How to Be Brave (16 page)

“Holy shit.” I rub my eyes. How long
was
I asleep? “I don't understand. I thought things were going well. Are you
sure
? I mean, you've been drinking a lot.”
And I saw it, too. I saw how you looked at him.
“I mean, we've all been drinking a lot. Are you sure that's what he meant?”

“God! Why are you defending him?”

“I'm not defending him. I just think it was a misunderstanding, is all.”

“Fuck it all, anyway.” She slams her palm on the granite counter and then spins around and opens the fridge. “I need a beer.” She grabs a bottle, twists off the cap, and chugs. “Screw it. This tastes like piss. I'm getting high.”

This could be bad. “Well, wait a minute. Slow down. Is that really the answer?” Ugh. I sound like my dad.

“Yes, it's the answer. God. Avery's right. You
can
be so fucking uncool sometimes, you know that? You sound like your dad.”

“Don't get mad at me. What the hell did I do?”

“Nothing. Nothing.” She retreats and shakes her head.

“Well, why am I here, then, if I'm so uncool?”

“Forget it.”

“No, why, Liss? Why are we in Avery's house? Why are we kissing up to these jerks?”

“They're Gregg's friends, that's all.”

“Okay, so fine. You're kissing up to make nice with Gregg. Whatever. But then I don't understand: Why are you mad at
me
?”

“You could be on
my
side, you know.”

“But I am on your side—”

I think.

She's not listening, though. She's drunk on anger and beer and juice and Lord knows what else. She chugs the bottle and throws it empty into the sink. “Where's Evelyn? Let's get this party started already.”

And then she's gone.

And I'm here in No-Woman's-Land—no, strike that—No-Liss-Land, alone.

*   *   *

Evelyn lights up and passes around the joint, and at first I pass, but then I see Liss sitting next to Daniel, and she's laughing and flirting, and they're still talking about fucking Belize.

And then she places her hand on his biceps,

and he smiles,

and he leans in close to Liss

to Liss, of all people,

my best friend,

my only friend,

and the next time the pipe comes around, I think, Fuck it,

and I try,

I really try, but I cough so much Avery laughs, and then even Chloe laughs,

Chloe, who I thought was kind of nice—

and Liss doesn't bother to defend me this time.

But I try it again, anyway.

I breathe it in,

and I hold it,

and I breathe again.

And then.

I'm kissing Gregg.

I don't know how this happened.

His face is on mine, and mine is on his, and he tastes like earth and sweat and salt.

His neck is smooth.

His cheeks are smooth.

His lips are smooth.

We're on a bed.

Inside a guest bedroom or Avery's room or Avery's parents'?

I don't know.

We're on a bed, and it's dark, and he tastes like earth and sweat and salt.

And it's my first kiss,

and my second and my third,

and then, I lose count.

And I want to stop,

but I can't.

He tastes like soil.

I think I know this to be true.

And then,

Liss opens the door.

And then,

She turns on the light.

And then,

I'm running.

Liss screams behind me.

And then, I'm outside,

And the snow burns my bare feet.

I can't find the concrete,

If only I could find the concrete,

I know it could be warmer.

I crawl on my hands and knees and dig for the concrete.

I know it will be warmer.

I think I know this to be true.

And then,

Liss screams at me,

but I can't hear her.

And then,

my mother is there, standing

in front of me.

She's a Picasso.

Her breasts hang heavy.

Her thighs thick and round.

She's a leaf,

a pendant,

a chandelier.

She's a Mondrian,

all black and red,

rectangle and line.

She's a blue square.

A back alley tag.

She's a Mullican,

radiating spheres of needles

her face brown with dried blood.

And I am inside,

pierced with the promise of the sun.

She is right there,

her hand on my cheek.

It's warm and it's real.

I know this to be true.

*   *   *

I don't know how I made it back home last night, but I'm in my bed and I don't want to get out. I don't want to open my eyes, I don't want to move my body, but my body has to pee, and I need coffee and water and something in my stomach, something to help this feeling of death under my skin.

I roll myself out of the covers and force myself to look in the mirror.

What have I done?

Oh, Mom, what have I done?

This wasn't on the list.

*   *   *

I eat lunch alone, and I walk home alone, and I spend nights alone. I write to her, and I call her, and I text her, and I try to stop her in the hallway, but it's no use. Liss won't let me say what I want to say.

Evelyn texts that she's sorry—first about telling everyone about the list (she didn't know it was a secret) and then about the pot. It was laced with something, she thinks, and she's sorry. She says she wants to hang out, but she's the last person on earth I want to spend time with.

I'm over it. All of it. The drugs and the drinking and the just fucking up in general.

I skip Marquez's class all week just to avoid seeing Daniel. No need to share any more crazy with him. I consider it my last, well-deserved sin.

As for Gregg, thankfully I don't see him all week, but the Friday before winter break he walks up to my locker just as I'm packing the last of my stuff before heading home for the two weeks.

The halls are mostly empty except for a few stragglers who are exchanging presents and cleaning out their lockers. No one got me a present, but then again, no one's really talking to me, either.

Gregg hovers over my shoulder. “Happy holidays,” he says all smug and smarmy, a Santa hat hanging over his brow.

Ugh. What a creep.

I ignore him. I focus instead on my locker. There's not much in it, a few books and some extra clothes, but I'm stuffing it all in my bag, just to keep busy, just to avoid looking Gregg in the eye.

Daniel walks up to his locker. Fuuuuuck. Worst timing.

“Hey, bro,” Gregg says to Daniel. Ugh. He would use a word like “bro.”

But Daniel ignores him. He just opens his locker and starts packing up his stuff, too. Oh, how I wish I could tell him how it was just all a terrible, awful consequence of a series of terrible, awful mistakes and stupid, stupid hallucinogens. How I wish I could start all over again.

And then, out of the corner of my eye, I can see Liss down the hallway. Holy shit. Really? I've managed to avoid these people all week, and now the universe conspires against me to put me in the most awkward position ever?

And Gregg is standing there, his back against the neighboring locker, staring at me, smirking. “I haven't seen you all week. Where you been?”

“What do you want from me?” I finally snap at Gregg.

“I enjoyed what happened that night at Avery's.…” He says this low, with a crooked, creepy smile on his crooked, creepy face.

“What? How—” I murmur low. “How can you say that? Liss is my best friend.…”

“Yes,” Gregg says. “I know that. And I feel awful. Really, I do.”

I can't see what Liss ever saw in him or especially why I kissed him, but I can see why she believed everything he ever said to her. He says this like he believes it. He's good at pretending to be sincere. I think he even convinces himself that what he says is the truth.

“But you're so different,” he continues. “You're so … pure or something. Innocent. I like it. Not like Liss.”

Ugh.

What a fuckhead.

That's just disgusting.

I can see that he believes this, too.

I want to hit him.

So I do.

I hit him on the face. My palm whacks his cheek—twice, actually—and he jumps back, and I jump back, and I can feel all eyes on me—Daniel's and Liss's and those of random strangers in the hallway. Crinkled Christmas paper falls from their hands.

“What the hell?” He holds his red cheek in his hand.

“Gregg, I hate to disappoint you,” I say, “but you're never going to find a girl better than Liss. And you're an asshole for trying.”

I slam my locker shut, turn on my heels, and head toward my best friend.

Maybe she'll see what I've done and forgive me. Maybe she'll see that I saved her from what certainly would have been the worst mistake of her life.

She gives me a look of death, shuts her locker, and runs away from me.

Daniel runs past me toward Liss. They're out the door, together.

I deserve that.

There's nothing I could say or do that will change what I did.

But I'm sorry.

God, am I sorry.

For so many things.

 

11

Two weeks of winter vacation. Fan-fucking-tastic. Two weeks of sitting at home, alone, watching TV, and playing on my phone. After four months of not logging on, I check Instagram, but it's really not that interesting since I don't follow that many people—mostly my suburban cousins posting happy-family pictures of them sledding and ice-skating and other Rockwellian scenes. Liss is on all the time, but I never post anything. I check to see if she's blocked me yet, but she hasn't. I guess she has better things to do, like fly to Belize with Daniel Antell. I see that on the first day of break, she posted a photo of the runway before she left Chicago O'Hare International Airport (#goodbyesnow #belizebound #wanderlust #adventure) and then the next day, she posted a shot of her legs in a hammock and palm trees in the background (#hammocklife #travel #belizecity #neverleaving). And then that Sunday, she posted one of her standing in her bikini on the edge of a boat: “Great day snorkeling the Belize Barrier Reef. Turtles, sharks and stingray. #unbelizeable #youbetterbelizeit #bucketlist.” Avery and Chloe like this. Ugh.

I look out the window. No palm trees here. I wish I could say that winter in Chicago looks as pretty as a postcard, but the truth is that it doesn't. All of that snow that's been accumulating over the past few weeks started to melt last week when the temperatures rose for a few days, but then it got cold again, which means the city streets are now blanketed by huge drifts of frozen brown slush. You can't walk three feet without slipping. I went down to Walgreens on the first day of vacation to buy some wrapping paper for my dad's present (socks and undershirts—it's what he asked for), and I nearly broke my neck. It's the opposite of romantic. It's a veritable winter wretchedland.

At least on break, I can sleep all day.

At least on break, I don't have to talk to anyone.

At least on break, I don't have anyone else to piss off.

I shut off my phone and go to bed.

*   *   *

I spend the first few days of vacation reading and sketching and watching shitty movies on Netflix. Considering everything that's happened, it's not so bad sitting here, doing nothing. I don't know why I ever tried doing anything in the first place.

But it's Christmas Eve. I should do something. Really. My dad will be home from work soon, probably in a bad mood since Christmas is on a Thursday this year, which means he has to close the restaurant on a weekday and, of course, also means money lost.

I don't think my brain can take any more inane suggestions from Netflix. (
Based on your taste preferences: Witty Independent Romantic Dramedies Featuring a Strong Female Lead and Anime!
Huh?) And my back is starting to hurt. I peel myself off the couch. I can work up some last-minute Christmas spirit before Dad gets home. Maybe dig out the decorations. Light some candles. Muster up some goodwill and joy. Positive thoughts, Georgia. It's been a while.

I can do it, I think. My mom was always able to make the day mean something, even when things were awful. Maybe because it wasn't about her—it was about us. Last Christmas, my mom somehow got us excited about the holiday, even though she had just come home from the hospital after having her fourth stent in six years. That last one was an especially rough procedure since they had to reach a part of the heart that is usually pretty hard to get to, and she was in the CCU for ten days before she could come home just two nights before Christmas Eve. Still, through her breathing tube, she instructed us to “get everything ready for Christmas.” A few Christmases before that, she wasn't feeling well, either, because she had just started dialysis, so we skipped going to Oak Lawn and stayed home and watched
A Christmas Story, It's a Wonderful Life,
and
Miracle on 34
th
Street
while my dad threw together a pastichio dinner. Even so, every year she directed my dad and me to get a small tree and pull out all three boxes of decorations from the communal basement, and I'd drape the entire house in twinkle lights and foil garlands. And somehow she always managed to fill the living room with mounds and mounds of presents. I think she shopped all year and hid them under her bed. It was usually cheap crap from the sales racks of Marshalls and World Market, but she loved watching us rip open our gifts and the wild mess of papers that we'd have to swim through each Christmas morning.

This year, we've only really managed to buy a tree. Well, it's not quite a tree. It's a tiny rosemary bush that my dad bought at Trader Joe's last week, but other than that, the decorations consist of a string of picture-perfect photo cards sent by the various branches of the suburban clan and other long-lost relatives and compatriots of my dad's who check in only once each year when the U.S. Postal Service allows them to conveniently relay how wonderful and perfect their lives are without actually having to talk to us. We haven't sent Christmas cards in five years, maybe. Last week, one night at the restaurant, Dad asked me what I wanted for Christmas, and I didn't have the heart to tell him that he's not supposed to ask, that Mom never asked, that asking ruins the fun. Instead, I told him some art supplies, canvases and pastels and new oil paints, and he lit up when I said that, so I guess that's good. There will be some presents.