Are You Still There (10 page)

Stranger's Manifesto

Entry 10

I know what you're thinking.

You're wondering what's so wrong with me that I only have one

friend.

Had.

Had one friend.

You're wondering, do you smell?

Do you have some major case of B.O.?

Do you pick your nose? And eat it?

You're wondering what's wrong with me, what makes me such a

loser?

Man, if I had the answer to that question,

I'd sure as hell do something about it.

Let's just say it took me until the third grade to figure out

That talking out loud to myself was strange.

And when my mom left in the sixth grade,

There was no one to make me take a bath all regular,

So I went weeks in between contact with soap and water.

But now I know better.

I shower, I brush my teeth, I don't walk around talking to myself.

And still … I have no one. No one real, anyway.

The only one who ever really talked to me like an actual person

Is dead.

15

I corner Chloe in the morning before school. We're crowded in the bathroom, both trying to blow-dry our hair and apply makeup. We're plugged in on opposite sides of the bathroom, each of us in front of our own sink, our blow-dryers loud.

My eyes are red rimmed, and they feel raw every time I blink. I hardly slept, and when I did, I dreamed of Chloe, playing cards, nooses, and bombs. Had Chloe taken another card out of Dad's wallet? I'd been snooping through his safe, so I couldn't really judge her if she'd been doing the same thing. But seeing her with that horrible card in her hand? It made me worry.

Members of my family have come into contact with at least four creepy cards in the last couple weeks since the bombing attempt. The one in my locker, the one Chloe found in Dad's wallet, the one I found in the safe, and the one I'd seen in Chloe's hand yesterday.
What in the world is going on? And why is my family such a part of it?

I watch us both in the mirror, look at our faces, and marvel at how different we are. But are we different because we have truly opposite personalities, or are we different because Chloe has purposely made herself as opposite from me as possible? If I liked red, did she decide to like blue? Since I got A's, did she decide C's were her goal?

Chloe must see me staring at her. She sets down her hair dryer, still running full blast. “What?” She asks me.

I turn mine off and set it down.

She keeps staring.

“Can you turn off your drier?” I shout, because that's the only way she'll hear me.

She does. “What?” she asks again. “You have the strangest look on your face.”

And now that I have her attention, I have no idea how to start.

“Are you okay?” I ask her.

“Yes. Why? Do I look sick?” She leans forward to the mirror to examine her face. She pokes at imaginary circles under her eyes.

“No—I guess you've just seemed a little down lately and I wanted to check in.”

And then I wonder if she's heard me right. Because she starts to laugh. Hysterically. Like I'm the funniest person in the world.

I'm offended (a little) and alarmed (more than a little). “Why are you laughing?” I snap.

“Oh—sorry.” She dabs at her eyes with a tissue, and now she really does have circles underneath them because she's managed to smear her eyeliner. “I'm fine, Gabi.”

“Why are you laughing?” I ask again.

“Because you sounded like a shrink.” She giggles. “But no worries. Right now I'm fine.” She tosses the wet tissue, now a dark gray, into the trash. “Things are good.”

“I'm glad.” And then I get curious. “Why are you fine right now?”

I can tell by the way her lips purse that she's going to joke around. “Because God made me fine.” She tosses her hair dramatically. “Fine ass, fine face, fine, fine, fine.”

I catch myself rolling my eyes in the mirror. “At least you've got good self-esteem.”

“No—I'm fine because I have a new boyfriend.” She winks at my reflection.

“Really? Who?” Super curious. I didn't know she'd dumped that freshman.

“Not telling yet. I've got to get to know him better first.”

“Oh, okay.” And I smile. Because I'm thinking of Eric. And Miguel. And wondering if I might have a boyfriend of my own pretty soon. I'm warming up to the idea.

“Why are you smiling?”

“No reason.” I try to even out my lips, and I can't. “I guess I'm just thinking I better ask how you're doing more often.”

We're both still facing the mirror, but she scoots over and slaps my butt. Hard.

“Ouch!” I complain.

“You'd have a fine ass too, if you gained five pounds.”

Now it's my turn to laugh.

Chloe's fine
, I reassure myself. She's not depressed. She's not the kind of person to draw a noose around the neck of a queen of hearts. She probably just dug through Dad's stuff, and I did the exact same thing, so who am I to judge? And as to why she looked so upset yesterday? Seeing a creepy card like that would be upsetting for anyone. It's normal.

Chloe's fine.

Honestly, she's probably better adjusted than I am. She's funny, laughing, dating new boyfriends. At least she knows what kind of guys she's into. I'm clueless. Maybe I just need some experience to know what I'm looking for. I used to swear up and down that mint chip was the best ice cream in the world. Until I tasted double java chip, which is, hands down, a million times better. Maybe I won't really know what kind of guy is my type until I take a risk and start to date.

16

My “risk” comes sooner than I thought.

I'm not prepared.

Eric and I sit at the kitchen table talking government and working through some calculus problems. My sister lies sprawled across the couch in the next room. We had a half day today, so he came over right after school.

Mom keeps buzzing in and out of the room for random things she “forgot,” and after she buzzes out for the zillionth time, Eric leans over and catches my mouth with his. Quick, determined, and mostly close-mouthed—although at the end he pushes his tongue in and it surprises me. I'm stunned, and all I can think is,
Did he really kiss me?

He pulls back, almost embarrassed-like, and looks at me. “You are so pretty,” he whispers, looking at me like I'm not real and he wants to touch me to make sure.

Okay, so this is awkward. Because what am I supposed to say back? Am I supposed to try to repay the compliment and say something nice to him?
And you're brilliant!
Or,
You might be cute in a few years
. Or,
Gee, thanks
. None of those sound right. So I say nothing. Instead I just lean back in and give him a peck on the cheek. His skin feels sandpaper rough to my lips, like maybe he had some stubble there that he'd shaved off.

Eric sits the rest of our study date with this goofy half-smile, and I swear the kiss has vacuumed his brain cells away, because he doesn't know his government from his English lit. And I'm sitting there thinking,
That was all right. Not great, not horrible, but all right
. And I'm hoping he can hold on to some of those brain cells and still help me keep an A in government.

Eric takes off an hour before my helpline shift. He squeezes my hand before he goes and looks like he wants to kiss me again. But Mom is still buzzing around, and there's just no time for that, so I stand there wondering whether I even
want
him to kiss me again.
Maybe. As long as he doesn't drool on me
.

But the moment passes, and he wraps his arms around me for an awkward hug, even though my mom's standing right there. She doesn't say a word. Maybe if I only date guys with IQs higher than mine, she'll be cool with it. He heads off, his backpack strapped to his shoulders and looking like it's carrying a library full of books. For some reason, this is a bit of a turn-off.

My phone buzzes on the table. Text from Janae.
Can't make it to the shift tonight. Got the flu. Hope I didn't already give it to you.
That means Miguel and I will be on our own.

Thank goodness the shift starts with a bunch of easy calls. “My best friend's using drugs, what should I do?” Since we can't give advice, we just read down a list of referral numbers for counseling and for drug treatment. “My boyfriend broke up with me and boohoo.” Piece of cake. Just listen and validate feelings.

When Miguel answers the phone, I scoot my chair in so I can reach his notepaper. When he speaks, there is something soft in his voice that lulls me. Maybe it's just his attempt at being supportive. He speaks in low tones, and I quickly stop paying attention to what he's saying, so his words run together, but they almost sound musical.

Ping!
Man problems. Need advice.

“I'll take this one.” I elbow Miguel.

“Not sure you're qualified.” He elbows me back. “You don't date, remember?”

Good point. “Well, I'm more qualified than you!”

Men! What's up?
I type.

Why do they always seem so nice at first?

I look pointedly at Miguel. “Okay, maybe you
are
more qualified. Answer this question: What's up with this nice-guy act?”

“Ahem. I can only speak for myself. I am truly nice. Can't help it.”

We must have taken too long to respond, because she (I'm assuming it's a she) texts again.
But when they get what they want, they morph into assholes! Explain this to me.

I look at Miguel. He holds up his hands. “Those guys give men a bad rap. That's not me.”

Again, I'm not going fast enough for her.
Advice?

So I'm not actually allowed to give advice. But I can give you a referral for counseling.

Seriously? I don't need a shrink. I just need someone to talk to.

Is there anyone at home you can talk to?

Uh, no. That'd be why I'm texting you. No one at home would understand. They're all perfect, and they already think I'm screwing up my life.

What's more important is what YOU think.
That must've caught her attention, because she doesn't text back right away.
What do you think?

I think I deserve to be treated better than this.

You go, girl!
After I press Send, I gasp. “What if that wasn't a girl? It could've been a guy.”

Miguel smiles. “True. Good point.”

Hopefully I didn't offend him-her, because he-she texted back.
Thanks.

In between calls we decorate the office, joke around, and tack our homemade bracelets to the office walls in a great, big peace-sign shape. Miguel's arm keeps bumping into mine. I pull away. I feel like he's got some kind of electric current running through him, and every time he touches me I get shocked. It's not a bad feeling exactly, but it surprises me, and I'm not sure what to make of it.

Miguel stands back from our peace sign and studies it. Then he turns and studies me. “So you survived almost a whole shift without your bodyguard,” he jokes.

“Who, Janae?” Now that's funny, because Janae's about my size. “If I wanted a bodyguard, I'd have picked Garth. Besides, I can protect myself.” I go to sock his arm, but he grabs my hand and pulls me toward him. He smells so clean, like always, like he just stepped out of the shower and his clothes are fresh from the dryer.

“
¿Puedo besarte?”
he says, reverting back to his new-immigrant persona.

“What?” I'm stalling. I've had four years of Spanish. I know what that means. I step away. He's not my type. But what's my type? And wasn't I just telling myself to take a risk? To experiment a little to see what I like?

Miguel's grinning. Like he already knows I want him to. “Look, I'm not like one of those guys our texter was talking about. I'm a nice guy. I promise.” I see a tiny dimple in his upper right cheek that I never noticed before. “And you are
muy bonita
. Can I kiss you?”

His shirt is pretty tight. I try not to notice how his chest presses against it. He looks like he's fit underneath it—not like he lifts weights, but more just naturally fit. He waits expectantly.
Crap
. I answer in Spanish, as corny as that sounds.
“Está bien.”

He pulls me in again, and he doesn't hesitate. I hold back at first, tense.
Take a risk, take a risk
, I tell myself. I close my eyes and allow myself to relax. Then I'm melting into his arms, my mouth melting into his mouth, and every single hair on my body is standing on end. So electric. The rest of the world blurs and there is only him. His hands cupping my face, moving to my shoulders, and settling around my waist. Our hips touch and my body is on fire. So
this
is a kiss. I want more. I am hungry for more.

When we pull away I have no idea how much time has passed. Was that one kiss? Or a marathon of kisses?

“Wow,” he whispers in my ear. His breath sends tingles down my arms. “We got to do that more often.”

I don't say anything at first, just stand there, catching my breath and drinking him in with my eyes. “I think you have a point.”

That seems to be all the invitation he needs, because suddenly I'm melting into him again, feeling warm and cold and tingly and like I'm floating. Everything I see bleeds into something else, all my senses are on overload, and my thoughts are ricocheting around in my brain. Like I might lose my footing at any moment.

Even after we stop kissing, the goose bumps last twenty minutes. And the tingles last an hour.

When I get home, I realize something terrible. I'm a player. I can't believe I just kissed
two
different guys in
one
day. Or, more accurately, two guys kissed me. I'm the kind of girl Beth and I normally hate.