You probably heard people laughing all the way in Wisconsin.
Still no reply. I scroll through her Instagram feed, which is like a glossary of facial expressions. Yesterday was a wink. The day before was wide-eyed surprise. She started her account when she moved to Wisconsin, as a way of staying in touch with me. Now she’s got more than a hundred followers, and likes from complete strangers.
I narrow my eyes at the interlopers and go back to texting.
Ugh. I really shouldn’t be allowed to leave the house.
It would be better for everyone.
Maybe I could claim I have one of those diseases that require you to be raised inside an airtight bubble.
Like the girl in that book. Avoid all contact with the outside world. Online contact only. No cute guys showing up outside my window, either. (Which would never happen to me anyway let’s be honest.) I’m prepared to continue babbling about my future in containment when I finally see her thought bubble pop up.
. . .
She’s alive!
OMG, what happened?
It’s humiliating.
Tell me.
Promise you won’t laugh?
I won’t laugh.
I can almost imagine her saying it, leaning her shoulder against mine on the bus seat, huddling in close to listen. Texting is not the same; it never will be. But at least she’s there. I exhale the stress knotting my shoulders and recount the story of my failed attempt to say hi to Hallie Bryce, in excruciating detail.
Hallie thinks I’m a complete idiot now.
No she doesn’t.
Yeah, I’m pretty sure she does.
She’s not like that. She’s super nice.
Even nice people know an idiot when they see one. Plus that’s not even the worst part.
I take a deep breath and text out the catastrophe of Adrian and the drumsticks. The word vomit. The Statue of Liberty. The going forth and prospering. When I’m finished, Jenna’s “. . .” bubble pops up, but it’s taking forever for her message to come through. Probably because she’s laughing so hard she can’t type. Or maybe she’s trying to find a nice way to tell me I am, indeed, an idiot. Finally: Okay, that was actually awesome and hilarious.
Are you high?
No, I’m serious. Adrian probably thinks you’re funny, as in FUN.
I don’t think so.
You caught his drumsticks! That’s so cool.
I told him to GO FORTH AND PROSPER.
I know! Brilliant.
Are you kidding me?
I’m serious. You’re so funny!
She assures me it was funny in a good way, as in clever and witty. Not funny in an everyone-is-laughing-at-you way. I am not convinced. Sometimes I don’t think she realizes how hard it is for me to do all the talking for myself, to step into her shoes. The shoes I no longer tie for her. But she coaxes me down from the ledge of “I suck” until I am standing on the slightly more solid ground of “maybe it’s not as bad as I think.”
Even better, she takes my mind off my own troubles by drawing me in to her world, which is way more interesting than mine.
These kids in the back of the bus keep looking at me.
Boy kids or girl kids?
One guy. Two girls.
Looking at you how? Good or bad?
Not sure.
We monitor the situation for a few more minutes. The guy is cute, she says, and possibly flirting. The girls are cute, too. Also possibly flirting. I advise her to slide lower in her seat so they can’t see her, but mostly so I can have her to myself.
I keep her texting as long as I can, until I am off the bus and in my house and sitting at the kitchen counter, drinking the fruit smoothie my mother made for me. Finally, Jenna texts that she has to go. I reply with a sad-face emoji. She sends a kissy-heart-winky face. I unicorn-birthday-cake-thumbs-up her back. It’s silly, but we’ve been doing it since we got our first phones when we were twelve. She ends as we always do, with the yin-yang symbol. And in that moment, all is right with my world. It’s as if she’s there next to my balance beam again, holding my hand to make sure I don’t fall.
2
I WAKE UP THE NEXT morning to a cheesy, two-thumbs-up grin on Jenna’s Instagram, which I take as a personal pep talk. She tagged it #sayhi #beawesome #yougotthis. I click the little heart icon (first like!) and head to the kitchen for breakfast. Mom has left a plate of fresh croissants. It’s Wednesday, her early morning workout day. My father doesn’t leave for his office for another hour, so he shuffles out to join me.
He pours us both a cup of coffee and sits next to me and we eat and drink in silence. He never forces me to chat, and doesn’t even notice what I’m wearing. Today’s brown hooded sweatshirt with the pocket in front does not inspire a mention of the marsupial exhibit at the zoo, like it did with Mom the last time I wore it. If he thinks I resemble a kangaroo, he doesn’t let on.
I like Wednesdays.
My father’s calm stays with me on the bus and all the way to my locker. I’m feeling pretty good, having managed to avoid both Hallie and Adrian in the hall, but the bottom drops out of my stomach when I walk into world history. There’s a substitute teacher, which means an attendance roll call. Add it to the Terror List. Even if it only requires me to bark out a single word, I can never decide whether it should be “here!” or “present!”
I’m pondering that decision when I notice the guy seated next to me sort of leaning toward my desk. I’m pretty sure he’s the one who knocked into Adrian yesterday, causing the whole drumstick incident. His name is Lipton Gregory. I’ve heard him explaining that it’s a family name on his mother’s side, not related to the tea company. But kids still call him “Tea Bag” sometimes.
Lipton clears his throat, and I turn my face a teensy bit more in his direction without establishing eye contact.
“Frankenstein,” he says.
“Excuse me?” I shoot him a quick glance, then eyes to the floor.
“What you said to Adrian in the hall yesterday. ‘Go forth and prosper.’” He taps his pencil. “It’s from Frankenstein, not Star Trek.”
I blush, absolutely mortified that someone was listening to my babbling enough to quote it back to me. And remembered to do so a whole day later.
“Right,” I say. “Frankenstein. Mary Shelley.” Can’t speak. In complete. Sentences. Apparently.
“It’s from the introduction, right?” He swipes the screen of his cell phone and reads from it: “‘I bid my hideous progeny go forth and prosper.’ She was talking about her book.”
“Right,” I say again.
“Not Spock.” Lipton beams at me, nodding. “Mary Shelley.”
And that’s when I realize the sub is shouting my name, which I must’ve missed the first time he called for me at a more reasonable volume. “Decker! Vicky Decker!”
I can’t remember if I was going to say “here” or “present” so I shout the first word that pops into my head, which is “Frankenstein!”
The class erupts in laughter as I turn every shade of beet and quickly correct myself: “Here! Present!”