The Art of Losing Yourself (13 page)

“So Gracie Fisher, is the mystery gone?” Elias asked, walking with me out into the hallway.

I bit back a smile. I didn’t tend to be easily charmed, but there was something about this Elias Banks that set me at ease. He wasn’t like every other high school boy I knew. Case in point? Just now in class, Reyas had started a debate about the pros and cons of minimum wage. Elias argued for, so naturally, I argued against. I blew him out of the water. Only instead of getting defensive
or embarrassed or threatened, he had smiled at me the entire time, like my ability to formulate articulate arguments impressed him. “What mystery?”

“Me and you, not knowing each other’s names.”

I shrugged. “It’s not like it was going to last. Nothing ever does.”

“Now
that
deserves an emphatic objection. Some things last.”

“Like?”

Before he could respond, a girl—tan, bottle blond, petite—interrupted our conversation like I wasn’t there at all. She stepped between us and gave Elias a side hug, fitting perfectly beneath his arm. “Rough game on Friday, but at least you looked good out there.”

“Thank you.”

And my forehead scrunched into wrinkles, slow-motion like.
Rough game on Friday? You looked good out there?
“Wait a second—you’re on the football team?”

The girl acknowledged me for the first time, her attention moving upward from my boots to my hair. She wasn’t very subtle about the checkout. “He’s not just on the football team. He’s the star of the football team.”

Eli brushed off the comment.

A sudden and mysterious bad taste filled my mouth.

“Oh, come on,” Blondie said to him. “You’re the reason the team won state last year and you know it. Anyway, as your official rally girl, I wanted to say good game.” She reached up on her tiptoes to kiss Eli’s cheek, patted his flat abs, and flounced away.

I watched her go, the bad taste growing more pronounced by the millisecond. Elias Banks had a rally girl. And my classmates in Debate and Ethics? They really weren’t staring at me. They’d been staring at Eli—the stud player on the state champ football team making nice with the weird new girl.

“You’re wrinkling your nose,” he said.

“You’re a liar.”

He raised his eyebrows. “How am I a liar?”

“You never told me you were a football player.”

“You never asked.”

“That’s another lie. On the dock, I asked if you went to the football game.”

“And if I remember correctly, I never said I didn’t.”

“That’s because you hedged. And then you let me go on and on about the
sport being a mating ritual.” He had even laughed, which I’d found refreshing at the time. Now, though, I felt hoodwinked. Like he’d been laughing at me, not with me.

“Withholding the truth isn’t the same as lying.”

“Says the boy with the word
Truth
tattooed on his wrist.”

This made him grin. “Do you want me to walk you to your next class? The layout here can be a little confusing.”

“Thanks, but I think I’m capable of finding a classroom on my own.”

I was fifteen minutes late to second period.

G
RACIE

Droning chatter filled the cafeteria, broken apart by an occasional screech or burst of laughter. I stood off to the side with a frozen Snickers bar and a can of Mountain Dew in hand, telling myself to get it over with. Inhaling a deep breath—sustenance for my cowardly soul—I made a straight path toward an empty table in the back. I didn’t look right or left. I didn’t walk too fast or too slow. And I didn’t exhale until I was sitting in a seat, my back turned to the commotion.

The worst was over.

I put one foot onto the chair and stuck a pair of earbuds into my ears—universal code for
leave me alone
. With Fiamma Fumana playing in my ear, I used my teeth to tear open my Snickers and started reading my not-so-new copy of
Slaughterhouse-Five
(assigned reading from my very new English teacher). The Celtic Italian techno added a slightly frantic sense of immediacy to the reading experience. I finished off my bar and was settling into the story when the chair beside me scooted out from the table. I looked down at a pair of sneakers so well worn they reminded me of the book in my hand.

I didn’t have to look up. It was Eli—the lying football player.

He turned the chair around and sat the same way he sat in first period. I looked around the cafeteria. I swear, the entire student body was watching, the least subtle of which was a table full of big, bulky boys. Not at me, the new girl. But at him, sitting with the new girl. I considered continuing on with my music and my fiction, but he seemed prepared to stay for the long haul. The quicker I addressed him, the quicker I could dismiss him. I held my spot in the book with my finger and removed my earbuds. “Can I help you?”

“Gracie Allen.”

“That’s not my name.”

“No, but it is the name of a famous comedian. She was married to George Burns. I guess they were a pretty hilarious duo.” He wiggled his phone at me.
“Not as impressive, I admit, since I had to use Google, but it is a piece of trivia about your name.”

“Cute.”

“Come on. Are you really going to write me off because I’m a football player?”

“No. I’m going to write you off because you lied.” And maybe also because he was a football player.

“I thought we already discussed this. I omitted. Omission is not the same as lying. Although I’m sure if we had a debate about it right now, you’d convince me otherwise.”

“I will not be flattered.”

“Look, I didn’t tell you I played football because you made it pretty clear off the bat that you had issues with the sport. I didn’t want something as insignificant as that skewing your opinion of me.”

“Why does my opinion matter?” It wasn’t like he had a shortage of worshipers. The guy had his own personal rally girl, for crying out loud. So what exactly was he trying to prove with me? “Do you see me as a pity project or something?”

“Are you always this cynical?”

“It’s better than being naive.”

“You aren’t a pity project.” His attention wandered to the wrapper and can in front of me. “Even if a Snickers bar and Mountain Dew for lunch is a little pitiful.”

“It was a Snickers
ice cream
bar. And it’s been the least pitiful part of my day.”

This earned me one of his grins. I wanted to tell him to put his dimples away; they were no good here. He tipped his chair to lean closer to the table. Closer to me. “I think we should be friends.”

“Why?”

“Because I find you interesting.”

“Well, that’s sweet, but I don’t make friends with football players.”

“Why not?”

“I find them to be cliché.”

Something flashed in the amber-green-brown of his irises, and for one uncensored moment, he dropped the grin.

An intriguing reaction, one I couldn’t let lure me in. Eli might offer his friendship. I, on the other hand, had to refuse. It was best if I kept my life in Bay Breeze as uncomplicated as possible. Especially when I had no idea what the future held. At the moment, my life was in a state of major flux. Friendship was the last thing I needed. I opened up
Slaughterhouse-Five
and resumed my reading, hoping Eli would get the hint and leave.

“You know what
I
don’t like?” he asked.

“Rejection?”

“Bigots.”

My book came down. “I’m not a bigot.”

“Bigot, a person who hates or refuses to accept the members of a particular group. Thank you, Webster.”

“That’s an odd definition to have memorized.”

“Not when you’re part of a minority.”

I stared at him for a couple seconds, doing my best impression of bored, but his accusation scratched a nerve. I considered myself a lot of things, but bigot had never been among them.

“You’re jumping to conclusions about my whole person based on one tiny facet of Elias Banks. Which is too bad, because if you actually got to know me, you’d find out I’m about as far away from cliché as a person can get.” And with that, he stood, put his hand on the back of my chair, and leaned toward my ear. “Enjoy your book, Gracie Fisher.”

I watched him walk away, a tiny puddle of regret slopping around in my gut. But then he joined the table full of big bulky boys and the puddle evaporated. Slipping my earbuds back into place, I pushed Eli’s accusation away and returned to Vonnegut’s masterpiece, thankful for the perspective the story offered. I ate alone at lunch. And then there was poor Billy Pilgrim. Life could always be worse.

C
ARMEN

Rayanna suggested Aunt Ingrid and I play our card game in the dining hall. It took half an hour of her encouragement before she was able to convince Ingrid, a self-proclaimed extrovert, to leave her room. Now we sat in the dining hall, Ingrid skittish, me deflated, laying cards down on the tablecloth in a game of War. The longer we played, the more she seemed to settle. I, however, remained disheartened. Maybe later I’d call Natalie and take her up on her CrossFit invite. Perhaps the exercise would chase away the lethargy.

Thanks to Alice, one of Ingrid’s friends who joined us now and then for an increasingly rare game of Hearts, piano music played in the background. I laid down a nine of diamonds. Ingrid laid down a ten of clubs.

“Did you know I used to beat your husband in this game?” she asked, raking the cards into her pile. “Gerald thought I should let the boys win whenever we played games, but not me. Losing teaches a person character.”

She wasn’t talking about Ben. She was talking about Henry, my father. At the moment, Aunt Ingrid thought I was Evelyn, my alcoholic, irresponsible mother. Instead of correcting her, I played along. This was what her doctors recommended. Aunt Ingrid flipped over a six of spades from the top of her stack. I laid down a queen. She frowned.

“Character,” I reminded, taking the cards.

This made her smile.

My phone vibrated on the table, making my heart skip a beat, but it was an 800 number. Not our social worker. I sent the telemarketer to voice mail as Alice started a new song on the piano and Earl approached from across the hall. A jolly old man with a white beard, Earl reminded me of a malnourished Santa Claus. He had a weak heart but a keen mind, and he loved to socialize. With his tuft of wispy white hair exposed, he twisted his hat in his hands and stopped in front of our table.

“Morning, Carmen.” He gave my aunt a friendly nod. “Ingrid.”

A polite but unsettled smile trembled across Ingrid’s lips. Earl was one of
her first friends here in her new home, but today, he was a stranger. Her attention slid to me. I could see the cry for help in her eyes. The fact that she couldn’t remember him, yet he knew her, unnerved her. Ingrid had always been good with names and faces. At times I wondered if she had a photographic memory. A guest could come for as short as a single night, then return a year later and somehow Aunt Ingrid would remember them.

“Ingrid, this is Earl.”

“Oh, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Earl.” She stuck out her thin hand and the two shook. “Are you enjoying your stay?”

Earl didn’t skip a beat. “Yes, very much, thank you.”

“I’m so glad.”

Twisting his hat, he gave us another nod and left us to continue our game.

Aunt Ingrid watched him go, looking relieved at his departure, then turned over another card. “So tell me more about this Gracie.”

I had brought Gracie into the conversation several hands ago, secretly hoping the familiar name might strike the right synapse in her brain and bring my aunt Ingrid back. I wanted to know what she had to say about my sister. The two of them must have had some sort of relationship I’d overlooked. The postcard was proof. But it hadn’t worked, and since my mother had no half sisters, or any sisters at all, I acted as though Gracie were the troubled daughter of a friend, staying with us while her mother took a vacation. “She has all these walls up. I keep trying to climb over them, but she won’t let me.”

“Why do you want to climb over them?”

“I don’t know.” I flipped another card. “I guess I was hoping she wouldn’t just get
through
our time together, but that she might actually enjoy it.”

“Sometimes getting through is the only thing a person can do.” Aunt Ingrid perked up. “Hey, that rhymed.”

“But how do I show her that I’m here for her?” Driving her to school had been a monumental fail, and Ben had already called to let me know that Gracie didn’t want to be picked up. “How can I do that if she keeps shutting me out?”

“With a lot of patience.”

Patience
. I was really starting to loathe that word.

Ingrid flipped a seven of hearts.

I flipped a seven of spades.

My aunt’s face lit up with excitement.

I laid three cards facedown, then flipped the fourth faceup—a nine.

Aunt Ingrid did the same, only instead of flipping a fourth card, she folded up the corner and took a peek. I expected her tried-and-true poker face. Instead, her excitement turned into pure glee as she turned over a nine. Double war. That rarely happened. We laid down three more cards, then at the same time, we flipped. I had a two. She had a jack. With a victorious cackle, she scooped her bounty into a pile significantly larger than mine.

“Did you know Henry went through a sullen phase in his teen years?”

“Really?” I had a hard time picturing my father being sullen, even as a teenager.

“Latent grief, I think, over his parents’ death.”

I nodded. When my dad was seven, his parents died in a car accident. Just like that, he and his brother were orphaned. My aunt didn’t hesitate to take the boys in as her own. Maybe that was another reason I wanted to be there for Gracie. It was no less than Aunt Ingrid would have done if she were in my situation.

“And a healthy dose of resentment toward the motel. It’s not easy, you know, living here. It’s a lot like living on a farm. The job’s never done. My dad used to say that some people are born with the business in their blood, and some people aren’t. I was born with it. My brothers and sisters weren’t. Neither were Henry or Patrick.”

This wasn’t the first time I’d heard Ingrid express such sentiment. In fact, I grew up hearing her say that the motel was in my blood too. It was one of the things that made our relationship so special. We had shared a deep and abiding love for The Treasure Chest. It was a love I’d neglected for far too long. I straightened my meager pile of cards into a thin stack, fighting the urge to tell Aunt Ingrid about my plans—that for the first time in four years, we would celebrate Christmas at The Chest like old times. I was bound and determined to have it fixed up enough for that. But if I shared this now, I’d be rewarded with nothing but confusion. No, my news would have to wait. “So what did you and Gerald do?”

“All we could do—we helped him get through it, not over it.” She flipped over an ace. “Because there some things in life we aren’t meant to get over.”

My phone buzzed.

And that invisible thundercloud looming over my head? It clapped with thunder. Because this time, our social worker’s number lit up the screen.

I vented my frustration on the poor window frames of the motel’s main office, fully realizing, as I tore out perfectly fine windows, that I was being illogical. Installing new ones wasn’t a wise financial decision. At the moment, however, I didn’t care. In a storm of so much bad, I needed to see something good. And right now that good was bringing this place back to life. I jammed the crowbar into the wedge between window frame and wall and started yanking with every ounce of strength I had.

“I. Am. Not. Crazy!”

The frame cracked loose.

A lump rose in my throat. I swallowed it down and blinked the stinging from my eyes. How many tears had I shed over my losses? What good had any of those tears done? I was still here, in this place of longing. I began attacking the opposite side of the same window frame, replaying the things our social worker had said.

Taken off the waiting list.

A mental status evaluation and mandatory counseling appointment for me.

A mandatory counseling appointment for Ben.

A mandatory counseling appointment for both of us.

“To re-evaluate,”
she had said.
“To make sure…”

The unfairness of it burned, fanning a fire of desperation inside my soul. It wasn’t fair, these hoops we had to jump through. It wasn’t fair that one tiny slip could cost so much. It wasn’t fair that women all across the globe could do drugs and drink alcohol and beat their kids and still be mothers. It wasn’t fair that I had to sit with some therapist while he mentally poked and prodded my life. It wasn’t fair that I had to go home and tell Ben, or that so much had changed between us, or that the one thing I was convinced would fix our problems remained so impossibly out of reach.

“Life isn’t fair!”

Screaming the words left me feeling no better. So I grunted and tugged and even kicked at the windows until I reached the final one in the back room,
where the commercial washer and dryer were located. The vandals had already rent the plywood board loose, giving me a clear view outside.

A bead of sweat rolled down my temple. I wiped it away, looking toward the pool, the ache in my muscles becoming an ache in my heart. If I were to close my eyes, I’d be able to see the memory and its accompanying setting. Not an empty, kidney-shaped hole with rust stains crawling up the sides, but a sparkling clean pool with oiled guests lying on white chaise lounges and a doughy kid with lemon-yellow hair jumping into the water.

I couldn’t remember his name—Tommy or Tony or Timmy, something with a
T
—but I could see him doing his running leap, tucking his knees up to his chest and curling his arms around his knees, yelling, “Cannonball!” while he sailed through the air and splashed into the water, soaking Ben’s boat shoes as he finished reading the chlorine levels.

He had taken a quick step back and bumped into the woman behind him. I’d secretly been referring to her as Barbie. With her long legs and impossibly small waist and disproportionately large chest, the name was a natural fit. She and two of her friends had stopped at The Chest on their way to Destin. She got one good look at Ben, decided to stay a couple extra days, and had been shadowing him around the grounds ever since.

Anyway, he had bumped her and she had stumbled—a little dramatically, in my opinion—ensuring that he would wrap his arm around her waist to keep her upright. The sight of her bikini-clad body in his arms twisted me up with jealousy. I quickly looked away, scolding myself for the silly feeling. At that point, nothing had gone on between Ben and me but some harmless flirting. I certainly had no claim on him, especially since I was going back to the University of Virginia at the end of the summer and he would begin his first year of teaching and coaching at Bay Breeze in the fall.