Jessica, Willow, and Abby burst through the door in a loud explosion of giggles and then stop at the counter to get their Diet Cokes before heading to the back to join us. I don’t really like these girls—I have never liked these girls—and yet somehow they are on the periphery of our friend group. Okay, fine, we are actually on the periphery of their friend group, since as a trio, Jessica, Willow, and Abby are by far the most popular girls in the junior class. I have no idea how they’ve managed to swing it—popularity is an undefinable thing at Mapleview, which as best I can tell involves a whole lot of unearned, effortless confidence and the ability to get other people to look at you for no reason at all.
Jessica is a blonde, Willow is a brunette, and Abby is a redhead, just like every teen friend group on television (except, in this case, sans a sassy black sidekick). Boom! Best friends for life. I assume there’s more to their friendship than hair-color optics and an affinity for thong underwear. That taken individually there is the distant possibility they might actually be interesting people. I doubt I will ever know, though, since they travel as a pack.
The reason I don’t like them is not because they’re walking clichés and therefore like to dabble in being quintessential mean girls, but because their conversations are boring. We live in a small and privileged bubble in Mapleview, and I’ve never understood their desire to make it seem even smaller.
“Boys,” Abby says by way of hello, and the way it rolls off her tongue makes it sound like she is both belittling them and flirting with them at the same time. I practice her intonation in my head, boys, file it away for use far, far in the future. Like college. No, that’s just a year and a half away. Maybe it will come in handy if I go to graduate school. “And ladies.”
The guys act differently when the three of them are around. More nervous, even louder. Gabriel mercifully stops his massage. Justin smiles goofily. He and Jessica used to hook up, but last I heard, she broke it off with him because she’s been hanging out with a freshman from NYU. In the world of social climbing, college boy beats high school boy every time. Rumor has it that Justin is still devastated.
“So what’s the deal with you and David Drucker?” Willow asks me, and for no good reason I feel my hands curl into fists. Guess I am moving through the five stages of grief after all. Making my designated pit stop at number two: anger.
“Nothing’s up. We’re friends,” I say.
“Come on, you’re not really friends with David Drucker,” Abby says, and sighs dramatically. Like everything I have to say is frustrating. “Sitting at someone’s lunch table doesn’t make you besties.”
“What do you care?” I ask. I’m a little too eager to engage and take them down. Which is stupid. They are my friends, sort of. This is not what I do.
“Of course we don’t care,” Jessica says, and laughs. And it’s true. I’m sure she doesn’t care.
“He got in your car today, though,” Willow says. “I saw him.” I decide suddenly that I hate Willow the most. She was born with more than her fair share of the same magic Lauren Drucker has, but without the warmth.
“Like I said: We’re friends. He’s pretty interesting, actually.”
“Interesting?” Gabriel asks, though it’s in no way a question. Leave it to Gabriel to always go for the easiest response: reflexive, empty sarcasm.
My anger deflates. It’s not real anyway. It’s just a stupid stage in a stupid article. That’s how desperate my mom and I are. We look for guidance from Oprah.com. Too bad there’s another step they forgot to list: the sudden onset of not-giving-a-crap-about-anything-ness. What I now think of as astronaut helmet syndrome.
Suddenly I look around and see everyone talking and laughing, no less than two feet in front of me, and they feel miles away. We are all strangers to each other in the end.
Turns out grief not only morphs time, but space too. Somehow increases the distance between you and other people. I should ask David if there’s any science behind that idea.
“Whatever. Let’s talk about much more important things,” Jessica says.
“Right. One word,” Willow says.
“Prom,” Abby finishes.
Annie quickly glances at Gabriel, but if he notices her looking at him, he doesn’t show it.
—
“Gross,” my mom says as she shovels the Weight Watchers version of fettuccine Alfredo into her mouth. Lately, during dinner, we talk in single-word sentences, a shorthand we’ve adopted because we’re too tired for anything more. When I close my eyes at night, the projector in my brain flips on and there it is, right on the ceiling: a repeat loop of a bird’s-eye view of the crash. Like it’s fun for me watching this imaginary horror film. To stand by and watch the other car—a navy-blue Ford Explorer—plow into my father, on repeat, again and then again. I smell rubber and smoke. Metallic blood, so sharp and recognizable it can’t be anything other than what it is. A taste and a smell in one.
Life and its opposite.
I attempt to figure out at what point a foot would have needed to touch the brake for there never to have been a crash at all. As if high-school-level math could, just this once, come in handy.
When I finally do fall asleep, I have a dream about Newton’s third law: For every action, there is an equal and opposing reaction. Force against force. The car crushed and disposed of like an empty potato chip bag. Snap, crackle, pop.
Here now, though, it’s just my mom and me and the sad sounds of us chewing. And then, inexplicably, there’s a key in the lock.
Could the doctor have been right and my dad was just lost? Momentarily misplaced? He will waltz in the door and ruffle my hair and call me Kitty Cat.
Of course that doesn’t happen. My dad has not risen from the dead. Even David’s ridiculous theory of consciousness doesn’t allow for that.
It’s just Uncle Jack, the only other living person who has a key to our home. Right. Much more logical.
“What are you doing here?” my mom asks. Her tone is sharp and betrays her disappointment.
It’s okay, I want to say. I thought it was going to be Dad too.
Normally my mom would be happy to see Jack. When he first got divorced, it was my mother’s idea to invite him to stay over at our house on the weekends his boys were with Aunt Katie. He was sad then too, and my mom cooked him hearty, comforting breakfasts. Pancakes and eggs and bacon and the good coffee.
“The cure for a broken heart,” she’d say. She would serve the food on our good platters, and then the three of them, my mom, Dad, and Jack, would sit at the dining table passing around sections of The New York Times while I played with my phone.
“This right here is my definition of heaven,” my dad used to say. “My best friend and my two girls and the paper of record.”
“You’re not answering your cell and I was…worried,” Jack says, and looks at my mother, but she stares at her gelatinous noodles. Jack’s tall and bald and lanky. He wears glasses, big plastic ones that are both dorky and cool at the same time, and swanky suits that look imported from England. He’s not good-looking—his nose is too big for his face, his eyes are a little squinty behind his frames, he’s a little pasty—but there’s something familiar and comforting about him.
“Want some dinner?” I ask, and jump up to check the freezer. “We have a Lean Cuisine.”