Until It Hurts to Stop (15 page)

“You should try the French club, Maggie,” Vanessa says. “It’s a lot of fun. We’ve seen a couple of French films, and next week we’re going to Brasserie Claude.”

“No, thanks.” The last thing I want is to spend more time with Vanessa. It’s not her fault, but I can’t stop picturing her with Nick.

She tries another subject. “Nick says you play the piano.” “Yes.”
“He says you’re very good.”
“No.”
“Yes, you are,” Nick cuts in.
“Well, my teacher said I didn’t challenge myself enough.” “What kind of music do you play?” Vanessa asks. “Classical.”
She’s exhausted her list of questions. I don’t ask her any, so

the conversation collapses, an almost-visible heap on the table between us. I probably seem rude, but they don’t know how much effort it takes for me to sit with them. It’s all I can do to stay put and swallow my sandwich, tiny bite by tiny bite.

Nick sends me a dark look, but he doesn’t say anything until we’re alone in his car later, after dropping off Luis.
“Vanessa thinks you don’t like her,” he says.
“It’s not that I don’t like her.”
“Can’t you be nicer to her?”
“I’m trying.”
“Well, she deserves better treatment than you gave her at lunch.”
Maybe she does, but—doesn’t he realize this might be the
slightest
bit difficult for me? Is it so easy for him to forget we ever kissed? Sometimes I still can’t believe how quickly he moved from me to her.
It’s hard enough to see them together, though I can grit my teeth and get through it, as long as I can keep some distance between Vanessa and me. But if I’m going to have to become one of her best friends—if Nick wants me to go out of my way to be open, enthusiastic—that’s too much to take. “It’s just— weird to see you spending so much time with someone else. Especially after that day in your room when we . . .”
He skids to a stop at a red light. “What are you bringing that up for?”
“Well, you know. After what happened with us, to see you kissing another girl is—”
“Jeez, Maggie. Are you kidding me? What do you care? You acted like you wanted to wash out your mouth after I kissed you.”
What is he talking about?
“You ran out of the room like your hair was on fire, and then you told me you wanted to be just friends. So fine, we’re friends, but don’t expect me never to be with another girl. Especially one who manages to stay in the room after I touch her.”
I’m breathless, stunned by his version of events.
He thinks
I’m
the one who didn’t want
him
? Is that why he didn’t call me?
I’ve never thought anyone would worry about being rejected by me, would even see that as possible. I assumed Nick wasn’t interested because I assume no guy is interested in me, ever. Because I’m ugly old Maggie, the girl who washes her hair in the toilet.
The driver behind us honks; the light has turned. Nick’s car jerks forward.
I can’t believe how tangled up we’ve gotten. If only we’d had this conversation weeks ago. If only I’d listened to Sylvie and called him right away.
Because now there’s Vanessa.
I clear my throat, searching for my voice. “Nick, I—this is complicated, but . . .”
No, forget complicated. Forget trying to fix the past, trying to compete with Vanessa.
Stick with the simplest truth.
“You’ve been my best friend for years. And I . . . miss you.”
His face relaxes. “Yeah, I know what you mean.” For a minute, I think we’re okay. Until he adds: “But things can’t stay the same forever.”
The familiar streets stream past my window. I chew on the inside of my cheek, telling myself I will not cry.
Ordinarily, we’re good at being quiet together, at talking without words. It works on the trail, where all we need to communicate is when to pause for water or check the map. But today, we might as well be on different planets. In spite of all we’ve said about staying friends, I can’t stop feeling that we’ve lost something we can never get back.
“Maggie,” he says, his voice warmer now. “I still—”
“Forget it,” I cut in. I don’t want to hear that he still likes me as a friend and will try to fit me into the spare moments of his life. I can’t stand thinking about what might’ve happened between us if I hadn’t been too scared, if I hadn’t made too many wrong assumptions.
We turn onto my street. “Just—give me some room,” I say. With enough space to collect myself, maybe I can keep from cracking apart right in front of him. Get used to his being with Vanessa, never let him know how much more I wanted. Maybe I’ll get to keep a scrap of dignity.
“That’s what you want? Room?”
“Yes.”
We stop in front of my house.
“You can have all the room you want,” he says as I get out. He drives off without a good-bye.

I lie on my bed, thumbing through my mushroom guide, but in my head I’m still in the car with Nick. Maybe I haven’t been fair to him, but he hasn’t been fair to me, either. If the situation were reversed, would he find it so easy to watch me drool over some other guy?

I stop, staring at a page without seeing it. What if I
were
with another guy? If I’d been the first one to move on—if by some miracle I’d found someone else to move on
with
—how would I want Nick to act?

The truth is, I would want him to welcome my boyfriend. I would want him to be happy for me.
I would not want him to sulk, or glower at my boyfriend, or

act like someone had invaded his territory.
Groaning, I put down the book. I find my phone and text
Sylvie. She doesn’t answer.
But even without Sylvie’s advice, I know what I have to do.

I text Nick.
forget what i said
.
i
’
m happy for you and i
’
m

_{going to be nice to vanessa}
.
I have no idea
how
I’ll manage this, but I’m going to try. It’s what a friend should do.
I expect him to text back, but he doesn’t.
He calls.

“Got your message,” he says.
“I meant what I said. If you really like her, then I’ll—” “Yeah, I like her. I wouldn’t be with her otherwise. But—” That word hangs in the air.
“But what?”
“Nothing. I like her. She doesn’t play games, and she knows what she wants.”
Unlike you,
is the unspoken message.

I gather every ounce of brightness and bravery I can scrape up. “Fine. If you like her, I like her.” I still don’t know how I’m going to deal with this. The thought of being around her— watching her touch him—hurts. But I’m trying. “I’ll be nice to her.”

“Thanks, Maggie.”

When we hang up, I go downstairs and pound through some scales on the piano. My playing has been getting sloppy, and my teacher used to say that there are times you have to go back to basics. Order and precision, I tell myself as my fingers march through the monotonous octaves. Mastery. Perfection.

“For Pete’s sake, Maggie, that’s maddening,” Mom says. I jump, not realizing she has entered the room. “Can’t you play a song instead?”

“I’m warming up my fingers.”
“Well, surely they must be warmed up by now.” She drops onto the couch with a groan and elevates her feet. “I was going to fix that leak in the kitchen faucet, but frankly I’m not in the mood. My legs are killing me. These young girls I work with, I tell them to wear tight stockings, anything to support their leg veins, and they laugh at me. I wish I could trade legs with them for a day.” She brushes hair back from her forehead. “Why don’t you play that moonlight song?”
“‘The Moonlight Sonata’?”
“Yes.”
It’s a relief not to have to answer questions about my future, my ambitions. Maybe she’s too worn-out for that right now. And I love this sonata, too.
So I play the first movement of it. There’s so much
pianissimo
that it quiets me, the sound spreading over us like moonlight pouring over a lake, as Beethoven must have intended. It’s dark enough for my mood, and quiet enough for my mother’s. At the final soft chord, which is repeated once, we both exhale.

At lunch the next day, I carry on a real, live conversation with Vanessa. I don’t promise to join her French club or help her decorate for her upcoming Halloween party, but I manage to speak to her without strangling.
“You’re coming to the party, right, Maggie?” Vanessa says. “I’m not sure. I have to ask my mom.”
Nick stares at me, because he knows my mother only wishes

I would go to more parties. But he doesn’t call me on it. “Don’t forget, you have to wear a costume,” Vanessa says.
“It’s more fun that way.”
Ugh. Dressing up tells the world
Look at me!
when all I’ve
ever wanted is to blend into the walls. Costumes raise my selfconsciousness to near-fatal levels. The only thing worse than
standing in a room full of people who barely acknowledge my
right to exist—and watching the boy I like huddle with his girlfriend—would be doing all that while wearing a costume. And then I realize that if
everyone
has to dress up . . . “Wait. Are you telling me Nick’s wearing a costume?” “Yes.”
I can’t help laughing. “Good luck getting him into one.”
This might almost be worth going to the party for. “Hey, it’s already taken care of,” Nick says.
“How?” I ask. “What are you doing, just wearing your
basketball uniform?”
“Of course not,” Vanessa says, but his face reddens. “Oh no,
you’re not!” she tells him, nudging his arm. “You have to wear
a
real
costume.”
“We’ll see,” Nick says, examining his sandwich rather than
meeting her eyes.
“I’ll help you if you need ideas,” she says.
“Me too.” I grin at him. “I have lots of ideas.”

“You’ve been enough help already,” he says with a sour smile, stealing a pickle chip from my lunch.
I walk past Raleigh’s table on my way to drop off my tray. I hug her secret to myself and even dare to glance at her, when usually I would avert my eyes. I almost wish she would look up. But she doesn’t notice me. Not this time.

twenty-one

After school, I send a few messages to Sylvie, dying to talk to her since I’m feeling farther than ever from Nick.

sylvie
,
you there
?
can you talk
?
sylvie
,
call me when you get this
.

But I don’t hear from her.

It’s Dad’s birthday, so I take the box I’ve made (working in snatches of time in the afternoons when he was still out feeding the grid) and place it in the middle of the kitchen table with a red bow on it.

Mom has bought him a set of drill bits, some shirts, and tickets for the two of them to a film festival, where there probably won’t be a single movie in color. Dinner is meat loaf, which I could really live without, but it’s one of his favorites.

Dad holds up the box I made. “Beautiful job, Maggie.” He opens it, trying the clasp and the hinges. I’m still proud of the way those hinges open. “You’re getting better and better.”

“Oh, and Benny sent this,” Mom says, setting down a bottle of honey-colored whiskey.
“Too bad he’s not here to help me drink it,” Dad says.
Dad goes out sometimes with a few guys at work, but he has one close friend—a guy to whom he’d probably give a kidney if it was necessary—and that’s Benny. They grew up next door to each other, and then Benny moved two hours southeast of their hometown, and my dad moved two hours northwest. So we only see Benny every couple of years or so. Every time we see him, he’s heavier, his hairline farther back, but he always has the same grin. And even though he and Dad don’t see each other much nowadays, when they get together, they fall instantly into talking and joking, as if the years apart are just pauses in an ongoing conversation.
Looking at Benny’s bottle, I can’t help thinking about friendship. About my own birthday, and my gifts from Nick and Sylvie. About how Nick is so busy with Vanessa now, and Sylvie has been even more distracted than usual with Wendy and all her activities. I miss my friends, even though they’re technically still around.
“Everything all right?” Dad asks me. Mom has slipped into the next room to assemble the desserts. Dad would rather have strawberry shortcake than birthday cake, so that’s what we’re having.
“Fine,” I say automatically. Then: “Do you ever wish you lived closer to Benny, or closer to where you grew up?”
“Well, I’d like to see them all more often, Benny and my folks. But no, I don’t want to live anywhere else. I know Benny always wanted to live closer to the water, where he could have a boat and go fishing all the time. And I always wanted to live out here where there’s more trees and less traffic.” He turns my box to face him, as if it’s helping him think. “It’s good you’re getting out into the state parks, into the mountains. That’s one reason I’m glad we live in this area. It’s what I wanted, for my kid to be able to enjoy nature.”
He should’ve seen me on Crystal Mountain, clutching the rock in terror. But all I say is, “I’m glad, too.”
We look up as my mother carries in the dessert. “I’ve been asking Maggie to try some other activities,” Mom says. “Not to spend so much time off in the woods. To get more involved at school.”
“I like the woods,” I say. “I belong there.”
“Well, Maggie and I have just been discussing the importance of spending time where you belong,” Dad says, smiling as he picks up his fork.
Mom holds up a hand. “Okay, okay. I’m just saying she should try something new. It would help with college, for one thing.”
Dad steers us into a new subject, and while I’m thankful, underneath I know I still have to prove that I belong on Crystal. When I imagine standing on its summit, the word that comes to me is
power
. The kind that rises from within and lets you know you control your own life. I flip back and forth between fear and anticipation, between believing it’s where I need to be, and worrying that I can’t make it.

I don’t hear from Nick for most of the weekend, so I assume he’s with Vanessa, especially since she talked all week about the various party-planning errands he was supposed to help her with. He calls me late on Sunday night, while I’m reading ahead in
Julius Caesar
. When my phone chirps, I answer it and snap off my lamp.

“I need a hike,” Nick says.
“How about next Saturday? I’m ready to try Crystal again.” I want to know what it’s like to be on the trails with Nick again. If anything can close this distance between us, it will be a hike. And more than that, I want to feel strong again, to feel that sense of belonging on the trails.
“Great!” Nick says. “Don’t worry. We’ll start early, and we can go as slow as you want.”
We talk for a while longer, and it’s almost like the pre-Vanessa days. Now that we have a few minutes without Vanessa around, I even get to tell him what I’ve learned about Raleigh.
“Guess what I heard,” I say, and launch into the story.
He’s quiet for a minute. Then he says, “It must be nice to be able to run off to Italy whenever you have a problem.” “I wouldn’t know.”
He laughs. “And I would?”
“No. But I mean—I guess that story shows how she’s still lucky in a lot of ways. But she’s not as lucky as I thought she was. Or as smart. She would die if she thought I knew.”
“I’m surprised more people don’t know already. Her family must have connections. I’m sure if
I
helped somebody cheat, I’d be out on my ass before I could blink.”
“Well, don’t tell anyone, okay?”
“If that’s what you want.”
We are quiet, but neither of us moves to hang up.
“I should go,” he says at last.
“Nick—”
“Yeah?”
Silence. He doesn’t ask what I was going to say. I think we both know we have nothing more to say, that we just want to stay connected a little longer. When I can’t put it off another moment, I say, “It’s good to talk to you again.”
“Same here,” he says. It’s another long minute before we say good-bye.