Finding Mr. Brightside
Read Finding Mr. Brightside Online
Authors: Jay Clark
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To my family, to my girl, and to anyone who’s ever filled a prescription or fallen in love
(I think that covers everyone)
ABRAM
S
HE TAKES A CAB
every Saturday morning. Not sure where; still want to go, too—I’m up for whatever when it comes to her. Instead, I’m crouching beside my favorite window like the creepy, uninvited neighbor I am, waiting for her to walk outside with a frown on her perfect face. Wouldn’t be surprised if my mom’s standing behind me with her arms crossed, wondering what’s gotten into me.
Hold up. There she is, slamming her front door precisely on time, speed-walking toward the cab, annoyed that everything is making her late. Her hair is down and straight today, not in its usual tightly wound bun contraption. She puts more effort into getting ready on Saturdays than she ever does for school, that boring place we both go where she also pretends I don’t exist. Not that I’m blaming her for treating me with silence only—she has her reason, and it’s a good one.
As her cab backs out of the driveway and begins speeding down the road toward my house, I crawl to the side, out of view. I like to imagine her heading to a happier place that isn’t church, because from what I can tell, home and school don’t seem to be providing a barrel of laughs. I bet she manages to be productive on the way, maybe fills out college applications similar to the blank forms collecting dust atop my dresser, only for better colleges, until she starts feeling carsick … and then forces herself to complete them in their entirety, anyway. That’s how she rolls when she jogs, too, so determined to out-sprint whatever’s haunting her. I’ve come to know this side of her naturally; I’d see her running along the path by the tennis courts where my father and I used to drill pretty much every day, until
that
day.
It’s almost like she and I were meant to be complete strangers with an unthinkable tragedy in common.
Juliette
T
HERE SHE IS
, standing behind the counter: my CVS pharmacist, Mindy. We’re on a first-name basis. Not sure how she feels about that, but the other day I hid inside the Starbucks bathroom for five minutes to avoid running into her, so …
I walk up and slide my prescription toward Mindy’s waiting hand, ignoring the sign reminding me not to forget this year’s flu shot on purpose again.
“Hi, Juliette.”
“Hey, Mindy.”
Mindy picks up the paper, stares at it like we don’t go through the same embarrassing routine every month.
“Let me check if I have this medication in stock.”
She does—I called ahead but don’t want to admit it, just watch as Mindy walks over to the safe where they keep all the stuff worth getting prescribed. She crouches down and practically folds herself over the front of it, paranoid I might memorize the combo as she punches it in. At best, she looks awkward. At worst, I’ve already memorized it—never know when things will get more desperate than they already are.
She walks back, tells me they have it, and starts typing my order into the computer. Frowning, she says, “Your insurance won’t cover this until the end of the month.”
“Really?” I say innocently. Went a little overboard on my daily dosage last week. After hesitating for what seems like an appropriate amount of time, I tell her I’ll pay out of pocket and remove my sketchy online discount card from my purse. Mindy shoots me a conflicted expression that I’m not mentally equipped to help her feel better about. I have my own problems, clearly.
“When would you like to pick up
your Adderall
?” she practically bellows.
“Ten minutes, please,” I say, my voice a sharp, pointy whisper.
Mindy pushes back the bangs she probably shouldn’t have cut in the first place, wanting me to understand how heavy the burden I’m placing on her is. The store is empty. Mindy’s going to be okay.
When we’re almost finished with each other, a noise rings out from the aisle behind me—a bottle of pills dropping to the floor. We’re not as alone as I thought. Nevertheless, I don’t turn around. Why? So I can see someone I know? Or, worse, someone-I-know’s mom? I look up toward the shoplifters-beware mirror mounted to the corner wall. Not liking what’s reflecting back at me. At all.
I’m seeing a crown of wavy blond surfer-dude hair, droopy gray sweatpants, flip-flops. But it’s the bewilderingly cute face,
his
face, and the watery-blue color of his eyes, which stir up feelings I haven’t yet figured out how to compartmentalize.
For now, I give my brain tips like
Stop it
and
I hate you
. I’m still getting a faceful of Abram Morgan at CVS, on a Friday, at midnight, dropping a bottle of fish oil on the floor.
He places the bottle back on the shelf, mutters an apology to no one in particular, and walks away. Why is he here? Shouldn’t he be playing tennis, or doing whatever Abram Morgan does on the weekends so I don’t have to worry about seeing the waistband of his boxer briefs outside of eighth-period English?
I finish up with Mindy and then duck past the greeting cards into the most boy-repelling aisle I can find: the tampon section. Then I go one aisle past that one, because I just can’t be that girl right now, even in hiding. Eyes lowered as far as they can go, I examine the boxes of hair color as if I’m in the market for a new hue that’s destined to result in my best friend, Heidi, a genuinely nice person who could do a lot better for herself than the damaged goods I’m bringing to the table, throwing me a pity party and having to pretend it’s just as fun as a regular party.
One of the hair models, a doll-like woman with an intentionally disheveled blond bob, looks eerily similar to my mother. Her lips are painted a deep red, her chin tilts upward like she’s found a secret beauty ingredient bubbling forth from the fountain of youth, and wouldn’t you like to buy what it is? A chill plays the piano down my spine.
I pick up the box—the last one on the shelf—and drop it quietly to the floor, sliding it underneath the bottom shelf with my worn-out running shoe. For a second I flash back to my mom in a hospital bed, eyes closed, face flawless and scratch-free, her brain the only injured part of her body. Even close to death, she looked very, very much alive.
My chest feels tight, and I can’t breathe, and, new rule, no thinking about my mother on life support again for at least the rest of my days. Especially with Abram Morgan, a living reminder of who she’d become, nearby.
Then it hits me. Not another anxiety attack. Not anything close to inner peace. The Adderall I classily swallowed at the kitchen sink, before my two-mile jog over here? Unfortunately, that’s it. The side effects are giving me a false sense of euphoric confidence that I could maybe, possibly, confront Abram Morgan, head-on, and “kill my frog,” as my well-meaning father, a lifelong people-procrastinator himself, likes to preach but rarely leaves the house to practice.
Say I did walk over to Abram right now—how would I go about forcing casual conversation? Should I unzip my track jacket so he can get a clearer view of my protruding clavicles? Flirtatiously release my dry-shampooed hair from my extra-taut runner’s bun, mid-sentence, to indicate how relaxed I’m not in his presence? Smile through the pain I’ve been distracting myself from by taking more than my fair share of ADHD pills?
I start searching for him, pretending I’m the silly-but-lovable blond heroine (addict) in a low-budget indie film I just made up. Working title:
Prescription for Love
. My character, a type-A smart girl with mom issues and a one-track mind, is completely unaware she’s about to find a cute guy where she least expected, at CVS, while waiting for her refill.
Prescription for Love
has direct-to-DVD flop written all over it, but there’s a Redbox conveniently located outside the entrance here, should anyone want to rent it after we’re done filming.
There he is, in the candy section: Abram. Deep breath. I’ll do my best to make the next scene more take-charge than outtake, but no promises, being that his father killed my mother a year ago.
ABRAM
I
’M ALWAYS AMAZED
by what I discover at CVS while waiting for my antidepressant to get refilled. Colored pencils, dog treats, socks that’ll improve my blood circulation—all of these items have found a home inside my little red basket.
What I didn’t expect to find here tonight, at midnight especially, was Juliette Flynn, completing a transaction at the drop-off counter. I was staring at her, not-really-examining a bottle of burp-less fish oil, when I blew my cover and dropped the bottle. The noise was loud enough to make the pharmacist jump out of her skin, but not Juliette. She looked up into the shoplifter’s mirror, saw it was me, flexed her angular cheekbones, and didn’t even turn around. The toughest of cookies. I can think of easier things to be consistent about, you know? Eating cookies, for starters—just threw some in my basket and plan on proving that point later with my boys, Ben & Jerry.
Sure, I’m in the market for another friend or two. But now Juliette’s back to avoiding me, so I probably can’t befriend her.
At first I get a kick out of watching her pretend to shop for hair dye, lug around that designer purse, hide her face from wherever she thinks I’m lurking—I’m over here, by the tampons. Then I feel the weight of why she’s keeping me at arm’s length in the first place.
I grab a bag of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups from an end-cap Halloween display and start walking toward the main candy section, in search of a replacement for the Big Red I stole from Mom’s secret candy drawer (the secret’s out). The gum’s on sale … but only for customers who remember their ExtraCare cards, which I have never. I’m reaching for the last remaining pack when I see a second hand that’s much softer-looking than my own, heading in the same direction.
Juliette. Incredibly close. Her alert green cat-eyes are scratching through my lazy blues, making me feel like I’m in trouble for not doing something I honestly forgot about. Her face bears no blemishes, no freckles, no emotions; just smooth, impenetrable surface. I might have that defensive, survival-mode look on my face, too, if I weighed somewhere in the high nineties. She could use a few more trips to the Taco Bell drive-thru.