That sounds pathetic, but it’s not like I don’t have friends. The Internet is teeming with people who just want to chat. And plenty of late nights when I couldn’t sleep I would seek them out. Granted, some of them were a little creepy, like the policeman in Canyon City, Oregon, who seemed nice until our conversation quickly devolved into his fascination with S & M and he asked me to go get a brush so I could spank myself. (I did not.) But then there was the woman in the Netherlands, who knew like seventeen foreign languages and taught me the curse words in all of them. (My favorite is Bulgarian, “Kon da ti go natrese,” which roughly translates to: “Get fucked by a horse.”)
But being online, and even on the phone, is worlds away from speaking to someone in person. And I wonder if I even remember how—where do I look? What do I do with my hands? Fortunately, the woman doesn’t wait for my acknowledgment of her and just turns and walks back to her front door, as if it’s just any normal day and I’m any normal neighbor. I let out a breath. Then I fix the strap of my handbag across my chest diagonally, ease myself over the seat, push off the ground with a foot, and wobble my way onto the pavement.
Whoever said “It’s just like riding a bike” to convey a skill that, once learned, is never forgotten is an idiot. I learned how to ride a bike as a child and this is nothing like that. There are gears, for one. And I have no idea what to do with them. As I’m staring at the metal knobs, I hear a car coming up the street behind me. Even though I’m only creeping along—the pedals are so hard to push it’s almost like they’re glued in place—I panic and reach for the brake, accidentally jerking the handlebar and toppling the bike over into a bush next to someone’s mailbox.
The car rolls past me, and my body freezes, willing it to continue. To not be a Good Samaritan that wants to check and see that I’m OK. It’s not. I wait until the car turns the corner, exhale, then stand up, pick up the bike, readjust my shoulder bag, and get back on. After a few more tries, I’m able to keep the bike steady, and with a lucky flip of one of the knobs, the pedals miraculously become easier to push. I ride down to the end of the street. At the stop sign I turn left onto Plumcrest and then out of the neighborhood, carefully steering the bike onto the narrow shoulder.
Cars rush past me, the exhaust filling my lungs, and I feel exposed, like I forgot to put on pants. I grip the handlebars tighter, my shoulders a steel rod of tension. I’m headed toward the Wawa that’s next to the CVS, and it occurs to me that it may no longer be there. How would I know if it had closed? Or moved? Or burned down? My heart beats harder, until I round a bend and see the familiar red italic sign.
Exhaling, I pedal the bike to the front of the store and carefully extract myself from the seat. My crotch and thighs are sweaty from the short ride and my legs are shaking.
I did it. I left the house during the day. And I am at a gas station. I close my eyes and breathe in the heady, toxic air.
But now what? I glance at the glass door, where a bell heralds the exit of a man in a green ball cap and flannel shirt. He glances at me and I look down. After he passes, I leave my bike propped up by the door and enter where the man came out. I move up and down the aisles, until I spot a red plastic gas can and take it up to the counter, placing it in front of a woman with a strong overbite and cat’s-eye glasses. She doesn’t look at me as she grabs the handle and scans the UPC tag.
“You wanna fill this up?”
Her voice startles me. And just as I feared, I start to panic—I don’t know where to look or what to do with my hands. I hear my mom’s voice in my ear. Just smile. Why do you have to look so damned serious all the time? So I do. I put on a big grin, flashing my teeth at this woman, who’s still waiting for my reply.
She fixes me with a look that I feel certain she reserves for idiots and my face starts to burn. “Want me to charge you for the gas to fill this up?” she says slowly. “Or are you just buying the can?”
I stop smiling. “Oh, uh. The gas, too.”
She nods, punches a few buttons on the cash register. “Twenty-one seventy-three,” she says.
I dig in my purse and fondle the $20 bill that’s been in there since high school—I’ve had no need for cash the past decade. But since it’s not enough, I let it go and grab the debit card, trying not to picture its dwindling account balance. I hand the card to her, and if she notices the gloves or thinks it’s weird I’m wearing them, she doesn’t say anything. She just swipes the card and hands it back to me. I quickly turn to leave with my head down.
“Your gas can!” she barks behind me.
Oh, right. I turn back, grab it with a gloved hand, and head out to the pumps.
I did it, I think to myself. I really left my house. I even spoke to someone. And now I’m getting gas. Like a regular person. But just when I start to relax a little and congratulate myself for the day’s accomplishments, I hear my name—“Jubilee?”—and everything in my body clenches again. But it sounds kind of far off and I think I must be hallucinating. Maybe the exertion from the bike—and the whole day, really—has messed with my brain.
“Jubilee?”
This time it’s clear as the bell on the gas station door, and I stand perfectly still, hoping I am invisible, or that the person saying my name will think they’re mistaken, that they’ve got the wrong person.
“Jubilee!” It’s a statement this time, a confirmation.
I turn my head slightly toward the voice, my insides a jumble of screws that have all been turned a rotation too tight.
My eyes are drawn directly to the mouth that formed my name. I’d know that mouth anywhere. I used to stare at it in school—so much that at times I wondered if I might secretly be a lesbian. But in the end, I realized it wasn’t my fault. She knew how to draw attention to it. Constantly licking her lips, as if she were always searching for a crumb at the corner of her mouth that was just slightly out of reach. I spent hours in the mirror trying to lick my lips like that, but I always looked like a camel whose tongue was too big for its mouth.
Now her lips are formed into a wide smile—so wide that I’m afraid her lips might crack, if it weren’t for the layers of thick, gooey gloss holding them together.
Her hair, which used to shine all the way down to her mid-back, now stops just below her chin and is swingy, but other than that she looks the exact same.
Madison H. There were three Madisons in our class, so we identified them by their last initial, but Madison H. was the only one who mattered.
She nods, and I realize I’ve said her name out loud.
“Jubilee Jenkins,” she says, never breaking her grin. She’s now within spitting distance of me and my hand reflexively squeezes the handle of the pump tighter.