Chapter 9
9
Hayden
senior year
I’m sitting on the carpeted living room floor. My French textbook, a messy pile of flashcards, and a cold bowl of chocolate ice cream sit scattered in front of me. I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose for what feels like the hundredth time since I’ve taken out my contacts after I came home from football practice. This is why I hate wearing these gaudy things. One would think after being prescribed them in fifth grade, I’d be used to them by now.
The TV is playing in the background with the sound of my mom and dad occasionally shouting out random letters and words to fill the final vowels to the Wheel of Fortune game on the screen.
“The promised band!” my mom shouts at the same time I look at the screen to see if she’s right.
“Land, Marsha,” my dad corrects. “The promised land.”
My mom rolls her eyes at my dad before huffing a sigh. “They don’t give enough clues.”
I laugh, returning my attention to my French vocabulary words.
“Have you heard back from Penn State yet?”
I look up at my dad, a little taken aback by the sudden change in topic. My mom’s eyes move from the TV to my dad, then to me as she waits for me to answer his question.
“I got in,” I answer, pushing my glasses up with my index finger once again. I don’t bother adding that I got the acceptance letter a couple of weeks ago and shoved it into my desk drawer the second I saw the “Congratulations!” greeting below the letterhead.
“Good,” he replies. “Have you picked a major?”
“No, not yet.”
“Well, I assume you aren’t going to play football.”
“Greg,” my mom warns.
“What? I just want to make sure he knows what he’s doing when he leaves for college?—”
“I haven’t decided yet,” I interrupt, attempting to mediate their disagreement before it turns into an argument.
“Well, you should decide soon. You don’t want to be one of those undeclared kids and end up majoring in art or some bullcrap.” I don’t mean to, but I roll my eyes at his ignorance before I hear him grumble, “Hayden, I don’t know why you can’t just go with something safe like accounting or finance. You know you’ll always have a job.”
Not this again . This vicious cycle of what direction my life should lead, what my future should look like. I’m so tired of it.
I start to lose focus on the image of a cartoon swimming pool along with the word “la piscine” in front of me. I shuffle my index cards, lining up the edges to make them stack perfectly, before stuffing them into the crease of my textbook.
“What if that’s not what I want? What if I don’t even know if I want to go to college?”
“What do you mean? Hayden, you’re going to college.” The grip my dad has on the armrest of the couch tightens. I can see his fingers press into the rough fabric as his eyes narrow down on me.
“Maybe I don’t want to.”
“No, that is absolutely out of the question. You’re going to college. You aren’t going to throw away your future.” He stands, leaving my mom looking up at him with disapproving eyes. “I’m getting more ice cream,” he announces gruffly. He stalks off into the kitchen and I hear the fridge door being pried open.
“Hayden,” my mom’s voice calls. I look up at her, and a soft smile peeks through the concern in her eyes.
“I’m sorry, Mom.” I move the bowl of melted chocolate ice cream from the floor to the coffee table.
“Why didn’t you tell us you got in?” she asks, ignoring my apology.
“Oh,” I whisper. “I don’t know…”
“That’s a big deal.”
“I know,” I say, unable to help the proud smile lifting the corners of my mouth. “I guess…I just didn’t know what I was going to do, so…”
She nods. “Dad’s just worried about your future. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but he wants what’s best for you.” She pauses, giving me an encouraging smile. “We’ll talk to him when things blow over a bit.”
“Yeah,” I answer, knowing there is no talking to my dad. And there’s no point in arguing this fact with my mom. We both know how it would play out. We sit in silence, the clink of ceramic bowls coming from the kitchen intertwining with Pat Sajak’s enlivened voice coming off the TV. “I’m going to finish my homework in my room.”
I stand to leave the living room, a room that was calm and relaxing just minutes ago. I walk back to my room feeling all too defeated and tired from this continuous back and forth that never seems to end between me and my dad.
For the record, you would look absolutely ridiculous in an orange fro wig and a red ball nose.
The image of Natalia coaxing my worries free, replacing them with jokes, causes an unwilling smile to spread across my face. I slump back on my bed as I glance at my laptop screen nestled atop the sheets. My fingers hover over the Facebook icon on my search bar. I look through my previous messages and find Natalia’s name before I type out a new message.
Me: On a scale of one to ten, how bad would it be if I decided to join the circus? Maybe clown college wouldn’t be so bad. Balloon animal design sounds like a promising major.
It’s almost instant when I get a response.
Natalia: Maybe a solid six. While taking off with only the wind behind you sounds obscurely enigmatic, I think you’d get bored once you master a sword balloon. There’s only so much one can do with a foot long piece of rubber.
Me: I guess you’re right. So I should stick with regular person college?
Natalia: Sounds like the safer option.
There’s a pause in our back and forth before she sends me another message.
Natalia: Just promise that you’ll learn how to make an orange balloon poodle. Those are my favorite.
I chuckle a little to myself, not even bothering to resist the smile spreading across my face as I stare at my lit-up laptop screen. The ball of frustration that was wound up so tightly has now dissolved into this warm gooeyness melting my insides.
Me: And how do you suggest I do that if I’m giving up my dreams to go to Jester’s University?
Natalia: Uh, YouTube? Duh…
Hayden: I don’t know. I’m pretty busy with football practice and those lab assignments you desperately need my help with. I don’t know when I’ll find the time.
Natalia: How about a deal? I’ll give you until, say…Thanksgiving to master balloon animals, and I’ll promise to visit you when we’re back home.
Me: You would visit me?
Natalia: Of course. Who else would I share war stories with about the trenches of Coolidge View High? We’re barely going to make it out of AP Bio alive.
Me: It’s a deal then.
She responds with a smiley face, a colon mark and the closing side of a parenthesis, and I stare at it with a smile that matches the animated grin on the screen. I haven’t really thought about after graduation, whether or not we would stay in touch, but suddenly, I can’t imagine us not. How can I not look forward to seeing her annoyed yet amused smile as she peers over at me in her seat in class? Or the pensive look she has when she stares at the reading assignment for photosynthesis and cellular respiration? How can I go the year after high school without talking to her about whatever aspirations that I have to bury deep in order to avoid conflict with my dad? Relief pours over me, realizing that maybe I’m not going to have to wonder that at all.
Maybe it’s one goodbye I won’t have to say.
present
“Enough about me and my tragic love life. How about you? Anything ailing your heart at the moment?”
I smirk, taking a sip of my beer before shaking my head. Not to answer her question but to find a way to get out of talking about everything wrong in my life.
“Come on, Marshall,” she says, lightly punching my arm. “Give me something so I don’t feel like such a loser.”
“You’re not a loser,” I dispute.
She raises her brows and pinches her lips in a small smile, waiting for me to give her something.
I smirk again, half amused and half surrendering. “No heartbreak or crappy ex-girlfriend to cry over.”
“Obviously.” She gestures toward my phone.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“With a roster like that? I can’t imagine any woman breaking through that playboy bravado of yours.”
I frown as I turn away from her.
“But…” she encourages.
My frown deepens, and her face mirrors mine, her smile slipping. With her empathetic eyes and soft face, she encourages me to share. All without feeling ashamed or misguided. So I spill my heart out, every qualm resting on my shoulders ready to be lifted just an inch.
“I haven’t talked to my dad in almost two years.” The words sort of tumble out from my lips. When I don’t say anything else, she doesn’t prod. Instead, she patiently waits while her fingers lightly bob the cocktail straw from the glass tumbler in her hand.
“When I quit school and moved to France, my dad was…upset, to say the least. We already had so many differences before I left for college, like whether or not college was even in the cards for me or what major I should choose, and then I laid a bombshell on him when I decided to quit school. So I stayed away from home because of that, moved to Chicago and only visited for holidays and stuff. And two years ago, on Thanksgiving, things kind of blew up. We yelled, said things to each other…and I haven’t talked to him since.”
“And your mom?”
“She’s kind of caught in the middle,” I explain. “She supported my decision but doesn’t want to take sides. But she helped me through culinary school, sending me money and paying most of my tuition.”
“That’s good,” she says softly, focusing on the positive. She swivels on the barstool, turning to face her whole body toward me once again, her way of giving me her undivided attention. “You know, your happiness isn’t a price you should pay to please anyone,” she says softly. “Even if it is your parents.”
I smirk. “I’m going to assume your parents love you?”
Her face drops as she hears me question my parents’ affection toward me. “You know your parents love you too, Hayden,” she says before averting her gaze toward the bar top and angling her body away from me. “But yes, they do love me. And my sisters.”
“Don’t need to rub it in.” I lightly nudge her shoulder, bumping it with my elbow as her lips twist in thought.
“They’ve always been supportive, so I can’t understand how any parent could expect anything from their child aside from their own happiness,” she explains.
I let out a frustrated, close-mouthed sigh, wishing my life were that simple.
“I’m just saying,” she adds. “This isn’t your problem, it’s theirs. It’s something that they need to work through and realize you’re happy with where you are in life.”
“Those are some wise words, Marquez.” She tilts her shoulder up in a bashful way as she tucks her chin downward. “I wish I could say something as reassuring about that shitty ex of yours.”
“I guess…calling him shitty is a good start.”
“Leaving already?”
I pull my pants past my hips, looking for the shirt that I had tossed haphazardly on the floor. When I peek over my shoulder at the rumpled bed, I watch as Caitlyn with a y lazily stretches her arms above her, exposing the top half of her naked body while she suppresses a yawn.
“I have an early day,” I explain.
She turns to me, pulling the thin sheet up to her chest and tucking it into her armpits as she rests her head on the heel of her hand. “Well, I had fun tonight.”
I nod, reaching for my shirt that somehow found itself under her bed. I stand, pulling it over my head and reaching for the doorknob.
“I guess I’ll call you.” My offer sounds more like a question than any real future plans to see her.
She flicks her blond hair, the silky ringlets bouncing as they settle onto the pillow below her, while looking at me through hooded eyes. “Looking forward to it.”
I walk out of Caitlyn’s apartment and into the night. It’s already past midnight, as I didn’t make it to Caitlyn’s until after my drink with Natalia. When we parted ways, I responded to the waiting Cupid’s Bet alert, only to see that I had a new message from Caitlyn. After some back and forth and a scout’s salute to confirm that I wasn’t an axe murderer, I met Caitlyn at a bar on my side of the bridge. Which was perfect since I really did have an early day, regardless of whether she believed me or not.
When we went back to her place, I found myself in a rut of routine. Lifting her shirt while she undid my jeans, pulling back her covers while she lowered the lights to a dim glow. Even rolling a condom on felt…like a chore. Something I needed to do so I didn’t grow restless or weary. To quench that part of me that sought intimacy. I mean, that’s the whole reason I still keep the app that screams I’m single sitting in my phone with its cheesy cupid icon, always begging for my attention as if it could fulfill this empty gaping hole that’s grown deeper and wider over time.
Once I enter my apartment where it’s quiet and empty, as I’m sure Dexter fell asleep hours ago, I search my fridge for a beer before settling onto my couch. My body sags against the cushions as I blow out a deep sigh.
Tonight felt like a breath of fresh air. Something to pull me out of my rutted routine of work and home that I’ve unremarkably settled into since I moved to the city. Everything about my life has been mundane, dull, and bland. Yet today felt different. And I know it has everything to do with Natalia and her welcomed text message to meet her for drinks.
Every time I close my eyes, I catch images of Natalia’s broken heart, reminding me of how I felt about her in high school. Our friendship back then grew like a plant, nourished with inside jokes and common interests instead of sunlight and water. I confided in her so many things that I wouldn’t have told a soul when my life felt so unsure.
My phone pings in my back pocket, and I pull it out to see a new message from Caitlyn. Her still naked body covered with her sheets, hiding parts of her for minimal discretion, fills my phone screen. I don’t send anything back, like a tasteless dick pic. Instead, I look for Natalia’s number.
Me: Hey, just wanted to make sure you got home safe.
I don’t expect a response this late, so I’m surprised when she texts me right back.
Natalia: I did.
Me: Good.
Natalia: Hey.
Me: What’s up?
Natalia: I had fun tonight. It was nice catching up with you.
Natalia: And I really needed a friend. So thanks.
I smirk. The same words that Caitlyn said to me, sated from our postcoital bliss, feel different coming from Natalia.
Me: Anytime, Marquez.