An Evil Mind

“If you want Jack to sleep with you –” She corrects.

“I DON’T. Why do people even say ‘sleeping with’? There is no sleeping involved! Sleeping is peaceful and nice and sex is like…the opposite of that.”

“You can’t say that,” Kayla fires back. “You’ve never had it.”

“I’ve had it once,” I defend, suddenly exhausted.

“That wasn’t sex and you and I both know it.”

“Look, it’s great that you’re all gung-ho about sex and me and Jack all at the same time,” I sigh. “But you’re forgetting the part in which I’m never touching a dude again. And he’s never touching me. Besides, Jack wouldn’t even like touching me.”

“He would.”

“I’m fat.”

“You are surprisingly not-fat.”

“I’m not as pretty as like…any other girl he could get. You’ve seen his face. He got you. He could get freakin’ Scarlett Johansson if he really wanted to.”

“And I’m sure Ohio State is just teeming with Scarlett lookalikes.”

“In black bikinis.”

Kayla sighs. “It’s hard, I get it. After everything that’s happened…I don’t know what it’s like, but it’s gotta be hard. And I’m sorry. But he really likes you, Isis. And you really like him. And you guys are like, really interesting together and you light each other up in a weird, symbiotic way. And life is short. Sophia taught us that. And I think you deserve a shot at each other before you write each other off completely out of misguided martyrdom.”

“Wow. ‘Martyrdom’. You might be the only one in the universe paying actual attention during college.”

“Shut up,” She flushes, and leans in to close her computer. “And don’t call me back until you’ve at least kissed him.”

I slam my face on the keyboard of my laptop and roll it around, groaning. Yvette chooses that exact moment to burst through the door and collapse on her bed, likewise groaning.

“My life is over.”

I get up and collapse next to her on the bed.

“Finally. Time to die.”

There’s a long silence of us just breathing into pillows, experimenting with suffocating ourselves. Yvette breaks first, coming up for air gasping.

“I’ve been sleeping with somebody,” she confesses.

“I know,” I look up. “I heard.”

Yvette goes red down to her skull earrings. “Sorry. I mean, shit, I’m not sorry. It was damn good.”

“Mind if I ask who?”

“Yes, actually. Very yes.”

I welcome the distraction. “It’s Steven. From Socio.”

“Wow,” Yvette claps. “Ten points to you for saying the stupidest shit I’ve ever heard.”

“Brett with the weird t-shirts.”

“Yes, because I want to turn my vagina into a gonorrhea culture lab.”

“Give me a hint. Like, at least seven hundred whole hints. In essay form, with citations and footnotes.”

Yvette screws her face up like she’s in genuine pain, and it’s then I catch a whiff of something unmistakable. Something musky and sweet and floral. Roses.

“Dia –”

“I’m gay,” Yvette whisper-interrupts, as though terrified someone will hear in the security of our own room. We stare at each other in stunned silence, and then I smile and punch her shoulder.

“Diana? You lucky piece of shit!”

Yvette’s eyes widen, as if she was expecting something worse. Shouting, anger maybe. Her eyes well up with gratitude, and in typical Yvette fashion she shoves her face into the bed so I won’t see it.

I stand. “C’mon, let’s go get ice cream to celebrate.”

She doesn’t move. I tug on her boot. She groans.

“Get up,” I insist.

“I can’t get up!” Yvette's voice is muffled by her pillows. “I’m gay!”

“You’re paying if you don’t get up in the next five seconds, Gay.”

Yvette peeks out of the pillow, looking like a scared child.

“I haven’t told my parents.”

“You don’t gotta,” I offer. “Not right away. We’ve still got six months before we drop out. When they ask why you flushed their twenty thousand dollars down the toilet, tell them it’s because you’re gay. Trust me. They’ll be more mad about the money than your girlfriend.”

Yvette smirks, wiping her nose.

“Or. Or you could just drop the bomb now. Over the phone. Drop all the bombs. Blow up your own house.”

Yvette laughs and punches me weakly on the knee. And then we share a sundae, and for a while I’m not the only one with problems. Yvette’s bravery reminds me of that. I’m not the only one who thinks love and sex is all sorts of weird and hard and scary.

If Yvette could confess to me she’s gay, if she could overcome that turmoil and life-changing revelation all on her own, then I can overcome what happened to me.

I can’t be as strong as her, but I can try.

I owe it to myself, and everybody who loves me, to at least f*cking try.

I visit Mom over the weekend. The drive is long but the love is plenty – she comes out with a smile and wide arms that hug me close, and she’s cooked dinner for once. Pasta. The house is clean. The windows are open and the air inside every room is fresh instead of musty. Mom’s skin looks healthy, her eyes are bright. She can’t stop talking about work, and a new group of lady friends she met at yoga, and I just sit in my chair and eat quietly and absorb it all – all of her happiness, all of her change.

“Are you okay, sweetie? I’m sorry I’ve been blabbering, it’s just –”

“No, I’m fine. Don’t be sorry. I was just really hungry.”

“Are you eating at school well?”

“Three square meals a day. Comprised of doughnuts and regret.”

She laughs, and I smirk into a noodle.

“It’s been awfully quiet without you around,” Mom says. “So I’ve been trying to get out more. Do more things, meet more people.”

I flinch. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m not here more, and I’m sorry I didn’t come last weekend, I was –”

“It’s alright. I don’t want to hear excuses. But, it was a promise, Isis. You promised me you’d come every other weekend. I know you’re busy, and it’s college, but I’m your mother. And I want to see you. I need to see you.”

“I’m sorry!” I clutch my fork. “I’m so sorry - ”

Mom gets up, sweeping over to pet my head and hush me in soft whispers.

“No, honey. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for needing you so much. You should be free, I have to let you fly away from me sometime. Other kids your age, other parents my age have all learned how to leave and let go but…but it’s harder for me. And that makes it hard on you.”

I swallow hard. Mom looks into my eyes.

“Sometimes I think bad things – dark things. And I go to Dr. Torrand and try not to think them so much. But they keep me up at night. And I don’t sleep. And I start resenting everyone – your father, Leo, even you - and it’s horrible. I’m horrible.”

I hug her back, tight and unending.

“We’re not horrible,” I whisper. “We’re just people.”

***

I watch Charlie do his homework, hair greasy and his face eternally frowning. He’s not the most intelligent agent, and he doesn’t think before he speaks, but he gets objectives done with startling speed and force. Where my style is to write lightly with a ballpoint pen, his is to press hard with a soaked paintbrush. We both get the job done, just in different ways. It’s why Gregory assigned us to each other, probably – two radically differing methods double the chances of success. In theory.