Life Before (2 page)

Tucker heads to first period, shouting over his shoulder, “See you for lunch.”

I turn toward the science wing and run smack into Gretchen.

“Morning, Xander!” The hair she used to wear in braids now cascades over her shoulders in waves.

I try to force my heart back down my throat but, as with the rest of my body, it refuses to obey orders in the presence of this one particular person. My attempt at a nonchalant smile feels giddy.

Gretchen doesn’t notice, or is kind enough to overlook it. “It’s ridiculous that we’re here today at all. We could have turned in our books during exams. It’s like blow-off day for seniors. They’re just trying to imprison us as long as humanly possible.”

Mouth open, I nod instead of speaking. I imagine her words in a comic’s dialogue bubble, and I want to hold the bubble—her voice—in my hands. How do those words feel in that instant, coming up from her lungs, dancing over her tongue, and darting out through her lips?

“Tongue tied, Xander?” My own name slips between those pink lips. “Something Tucker said, no doubt. Or I have a yogurt mustache?” She brushes her fingers over her lips.

This is going horribly wrong. “No, your mouth is perfect. It’s—you’re fine.”

“Are you genuinely ill?” Everything goes in slow motion as Gretchen reaches toward my forehead. She gauges my temperature, first with the back of her hand, then the pads of her fingers.

I pull back before she detects the nervous sweat oozing from my pores. “I’m fine, Gretchen, I swear. I have a lot on my mind this morning, what with the speech and all.”

It’s a lawyer’s answer: true, if not relevant. Our school has two speakers at graduation: the valedictorian and the kid voted by his peers to address the class. The latter would be me.

I sort of know how it happened. My soccer captain thought it would be hilarious to start a social media campaign to get me behind the podium. And it was funny, but then people started taking it seriously. Jill convinced the rest of the swim team to get on board, then the emo kids from her art class. Tucker’s trumpet section and the rest of the marching band got behind it. My fellow physics Olympians. Everyone else who sat for AP exams.

I have too many interests. And friends. Friends who are eager to watch me make an ass of myself in front of the whole town.

So Saturday night—in two days—I have to speak in front of hundreds or thousands of people in an enormous music hall. Public speaking? Not one of my interests. But also nowhere near front of mind when Gretchen is in front of me.

“We’re all behind you, so relax,” Gretchen says. “No one is going to remember any of this, anyway. It’s just high school graduation.”

Easy for her to say. She still has at least two college graduations ahead of her, but high school graduation is a really big deal for some people—the ones whose parents didn’t finish high school, or the ones who are banking on that diploma to open a few doors.

For me, graduating was never a question. My mom didn’t go to college, so you bet your ass her kid will. When Tulane awarded me three scholarships, she threw me a party. Well, a small one: she, Jill, Tucker, and I got Royal Treats at Dairy Queen. After I wolfed down my banana split, I ate all but the bottom layer of a Peanut Buster Parfait. That was a party.

“Hey, I was thinking of heading to Pizza Works for lunch today. You interested?” Gretchen’s voice sounds pinched.

I definitely am, except my wallet is pretty much empty. And Jill will never forgive me if I cancel our last high school lunch for some girl … even for
the
girl.

“I already have plans, thanks.” Besides, I want a date, not a casual lunch. I am so tired of being every girl’s Great Friend Xander Fife.

“But you’re definitely going to Tucker’s party tonight, right?”

“Yep.”

“I promised my mom we’d get a jump on college classes,” Gretchen says. “So I’m bringing my calc book.”

“You’re joking.”

“Of course I’m joking. You can’t drink and derive.”

I want to freeze time right here, the two of us grinning at each other. I love that Gretchen always has a pun on the tip of her tongue. She looks at me, expecting something, but I don’t know what.

Brushing past me, she shouts over the warning bell, “See you in German!” I turn to watch her walk away. Who wears jeans when it’s ninety-three degrees outside? Gretchen does, but they hug her butt, so I’m okay with that.

I swear she had more than pizza on her mind just now but that doesn’t make sense. She and Jameson have been dating nearly two years. They’re the most irresistibly perfect couple. But … it almost felt like she was asking me out.

Only Jill can make sense of this.

My mother will kill me if I go over my monthly text limit again. Instead, I go old school, dashing toward the lit wing, where I scrawl a note to Jill:
Urgent Question: Status of Gretchen’s relationship with Jameson?

I find her deep in discussion, sandwiched between Grant Blakely and her locker. On paper, Grant could be my twin: taller than average, skinny build, scraggly brown hair, brown eyes. The similarities end there, though. Jill says Grant is mainstream cute to my quirky cute.

I think that means you have to be weird to find me attractive.

Maybe that’s my problem.

T
WO

Between periods, Jill presses a crumpled wad of paper into my hand, triggering a brief twinge of sentimentality.

The last note we will ever pass in the hallowed halls of Laurel Woods High reads:
No idea about Jameson. She hasn’t been talking about him at all lately. Other stuff to talk about or an issue with Jameson, not sure which. Sorry. P.S. Could have told you all of this via text AN HOUR AGO if you got on my phone plan.

Jill and Gretchen co-edit the yearbook, so they spend endless hours together, especially now with end-of-year deadlines. Either Gretchen is completely immersed in the task at hand, or she is now a free agent.

I spend all of third period in Assistant Principal Graber’s office. While he edits my pity speech, I start making plans. Free-agent Gretchen is a whole different ball game. She’ll have more time for Infinite Summer, for sure.

Graber says, “Remember what we said about diplomacy.”

“Yeah.”

Gretchen doesn’t work. I only work twenty hours a week, and that’s nothing. I could work two ten-hour days and spend five twenty-four-hour days with Gretchen.

Every week.

Graber crosses out another sentence. “Tact is getting your point across without stabbing people with it.”

“Right.”

There’s just that little issue of whether Gretchen is unattached. And that much larger problem of convincing her to attach herself to me.

Graber says, “Have you heard a word I’ve said?”

“Yes. Of course. Diplomacy. Tact.”

Focus.

Graber recites a paragraph with his suggested changes. I nod. Focused.

I know exactly what I want to say in the stupid speech, but I’m having trouble saying it without offending the valedictorian or the administration. Turns out it’s hard to inspire
everyone
without offending the people who will live their whole lives here, or the people who wanted to leave but didn’t get into college, or the people who hope to leave and never return.

What I want is for everyone to stick together this summer, before life pulls us in opposite directions. I love these people. We share a history.

Well, mostly. We share social and academic histories, for sure. But my fellow seniors know only the happiest version of my life. I’ve kept some things secret, like how I actually broke my clavicle in the second grade. Or why my mother used to wear turtlenecks in summer and never had any friends until after the divorce.

Jill knows, of course, but she’s Jill. A best friend loves you no matter how awful your life is. Instead of expecting everyone else to overlook my family’s abuse, I’d rather they not know the truth. And when I go to college in August, I can leave all that truth behind.

T
HREE

After the final bell, the senior lot teems with overeager near-graduates crammed into cars of every vintage.

In the wild wind, Jill’s blond hair clings desperately to her scalp. “Come on, Xander! Do I need to light a fire under your skinny white ass?”

I pick up the pace. Jill’s ass is just as white and even skinnier than mine, but this is no time for fighting.

“Tucker called shotgun already, so you’re in the back.”

Damn. Neapolitan is a sorry excuse for a car. Any car with a back seat needs four doors, unless the passengers have four legs or are under four feet tall. Tucker is two whole inches shorter than I am, so he legally belongs in the back seat.

“Where is he?”

“Kissing the girlfriend good-bye, I imagine.” Jill lays on the horn and screams, “Tucker!”

We have left Tucker in the parking lot on more than one occasion. If he isn’t in our car in two minutes, Jill will leave. And I can ride shotgun. Perfect.

“Hey, guys!” Gretchen is right next to me.

I don’t know what to say to the girl who may have asked me out this morning.

“Happy last day of school,” she says. “See you at Tucker’s.”

Jill and Gretchen kiss each other on the cheek. Is that a thing now? I’d take a kiss on the cheek.

Gretchen turns to me, but no kiss. “Xander, I saw your dad in the front office this morning?” Pulling her hair out of her face, she tries for a ponytail like we’re not hanging onto her every word.

Jill and I have one of those private conversations that involve eyebrows and foreheads. Maybe Gary is cyberstalking me again and knows about last week’s senior prank. Who knows? Neither Jill nor I can imagine what Gary wants now.

Gretchen isn’t privy to our silent conversation. “Why does he need two extra tickets for graduation? I mean, I get that divorced parents don’t necessarily share, but why would he need two tickets? Did he remarry?”

“Dunno.” I had no idea he would be at graduation! And, frankly, no matter how big the music hall is, his attendance doesn’t jive with my mom’s Order of Protection against him.

Gretchen doesn’t know about the Gary situation, so I have to play it cool. Everyone knows my parents are divorced, but Gretchen believes that I broke my arm falling off my bike in sixth grade. And that the two-inch scar on my forehead is the result of playing too near our brick fireplace when I was four.

Gretchen has probably heard rumors of how Gary treated my mom, because the Laurel Woods rumor mill never forgets its juiciest topics. But everything else is between me and Mom and Jill. Tucker knows not to ask, and no one else has ever been interested.

Amazing Gretchen changes the subject, “How was Graber today? Is your speech ready?”

“It’s done. He threatened to yank me off the stage if I try any hijinks. Like I would.”

I totally would, if I could address the crowd after receiving my diploma. As it stands, my speech is before diplomas, so I must deliver exactly what Graber has approved.

Gretchen says. “Great. Con-
grad
-ulations. See you at Tucker’s then?”

“Yeah.”

Gretchen spies Tucker first. “Here he comes. See you guys later.”

Jill and I say farewell in unison as Gretchen heads to her car. When she’s out of earshot, Jill whispers, “What the hell? Maybe Gary is trying to impress a client? The
Vindicator
and the
Trib
ran stories about your triumphant election to the graduation podium. Maybe that’s it. Is he working these days?”

“No idea. Maybe?”

Gary is a self-taught computer programmer, so sometimes he has a job and sometimes he doesn’t. I never know. He’s the quintessential two-faced person. Jovial, good-natured guy-next-door Gary is good fun at neighborhood barbecues—playing freeze tag with the kids and working the grill like a pro—and he’s happy to help people build a new shed, or move furniture around, or whatever. But lurking beneath that guy is the Gary who kicked me down a flight of stairs when I ate the last frozen egg roll. The evening of the neighborhood barbecue.

I never know which version I’ll get. That first guy is awesome. I could hang out with him. But the second guy is always just under the surface, ready to pounce if I put one toe out of line or otherwise piss him off. And then he apologizes like five days later.
Sorry you broke your arm … save the last egg roll for me next time, okay buddy?

Living with Gary was a terrifying emotional roller coaster. He’s a phantom to me now, and as long as he keeps his distance, I’m happy. In a crowd of thousands of people, I still won’t feel safe from him.

My stomach turns over as Tucker joins us. His skinny (black) ass is barely in the seat when Jill puts the car in gear.

“Seatbelt, Tucker!” Jill yells. Turns out, when your dad is the chief of police, you refuse to drive unless everyone is buckled up.

I do, too. Or I would, if I had a car.

Tucker buckles and we’re off. I get another twinge: the days of our little threesome are numbered. This is our last drive home together. In August, Tucker will move south to Ohio State and I’ll move much farther south to New Orleans. Jill starts at Oberlin the first week of September. This is the beginning of the end of our joyriding.

I want to memorize this feeling, hang on to
right now
as long as possible.

My real life starts when I get to Tulane, but I can hardly fathom life without Jill. College hijinks probably won’t include jumping from a second-story window on a dare. I probably won’t sneak off for pizza at midnight or attempt to discern the melting point of everything in the kitchen. Will there even
be
hijinks without Jill?

We stop at her house for our bags. I toss my gear in the trunk and run a few laps around our neighborhood. Running usually calms my nerves, but today the Gary-related nausea persists.

I had convinced myself all that Gary stuff was over, but I was wrong. Panic and nausea build in my stomach as our secrets consume my mind. I need to tell Mom that Gary will be at graduation so she can be on full alert Saturday night.

Tomorrow. I’ll tell her tomorrow. For now, I need her to think everything is fine because I want to go to that party.