I can’t recover from this. There’s no coming back.
For a minute, I thought I’d dodged the black cloud that perpetually follows me, the all-encompassing darkness that threatens to pull me under. Why have I been fighting it when it would be easier, so much easier, to just give in?
I told myself that things would improve once high school was over, that I could be a new me at college, a different me, a better me, but that’s bullshit.
I want to make it stop hurting.
I want to quiet the voices inside my head.
I want to feel nothing.
I want the pain of being me, of being a loser, a coward, a reject, to go away.
“So, Stephen, tell me...” she begins, leaning across her desk, pretending like she’s not disgusted with me, like she cares about my response. “How do you want to be remembered after high school?”
I give her my original honest answer, only in a more succinct form.
I say, “I don’t want to be remembered.”
Kent
11:56 AM
YOU SLAY!
Stephen
Read 12:11 PM
Simone.
12:13 PM
be brilliant!
Stephen.
READ 12:14 PM
27
KENT
Fine, don’t text me back.
To myself, I’m all, this is not how a friend acts. He should be happy, not just for me, but for both of us. This thing with Noell is the culmination of everything either of us ever wanted and now there’s potential for him, too.
After she and I got together at the Homecoming game (thank you, Fireball Cinnamon Whiskey), he was like, “What about Mallory?” While I didn’t say it, I was thinking, sure, Noell’s no Mallory, but she’s also not my right hand and that counts for a lot.
So much. The difference between virtual reality and actual reality? No comparison.
Does he not understand that Noell’s friend Spencer is a real girl, who’s right here, right now? Sure, he and I had plans to fabricate a female robot, but it was gonna take years to create a fully functioning prototype. While I still totally see the upside of a sex robot, there’s much to be said about having a flesh-and-blood girlfriend right-freaking-now.
(With our luck, we’d program our robot with the kind of artificial intelligence that would eventually want to destroy mankind, anyway.)
That’s why I went over to his house last night—to talk to him about Spencer. Mrs. Cho had a fit because she was running interview questions with him at the dining room table, but I told her we had to discuss a school project and she gave him a quick break. Seemed like he needed it, too, dude was wiped out, eyes all dark-circled and skin sallow. Even his perma-spiked hair was lethargic, practically flattened to his skull.
We headed upstairs to his room, which is kind of a carbon copy of mine, except I don’t have a signed photo of Steve Jobs. Lucky bastard.
“Before I forget,” I said, reaching into my backpack, “here’s your shirt. I ironed it and everything. Sorry it took so long to get it back to you. I used those little beads in the wash that make your stuff smell extragood to say sorry for the delay. Check it out, April-fresh!”
“Keep it,” he said, waving the shirt away.
“Dude, this is, like, your favorite.”
He said, “Nah, my mom shrunk it. I don’t want it. You’re small, you have it.”
Typical Stephen, giving with one hand and taking away with the other.
What’s ironic is the shirt did feel kind of small on me; I’d hoped it was because I’d grown. I feel slightly taller, but maybe that’s just because Noell digs me and that makes me stand up straighter.
(Bonus points to me for not saying anything about “erect.” Heh.)
I refused to let him bait me, though, so I said, “Imma pretend you didn’t insult me and just enjoy my badass new shirt.”
Stephen flopped onto his bed, belly-side down, and lay there all splayed out like a starfish.
“Yo, little tired there, bro?” I laughed.
“You have no idea,” he replied, dragging out each word, like even the idea of saying he was exhausted was too exhausting.
“Well, I won’t keep you, I just wanted to give you the 411 about Spencer.”
He didn’t reply so I continued.
“Spencer? Hot girl who hangs out with Noell? Field hockey player? Wears skirts so short you can see the crease where her ass meets her thigh when she bends over?” Shameful story, but once last year he and I dropped a handful of dollar bills on the ground by Spencer so we could watch her pick them up. Basically was all our lunch money that day, but being hungry was worth the show. “I know you know who I mean.”
Listlessly, he replied, “Uh-huh.”
Why did I go out of my way for him when this was how he reacted to my outstanding news?
“ANYWAY, Jasper was hooking up with Spencer but he dumped her and now she’s on a major rebound. She agreed to do a double date.” I waited for him to rally, but again, nothing. “Clarification, a double date with me and you.”
Nada.
I said, “So, lemme sum this up for you, ’cause clearly you’re not processing this. Smokeshow Spencer wants to hang with you. You familiar with the concept of low-hanging fruit? What’s the downside here?”
He shrugged. “I’d just screw it up, like always. Pass.”
I was exasperated. “Hold up, ‘Pass’? Pass, like she’s a bread basket in a restaurant and you’re gluten-free? What in the actual fuck? Do you even get what I went through to make this happen? I had to go for a pedicure with Noell. I don’t mean driving her to the nail salon, no, I mean getting a pedicure with her. And I’m not talking just soaking my feet and having them scrape off the rough skin and massage them and shit. Although, no lie, bro, I enjoyed that part. The deal is, Noell agreed to the fix-up, but only if I had my toenails polished because she thought that’d be hilarious. I have ten hot pink little piggies for you. There’s a fuckin’ daisy painted on my big toe.” I pointed to my foot. “I got your friendship right here.”
Into his covers, Stephen said, “Sorry to be such a burden. Maybe your life would be better if I weren’t in it.”
I said, “Brother, please. I cannot fucking wait until your interview’s over tomorrow. Gotta tell you, you’re being a total pill right now. Are you even excited for that? This is the last hurdle between you and a one-way ticket to Boston.”
He let out a slow, steady stream of breath, which sounded like a balloon deflating. “I’m sure it’s hopeless. Why would MIT want me?”
Okay, that was it.
I’d had my fill of his nonsense.
I was not about to talk him through everything he had going for him, listing off every achievement, particularly when I knew that if MIT could only choose one of us from NSHS, it’d be him over me a million times. He could show up to that interview in his freaking boxer shorts and they’d still toss scholarships at him, begging him to be part of their freshman class. Hell, no one had even confirmed my alum interview yet.
I told him, “Word of advice? Don’t take this bullshit attitude into your interview tomorrow.”