“Mr. Freeman loves that quote. Did you have him for history?”
“Yeah, sophomore year.”
“I love his classroom. All of those nice posters he put in frames instead of just tacking them on the walls like all the other teachers do. How he always has tea on his desk and the electric kettle that makes the room all foggy when it’s cold out. I never wanted that period to end. Even though we were talking about wars and betrayals and death, about all of these horrible things and how they repeat themselves, when I was in his room, everything somehow felt safe.”
Mark is watching me as I’m saying this as though I’m answering his question from earlier tonight. And maybe I am. Or, at least, I’m doing my best considering that I don’t know what the answer is.
What’s going on with you?
If I could put it into words, it might not sneak up behind me like it does.
I close my eyes.
Violet.
But it isn’t working anymore. She’s no longer an idea or a spell or a daydream. She’s someone whose mouth I’ve kissed. She knows I have issues and that I run away, and even though I should find comfort in the knowledge that she wants me anyway, I don’t.
I can’t find comfort anywhere.
“Let’s walk,” Mark says.
We pass the Japanese restaurant we went to with Violet. We pass a karaoke bar and a man laying out blankets in a doorway for shelter from the night, fast-food restaurants and a fancy jazz club, hipsters and beggars, a tattoo parlor and a church. And then the street becomes quieter, lined with apartment after apartment and no one but us and the rushing cars and the occasional person returning home.
We get to the end of a block and we stop. The city lights stretch below us.
Mark says, “I didn’t even notice we were walking uphill.”
“I didn’t, either,” I say, though I find that I’m catching my breath.
I’m trying to figure myself out. I keep failing.
“Tell me about that night,” I say.
He turns to me.
“They aren’t going to ask us, but it’s still ours.”
He nods.
“Okay,” he says. “We showed up on the doorstep and we didn’t know what to expect. We rang and waited for what felt like forever, but then that guy—George—he opened the door and he let us in. It was like a scene out of Gatsby, but gayer. Unless you agree with Mr. Chu and think that weird part with the ellipses means that Nick and Gatsby hooked up, in which case it was like a scene out of Gatsby, and just as gay. The place was full of ferns and overlapping rugs and champagne on silver trays carried by hot caterers and being drunk by even hotter guests. And George said, ‘We’ve been waiting for you!’ and even though it felt impossible, it also felt true.” He takes a breath. “Now you.”
“It was true. They had been waiting for us. We crossed under this giant chandelier to where the photographer was lounging with his friends. They asked us to tell them about our night, and everything we said, they loved.”
“I can’t believe how interested they were in us.”
“I can,” I say. I concentrate. I try to find the reason behind it. “What’s happening to us—the decisions we’re making and not making, the things we can control and the things that we can’t—they are huge. And people can choose to forget how it was for them, or they can remember. They can half-listen to us and roll their eyes when we leave because we’re young and we have no fucking clue what we’re doing. Or they can actually listen, and they can think about themselves when they were like us, and maybe we can bring some pieces of them back.” And now my eyes are welling up, my hands are trembling. “Because we lose it,” I say. “We grow up and we lose ourselves. Sometimes when my favorite songs are on I have to stop what I’m doing and lie down on my carpet and just listen. I feel every word they’re singing. Every note. And to think that in twenty years, or ten years, or five, even, I might hear those same songs and just, like, bob my head or something is horrible. Then I’m sure I’ll think that I know more about life, but it isn’t true. I’ll know less.”
Tears are covering my face now.
“Look at me,” I say. “So stupid. You were probably expecting something real, but all I have to explain myself is some existential crisis.”
“No,” Mark says. “Don’t say that.”
“But really. Here you are, going through an actual event with Ryan, and here I am, freaking out because I’m thinking too much.”
“No,” he says again. “That’s your future self talking. Your grown-up, dumb-fuck self.”
I laugh. He reaches for my hand.
“Tell me what happened next.”