“David, why don’t you ever ask how I am?”
Phew, I’m relieved. That’s an easy one. I thought he was going to bring up his showcase again. Recent out-of-character events like hanging out with Kit and fighting the football team and joining Academic League notwithstanding, me getting up onstage with a guitar in front of people is just not going to happen. I have my limits.
“Why would I do that?”
“Because it’s polite to ask someone questions about themselves from time to time,” Trey says.
“We have only sixty minutes a week allotted to my learning how to play the guitar and I’d prefer not to waste them.”
“Come on. We’ve been working together almost ten months, and you know almost nothing about me. Whether I have brothers or sisters. What my major is. Where I live. How old I am. Aren’t you curious?”
“Not really.” I assumed he was an only child, since all his insistent chattering suggests he is desperate for company. My mother told me he was a college senior, so that makes him about twenty-one. And as for major, he seems suited for the liberal arts. I’d guess comparative literature or art history.
“People like it when you make small talk. It makes them feel like you care,” Trey says.
“What’s your major?” I ask, because though I appreciate efficiency, I do not like hurting people’s feelings. And now that he’s brought it up, I am curious. Could be I have him pegged all wrong. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time.
“Double major: math and psych.” He says the last word firmly, like if I were transcribing the conversation I should put it in all caps. Math and PSYCH. But I’m distracted by his empty neck. For the first time, he’s not wearing his conch shell necklace, and its absence and the consequent pale expanse of skin—one more break in our routine—bring on a sudden wave of depression and hopelessness. I feel like crying or lying down in a dark room, which is inconvenient given I’m about to start my weekly guitar lesson.
Maybe I’ll buy him a scarf for Christmas. Cover up his neck, which given his toes is surprisingly hairless.
“I wouldn’t have guessed math, and if you’re a psychology major I bet you like reading the DSM too,” I say as a thought forms in my brain the same way I burrow into complicated algorithms. Lego pieces stacking on top of each other until they manifest into something recognizable. Like pointillism.
The wave of depression rolls away and is replaced by a vivid certainty.
For once, I understand. Ten months too late, maybe. But I finally get it.
“You’re not really a guitar teacher, are you?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“My dad told Principal Hoch today that I have a social skills tutor. That’s you, right?”
“I like to think of our work together as multifaceted,” Trey says. He picks his guitar up off the floor and fiddles with the strings. “I mean, I do teach you how to play, but I also hope I teach you other stuff as well.”
“I didn’t realize. I feel stupid.” Why is it I have to go through life only seeing part of the picture when everyone else gets to see the whole thing? Like my magnification level is set at fifteen thousand percent. “I wish you had told me. Then I wouldn’t have rushed us through all the talking.”
“Really?”
“Well, yeah. I could probably learn guitar from YouTube, but there’s nothing on there for how to talk to other kids in high school. Believe me, I’ve searched,” I say.
“Okay then.” Trey puts down his guitar, looks up at me.
“So do you have any brothers or sisters?” I ask.
“Sweetheart, open up.” I wake to my mom banging on the door, loud and intrusive. My cheek is wet with drool and tears. My eyes feel swollen and heavy to open. I must have fallen asleep mid–emotional breakdown. I’m embarrassed all over again by what seems to bring on the waterworks these days. Small things instead of the big ones.
It’s not like this is some lifelong dream. This is the Mapleview High Bugle we’re talking about. So I’m not editor in chief. Who cares? It’s not like I was particularly passionate about the newspaper anyway. I’m not like David, who gets carried away with all the things he’s interested in, reading college-level textbooks late into the night. I still have no idea who or what I want to be when I grow up. This was simply a way to pad my college application. Nothing more.
“Leave me alone!” I yell. My voice is shaky and sad. It gives me away. Now that my mom senses I’m vulnerable, she’ll pounce. This is precisely when having brothers or sisters would come in handy. Someone to share my mom’s focus.
“I’m coming in.” She opens the door, using what is apparently a spare key to my bedroom that I did not know existed. Like my happy family, my privacy has been an illusion. I wonder what else is a lie.
I do not look up. Do not give her the satisfaction of seeing me like this. It would be better if she just thought I was angry. That I hate her now. This pathetic version of me makes it look like there’s room for her to wiggle her way back into my life. I want to scream, I’m not crying about you! but I don’t seem to have the energy.
“We need to talk,” she says. She sits on my bed, and also my toes.
“Ow!” It doesn’t hurt, but I don’t feel like being mature about anything.
“I understand you’re mad at me,” my mom starts, readjusting so she’s not squashing my feet. “And you have every right to be. Still, I think you need to hear me out.”
“No.”
“Kit.”
“No.”
“Stop being a baby,” she says, which, for some reason makes me snap. I’m tired of playing adult. Of trying to be a good sport. I’m suddenly revved up and burning with rage. This must have been what David felt like earlier, when he started drop-kicking the football team. I need to learn krav maga.
“Are you serious right now? I’m the baby? I’m not the one who slept with my husband’s best friend. You’re a cheater and a liar.”
“Please, honey,” she says, all conciliatory, arms outstretched as if I am four years old and all I need is a hug from Mommy to make my boo-boo better. Like my words bounced right off her.
“Do you have any idea what you did to Dad? He was going to divorce you. He was going to break up our family. That’s how much you must have hurt him!” I am screaming at the top of my lungs, so loud that our neighbors the Jacksons can probably hear me even with their windows closed. I don’t care. I need this to stick. “All because you’re a big slut.”
“Kit!”
“Stop saying my name! You don’t get to say my name! You don’t get to do anything!”