Текст книги "Finding Mr. Brightside"

Автор книги: Jay Clark

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 11 страниц)

30

ABRAM

JULIETTE AWAKENS THE NEXT MORNING to an unlikely role reversal: me, fully dressed, staring down at her with two Starbucks cups in my hands. She thanks me and accepts the drink before vowing never to let me “beat her up again.” I assure her I’m a lover, not a fighter.

She takes a couple of sips, then sits up straighter. “Did you see Janette there?”

“Who?”

“Janette. The barista I was hating the other day.”

“Oh, that Janette.” I shake my head nope; I can barely remember driving there and back. Juliette’s follow-up descriptions of Janette’s “Kerri Strugg voice” and “suspicious leprechaun eyes” don’t ring any bells for me, either. I must be too excited about today.…

“I have another surprise for you,” I say, watching as the announcement hits her like a ton of bricks.

“Does it involve other people?”

“Technically, no. We depart in an hour.”

An hour and a half, actually, but I don’t want to leave her too much time to cancel back and forth with. The way I’ve set this up seems to be working … she’s intrigued. If I’m not careful, I might turn into an accidental love genius.

*   *   *

Fifty-five minutes later, I’m showered and as ready as I’ll ever be. Juliette? Showered, but she “might never be ready, sorry.” Her words, and they’ll come true if she keeps getting into fights with her hair. Every time she passes a reflective surface, she picks up where she left off, and then she’s grabbing at the tie holding her bun in place and attempting to ramrod it smooth again. The southern humidity has other ideas—for instance, How ’bout some curls instead, y’all? It also has a southern accent.

“Isn’t the beachy look popular with you girls these days?” I say, testing out my wavering grandpa voice.

Juliette smirks into the mirror and says, “You mean with those crusty girls who put gel in their hair, Grandpa?”

I take a gulp of my iced coffee, smack my lips, and say, as creepily as possible, “Grampy likes ’em a little crusty, heh-heh-heh.”

Eventually she sits down on the chair across from me, accuses me of staring at her hair—which I don’t deny, because it looks good.

“Are you sure us going through with this is necessary?”

“No loopholes,” I say, removing the itinerary I folded too many times from my pocket and spreading it out onto the coffee table. I have to hold it in place with a coaster so that it lies flat. Now I kind of know how she feels about her hair.

She speed-reads the contents of the paper, looks up at me. “A whale-watching expedition?”

“I was thinking we should go visit our distant relatives,” I explain. She’s quiet for a minute, but in a contemplative way, not a grouchy one. I bet she’s thinking about that first night at my house, after CVS, how we talked about the whale versions of ourselves, the way things might’ve played out had we been born underwater.

“I tried to find a boat with Wi-Fi for you,” I say, “but it’s not really something they prioritize.”

“Doesn’t matter. This…” She rolls her eyes and looks away. For a second, I think she’s disappointed, and then her entire face breaks out into a smile. She’s never let it do that before. “This is one of my favorite things anyone’s ever done for me.”

“It is?”

“I have weird standards.”

“Or,” I say, “you have whale standards.” Juliette seems to like this explanation better. She stands up and walks over to me, and suddenly her face is front and center, and I can feel each of her shallow breaths on my skin as she tilts her chin downward, till her lips are aligned with mine. She gives me the lightest of kisses. “Thank you,” she says. I try not to behave myself, draw her back in with my animal magnetism, but she has to pack her purse. Don’t think we need the remote control she just threw inside it accidentally, but I keep quiet, just sit there and smile until she comes back over with a can of sunscreen in her hand and tells me to take off my shirt. I whistle at the familiar thought of my own bare chest and then do as she demands. I know what’s good for me. Her.

*   *   *

“Let me know if you see any ‘whales,’” Juliette says with fingers crooked into skeptical air quotations. Then she reaches into her purse and pulls out her phone in hopes that its cellular data signal has strengthened. In this case, I don’t blame her for trying to escape reality—would be doing the same if I hadn’t left my phone in some other shorts pocket back at the house. With all due respect to the whales, watching them remain underwater is kind of a snoozer. Not that I expect them to be all Yeah, we’ll be right up, can’t wait to see you, too! given how many harpoons they’ve historically taken to the forehead.

“Wonder why they call them right whales,” I say to Juliette.

“Because poachers deemed them the ‘right whale’ to hunt,” she answers, like a human Siri. That must be from one of the articles she downloaded before we left shore. Her web research skills are stronger than ever, and I think I figured out why she’s always honing them: because if she googles it, then she can separate herself from it; it becomes something “other” and turns into knowledge that can’t sneak up on her. Anyway, I want her back in the same boat as me.

“Wanna play rock-paper-scissors?” I ask.

This seems to work every time, distracting her with games, because she quickly puts away her phone, stretches her fingers for maximum dexterity, and then places her fist within the air between us. I do the same. She’s probably thinking I’ll pick rock, because that’s the obvious boy choice, so I go with scissors. I lose, she pounds the crap out of my scissors with her rock. Then I pick scissors again, same result.

“Juliette,” I say, grabbing her leg, pointing toward the large circles forming in the water to the left of the boat.

“Quit trying to throw off my rhythm with a fake whale-sighting,” she says, blowing the gun smoke off her fist.

I really do think I’m spotting a whale, so I reach around and place my hand behind her back, sliding her across the slippery canvas seat until she’s leaning into me and can see the water from my point of view.

“Oh my God,” she whispers, as our fellow watchers crowd against the side of the boat.

We stare for I don’t know how long, in awe, afraid to move, as if the whale is the equivalent of an easily spooked horse. She’s not. She’s much calmer than any of us.

“I need my phone,” Juliette says, after a calf surfaces beside its mother.

“Not yet,” I tell her—not pushily, just firmly, trying to convey that this is a moment to experience before gathering evidence of it. “Just watch with me for a few more seconds.” I take her hand. She doesn’t argue when I say a snapshot wouldn’t do the whales justice anyway. I’d post it on Facebook and my former teammates would leave comments like Cool, dude, but where’s the face? Or my aunt Jane would say, You sure that’s not your shadow, Abram? Guess this means another six weeks of winter! Not worth it. Plus that Hawaiian-shirted guy with the high-powered camera around his neck promised to e-mail his pictures to us.

After the whales are gone, we settle into a did-that-just-happen? window of time. Juliette is completely free of thought. I can tell because she’s really looking at me, not through me or around me, trying to find the answer to something without having to ask me for it. In this moment, in these surroundings, I’m more than enough for her, and I don’t even have to convince her no one’s looking as I lean in close.

“It feels like home out here,” I say, a millimeter farther from her face than I’d like to be. She smiles at me with her eyes before my lips press against hers.

31

ABRAM

JULIETTE AND I are in our couch bed underneath the same fourteen blankets, pillows propped, my arm wrapped around her. I really wish she wouldn’t insist on making this happen, especially after we’ve just eaten so much sweet-and-sour kitty from the Chinese takeout place. The act just seems hasty, at least by her methodical standards—like something she might regret for the rest of her senior year.

I can’t deny that a very large part of me wants her to go through with it, nor can I emerge from my rice coma long enough to stop her from polishing up my dashboard with a wad of napkins. Now she’s stretching her wrists, cracking her neck back and forth, preparing to take action regardless of what anyone else thinks. Her face is getting paler, her breathing more ragged, and she looks like I do right before I release food back into the universe involuntarily.

“You don’t have to do this,” I tell her.

“I know.”

Juliette

I’M NERVOUS, half-tempted to pray for the best—does God accept sarcastic texts from people he’s never heard from? Never mind, it’s just that I haven’t done this in so long. Is it really so impossible to show Abram he exists to me, in a meaningful way, by cheapening our relationship on Facebook? Yes. Posting imagery that proves we hang out together in our spare time is the ultimate sacrifice, right up there with the awkward sex we won’t be having tonight.

I log in to my account and wince at the Jerseylicious profile picture staring back: me, sophomore year, wearing too much bronzer and a noticeably fatter face.

“Hey, you look hot in that pic,” Abram says. I’ll delete it later, after I complete what I came here to do: upload a picture of Abram and me from earlier today. Sans whales, unfortunately, because Abram was right—as far as whale-watching goes, you have to be there. Case in point, my best snapshot looks like I threw my gray cable-knit scarf into the ocean trying to pass it off as a whale, which isn’t above me. Glad I didn’t, though, because otherwise said scarf wouldn’t be keeping my neck toasty right now.

It should be noted what I’m about to post isn’t just any pic. It’s an f’ing selfie! A few minutes ago, Abram and I held a competition over who could think of the best name for a couple’s selfie. His: couplet, twosie, double-header. Mine: cheesie, stankjob, lamepeg. He deserved to win. Unfortunately, he didn’t—I disqualified him.

If I look too closely at the pixels, like I am now, I can barely recognize myself as the wavy-haired, semi-tanned, de-stressed damsel who’s lucky to be there, watching whales with Abram’s arm around her, especially after lodging as many complaints as I did about the surprise. No wonder I want so badly to share this with seven hundred people I never talk to. Look how functional I suddenly am again, everyone! No one’s going to Like it.

ABRAM

THAT’S A PRETTY GOOD-LOOKING COUPLET, if I do say so myself. Juliette’s all worried about the inherent selfie-ness of the image, but my long arm got us a pretty sweet angle, and you can’t even tell. Now she’s trying to maneuver the thumbnail around the upload box so that the image displays as little of her body as possible. She calls it “being considerate of others,” but I call it a “thirty percent loss of a nice, tight body.” I agree to disagree; she doesn’t.

Click.

The picture goes live.

She turns to me, placing her fingers to her lips. “What have I done?”

I sit up and try to kiss her frown upside down through her fingers. I’m not successful.

Juliette

I STARE AT OUR POSTED PICTURE, willing someone to Like us. No one does, which is what I get for not being likable. Social media is all about reciprocity—I’ll Like your newborn baby with the misshapen head if you Like this depressing picture I just scanned of my unsmiling great-great-grandparents, etc.—and that’s not a back-and-forth I felt capable of participating in until about twenty-four hours ago, when Abram first kissed away some of the grouchy fug from my face.

It’s been at least ten seconds and the picture is already plummeting down people’s newsfeeds. I’ll give it thirty more seconds before I gladly pay Facebook ten dollars to promote it back up to the top. I tag Abram, hoping to bottom-feed a few Likes from his four-digit Friend count, and then check my e-mail to see if my dad’s written me back. I never finished my apology e-mail to him; got us a family subscription to Lumosity, the unnecessary brain-training website, and forwarded the notification along with a weird smiley face and a few warnings about not starting until his book is finished.

Huge relief to see his name back in my inbox where it belongs; his e-mail says the book is flowing and his brain is suddenly feeling much more flexible, even without the neuroscientific training he’s now moderately addicted to. I’m proud of you, Dad, I type in response. Am I allowed to say this as his child? Have I ever cared about such boundaries? Send. Facebook no longer seems Like-or-Death.

But I still want to check our Like count one more time … click. Seven people have Liked it, including Heidi, who also commented: If only I’d been there in the background photo-bombing you!!

Oh, Heidi. Maybe I’ll finally go to that Britney Spears concert she’s been trying to drag me to for ten years—a trashy night on the town, just the two of us, would mean a lot to her. As I’m promising her this, via text, the last person on earth I’d expect to Like a picture of Abram and me pops up beside Heidi’s name.

I was secretly hoping she’d Like us together.

32

ABRAM

I’M NOT SURPRISED my mom Liked our picture. She’s a Facebook person. As well as a great person who doesn’t sweat the small stuff and would never be like, Appreciate the olive branch, but I think I’m going to hang on to my self-alienating thoughts of being wronged by you, thanks. That’s why she’ll always have love for my dad, keep his picture around the house, wear a red mummy dress for him every once in a while. I used to worry that this was stopping her from moving on, but I realized, after playing tennis yesterday, that it’s possible to have our fun and remember the good things about Dad, too.

Juliette moves the cursor over my mom’s name and clicks the Add Friend button. Glad I stayed awake long enough to watch this day getting even better. She looks over at me, blushes, then jokingly checks my pulse to cover up her friendliness shame.

“I won’t be offended when she doesn’t accept.”

“No need to not be offended,” I say, struggling to be coherent. Doesn’t matter, because Mom accepts a few seconds later, and it’s the only time in my life I’ve wondered what we’d all do without Facebook. Because Facebook, at least in terms of my mom and Juliette right now, is a place to start.

Juliette

WATCH OUT, our picture is going viral. Fifty-plus people have Liked us so far, and I can’t stop watching the numbers climb like I’m accomplishing something, even when a scary-looking woman with a pixie haircut and visible biceps veins tries to ruin my Facebook buzz with her comment: Oh, my god, SO CUTE TOGETHER. When are you two coming over to my house for dinner??? I’ll make my famous tofu lasagna!

“Aunt Jane,” Abram tells me, with one eye open.

I zoom in on her picture. “She means well?”

“That’s what they say,” he says. “That, and she doesn’t take no for an answer.” Then he sits up and kisses my nose—“Because I’ve never kissed it” is his rationale—before plopping back down and telling me to prepare for an aggressive Friend request.

I pretend I’m going to shut the laptop screen … then don’t because I’m still watching the Likes. I accept Aunt Jane’s request when it comes my way, have to laugh when she tags both Abram and me in her latest post, a Bible passage from 1 Corinthians, the “Love is patient, love is kind” thumper read at nearly every wedding ceremony by the bride or groom’s favorite aunt. It’s between Aunt Jane, my dad’s estranged sister in Oregon, and an empty pulpit—tough one. Both of Abram’s eyes are closed now, so I start reading, rewriting the words of 1 Corinthians in my head as I go.

Love doesn’t sigh impatiently. Love isn’t “over it” before it even started. Love isn’t like, “Does that Asian violinist have a nicer David Yurman bracelet than me? No, she definitely doesn’t. Thank God—can you imagine?” Love doesn’t thank God someone else has an inferior bracelet to make itself feel better. Love isn’t sitting across the table from someone it cares about, wondering, “That’s great about you and all, but what’s in it for me?” Love isn’t a loose cannon that’s forever pointing to its short fuse in an attempt to scare others away. Love doesn’t store throwaway comments in a safe place for reference during the next fight it picks. Love doesn’t lie about how much Adderall it’s taken or plans on taking in the future. Love protects its love object from harmful UVB rays, and too much junk food, and the selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors that are making him think mixing Ben & Jerry’s Cookie Dough ice cream with Cool Whip is an acceptably edible food invention. Love has confidence in its love object; knows there’s no reason to be suspicious, because clearly he’s not going anywhere given how many times it’s tried to push him away. Love doesn’t become paranoid and evacuate the premises without letting its love object know the panic button has been struck. Love doesn’t quit when the going gets awkward and overwhelming and it can’t deal, the end. Love stays put when something disguised as “better” comes along. Love knows the difference between what’s passing and what’s permanent, even if it pretends it doesn’t sometimes, just to see if its love object feels the same way.*

*Love realizes it shouldn’t play games.

I glance over at Abram and find him awake again, squinting through the artificial light of the laptop, smiling crookedly in my direction, like he suspects something but is too groggy to investigate. What if he was reading my mind that whole time?

“You want popcorn, too, don’t you?” he says.

I raise an eyebrow and shake my head in wonderment, like, Wow, I can’t hide anything from you, can I? I bet I look dumb right now. He slides out of the bed and pads off toward the microwave in his boxer briefs. You’d think he was fully dressed, like me, the way his arms and legs are so loose and nonchalant about so much of his body being on display. He really is a graceful mover, when he’s actually in motion. I should be thinking of anything else, so I redirect my attention to the beeping and whirring of the microwave, the kernels popping, the accompanying aroma of “movie theater butter.”

“Seriously, when are you going to admit you love popcorn?” Abram says when he returns with a steaming bag in hand.

“Probably never,” I say. “Or maybe the same day you remember the napkins.”

He gets back up.

Do I love Orville Redenbacher? Is that possible when we’ve only really known each other a month? I close the laptop and make myself wait a few seconds before eating any of his popcorn.

33

ABRAM

THE HURRICANE JULIETTE’S FATHER was worried about? Not on the radar, but it’s raining like a mother this fine Sunday morning, our last full day here. I’m drinking a glass of emergency water just to see what the purifying tablets make it taste like. Juliette’s sitting in the same chair as me, on my lap, the flame-retardant blanket draped over us. Just the two of us watching the raindrops fall into the ocean from the back deck.

“Still tastes exactly like water,” I announce, holding out the glass for her to try. She takes my word for it and continues to sip from her coffee mug. So far today, she’s taken one-fourth fewer Adderalls. It’s a start … one she claims is making her tired.

“I wish we could do shots,” she says wistfully. I pull the hood of my sweatshirt from her head to see if she’s more serious than usual—can’t tell, but I like this angle of her face, too.

“Where there’s a will, there’s a shot,” I say in my deep voice, as if a wise frat brother once said the same.

“Yes, but there’s no drive-thru. And there’s the possibility of seeing Janette.”

Got it, she must be talking about espresso shots at Starbucks.

“Remind me why this Janette lady’s so evil again?”

“I never told you in the first place,” she states, not like she’s annoyed, just as a fact. “She’s probably fine. She just had an eerie look on her face. The same one Linda had before I asked her about my mom.”

I nod. “What if we just peer in through the windows, see if she’s there?” I’m scratching her back because it’s pretty much the only part of her I have unrestricted access to right now. “Then I’ll go inside and be really stealthy about making sure the coast is clear.”

She looks back at me. “Your plan … I kind of hate it.”

“But it just might work?”

“Probably not,” she says, “but let’s try it.”

*   *   *

We’re hiding in the alley next to Starbucks while I reassure Juliette I’ve checked everywhere inside for an annoying lady with a Janette name tag. “Including the men’s bathroom.”

“Thank you.” Juliette bites her lip. “What about the women’s?”

“Occupied. And the occupant sounded like she’d be in there for a while.”

“Let’s leave before she’s finished being disgusting,” she says, as I hold the door open for her. There’s no line at the cash register, which puts her in a better mood. Our drinks and shots are ready almost immediately, and we’re about to leave when we look out the window and see the monsoon.

“You were right,” she says. “We should’ve driven.”

“Want to sit for a minute?” I ask—one of my other favorite suggestions.

She looks around for a nook or cranny. We head toward a table at the far corner of the room, near the fireplace, and rotate our chairs so we’re facing away from an improbable Janette sighting. “I need to show you a few things,” Juliette says, rummaging through the catacombs of her purse, “of yours. I stole them.”

“Haven’t been missing anything.…”

“I’m afraid you have.”

She places a pile of envelopes on the table next to my iced coffee, along with a two-hundred-dollar receipt from the Salvation Army? Juliette wads up the receipt, says, “Don’t you recognize your mail?”

Now that she mentions it. “Looks different without the dust,” I say.

“You can be mad at me for violating your privacy. Promise I won’t argue to make it seem like your fault.”

“I’m sure you were just trying to help.”

“Maybe. You should still consider hating me for a little while.”

I raise my eyebrows, like, Thought you weren’t going to argue. I tell her if I wanted to keep my mail top-secret, I should’ve read it a long time ago, rather than let it sit on my dresser for an eternity. Besides, it’s not like she opened it or anything.

I pick up a letter with VIRGINIA TECH in the return-address space. Juliette frowns. “Sorry, I opened that one.”

I turn the envelope around to examine the perfectly sealed back flap. “Where?”

She points to the corner. I nod, but I still have no idea how she got in without a rip. “You do good work,” I tell her, and she’s more accepting of this compliment than most of my others combined.

“Are you not going to college, or what?” she asks.

“What? Yeah, I’m going.” I open the envelope halfway, stop. “I’ve just been … deferring the decision-making process.”

“Until when? Someone else makes it for you?”

“Probably,” I force myself to admit aloud, take the embarrassment like a mature person who would’ve never procrastinated this much in the first place.

“Have you taken the SAT yet?”

I nod, relieved to have this to say for myself: “Think I got, like, a thirty-one or something.”

She sighs. “That’s the ACT.”

“I should get us another round,” I say, picking up our empty shot cups. “What was your score?”

“Thirty-something.”

Juliette

ABRAM’S ACT SCORE is just a few lackadaisically smudged pencil marks away from my own. Safe bet he didn’t force himself to take a month-long online prep course before test day, either.

Abram hands me my refill and then sits back down to explain. Turns out he was waiting to apply because he wasn’t sure about committing to the tennis scholarship component, although he definitely wants to help out his mom with the tuition. This is a valid procrastination reason. The next one he gives, not so much.

“Plus, I wanted to see where you were going first.” Him smiling like that, with his eyes downcast and hesitant to see my reaction, makes his admission seem extra cute. I pinch the bridge of my nose, reach down, and take my shot.

“You’d rather go your separate way?” he asks.

“Not necessarily. But I can’t even commit to watching a movie with you, Abram—do you really want to be basing your first major life decision around my crazy whims?”

“Pretty much,” he tells me. “Can’t help it. Even before we started hanging out, I always hoped we’d end up at the same college, that things could maybe be different once we were away from everything. Like they are now. C’mon, let’s matriculate somewhere together.”

Could things really be the way they are now, all the time, if we attended the same university? Not as if I’d mind having Abram around. It’s almost fun to picture him stopping by my dorm during one of the three times I’d allot him per day. He’d encourage me to leave my computer and go see what’s on the menu at the dining hall. I’d act annoyed but eventually agree, not inviting my roommate to join us on our way out. The two of us would head off to the student center, avoiding eye contact with the students manning the activity booths in the lobby. Then one semester, when the inevitable happens and I lose my last marble, Abram could just drop me off at the mental institution on his way to the Love & Sexuality class I told him not to sign up for, save my cab driver the trip.

None of the above is ever going to happen. Ben Flynn could barely handle me leaving for four days; not realistic to think I could leave him for four years.

“I can’t,” I tell Abram. “My dad.”