Chapter 1 #5
“Oh.” I wince. I feel flustered. I feel exactly like the word flustered. Full of feathers in the face. I turn and ask Margaret the same question.
She seems to have heard, but doesn’t say anything. We head out, walk on. I figure it’s a dead subject. Then I hear a voice at my side.
“I’m scared of being alone,” she says. This draws me back into focus—I turn to her, only to see that she is looking straight at Pam, who is facing forward, not realizing. Andie hears—she puts her arm around Margaret and says, “Hey, you’ve got us.”
I want to tell her, That’s not the point.
Margaret looks at me. “What are you afraid of?” she asks.
I don’t know what to say, what I can say.
Andie interrupts. “What—him? He isn’t afraid of anything.”
I am confused. If it had been anyone but Andie, I would be mortified by the sarcasm. But it isn’t sarcasm. I don’t think she does sarcasm.
They’ve mistaken my silence for something else.
They don’t know me at all.
I don’t correct her. I let her statement sit there, as if leaving it uncontested will make it a fact. Our steps continue, and so does the conversation—off on its own line of tangents. I don’t say anything, and no one seems to notice.
A headlight shines in my eyes—I blink too hard and one of my contact lenses jams in my eye. I try to rub the wrinkle out, but that makes it worse. The lens falls out. I look to the ground, terrified. I don’t see a thing until I look at my jeans and see an extra-subtle glare.
I don’t want to look up. My mind becomes a movie camera placed in one of the buildings above me.
It is as if I can witness the memory as it is being made.
I can see the scene, can even see myself in it, bending down.
Stopping. As the rest of them continue forward, walking to Chinatown without a catch in their conversation, becoming more and more distant as I withdraw.
In the final frame, I am still crouching.
The angle widens. I become a dot, a speck. End cue. Fade out.
I don’t want to look up, but I do. I always do, always will. Noah is standing there, squinting a little as he says, “Problem?”
I go to pick the lens off my jeans and nudge it the wrong way, onto the ground.
“Shit,” I say, bending over.
“There it is.” Noah points, crouching now too.
“Oh.” I pick it up and turn toward him. Half-blind extreme close-up.
“Look—” he starts.
“Thanks,” I say.
“No problem.”
“I’m so glad I wasn’t walking on a grate. I couldn’t take Andie’s ‘I told you so.’”
“And nobody stepped on it,” Noah adds.
“Right. Such problems!” I say. “I really don’t enjoy the city, you know. Well, sometimes I do, but a lot of the time it seems like such a hassle.”
“It’s really not that bad. It’s all I’ve ever known. Are your eyes okay?”
“Yeah. I don’t know . . . maybe I just have to visit more often. Get more acquainted with the locals . . .”
He looks at me, watches as I put the lens into the spare case I carry.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call you back.”
I concentrate on the case, the twist, careful not to break the lens.
“I wish I had an excuse, but I don’t.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. You’ve been mad at me all day.”
“I haven’t been mad at you all day.”
“Okay—maybe mad isn’t the right word. I’ve been meaning to talk to you, but the chance hasn’t come up. Is something wrong?”
I still can’t look at him. I simply roll the lens case in my hand, trace the L and the R with my fingers.
Is something wrong?
I am torn between not really and hell yes. And as a result, I end up with . . . “I don’t know.”
“Oh.”
We teeter in an awkward silence. I look downtown and realize the others have left us behind. He must have told them it was okay.
I go on. “‘I don’t know’ must be my favorite phrase. It’s so true so much of the time.”
“It always seems appropriate,” Noah agrees.
“Yeah, but look—can I be honest with you?”
“No.”
Now I stare at him, unsure.
“I’m kidding. What’s wrong?”
“Look . . . I was scared that no one was going to ask me what I was afraid of. The whole conversation . . . I don’t know why I want to play that game, but I do.
I mean, I guess I do know why . . . but what I’m saying is that Andie is so wrong.
I can be scared. A lot. In fact, I’m scared most of the time. ”
“I know. I get it.”
I should let him say this. I should be happy he’s saying it.
But instead I tell him, “No, you don’t. You can’t understand the full extent of it.
I’m scared that you think I’m an idiot. I’m scared that I’m saying the wrong thing right now.
I’m scared that nobody wants me here. I’m scared that you, specifically, don’t want me here, that you’re nice to me because you’re a genuinely nice person who’s nice to everyone, not because I’m at all interesting.
I’m scared that as soon as I stop talking, I am going to want to run away—like far, far away.
I’m scared that our friends talk about movies and crushes and gossip, but they don’t talk like this.
They don’t talk about what’s inside. Or maybe Margaret did, but then we’re like, ‘Ha ha, you’re not alone, you’re with us.
’ And you’re like, ‘Sorry I didn’t call you,’ and I’m scared that, best-case scenario, you’re being polite and, worst-case scenario, the more I talk, the more relieved you are that you didn’t. ”
“Eric, stop for a second. Give me a chance.”
“Okay.”
“I’m scared too.”
Again, I can’t let him have that. “It’s not the same.”
“No, it’s not. It’s never the same. My scared isn’t identical to your scared. And mine probably isn’t around as much of the time. But it’s there.”
“So what are you scared of? And don’t say windows.”
“You want it real now?” he asks in a tone that’s part challenge, part warning.
I answer, “Yes, I want it real.” Because what other answer could there be? He hasn’t left any room for my anxiety to answer for me.