Crash Test Love (17 page)

“Nothing says romantic more than dying,” I tease.

“Oh, you know what I mean.”

And the funny thing is that, yes, I do.

2. Gone with the Wind, 1939

Tuesday Night

I could try to explain everything that happens in this movie, but I would fail miserably. It’s nuts. The main character’s name is Scarlet O’Hara, and she has a lot of husbands even though she only loves one man, who is married to someone else; eventual y, she realizes she actual y loves the man she is married to (her third husband), but it’s too late. In the end, al she’s left with is her home and her hope.

“I have no desire to end up like her,” Garret whispers. “One guy is enough for me, thanks.”

“You won’t,” I assure her.

Me, on the other hand? I’m not so sure.

1. Casablanca, 1942

Wednesday Night

Clearly one of the best lms ever. Humphrey Bogart sacri ces his love for Ingrid Bergman and does the “right thing,” sending her o to America with her husband while a war rages in Europe.

Sucks.

“I wish he’d left with her in the end,” Garret says.

“He couldn’t have. She would have hated him for it, ultimately.”

She considers this. “Maybe. But maybe not. What if he made the wrong decision?”

“At least he made a decision. Didn’t keep her in limbo.”

“So making any decision at al is more important than making the right decision?”

“No, I’m not saying that. But what’s right? There are no ‘right’ decisions in life. There are just decisions. And people make them. Then they deal with the consequences.”

Garret touches my chin with her hand. “You think a lot of things.”

I laugh. “And that’s bad?”

“No. It’s wonderful. There’s so much inside you. Every day I see you there is more and more.” I’m unsure where she’s going with this.

She kisses my cheek. “It means you’re human.”

“Did you ever think I wasn’t?”

“Did you ever think I wasn’t?”

“I had my doubts.”

Ingrid Michaelson’s “Be OK” is playing, and we listen to her wispy voice as I drive.

“So, is now ‘later’?” Garret asks.

“What do you mean?”

“You said you would tel me more about your mom later. You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but I’d real y like to hear about her. And about you.”

I pul into her driveway and turn o the engine. I sit silently for a few seconds before answering, “Why?”

“Because I want to know you, Henry.”

I have never had anyone want to know me. I have never had anyone I want to want to know me. And here is this remarkable girl sit ing next to me asking al the right questions. And I think: So what if she leaves someday? Is that a good enough reason to shut her out? Would it be so wrong to let her in? Is she going to run away as soon as she realizes how incredibly fucked up I am? And so what if she does? Would I care?

Yes. I would care.

“Okay,” I tel her. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything,” she says, reaching for my hand in the dark and nding it. “I want to know everything.” And so I tel her. What it was like to one day not have a mother anymore, to know that she was out there, somewhere, but that it was more important to her to live her life—however she’s living it—than to be with me. How it felt to miss her every single day, clinging to the most insigni cant things (the way she brushed her hair, the sound of her making breakfast every morning), until now, when the recol ections I have of the woman who gave birth to me, who helped raise me for the rst twelve years of my life, are like copies from a printer that has run out of ink.

“My dad boxed up al her pictures in our basement about a year after she left, once he realized she wasn’t coming back. I used to go down there every day and look through them, hoping that if I closed my eyes and wished hard enough she would just appear.” I try to laugh, but the sound gets caught in my throat. “One day, I stopped looking at them because they made me so angry, and so sad.” Garret squeezes my hand. “How can someone you love just leave you?”

Then it happens. Suddenly and surely and nal y, I am crying. I don’t know if it’s for my mother or myself or both of us, but it doesn’t real y mat er. The tears spil out and I can’t stop them. Garret whispers “Shh” in my ear, and “It’s okay, I’m here,” and I don’t feel like a baby for crying in front of her, which kind of surprises me. I just feel like me.

Later, I lie awake in bed and ache for her. I wish she were next to me, her hand on my chest, her legs wrapped around mine. Because being with Garret , wel , it’s the rst time I haven’t felt alone since my mother left. And the interesting thing about not being alone, the good thing, the revelation, is that it feels much bet er than being by yourself.

GARRETT

“On a scale of one to ten, ten being Rachel McAdams, nine being Rihanna, eight being Lindsay Lohan when she lmed Mean Girls, seven being Beyoncé, six being Kim Kardashian’s ass, ve being Kel y Clarkson, four being Jordin Sparks’s thighs, three being the girl from the Hairspray movie remake, two being Raven-Symoné, and one being Rosie O’Donnel , how does this dress make me look?” The J Squad and I are standing in the dressing room area of Betsey Johnson at the mal . London is trying on a strapless white gown with tiny owers embroidered in blues and purples.

Jyl ian squints and tel s London to turn around. “Eleven?”

“I think you look like sunshine,” says Jessica, who is trying on a pink dress and twirling in front of the mirror.

“Shut up,” London says, smacking her. “G, what do you think?”

“You look cute,” I say, “but like, too cute. Like you’re thirteen or something.”

“Ugh,” London says. A few minutes later, she’s back in her regular clothes. “Thanks for being honest,” she tel s me. “You’re such a good friend.”

“Of course.”

“Jessica, are you get ing that dress?” London asks.

Jessica stops twirling. “I don’t think so. When I spin, you can’t see my underwear.” London sighs. “Al right. Let’s go, then.”

Jessica and Jyl ian go to Bloomingdale’s, while London and I go to Anthropologie. Luckily, they have the dress I like in my size.

“How does it look?” London asks, standing outside my changing room.

“Not sure yet,” I say. There’s a knock on the door. “I don’t need anything else, thanks!”

“It’s just me,” London says.

I undo the lock and she slips inside. “Here.” London zips the back. “Turn around.” The dress is gorgeous. I feel shiny and new. “What do you think?”

For a moment I wonder whether London’s going to say something curt, which is sort of her way. “It’s great,” she says. “It’s perfect for you.”

“Thanks,” I tel her, surprised by the compliment. “I’m glad you like it.”

And I am. I’m glad that she is here with me and that she thinks the dress looks good on me, because her opinion is important. I try to forget about Henry, about al his kisses and the way he makes me laugh. I’ve had boyfriends before. Shopping and spending time with girlfriends—this is what I’ve been missing my entire life. I suddenly want to be in the J Squad so badly that it hurts.

London smiles at me. “You know, I’m real y happy your family moved to Long Island.” Oh?

“You’re just what we needed. Something to spice up senior year. I can’t wait for Destiny’s party to be over and for you to be an o cial member of the J Squad, you know?”

I want to say: Why do we have to wait until after the party? You’re the one who made up the rules. Can’t you just break them?

“Me too,” I say.

London sighs dramatical y. “Okay, dear. I’l be right across the hal if you need me. You can’t be the only one who looks hot for al the cameras!” I close the door behind her and look in the mirror. Real y look. I am al sharp lines and dark hair. I try to picture myself stepping out of a limo and walking into Destiny’s party with Henry by my side. Henry. I think about his mother leaving. I think about how hard it was for him to tel me that he was alone and sad, to tel me about his father crying (and Henry crying!) and what it felt like to grow up without anyone real y standing by him, supporting him. My parents, despite their general craziness, have been the complete opposite. If anything, they care too much.

The longer I stare, the heavier my heart gets. There is one aw in my plan with the J Squad that I’d never truly anticipated until it was staring me in the face: fal ing for Henry Arlington. Is it possible to stop in midair? To catch myself from landing splat on the pavement and breaking into a mil ion pieces? Because no mat er what happens, the one thing I can’t foresee is a happy ending.

At home, I take out my guitar. The strumming relaxes me. I can smel my mother xing dinner, and my dad is stil at work “In the City” (The Eagles, 1979).

I’ve only been playing for a few minutes when my phone rings. I gure it’s Jessica or Jyl ian cal ing to gossip, or Henry, but when I look at the screen I’m so surprised I nearly fal o my chair.

I accept the incoming cal and wait. I feel like I just swal owed a mil ion packets of Pop Rocks.

“Hel o?”

“Hi,” I say.

“Garret ?”

That voice. It’s him. “Hi, Ben. How are you?”

“Good,” he says casual y, as though he didn’t dump me the last time we spoke. As though there hasn’t been radio silence between us. As though

“Good,” he says casual y, as though he didn’t dump me the last time we spoke. As though there hasn’t been radio silence between us. As though he didn’t “Shut Up and Let Me Go” (The Ting Tings, 2008). “You?”

“Oh, you know. Fine.”

“It’s been a while, huh?”

That’s the understatement of the century. Pop quiz. Should I:

A. Cry

B. Scream

C. Cry while screaming

D. Demand to know why he didn’t return my texts or my cal s

E. Tel him that I miss him

F. Read some of the poetry he wrote me last year and ask if al the times he compared me to a [insert ower type here] were lies G. Tel him he’s an asshole

H. Tel him I’l pay for him to y halfway across the country and visit me

I. Tel him I’l never see him again, even if he does y halfway across the country to visit me J. Say random things in Spanish and hope he hangs up

K. Hang up

L. Tel him he has the wrong number

M. Ask if he remembers the time we hooked up on a blanket in my backyard when no one was home N. Ask him if he remembers the time we hooked up while my old golden retriever, Daisy, watched us and barked O. Read him some of the e-mails I wrote to him that I never sent

P. Deny sending the ones I did send and claim that someone hacked into my Gmail account Q. Cry again, but harder this time and less intel igibly

R. Quote Shakespeare

S. Quote 50 Cent

T. Quote Taylor Swift

U. Sing him a song I wrote about how we’re meant to be together despite everything V. Sing him a song I wrote about how much I hate him and never want him back

W. A and J

X. M and S

Y. Al of the above

Z. None of the above

I go with Z. “Yeah, it sure has been.”

“It’s good to hear your voice,” he says.

“Is it?”

“Sure.”

“Is that why you’ve cal ed me so often?” So much for playing it cool. I try picturing him in his bedroom. Is he at his desk? On his bed? What is he wearing? I feel oddly numb. I would have thought that talking to Ben for the rst time since we broke up would elicit some huge emotional response on my end, but it doesn’t. I’m not even sure how much I real y miss him.

Final y, I ask, “So, how’s good old Mercer High?”

“The same.” He laughs. “Coach is total y riding my ass about applying early to Duke, and I’m like, Dude, I don’t wanna be stuck in North Carolina for the next four years, no mat er how good their basketbal team is.”

“Gotcha.”

Then there is silence. The uncomfortable kind.

“I haven’t real y had a chance to speak with Amy,” I tel him. “Her phone always goes straight to voice mail, and she’s never around when I cal her house. How is she?”

“She’s … good,” Ben says hesitantly. “We’ve been hanging out a lot since you left.”