Finding Mr. Brightside (10 page)

“The popcorn guy?”

She nods and waves me away from the danger impatiently, until I step down.

“Did he drown in it?” I ask, as we place the cover back on.

“After his massive heart attack, probably … Can we go to the beach?” She grabs my towel and hands it to me. “I need to make an emergency phone call, and so do you.”

“Yes,” I say. “Several of them.”

As we step onto the sandy boardwalk, she tells me about poor Orville, and then another cautionary tale involving Heidi and a hot-tub-related staph infection that makes my foot tingle like it’s been saved from amputation. The wind picks up as we near the water’s edge. We stop just short of the lapping waves, sit down in the sand as she tells me she’s sick of the sound of her own voice and removes Heidi’s cell phone from her folded towel. We take turns making liquid 9-1-1 calls from the antenna spout, sending fake texts from the rubber keyboard in the interim, enjoying each other’s company minus any disruptions from nonfictional technology.

“You sure it’s okay for you to be drinking on Adderall?”

“Yes, according to my doctor.” Her poker face is less convincing under the influence, so she turns her head from me and takes her next swig in private.

“Maybe I should give him a quick buzz,” I say.

Juliette hands the flask back to me so I can knock myself out. As I’m fake-dialing, she says, “Want to go skinny-dipping?”

I forget about everything and start glancing around, spot a few flashlight beams in the distance—people hunting for crabs, not the police coming to arrest us, as Juliette suggests. They’re a good mile or so away. For all impractical purposes, we’re alone.

I look back at her. “I shouldn’t take that proposition seriously, right?”

“What if I’m serious?”

“Then … I don’t know … let’s be serious about it?”

She stands up as if she’d like to see someone stop her. I am not that guy. Right now, I’m the guy who’s starting to take off his shirt.

23

Juliette

T
HIS IDEA IS LOSING
the little appeal it had now that I’m standing upright, the wind gusting through my skin. I look down, rake the sand with the bottoms of my toes, having just remembered something truly awful about myself … my body! It’s
not
on-point—just pointy, best viewed in the pitch darkness, or in an asexual one-piece, definitely not in all its bikini-free glory. Abram, possessing no such hang-ups, is already stripping off his salmon-colored T-shirt, the one with the holes and the dangling strings that I’ve been meaning to misplace for him. He gives me an impish look, like he’s about to get in trouble but doesn’t care, before sliding down his gym shorts. His thumbs are inside the band of his underwear when my neck whiplashes back around toward the sea.

Tops or bottoms first? It’s like the worst of both worlds. I reach around and find the clasp, fiddle with it for an anti-erotic eternity. Then I feel Abram beside me. He takes my hand, at first like a father figure because I’m so tense, until I can loosen my fingers enough for him to slide his between them.

“Still counts,” he says quietly, letting me know it’s okay to cheat. “Kept my underwear on.”

I let out the breath I’ve been holding and start walking forward with him, both of us making a point of looking straight ahead, as if there’s no such thing as peripheral vision. How else could I see the curve of his calf muscle, the ridges of his quads, the V-shaped shadows pointing down toward his underwear? What does he see in me when there’s literally nothing to see besides a two-dimensional blond stick with goose bumps?

If I were him, I’d be over me.

ABRAM

H
ER BEAUTY MULTIPLIES
when she’s vulnerable, makes her look like a beach angel who could drift off into the abyss if I’m not careful … hence the dogged persistence of my hand-holding. The majority of my focus is on not letting her become a danger to herself, as it should be; the rest is on making sure things don’t get too prominent down yonder. For once, I’m looking forward to the physiological effects of freezing water. It’s not like I’m trying to get on her in the Atlantic. All I really want is the chance to kiss her, whether that’s on land or in ocean, naked or clothed, makes no difference, not picky.

“I can’t feel my lower extremities,” she says.

“That’s not good. We can go back whenever.”

The appreciation flashing in her green eyes sparks my imagination, inspires it to read too much into things:
Dude, look at the way her lips are parting, her head tilting to the side like she’s seeing you as her significant other for the first time—is it just me, or does she want you to kiss her?

Juliette

I
COULD KISS HIM
for that let’s-go-back suggestion … to be continued, again. My teeth have to stop chattering first.

“Doesn’t count until we’re swimming,” I say, dumbly wading onward, looking around for an iceberg we could float out on.

Hard to fathom why he’s waited so long for a measly make-out session with this, especially considering how many sluts there are in the sea. Would it kill me to be a whore for two seconds? Never mind, I’m dying, because we’ve reached the part where we actually have to support ourselves without walking. And now we’re kicking, floating, arms circling as our circulation cuts off, looking at each other and wondering what’s next. I swim closer, an inch or two away from his face, trying to steal some of the steam rising from his head. He’s attempting to be respectful by not pressing up against me, yet still keeping his skin close enough to keep mine as warm as possible. How did he know that’s his new job? The blue in his eyes is darker than usual, the ink of his pupils having taken over, blind in their mission to make the most of this misadventure all about me. And that really does make me want to do something interesting for him in return. I’m getting there, I’ve stopped shivering, our lips are as close as they’ve ever been … and that’s when I feel it … not Abram … a sea creature
gnawing at my foot
. I scream for my life—funny how much I suddenly care about it—then I groan for my death, because it’s going to be a stupid one featured on
Shark Week,
with bittersweet commentary from surviving loved ones. I can count on my dad’s refusal to be interviewed, but Heidi will cave and tell them everything, as will Abram’s aunt Jane, because that lady sounds like she was born to do shows in need of fringe opinions.…

Abram is repeating my name, waving his hand in front of my face to get my attention. “That was my foot,” he says, and it finally registers. I reach down to feel my leg, make sure there isn’t a hammerhead attached to it, and … I’ve just had a far-death experience. We’re laughing, practically fused together, as we swim to shore.

It’s nice to have the last laugh be about something funny, not final.

ABRAM

W
ASN’T JUST MY IMAGINATION.
Definitely should’ve kissed her.

24

Juliette

R
UNNING—THE HOUR UNGODLY,
the sun barely up. It’s just me on this stretch of beach, and the sand is solid enough to keep my ankles from breaking, so those are two positives making it harder to complain about how I can’t sleep in South Carolina, either, for instance. Meanwhile, Abram’s still unconscious on the couch bed, recovering from his wild night with the new Juliette. That version is a
nightmare
, too.

Which is why I’ve downloaded a self-help audiobook from the black cloud that stores files above my iPhone. The title is
Silence Speaks
, and what can I say besides it spoke to me? The message is very Buddhist in nature, meaning the author sure does love trees and each short chapter is punctuated by the plunk of a single raindrop. He frequently encourages me to “be still” (can’t, running) and process my surroundings “without attaching a label to everything” (not realistic). I wonder what he’d say about this mid-run pill I’m about to take? Probably something like,
Is it you who thinks you need that pill, or is that your ego-run mind telling you a story about how Juliette, the girl who’s on Adderall, is due for her next one?
My response to all this is to continue dry-swallowing the pill, but be a tinge more conflicted about it than usual. At the same time, the seagulls increase their cawing overhead, guffawing at how little I’m progressing, the desperate measures I’m taking by listening to this spiritual guru turn each sentence into something I want to be over halfway before he finishes.

“Remain present,” he says zenly. “Don’t let your life be run by the illusion of time. Quit examining the past for clues to your identity, looking to the future for your salvation.”

Know who doesn’t need an audiobook to remind him not to check his watch every other second? Abram. He doesn’t wear a watch; often forgets his cell phone in his car because it’s perpetually slipping out of his pocket, and still finishes the nothing he’s been doing once he realizes it’s gone. Just another one of life’s challenges he’s conquering better than I am by putting forth the minimal amount of effort.

“Where’s the nearest Starbucks?” I yell out to one of my best friends, startling the cute, old-ladyish runner I’m sprinting past. She points to her earmuff-sized headphones, thinking I was asking her; I point to my phone and mouth
Siri
. This doesn’t clear up the confusion, but she cares as much as I do about getting to the bottom of it, which is very little. I love her like an ancestor.

I veer off to the left, looking for the nearest yard to cut through.

*   *   *

I just ordered an iced coffee for Abram. What does that mean? I don’t know, but the green Starbucks straw complements his blue eyes, giving the flecks of kindness in them something to bounce off besides the emerald void of my irises.

“Can I have your name, please?” the Starbucks barista asks in the squeaky voice of a former Olympic gymnast.

“Sorry?”

“Your name?”

Starbucks’ customer-personalization policies aren’t—looking at her name tag—Janette’s fault, but I don’t see anyone from corporate to blame. Deep breath, calm down, remain present, what would Abram do? He’d answer her. Maybe even ask how brutal her day has been so far.

“Angela,” I inform her.

Janette’s marker squeaks across the side of my drink as she writes it. “You
do
kind of look like an Angie.”

Gross!

“I don’t really go by Angie,” I say, because Angela is one of those defensive girls who’s spent her entire life fighting the shortened version of her name—she’s awful, but I could relate to what she’s been through if people tried to call me Julie or, please never, Jules.

“No worries,” the barista says with a
What is she on?
look on her face that makes me like her more. I smile and wink like I was totally joking.

“You staying on the island long?”

“Yuck. Do I look like a tourist, Janette?”

She smiles. “Not at all. You have
that glow
about you.”

I hold up my arm, re-examining my stark-white tan.

“Ha, you know what I mean,” Janette says, like we’re in on something juicy together.

“Sorry, I don’t.”

“Is the lucky guy here with you?” she whispers, looking around the café.

I shake my head slowly, then force myself to acknowledge what she’s been getting at. “Still passed out on the couch, unfortunately.”

“Where’d y’all meet?”

“Oh, you know, we were both
in the neighborhood
,” I say, and there’s a throaty, womanly quality to my voice that catches us both off guard. It’s
the her
in me—kind of similar to when Kate Hudson suddenly sounds exactly like Goldie Hawn, but without their relatable qualities and unbreakable mother-daughter bond.

“Hello?” I say into my cell. It’s Siri. I make a regretful face to Janette, pointing to the phone like I have to take this call. She hands me a drink carrier and waves me away like these sorts of interruptions happen all the time. I’m grabbing a napkin to wrap around Abram’s iced coffee at the drink-doctoring station I typically avoid, when I feel her eyes back on me, if they ever even left. There’s something else in them besides curiosity, which has absolutely no business being there: my business.

25

ABRAM

J
ULIETTE’S STANDING
over the couch bed with her arms crossed, dressed in a pair of tight black workout pants and a matching black long-sleeve. No clue what time it is, but she’s about to tell me what I’m late for.

“We’re going for a run,” she says with extra intensity, handing me an iced coffee. Unexpected bonus: She’s already put the straw in for me. I take the water-beaded cup from her hand, thanking her, trying not to drain it in one gulp as she watches me bring the straw to my lips for three mini-chugs in a row.

She pulls back the blankets from my chin. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

I’m in my boxer briefs. Thankfully, nothing’s escaped or excited or arranged at an odd angle. I sit up and start looking around the floor for the same clothes I wore last night. She points to the overstuffed chair next to the fireplace, having already laid out a clean pair of shorts, a T-shirt, and socks. She also found the remote control to the fireplace, because the flames are crackling. Through the window behind it, the sun is rising above the water.

“Don’t put on your shirt yet.” She walks over and starts spraying me down with enough sunscreen to make the ozone a moot layer. Not that I’m complaining, especially when she starts rubbing the spray gently into my neck, as liberally as she’s ever done anything when it comes to touching me. She even remembers the backs of my ears.

A short while later, we’re on the beach, running, and it doesn’t suck as much as I recalled, but I’m sure sucking a lot of air.

“You okay?” Juliette asks, with plenty of breath to spare.

I nod.

“Adderall?” she offers, as casually as one would an Advil. “I keep an extra underneath the insert of my shoe.”

Once I realize she’s not kidding, I shake my head no, and she looks at me like it’s my loss. Except it’s not, I tell her, because that tiny chunk of pill she gave me a few weeks ago, before eighth period, made my brain latch on to all kinds of to-do’s:
Abram! You should make a bunch of lists and clean your locker and pick scabs that turn out to be freckles and trim your fingernails, but it’s essential that you do this all at the same time!