Chapter 1 Harper
CHAPTER ONE
Harper
THE PAST
We receive our acceptance letters on the same day.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor of his living room, we make a ceremony of opening the envelopes together.
Benny’s eyes are focused like lasers on the seemingly harmless paper object in between his fingers.
I toss mine in the air and catch it by a corner.
I repeat the trick a few times, watching the stamp in the corner as I go.
“One…two…three,” Benny says, glancing up to find my gaze.
We never thought to consider one of us wouldn’t get in.
There was never any question, really. We’re those types of people.
We go together. We conquer Harvard like freaking elitist bastards and then move on to world domination. Plus, both of our envelopes are fat.
“Go!” I shout as I carefully slide my forefinger under the side of the flap and tear across.
Benny does the same, pushing his glasses up his nose using one finger.
Our parents, all four of them, are seated on the long sectional couch, breathing heavily, eyes wide in anticipation.
I think it’s just for show. They know there’s no question as well.
We’re not secretly driven. Everyone and everything that surrounds us knows it as a fact.
When Benny and I were eight, we performed a knock-down, drag-out, awesome play of The Lion King.
I was Simba, and he was Zazu because he had a better pretend accent.
Our parents sipped the iced tea we made and clapped along the entire time.
I made the costumes, and Benny wrote our lines.
It was a team effort. All of our lives it’s been a team effort.
“I got in!” Benny yells, holding the thick piece of paper up in the air.
I can’t help it. I can’t. I stop unfolding my letter and watch him bask in this moment. His smile is wide, and his face is at the pinnacle of happiness.
“Open it, Harpee. Read yours!” he says when he sees my pause.
Our parents are congratulating him, my father shaking his hand and both mothers crying like the sappy people they are.
They became best friends by proxy of Benny’s and my friendship.
We always understood they would have become best friends without us. They are so alike it’s scary.
I follow Benny’s order, smiling when my eyes find the part that says, Congratulations! Standing, I meet my parents’ gaze, and as levelly as I can manage, I say, “Your daughter is going to be a Harvardian.”
The room breaks out into a roar. Someone knocks over a drink. My father picks me up and spins me around like I’m five instead of eighteen. Whoops of gleeful cheers bounce off the walls, and laughter steals any foul thoughts from the atmosphere.
“Dad, you realize this means I’ll be in debt until I’m thirty.
Even with my scholarships. You shouldn’t be so happy,” I deadpan.
My stomach is bubbling with joy and satisfaction, with validation.
All those years of never fitting in and working hard have finally paid off.
If I can downplay the emotions coiling in my system, I won’t embarrass myself.
I’m not a person who shows my true feelings. Even the good ones.
“Oh, hush your mouth, Harper, we’re so proud of you, honey,” Mom says.
She looks at Benny. “We’re so proud of both of you.
You’re going to do great things.” She shakes her head.
“I can’t believe you’re leaving us already.
” Tears well in the corner of her eyes, and it’s time to close my own eyes.
Mother tears are dangerous and contagious.
My father releases me, takes the letter from my hands to see it for himself, and my mom absorbs me into her arms. “I love you, Harper Jean.”
I respond to her sentiment, but Benny catches my eye.
He’s hugging his mother but peeking at me over her shoulder.
I stick my tongue out at him, and he crosses his eyes.
His glasses slide down his nose. I peel up my top lip to expose my front teeth.
He mimics my gesture, except he flares his nostrils, too.
“Harvard,” I mouth when our dumb face match has ended.
His mom releases him at the same time my mom lets me out of her proud clutches.
“Tequila!” Benny’s dad roars, and we both shake our heads. Our parents are celebrating our accomplishment. It makes little sense to me. The four of them find their way to the bar area, a place we frequent when they aren’t home, and Benny and I are left vibrating with excitement.
“Harpee, this is the best thing ever,” he says.
Sliding his hands into his pockets, he starts bobbing up and down.
I notice the muscles in his arms bunch at the movement.
Girls look at him more than they ever did before.
It made me jealous for a spell because I didn’t understand why boys weren’t noticing me.
I’m not flat-chested anymore, and I let my practical haircut grow longer.
My aunt showed me how to wear tasteful makeup.
Benny laughed off my concerns and said it was probably because I had a boy for a best friend.
He said it was like a dog peeing on a hydrant.
The territory is marked. I argued that dogs pee on the hydrant over and over trying to cover up the other dogs’ scents and accused him of comparing me to a hydrant.
He said he was the dog in the analogy, so I shouldn’t get my girly emotions in a twist. I agreed with him.
I put my hands on his shoulders. He’s bigger now—taller and broader than he used to be. “Benny,” I say, biting my lip. “This is going to be the greatest adventure of our lives!”
He picks me up under my arms and spins me around, the smile on his face comforting and familiar.
He sets me back down, and we do a stupid dance all the kids at school are doing.
Our parents are lost in their drinks, watching us over the rims of their glasses as we act like geeky, Harvard-bound fools.
“I think this calls for the understated elegance of song,” Benny says, taking my hands in his.
They’re warm, and for a second I get lost in his touch.
It happens more and more, and I’m not sure what it means.
He denies any sort of realization of things changing between us, so I try not to bring it up.
I cross my arms, and he crosses his and grabs mine.
At the same time, we suck in a huge giant breath.
“Harbenny, Harbenny, getcha, bitchen some, we rule the world, who is number one?” We raise and lower our hands in our secret song handshake as the words spill from our lips.
We repeat it one more time, louder this time, and at the end we’re laughing so hard we fall back against the couch, one of his hands still lying atop mine.
“Life is finally starting,” he whispers so no one else hears.
The happiness in this moment is fleeting, because it reminds me of how shitty of a time we’ve had up until this point.
The bullying and the not-so-veiled insults slung our way mean very little in the big scheme of things.
We were lucky enough to realize that from a young age.
We clung tight to each other and the promise of more.
The promise of this feeling, in this moment, right here. It was all worth it.
I don’t say anything in reply because he already knows my sentiments reflect his. I squeeze his hand instead, comfortable merely breathing together with thoughts of a thrilling future.
Smirking, I turn to look at him. “We’re going to rule the world, Benny. Just you wait and see.”
Benny wrinkles his nose. “I smell popcorn,” he remarks. I point a finger at our parents as they shovel popcorn in their mouths alternately between their adult beverages. They look at us every so often. “What are they going to do when we leave them to their own devices?”
“Finally live?” I offer, shrugging my shoulders.
They’ve been great parents. All four of them.
When the neighbors in our middle-class neighborhood were busy having scandalous affairs, they pretended nothing nefarious ever happened.
They sheltered us. They understood that as long as Benny and I had each other, somehow we’d be okay.
When I got my period for the first time, Benny’s mom sent him to have a sleepover at my house.
It might seem weird to most people, but I was relieved.
It saved me from having to discuss these things with my mom, and by that time he was eager to glean knowledge about the opposite sex even if it meant hearing about blood that comes out of the vagina like the great flood.
We don’t censor our friendship or build barriers where the typical boy and girl friendships would have them.
He tells me with little heartache when he splooges all over his bedsheets, and when Jenny Megley wears a short skirt to school, he bombards me with the gory details.
In turn, he drives me to the makeup store and tells me what lipstick complements my complexion.
“They’re gonna be drunk in thirty minutes. What do you want to do tonight to celebrate?”
Drumming my fingers on the leather next to me, I contemplate the various ways in which we could mark this momentous occasion. “We could drive down to the water tower and throw rocks? Get Slurpees and Ho-Ho bars and binge until we feel sick and throw up from such great heights?”
“You’re such a geek.”
I fix him with a glare fitting for an idiot. “You asked. What do you suggest we do?”
He’s teasing because my response was dripping in sarcasm. It’s a defense mechanism that rises even when there’s no threat. It’s what happens after being the ugly duckling most of my life.
“You could paint my toenails,” I say, grabbing his knee.