“I don’t see you running into any swimming pools with all your clothes on.”
I consider his point. I’m not dizzy. I’m not hyperventilating. I’m not falling into an Episode. I’m in shock—yes—but I also somehow feel an odd sense of calm. Like now that I have answers, at least I understand my life with a bit more clarity. I lift my head and look at him. I lean into his shoulder, and he wraps his arm around me. “Thank you for being my friend today.”
“Of course,” he says. “And plus, you’ve helped me.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, you’ve convinced me not to get back together with my ex.”
“Ha.” I look up at him. “Glad I could be of service.”
He smiles at me. “It’s the right decision. I’m really into this other girl anyway.”
I smile back. “She sounds like a keeper.”
“You’re going to be okay. You know that, right?”
And just like that night in seventh grade, and that day under the umbrella, I lean in. And I kiss him.
He returns this kiss. It’s soft and careful. The tension in my body releases at the touch of his lips on mine.
But then he pulls back. “No. Not again. Not like this.”
“I’m so sorry.” I stand up. “Sammie’s right. I do make everything complicated.”
“It’s not that—it’s just—this isn’t the right place or the right time—”
“You’re right.” I want to love someone like you, I think. I want to trust someone like you. Someone honest and kind and nice. But I’m in my father’s other house. “My life is a mess, and I’m broken, and you deserve someone who’s not.”
He tries to explain himself, but I tell him I don’t want to talk about it anymore, I just want to leave.
He makes it worse by listening to my request and not saying anything else and thus proving, once again, what a good friend he could have been if only I hadn’t messed it up by kissing him again.
*
I can’t go to Sammie’s, I can’t talk to Evan, and the last place I want to be is home with my mom and Mila, but unless I want to be homeless on the street, it’s the only place I have.
I throw my dad’s keys to Geneva Terrace in a garbage can on Clark Street, and then I make my way back through the rain to Bennett Tower, back to my real life, which is nothing but a lie.
By the time I get home, I’m soaked.
My mom and Mila are home. They’re both at the dining room table, but oddly enough, my mom’s not at her computer, and Mila’s not sitting in front of the TV. They’re in the middle of a Jenga game. Mila looks over the wobbly tower and smiles when she sees me. “I’m winning.”
“There are no winners in Jenga,” my mom says with a laugh. And then she looks at me. “Get yourself in the shower and come play with us.”
“That’s it?” I say. “No probing questions about where I’ve been or judgmental comments about how my aimlessness is bad for Mila?”
“We miss you, Viviana,” my mom says. “I hope this time you’re here to stay.”
I go to the bathroom and strip down. I turn the water as hot as it can go. I sit on the floor of the tub and let the shower pound down on my back. My skin turns red under the heat of the water, but it’s not enough to dissolve the pain. I’m home, and they are out there waiting for me to return to them dry and renewed, as though everything in our lives is normal and fine.
But I know it’s not.
It’ll never be normal or fine, ever again.
Mistakes to Avoid Your Senior Year of High School #4
Many students lose steam during the summer between their junior and senior years. Of course, some loss of motivation is inevitable. Now is not the time to relax! Now is the time to think about your future!
I’m woken up an hour later by the sounds of notifications from my phone. It’s the hollow, quick ding of the text message bell, five in a row.
I roll over and reach into my bag. I don’t know who could be texting me so much.
I click through. They’re all from Sammie:
OMG, Vivi, call me.
Evan saw the photo.
Someone at St. Mary’s found the photo and showed Evan.
Virgo messaged me to see if it was really you.
I’m so sorry, Vivi. Call me. I’m here.
Oh God. The photo. My photo.
I scream into my pillow.
My mom and Mila come running into my room.
“Viviana, what’s going on?”
“I can’t— I can’t— I can’t—”
“Viviana, take a deep breath.”
“I can’t— I can’t— I can’t—”
“You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
“No. Mama. I can’t—”
“You’re home now. You’re fine.”
She’s blurry, Mila’s blurry; everything is a spinning, blurry mess.
Mila’s glued against my wall, a look of pure terror in her eyes, and I want to calm down for her. I want to be in control for her. I want to be myself for her.
I let myself fall into my mom’s arms. She whispers to me that she’s sorry she’s been so hard on me, she’s sorry for everything she’s done, and I’m not sure exactly what she means, but hearing her words, hearing her admit her own mistakes, feeling her arms around my shaking body—it makes me catch my breath and I collapse into her. I let her hold me up.
*