Chapter 9 #2
I sleep late on Sunday, and wake up to my phone buzzing with texts.
There’s a new group chat—me, Makayla, and Anna, and from the look of it, they’ve been sending costume ideas back and forth for at least an hour.
The thread is full of pictures and categories: big cats, book and anime characters, houseplants, fruits, and, of course, witches.
If we do houseplants I get to be a cactus, I text them.
Of course, Makayla says.
Houseplants feel like a lot of work, Anna says.
Makayla laugh reacts. That was YOUR idea.
I don’t know what I was thinking, Anna says.
I like fruits, I say. Plus we’re all gay, so it works.
And it’s easy, Makayla adds. Just get a bunch of same-color clothes and maybe draw the fruit on our faces or something?
Yes. Perfect. Love it, Anna says. I’ll be an orange, I already have those tights.
I call lemons! Makayla says.
I’ll be a strawberry, I say.
Good job, team, Anna says.
I roll out of bed and pull on sweats and a fresh T-shirt, then head downstairs. Mom is gone, out with her friends for brunch, and on the table is a fresh loaf of banana bread, clearly Shar’s handiwork. I grab a slice and head out to the shop.
Shar is there, setting up. “Top of the morning to ya!” she says.
“This is really good.” I hold up the bread.
“Glad you like it. You still want to help with the bookcase today?”
I nod and scarf down the rest of the bread before putting on my protection gear. When I join her at the worktable, she’s laid out the lumber we sanded last week, along with a can of walnut-colored wood stain, tape, and a pack of small white microfiber squares.
“So, I lied last week,” she says. “I forgot we have to stain this puppy before we finish it. So no power tools.”
“That’s OK.”
“Great.” She measures the lumber and tapes off the places where the wood will be glued together later. Then she opens the can and dips one of the microfiber squares into the stain. I watch as she applies it to the wood in even strokes, then I do the same.
We work quietly for a while, the music playing in the background. The wood soaks up the stain nicely, the color slowly turning from light blond to a dark, ashy brown.
Shar clears her throat. “You seemed a little subdued when I picked you up last night.”
I’m quiet, focused on the wood. She’s right; even though I had a good time with my friends, the conversation with Jayden cast a shadow that never really faded.
The pauses in our conversation felt heavier, my friends’ smiles and laughs a little too bright, like we were all trying to just move on.
Because we should move on. It shouldn’t be a big deal.
“We usually do costumes together every year,” I say. “Well, since I met them freshman year. So we thought—well, Makayla and Anna and I thought—we’d do it again. But Jayden didn’t want to.”
Shar hums in acknowledgment, filling in the last of her wood with its first coat of stain.
“It’s stupid, like I shouldn’t even be upset,” I say, finishing mine and grabbing another. “But he waited until the last minute to tell us he wants to do his own thing. Whatever that means.” I move quicker and quicker over the lumber.
“Ouch,” Shar says.
“It’s fine. But like. He could have told us earlier.
And I don’t get it. Why does he want to do his own thing?
What’s so bad about doing a costume with all of us?
Like, does he secretly not want to be friends with us anymore and just doesn’t know how to tell us?
” My voice cracks, and my eyes fill with tears.
I stop staining, staring down at the table.
“I doubt that,” Shar says gently, coming over to me and taking the pad from my hand.
I look up at her; not by much, because she’s only slightly taller than me.
Her dark brown eyes crinkle gently. “This is the age where people want to do their own thing sometimes. You’re all figuring out who you are, with each other and without. ”
“Well, he doesn’t need to figure it out without us,” I mumble.
She laughs. “I know that feeling.”
“I just . . .” My voice cracks again, and she opens her arms. I step into them, her hug enfolding me like the world’s best weighted blanket. “I just don’t want things to change.”
“I know.” She squeezes me. “Change is hard. But it’s going to be OK.”
I want to believe her. I want her hug to make me feel better.
I want it to be enough. But it isn’t. She lets me go, and we keep working, and this feeling stays with me, the same feeling that’s followed me for years, right on the heels of my horrible thoughts like some medieval plague.
Like my insides are crawling, buzzing, and I need to do something to make it go away.
So I remember the scene, the moment Jayden told us, and I scan it over and over. Every facial expression, every note and cadence of our words, looking for the hints, for the evidence, for the cracks.
Then I scan it again.
And then one more time.
Is he going to leave us?
Or will everything be fine?
That evening, I curl up on my bed, staring at my text thread with Dad. His message is still sitting there, our faces smiling at me from the photo. I should reply. I don’t want to leave him hanging like I did a few weeks ago.
Sorry for the late text! Those sweaters, omg.
I stare down at my text, waiting for a reply. The ellipses pop up, way faster than he usually responds.
Took you long enough.
My hands shake as I type, and delete, and retype: I got distracted with school stuff, I’m really sorry.
I get it. You’ve got more important things to do.
Tears fill my eyes. He’s in his trailer right now, probably reaching for a beer can, and it’s all my fault. What if he’s doing worse than before? What if he wants to ki—
Brekky jumps on my bed, headbutting the hand holding my phone and I drop it onto the comforter. I snatch it up again, but in my thread with Dad, there’s only my text about the sweaters, waiting for his reply.
I toss my phone away from me on the bed, but it vibrates again and I snatch it up. The message is from a new number, though, one I haven’t saved. Meet up at lunch Monday? the preview asks.
From my pillow, Brekky watches me, eyes half closed. I open the conversation, and when I see the text before it, I know who it is: Forrest. I save his number in my phone and text back. Sounds good.
How’s your outline going?
Oh my god. The outline. I’ve been so in my head about Jayden that I completely forgot about it, and it’s due tomorrow.
I’m not telling Forrest that, though. Fine, I say back, and jump up, rushing to my backpack where it sits languishing next to my closet, clothes strewn on the floor around it.
I rummage through, pulling out the readings and my notes and my laptop. It’s going to be a late night.
My phone buzzes. Lundahl’s nice but she goes way too hard with the essays sometimes, Forrest says.
I crouch on the floor, staring at the phone. I don’t really know what to say back. It’s not a question, so there’s nothing for me to answer. For real, I say finally.
You’re in third period history, right? How’s the group project going?
OK, I guess we’re having a conversation. School is a safe subject, and—How do you know what class I’m in? Stalker, I say.
LMFAO noooooo! Stef mentioned you’re in it with her.
Oh, right. That was a stupid thing for me to say. Why did I call him a stalker? I didn’t actually think that, it just . . . came out. Like when I’m joking with my friends, and we call each other names, but it’s all in fun.
Which class are YOU in? I ask.
Fourth period. With Jayden.
I knew that, of course, because Jayden’s in the group project with him, but I’m not about to let Forrest know that I know anything about him.
On my bed, I arrange everything I need for the outline in a perfect half circle in front of me. If I study at the table, Mom will notice, and then she’ll ask questions, and I can’t tell her I’m this behind on an assignment.
I grab my phone again, staring at Forrest’s last text.
I could ask how his outline is going, whether he’s come up with a thesis yet, what his arguments are.
Do I really want to open that door, though?
We just barely came to a truce, and the peace between us feels delicate, like a glass too close to the edge of a table waiting to be knocked off.
Better to give it space, let it stay where it is.
I put the phone back down and open my laptop instead.