Cracked Up to Be (21 page)

“I miss my mom, though,” Jake says randomly. “Before my dad fucked around on her she wasn’t as bitter and crazy as she is now.”

“Gee, who would’ve thought,” I say.

He laughs.

“She really thought I was going to stay with her. Like, she really—” He breaks off and shakes his head. “Anyway, that’s the worst thing I’ve done. Chose my dad.”

“That must be a relief for you,” I say, setting the apple on the table. “Imagine if you’d done something really, really bad.”

He stares at me, bemused.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“She’s your mom. She’ll forgive you. You’ll forgive her.”

“It could be years from now.”

“So you lose a little time. You still get to fix it.”

He sips his water.

“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”

“None of your business.” I run my finger along the ragged edges of the apple where I bit it. “Nothing that can be fixed.”

“It can’t be that bad.”

“You don’t know that, though, do you?”

“Okay. . . .” He chews his thumbnail. “It can’t be fixed, so let it go.”

“I’ll just do that.”

He’s forgotten his sandwich. He tilts his head back and closes his eyes and stays that way for a minute. Then he opens his eyes and stares at me.

“How do you get to be an eighteen-year-old who’s done something so unimaginably horrible it can’t be fixed? I mean, seriously?”

“Where’s your bathroom?”

He blinks.

“Through the living room, down the hall,” he says, pointing. “It’s the second door on the right.”

I wander through his living room, which is sort of quaint and cozy, and down the narrow strip of hall with doors that offshoot into bedrooms, closets and bathrooms. The room opposite the bathroom catches my attention. It’s unmistakably Jake’s room, from the clothes piled on the floor to the unmade bed. I check to see if he’s watching me from the kitchen. He’s not.

I cross the hall and enter his room.

You can tell a lot about a person from their personal space, go figure. The posters on the wall make Jake’s homesickness more evident than he ever would. There are no declarations of love for a particular band or movie, only shots of buildings in a city by the sea. I move to the bulletin board hanging over his desk and study the photographs tacked to it. Jake is in every single photo, naturally, and he’s always surrounded by people and he always looks happy. I lean forward and peer at a photo of him wedged between two people who I’m guessing are his parents, pre-divorce.

He looks a lot like his mom.

“My yearbooks are on the bookshelf, if you’re curious. And, uh, that’s my underwear drawer over there and of course there’s my closet. Snoop away.”

I try not to let on he’s startled me.

“Nice room,” I say.

“It does the job.” He’s right behind me, really close. “You never answered my question.”

“Don’t you ever get tired of asking me questions?”

“Have to fill the moment somehow,” he says.

I turn. We’re close. Like, I Could Kiss Him close. I skirt around him and sit on the bed. He sits beside me and clears his throat.

“I just wonder what you’re punishing yourself for, that’s all,” he says.

“I . . .” I clench my right hand, my fingernails digging into my palm. “I did something really wrong and I knew it was really wrong while I was doing it and I did it anyway.”

“It happens.”

“Not to me.”

My eyes hurt and my throat is tight. But I don’t want to cry in front of Jake because there’s nothing in it for me.

“Oh hey,” Jake says, alarmed, when the first tear gets by me. “I’m sorry.”

Goddammit.

“You should be.”

If my life were a movie, this would be the scene where I start blubbering and tell Jake to stay away from me or he’ll just end up hurt or dead and, I don’t know, maybe we’d kiss and try it anyway. But as fast as the tears come, they stop.

“Was it when—” He clears his throat. “Was it when you tried to kill yourself?”

I don’t say anything.

“I mean . . . what was that like?”

I snort. “Well, it was obviously a very happy period in my life.”

“Why are you doing that?”

“Doing what?”

“Snapping your fingers.”

I look down. Sure enough, I’m snapping. He reaches over and grabs my hand. Holds it. I try to act like it doesn’t bother me.

“I shouldn’t have asked,” he says.

It’s just getting more and more awkward. There are
hours
until tomorrow.

“I stole a few hundred dollars from Chris and I got the hell out of Corby,” I say after a minute. I’ve never talked about it like this before. “And I got a big bottle of booze and a big bottle of sleeping pills. And I downed both. And then I got found. And then I got my stomach pumped.”

“How close were you?”

“I don’t know.”

Not close enough.

The phone rings from some other room. Jake clears his throat and the moment is over. I wonder how people lived with each other before they could learn to count on these types of inconveniences.

“I should get that,” he says.

He leaves the room and a minute later his voice wafts into the bedroom from the kitchen and I can’t think of anything to do, so I start rifling through his nightstand. I wouldn’t do it if I knew he’d have a problem with it. Or maybe I would. Cough drops, condoms, old movie stubs and loose change. By the time Jake gets back, my hands are folded in my lap. He stands in the doorway, a silhouette.

“Parker, why are you here?” he asks.

“Do you want me to go?”

“No, no. It’s—” He steps into the room and sits back down beside me. “I was just wondering why you’re here. I mean, I’m
glad
you’re here, but—”

I kiss him then, not to shut him up, but because I want to and because no one says things like
I’m glad you’re here
to me anymore, which is mostly my fault, and I don’t know, I don’t want to keep coming back to him because it’s better if I don’t.

So I should get this part over with.

Jake kisses back. His lips are soft. My fingertips drift over his cheeks and I want this and I’m so caught up in how nice he feels and how nice he smells and the way he’s touching me, I can almost pretend it’s okay that I want this.

It’s okay to want this. Everything’s . . .

His mouth moves from my lips to my neck. I close my eyes.

“I’m glad I’m here,” I murmur.

“What?” His voice tickles my skin. He heard it. I know he did.

“Nothing,” I say, and his lips are on mine again.

I don’t remember lying down, but we’re lying down.

His hand slides up my shirt. He hesitates and I like the way his fingers dance around my skin, unsure, before his hands are all over me and mine are all over him and I half-expect to check out, but I’m really there for it. It’s not like at the dance, angry and forced. It’s terrible in its gentleness and he’s just wasting it on me.

twenty-one

“Leaving?”

Jake sounds disappointed and I don’t turn around because I don’t want to see it on his face. I finish off my glass of orange juice and set it in the sink.

“I can’t skip,” I say. “The school will call my parents, my parents will find out I lied about where I was, there will be a freakout of epic proportions from both parties and I won’t be able to graduate. You know how it is.”

“You could’ve woken me up,” he says. “I don’t have time to catch the bus now.”

“You should enjoy your day off,” I say. “You planned it.”

I finally turn around. Jake stands there, rumpled and sleepy eyed, hair sticking up at all sides. He smiles at me, crosses the room and gives me a kiss on the cheek and then the mouth. I count until it’s over. It doesn’t last very long. I mean, I’m not moving my lips or anything, so Jake can tell something’s wrong.

“What?” he asks, pulling away.

“Nothing.”

He studies me.

“This isn’t going to end well, is it?”

“Well, now that you mention it . . .”

But I can’t think of what else to say. I want to be biting about this, but it’s harder once you’ve had sex with a person. Twice.

“Just say it,” he says.

“It doesn’t change anything,” I tell him. “What we did.”

“Yeah, it does.”

“Okay, it does. But not the way you want it to.”

“Oh, come on, Parker,” he scoffs.

“I don’t want a . . .” I struggle with the words. “I don’t want to be with you.”

“Why?”

“Because. I don’t want be with you,” I repeat slowly, making sure to look him in the eyes. “Especially not now that I’ve been with you.”

It’s the best I can do. He swallows. He’s probably not taking it the way I mean it, and the way I mean it is that last night, after the first time we did it and I let him hold me, I knew I could ruin him. And I know I’m ruining him now, but it’s different.

It’s less.

“Is that it?”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“You’ll miss the bus,” he says.

He pads out of the room and I feel empty and kind of surprised that for once in my life things would go the way I want them to. Because this is what I want, isn’t it.

On my walk to the bus stop, I pass a dog stretched out on a lawn. It stares at me sort of accusingly.

It looks exactly like Bailey.

twenty-two

I’m avoiding Jake and Chris, and Mom and Dad have decided to send me to a real
live shrink. Like, they’ve set up an appointment and everything, even though I still do my homework and I haven’t missed one goddamn day of school. I can’t figure it out. It’s not like I binged on crystal meth, went crazy and shaved my head.

I cut my hair and our dog died.

So I trail Evan through the halls because I want to know how he does it. I’m not fooled for a second, not even with the haircut. The guy’s practically dying in plain sight and everyone leaves him alone. I want that.

It takes three days for him to realize he’s being shadowed. It all comes to a spectacular end when he makes a rough left turn and a sudden stop in the middle of the hall and I crash into him and my history books scatter all over the floor. The jig is up.

“Why are you following me?” he asks, bending down to retrieve my books. I rip them out of his hands. “Why have you
been
following me?”

“I—”

Wish I had liquid courage. My heart thuds in my chest and I can’t even do that neat thing where I make myself get angry instead of anxious.

He stares at me, wary and expectant.

“Why are you back?” I finally manage.

“Why do you care?”

The only thing I can think to do is shake my head at him, and he’s not interested in letting me waste his time, so he turns and goes the other way and I’ve got more pride than to chase after him, so I head back the way I came and crash right into someone—second time today my history books go flying.

“Jesus.”

Not Jesus. Jake. He bends down and grabs my books.

“Great, thanks,” I mutter, avoiding his eyes. Figures
now
all that anxiety would turn straight to rage. “What were you doing, following me? Were you just waiting for the opportunity to—”

He holds out my books without a word.

I grab them, but he doesn’t let go.

“Let go,” I say, tugging at them. “Give them to me.”

His grip on my books tightens. His knuckles go white. I grit my teeth and make myself look at him because that’s what he wants.

“It’s not going to work,” I say.

He releases the books. I clutch them to my chest and let him be the one who moves on. He passes me, close. I can smell him and for a second I think I’m in his bedroom again and his hand is trailing my cheek, my neck. In his bedroom where he kisses me and I sort of forget everything that came before it and everything that will have to come after. In his bedroom where I enjoy every single clumsy kiss and it surprises me, how I feel about it. Him. By the time we finish, it’s not that I’m—I mean, I don’t know what I am, so we do it again and later I realize it wasn’t that I was happy, it was that I wasn’t heavy, that there were these brief moments where the thing I make sure I live with wasn’t in every breath in and out. And that scares me because it’s not supposed to be that easy. Because that’s wrong. I’m supposed to be paying for this for the rest of my life.

Because that’s right.

“I don’t want
to see this shrink,” I announce. “I won’t go.”

Dinnertime. Dad’s at one end of the table, Mom at the other. My declaration causes Mom to stop sipping her drink and Dad sets his fork down and rests his chin in his hands. Their eyes meet and they have a telepathic conversation about it.

I hear every word and I don’t like what they’re saying.

She’s going to the shrink, right?

Of course she’s going to the shrink.

We’re good parents.

And then they both look at me like I’m—I don’t like the way they look at me.

Dad sighs and picks up his fork again. “You have to see her.”

“I see Grey. I see Grey once a week. That’s enough.”

“She says you’re uncooperative,” Mom says. “She says you never talk.”

“I’m not seeing a shrink. I’m not. I don’t—”

“Her name is Georgina Bellamy,” Dad interrupts gently. “She’s an excellent psychiatrist. She specializes in talking to teenagers who need help.”

“I don’t
need
help.” They don’t say anything. I push my plate away and cross my arms. “I’m not going. I’m not going to say it again.”

“We should’ve done it sooner,” Mom says to Dad, like I’m not even in the room. “The first time she got in trouble after—”

“I’ll hate you for it,” I say over her.

Dad turns to me. “If that’s what it takes to get you back—”

“Oh,
please.
That’s so pathetic.
This
is pathetic. Is this because of . . . is this because of what I—” Calm down, Parker; calm down. Calm. “Is this about Bailey? Because I didn’t want him to die; I just said that—”

It gets really quiet. And then Mom speaks.

“You know, after we buried Bailey, I came in and I thought—I don’t even
know
you anymore. I don’t even know my own daughter. You’re not the
same,
Parker.” She starts to cry. “You’re not the same.”