Miss You Love You Hate You Bye Page 5

  This is everything.

  Can you be my new BFF?

  “Don’t worry; I already told that girl no,” Zoe said.

  “Wait—are you actually responding to these people?” I asked.

  “I was up till two in the morning messaging with this girl in Holland. Her name is Saaskia. Saas-ki-ya? Not sure. Either way, her parents are going through a horrible divorce and she has three cats, but one is really old, so she just gets it, y’know?”

  “Oh,” I said, trying to tamp down the quivering jealousy in my tone.

  “It wound up being really soothing and fun. Way better than my usual night terrors.”

  “Wait—is that still happening? You know you can call me.”

  “Yeah, it’s brutal,” Zoe said matter-of-factly. “And I guess I just assumed you didn’t want to be up all night right before the first day of school. But it’s fine. Honestly. The interwebs is saving me.”

  “Huh” was all I answered.

  Yes, I was concerned that Zoe was still having trouble sleeping. She had gone so many sleepless nights last year that her doctor had prescribed “sleeping enhancement therapy.” But most of me was confused and resentful that she was sharing these wee hours of the morning with total strangers. Whenever she pulled out her phone in front of me, I tried to turn it into a joke to hide my frustration. As in, “Can you maybe twit about that later?”

  To which she liked to reply, “Sure, as long as you hash my tag.”

  I lurched into a parking space and turned on the windshield wipers by mistake. Zoe giggled. She also slammed the door shut so hard that the glove compartment swung open in response. HOT RIC had seen better days for sure.

  “Can we do Yoshi’s?” I asked.

  “Sure, I guess.”

  Across the street from Meadowlake High School was Yoshi’s Bagel Shack, home of the saltiest deli meats and the angriest waitstaff in the northern hemisphere. Not that I could blame them. Every school day, Yoshi’s was packed with greedy, grabby, I’m-so-independent-yet-my-parents-still-pay-for-my-everything snoots. Today the throngs were ravenous. Groomed and eager.

  I wanted to do a psychological study about the effects of massive amounts of carbohydrates on all these overly hormonal teenagers. There was an entire table howling with laughter about a dollop of blueberry cream cheese on some girl’s nose and, right next to them, a couple feeding each other the seeds off an everything bagel and making out between bites. The air was so warm and yeasty that I was sure we’d all melt into buns.

  Usually, Zoe and I could get in and out of there without talking to anyone but each other. But as I opened one of the beverage coolers to grab an orange juice, I heard behind me, “Zoe, that video was beyond amazing.”

  “Totally. Beyond.”

  Zoe was being swallowed up by a satellite of girls, led by the fiercely popular Colette McNamara and her BFF Freyja. (Colette was half French, on the track team, and had already lost her virginity. Freyja was Icelandic and spoke only in pouty whispers.)

  “Should I just order for both of us?” I called over to Zoe. No response. I guess she was too busy fielding more questions about her new fame.

  How did you think of that?

  Were the whiskers drawn on? I mean, obviously, right? But were they?

  I’m so impressed you did this. It’s huge.

  I bet if you make a whole series, you’ll get into whatever college you want.

  Right?

  I was waiting for Zoe to find my gaze and mouth, Whatever. We always talked about how artificial these girls were; how even their ponytails were fake. Zoe liked to say that in the rocky seas of teenhood, I was her safe harbor. A little raft of sanity or at least perspective while everyone around us buzzed with status updates and college preparations. Only, at this moment, she seemed happy enough to get carried around Yoshi’s on their wave of admiration. She never once looked back to find me. Or maybe she did and my eyes were just too blurry from the glare of her sudden celebrity status. Maybe this was how a star was born—shot out of a cream cheese–filled cannon. One day Zoe was a hyper–theater nerd with her dweeby Sasquatch sidekick. The next she was catapulted into a life of raucous parties, private jets, and monogrammed tracksuits. With Sasquatch left just standing there in her own hairy shadow.

  “Next up! Next up! Keep it moving!” Yoshi barked in my face.

  “Right, sorry.”

  By the time I got and paid for our usual breakfast orders—wheat bagel with melted Swiss for me, cinnamon raisin with a side of fat-free cream cheese for Zoe—I could hear the first bell ringing across the street. The shop emptied out like an ant colony all pressing themselves through a pinhole opening.

  “Hank!” I heard Zoe call from the crosswalk outside. “Hank, hurry up!”

  I caught up to her and her new groupies just as they were saying their goodbyes.

  “Wait, Colette, you have to tell Hank what you told me about the record deal.”

  “Oh yeah! Well, I was just saying that I know this girl who lives in the same town as my cousin outside Seattle and she made this really sad video about how depressed she was and how life was maybe not even worth living and then it went viral and all these people reached out to her even some local musicians because you know like everyone in Seattle is a musician or depressed or probably both but anyway they said please don’t be so sad and also these are really haunting words and it should be a song and they recorded it and her single was number one on like a bunch of charts. Plus, she has a record deal and is obviously not sad at all anymore. Okay, see you guys later! Loveyabye!”

  “Loveyabye,” Zoe echoed softly. Then she turned to me and crossed her eyes. “So crazy, right?” she said. I was so relieved to hear her say that, I started cackling.

  “Crazy nuts!” I said. “I mean with a side of nut sauce!”

  Zoe didn’t find it quite so funny though. “Okay, you don’t have to make fun of me, you know.”

  “Um, excuse me? I’m not making fun of you.”

  “I mean, it’s a little nuts. But I do have almost fifty thousand followers. Colette just reposted the video and it’s…” She held up her phone for me, so I could see the tally of hearts pulsating on her screen. I felt like I was staring into a strobe light.

  “Wow,” I said. My voice sounded weak and uncertain. Probably because I was weak and uncertain. Zoe, on the other hand, stood up tall. She shook out her hair and smeared on another coat of lip gloss. Then she took a deep inhale and turned on her phone camera.

  “Hello, my peeps. Thank you for getting me through another dark night. And here I go, off to my first day of junior year!” She blew a kiss to her fans and then rotated the camera to show her viewing audience the front of our high school. She looked like she was going to keep going and get me in the frame too, but I ducked down quickly.

  Zoe thought that was hilarious.

  “Hank—talk about nuts! I’m not gonna film you, ya big nerd. Look—it’s off.”

  The second bell rang, making us officially late. I knew it wouldn’t matter to Zoe, but I had Pre-Calc first period and I really didn’t want to start the year on math’s bad side. Plus, I was starving.

  “Ooh. Don’t forget.” I handed Zoe the bag with her bagel in it. Or at least I tried to.

  “What’s this?” She scowled.

  “Cinnamon raisin with a side of fat-free.”

  “Oh.” She held it at arm’s length as if the bag might also have a live grenade inside. “Did I ask you to get that?”

  “No. But…” Zoe’s eyes were cool and distant. Her lips, sealed shut. I didn’t know how to get her to eat this, but looking at her puny shoulders, it felt urgent that she do so. “C’mon,” I whined. “Just a bite?”

  Zoe pinched her top lip between two fingers, as if trying to find the right words to say to me. Then she slapped on a wide, phony grin and said, “Sure! You know what? I’ll have it for lunch.”

  She took the bag and stuffed it into her backpack, hooking her elbow through mine. “Yu
m!” she said. “Smells delish!”

  If I were anyone else, I might’ve been fooled by this act of hers. But there was one thing I knew for sure.

  Zoe Grace Hammer was a terrible liar.

  Whatever.

  At a certain point, I started getting a sick thrill from lying.

  Gross, right?

  Some people were easy to fool, like Alli. She put on her “concerned” face once in a while, but mostly she was just jealous I was giving her hand-me-down leggings. I think Travis was about to call me out on a bunch of bullshit at one point, but then he got caught in his own web of lies, so I guess he didn’t feel like he could bring that up in casual conversation.

  Poor bastards, huh?

  And then once I let that first one escape, it rolled into another, and another. Grabbing everything in its path—scraps of truth and crumbs of someone else’s story. It gets so big and sticky. Tumbling down a dirty hill of exaggerations and cover-ups and random details that couldn’t possibly make a difference but why the heck not.

  Powered by the wind of fairy farts and what if …

  How’s that for some self-pitying poetry, huh?

  I know, I know.

  Lies don’t happen to people. It’s not like a tsunami swept through my brain and reset my truth-o-meter. At some point, I chose to jump in whole hog. And then it got even more exciting, because I had to keep track of all my details—the dizzying count of cuts and calories and concocted alibis.

  “I just ate.

  I’m not hungry.

  Wow, that cat scratches a lot.”

  There’s a crazy momentum to it all. A rush of adrenaline that you can’t get from most sports drinks or slushies, ya know?

  I even convinced myself that I was lying to spare everyone else my pain.

  If I lied, no one needed to worry.

  If I lied, we could all just keep on keepin’ on.

  So I told another simple, heartfelt lie.

  Easier on everyone that way. Right?

  CHAPTER 5

  laughing on the banks of a fjord

  If you’re lucky enough to be born in Finland, school is actually a humane process. You learn how to sew your own bathing suit or cook a hot breakfast, and you take one test in your senior year of high school that may or may not affect where you go for university.

  Not that I wanted to sew my own bathing suit, but it made more sense than the madness of junior year at Meadowlake High.

  Everybody in my grade was either:

  a. certifiably insane;

  b. hyperventilating about some newly mandated statewide comprehensive-yet-inconclusive assessment tests plus doing enough charity work to make their college applications “stand out”;

  c. quoting the new Will you be my pussyyyyy … cat? memes; or

  d. all of the above.

  Obviously, the answer was d. If only real life gave you multiple choices.

  Meadowlake was supposedly one of the more easygoing suburbs on the East Coast in terms of academic stress loads. We were even written up in the New York Times Real Estate section for having the most adolescent smiles per square mile or something like that. Only, once we got spit out onto the high school lawn, we started getting quizzed on every fact since the Big Bang and had to visit at least three colleges per semester. Some people in my town literally had tutors for their tutors.

  By lunchtime, I had already done two practice exams and heard three lectures on how this was the most important and influential year of my academic career. Also, that the future of New Jersey public school funding depended on my scores. (As if my knowledge of Common Core was going to keep our walls from crumbling.) The teachers seemed pissed off and tired. I literally heard two girls behind me in Math whisper:

  This could make or break us.

  Right???

  The only class that felt potentially inspiring or even educational, was Advanced Contemporary American History with Gerry Harvey. Yes, he had two first names. Plus, a lot of pictures of him with older famous people—like Rosa Parks, Ronald Reagan, and some lady with incredible hair and a bedazzled drum kit. Mr. Harvey was known for being the hardest grader in the school and for sneezing so loudly the windows shook. As I walked into the classroom, there were maps of the world taped up on every inch of wall space and in the background was a staticky recording of someone singing “We Shall Overcome.”

  “So a little about me,” Mr. Harvey said, striding around the room. He was a large man, today wearing a checkered shirt that could easily double as a tablecloth. He hummed under his breath as he walked.

  “I grew up in a little town outside Raleigh, North Carolina. My mom was a nurse’s aide and she made sure we had clothes on our backs and food in our bellies. Me and my brothers marched for Dr. King. We marched for Kent State. We marched to end the Vietnam War. I went to Rutgers and did my master’s at Montclair State and I know you’re all fascinated but it’s important. Because there were times when all I had were the clothes on my back and some sugar packets for my next meal. But I made it. And I learned—the hard way—that there is no such thing as genius or even talent. There’s just hard work and dedication. What else? Oh—and I’ve been teaching in this school system for twenty-five years. I am passionate about history and I have no time for bullshit excuses. Any questions?”

  Mr. Harvey got an appreciative rumble from the class for cursing. Then he started passing out name tags for us.

  “It’ll take me a few days to get all your names,” he continued. “I’m trusting you have pens. Remember those?”

  There were a few groans and a lot of zippered compartments being opened.

  Madison Macomb—who was one of the most annoying overachievers and already owned three Harvard hoodies and a matching car magnet—raised her hand next to me. Mr. Harvey walked right by her, so I guess Madison was forced to take matters into her own hands.

  “Um, excuse me? We were told last year that we could take notes on our computers since there’s no Wi-Fi and it cuts down on the amount of time we spend transferring our notes at night.”

  “Is that so?” Mr. Harvey grinned.

  Madison nodded eagerly, opening her computer. Mr. Harvey came by and closed it in the same breath.

  “Well, I thank you for that information. Right now, however, we are starting off with a little exercise that has nothing to do with your notes or the transference of said notes from one medium to another.”

  Madison was blinking so fast I thought her eyelashes might catapult off her face. So another Madison—McDougal? Finnemore? (they all melded together for me)—took over where Madison Macomb had left off. “It’s just that we have two statewides to prepare for this year and some of us have after-school activities, so we like to—”

  “Yes! Statewides!” Mr. Harvey declared, cutting her off. “As I was saying, this class is called Advanced Contemporary American History. Yes, we have a lot of material to cover and I will do my best to give it to you in a cohesive manner. However, we are living in quite a phenomenal and terrifying moment in history. So I’d like to just start by asking, can anyone tell me how many states currently allow guns to be sold without a permit and yet will not allow a woman the right to choose?”

  I heard a couple of guesses, but no one was bold enough to speak louder than a mumble. Mr. Harvey stood at the front of the room again, arms folded. It was clear he’d wait as long as it took for us to get it together.

  “Okay, let’s try this. Anybody know why we currently have troops on the ground in three different regions of the Middle East?”

  More murmurs passed around, but nothing intelligible.

  “Fascinating,” Mr. Harvey said. He pressed a piece of chalk up to his lips. Probably to stop himself from laughing or screaming at our idiocy. “Last question. Who is this lady?”

  He pointed to the picture of the woman with the sparkly drum kit. Mr. Harvey looked about thirty years younger in that photo, but he still had the same mischievous smile and shiny bald head.

  Mr. Harvey
paused for just a breath before giving up on us that time.

  “Forget it. I know you all love to google everything so go home and look up ‘the Queen of Percussion.’” Then he looked straight at Madison Macomb and said, “And no, you don’t get extra credit for it, but it’s still valuable information. Now! Where were we? Oh yes, getting all excited about those testy tests. Okay, take out your pens or computers or however you feel you can best ingest this information and copy this down. Now.”

  He tugged on the world map at the front of the room so it rolled in on itself with a snap. Then he started writing in large angular letters on the chalkboard beneath:

  and when we speak we are afraid

  our words will not be heard

  nor welcomed

  but when we are silent

  we are still afraid

  So it is better to speak

  remembering

  we were never meant to survive.

  —AUDRE LORDE

  He read the quote aloud to us in a firm, low tone. Doubling back to repeat that last doozy of a line for emphasis.

  “So,” he continued, “just to be clear. We as a species are not meant to survive. We will expire. You as students in my class will expire a lot sooner if you choose to just sit there. I don’t find silence cute or obedient. I find it lazy.” His eyes roamed the room, glimmering. “Now, given that we are living in a time when immigrants’ rights, women’s rights, really everyone’s rights are being compromised, I’d like to hear some ways in which you are speaking out and taking action as part of this democracy. Please, take a few minutes to write a page about this quote and what it means to you.”

  Madison Macomb needed to know how many words constituted a page and whether it should be double-spaced. Ariel Thompson wanted to know how much this assignment counted toward the whole grade for the semester. There were a barrage of concerns and clarifications, and again I thought about how in Finland there was probably someone my age knotting the hem on her bikini while laughing on the banks of a fjord. If I was ever able to make a family of my own, I would have to move there for the sake of my children.