't want George to think so. It was one thing to have him tease me about being spoiled and selfish, and a very different—far more painful—thing to feel like he actually thought I was. I struggled to think of something to say to defend myself, but it was hard. “I welcome her,” I finally said.

He waited another moment and then sighed. “Okay.” He lifted his hand off my arm. “I know it's none of my business. I just . . .” He stopped. Then he said, “I just wanted to speak for her, I guess.”

I nodded. I still couldn't look him in the eyes. I felt ashamed and desperately wanted the conversation to end, so I said, “It's okay. But I should go. The others are waiting.”

“Right,” he said, and walked down the rest of the stairs.

In my room, I sat on the edge of my bed and curled
my knees up, hugging them to my chest.

I was such a jerk.

When did Grandma's presence stop being fun and start being annoying to me? I couldn't pinpoint the shift; it was too gradual. Part of it was moving to LA, where people were suave and sophisticated and savvy. And part of it was Luke's getting rich and famous—she was so clearly from our past, from a time when I was bored and lonely. Now I had cool places to go and every amusement at my fingertips. I had stopped craving adult attention, so Grandma's company had become just a drag.

What did she even have in her life these days? She worked long, hard hours at the hospital, then watched a ton of TV and read articles about stuff like karma and meditation because they gave her boring daily tasks meaning. Her life had narrowed while ours had expanded, which made her refusal to live off Luke sort of noble. She never complained. She deserved a lot more respect and sympathy than I ever gave her.

I got up off the bed and changed out of my sweat shorts and tank top and into jeans and a sweater. I stuffed my feet into low boots, and then I marched out of my room and down the hallway, where I knocked on the guest room door before opening it. I said, “Please come with us to the movies.”

“I don't want to be an imposition,” Grandma said, looking up from the suitcase she was unpacking.

“You're not. If you don't want to go, that's fine—I'll stay home with you. I'd rather be with you than see a movie.”

“In that case”—she flung her skirt back in the suitcase—“I'll be ready to go in two minutes!”

I found Heather and Aaron sitting close together at the kitchen table, watching a movie trailer on her laptop.

“Where's George?” I asked. I wanted him to know that Grandma was coming with us.

Aaron hit pause and looked up. “He took off. Said he had to get something but he'd be back to work on your mother's office later. Does he have a key to your house?”

“Everyone has a key to our house,” I said. “Which makes all of the security cameras and stuff kind of pointless. You guys settle on a movie?”

“I let Heather decide,” Aaron said. “I'm a gentleman that way.”

“He is,” she said. “And because he was nice to me, I was nice to him and picked the movie he wanted.”

“He played you like a fiddle,” I said.

“I'm devious.” Aaron stood up. “I'm going to run to your bathroom before we go.”

While he was out of the room, Heather closed her laptop and arched her back in a long stretch, then said, “I feel really good about my essay now, Ellie.” She nodded toward the hallway. “He's so smart. And sweet.”

“I've always thought so.”

“Can I ask you something weird?” I nodded and she lowered her voice. “If you are, it's totally cool . . . but . . . you're not interested in him romantically, are you?”

It was funny to hear the question I'd been agonizing over simply asked out loud. And a relief. Because having someone else question how I felt about Aaron brought an immediate answer to my lips that seemed right as soon as the words were out.

“No,” I said. “He's just a friend.”

“Really? Are you sure?”

“Totally.” I was. I was totally sure. I loved him, but deep down I knew there wasn't even a shred of sexual attraction or romance in that love. And here was Heather,
asking
about him. I felt a smile creep over my face. “Why? Do you like him?”

She ducked her head, blushing, and barely whispered, “I think, maybe, yeah. He's really nice.”

“He is.” I considered her for a moment, and it was like light dawning. I clasped my hands. “Heather, this is brilliant. You two are perfect for each other.”

“You really think so?”

“I can't believe I didn't realize it sooner.”

“You don't think he's too . . .” She groped for the right word. “Too sophisticated for me?”

“Why do you always sell yourself short? You're plenty sophisticated. You're also the sweetest, best girl in the world. He'd be lucky to get to be with you.”

“You're just saying that because you're my friend.”

“It's true.”

“So what do I do now?”

“I could say something to him—”

“Oh God, no! That's so middle school! I want to seem older, not younger.”

“Okay. But you should reach out to him somehow—let him know you're interested.”

“Right,” she said. “I'll try. I'm just not—shhhh.” Aaron was coming back into the room. I grinned at her and she blushed.

“What'd I interrupt?” he asked, looking back and forth between us.

“Secrets,” I said.

“Girl talk? Can I join in?”

“No,” Heather and I said at the same time, just as my grandmother entered. She had made herself fancy: a bit of her hair was pinned against her temple with a big fake flower and she'd traded her black elastic-waist
pants for a long black elastic-waist skirt.

“I'm ready,” she sang out.

Aaron gaped at me.

“Grandma's coming with us,” I said, and hooked my arm through hers, avoiding Aaron's accusing glare. “Let's go.”

I
did my best to encourage things between Heather and Aaron that night. The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced they would be a perfect couple, the one so domineering, the other so compliant. I made sure they sat next to each other at the movies and shared their own bag of popcorn. I shared with Grandma, popcorn being one of the few junk foods she approved of. (
It's high in fiber, you know, Ellie. So long as you don't put that fake butter on it, it's really not bad for you.
)

Now that I knew Heather liked Aaron, I could see the signs of it—nothing major, but they were there. Like the way she talked to me more than to him—of course Heather would be all shy and self-conscious around a guy she liked! And she didn't scarf down popcorn the way she normally did; she only nibbled a few pieces at a time. A classic case of shrunken love stomach.

I wasn't sure Aaron was getting the message, though: it was all pretty subtle. She was smiley and responsive to anything he said directly to her, but in pretty much the same way she was smiley and responsive to anything
I
said to her. I worried that Heather just didn't know how to send out vibes that were more flirtatious than friendly.

I wished I hadn't promised not to say anything to him. I felt like just a few careful words might have made him see her in a whole new light. Plus it might make things clearer between him and
me
. A simple
Hey, maybe you and my friend should go out
seemed like an effective way to get across the message that I wasn't interested in him for myself but had nothing against him.

Alone that night in my room, my grandmother's snores audible through the wall, I searched my ego very carefully, poking and pricking to see if there was any soreness there, any discomfort at the thought of Aaron and Heather's falling in love. But there wasn't. Picturing the two of them together only made me feel happy. And a little relieved.

I knew that Heather would be a much better girlfriend for him than I ever could. She was sweet and easygoing and generous. I was too used to getting my own way and dominating everyone around me—just like Aaron. As a couple, we would have clashed constantly. But he and
Heather would complement each other perfectly, and I would do everything I could to make them happen.

I squidged down into bed and waited to fall into the deep sleep of the virtuous and celibate.

Except I couldn't.

Now that I felt settled about the Heather/Aaron situation, a far less serene memory bubbled up to the surface: my conversation with George about my grandmother. I never liked when people called me out on something I already felt guilty about, and I couldn't get his last disappointed look out of my mind.

I wished he knew that he'd convinced me to include her. But sending a text that said, “Enjoyed the movie—my grandmother did, too,” seemed too embarrassingly transparent. Anyway, I kind of wanted to tell him face-to-face. I wanted to see him smile and nod, the way he did when he felt I'd done something right for once. Those moments were rare enough.

I flipped around in my bed. The house was too quiet. Usually I could hear someone moving around after I went to bed: Mom getting up and wandering along the hallway (she had insomnia issues); Jacob crying after a bad dream; Luke coming home late from work. . . . But tonight it was just Grandma and me, and the faint sounds of her rhythmic breaths made me feel even more alone: she was so deeply asleep and I was so awake. I
wasn't exactly scared—we really did have a ridiculously impressive security system and I had double-checked that it was set before going to bed—but I didn't like the quiet. It made me glad Grandma had come after all. If I felt this isolated
with
her, the loneliness would have been unbearable without her.

I couldn't fall asleep. I sat up and reached for my laptop. When I opened it, the screen was still filled with the Word document for my college essay. I skimmed it again and hated it even more. It was so boring. So . . . just okay. So upright and good citizen–y. So uninspired. So not really me in any way at all.

I opened up a blank page and started to write a response to the essay. Just to have something to do, something to take my mind off how empty the house felt.

I didn't try to sound formal and smart. I just wrote down the sentences that came into my head.

I sat back and looked at what I had written. It was way too short. It was probably too negative. It wasn't
particularly clever or well-written.

But it was honest.

I went back to bed and this time I fell asleep.

When I got home from school the next day, I worked on the essay some more, expanding it, making it funnier and adding in some examples. I talked about our trip to Haiti and how I had vowed to find a way to help—the stuff the other essay had been about—but this time I told the truth about how little I had followed through on my resolution.

When I finished rewriting it, I stayed in my seat for a while, staring absently at the keyboard and thinking.

I wasn't actually sure I should use it as my college essay. In fact, I was pretty sure I shouldn't. It made me sound like someone who couldn't get her act together, which wasn't exactly what colleges looked for in their students.

But if I didn't think I could use it, why was I putting all this time into it?

Could
I use it?

I needed George to help me figure it out, I decided.

So that night, after I had fiddled with the new essay some more and felt like maybe it was in decent shape, I sent it as an email attachment to him. In the subject line, I wrote,
Possible new essay?
And in the body of the email I wrote,
I want to be a good person. I just get in the way sometimes.☺

I deleted the smiley face and put it back in several times, finally leaving it in.

And then I hit send. And waited.

An hour later, I got an email back from him.

I spent the next hour staring at music videos and obsessing over those five words. The
Yes
seemed positive. Maybe that meant he liked it? Although . . . it could also have just meant he agreed that I got in my own way. And the
Will discuss on Wednesday
wasn't exactly helpful feedback.

I had wanted more from George. I felt like I'd cut myself open and exposed some hidden nerve-ridden and embarrassing part of my anatomy with that essay. I'd spent years trying to convince myself that I was someone who did what she set out to do, so it wasn't easy to admit that I wasn't really like that.

I wanted something back for my honesty—some sense that George appreciated it and valued the courage it took. I also wanted him to see that the essay was my way of saying I screwed up with Grandma and that I was glad he called me out on it, because I really
did
want to be a decent person, even if I didn't always act like it.

But as good as I was at talking other people into things, I couldn't succeed at convincing myself that George was saying he understood all that in those five short words.