Jack, it’s me. I know we’re taking a break or whatever but she’s my cousin. My COUSIN. I mean, MY COUSIN, JACK! If you wanted to get back at me for breaking up with you, then congratulations, jerkwad, you’ve done it. If you see me in class today or in the hallways or in the cafeteria or ANYWHERE ELSE ON EARTH, do not talk to me. Actually, just do me a favor and go to hell.
Three minutes later, the cousin calls, and at first I think she’s crying, but then you can hear Caroline in the background, and the cousin starts yelling and Caroline starts yelling. I delete the message.
Two minutes later, Dave Kaminski sends a text to warn me that Reed Young wants to kick my face in for making out with his girlfriend. I text, I owe you. And I mean it. If I’m keeping score, Kam’s helped me out more times than I’ve helped him.
All this fuss over a girl who, if we’re being honest, looked so much like Caroline Lushamp that—at least at first—I thought it was her, which means in some weird way Caroline should be flattered. It’s like admitting to the world that I want to get back together with her even though she dumped me the first week of summer so that she could go out with Zach Higgins.
I think of texting this to her, but instead I turn off my phone and close my eyes and see if I can’t transport myself right back into July. The only thing I had to worry about then was going to work, scavenging the local scrap yard, building (mind-blowing) projects in my (kick-ass) workshop, and hanging out with my brothers. Life would be so much easier if it was just Jack + scrap yard + kick-ass workshop + mind-blowing projects.
You should never have gone to the party. You should never have had a drink. You know you can’t be trusted. Avoid alcohol. Avoid crowds. Avoid people. You only end up pissing them off.
It’s 6:33 a.m. and I am out of bed and standing in front of the mirror. There was a time, a little over two years ago, when I couldn’t, wouldn’t look at myself. All I saw was the bunched-up face of Moses Hunt, yelling at me across the playground: No one will ever love you because you’re fat! And the faces of all the other fifth graders as they started to laugh. You’re so big you block the moon. Go home, Flabby Stout, go home to your room.…
Today, for the most part, I only see me—adorable navy dress, sneakers, medium-longish brown hair that my sweet but slightly demented grandmother once described as “the exact color of Highland cattle.” And the reflection of my giant dirty cotton ball of a cat. George stares at me with wise gold eyes, and I try to imagine what he might say to me. Four years ago, he was diagnosed with heart failure and given six months to live. But I know him well enough to know that only George will decide when it’s time for George to go. He blinks at me.
Right now, I think he would tell me to breathe.
So I breathe.
I’ve gotten really good at breathing.
I look down at my hands and they’re steady, even if the fingernails are bitten to the quick, and, weirdly, I feel pretty calm, considering. I realize: the panic attack never came. This is something to celebrate, so I throw on one of my mom’s old albums and dance. Dancing is what I love most and dancing is what I plan to do with my life. I haven’t taken lessons since I was ten, but the dance is in me, and no lack of training can make that go away.
I tell myself, Maybe this year you can try out for the Damsels.
My brain goes zooming up the wall, where it hangs, shaking. What if it never happens? What if you die before anything good or wonderful or amazing ever happens to you? For the past two and a half years, the only thing I’ve had to worry about has been my survival. The focus of every single person in my life, including me, has been: We just need to get you better. And now I’m better. So what if I let them down after all the time and energy they’ve invested in me?
I dance harder to push the thoughts out until my dad thumps on the door. His head appears. “You know I love a good Pat Benatar song first thing in the morning, but the question is: how do the neighbors feel?”
I turn it down a little but keep on moving. When the song is over, I find a marker and decorate one shoe. As long as you live, there’s always something waiting; and even if it’s bad, and you know it’s bad, what can you do? You can’t stop living. (Truman Capote, In Cold Blood) Then I reach for the lipstick my grandmother gave me for my birthday, lean into the mirror, and paint my lips red.
I hear the shower running and voices downstairs. I pull the pillow over my face, but it’s too late—I’m awake.
I turn on my phone and text first Caroline, then Kam, then Reed Young. The thing I say to all of them is that I was very drunk (an exaggeration) and it was very dark (it was) and I don’t remember anything that happened because I was not only drunk, I was upset. There’s just this shit happening at home that I can’t talk about right now, so if you can bear with me and find it in your heart to forgive me, I’ll be forever in your debt. The shit happening at home part is completely true.
For Caroline, I throw in some compliments and ask her to please apologize to her cousin for me. I say I don’t want to contact her directly because I’ve already made a mess of things and I don’t want to do anything else to make things worse between Caroline and me. Even though Caroline was the one who broke up with me, and even though we’re currently in an off-again phase, and even though I haven’t seen her since June, I basically eat crow and then throw it up all over my phone. This is the price I pay for trying to keep everyone happy.
I drag myself down the hall to the bathroom. The thing I need most in this world is a long, hot shower, but what I get instead is a trickle of warm water followed by a blast of Icelandic cold. Sixty seconds later—because that’s all I can bear—I get out, dry off, and stand in front of the mirror.