Finding Mr. Brightside (14 page)

It’s been at least ten seconds and the picture is already plummeting down people’s newsfeeds. I’ll give it thirty more seconds before I gladly pay Facebook ten dollars to promote it back up to the top. I tag Abram, hoping to bottom-feed a few Likes from his four-digit Friend count, and then check my e-mail to see if my dad’s written me back. I never finished my apology e-mail to him; got us a family subscription to Lumosity, the unnecessary brain-training website, and forwarded the notification along with a weird smiley face and a few warnings about not starting until his book is finished.

Huge relief to see his name back in my inbox where it belongs; his e-mail says the book is flowing and his brain is suddenly feeling much more flexible, even without the neuroscientific training he’s now moderately addicted to.
I’m proud of you, Dad
, I type in response. Am I allowed to say this as his child? Have I ever cared about such boundaries? Send. Facebook no longer seems Like-or-Death.

But I still want to check our Like count one more time … click. Seven people have Liked it, including Heidi, who also commented:
If only I’d been there in the background photo-bombing you!!

Oh, Heidi. Maybe I’ll finally go to that Britney Spears concert she’s been trying to drag me to for ten years—a trashy night on the town, just the two of us, would mean a lot to her. As I’m promising her this, via text, the last person on earth I’d expect to Like a picture of Abram and me pops up beside Heidi’s name.

I was secretly hoping she’d Like us together.

32

ABRAM

I
’M NOT SURPRISED
my mom Liked our picture. She’s a Facebook person. As well as a great person who doesn’t sweat the small stuff and would never be like,
Appreciate the olive branch, but I think I’m going to hang on to my self-alienating thoughts of being wronged by you, thanks.
That’s why she’ll always have love for my dad, keep his picture around the house, wear a red mummy dress for him every once in a while. I used to worry that this was stopping her from moving on, but I realized, after playing tennis yesterday, that it’s possible to have our fun and remember the good things about Dad, too.

Juliette moves the cursor over my mom’s name and clicks the Add Friend button. Glad I stayed awake long enough to watch this day getting even better. She looks over at me, blushes, then jokingly checks my pulse to cover up her friendliness shame.

“I won’t be offended when she doesn’t accept.”

“No need to not be offended,” I say, struggling to be coherent. Doesn’t matter, because Mom accepts a few seconds later, and it’s the only time in my life I’ve wondered what we’d all do without Facebook. Because Facebook, at least in terms of my mom and Juliette right now, is a place to start.

Juliette

W
ATCH OUT
, our picture is going viral. Fifty-plus people have Liked us so far, and I can’t stop watching the numbers climb like I’m accomplishing something, even when a scary-looking woman with a pixie haircut and visible biceps veins tries to ruin my Facebook buzz with her comment:
Oh, my god, SO CUTE TOGETHER. When are you two coming over to my house for dinner??? I’ll make my famous tofu lasagna!

“Aunt Jane,” Abram tells me, with one eye open.

I zoom in on her picture. “She means well?”

“That’s what they say,” he says. “That, and she doesn’t take no for an answer.” Then he sits up and kisses my nose—“Because I’ve never kissed it” is his rationale—before plopping back down and telling me to prepare for an aggressive Friend request.

I pretend I’m going to shut the laptop screen … then don’t because I’m still watching the Likes. I accept Aunt Jane’s request when it comes my way, have to laugh when she tags both Abram and me in her latest post, a Bible passage from 1 Corinthians, the “Love is patient, love is kind” thumper read at nearly every wedding ceremony by the bride or groom’s favorite aunt. It’s between Aunt Jane, my dad’s estranged sister in Oregon, and an empty pulpit—tough one. Both of Abram’s eyes are closed now, so I start reading, rewriting the words of 1 Corinthians in my head as I go.

Love doesn’t sigh impatiently. Love isn’t “over it” before it even started. Love isn’t like, “Does that Asian violinist have a nicer David Yurman bracelet than me? No, she definitely doesn’t. Thank God—can you imagine?” Love doesn’t thank God someone else has an inferior bracelet to make itself feel better. Love isn’t sitting across the table from someone it cares about, wondering, “That’s great about you and all, but what’s in it for me?” Love isn’t a loose cannon that’s forever pointing to its short fuse in an attempt to scare others away. Love doesn’t store throwaway comments in a safe place for reference during the next fight it picks. Love doesn’t lie about how much Adderall it’s taken or plans on taking in the future. Love protects its love object from harmful UVB rays, and too much junk food, and the selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors that are making him think mixing Ben & Jerry’s Cookie Dough ice cream with Cool Whip is an acceptably edible food invention. Love has confidence in its love object; knows there’s no reason to be suspicious, because clearly he’s not going anywhere given how many times it’s tried to push him away. Love doesn’t become paranoid and evacuate the premises without letting its love object know the panic button has been struck. Love doesn’t quit when the going gets awkward and overwhelming and it can’t deal, the end. Love stays put when something disguised as “better” comes along. Love knows the difference between what’s passing and what’s permanent, even if it pretends it doesn’t sometimes, just to see if its love object feels the same way.*

*Love realizes it shouldn’t play games.

I glance over at Abram and find him awake again, squinting through the artificial light of the laptop, smiling crookedly in my direction, like he suspects something but is too groggy to investigate. What if he was reading my mind that whole time?

“You want popcorn, too, don’t you?” he says.

I raise an eyebrow and shake my head in wonderment, like,
Wow, I can’t hide anything from you, can I?
I bet I look dumb right now. He slides out of the bed and pads off toward the microwave in his boxer briefs. You’d think he was fully dressed, like me, the way his arms and legs are so loose and nonchalant about so much of his body being on display. He really is a graceful mover, when he’s actually in motion. I should be thinking of anything else, so I redirect my attention to the beeping and whirring of the microwave, the kernels popping, the accompanying aroma of “movie theater butter.”

“Seriously, when are you going to admit you
love
popcorn?” Abram says when he returns with a steaming bag in hand.

“Probably never,” I say. “Or maybe the same day you remember the napkins.”

He gets back up.

Do I love Orville Redenbacher? Is that possible when we’ve only really known each other a month? I close the laptop and make myself wait a few seconds before eating any of his popcorn.

33

ABRAM

T
HE HURRICANE
J
ULIETTE’S FATHER
was worried about? Not on the radar, but it’s raining like a mother this fine Sunday morning, our last full day here. I’m drinking a glass of emergency water just to see what the purifying tablets make it taste like. Juliette’s sitting in the same chair as me, on my lap, the flame-retardant blanket draped over us. Just the two of us watching the raindrops fall into the ocean from the back deck.

“Still tastes exactly like water,” I announce, holding out the glass for her to try. She takes my word for it and continues to sip from her coffee mug. So far today, she’s taken one-fourth fewer Adderalls. It’s a start … one she claims is making her tired.

“I wish we could do shots,” she says wistfully. I pull the hood of my sweatshirt from her head to see if she’s more serious than usual—can’t tell, but I like this angle of her face, too.

“Where there’s a will, there’s a shot,” I say in my deep voice, as if a wise frat brother once said the same.

“Yes, but there’s no drive-thru. And there’s the possibility of seeing Janette.”

Got it, she must be talking about espresso shots at Starbucks.

“Remind me why this Janette lady’s so evil again?”

“I never told you in the first place,” she states, not like she’s annoyed, just as a fact. “She’s probably fine. She just had an eerie look on her face. The same one Linda had before I asked her about my mom.”

I nod. “What if we just peer in through the windows, see if she’s there?” I’m scratching her back because it’s pretty much the only part of her I have unrestricted access to right now. “Then I’ll go inside and be really stealthy about making sure the coast is clear.”

She looks back at me. “Your plan … I kind of hate it.”

“But it just might work?”

“Probably not,” she says, “but let’s try it.”

*   *   *

We’re hiding in the alley next to Starbucks while I reassure Juliette I’ve checked everywhere inside for an annoying lady with a Janette name tag. “Including the men’s bathroom.”

“Thank you.” Juliette bites her lip. “What about the women’s?”

“Occupied. And the occupant sounded like she’d be in there for a while.”

“Let’s leave before she’s finished being disgusting,” she says, as I hold the door open for her. There’s no line at the cash register, which puts her in a better mood. Our drinks and shots are ready almost immediately, and we’re about to leave when we look out the window and see the monsoon.

“You were right,” she says. “We should’ve driven.”

“Want to sit for a minute?” I ask—one of my other favorite suggestions.

She looks around for a nook or cranny. We head toward a table at the far corner of the room, near the fireplace, and rotate our chairs so we’re facing away from an improbable Janette sighting. “I need to show you a few things,” Juliette says, rummaging through the catacombs of her purse, “of yours. I stole them.”

“Haven’t been missing anything.…”

“I’m afraid you have.”

She places a pile of envelopes on the table next to my iced coffee, along with a two-hundred-dollar receipt from the Salvation Army? Juliette wads up the receipt, says, “Don’t you recognize your mail?”

Now that she mentions it. “Looks different without the dust,” I say.

“You can be mad at me for violating your privacy. Promise I won’t argue to make it seem like your fault.”

“I’m sure you were just trying to help.”

“Maybe. You should still consider hating me for a little while.”

I raise my eyebrows, like,
Thought you weren’t going to argue.
I tell her if I wanted to keep my mail top-secret, I should’ve read it a long time ago, rather than let it sit on my dresser for an eternity. Besides, it’s not like she opened it or anything.

I pick up a letter with V
IRGINIA
T
ECH
in the return-address space. Juliette frowns. “Sorry, I opened that one.”

I turn the envelope around to examine the perfectly sealed back flap. “Where?”

She points to the corner. I nod, but I still have no idea how she got in without a rip. “You do good work,” I tell her, and she’s more accepting of this compliment than most of my others combined.

“Are you not going to college, or what?” she asks.

“What? Yeah, I’m going.” I open the envelope halfway, stop. “I’ve just been … deferring the decision-making process.”

“Until when? Someone else makes it for you?”

“Probably,” I force myself to admit aloud, take the embarrassment like a mature person who would’ve never procrastinated this much in the first place.

“Have you taken the SAT yet?”

I nod, relieved to have this to say for myself: “Think I got, like, a thirty-one or something.”

She sighs. “That’s the ACT.”

“I should get us another round,” I say, picking up our empty shot cups. “What was your score?”

“Thirty-something.”

Juliette

A
BRAM’S ACT SCORE
is just a few lackadaisically smudged pencil marks away from my own. Safe bet he didn’t force himself to take a month-long online prep course before test day, either.

Abram hands me my refill and then sits back down to explain. Turns out he was waiting to apply because he wasn’t sure about committing to the tennis scholarship component, although he definitely wants to help out his mom with the tuition. This is a valid procrastination reason. The next one he gives, not so much.

“Plus, I wanted to see where you were going first.” Him smiling like that, with his eyes downcast and hesitant to see my reaction, makes his admission seem extra cute. I pinch the bridge of my nose, reach down, and take my shot.

“You’d rather go your separate way?” he asks.

“Not necessarily. But I can’t even commit to watching a movie with you, Abram—do you really want to be basing your first major life decision around my crazy whims?”

“Pretty much,” he tells me. “Can’t help it. Even before we started hanging out, I always hoped we’d end up at the same college, that things could maybe be different once we were away from everything. Like they are now. C’mon, let’s matriculate somewhere together.”

Could things really be the way they are now, all the time, if we attended the same university? Not as if I’d mind having Abram around. It’s almost fun to picture him stopping by my dorm during one of the three times I’d allot him per day. He’d encourage me to leave my computer and go see what’s on the menu at the dining hall. I’d act annoyed but eventually agree, not inviting my roommate to join us on our way out. The two of us would head off to the student center, avoiding eye contact with the students manning the activity booths in the lobby. Then one semester, when the inevitable happens and I lose my last marble, Abram could just drop me off at the mental institution on his way to the Love & Sexuality class I told him not to sign up for, save my cab driver the trip.

None of the above is ever going to happen. Ben Flynn could barely handle me leaving for four days; not realistic to think I could leave him for four years.