“What is that supposed to me—” he started, then caught himself and shut the hell up.
“As for your question, I was crying because…” I thought of how I had seen him in the halls earlier today, at the bottom of a human pyramid made of sophomore girls. “You don’t want to know.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Okay…” I tried to read his face. “But I can’t tell you.”
“Why?”
“Because for all you care I’m, I don’t know, getting my period or something.”
Coop snorted. Even in the shadow of floodlights, I could tell he was blushing.
This is why I don’t make friends easily. Small talk, among many other things, makes me want to punch a hole in the wall. So when I do talk, I want to make it count. I don’t know if after four years, Coop actually wanted to know why I was crying, or just the small-talk version. But I wasn’t going to do the small-talk version. Not today.
“Now I made it awkward,” I said.
“I live with women. I know what periods are like.”
“I’m not getting my period.”
“You don’t have to tell me.”
“I don’t have to, no.”
“But I asked.”
“Why?” I asked him.
“Because something’s going on.”
“How can you tell?”
Coop shrugged and smiled.
Maybe he could tell because he’d seen me pee my pants in this very church, when the homily went too long. Maybe because I’d seen him pee his pants once, in our car on the way back home from Water Country.
Or perhaps it was that I had come from the doctor’s office, where someone had just pressed on every part of me so hard that I could feel her cold wedding ring against my skin, and I had to tell her that yes, it does hurt when you press there, and there, and there. Dr. Clarkington touched my neck and my spine and my butt and my boobs and my belly button and the soft part between my hip bones, and told me how each part would dissolve or melt or harden, like Play-Doh left out too long, and she could already see my body changing.
I said, “Let’s sit. Can we sit?”
“Of course we can sit.”
We sat down, our backs against the cross.
I told him about today.
I told him about two months ago, when I found out I couldn’t turn my eyeballs upward and went to the doctor for what we thought was some sort of migraine. I told him about six weeks of medical tests, reading AP Euro while waiting on the freezing tarmac because the Mayo Clinic has to be all the way in Minnesota, and telling Maddie I had to miss debate practice because my great-aunt was dying, because it seemed closer to the truth: My great-aunt did die and she did have what I have, which is another reason Maddie can’t know that I’m sick, because if she thinks I’m going to die it will throw her off, and she’ll start telling me I’m doing good work even when I’m not, and she’s one of the only people whose opinion about debate I can trust. I told him that watching Harrison get confirmed brought back all these memories and, in turn, curiosity and fear about the future, which looked narrow and hard but not impossible, and how now I feel more determined than ever to get what I want and get it now.
Coop’s eyes were blazing red by the time I was finished. To clarify: not from getting emotional, but from getting high, I’m pretty sure.
“Shit, man,” he said. To his credit, he hadn’t interrupted once.
“So, yeah,” I said. I felt like I had just thrown up. I may have been sweating. But I was empty and calm.
Coop nodded for a second, forming words. “Sammie, I am so sorry.”
He stared at the ground. His phone lit up in his pocket and he pulled it out. I caught the name “Hot Katie” on the screen. He ignored it. But it was already enough of a reminder of who we were now. He would not have ignored the call if I wasn’t here. We would not be standing here if he hadn’t wanted to smoke weed. This was not how his night was supposed to go, or mine. We were just space rocks bouncing off each other temporarily in this strange little Upper Valley void, but our trajectories were still separate. We were not friends.
“It’s cool.” I wanted him to go then. I wanted Coop to take with him everything I had dumped on him so I would never have to talk about it again. Hot Katie lit up his phone a second time.
I pointed to his pocket. “You can take that.”
“’K,” Cooper said, unlocking the screen. “Be right back,” he added, and flicked the butt of his joint forward so I had to jump to avoid it.
“Sorry!” he said, darting back, phone to his ear. He ground the tip with his Adidas.
While he cooed to Hot Katie, I ducked inside for the conclusion of the service, and when we came back out, Cooper was gone. Good to see him, though. Good ol’ Coop.
Oh, fuck. I really hope he doesn’t tell anyone about the disease thing.
He won’t.
Oh well.
He won’t.
AFFIRMATIVE CASE FOR ATTENDING ROSS NERVIG’S PARTY FRIDAY NIGHT: AN EXPLORATION INTO TEEN SOCIAL HABITS UNDER THE GUISE OF DEBATE PREPARATION