Nothing Like You (5 page)

I didn’t see Paul or Saskia for the rest of the day. On the ride home with Nils, I tried hiding my shit mood.

“What’s wrong with you, weirdo? This morning you were bouncing off the walls, and now you look like you’ve been hit by a truck.”

I didn’t say anything.

He went on. “Classic bipolar behavior. Manic highs, awful lows …”

“I’m not bipolar, jerk-off.” I punched him hard in the arm and then shifted the car into third. “I don’t know what my problem is.” That was true, I didn’t.

He looked at me. He rubbed his arm where I’d hit him.

“Oh, please. That didn’t hurt.”

He pulled on his seat belt and twisted toward me. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

A wave of sadness rolled through my body. “Like what?” I tried looking less devastated. I missed the old Nils. The Nils I could tell
anything
to before his lame libido came along and wrecked everything. “My period,” I blurted, figuring that would kill Nils’s craving for a real heart-to-heart. “Don’t sweat it. I’ll be fine.”

And I was. I pulled it together well enough to take Harry out for some exercise, to cook dinner for Jeff. We ate in front of the TV like we always did on Monday nights, but then afterward, when Nils called and asked if I wanted to meet up in The Shack, I said no. Enough for one day. I kissed sleeping Jeff on the cheek
and locked myself away in my room. I listened to the crickets. I stared out the window. I shut all the lights off and lit a candle. I tried to read. I blew the candle out.

Then my phone rang. I grabbed it straight away, thinking it was Nils with one last push for The Shack. I didn’t even check the caller ID. “What now?”

“Holly?”

It wasn’t Nils. “Oh,” I said. “It’s you.”

“Am I calling too late?” It was Paul.

“I was sleeping,” I stammered. “I thought you were somebody else.”

“Oh. No, it’s me. Sorry to wake you.”

I didn’t say anything back. I wanted to make him feel bad. He went on. “I just, I didn’t see you in school today and I wanted to say hi.”

“I saw
you
,” I said.

He lit a cigarette. I could hear the flick of his Zippo, then one long, even exhale. I pictured the smoke shooting out of him in a skinny, gray straight line. “What’s that?”

“With Saskia, I
saw
you,” I huffed. He didn’t say anything back, so I said, “So, what? Are you, like … back together with her or something?” I knew I had no right to be jealous. I must have sounded
insane
, but he was calling me and making me feel certain things and I felt deserving of an excuse or explanation.

“We are, yeah.”

“Oh.” That was all I could say,
Oh.
Not that him pressing
his body against hers in the hallway at school wasn’t confirmation enough, but hearing him say it made it sound so officially …
official
.

“I like you so much, but Sass is going through a really hard time right now. Her brother’s sick and she’s really bad at handling family stuff and we’ve just known each other so long. I can’t
not
be with her. She’d have a breakdown, I swear it.” He paused, then said, “She’s nothing like you, Holly.”

“No kidding.”

“No, I mean, she’s not strong like you. She’s breakable.”

I couldn’t imagine Saskia Van Wyck having a tough time with anything. I couldn’t imagine her working up a sweat in gym, let alone crying over Paul or her sick brother.

I switched my phone to the other ear and put my head against the windowpane. “So, what, then, we’re just friends?”

“Yeah. Yes,
please
. I would hate not being able to see you, Holly.”

“Okay,” I said softly, because it
was
okay. I wanted him, I thought—at the very least I wanted his attention—but the blond, willowy one had first dibs. What else could I do? I either said
good-bye forever
or I took second prize. Was that really such a bad bargain?

“You’re the
best
,” he said, really trying to sound sincere, I could tell. And I appreciated him saying it, I did, but Saskia was the best, not me. Saskia was number one, and everyone knew it.

Our school cafeteria
is fairly small. Forty or so big, round tables all crammed into this tiny indoor space encased in glass. We’ve got windows for walls mostly, except for the wall at the far end of the building where the kitchen and cashier are all set up. There’s also a small patio with an additional ten tables or so, outside in the sun, but I’ve never sat there. I’ve sat at the same table since freshman year, the one that wobbles near the soda machine. The one with the clear view of Saskia Central.

“What’s that?” Nora asked, pointing to my sandwich. Another day, another lunch. This time with Nora, Nils’s girlfriend or whatever the hell she was.

“It’s a sandwich,” I said, making
what-the-F
eyes at Nils.

“She means, what’s
inside
, jerk-off.”

“Avocado,” I sang merrily, placating Nils. “And soy cheese.”

Nils draped his arm around Nora. His fingertips grazed the top of her boob.

“So, I’m thinking of maybe having a costume party. For my birthday.” Nora took a bite of lettuce and chewed while she talked.

“Oh, yeah?” said Nils.

“Mm. Or maybe I’ll pick a theme? And people can dress to, like, fit the theme.”

“Uh-huh.”

“My parents okayed it. I mean, they’ll be there, but they’re cool, you know?”

“Yeah, yeah, sounds fun.”

“Would you come, Holly? If I had a party?”

Saskia Van Wyck moved into my line of vision. “Ah, I think so. Which day is it?” She dropped her tray down next to that Sarah girl she’s friends with, and let out a loud laugh.

“Not for a while. December fourteenth.”

“Oh, right.” I shot my attention back toward Nora. “What day is that?”

“It’s a Friday,” she said, and took another bite of lettuce.

I smiled, said
sure sounds great
, and turned back toward Saskia’s table. She was laughing still. She looked happy, which for some reason made me really, really mad. She didn’t look like a sad girl with a sick brother. She looked like a pageant girl who’d just been crowned queen.

“What’re you looking at?” Nora asked, poking me in the shoulder.

“Ah, nothing.” I said, watching intently as Paul made his way across the cafeteria. He dropped a plate of fries next to Saskia and touched the top of her head. They kissed. Quickly but with open mouths. I felt my chest tighten. I was sweating.

“You okay?” Nora asked.

“Yeah, what’s up, crazypants, where are you today?”

“Nowhere.” I stood up, infuriated. Paul was now sharing a seat with Saskia, absentmindedly dragging his fingers through her hair. “I gotta go.”

“Where?” Nils asked. “We still have fifteen minutes till class starts. You aren’t even done with your lunch.”

“I know, I just, I have to study my lines for Ballanoff next block.” I picked up my book bag and brown paper sack. “I’ll see you later, at The Shack, maybe.” I was off.

By the time I got to class, I was livid. Disproportionately mad. I huffed hello to Ballanoff, then we did our weirdo warm-ups. Alliterations, primal screaming, body shakes, and somersaults. Usually I’m too proud to partake. I skip this part of class, perched at the edge of the stage, watching the others and eating oranges left over from lunch. Ballanoff always lets me be, claiming it’s fine so long as I realize he docks me points in participation. I’m good with that. Such a small price to pay in exchange for my pride.

That afternoon, though, I joined in. I yelled, I cried, I twirled around in dizzy circles. I sang “Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers” ten times over, till I was breathless and tongue-tied. Then we broke off into groups. Me and Pete Kennedy, together again, same scene we’d been working on for weeks, the one we couldn’t get right because I couldn’t feel anything “genuine.” This time, though, things were different. This time things were going
great
.

“O, the more angel she, / and you the blacker devil!”

Ballanoff made his way to our corner of the stage. He didn’t interject or pull me aside or ask me where my “fire” was, he just watched as I wailed and screamed and clenched my hands into angry fists. Pete even did better. He was less mummy-like, which really made a difference. When we’d finished, Ballanoff clapped, one hand clacking against his clipboard. “Look at you two,” he said. “Look at you, Holly, I don’t think I’ve ever even seen you emote before. What
was
that?”

“That was me,” I said. “Pissed off.” I stood up, wiping a little bit of perspiration from under my chin. Then I grinned at Ballanoff and, feeling the first swell of exhilaration, hopped off the stage.

After school, on the walk to my car, I heard footsteps shuffling behind me, then a hand grabbed my arm. I turned around. “Oh.” It was Paul. I shook my arm loose and kept walking.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Holly, come on, wait up.” He quickened his pace so we were walking side by side. “What’s happening?” he asked. “Did I do something wrong?”

“I don’t want to talk to you,” I said, not looking at him, taking my keys out of the front pocket of my backpack.

“Why? What could have possibly happened between last night and now? We’re friends, remember?”

“We’re not friends,” I said, slowing as I reached my parked car. I lifted my keys and he grabbed for them, snatching them away before I could get my key in the lock.

“Give those back. Please,” I pleaded.

“Tell me what I did and I’ll let you have them back.”

But it wasn’t what he’d done. He hadn‘t
done
anything. I looked down at the pavement. There, to the left of my foot, was a smooshed lizard, half decomposed. Dead in the hot sun, looking serene. “It’s not … you didn’t
do
anything.”

“Tell me why you’re mad, then.”

I didn’t know why I was mad.

He extended his hand, letting my keys dangle from his pinkie finger.

I looked at him, then relented. “I just, I thought I could be your friend, but I can’t. That’s all.” Then I slipped the key ring off his finger. He was bright red and the vein in his forehead had popped. He dropped both hands by his sides and took a step backward.

“Can I go now?” I asked, unlocking the door and getting in.

Paul shrugged and stood staring as I slammed my car door shut. I rolled down my window. “Please don’t call me anymore,” I said.

“Seriously, Holly? Why not?”

I pushed down hard on the gas.

But he kept calling
. Every half hour, my phone would ring and I’d send it straight to voice mail. He wasn’t leaving messages, he just kept calling and calling. All throughout dinner it rang. “You sure you don’t want to get that?” Jeff asked.

“I’m sure,” I said, shoveling a forkful of pasta and cheese into my mouth.

“Well, would you mind turning it off, then? It’s driving me crazy.”

I got up from the table and turned off my phone, tossing it back into my book bag. Jeff and I continued to eat and not talk and then after dinner I went to my room. I thought about Paul and how much I hated him for making me feel so insignificant. I thought about Nils and Jeff and Harry and how they were all that I had. I thought about how next
year I’d be leaving Topanga for god knows where, how I’d go to college then get married then have babies; how I’d get boring, get old, and then die. Or maybe I wouldn’t get old. Maybe I’d die young like Mom. Dead at forty-two.

I dragged a shoebox out from under my bed. A handful of CDs, Mom’s favorites, the ones I like keeping close to me. I pulled out a Neil Diamond disk and slipped it into my stereo. I skipped to track nine and lay back on my bed while my song played. “Holly Holy.” Mom’s song.
My
song, she’d said. I was named for it.

I listened to that on repeat for an hour or so, drifting in and out of sleep. Then, three raps came on my window. I sat up. I screamed. It was Paul.

“Shhhh. God. Holly, I’m sorry, I just wanted to see you and you weren’t picking up your phone.” He looked a little nutty. His hair was all mussed and sticking up.

“Are you insane?”

“No, just lemme in? Okay? Please?”

I checked the clock. Twelve fifteen a.m. I got up, tiptoed to the front door, and undid the dead bolt. I poked my head out the crack and called to the side of the house. “Over here,” I whispered, and Paul came running.

“Take off your shoes,” I said.

He slipped off his sneakers, placing them side by side on our front porch. Together we slid in our socks across the silky wood floors, back down the hall to my bedroom.