The Lighter Side of Life and Death (24 page)

“Thanks.” I skipped dinner in favor of more video games but the hot dog at Charlie’s did the trick; I’m not hungry at all.

I go upstairs and lie on my bed and it feels as though I never left. The headache’s back with a vengeance and hot dog–flavored puke scratches around indecisively at the bottom of my throat. It’s a definite low point. There’s no one I want to talk to, nowhere
I want to be and nothing I want to do. I don’t even have the energy to throw up.

After a long while I fall asleep and I don’t remember what I dream about, but when I wake up at twenty after three I realize I was wrong earlier. There’s still one person I want to speak to tonight, the person who promised she’d absolutely be there for me if I needed her. She sounded sincere when she said it, but alone at twenty after three in the morning, with that partially digested hot dog burning a hole in my throat, I can’t convince myself that she actually meant it.

Maybe some promises aren’t meant to be cashed in. Anyway, I wouldn’t know what to say if I got Kat on the phone.

Andrea phones on
Sunday afternoon and I make the mistake of answering. Her tone’s disapproving, making it obvious that Nina already told her about Colette and me. My voice bumps up an octave as I talk to her and I immediately feel like an even bigger ass. I’m not sure what Andrea and Nina think of me but I can imagine the options. Either I’m some kind of sex addict or an impressionable young victim caught in Colette’s hedonistic web.

I don’t know which is worse and I don’t want to think about what it’s like for Colette. There’s no way she’ll show up at the wedding now, regardless of whether Nina lets the invitation stand; I’m positive about that without anyone having to tell me. And no matter what she does from this moment on, Colette could already have lost her best friend. Of course, she’ll still have Ari but I don’t want to think about that either.

I’m relieved when I run out of weekend and find myself surrounded by all the people I wanted to avoid on Saturday night. At
lunch Monica Gregory totters over to our table in zebra-print high heels and apologizes for not being able to make it on Saturday on account of being in the middle of breaking up with Hugo. “I was all ready to go,” she says, pulling up a chair between Chris Cipolla and me. “I had my swimsuit picked out and everything.” Tears form in Chris’s eyes as she says that, and I crack a grin knowing that we’re both picturing Monica G’s perfect body poured into a microscopic bikini. “Then Hugo starts coming out with all this crap about how I shouldn’t be going to a party he’s not invited to.”

She doesn’t seem particularly upset about the split; she never does. We tell her that it’s okay, she can make the next party, and after she teeters off Jamie tells me about that Jody girl he was talking to all Saturday night and how he’s thinking about giving her a call. I tell him she seems cool and that he probably should and he smiles and says yeah.

Meanwhile Miracle’s glowing with happiness and it’s hard to look at her without thinking about my breakup with Colette, so mostly I don’t. I tell her the news as we’re leaving the cafeteria and she clenches my arm and whispers a heartfelt “I’m sorry.”

Words like that are supposed to make you feel better but that’s not how it works. Now I feel sorry for myself on the way to English. Twentieth-Century History last period wouldn’t be much better, except that Kat’s staring at me again. I’d love to rest my cheek in my palm and stare back until she turns away but I’m as scared of her as ever. It’s insane; we’re barely speaking and I’m still afraid to lose something. The only thing left is that promise I’ll never hold her to anyway and I’m still scared.

I don’t make a move towards her.

I don’t say a word.

I barely even look in her direction.

The fear’s worse now because I’m messed up and I think she can sense that, the way she always seems to sense things about me, because she’s staring more than usual. Her eyes are so intent on me that my neck reddens as I peer at Mr. Echler sweeping his Jesus hair over his shoulders. I wonder if Kat notices the blushing too but I stay focused on Echler, trying to ignore his voice and find meaning in the words.

I try but it’s impossible. A handful of Xanax would be more stimulating.

So history goes on forever and when the bell rings it feels like I’ve aged forty years. I’ve even stopped blushing. I plod into the hall, towards my locker and then home, feeling lonelier than when I left for school this morning because Kat Medina and I will probably never have a real conversation again.

Once classes are done with in a couple weeks I might not even lay eyes on her again until September. I won’t tell her that I’ve missed her and that maybe certain things shouldn’t have happened between us. I won’t explain about crashing into Colette’s life and trying to carve some space there for myself. It would just sound like bullshit anyway; Kat would never want to hear any of that.

When I get home Brianna’s hanging out on the front step with Merilee and Jane, the three of them in identical yellow miniskirts and flip-flops. Brianna had her hair streaked blond when she was at the hairdresser the other day so now it actually looks pretty. Jane’s limbs are covered in freckles and Merilee’s staring at me like she’d devour me whole if given the chance. “Hi, Mason,” Merilee calls, energetically batting her thickly mascaraed eyelashes at me. “Want to hang out with us?”

On my front step? Sounds exciting. “Nah,” I say amicably. “I’m gonna catch a few hours’ sleep.”

“You going out later?” she asks. Brianna, hands on her hips, grimaces but Merilee’s not easily discouraged. “Where do you usually hang out?”

“Friends’ houses mostly. Nowhere special.” My eyelids are as heavy as elephant feet. No wonder I’m having triple vision—except for Merilee’s toe rings and anklet. She wiggles her toes as I glance down at them. “Is Burke around?”

“Downstairs watching
Yu-Gi-Oh!
” Brianna volunteers. “If you can watch him we can go to the mall or something.” This is the first time anyone’s asked me to babysit and Brianna hastily adds, “You barely have to do anything—you know what he’s like. You can just snooze in the basement while he watches TV.”

She shoots me a pleading look and after a couple seconds (during which I relish my sudden power), I say, “Sure. Go ahead.”

Brianna’s face lights up (as much as this is possible considering we’re talking about Brianna) as she thanks me. Three sets of legs and yellow skirts saunter away in the direction of the bus stop and I descend into the basement to hang out with Burke. We eat potato chip, pickle and tomato sandwiches while watching
Yu-Gi-Oh!
Then we play the most kid-friendly video game I own until Nina comes home from work with unhappy eyes and wants to know where Brianna “disappeared to.”

I don’t know precisely where she is, just who she’s with, but I assure Nina that I agreed to watch Burke and that there’s no problem. Nina gives me this stone-faced look like I don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m sure it’s because of my history with Colette, which is unfair, but I don’t argue. How can you argue with a look? Anyway, Nina, still semi-frowning, thanks me for babysitting and goes upstairs to make dinner. If anyone’s figured out a way to make everyone happy at the same time, let me know. I think I’m flunking Stepfamily Integration 101.

———

Time speeds up as soon as I start work at The Java Bean. We don’t do latte art like some places and we don’t have near enough outlets for people who want to plug in their laptops and make use of the free Wi-Fi, but the morning shifts are hectic as hell and the first time I work with Chris Cipolla we decide to start the day off with quad espresso shots. Our hands shake for two hours afterwards but it definitely helps us pick up the pace.

Sometimes I even get through an entire shift without thinking about Colette for more than ten seconds at a time. Of course there are also times that I expect her to step through the door at any moment, but then something usually happens to distract me—Chris will knock over a pitcher in the refrigerator and it’ll take an army of towels to clean it up or I’ll burn my knuckles with hot tea (Darlene tells me you get used to it but I suspect that’s called nerve damage) or this guy who everyone says used to be infatuated with Letitia will stand around at the counter talking to me about his blues CD being released next month.

Anyway, that’s what it’s like and that’s what my summer will be like. Classes are finished and I’m on exams now, which means I don’t see most of the people from school as much as before. Brianna still tries to argue with me sometimes but I tell her I’m going to walk away if she continues being a pain, and then I do. Usually everything’s more or less fine the next time I see her and one morning Nina tells me she’s noticed that we’re getting along better lately and that she really appreciates me making the effort because she knows Brianna hasn’t made it easy for me.

I’m glad to hear someone else noticed that and I quote what Kat said months ago about living in a house with the two other people that have always belonged there. It sounds both simple
and true and it feels strange all over again to have lost that perspective.

Later that same night Dad forces me to go out and look for a new barbecue with him (even though there’s nothing wrong with the old one). He gets all moody when I’m quiet in the car and then I know he wants to talk to me about something but the only thing he works up to saying is “Things seem to be working out well for you at the coffee shop. It must be nice to have some time to yourself now … no classes and so on.”

And so on … Yeah.

Aside from Jamie, no one mentions Colette again and it’s almost like our relationship never happened. It makes me miss her worse—mostly when I’m sitting around doing nothing and then I have to phone someone and convince them to pick me up.

It’s a strange in-between time because logically I know it’s finished but somehow I can’t really believe it’s over. There’s all that waiting for her to walk into JB, the fact that she’s so often only four doors away, that I still know her phone number by heart and keenly remember how every part of her body looks and tastes in the dark. I even found some Lunatic Fringe MP3s on the Net and she was right; they’re incredible.

Given all this I’m not surprised when Colette actually does drift into The Java Bean during the middle of my third week. She’s with a tiny blond woman with masses of curly hair and the two of them look stress-free and lightly bronzed. I’m on the cash register for the shift so I have no choice but to take their order.

My teeth taste bitter in my mouth. I feel my stomach gurgle in protest as Colette and the blonde approach the counter. I lean against it with studied casualness, faintly queasy.
Ian Chappell could pull this off pantless
. I’d settle for a tenth of his confidence.

“Hi, Mason,” Colette says, her tone giving no clue of the drama
we’ve been through together. She’s wearing sunglasses, so I can’t see her eyes, but she smiles and orders a mango smoothie. Except for the tan she looks exactly like the last time I saw her. That shouldn’t be a shock but it is.

Her friend/coworker orders chai tea and continues chatting away to Colette about Pilates. It’s surreal. I smile, punch in their orders and make polite change but it’s all an act. I’m professional Barista Boy, not the sixteen-year-old guy who slept with Colette Fournier.

Colette and her friend leave as quickly as they arrived and I don’t have time to mentally process the encounter but it aches like fuck. By the end of my shift I’m so desperate to be alone that I bump into two Japanese girls on my way out of the staff room and nearly topple one over. She reaches out and falls into my arms with a harried laugh. I apologize and help her regain her footing but beneath the surface I’m suffering something brutal. We sidestep each other as Christopher’s voice sails over the Barenaked Ladies tune on the stereo: “Mason, if you forget your cell phone one more time I swear I’ll donate it to charity or put it out with the napkins.”

I glance back at him behind the counter and he adds, “Under the coatrack in the staff room.”

So I double back to the staff room where my phone’s lying facedown on the tile floor, underneath the coatrack, exactly like Chris said. I have two messages and I listen to the first one as I make my way out the front door. Jamie wants me to call him when I get home. Then Colette’s voice comes to life, tender and deliberate. It stings so much to hear that at first I can hardly comprehend her syllables as words.

“Mason, that wasn’t as easy as it looked for me just now,” she says softly. “I hope you understand that we can’t speak privately anymore and I really hope you’re doing okay. You’ve probably
noticed that I’ve been avoiding The Java Bean lately and I don’t think I’ll be in there very often this summer. That’s probably better, isn’t it? … I’m sorry, I don’t know what to say. I just hope that you’re not mad at me and I’m sorry if I did anything to cause you pain. That wasn’t my intention. Don’t be mad at me. Please. I’m sorry, Mason.”

That’s it. That’s all she has to say to me after three weeks. I wrench the phone away from my ear, open my fist and let it drop onto the sidewalk. It makes a pathetically tiny ping as it connects with the cement in front of my feet. The blue screen stares reproachfully up at me, offering the time and declaring itself “Ready.” If I wanted to smash the damn thing I could pick it up again and hurl it full force; it’s not a black box, for God’s sake, it’s breakable. Instead I kick it a few paces ahead of me and watch it glide like a hockey puck on ice. When I catch up with it a couple seconds later I snatch it up and delete her message before I can change my mind.

For the first few steps afterwards I’m proud of myself for being ruthless. I don’t need that kind of reminder weighing me down. How many times did she tell me she was sorry during that message—two or three? How many times did she say my name? I’ve already forgotten the exact details.

What a pointless thing to do. Why’d she even bother?

I’m furious with myself for being sad. If I hadn’t deleted the message I’d be listening to it at this very moment, twenty short seconds after I killed it. I sacrificed the message and spared my phone. Does that mean something?