I, on the other hand, worked so hard to be seen that I let all the other things slip away. Study, be responsible, be honest, be kind. I didn’t study; I got arrested. I lied to Kellan and Crosbie; I unfriended Marcela because I needed a scapegoat to justify last year’s stupidity. Everything I did was to cultivate some ridiculous phony image, either a party girl or a studious homebody, but I’d never taken the time to shore up my defenses, to make sure the person inside was solid and sound. And to what end? The one person who finally noticed me saw past the fa?ade to the real me and liked me anyway. Long before I was smart enough to realize it.
I think of Nate sending those gifts to Marcela last year, her not-so-secret admirer. I think of all the times he’d listened to us recount our weekend exploits, all the times he must have wished it were him in those stories, that he could be that guy. But still he’d loved her, supported her, admired her. Until he couldn’t anymore. And then these past months, the furtive looks they’d exchanged, the not-so-significant others they’d paraded around when really it was the things they weren’t saying, they weren’t doing, that spoke volumes.
I think of my parents, their lives together but not, residing in separate halves of a home. They insist on presenting a united front for my benefit, but nobody benefits from this arrangement. When my back is turned they resume hating one another, a festering and unnecessary contempt that should have ended long ago.
We can scream and fight and cry and ignore, but really, it’s the things we do when we think nobody’s watching that reveal the most. Well, I’m done. No more messes, no more lies.
Starting now.
*
Snow crunches under the tires as we pull into the dingy bus depot in Grayson, Washington, and I see my parents fighting for top billing as they stand clustered with the small crowd gathered just inside the terminal doors. In typical fashion they’d both dressed in neon colors to try to stand out more than the other: my mother in pink, my father in yellow. I’m pretty sure I remember those jackets from an ill-fated ski trip when I was six. In any case, they’re effective: there’s not a single person on the bus who hasn’t noticed them.
“Hi!” my mom exclaims, folding me in a hug when I enter.
“Hi,” I say, the words muffled against the rayon fabric of her jacket. I extricate myself from her grip only to be pulled into my father’s hug.
“How you doing, Nora Bora?” he asks. “Got anymore luggage?”
“No,” I say, stepping away and hefting my backpack onto my shoulder. “Just this.”
“That’s not very much for a week.”
“I don’t need much.” There’s not a whole lot to do in Grayson, and given my non-existent high school popularity, I don’t have many friends to catch up with or places to go. Unfortunately, the same can currently be said about Burnham.
“You look great,” my mom says, leading the way to the parking lot.
“Thanks.” I shiver in the damp air and zip my coat to my chin. Then I sigh as we reach the cars. Two of them. Parked side by side, ready for me to make a choice.
“Get in,” they say, reaching for the passenger side doors of both vehicles.
“Were two cars really necessary?” I ask tiredly. “When we’re going to the same house?”
“It’s a duplex,” my dad points out.
“It’s the same structure.”
“But two homes.”
“Yes, I get it. But you’re wasting gas.” And truthfully—no matter who I choose, no matter the reason, someone’s feelings are going to get hurt. There are only two sides in this equation, much like there are two sides in the duplex. There’s no safe, neutral territory. Maybe that’s why a comfortable middle balance is at once so appealing and so difficult to achieve.
“Fine,” I say, when neither of them gives in. My dad is parked at the end of the aisle, which means the door opens wider so I can stuff my bag in easily. “I choose this car. See you at the two homes.”
My mom looks wounded. “But I—”
“You wanted me to choose. I chose. Let’s go.”
They look startled as I sling my bag into the footwell and follow, buckling my seatbelt. In previous years I’d bemoaned their behavior and pleaded with them not to do things like this. It’s not a competition. I love them both, as much as they frustrate me. But their unspoken war has more to do with each other than it ever has with me.
My dad seems pleased as we ride home, telling me about his current girlfriend, Sandy, who works at a gym, and their plans to go to Antigua in the spring. “Your mother’s going to Mexico,” he says, his tone almost pitying. “That’s a little...done, don’t you think?”
“Is Mexico ‘done?’” I echo. “I don’t know. I’ve never been.”
He’s been, three times. My mother’s been as well. But I’ve never been invited.
We stop for a red light and he turns to look at me, expression serious. “Are you okay, Nora? You seem a little tense.”
“It was a long bus ride, that’s all.” It’s late afternoon but the sky is already growing dark. I feign a yawn and he seems to buy it.
We make our way silently through the center of town, the icy streets still busy as people finish up their last-minute shopping. It’s Christmas Eve, so shops will be open for another few hours, and when we pass a grocery store, I sit up in my seat.
“Who has the turkey?” I ask.
“Hmm?”
“The turkey. Who’s making it this year? You or mom?”
“Oh, your mother, I believe. Don’t worry—I bought hamburgers, just in case.”
We stop for another light, my mother idling right beside us. I roll down my window and gesture for her to do the same. “Do you have a turkey?” I shout.