If I Stay (9 page)

“That's not an insult, you pretentious bastard. I love Blink-182. And that's actually exactly what I was aiming for. Circa 2004, to be exact. God, you're no good at this.”

He crossed his arms. Sacha crossed his, too. And there I sat, doodling a picture of the two of
them arguing while waiting for them to kiss and make up like they always did.

“I'm just kidding, darling. I love you.” Brandon finally said, mid eye-roll.

“Yeah. Okay. But I'm still not a hipster, so take it back.”

“You're wearing a scarf.”

“So?”

“We're indoors now. As your best friend, Sacha, I'm just calling it as I so blatantly see it. I think that even Gems would agree with me on this one.”

“I plead the fifth.” I didn't even look away from my drawing, still scribbling the black scratchings for Brandon's admittedly very Tom Delonge-like hair. Sacha was on point with that remark.

“Fine. Regardless, you should thank me for my fair warning on the steady rising of your Hipster Meter levels. I'm like a guardian angel or something.”

“Guardian Angel. Right.”

“
Right
.”

And there it ended. Sacha reached over and punched Brandon on the forearm, the two of them arm-wrestled over my desk, and then they were too absorbed in the fact that I'd drawn the both of them mid-argument that they completely forgot anything that was previously spoken about. Selective memories, really. Or, truly, the simple forgiveness that comes with being the best of friends.

“Gemma,” Sacha leaned over, unzipping his backpack and grabbing a pen. “I just thought you should know that Travis is now expecting a pizza date with you. It was the first thing he mentioned this morning when I walked him out to the school bus.”

“What gives?” Brandon asked. “You never ask me out on dinner dates. You never want to go to my mom's for meals, either.”

“Firstly,” Sacha quickly said. “Travis is like seven, Brandon. The other day I walked into the bathroom and the toilet was flooding. Do you know why? I'll tell you why: he was trying to feed the toilet his army men...because he thought it might be
hungry
.”

Brandon and I both suppressed a horrible laugh, namely because we both knew who ended up cleaning that mess.

“Secondly,” he continued. “That's because your family is just...uncomfortably fancy. Remember when we had Thanksgiving dinner at your house?”

“Yeah. It was fun. Remember how my dad got drunk and did the Carlton dance?”

“Still. Was it really necessary to serve cranberry sauce on fine china?”

I laughed. It was true. Brandon's family
was
formal, even though they weren't exactly rich. Brandon's dad worked with computers, and his mom was an interior decorator – so everything was always
pristine. That being said, it was hard to say too much about his parents. They were probably two of the nicest, most hospitable people I'd ever met.

Meals, though? No thanks. I prefer my paper plates, or even better, paper towels.

Glancing at the time, I saw that Ben was officially late for class.

“You okay, Gems?” Sacha asked. “You look exhausted.”

“That would be because Gemma was up all night,” Brandon said. “Reading Professor
Lawson's
book.”

A knowing smile crept over his mouth, and I nearly kneed him in the shins again. Thankfully, before either of them could open their mouths, the door finally opened and Ben came waltzing in, suitcase in tow with his smile genuine as he merrily exclaimed:

“Good morning, class. My, you all look so well-rested.”

He looked at me, the corner of his lips raising just a bit more, his smirk wry. I smiled back at him, my skin running hot as my heart started to immediately dance. And while the emotions felt delightful, I did worry, vaguely, that my vital organs might halt entirely.

“Good morning, Gemma,” he said to me directly. Next to me, Brandon started giggling under his breath. I took heed to respond accordingly, careful to keep my tone neutral. My smile unreadable.

“Good morning, professor.”

I don't think I ever saw his eyes light up more than they did right then. He leaned against his desk, undoing his coat buttons one by one, his face growing more and more flush by the minute. Even Darcy was compelled to say something.

“Look how rosy his cheeks are!” she swooned. “He's just too adorable. Was it
that
cold outside this morning, professor?”

Every girl, I swear, was leaning just slightly forward; their elbows supporting their weight as they craned their necks for better view. It was then that I noted a few of the other girls who had purposed to sit in the back row on the first day of class...were now sitting in the front.

I knew their thoughts. They wanted him. He was lovely, he was a writer - and yeah, he was attractive. He was the perfect, albeit admittedly stereotypical combination. Totally sigh-inducing.

I didn't take my eyes off him. I couldn't. Yet even when his eyes were averted, buried in his notebook or on the blackboard as he scribbled out the day’s goal in white chalk, I knew he was watching me, too. Struggling in the same way I was struggling as I could only force myself to take out a pen, flip to a clean sheet in my notebook, and try to keep things functional.

Key word:
try
.

NINE

“Alright, ragamuffins.” I couldn't believe he actually said ragamuffins. “Pens out, as well as some paper. We're going to do a little writing assignment. You do recall, I imagine, our little demonstration the other day?”

The class hummed along in acknowledgment. Ben's smile was tight, and given the lack of enthusiasm, this was understandable I suppose. Sacha was already writing his name on the corner of his paper, and Brandon was already practically asleep with the wire of his headset hanging around his neck like a noose. I tapped him on the shoulder, and he lazily flipped his notebook open.

“Alright, well, just work with me here. I want to take five minutes, just five, for you to write down some thoughts about why you picked your chosen word. After which, we'll be sharing. This is an easy enough start to the semester, isn't it?”

A few more mumbled. I simply stared like a goon.

“Very well, then.” he said. “You have five minutes. Start writing.”

I tried to ignore the haunting feeling of being watched as I picked up my pen to start writing, which was practically impossible given the fact that Ben was only feet in front of me, sitting on the edge of his desk, reading a copy of The New York Times. Every so often I could feel him looking at me, and it was nearly agonizing just how difficult the simple act of keeping my eyes on a piece of paper could be. My mind was blank – or not so much blank, but frozen. How could I begin to describe feelings? Should I just make something up? Should I try to be sneaky, or cryptic?

On either side, both Sacha and Brandon looked surprisingly into their own papers. I stared at mine for a few more seconds, the words bleeding from my head across the paper like invisible ink.

Just be honest
, I told myself.
Honesty is enough.

So that's what I did, and it clicked. My hand worked quickly, the pen scratching against the paper rapidly as the seconds ticked by, as the sound of papers turning and muffled coughs or even Ben and how he'd clear his throat quietly here and there made a sort of natural soundtrack to those five minutes of introspection.

When it was over, and he called us to put down our pens, I felt good. Which was a weird thing to say, given the nature of the circumstances. Given that as I set my pen down I was once again locking eyes with the man whom I'd locked lips with.

“Who would like to go first?” Ben asked, setting the magazine down. “Any takers?”

Darcy raised her hand immediately, her arm snapping up so quickly that I almost wanted to turn around and ask her:
really
?

“What's your name again?” Ben asked. Oh, perfect. I couldn't suppress the small smile that bubbled up like sweet soda pop. Darcy looked heartbroken, which is terrible, but I could only maintain my sort of facade at this Game of Maturity for so long. I think I did a pretty good job at playing adult for the most part; I paid my bills on time, I budgeted, I worked long hours and still managed to find the time to wash the sweat off, go to school, and repeat. But in your early twenties, can we really admit to being perfect? Certainly not. Which is why the bitter look on her face managed to give me the warm fuzzy feeling like when your favorite song starts playing, or you somehow find a crumpled twenty dollar bill in your jeans pockets while doing laundry.

“Darcy,” she said, sounding sour. “And my word was
liberated
.”

“Interesting. Liberated,” Ben remarked. “Well, why don't you share with the class why you
chose that particular word.”

Darcy took a deep breath, standing up with the paper in her hands. She then started reading about how the prospect of her college career finally coming to a close was liberating, because she was finally free to go off and start her future – a future which consisted of mostly painting, but also Journalism.

“And what are you hoping to write about?” Ben asked.

“Women’s' Issues,” she replied. “I mean, I blog about them now. But I'm really hoping that after school ends I'll be able to branch out and get to explore more, meet new people, come across new situations.”

Which is why, she explained, she felt
free
. Or liberated, rather. Because after that diploma was in her hand, there was nothing to hold her back.

When Darcy was finished, she sat down with a satisfied look on her face, her hands clasped neatly in such a way that her persimmon-painted fingernails were hidden. Her bleached white hair covered one of her wide eyes that were still glazed over and in the general direction of where Ben stood, not even really regarding her. He surveyed the room for a quick minute before selecting another
victim
as he coined it: Brandon.

“Do I really have to?” he asked.

“Yes, Brandon,” Ben gave a sincere half-smile. “You have to.”

Oh, this was going to be good. I knew it. Brandon stood, wiping the bangs from his face and taking a deep breath. He held the paper in his hands so tightly that I could see the white knuckles beneath his already pale skin.

“Alright,” he said. “So my word was
excellent
. You know, like in the immortal words of Bill and Ted:
Be excellent to each other
. Or just in general, excellent.”

He glanced at Ben, as if for direction. Ben looked both confused and totally amused at the same time.

“Continue,” he told him. Brandon nodded.

“Well, I really do feel excellent. Not just because Keanu Reeves is one of the greatest actors ever of all time, but...”

“He's really not,” Sacha interrupted. “He has about the same animation as a wooden plank.”

“Whatever. Shut up, Sacha,” Brandon looked down at his paper, grinning at the response of flittering laughter that swept over the room. “And you shouldn't really tease me about the things I love. I don't tease you about being a douchebag.”

“Boys,” Ben said quickly. “Enough. Brandon, continue.”

“Sorry,” he muttered. “Anyway, I feel excellent because I know that the end of this place means the start of something different. Which is scary, yeah. But it's also really exciting. I know, like, my major is sort of boring and everything. I'm a Business major, and I'll probably end up doing something boring in some boring office in a boring city with a name that's equally as unexciting, but still. I can do whatever I want. And all things considered, professor, that's really excellent.”

“Fantastic,” Ben grinned. “And it is quite excellent, indeed.”

“Yeah. I know. I wrote it,” Brandon said proudly. “Now I think Sacha needs to go next as penance for interrupting my beautiful words on paper.”

Sacha looked totally mortified, heightening the glow of Brandon's satisfied smirk as he sat himself down at his desk and Ben pointed towards Sacha's gaping mouth: “You.”

Standing, Sacha looked blankly at his writing and hesitated before he began, like he didn't want to read the words out loud for fear of consequence. Still, he went ahead anyway when Ben
gave a nod that signaled for him to go on.

“My word was anxious,” Sacha began. “I think that we can all agree that anxiety is a common emotion, a nagging illness, if you will, that manages to plague most impending college graduates. I chose anxious for many reasons, and not just because I felt like I needed to scramble to choose a word at Professor Lawson's instruction.”

Ben chuckled. Sacha smiled just a little.

“But I
am
anxious. And not just because I'm a Philosophy major, of all things – and, truly, what can I expect to do with that? I love Philosophy. It's my passion. But no doubt, the thought of a future with this degree often sends me spiraling into an anxiety attack so severe that sometimes I wonder if I'll be able to function come morning when my alarm clock goes off.”

We all stopped, even myself. Everyone was silent as they waited for a paused Sacha to open his mouth again.

“Everyone often tells us to follow what you love. But is there truth in that, really? I mean, in a genuine way. Because I'm beginning to see at only twenty-two that things really aren't that simple. What does following what we love mean, anyway? Because for awhile, at least for me, that changed every single day. I loved coffee, and then after drinking it for long enough I started hating it. When I first started college, I wanted to go into Psychology. Now, here I am...majoring in Philosophy....”

He stopped again, taking another shallow breath.

“And I'm anxious. In fact, I'm scared. I'm scared because deep down, I don't really know if what I want is going to remain what I
love
in the perpetual, forever sort of way. And I'm anxious that the things that I do sense a kind of genuine foreverness, the people, even – they won't be around. My mom always says that life is constantly changing, and life is really nothing but a series of shifting moments that are all accumulating up to the point where finally everything ends and we're dead and I guess none of it matters anymore. I'm anxious, honestly, maybe in part because I feel like my degree won't afford me a lifestyle to follow other pursuits, like traveling, or some other bullshit hobby. Maybe I'll wish I had gone with Psychology in the end. I'm anxious, truly, because I think I'm head over heels for a girl who for the entire duration of our friendship has been so close and yet so fucking far it isn't even appropriate to use the cliché, here. And yet I'm using it.”

I saw Ben's jaw tighten, and yet his eyes remained soft. I felt Sacha's warmth radiate through me as we shared a quick glance where in that short span of time I understood. The head over heels thing. And I saw jealousy, set off like a fizzing sparkler as Sacha parted his lips again, and Ben's gaze danced back and forth between Sacha and myself.

“I'm just a kid, Professor Lawson. And I think that about sums it up. I'm sitting here at a desk in a classroom, in a school, in a city and in a world where there's so much possibility to grow and also regret and wonder and all sorts of everything. The thought of that door opening, and the uncertainty that's around every corner – even in the beautiful possibility - is at times a lot to process.”

I think that we all as a whole weren't quite sure what to say in response. Even Ben, who looked at Sacha with such a puzzled and yet entirely understanding expression that Sacha didn't seem quite sure how to absorb it. So he just sat down quietly, folding his hands on top of the paper without another word.

“Fantastic,” Ben remarked. “You have quite a voice. I also think that you did quite well in speaking about something that many of us, including myself, have faced. It can be overwhelming, Sacha. But I can promise you that as long as you find something - even if it's small, and even if others don't understand it – that makes you feel passionate. That's all you need.”

“And nothing else?” he asked.

Ben shook his head.

“Well, aside from the self-gratification?” he smirked. “Try to always do good. Help others with whatever you make out of this piece of paper that you'll be obtaining in just a few months.”

Sacha looked more at ease, and I think that the other students sincerely appreciated what he'd written. I know that I did.

I also knew what was coming next. It was only logical.

“Gemma,” Ben said, locking eyes with me. “And what about you?”

You know why. At least, partially why.

I stood, steadying myself by leaning back against the top of my desk, and followed what the rest of the others had done: I took the biggest breath possible. Knowing, as I watched Ben move just slightly forward, that he was anticipating whatever it was that I had to say. I would be lying if I'd said that there wasn't even a remote thrill in knowing that he wanted to hear what I'd written. Enough that I could feel my face begin to burn. So I simply started:

“My word was ill,” I said quietly. “Which, in hindsight now, makes me feel kind of awkward and worried that the rest of you might think I'm borderline mentally-unstable or something. And while I'm not – at least, I
think
– ill really was a sufficing word in this case. To answer as to
why
this is isn't exactly easy, but I'll try.”

I looked over at Ben, whose eyes hadn't shifted the slightest.

“I've spent my entire life, I've realized, living in my own head. I draw all the time, which those of you who have seen my work around campus already are aware of. And while most of my art has been realistic in nature, I spend a lot of my time drawing other things. Cartoons, comics. If you were to ask my roommate,” I snuck a quick grin in Brandon's direction. “He'd tell you that my notebooks literally litter the apartment.”

“It's a mess,” he agreed. I smiled.

“But I do feel ill, because much like Sacha had said, I'm not entirely sure what I'll be doing when all of this is over. I'm a Fine Arts major, which was great and exciting and seemingly so full of promise when I began here nearly four years ago. But now, it's practically horrifying. I mean, I spend so much time looking around my room, or through my notebooks, or even at the art that's hanging around these walls and think:
is there really a point to all of this
? Am I stupid for pursing something centered around art when I could have opted for something more logical? Mathematics, or education, or maybe a combination of the two.”